‘After the job’s done we divide into teams,’ Pritchard explained. ‘We’ve a lot of rough terrain to cover and small groups will fare better than large. We travel by night and lie up by day. Not getting spotted is crucial, as is speed: we’ve sixty miles to cover in a straight line, probably double that allowing for the terrain. It’ll be a tough slog, but we must do it in four nights, because on the fourth night the Royal Navy submarine HMS Triumph, currently berthed here in Valetta, will be waiting to pick us up.’
Amazed murmurs and low whistles were exchanged.
‘Yes, I know, they’re laying on the red carpet, so let’s not keep them waiting. After we’re picked up Triumph drops us back here, we relax on the beach and wait for a lift home. Any questions?’
‘What’s the procedure for the sub rendezvous, boss?’
‘Triumph will surface after dark, then flash a V-for-victory on the hour every hour until dawn. As soon as we respond they’ll send dinghies to pick us up.’
‘What if we do get spotted en route?’
‘Capture is not advisable. We fight our way out.’
‘So, when do we go?’
Pritchard grinned. ‘Moon’s full, weather’s clear. How about tomorrow?’
The final day was spent checking and rechecking equipment, then loading it into the Whitleys. The explosives and heavy weapons were packed into large canvas canisters suspended within the Whitleys’ bomb bays. The rest was distributed among the men. Their mood as they worked was cheerful and optimistic, with much accompanying banter.
‘Pay you a fiver if you carry the Bren, Fletch.’
‘Money up front?’
‘When we get back.’
‘Not bloody likely!’
Theo busied himself packing. In addition to his regular duties and interpreting, he was also first-aider for his stick and carried the maps for the trek across the mountains. Along with food, clothing, weapons and ammunition, finding space for everything in his rucksack was a challenge. Halfway through repacking for the fourth time, he was summoned to a side office, where he found Deane-Drummond in discussion with a civilian introduced as ‘Smith’.
‘Mr Smith is a local representative of International Research Bureau, Theo. You know, Grant’s lot from Baker Street. He’s come to give you your orders.’
‘Orders?’
‘Listen carefully to what he says. I’ll leave you in peace.’
Deane-Drummond left, and Smith produced an envelope which he told Theo to open and read. It didn’t take long.
‘It just says after the mission I’m to follow verbal instructions issued by you.’
‘Correct.’
‘What instructions?’
‘Sit down.’
‘No, thank you. What instructions?’
‘Have you heard of an Italian anti-government activist called Gino Lucetti?’
‘I… Who?’
‘He led various protests and uprisings against Mussolini in the twenties and thirties, including an assassination attempt.’ Smith waited. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘Something… In the newspapers, um, when I was at school. Isn’t he in prison?’
‘Yes. And that’s the point.’
‘What is?’
‘He’s been moved. He was at Santo Stefano, now he’s at the Regina Coeli prison, in Rome.’
‘I don’t understand…’
‘Just along the corridor from your grandfather.’
‘What!’
‘Just listen.’ Smith produced another envelope, larger, bulging with letters and documents, and money – Italian lire, Swiss francs and several British gold sovereigns stitched into a belt-like pouch. The documents, he explained, were identity cards, travel passes, letters of introduction: everything Theo would need to travel to Rome, spend time there and then leave again. The gold was to demonstrate ‘sincerity’.
‘Lucetti has supporters, a small but determined group calling themselves Partito d’Azione, Action Party, whose sole aim is to depose Mussolini and overthrow Italian Fascism. We need to make contact with them, so we can provide assistance. Do you understand?’
‘No.’ He could barely believe his ears. ‘No, I don’t. What is this, and what has it to do with my grandfather?’
‘The only way to Action Party is through Lucetti. Once in Rome, you will visit your grandfather in prison, twice. On the first visit you will explain the situation and hand him these letters to give to Lucetti. They prove you are genuine. On the second visit your grandfather will pass you instructions from Lucetti on how to contact his followers in Action Party.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You meet them, explain we want to help, give them the gold, obtain names and addresses, contact information and so on, then you leave.’
‘Leave.’
