The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “I doubt if it will. And she’s too beautiful to be left, Archie. Girls who look like her are not on their own for long.”

  “Bloody unfair,” declared Ted. “I hate to ask this. But was it your first, Carlo?” He hesitated, then added, “I mean, would it have been numero uno?”

  They all looked at him and Carlo dolefully nodded. There was a chorus of male sympathy.

  “Shit,” said Stephen. “To have that happen, then be a POW and after that end up on this overcrowded rattleship.” He shook his head in condolence. “Your luck has to change one day soon.”

  “Not today,” Carlo said ruefully. “Kicked in the balls, got a headache and a sore cracked rib. And I’ve been sick all over two guards, who’ll be aiming to get their own back before we land.”

  The three naval officers considered this dire prediction of what lay ahead. It was certainly true the guards would be eager for revenge. It would be a hellish and dangerous time, the rest of the voyage for him, with no control down there. The three were spared any contact with the marine guards, for their duties kept them on the upper deck. But they knew of the men who’d been shot, as well as the higher than admitted night-time death toll, the dumping of bodies overboard after dark without ceremony. That was when Ted looked reflective.

  “Vicious buggers, some of those marines. Long memories, too. It’s just a thought,” he murmured, “but how does that rib feel now?”

  “It’s getting better,” Carlo replied.

  “No, no, that’s not what I asked, Carlo. You felt the rib might be cracked and no wonder, with that army yob bashing you with his rifle butt.” He turned to the others. “Hit him in the back then wham-bam into his ribs. And a broken rib is something that can only be treated by rest, as Stephen will confirm. Careful, continuous rest. Does anyone have opinions on this?”

  There was another short silence as Carlo looked from Ted to the other two, not quite certain what was being proposed. He saw Archie start to grin.

  “Good thinking, bonnie lad.”

  “What do you say, Stephen? Would you like to examine the patient?”

  “I think I’d better,” said the wireless operator. He crossed to where a puzzled Carlo was still trying to work out what was happening. “Let’s have a look at where he hit you in the rib cage, Carlo.” They all gathered around as he lifted his shirt and exposed the skin which bore a vivid mark. “That’s going to be a very nasty bruise by morning.” He touched it gently. “How does it feel?”

  “Not too bad,” Carlo said.

  “How about this?” He pressed the spot much more strongly and Carlo reacted with a wince.

  “Ouch. That’s a bit tender, Stephen. But still alright. Fine really.”

  Stephen gazed at him and sighed. “I’ve got to tell you, Carlo, that word was the reason I gave up medicine. Being told by sick patients they were fine—when it was plain as day they were not fine. Just trying to be heroic, like you.”

  “Do you understand what he’s saying, Carlo?” Ted asked.

  “I’m not quite sure. Was he a doctor?” Carlo asked, struggling to come to terms with what was taking place. He’d begun to realise they were trying to help him. “Were you a doctor?” He repeated the question, to Stephen this time.

  “Not entirely,” Stephen replied. “Like you, the war intervened in my life. I gave up in my second year. Not as tragically as you. At least I didn’t suffer coitus interruptus.”

  “Our Steve’s a bright spark,” said Ted. “Did two years medicine, then decided there was going to be a war and joined the navy. Eighteen months later he’s a wireless telegraphist. And in his spare time is a better practitioner of all things medical than the hopeless bone-marrow quack we had last voyage.”

  “It’s a fact, laddie,” said Archie. “If any of us had a broken rib, we’d go to Stephen, not our previous doctor. That loonie sawbones would diagnose a poisoned right leg, then amputate the left one. He lost us more crew than the German U-boats.”

  “So you’re the ship’s surgeon?” Carlo asked Stephen.

  “Unofficial and temporary. The navy’s cutting costs on account of needing to move so many POWs. I’m the quack for the crew on this voyage, but not allowed to attend prisoners. However I’ll make an exception in your case, so listen carefully Carlo.”

  “I’m listening, Stephen.”

  “The message is, don’t play the hero,” Stephen told him. “This is a very nasty blow, and it requires rest and recuperation. Lots of it and no heroics. How do those words sound to you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You can do better than that. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate it?”

