by Alan Evans
One wild-eyed soldier said, ‘They have firing squads now.’
The others did not say anything and Helen Blair asked, ‘Firing squads?’
‘For deserters and spies. The firing squads are using more ammunition than the rest of the army.’
‘That’s enough of that!’ An officer, a captain, shoved his way through them. ‘Fall in! We march! Fall in!’
The men shifted away, formed stiffly into ranks, slung their rifles over their shoulders. The captain looked exhausted, rocked on his feet. Helen Blair asked him, ‘Where are they going?’
‘South. To the Livenza. Into reserve. Regroup. Dig in.’ His voice was slurred. He walked over to stand before his men. Helen Blair could see no other officers. He croaked a husky command and they shuffled forward, picked up the step, followed him as he marched unsteadily out of the courtyard and on to the road.
Helen returned to her car and dropped the half-empty baskets in the back. There was another car pulled in at the side of the road now across from the courtyard. The driver, a corporal, stood beside it, eating bread and sausage, drinking from a bottle of wine. His officer sat in the rear seat of the car, his meal beside him on the seat on a spread white napkin. He ate it one-handed while he pored over his map. The car was mud splashed.
The officer looked up and saw Helen Blair, shouted, ‘Contessa!’
She recognised him. He was a major of engineers, on a General’s staff. She had met him several times, always immaculately uniformed, boots and buttons gleaming. Now the uniform was coated in dust, the boots filthy, and the man looked dead-tired as he climbed down from the car and came to her, the map fluttering in one hand as he saluted with the other. ‘Contessa! Where are you going?’
He spoke in Italian and she answered him in that language, easily. ‘To Portogruaro and then to the front.’
He shook his head. ‘That is not possible. The front is fluid. The army is falling back from the Tagliamento. We are going to try — we are going to hold a line along the Livenza river.’
Helen said, ‘I passed some bersaglieri. They were going forward.’
Tor one or two kilometres only. I think they will be used to fight a delaying action.’
They had to raise their voices above the rumble of the guns. They could not be far distant, certainly not on the line of the Tagliamento river that was ten or twelve miles to the north.
‘Here, I’ll show you.’ He spread out his map on the empty seat beside her. ‘The Third Army is here, the Second here, the Fourth here.’ She stared down at the map, taking in the dispositions as he pointed them out, marked in coloured pencil on his map. He went on, ‘The intention is that they will retire along these routes and take up a line along the river, thus.’
She said slowly, ‘I see.’ He had said before that they would ‘try’ then corrected himself. Now he spoke of ‘the intention’.
He folded the map. ‘So, you see, it is no place for you, nor is this. When the front stabilises it will be different. But now you must go home and wait there.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Oh, soon! Soon!’ But he did not sound confident, was haggard with worry.
Helen Blair drove back down the road and gave the remaining contents of the baskets to the bersaglieri who still waited, it seemed for orders. She smiled and joked with them and afterwards got back into the car. She could do no more here but there was work for her elsewhere. She drove back to the Livenza seeing again the signs of the retreat, and on to Mestre.
*
The three MAS boats came alongside the drifter Hercules at noon, their crews rested after the night action. For once it was a fine day. The wind coming down out of the mountains was cold but the sky held only scattered clouds and the sun shone, albeit a pale November sun. The island of San Elena was a wasteland of marsh and tall grass rippling like a sea under the wind. The tower of the church of San Elena, the only stone building, lifted stark in the clear air three hundred yards away. Smith was pacing the deck of Hercules but halted in that pacing to sniff at the breeze and watch the boats tuck themselves neatly in beside the drifter.
He greeted the captains as they came aboard. A snatch of song accompanied them, coming from the workshop along the shore of the island. Pagani laughed. ‘That mad Balestra!’
