There's No Home

by Alexander Baron

  Craddock straightened up. ‘Jerry booby-trap. Pretty straightforward. They must have left it behind in this rubbish heap when they pulled out of the town. It’s the kind of thing they do. A couple of potato-masher grenades lashed together,’ – he showed the captain a charred cylinder of wood and a thin piece of metal – ‘probably with one-second detonators shoved into the handles. There was a pull wire from the grenades to this staple in the wall. They probably figured that whoever cleared the rubbish away would catch it. These poor kids got to it first. They must have been playing mud-pies, or something, on the heap, and dug down on the wire.’

  There was a babble of inquiry from the pavements. The captain said, ‘Tell ’em!’

  Craddock raised his arms and shouted, ‘Silenzio!’ He was seized with an inexplicable revulsion against these people as he looked at them. A moment ago they had been mad with fear; now they were yelping with curiosity, their faces white and greedy in the sunshine. ‘Silence!’ The noise subsided sufficiently for him to speak. ‘Your children were wounded by a German bomb.’ There was no reaction in the faces before him; the same gaping callousness. He became angry. ‘A bomb hidden in your street by the Germans, by the Fascists. They left it there to do you harm.’ No reaction. ‘They have spilled the blood of your children. The Germans. The enemy. Do not forget.’ He shouted again, ‘Do not forget.’

  ‘All right,’ said the captain, ‘break it up. Come on, you chaps, get these bastards moving.’ The soldiers began to disperse the crowd. Craddock walked back to the billet with the captain. Little groups of people lingered everywhere, waving their hands at each other and arguing noisily.

  ‘What about the kids? Craddock asked.

  ‘One of ’em’s done for. There’s another not badly hurt. You saw the third, the one I had…’

  ‘Aldo?

  ‘Is that his name? They’ll probably have to take both of those hands of his off. It’ll be touch and go whether they save him.’

  ‘Pity, he’s a good kid.’

  ‘Ah, what’s the odds? They breed like flies and die like flies here. They’re not worth a toss, anyway. I’d sooner it happened to them than to a couple of our chaps.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Craddock gloomily. ‘Still,’ – he fell silent for a few paces until at last he exclaimed violently – ‘those bastard Germans!’

  In the courtyard the men surrounded him, with questions. ‘It was a Jerry booby-trap,’ he explained. ‘One kid’s dying and the other two’ll probably be crippled for life. You might like to remember that, lads. For later on.’ He looked up at the staircase. ‘You two, get a bucket and wash that blood away. It’s a fine state for a billet to be in on a Sunday morning.’

  He went to wash the filth from his hands and to change his clothes. After a while the street was quiet again. But the quietness had changed. It was not calm, but unease, that lay upon the street.

  Chapter Twelve

  BY the next morning the incident was apparently forgotten. The billet was crowded and full of activity. Reinforcements had arrived to bring the company up to war strength. The new men had to be absorbed and a training programme had been started which, with their normal guard duties, robbed the men of much of their former leisure.

  Among the reinforcements was a new officer who had come to replace the dead commander of Craddock’s platoon. Mr Perkington was small and dapper. He had come straight from an officers’ pool to take up his first appointment on active service. He had only been in Sicily for a few days, and his journey, up from the base at Syracuse through this strange island had served more to unsettle him than to prepare him for his new duties. He was still confused by the heat, and by the contrast between the savage splendour of the country and the desolation that inhabited it. There were too many impressions. The ancient towns spilled in heaps in the white sunshine, the famished people swarming among the ruins, had left him with a sense of loss and despair. The sunburned soldiers, branded with experience, to whom he had come, seemed to look patronizingly upon him, and he felt inadequate in their presence. He would have to assert his authority.

  His platoon was on parade when he arrived. The sergeant came up to him and saluted. He returned the sergeant’s salute.

  ‘Sergeant Craddock, isn’t it?

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘My name’s Perkington. I’m sure we shall get on together. You play ball with me, and you’ll find that I’ll play ball with you. Okay?