  “Ten,” said Carlo, who’d begun to get the message.

  “Excellent. Now the treatment. For the next three weeks until arrival. No sleeping on the floor. No more stink of diesel. Find a word to describe that.”

  “Heaven.”

  “Any further comment? Again out of ten?”

  “Eleven!” Carlo said.

  “Brilliant. Now a final word from Ted, as he brought you here. And Archie, can you make contact with chummy, our esteemed Captain? I think he should be a part of this. Best to clear this one with him.”

  Carlo watched, still unsure what was going on, as Archie nodded and left them. Ted Gallagher came to sit beside him.

  “Carlo, did your friendly British guard back home teach you some of the rich and eloquent oaths that decorate the Anglo-Saxon language? Enough of them, shall we say, to impress anyone that this is serious pain. Can you be a deserving case by using English epithets? We just need you to greet the ship’s captain with some expletives to prove you require medical treatment.”

  “I’m getting the message,” Carlo told him.

  “Good,” said Stephen, moving back to his patient. Ted raised his arm like a conductor about to cue an orchestra.

  “This is a rehearsal, Carlo.”

  “Bloody hell,” Carlo called out, trying to capture the mood.

  “Parla piu forte,” said Ted surprising Carlo, who gazed at him.

  “An Englishman who can speak Italian?”

  “Just a few words,” Ted replied. “I’m trying to get you to shout louder when I give the cue!” He listened for the sound of footsteps outside, then waved his arm again. “Loud!” He ordered in a fierce whisper.

  “Fuck!” yelled Carlo, his eyes clamped shut. “Shit, fuck, shit!” he shouted as the door opened and a worried face looked in.

  “What the hell is going on here?” asked the ship’s middle-aged captain.

  “Case of assault, Sir. Almost certainly broken ribs, Skipper.” The wireless operator snapped to attention, and Carlo switched to painful groans.

  “An unprovoked attack by an armed guard on a young Italian artist. Used his rifle to bash this prisoner, who was hoping to do some sketches of you and the crew. There may be two ribs cracked but I’m reluctant to probe deeper because of the pain. I think he needs rest and recuperation.”

  “Have we got the man responsible?”

  “No Sir. We were too late to identify the assailant. And this chappie is in too much pain to do it.” Carlo moaned on hearing this.

  “Evil bastards, those bloody guards,” the Captain complained. “I hope we don’t have a compensation on our hands, Ted. It cost Dunera a fortune.”

  “I think we can avoid that, Sir. I believe care and rest might solve the situation,” his first officer promised. “The young man’s not some sort of stirrer. He was due to begin an artistic scholarship in Rome, but was forced to join their army. I’d suggest time in the sick bay, subject to medical opinion.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Sir,” confirmed Stephen.

  “Sounds sensible. Thank God we’re not beholden to our last quack. He’d have him doing laps around the ship. Look after him, Steve.”

  “I will, Sir. With any luck he might be fit enough to sketch you in a week or so.”

  The Captain nodded. “Sounds promising.” He came and looked down at Carl
o, who had ceased groaning to follow what was happening, but now produced a painful sigh and an agonised look. The captain studied him. “Two portraits for me, when you recover, my young friend. Buona notte, Signore.”

  “Grazie, Capitano,” Carlo responded, clutching his waist area and doing his utmost to convey heroic pain. “Molto doloroso,” he gasped.

  “We’re going to need a dictionary, unless anyone here speaks Italian,” said the Captain, bidding them all goodnight.

  “Two portraits?” asked Carlo, when the door shut behind him.

  “One for his wife,” Ted said, “and one for his girlfriend in Liverpool.”

  An hour later Carlo’s few possessions were retrieved from deep in the ship and he occupied a solitary bed in the annex of the wireless room. For the first night since embarkation he slept without being disturbed by either diesel engines, men tripping over his body, or their abusive voices blaming him for lying there. He woke in the morning to realise there was a small porthole that gave him a view across the Indian Ocean. The sea looked sapphire blue, almost without a ripple. It was like a Turner painting all the way to an unmarked horizon and beyond, his own private view, as long as his new friends allowed him this sanctuary. But it felt as if the prospects of this continuing were hopeful; ‘Chummy’ as they called the Captain, was clearly part of the collusion.

