BABOOOOOOMMMMFFFF.
He heard the detonation, felt hot air blow, felt the earth rumble, heard the blast damp itself out. For a moment there was silence: Caine lay very still, listening. There was a sudden whiplash of rifle-shots and the stuttering stitch of sub-machine-gun fire. Then he heard the soft pad of footfalls in the humus, the whisper of leaves, undergrowth bristling as a body heaved through it. A moment later Taff Trubman came into view, hunched over, breathless, sweating, rifle braced against his arm on a coiled sling. He was heading in the wrong direction. Caine stood up, signalled to him: the Welshman changed course, hobbled through the scrub towards him. They slipped down the bank: Trubman sat panting between Wallace and Emilia, his pudgy face paste-coloured, his pupils dark commas behind thick lenses. ‘I chucked the grenade,’ he told them, ‘but Fritz is still shooting, see. They’ll be after us.’
‘They’ll be cautious, though,’ Caine said. ‘It’ll slow them down . . .’
‘Yep.’ Wallace winked. ‘An’ they ain’t got no tracker-dog with ’em this time, ’ave they?’
Chapter Thirty-Four
By late afternoon Caine reckoned they’d outrun the enemy. Above the forest canopy the sky had clouded over, shrouding the sun, cutting off the rills of rainbow colours, filling the woods with grey shadows and sepulchral gloom. The trees were old here, with knots and bulbous growths bulging from their trunks, some so eaten out by fungi they reminded Caine of grotesquely distorted faces. They’d been pushing through the woods for hours, it seemed: they were hungry and tired. On the upside, Butterfield had recovered enough to walk some of the way, although so slowly it was hardly an advantage. A change had come over him: he crept along in his grey flannel suit and down-at-heel shoes, with his hands wrapped around his belly, head down, great dewlaps hanging over his shirt-collar, teeth clamped, lips tight. He didn’t speak to anyone, answered in grunts, remained so quiet that sometimes Caine almost forgot he was there.
They came to a streamlet: black water running like molasses over molar-shaped rocks. Caine called a halt. They took turns to drink: Butterfield slumped against a tree. Emilia drank first, sat down next to Caine. She’d tried to tie her hair back again, but it had caught in branches and thorn-bush: it looked almost as unkempt as Wallace’s Gypsy mop. ‘Are we still heading west?’ she asked.
Caine nodded. He’d been using the sun and shadows to navigate: as long as there was light he could keep them going straight, ever deeper into the Appenines. Their destination was the partisan camp, though, and they had no idea where, or how far away, that was.
Caine watched Wallace kneeling at the stream, slurping water from his hand, splashing it on his face. He watched Trubman waiting his turn, watched Butterfield leaning against his tree with his eyes closed, the livid scar standing out like a red crest on his cupola of a head. Suddenly he had a feeling that someone else was there, watching them. He dismissed the sensation as paranoia, but it refused to go away: it grew stronger. He groped for his weapon, scanned the forest around him, studied the pillars of shadow, the grey knotted undergrowth, the thorn thickets beneath the colossal leaning columns of the trees. He saw nothing, but the feeling remained. He rose on his haunches, brought the Schmeisser across his knees. At that moment he became aware that a man was standing opposite him, pointing a rifle at his chest.
‘Don’t move, any of you!’ the man said.
For a moment Emilia looked petrified: Wallace stopped splashing water: Trubman turned to look: Butterfield’s eyes snapped open.
The man had moved into the open as silently as a ghost: he must have been standing in the shadows for some time, Caine thought. He didn’t seem to be a Jerry: he’d spoken with a British accent. The only thing vaguely German about him was his knee-length jackboots. Apart from that, he was dressed like an English country squire, in corduroys, a waxed olive-drab shooting-jacket and a plaid scarf. He was dark: his skin was almost the same milk-coffee shade as Emilia’s. He was loosely built, with a square face, a prominent jaw, slabbed cheeks, heavy eyebrows, long, thin lips and a high-arched nose. His hair was dark and long, but oiled and combed: his eyes were narrow incisions in a clean-shaven face.
Emilia rose to her feet. ‘Savarin?’ she gasped.
The man blinked at her. ‘Salve, Countess.’
‘If it ain’t our favourite “A” Force operator,’ Wallace boomed. He stood upright, turned to face the newcomer. ‘Ain’t seen you since you sent us to get water at sparrowfart this mornin’ –’
‘Yeah. We got back to camp and found Fritz there,’ Trubman cut in.