It seemed the captains were hopeful he would have plans for them. They had an air of anticipation, but he did not. The letter from Winter and his orders were in his pocket because he had to go to Devereux and somehow persuade him to support Smith in an attempt on Trieste. He would need those orders to bolster his argument. But also he would need a plan, and a good one, to coax anything out of Devereux and he did not have a plan, had no idea how to get at Salzburg. His mind had churned away at the problem but come up with nothing. He looked at the captains’ faces, cheerful after the night’s success and ready for more action. He told himself he should be cheerful on a day like this and with men like these ready for him to lead. But he was bad-tempered, did not want to be bothered with people. Buckley knew that, knowing Smith, and had carefully kept out of his way and warned the crew of the drifter. Smith was aware now he had to make the effort and force himself at least to politeness.
He talked with the captains, but stiffly. When Pietro Zacco mentioned the hole in his boat and Smith went to the rail to look down at it, the captains exchanged glances and shrugs behind his back.
The shell from the Austrian torpedo-boat had smashed a ragged hole in through the curved foredeck and another in the port side, well above the water-line, on its way out. Smith turned to Zacco, ‘Dockyard?’
Zacco shook his head. ‘No, sir. I think we repair ourselves. I think the dockyard are very busy. I have a carpenter. Lombardo, you know. We will go to the SVAN yard and get some timber. Lombardo will do it.’
Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s a useful man.’
Zacco grinned. ‘He does not like the dockyard men trampling about his boat.’
‘Very good. Carry on.’
There was a cough and Smith turned to find Davies, the gunner. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir.’ Only with the fierce Davies it came out like a challenge. ‘Couldn’t help hearing you mention the dockyard. Reckon maybe I should find out about that there gun of ours.’
‘You speak Italian?’
‘A bit, sir. I’ve been here near a year now.’
Smith had no use at the moment for ‘that there gun’ but it was a part of his little force. He nodded, looked at Zacco. ‘Will you put him ashore to go to the dockyard?’
‘Of course.’ Zacco hesitated, then: ‘The shears — we do not need them now.’
Smith shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry. It was a good idea but Voss was a jump ahead of us. Shears won’t cut through those booms.’
Zacco and Davies went off. The other two captains returned to their boats and Smith to his pacing. He was foul-tempered from frustration, beating his head against a wall, and cursing himself for that foul temper. He needed something to do and there was nothing for him aboard Hercules. Fred Archbold had been running this little ship efficiently for the past twenty years and did not need Smith. Nor did he need Menzies, standing stiffly in the stern. Smith growled at him, ‘Come on.’ Together they went down to the MAS boats.
The Italian captains and their crews were carrying out routine maintenance. The gunners stripped down, cleaned and reassembled the Colt machine-guns. The torpedomen and the seamen hauled on the tackles and swung out the torpedoes, swung them in again, checked the working of the release gear, cleaned and oiled. The motorists and meccanici worked below on the engine. Smith and Menzies moved about the boats, lending a hand when they could, but learning all the time.
While this was going on Zacco’s boat returned and Davies came with it, reported to Smith, ‘She’s still lying hauled up on a slip where we left her. They’re full up wi’ work in there, sir. It’s a dog’s life bein’ a dockyard matey just now. They’re working around the clock. Harrier’s in there now but she’s ready for sea.�
�
‘Very good,’ Smith answered. A pontoon gun would not blast him into the harbour of Trieste. He thought that Harrier’s captain would be in a hurry to return to his own duty in the Mediterranean under Braddock’s command. Smith did not blame him. Bennett was a good man and Harrier a good ship. They could not get him into Trieste, either.
Lombardo sawed and chiselled away at the holes, measured. He went aboard Hercules where Fred Archbold rigged a bench for him and Lombardo got some help from one of the drifter’s crew who was a fair hand as a carpenter. Together they sawed and planed, the patches were fitted and sanded down, and Lombardo went to work on them with a brush and a pot of paint.
Smith stood with Zacco in the bow of his boat and inspected the work. Lombardo had done a good job. When the painting was finished the boat would hardly show a mark. Lombardo whistled as he wielded the brush, pleased with the work of his hands and in good humour as a result.