  He lay back recalling the events of the previous night. War was not always like the violence he’d experienced in the desert. Or the discomfort of the British POW camp. It needn’t be like the hatred between Fascists and moderates in his own homeland. Last night three Englishmen may have saved his life and had certainly spared him from vicious reprisals by the marine guards. Three men from the other side had chosen to be his friends. Having lacked a close comrade since Steffano’s death, there was something singular about that. An occurrence to look back on and remember with affection and warm regard.

  The bed—his refuge from the turbulence and stinking fumes of the diesel, a haven from fights and arguments throughout the night— was soft and very comfortable. His gratitude to Ted Gallagher and fellow plotters, Stephen and Archie, even Chummy the Captain, was immeasurable. After the dismal years luck had finally turned in his favour. He wondered if it could possibly last.

  September 15th, 1943

  Dear Mamma,

  This is my first chance to write to you since leaving England. In case you never received half of my letters, I did get a delayed bundle of yours with the welcome news about you and Luigi. I’m thrilled and so pleased that you’re happy. You may not know, but this is written on a ship taking us to Australia. In the past three weeks I’ve sketched most of the crew of English sailors, including some special friends, First Officer Ted, wireless operator and trainee-doctor Stephen and his assistant Archie. We became friends in the space of a few hours one night, and have made a pact after this war is over that we’ll meet and celebrate. Ted is going to post this letter for me when he gets back to England. He and the other two have been great company—‘mates’ is the English word they use a lot, and it describes perfectly what we have become. A few more days and we reach Sydney. My mates tell me it’s a beautiful harbour, and the photos I’ve seen look wonderful. I think Claude Monet and all the impressionists would feel at home in a city like this, and so would you. Some Japanese submarines did reach Sydney and caused some damage. Things were a bit grim here, but the situation is improving, so you must not worry. My love to Gina, and both grandparents. If by chance you should ever see the girl I sketched at the Villa, her name is Silvana. Tell her I often think about her, and explain to her what happened to me. She must have wondered why I left my belongings behind and disappeared like that.

  Fondest love to you and also to Luigi.

  Carlo xxx

  He sealed and addressed it to his mother’s apartment in Rome, and Ted promised to send it through the Red Cross when the ship returned to England. “We’re really going to miss you, Carlo,” he said. “But we’re mates and will be when this war is over. Not long now before you see Sydney Harbour. You’ll love the look of it. I hope things go well for you in Australia.”

  THIRTEEN

  September 16th, 1943

  Dearest Carlo,

  This short note is just to say Luigi has been able to confirm you are among a large group of Italian soldiers being sent to Australia. I know the war did spread quite close to there last year, but hope you are safe now. Please try to write and keep in touch. I hope the prison camps are not too dreadful, but selfishly feel relieved that you will be safer there than still fighting. Gina sends love and has just been promoted as a full scale journalist. My Ma and Pa send their love and best wishes from Luigi. I’m very happy but we wish you were here to share our joy. Much love darling.

  Mamma xxxxx

  P.S. Luigi says it’s best not to mention your transfer to anyone here. Like most things in war it is top secret and cannot be relied upon.

  She carefully addressed it to his army number via the Red Cross. Rather than use the local box she took a bus after work to the office of Poste Italiane to hand it across the counter. It was the only time Beatrice had done this but Australia was a new address and she wanted to be sure it reached him. In the English camp letters had constantly gone astray and she was determined to try and avoid this happening again.

  She regretted her decision moments later, when she turned a corner and saw Salvatore. He was deep in conversation with a young girl on the other side of the street and she considered trying to hurry past, but realised he’d seen her. She noticed his surprise as he raised a hand to signal her, said something quickly to the girl who nodded and remained there while he crossed the street. It was no longer possible to avoid meeting him and no sensible reason why she should.

  “I didn’t expect to see you in this part of Rome,” was how he greeted her. “Any news of Carlo?”