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What’s your first period?’

  ‘I was going to give them a bit of a talk. For the new men. About some of the tricks the Jerry infantry get up to. We’ve picked up quite a bit since we’ve been here.’

  ‘Hm. Well, we can have that later, sergeant. Start them off with a spot of arms drill.’

  ‘Arms drill.’ A slight pause. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Perkington watched the platoon march out. The sergeant was a clumsy fellow, with a queer, uninspiring gait. The men carried their rifles slung, instead of at the slope, and they swung their arms carelessly, talking on the march. A few hundred yards along the waterfront they halted. They went through a little arms drill. The movements were ragged, and the sergeant made no attempt to correct them. They stood easy after a while, and the sergeant walked up and down in front of them telling them about their faults in a conversational tone. No snap, Mr Perkington noted, no standing well back in the proper manner and keeping them wide awake. More arms drill followed, a little better this time, but again the sergeant showed no concern at the mistakes that were made. Captain Rumbold had come out of the billet and was watching, without comment. The sergeant gave an order quietly, and the men broke ranks and trooped across to the sea wall where they made themselves comfortable and lit cigarettes. The captain gave no sign of interest. Evidently he was waiting to see how the new officer took his platoon in hand.

  Mr Perkington went across to Craddock. ‘What’s up, sergeant?

  ‘Giving them a breather, sir.’

  ‘Rather early, isn’t it? You didn’t come to Sicily for a holiday, you know.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘Well, give them another minute and fall them in again. I’ll take them myself. I don’t know which was the sloppier, their “slope” or their “present”. Is there anything they do well?’

  ‘They don’t fight badly, sir.’

  ‘Good drill is the foundation of efficient soldiering, sergeant. We’ll start off with the “slope”, counting the time, and we’ll carry on till they’ve got it right. That’ll do to begin with.’ He was annoyed by the frown that flickered across the sergeant’s face. ‘I see I shall have to make a few changes here, sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant was expressionless again.

  ‘I’m not too satisfied with the turnout, either. You chaps are supposed to be soldiers. It’s my intention to see that you look like soldiers.’

  Craddock’s gaze wavered as Captain Rumbold approached. He checked himself and looked straight at Mr Perkington again. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Perkington,’ said the captain, as he came near. ‘I shall be in the company office. Look in and see me when you’ve finished, will you?’

  The men fell in again and Mr Perkington began to drill them. He ordered them to slope arms, shouting the time, and a terrible muddle followed, with some men bawling and others mumbling and the rifles wavering in every direction.

  ‘That’ll do, lads,’ said the sergeant quietly.

  ‘I’ll see to that, sergeant,’ said Mr Perkington. ‘You go to the rear and check the movements.’

  The next attempt was more orderly and soon the platoon was drilling smartly. Mr Perkington felt triumphant. He had been vaguely uneasy after the captain’s intervention, but he felt that he could face Rumbold now. ‘Take over, sergeant. And keep them up to the mark.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He found Rumbold in the company office. The captain told him to be seated. ‘Well, what do you think of them?’

  ‘Oh,
they’re all right, sir. How long have they been without a platoon officer?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘I thought so. I’ll soon have them in hand.’

  ‘You will?

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  Rumbold walked away to the window, and turned suddenly. ‘I suppose they gave you lectures when you were learning to be an officer – what do they call it? – Man Management?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve still got my notes.’

  ‘I bet you have. Get a hold of ’em from the start, eh? Show ’em who’s boss? That sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Rumbold said, as if to himself, in a tone of deep disgust, ‘Man Management! I don’t know!’

  Perkington looked up at him in alarm. The captain swiped violently at a fly. He relaxed, and sat on the edge of the table. ‘You married?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Perkington, startled.

  ‘Good looker?’

  Perkington blushed and produced a photograph.

  ‘Hm. Lucky feller.’

  ‘Aren’t you married, sir?’

