Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What about you? A girl in every town, you infantry types, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Not really, there’s never any time. Anyway I’m not in the infantry now.’

  ‘You left the East Surreys?’

  ‘After I got back from France.’

  ‘What was it like? France, I mean. I heard about Dunkirk and that.’

  His mind went back. Caen, Blangy, St Valery, Veules, tanks and Gammon bombs, diving Stukas, fighting retreats, a man exploding in a red mist, another gripping his hand from a pushcart. Had any of it really happened? ‘I never made it to Dunkirk. We – our unit, that is – we got cut off. It was quite bad, a lot of killing and, um, chaos. I didn’t do very well.’

  She leaned on his shoulder. ‘You got home safe. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘No it isn’t. But thanks anyway.’

  ‘It does to me. Poor Kenny’s mum is beside herself.’

  ‘Still no news?’

  ‘Nothing. More than six months. What happened, d’you think?’

  Outside Major Wilson’s tent was the last time he’d seen Kenny Rollings. The day he was chosen as a runner, because he could ride a bicycle and Kenny couldn’t.

  Why did you tell him I’m an officer?

  Cos we’ll get better jobs, you idiot! Kenny had said.

  ‘There was this little village, near a river. We got separated. There was a lot of confusion, and fighting and retreating. Hundreds were captured, thousands, over the next week or two. There’s a good chance he’ll turn up.’

  ‘Perhaps you could visit his mum. It might cheer her up.’

  ‘I will.’

  Back at the boarding house there was a message from Grant: ‘Tomorrow 2.00 p.m.’ He arrived early, was shown up to the fourth floor, and then had to wait an hour in a side room. International Research Bureau seemed much busier than before, although by now he guessed the name signified little of its purpose. Footsteps hurried up and down the corridor, telephones rang, doors squeaked open and banged shut again, voices spoke in urgent murmurs. Eventually Grant appeared, followed by two men, one a lieutenant of the Royal Signals, and the other a tall man with black hair and Mediterranean complexion, wearing a suit. Theo sensed immediately he was Italian.

  Grant, as before, was chain-smoking and looked dishevelled and harried. ‘Ah, Theo, there you are. Sorry, all sixes and sevens as usual. How was the training?’

  ‘Oh, um, it was fine, thank you, sir. I passed, that is.’

  ‘Yes I know.’ Grant flicked through a file. ‘Near the top of your intake too. Good show. So now, Theo, this is Lieutenant Tony Deane-Drummond, who is halfway through his jump course, and this gentleman is, er, Signor Rossi. Gentlemen, meet Officer Cadet Theodor Trickey.’

  ‘Oh, um, only Acting – that is I never finished—’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’ Grant checked his file. ‘Soon sorted, so I believe.’

  ‘Hello!’ Deane-Drummond pumped his hand. ‘Done with your jump course, you lucky beggar. I’m sick to death of running round that damned perimeter, and as for those wretched balloons…’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir, much easier jumping from the aeroplane, although—’

  ‘Watch out for the Whitley kiss – yes, I’ve been warned!’

  Rossi stepped forward, scrutinizing Theo through narrowed eyes as they shook hands. ‘Ciao, soldato,’ he said pointedly in a cultured Roman accent, ‘Hello, Private,’ and before Theo could draw breath he launched into a rapid Italian interrogation: birth, family, friends, education, vacations, contacts, politics, plus quick-fire questions on Italy’s history, geography and culture. Theo responded as best he could, but had trouble keeping up and was thrown by the man’s hostile demeanour. Suddenly, after five minutes Rossi stopped and turned to Grant.

  ‘He’s a northerner, so speaks like a mountain goat. Neither can I vouch for his integrity. But there’s no foreign accent; he’ll pass as a native.’

  ‘I am a native,’ Theo said, still in Italian.

  ‘No, you’re a Tyrolean separatist peasant who ran away.’

  ‘Scusi?’

  ‘Thank you, chaps,’ Grant interrupted cheerily. ‘And thank you, Mr Rossi, you’ve been a great help. Mrs Simpson will see you downstairs. Meanwhile I think we three will adjourn for a chat.’