‘Yes, leave. You are an Italian medical student returning to your home in the north after visiting relatives in Rome. Once back in South Tyrol you cross into Switzerland, where you report to the British Embassy. It’s all very straightforward.’
‘Straightforward? But it’s, it’s not… I can’t, I’m a paratrooper, on a special operation. We’re a team, we’ve trained for months, I can’t just walk off—’
‘We know about the operation, and this won’t interfere in any way. You fulfil the mission, you escape with the others, then at an appropriate moment you slip away. Pritchard is fully briefed; so is Deane-Drummond.’
‘Appropriate moment.’ Theo shook his head in bewilderment. ‘And when’s that?’
‘That’s for you to decide. When your services are no longer needed, I’d say. When it’s all over.’
‘When the submarine picks them up, you mean.’
Smith glanced away. ‘I wouldn’t leave it that long.’
*
They took off at dusk. The flight time was only three hours, but air raids were now a nightly event at Valetta airport, and they couldn’t risk getting caught on the ground. So the four Whitleys headed out to sea, circled slowly up to ten thousand feet and then set a circuitous course to bring them over the target at the appointed time of 9.30 p.m. Two more Whitleys laden with bombs headed for the nearby city of Foggia, where they were to make a diversionary raid. The night was clear and cloudless with a full moon and bright stars. Aboard the shuddering bombers it was thunderously noisy and bitterly cold; the men huddled down on the bare metal with cushions and blankets and tried to doze. Soon they were over Sicily, then Italy itself, following the west coast northwards, with the snow-capped peaks of the Apennines glistening in the moonlight to their right. Then at Agropoli they turned inland for the run in to the target. Aboard Theo’s Whitley, Deane-Drummond was in charge, keeping in touch with the pilots by intercom. On this their first mission, the Paras were to use a new system of lights to control their exit: a red one would come on five minutes before the jump; a green one was the signal to go. It sounded simple: they hoped it worked.
‘Fifteen minutes – hatch open!’ Deane-Drummond wriggled down to the hatch, which was covered by a hinged lid. Withdrawing the bolts, the cover came off and a blast of icy wind tore through the Whitley. Shuffling forward, the men peered down through the hole and there, less than a thousand feet below, were the towering peaks and plummeting ravines of the mountains. It was a forbidding sight in the harsh moonlight: the terrain looked menacingly steep and thick with snow, sheer cliffs, craggy gorges and cascading white waterfalls; lower down was darkly forested with sinewy dark lines indicating tracks, and here and there the occasional glimmer of light from a lone farmhouse.
Fifteen minutes came and went, twenty; the Whitley seemed to be circling, as though searching for landmarks. No red light came on. Deane-Drummond called into his intercom and tapped his headphones, his face perplexed. Then a figure appeared, crawling up from the tail: the Whitley’s rear gunner, waving urgently.
‘Intercom’s bust! You go in one minute!’
Frantic preparation ensued, the men quickly tightening harnesses and helmets, hooking their static
lines on and taking up their jump positions either side of the hole, the first pair with legs dangling ready. Still no red light glowed, but suddenly the green light came on. ‘Go!’ Deane-Drummond shouted and away they went. Theo jumped third, jerking to attention as he dropped, making a clean exit down the tube into the freezing hurricane. Then followed the mad tumble, the tug on his shoulders, the world jolting upright and the familiar blessed floating, silent save for the rumble of receding engines. Swinging gently, he checked his parachute, raised his hands to the risers and tugged to turn into wind. He saw a line of white parachutes from his stick and coloured ones for the equipment, noting the drop pattern looked neat and tight. Below him the ground was approaching, the terrain thrown into harsh relief by the light. Somewhere a dog started barking. He glimpsed the lights of a farmhouse, saw a patch of cultivated soil and heaved left towards it. Just before impact he pulled down hard on the risers; he hit, tucked and rolled, rose swiftly to his feet, smacking the harness release with his fist while the canopy folded itself neatly on to the ground beside him. He’d made the perfect landing. And not two hundred yards away, hard and angular against the moonlit sky as it spanned a deep ravine, was their target, the Tragino Aqueduct.