  ‘Me? I’ve been loving ’em and leaving ’em so long I can’t get out of the habit.’ Rumbold grinned. ‘I suppose you’re one of these moral birds? True and faithful, eh?’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘I know. Pity. There’s so much crumpet walking around here it’s a shame to see it wasted. I’ve picked up a nice bit myself. Sweet fifteen, fresh and lovely. You can have her if you like. It’s about time I had a change.’

  ‘I…’ Perkington was shocked and speechless. He feared that he would never understand this man, nor any of those others. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘All right, don’t swallow your tonsils. I was only trying to be matey. What’s mine is yours. That’s the way of it here. Listen,’ the captain said earnestly, ‘you may live to a ripe old age. I don’t know, it’s always possible. But if you do, you’ll never meet a better man than Sergeant Craddock. My advice to you for the next month is to feed ’em, clothe ’em, and leave the rest to Craddock. And don’t be afraid to treat him with respect. After that, if you’re still in one piece – and if you are, you’ll probably have him to thank for it – he’ll be only too glad to hand you the platoon on a plate.’

  Perkington’s blush deepened. ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

  ‘And don’t worry. He won’t rub it in. The men won’t play you up while you’ve got Craddock. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, you’d better get outside and have another look at them. And, Perks?’

  The lieutenant turned in the doorway.

  ‘Sure you don’t want my baby doll?’

  Mr Perkington fled.

  §§§§

  Late in the afternoon two German fighter aircraft flew over the town. They were very high, hardly visible against the sun, and they crept here and there across the sky as if they did not know where they were going. Anti-aircraft fire pursued them and, at last, on the far outskirts of the town, they dropped a couple of small bombs.

  In the Via dei Martiri the sound of engines did not attract any attention at first. When the guns began to fire the people came to their doors, and there was a murmur of surprise and hesitation. The wavering drone continued to filter down from the sky; the paralysis of doubt was broken, and the people rushed to the air-raid shelter.

  Craddock, coming down the street without haste, saw Graziella hesitating on the pavement. People streamed past her, shrieking, and scrambled in the doorway of the shelter. She was staring after them and clutching her baby against her, but Craddock had told her to expect him at this time of the day and perhaps this was what kept her from following the mob. She looked about her, and the hunted expression on her face changed to one of relief as she saw him coming.

  As he came near she stretched out her hand to him and cried, ‘Quickly, to the shelter!’

  Craddock smiled, took her hand and led her into the house. She was trembling slightly. They stood in the room without speaking. Her head was averted, and she kept her body still, but he could guess from the desperate pressure of her hand at the panic inside her. He said, ‘No wine?

  She released his hand, carried Fifo to the cot, went to the table and poured wine. Her movements were careful, painfully controlled. She pushed the glass across the table and smiled guiltily at him. The ornaments on the shelf danced to the anti-aircraft fire. He let her see that he was laughing at her. Her face cleared, and she said in a little girl’s voice, ‘My stomach hurts from fright.’

  ‘Come here, and you will feel better.’

  She came and sat on his lap; he did silly things with her hair, and soon they were both laughing. She moved her lips against his cheek, kissing him softly. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘you are changing? Now it is you who are making love to me. It is the first time.’

  ‘I am a lost woman. I am in love.’

  ‘I, too. With your wine. Give me some more.’

  She leaned across to the table and poured wine. ‘Only with my wine? Not with me?’

  ‘All right, with you, too.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘You will stay with me?’

  ‘I will stay with you.’

  ‘You will not stay. You will go away.’

  ‘Yes, I will go away.’

  ‘Why did you say that you would stay?’

  ‘Why did you ask? There is a war.’

  ‘And that you love, is that true?’

  ‘You ask too many questions, dear one. Questions are not good.’

  ‘But is it the truth?’

  ‘In war, nothing is the truth but war.’

  ‘War! War! You are here and the war is far away!’

  ‘The war is over our heads. Listen to it. Yesterday, we discovered the war in a heap of rubbish. You know, I and my comrades did not come to Sicily for a holiday.’