  Head reeling, Theo followed Grant along the corridor to his office, which was as he remembered, only even more cluttered. Throwing piles of papers to the floor Grant cleared chairs for Theo and Deane-Drummond, and lit up a cigarette.

  ‘Well, that all seemed to go pretty well, don’t you think, Theo?’

  ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘A business acquaintance. No one you need concern yourself with.’

  ‘Um, I’m not sure, sir, he seemed…’

  ‘Business-like. Yes, I know. Now, tell me, Theo, how are you feeling? Fit, ready and raring to go?’

  ‘Go? Well, yes, of course, only I came about my mother—’

  ‘No, you didn’t actually, but we’ll come to that. We’ll also come to your mother too, no doubt, but in the meantime, how would you feel about a trip to Italy?’

  ‘I… What?’

  ‘Tony here has a proposition for you.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘Yes. Only it’s absolutely top secret. So whether you accept it or not, you can never breathe a word to a soul. Is that clearly understood?’

  *

  It was a special mission, the first ever for the fledgling parachute corps. It was called Operation Colossus, and was to take place in Italy. Over the next half-hour, Deane-Drummond, who was the mission’s intelligence officer, outlined its purpose. A single troop of forty men, hand-picked from 2 Commando, or 11 Special Air Service Battalion as it was presently known, and led by a Major Pritchard, was to parachute into the Apennine Mountains, and blow up the main aqueduct supplying water to the southern province of Apulia, which included the strategically important cities of Brindisi and Taranto. Having blown the aqueduct, they were then to escape west across country to an isolated spot on the coast near Salerno, there to be picked up by the Royal Navy. Theo, as the only Italian speaker through parachute training thus far, would be going as interpreter.

  ‘Only should the need arise,’ Deane-Drummond added. ‘Contact with the Italians, military or civilian, will be avoided at all costs, but you never know.’

  ‘I see.’ Theo nodded, trying not to appear shocked. ‘When, did you say?’

  ‘The next couple of months, January or February probably. There’ll be a working-up period first, in Scotland, to acclimatize everyone to the conditions, mountain training and so forth.’

  ‘So you’re planning to cross the Apennines. On foot. In midwinter.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s sixty or seventy miles, we estimate. We’re allowing four days.’

  ‘Should be right up your street, eh, Theo?’ Grant quipped. ‘You being a northern mountain goat and all that.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘You’ll have to drop out of sight, the whole team. Until the operation’s over. No going home, no telephone calls and so on. Assuming you’re willing, that is?’

  Theo looked up.

  Grant was behind his desk, not smiling, but watching him closely. Smoke curled from an inch of ash hanging from his cigarette. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Sir. Operation Ambassador…’

  ‘Was a total foul-up, we know. But not your fault. It was rushed, it was badly planned, it should never have gone ahead. Frankly it’s a miracle you all got back in one piece, so we should count ourselves lucky. This one won’t be like that. It’s been meticulously planned, and you’ll be thoroughly trained and properly equipped. This one’s going to work.’

  Silence fell. Deane-Drummond nodded encouragingly. Grant sat back.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Yes.’ Theo straightened. ‘Yes, I’ll do it, but I want my mother released.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘You know she’s no threat to
this country.’

  ‘I believe that to be true. However, the internment of nationals from belligerent countries has nothing to do with the work of this bureau.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘Nevertheless, you have my assurance that we will continue to do everything in our influence to advance her case. As has already been demonstrated.’

  *

  Eleni waited, her basket on her knee, staring round at the featureless room with its mildewed walls and grime-stained window. It was damp and cold. Her breath misted the air; her hat and coat remained on. Outside, snow dusted the grandstand roof, the compound was churned brown with mud, and thin smoke rose from a dozen hut chimneys. Finally Carla arrived.

  ‘You didn’t visit,’ she said, her voice a croak.

  ‘I been busy.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I bring you things. For the Christmas.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Not much. Biscuits, a packet of marge, tin a oranges.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Eleni rose. ‘Now I mus’ go.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Yes, very busy. You hear from Teo?’