‘A warnin’ would ’ave been nice,’ Wallace growled. He jutted his doorstep chin at Butterfield, who was staring at Savarin with a quizzical expression. ‘Seems like you left somebody else in the lurch, too.’
Savarin frowned, nodded to Butterfield. ‘Major.’
He jerked his lip at Caine. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A British officer,’ Emilia said.
‘Captain Tom Caine, our old boss,’ Wallace said. ‘Liberated us from Fritz, din’ ’e? ’Im an’ the Countess ’ere bumped off half-a-dozen of the blighters.’
Savarin didn’t look impressed, neither did he let the rifle drop. ‘That means the Krauts will be looking for you. Have you brought them here?
‘We lost them,’ Caine said.
‘Really? I hope you’re right. We’ve had to move camp twice in the last few days.’
‘Why don’t you lower the gun?’ Emilia suggested. ‘There are no enemies here.’
Savarin didn’t budge. ‘I’m not so sure, Countess. Someone ran away from our ambush two days ago, in Kraut uniform. A British traitor, they said: one of Amray’s men. Well, Amray got his: the partisans cut his throat. That fellow who ran, though – I’d like to know where he is now.’
Caine glanced at Butterfield, wondering if he would say anything: the major avoided his gaze, kept his mouth shut. Caine traileyed Emilia. She knows I escaped from the convoy. I didn’t mention the Nazi uniform, but she can put two and two together. She didn’t glance back at him, kept her eyes fixed on Savarin. Caine breathed easier: he would have to face the music sooner or later, but he didn’t want to go into it now, certainly not while the ‘A’ Force man had a weapon pointed at him.
‘We can vouch for Tom,’ Wallace croaked.
Savarin cocked a pipe-brush eyebrow. ‘Really? Isn’t Caine the one who left you behind in Tunisia?’
There was a heavy silence. Caine stared at Wallace: a knot of cartilage in the giant’s throat trembled: for a moment the ballbearing eyes glinted at him.
It was Emilia who broke the silence. ‘Tom risked his life to get me out of the villa,’ she said. ‘I saw him kill five Germans, and I know he killed more. I don’t think you’ll get a better character reference than that. Look, it’ll soon be dark. You know me, and you know these other guys. Are we going to stand here exchanging accusations all night?’
Savarin grimaced, sighed, let his rifle drop. He gave a piercing whistle. Instantly, half a dozen partisans appeared out of the brush, formed a rough circle around Caine’s group, moved forward to shake hands. They were mostly young men with keen, dark-shadowed faces in tattered peasant garb and cloth caps, hefting a crazy assortment of rifles, pistols, sub-machine guns. One of them looked about fifteen, Caine thought: an ivory-faced lad, so thin he was almost emaciated, with clean, girlish features, an angular nose, watchful eyes, jug-handle ears that waggled slightly when he spoke. He carried a double-barrelled shotgun that looked out of place in his long, tapering fingers. Savarin introduced the boy as Furetto – Ferret: ‘He’s the youngest in the band,’ he told them. He did look like a ferret, Caine thought – an apologetic one. Furetto’s handshake was surprisingly strong: he retained Caine’s scarred and swollen hand for an instant longer than necessary, caught his eye, nodded towards Savarin, who was busy introducing the other partisans. His jug ears joggled. ‘Later, we talk,’ he said.
By the time they’d reached the camp, the forest stood in leaden twil
ight, with only a net of smoky shafts like cobwebs to give any contrast to the dimness under the trees. They were challenged once by an unseen sentry: Savarin replied in a harsh whisper, led them forward into an area where the trees were big-boled and widely spaced, where human faces were shards and spangles of reflected light, where there was the murmur of low voices around cooking fires, where the air was heavy with woodsmoke and the savoury smell of cooking stew. There was an excited stir as Savarin’s party entered: yells, greetings, enquiries. Men got up to slap Wallace and Trubman on the back: women rose to kiss and shake hands with Emilia.
Savarin led them to a makeshift tent – a large canvas sheet draped over low beech-boughs, pegged down at the corners and back. The place was spacious inside, lit by candles stuck in wine-bottles, lined with straw mattresses. Savarin ordered food brought in on trays. It was a simple meal – fresh bread, goat stew, red wine – but Caine couldn’t remember eating better in his life. Afterwards, Savarin took Butterfield off to have his wound dressed: Emilia was claimed by a bevy of ladies, and disappeared with them.