No time was wasted on congratulations. Deane-Drummond gathered the stick together and they began searching for their stores. A few minutes later jumpers from two more bombers came tramping through the undergrowth, a breathless Tag Pritchard among them. Of the fourth Whitley’s stick there was no sign.
‘Right, Picchi, Trickey, those farmhouses, you know what to do,’ Pritchard ordered. ‘Meanwhile 3 Section set up a defensive position here while the rest of you get cracking rounding up the stores.’
Two farmhouses had been spotted lower down the hillside. A mission imperative was that no locals were allowed to leave the scene, in case they tried to pass word of the attack or telephone the authorities. All had to be rounded up and held secure until the job was done. Theo and Picchi descended a winding path, crossed a bridge over a stream and split up to investigate. Theo reached the first building, an ancient and dilapidated stone farmhouse. As he neared, the dog he’d heard earlier started barking again. ‘Apri la porta!’ he demanded, banging on the door. Scuffling came from within, but the door stayed shut. He knocked again, adding ‘Don’t be afraid’ in Italian for good measure. More scuffling, then the sound of a bolt sliding. The door opened a crack and an ancient face appeared.
‘Mi scusi, signore,’ Theo began, ‘I am sorry to disturb you. However, I must ask you and everyone here to accompany me.’
The old man gazed at the alien apparition before him. ‘You came from the sky?’
Within ten minutes he and Picchi had gathered them all together: two families, men and women from youths to ancients, and several children who ran around clapping and squealing with excitement. One man wore a battered uniform and cap. ‘I am the stationmaster and very important,’ he kept saying.
‘Then do as we ask, and all will be well,’ Theo replied.
Reaching the bridge they found the main party busy unpacking the stores.
‘Will you shut those bloody brats up!’ Pritchard barked. ‘They’ll be heard all over the valley. And tell those men they can help carry the stores up to the aqueduct. It’s a steep climb and time’s pressing.’ Pritchard knelt by the equipment. ‘And where the hell’s Captain Daly got to?’
‘Hasn’t been seen, sir, none of ’em have from stick four.’
‘Well, we need him, he’s got most of the detonators.’
Amid some grumbling from the Italians, especially the stationmaster, the crates of explosives were manhandled up a steep path to the aqueduct, and stacked against a concrete supporting pier. Despite the noise of tramping boots, barking dogs and excitable children, no one appeared in the valley, nor did their activity seem to attract attention. Halfway through proceedings, Deane-Drummond approached Theo, who was standing guard over the civilians, and trying to keep the children quiet with chocolate.
‘Take a look at Boulter, would you, Trickey? I fear he’s injured.’
Corporal Harry Boulter was in Theo’s stick. He’d complained of a bad landing, and had been hobbling around, but was now sitting by the path grimacing with pain.
‘Hello, Harry. How’s the foot?’
Boulter rubbed his ankle. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t tell Tag, but I think it’s broken.’
‘Maybe we can bandage it. Shall we take a look?’
Together they unlaced Boulter’s boot and began to ease it off, but at the first pull he yelped with pain. ‘Christ, Trick, stop!’
In the end they cut the boot off with commando knives to reveal a darkly swollen foot at an odd angle. Moving it even slightly caused Boulter excruciating pain.
‘It’s broke, ain’t it, Trick?’ he gasped.
‘We’ll bind it up tight, fix you up with a stick. You’ll get out with the rest of us.’
‘No, I’m done for. You know the rules.’
Theo bandaged the foot, gave Boulter painkillers and was about to go in search of wood to cut a crutch when Pritchard called X Troop together. Suddenly everyone, even the Italian children, fell into an expectant hush.
‘Daly’s stick didn’t make it. Let’s just hope they came down safe somewhere and are already heading for the rendezvous. But as a result we don’t have enough explosives to blow both ends of the aqueduct, nor the right detonators. So we’ve piled all the boxes around one pier and we’ll blow the lot using a slow fuse and blasting cap. It’s not ideal – let’s just hope it works. Everyone now get back to those rocks for cover while I go forward and light the fuse.’