  “Some letters are getting through, others seem to get lost. I’ve just been posting one to him.” She thought it best not to ask if he’d written or received any. It was unlikely, but if he had, he would certainly mention it.

  “You look well, Bea.”

  “Thank you. So do you.” She glanced across at the girl who was waiting. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, quite pretty and smartly dressed. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Just a friend. She works with me.”

  “She looks pretty. Work friend or girlfriend?”

  “Not really your concern, is it? But on that note, your new friend the army lieutenant must’ve been a shock to the former headmaster.”

  “I won’t ask how you heard, but to quote you, it’s not your concern.”

  “We are still married, Bea.”

  “On paper. If you stopped me in the middle of Rome to argue about that, we’d best say goodbye and proceed our separate ways.”

  “Before we do, I heard some of our troops have been sent to Australia. Does your lieutenant have any news of that?”

  The wording he’d used irritated her, but she answered carefully, remembering Luigi’s warning. “No recent letters, so we’re not sure of anything,” she said. “I’ll keep you informed if I get any word. I did write to tell you he was a prisoner.”

  “Yes, the letter was forwarded to me.”

  “Forwarded,” she said, frowning. “Then you’ve presumably sold?”

  “Sold the house and vineyard. You knew it was on the market.”

  “Of course. But you didn’t feel a need to tell me it finally sold? When was it?”

  “Late last year,” he said so vaguely that she knew he was lying. “Took ages to finalise. I was going tell you. Then I heard you had a live-in ‘friend’, so I thought…”

  “Thought you’d done all the hard work to restore the place so… ”

  “If you’re going to be a bitch about this…”

  “I’ve no intention of being a bitch, Sal. I told my parents long ago, the place was always more yours than mine. I’ve got a good job and have no need of any share. Give
whatever amount you think is fair to Gina.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Ring Sofia and ask her.”

  “No thanks. Your mother hates me.”

  “Well, ask my Dad. He’s never hated anyone. Or just be fair to Gina.”

  “Of course I will. You should know that.”

  “Good.” She could not help smiling. “Trust us, meeting in the street to argue.” She looked across at the girl waiting patiently. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  “Currently,” he admitted, after a slight hesitation.

  “She looks nice.”

  “She is.”

  “What are you doing for work?”

  “I’ve got a job with Luca, in Il Duce’s office.”

  “It’s what you always wanted. Deep in the heart of fascist politics.”

  “Don’t forget, he and I were comrades in Austria all those years ago.”

  “He should watch what he says. I mean Mussolini, not Luca. Wanting a few thousand dead…”

  He briskly cut her off. “Don’t believe all you read in the papers, Bea.”

  “His Chief of Staff confirmed what he said. People are angry.”

  “Forget it. We’ll never agree on politics.”

  “Or on most things, Sal. You better go to her. Don’t keep her waiting.”

  “If you find out where Carlo is, let me know.”

  “If I find out,” she said, but doubted if the letter he might write would be welcomed. He gave her a card with his address on it, then paused as if unsure whether to kiss or shake hands. Doing neither, he just nodded and crossed the street to where the girl waited. They went one way, Beatrice the other.

  How strange, she thought, posting a letter to their son and meeting him. So he’d got the kind of job he always wanted. Three terms as the regional mayor had given him a craving for something more thrilling than growing grapes.

  But she’d been sincere about the warning. She felt any close association with Mussolini had an element of danger. The underground she and Luigi had joined knew the dictator’s grip on power was declining. He was being rattled by Nazi demands to round up Jews. It could cause friction in Italy, where few people had a desire to emulate the German anti-Semitism. And there were other factors tarnishing him. The army he’d sent to France had not been successful and the derisory strip of French land Hitler had offered along the Rhone had been cynical. Those newsreel queues of captured Italians in North Africa had affected his status; his time to make flamboyant speeches was over, but he seemed unable to realise it. Now this latest setback, and the most serious. She’d first heard of the idea from headmaster Fabritzi—a wish for casualties to give Il Duce influence. But the true comment released this year by his Chief of Staff, Marshall Badoglio, had been a great deal worse and widely published in the newspapers.