Caine, Wallace and Trubman sat on mattresses, smoked the cigarettes Savarin had distributed: Caine and Wallace passed a flagon of wine between them: Trubman drank tea. Caine smoked, stared at his friends. The events of the day seemed unreal, even fantastic – no more solid than his dream. He’d known some remarkable coincidences in his life, but never in a million years would he have expected to run into Wallace and Trubman in a forest behind enemy lines.
‘I thought you’d both bought it,’ he told them. ‘You were never listed as POWs by the War Box. They officially posted you missing in action, believed killed.’
Trubman swallowed tea from a huge enamel mug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Fritz must’ve had us down for special handling from the start, skipper. That’s why they never gave our names to the Red Cross. They spent six months fattening us up like pigs for the slaughter.’
‘’Ardly worth their while, were it?’ Wallace chortled.
‘It’s a miracle you survived that action in Tunisia,’ Caine said. ‘You were both so badly wounded, at the time it seemed impossible for us to get you out. Afterwards, I felt bloody terrible that we hadn’t even made an attempt. It’s been torturing me ever since . . .’
For an instant his voice faltered.
Wallace studied the flagon, raised it with a hand like a T-bone steak sprouting fingers. He drank wine in noisy gulps, offered the flagon to Trubman, who shook his head, held up his mug of tea. The big man took a drag of his cigarette, grinned at Caine through teeth like broken kerbstones. ‘I take it that’s yer apology, skipper. If it is, it ain’t necessary. We always ’ad this thing about gettin’ the wounded out, even though it were against SOPs: I know yer feel bad ’cause you think you broke yer promise. Now, to tell yer the truth, what ’appened in that gunpit is all a bit ’azy to me. I remember me an’ Jizzard knocked out a couple of Jerry AFVs – at least, I think we did. After that, it’s all muddled till I come round on a Jerry stretcher. Then some bastard of a Totenkopf warrant officer – head like a blinkin’ potato – starts proddin’ me wound with me own flamin’ shotgun . . .’ For a moment the grizzled face became wistful. ‘Where’s Purdey now, I wonder? I’ll bet Potato-Head snaffled ’er. Lohmann, ’is name were, SS-Sturmschaftführer Lohmann.’
‘He’s dead,’ Caine cut in abruptly. ‘The SS-Sturmschaftführer long since departed this world.’
Wallace shook his great head in surprise. ‘’Ow d’you know? D’you kill ’im, then?’
‘Nah. He caught an infection.’
The big man’s deep-recessed eyes widened: Caine laughed. ‘A long story, mate, but that’s for another time. Your beloved Purdey’s safe, though. It’s in the regimental armoury, waiting for collection.’
The big man looked flabbergasted. ‘What? ’Ow d’you ger er back?’
‘Found it in Lohmann’s car, abandoned.’
Wallace was beaming. ‘I owe you, skipper.’
‘You don’t owe me a damn’ thing, mate: I dumped both of you in the desert.’
‘Well, like I said, I’m a bit ’azy about what went on, but there’s two things I do remember. One is tellin’ you an’ ’Arry Copeland to fuck off out of it. I called you a bloody great pansy, and threatened to get up and kick yer soggy arse.’
Caine chuckled. ‘That you did. You were half bleeding to death at the time, mind you.’
Trubman set his mug down, studied Caine seriously. ‘Listen, skipper, it wasn’t humanly possible for you to get us out, see. If you’d tried it, none of us would have lived to tell the tale. It was the right decision. We survived. We’re all here, aren’t we?’
‘Except for Cope.’
‘What d’yer mean?’ Wallace looked alarmed. ‘’Arry ain’t dead is ’e?’
‘Not the last I heard. He was with me up till just before I was captured – that’s what? Five days ago . . . six? You know he’s Acting Adjutant now?’
‘What? That wanker? ’Ow the flamin’ ’eck did ’e manage it?’
‘Shortage of admin officers. The regiment’s been reorganized: we’re only at squadron strength.’
‘I ’eard. Commando squadron under Paddy Mayne, innit? It don’t sound like progress.’
‘It isn’t, believe me. We became just what David Stirling wanted us not to be. Let’s hope things improve when we get back to Blighty.’ He paused. ‘You said you remembered two things, Fred. What was the other one?’
Wallace took another loud swig from the flagon, passed it to Caine.