Theo translated for the Italians, who gathered the children and scurried for cover, X Troop following; meanwhile, Pritchard went forward up the hill, lit the fuse and then hurriedly returned. Nothing happened. The fuse was set for two minutes, but long after this the valley remained still and silent. Another minute passed, then everyone watched anxiously as Pritchard rose and crept slowly forward. His hesitancy saved him, for suddenly the valley was lit by an enormous flash which held him in frozen silhouette before the shock wave knocked him down. A second later a thunderous explosion shook the ground and a volcano-like eruption blasted high into the sky above the aqueduct. On and on it went, echoing round the valley like thunder; moments later debris began raining down – earth, stones, concrete, rubble – pelting them like hail. Slowly the fragments stopped falling and the sound of thunder faded to silence around the valley. A cloud of acrid dust and smoke then rolled down the hill, enveloping them like fog. The dog resumed its barking; someone began praying in Italian; choking and cursing was heard through the smoke. Then a new sound.
‘Listen!’ Pritchard climbed unsteadily to his feet. ‘Listen to that, boys!’
The roar of water. Torrents of it, cascading to the ground like a waterfall over a cliff. They’d done it. Just six months after the first volunteers arrived at Ringway, the parachute corps had pulled off its first mission. Colossus had succeeded; the Tragino Aqueduct was blown.
Now all they had to do was get home. The time was 1.00 a.m.
*
Swiftly they made their preparations. With just five hours of darkness remaining, covering ground was crucial. While the others packed up, Theo and Picchi escorted the Italians back to their houses.
‘Armed guards are being posted outside,’ they warned them, as pre-arranged. ‘You will remain inside with doors locked and windows shuttered. Anyone attempting to leave will be shot on sight. The guards will inform you when it is safe to come out.’
‘Not sure mine believed me,’ Picchi said as they trotted back. ‘Yours?’
‘Who knows.’
At the bridge the heavy Bren and Thompson guns were being dismantled and discarded, leaving each man with personal weapons only: knife, pistol and grenades. These plus spare ammunition, five days’ food and water and a thirty-pound backpack would go with them to the coast. Nothing else. With Daly’s team still missing, the remainder div
ided into three groups, each led by an officer. Theo was attached to Deane-Drummond’s, as was Tag Pritchard, who joined them at the last minute. As the time for departure neared, he called Theo aside.
‘Listen, Trickey,’ he murmured, shrugging on his backpack, ‘I’ve spoken to Boulter. He’ll never make it. We’re leaving him here.’
‘Sir, if we make a crutch, we could take turns helping him, and I don’t mind carrying his—’
‘Not a chance. He knows the drill and so do you. Non-walking wounded stay behind. We’re leaving him food and water, cigarettes and that, but can you make sure he’s as comfortable as possible, you know, bandages, painkillers and so on?’
Boulter was propped against a tree. ‘Hello ,Trick, you all set, lad?’
‘I suppose so. Doesn’t seem right leaving you, Harry.’
‘Nonsense. We knew the rules when we signed up. Anyway, it saves me slogging over these bloody mountains.’
‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘I’ll say!’ Boulter forced a grin, his face white and waxy in the moonlight. ‘I’ve enough fags and chocs to last a month!’
‘Here’s some things from first aid. Benzedrine if you need it, and these are morphine tablets, for if the pain gets bad. Don’t take too many.’
‘I won’t.’
A shout from Pritchard: ‘X Troop, stand to!’
‘Trick.’ Boulter grabbed his arm. ‘Listen, lad, a quick favour. Two as it happens.’
‘Anything.’
‘There in the bushes, the boys dumped one of the Thompsons. Fetch it over here, would you? Bring the ammo bag an’ all.’
‘But you’ve got your pistol, surely?’
‘Bloody pea-shooter wouldn’t stop a fly. Get me the Tommy, there’s a good lad.’
Theo retrieved the machine gun. ‘You’re not planning anything rash, are you?’
‘Not a chance. Here.’ Boulter produced a crumpled paper. ‘I jotted this down. It’s for the missus. See she gets it when you get back, will you?’
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