  ‘He came. He said he was going away, on training, several weeks. Eleni, please—’

  ‘I mus’ go.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say nothing. Your country attack my country. Nothing more to say.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. But you must know I detest this invasion, I detest the Italian government, I detest Mussolini, attacking Greece is barbaric—’ She broke off, convulsed with coughing. ‘Sorry, I—’

  Eleni waited, arms folded. Slowly the spasm subsided. ‘You cough no better?’

  ‘It’s the damp. It’s nothing. Eleni, please—’

  ‘Syrup a ginger. I bring next time.’

  With that she picked up her basket and left.

  CHAPTER 12

  Erwin Rommel, by coincidence, would fly into Italy on exactly the same night as the men tasked with blowing up the aqueduct.

  Following his triumphant charge across France in the summer, he and 7th Panzer Division were repositioned to the Loire region, stood down and ordered to rest. This was much needed, for despite its successes both Ghost Division and leader were in a depleted condition. Not since breaking out from the Ardennes had Rommel slept a full night, eaten a leisurely meal or taken any time off. He was everywhere at once, always moving, never stopping, endlessly rushing back through the columns, cajoling, encouraging, berating, exhorting, then hurrying forward once more to the ‘tip of the spear’, there to lead the charge. His voice became a hoarse croak, he lost weight, injured his back and, despite his infectious confidence, he suffered anxieties which caused stomach pains, nausea and vomiting. ‘I am somewhat done in, Lu dearest,’ he wrote home, ‘and I long to rest in your arms.’ But rest had to wait, because barely was the 7th settled when secret orders began arriving from High Command to prepare for Unternehmen Seelöwe – Operation Sealion – and the invasion of Britain. A project Rommel passionately believed in, Sealion called for a combined air and sea assault across the English Channel, a feat not even Germany had attempted before. If successful, the conquest of the west would be complete, and the war in Europe over. If it failed, the Allies might yet regroup and prevail. The key, Rommel knew, was to strike quickly, before England could recover from the chaos of Dunkirk. Delay, even by a few weeks, might cost Germany dearly. Gradually Sealion’s details arrived and he gathered his officers together to study them. Ghost Division, they learned, would spearhead the invasion, embarking on barges in Le Havre by night, and crossing for a dawn landing at Rye on the Sussex coast. Simultaneous landings would take place along a hundred-mile front between Ramsgate and Lyme Regis. Having secured the Rye bridgehead, the 7th was then to move inland to a town called Tunbridge Wells where they were to pause and regroup. But Tunbridge Wells, Rommel soon noted, seemed of little strategic interest. ‘Yet only thirty miles from London,’ he pointed out to his men, already mentally modifying his orders. ‘Keep moving, strike fast, we could be first at the capital!’

  Before any of it could happen, the Luftwaffe, which had performed so admirably over France, had to knock out the RAF and secure the skies over the Channel. Only then could the barges be safely launched. Days went by, weeks, 7th Panzer returned to full strength, July turned to August, the weather remained fair, the sea conditions favourable, but still no orders came to advance. Rumours spread that the Luftwaffe was losing in the air, invasion dates came and went, embarkation postponed to 30 August, then 9 September, then the following week of the 15th. And then the unthinkable happened, and without warning on 17 September Rommel received coded orders that Sealion was postponed indefinitely, and the 7th was to return to Germany.

  By November he was home in Neustadt. He spent the winter there with his family, walking with Lucie, hiking and skiing with Manfred, building up his strength, restlessly following the news reports and awaiting new orders. Rumours were strong of a fresh spring offensive, not westwards on Britain, but eastwards into Russia, a prospect that both thrilled and awed him. What an epic undertaking: surely the 7th would be in the vanguard? Finally in February the summons came and he journeyed to Berlin for an interview with Field Marshal von Brauchitsch, commander-in-chief of the whole army. But it wasn’t Russia he was destined for, he soon learned, or even Britain. ‘Mussolini wants to invade North Africa,’ von Brauchitsch explained, ‘but is sure to make a hash of it. So the Führer commands you to fly to Italy and make arrangements for Germany to “assist” our illustrious ally in this venture. Having secured our involvement, you will then prepare to lead it.’