‘I remember Jizzard tellin’ yer that Betty Nolan were alive. Was that true or just his baloney? Did you ever find ’er?’
Caine studied the flagon, weighed it in both hands. ‘I found her,’ he said at last. ‘Not in time though. She took a gunshot wound in the head: she never recovered.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘Oh, she’s alive – I get letters from her sister every so often – but she’s a vegetable: she never regained consciousness.’
‘What a bugger.’
‘Yep.’
‘What about the countess?’ Trubman enquired. ‘How did you get mixed up with her?’
Caine hesitated, mustered his thoughts, described the action at the Senarca bridge, his capture, his encounter with Butterfield, his escape from the convoy, his one-man assault on the villa: he excluded any mention of Amray or the British Free Corps. When he’d finished, his mates exchanged embarrassed glances.
‘That stuff Butterfield come out with,’ Wallace began. ‘I mean, ’e said you was a traitor, Tom. Now don’t get me wrong: ’e told us that before the Krauts nabbed us, before we even knew it was you ’e meant. ’E said you joined Amray’s lot, swore loyalty to the Führer an’ all that bollocks. Says you was wearin’ SS uniform when you ’ooked it. We just wanna know if it’s true.’
Caine went very still. He’d held it back deliberately, but he couldn’t avoid the question for ever. He didn’t want to start off with his two friends by lying to them: not after six months, not after they’d returned from the dead,
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Yes, I was wearing Nazi uniform when I escaped from the convoy. And yes, I did join Amray’s Free Corps. That’s all I can say. You’ll have to trust that my intentions were honourable.’
‘That’s all very good, skipper,’ Trubman gabbled, ‘but whatever your intentions were, they could still get you for treason –’
‘– That bastard Amray leaned on us to join ’is bleedin’ Free Corps at Jesi,’ Wallace cut in. ‘Said we’d get scragged if we didn’t. We told ’im where ’e could stick it.’
‘Good for you.’
Wallace sniffed. ‘Look, Tom, I know you must of ’ad a reason, but it ain’t us you’ve got to convince. You saw ’ow cagey Savarin was? ’E knows it were you as run away. If Butterfield told us, ’e prob’ly told ’im, too.’
Caine lowered his voice. ‘I didn’t like the way Savarin talked about the partisans cutting Amray’s throat
. All right, Amray deserved it, but it sounded like a threat. I’m not sure I trust him. ‘Who is he? What do you know about him?’
‘’E’s an Itie,’ Wallace said.
‘No, he isn’t,’ Trubman objected. ‘Father’s British: he went to school in Blighty. His name isn’t Savarin, either. He worked for Marconi in Britain, then in Italy before the war, see. Mussolini’s lot nabbed him, gave him the choice of jankers or joining the Italian army as a signals officer. He joined up, but deserted at the first opportunity, got back to Blighty, joined my old mob – the Royal Signals. They took him on as a Phantom operator, promoted him captain, posted him to “A” Force on account of his fluent Italian. They dropped him in here as liaison officer with the Resistance.’
‘What I want to know,’ Caine said, ‘is who snitched on Butterfield’s drop, I mean –’
‘Shhh!’ Wallace hissed.
Low voices were approaching the tent. A moment later, Savarin slipped into the candle-light, his long face grave. ‘We have to talk,’ he said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
They found Emilia sitting with Butterfield on the ground by a moribund fire. They were deep in conversation: Caine wondered if she’d told him about Ettore and the hypnotic messenger stuff. Most of the partisans had gone: four or five men with weapons were walking prowler-guard. The night was as cloudy as the afternoon had been, with washed-out stars hanging above the highest branches, lodged like flakes of dirty ice on seams of lambent grey. Butterfield wore a clean dressing: he looked comfortable, seated primly, nursing his stomach, with a cigarette in his mouth and a mug of wine in his hand. Emilia poked at the embers, turned them over with a twig.
They settled around the fire with their weapons on their knees: Savarin sat bolt upright, peered at each of them in turn as if trying to make out their features in the darkness. Emilia went down on her hands and knees: Caine couldn’t help glancing at her – the willowy figure, the gracious curve of her backside and back, the way her wayward tresses fell forward, shrouding her features. She smoothed her hair away from her face, blew into the fire, coaxed up a flame. She added some dry tinder, fanned it with a piece of stiff cardboard: the twigs blazed up, illuminated their faces with a terracotta glow.
Code of Combat Page 21