Smith envied him. Lombardo’s job was done and he would sleep easy at the end of the day. And there was another man happy at his work: Smith turned as the singing came down on the wind. He stared at the long shed a cable’s length away along the shore. ‘What is he doing in there?’
Zacco shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nobody sees him for days. I think he lives in there.’
Lombardo said, ‘He’s a nut.’ He caught Zacco’s hard eye on him and added, ‘Sir. But everyone knows it. I was in a bar a coupla nights ago and this guy Enzo — he’s an engineer, works for this Balestra — was in there. So some-body asked him what Balestra’s doing and this guy laughs and says he’s building a jumping-boat. A jumping-boat for Chrissakes! Who needs it? This bastard jumps enough for anybody as it is.’
Zacco laughed and shook his head.
Smith smiled, but — the hands were cleaning the boats now, sluicing down and scrubbing. He said, ‘I think I’ll walk along and see this Balestra.’ He hesitated. He did not want the presence of an interpreter, but... He asked, ‘Does he speak any English?’
It was Gallina who answered that, passing close as he walked from bow to stern of his own boat moored beside Zacco’s, ‘He speaks very good.’
‘Thank you.’ The boats were moored bows-on to the shore now. Smith walked across the narrow plank and away through the tall grass.
Zacco and Lombardo watched him go and Lombardo said, switching easily back to Italian, ‘They might get along.’ And when Zacco looked at him. ‘That Smith, I think he’s a nut as well — sir.’
Zacco said harshly, ‘That is enough!’
Lombardo smacked the lid on the paint-pot, started carefully cleaning his brush. ‘All right, sir. But last night, did he have to go swimming around that harbour? He could have sent me and I could have told him all he wanted to know. But no. He had to see for himself. And when he turned back it was only because he’d seen all he wanted. I reckon if he hadn’t he’d have kept on swimming round that harbour till he had! Another thing. I had a talk with that big gorilla of his — that Buckley. And he said Commander Smith is always pulling that kind of stunt and worse, and it’s likely to drive Buckley crazy just riding shot-gun on him.’
As Smith approached the shed the singing grew louder and now he could also hear sounds of movement inside and a low rhythmic throbbing that came from beyond it. The shed stretched back some fifty feet from the water’s edge and was about twenty feet wide. It was low, flat-roofed and looked to have been knocked together in a hurry. The timbers were raw and unpainted. There were windows set in the walls of it but they were badly in need of cleaning and lights burned yellow inside. He found a door at the back of the shed and the rhythmic throbbing was explained. A rubber-covered cable looped away from the far corner of the shed, supported on poles and following a path trampled through the grass. The path wound away in the direction of the far side of the island, but the cable looped down about twenty yards away to a building hardly larger than a dog kennel. The throbbing came from this and it obviously housed a generator to supply electric current to the big shed.
And the singing?
Smith pushed open the door. It squeaked on its hinges and the singing stopped abruptly. The singer faced him, mouth open. He stood just inside the door, his hand outstretched to a spanner lying on the bench and now as he stared at Smith he picked up the spanner and held it like a weapon. He wore a navy boiler-suit and was a young man in his middle twenties, a little taller than Smith, very thin though with the deep chest of a singer. His face was clean-shaven, his dark hair curled and stood wildly on end. The dark eyes were large and fixed suspiciously on Smith.
Smith said, ‘I’m looking for —’ He tried to see past the young officer, looking round the shed — ‘Tenente Balestra.’ He could see little because the man stood carefully in his way. Close to Smith’s right hand a torpedo rested on trestles. It looked an old model. To his left was a little office, a plywood box built into the corner of the shed. He could just see a drawing-board in there. And over the tenente’s shoulder he caught a glimpse down the length of the shed of a craft and men working aboard but now halted in that work and peering his way under the yellow light of the lamps that swung, just dangling bulbs, from the roof.
Then the young man moved fractionally so he stood directly before Smith. ‘I am Guido Balestra.’ The eyes were still suspicious as they flicked over Smith. ‘You are an officer of the British Navy?’