  *

  In the end, thirty-five men were selected from 11 Special Air Service Battalion to carry out the aqueduct mission. Dubbed ‘X Troop’ and led by former Welsh Fusilier and heavyweight boxer Major Trevor ‘Tag’ Pritchard, they consisted of five officers and thirty men variously trained in explosives and demolition, mountaineering, navigation, signals, and included two Italian speakers: Theo Trickey and a former Italian waiter called Fortunato Picchi. After a month’s winter training in the Scottish Highlands the team returned to Ringway for night-jump practice, advanced weapons training and simulated attacks on a mock-up of the aqueduct. Secrecy was paramount: the men were kept segregated; no one was allowed to leave the site or use the telephone. By early February 1941 training was complete and X Troop moved to Mildenhall in Suffolk to await transportation to Malta.

  Also in Suffolk, unknown to Theo, was a twenty-eight-year-old captain of the Cameronians, with whom his destiny would become entwined. His name was John Frost. Kicking his heels supervising beach defences along the Suffolk coast, Frost returned to his billet one night that February to find a War Office circular requesting volunteers for the Special Air Services. Bored with beach defences and with little idea what special services might entail, he filled in the form and sent it off.

  Before boarding their flight to Malta, the men of X Troop were assembled in a hangar at Mildenhall for a send-off by a VIP. Impatient to get going, they felt they could do without it. Theo stood in line with the others, vaguely recalling the last time he’d paraded for a talking-to. More than six months ago, the fiasco that was Operation Ambassador had been an ill-conceived mission of unclear purpose with inadequate training and poor equipment. Not this time. This time the mission was clear and they were ready. Fit, focused, primed and raring to go, like racehorses at the starting gate. Properly equipped racehorses too. He tugged at the collar of his battledress, freshly pressed from the ‘cleaners’. Their clothes had all been removed two days ago, then returned loaded with special additions: a leather-lined pocket for carrying grenades, another for a commando knife, a hacksaw blade sewn into the collar, 50,000 lire in the waistband, silk maps in the lining of the sleeves, a tiny compass hidden in a button. Cold-weather clothing had been issued, plus new rubber-soled boots, and special high-energy food of the sort polar explorers ate. Then there was the weaponry. Qu
ite apart from high explosives for blowing the aqueduct, they were armed to the teeth with Bren guns, Thompson sub-machine guns, automatic pistols, extra ammunition, hand grenades and the commando knife called a Fairbairn-Sykes. They’d practised night jumping, night navigation and night warfare; they knew the layout and terrain by heart; they’d rehearsed assaulting and blowing the aqueduct so many times they could do it in their sleep. All they needed now, without further delay, was to get on with it.

  The send-off was not as expected. The VIP turned out to be Admiral Sir Roger Keyes, a naval officer of pensionable age who was also Chief of Combined Operations and a keen supporter of the new paratroop corps. No one in X Troop had seen him before. Tall, gaunt, nearly seventy, he wore a concerned expression as he passed slowly down the line, pausing, unusually, to speak at length with every man.

  Except one. ‘Hello,’ he said to Theo, ‘and you are?’

  ‘Trickey, sir, um, one of the interpreters.’

  Keyes flinched slightly. ‘Oh yes, Trickey. That’s right. Well, the best of luck, old chap,’ he said, moving swiftly on. And having met everyone individually, Keyes then made a long and unsettling speech about courage and sacrifice, during which he was seen to brush something from his eye, before concluding: ‘I simply could not let you go without saying a proper goodbye.’ At which he pulled himself to attention and saluted them. Clearly distraught, he then turned to go, but not before he was heard to mutter: ‘A pity. A damned pity.’

  The flight to Malta was long but largely uneventful. John Rock, the boss of Ringway school and now a colonel, flew with them for encouragement and support. Eight Whitleys had been allocated, four to fly the mission, two to make diversionary raids, plus two spares. All made it to Malta safely, but arriving overhead Valetta they had to wait while damage to the runway from the island’s nightly air raids was repaired. Eventually they landed and were whisked away to a disused barracks for safekeeping. That night their leader Tag Pritchard called them together for a final briefing. As well as discussions about loading the Whitleys, sharing out of equipment, jumping order and myriad other last-minute details, they finally learned the plan for their escape from Italy.