  Two bombs exploded in the distance. Graziella looked in agony at the cot. ‘For the baby, we should have gone to the shelter.’

  ‘It is nothing. It is finished now. They will go. There!’ The gunfire had stopped and the sound of the aircraft was fading away. ‘You hear?’

  ‘Since yesterday,’ Graziella said, ‘I have hated the war so much. If only we could try to forget it!’

  ‘Since yesterday I have known that I must not forget it.’

  ‘A man speaks, and a woman speaks,’ she said bitterly. ‘See the difference? But I beg you to tell me, is it the truth that you love me?’

  ‘I love you. That is the truth.’ She was holding him in a hard, quivering embrace. He was embarrassed. Now she was as he had wanted her to be, yet he could no longer feel as he had hoped to feel. ‘They say that in wine there is truth, too. Let us find out.’

  She kissed him. ‘This is the last glass for you. You are beginning to drink too much.’ She looked into his face anxiously. ‘You are tired. Have I made you tired?’

  ‘No.’ He went across to the cot; his limbs were heavy. ‘At least I am a little tired.’ He hoisted the baby out on to the floor. ‘There, Fifo, walk, come, walk to me.’ The baby staggered forward for a couple of paces and collapsed into his arms. ‘You see, Graziella, he walks. Again, Fifo, come, come, again!’ He made encouraging noises and caught the baby a second time. ‘His legs are growing stronger. It is the milk.’

  The baby was uttering pleased, explosive sounds between his lips. ‘Pi-pi-pa! Pi-pa!’

  ‘What is he saying? Pippo, or pappa?’

  Graziella laughed. ‘Perhaps both. Here, let me take him. You are so tired. Is there much work, with the soldiers?’

  ‘Yes, there is much to do again.’ He lay down on the bed and sighed with contentment. ‘Ah, that is better!’ He muttered, ‘There is a new officer, he makes me sick.’

  ‘He is harsh?’

  ‘Harsh?’ Craddock laughed. ‘No, he is a boy. I could eat him. But he is foolish, and he makes things more difficult. We have many new men. There is not much time to teach them to fight,
and he is wasting it.’

  Graziella muttered something, bending low over the child, and Craddock asked, ‘What is that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ A little later she said, ‘You know that one of those children is dead?’

  ‘Yes. The other two will live. We telephoned to the hospital, today.’

  She spat on a cloth and wiped Fifo’s face.

  ‘Put water in a bowl,’ said Craddock from the bed, ‘and wash him properly. You have no lack of soap now.’

  ‘You sleep, and leave a mother to her own business.’ She wiped Fifo’s face so vigorously that he began to cry. She soothed the child, and the room was quiet. ‘Pippo,’ she said softly, ‘are you asleep?’

  ‘No,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I would like to have a little money from you.’

  He sat up. ‘Now you are talking like a real wife.’ Until now she had refused to take money from him, except to buy a bottle of wine or some food for their meals together.

  ‘Stupid, it is not for me. In the street, we are making a little collection.’

  ‘For the children in hospital?’

  ‘No, for Lucrezia, the mother of the dead boy. She must take her child from the hospital, and she must bury him. To bury the child like a Christian costs money. Otherwise they will throw the body away like a dead cat. That is how it is in this town today, there are so many dying. And Lucrezia weeps, for she has not even the money to burn one poor little candle in the church for her dead child, let alone to bury him.’

  ‘Why do you not also collect for the other two children? They will need more food if they are to live and get well. That is more important than a funeral.’

  ‘You do not understand. Her misery is the greatest. We cannot collect for all. We have little money. Each family will give a few lire, and even that will cause them hardship. After we shall try to help the others, but first we must give comfort to Lucrezia.’

  Craddock reached for his wallet. He counted out some notes, then hesitated. ‘Listen. I shall not give you money now. This evening, in the barracks, I shall tell the soldiers, and they will give money. From them there will be much more money than from all the people in the street, enough for Lucrezia, and enough for the children in hospital.’