‘David Smith. Commander.’ He held out his hand. ‘At present commanding the three MAS boats you see out there. I heard you singing and I was curious about what you were doing here.’
Balestra held out his own hand, realised he still gripped the spanner and dropped it on the bench. ‘I regret.’ He gripped Smith’s hand. ‘But no one comes here. I thought an intruder.’
Smith grinned. ‘That’s all right. I bet I’m your first visitor for a while. You’re well out of the way here.’
‘Yes.’
Smith moved past him, or rather round him; Balestra did not make way. Now Smith could see all of the inside of the shed, the benches set along the walls and here and there piles of discarded machinery, engines, propellers, shafts, a broken rudder, a length of chain with odd steel teeth projecting from it. Smith patted the torpedo. The top of it had been cut away from the nose back along half its length. ‘Modifications?’
Balestra was at his shoulder. ‘I have done some work on it.’
That told Smith nothing, as he suspected it was meant to. The wooden floor of the shed was no more than a platform at the rear that extended narrow arms about four feet wide along each wall. Between them a slip had been constructed, a simple affair of baulks of timber laid on the marshy shore, sloping gently down into the water. A winch was mounted on the platform at the head of the slip for the purpose of hauling craft up from the water and now on the slip there rested — Smith halted and stared for a long time, It was almost rectangular, about fifty feet long and ten in the beam. At first sight it looked like one of the barges seen working around the lagoon, but... He asked, ‘What the hell is that?’
Balestra did not answer. Smith moved on to see the — ‘thing’ — better, but Balestra moved quicker to stand in his way. The young lieutenant’s face was without expression, but now the dark eyes gleamed hard and hostile. ‘Your questions — you should ask Admiral Winter.’
‘Winter?’ Smith stared at him, startled.
‘You come from Captain Devereux, Captain Pickett?’
Smith snapped, ‘No, I don’t. What’s this about Winter?’
Balestra said stiffly, ‘This is an affair of Admiral Winter. He arranged for the workshop here, for the men from the dockyard and the engineer petty officer, Enzo, to help me. My orders came from Admiral Winter. He wrote to me that he would come here again soon. You should ask him, sir.’
Smith said quietly, ‘Winter is dead.’ Balestra flinched and his head moved slowly in denial, not wanting to believe. Smith said, ‘He was killed in action two days ago.’
Balestra seemed stunned. Smith was thinking quickly. He
said, ‘I’m here in Venice because of Winter. He had the Admiralty send me here, with orders to seek out the battlecruiser Salzburg and sink her at her moorings. I have heard that you are building a jumping-boat. You said just now that you were building it for Winter. I think in fact that you are building it for me.’ He pulled from his pocket his orders and the letter from Winter, handed them to Balestra, who read them and returned them. Smith said, ‘Well? How does it operate?’
Balestra hesitated, still reluctant, but said, ‘I will show you the plans.’
He led the way back to the tiny, box-like office. It was almost filled by the drawing-board but Smith saw a camp bed tucked in against one wall. So Balestra lived with his work. Now he pointed to the drawing-board and Smith stooped over it. He was no engineer but to him the plan was beautifully drawn. Balestra began to explain, hesitantly at first: ‘I got the idea from the tanks your army use in France...’ As he went on he became absorbed, spoke more quickly and was no longer on his guard. Only when he finished did his wary look return.
Smith felt excitement taking light inside him as he watched and listened. Now he looked up from the plans. ‘They told me you were building a jump-boat.’
Balestra shrugged. ‘I told my men to say that if anyone asked. I thought it would sound like the Mad Professor. They call me that.’
‘You don’t mind?’
For once Balestra laughed and it was honest not bitter. ‘No. I suppose I’m a bit unconventional. It helps because it makes people leave me alone.’
Smith said seriously. ‘I don’t think you are mad.’
The Italian’s brief moment of good humour vanished. ‘Devereux does. And Pickett.’
