Code of Combat

by Michael Asher

  Emilia and Ettore settled down in a spot among the trees, secluded from the rest of the group, sat facing each other like dark chess-figures in the twilight.

  Ettore snorted suddenly, collapsed in a fit of giggling.

  ‘Come on, this is serious,’ Emilia told him. ‘Think of Mum and Dad.’

  ‘OK, are you ready?’ He started sniggering again.

  ‘Grow up, Ettore.’

  ‘All right. I just hope I can remember the words.’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘OK.’ He drew a breath through his nostrils. When he spoke again, his voice was steady. ‘I am Ettore Falcone. Father told you that only he and I can hypnotize you. He gave you a signal-phrase. I am going to say that phrase now, and you will pass instantly into deep hypnosis. You will tell me the location of the Codex Aesinias manuscript of the Germania of Tacitus. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘OK. The phrase is, the moon is clear tonight.’

  *

  It was almost an hour before they returned, and the rest of the company were huddled in deep shadows around the embers of the fire. Emilia and her brother sat down silently.

  ‘’Ow did our Svengali do, then?’ Wallace chuckled.

  They eyed each other, didn’t answer.

  ‘What happened?’ Caine asked. ‘Did you find out where the Codex is?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ Emilia said.

  There was a beat of silence.

  ‘Come on then, spit it out,’ Wallace huffed. ‘Don’t keep us ’angin on.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Cope.

  Emilia sighed. ‘The Codex is hidden in a secret crypt underneath the chapel at Villa Montefalcone.’

  ‘What?’ Caine gasped. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘That’s where it is. We didn’t even know there was a crypt under that chapel – the place is hardly big enough to swing a cat. The entrance is, apparently, under the altar.’

  ‘But, Countess,’ Copeland said, ‘surely the villa is going to be crawling with Jerries now. It’ll be guarded tighter than the Bank of England. Forget it. If we go in now, we’ll take a lot of casualties.’

  ‘We can’t attempt it right this minute,’ said Caine. ‘We need to get Furetto and Cavanaugh some serious medical assistance. We have to go back to the partisans’ camp –’

  ‘Hold on, skipper,’ Trubman said. ‘Didn’t Savarin want to arrest us last time we were there?’

  ‘What’s this?’ Copeland demanded.

  ‘Another long story, Harry,’ said Caine. ‘For now, let’s just say there’s some doubt about Savarin’s security –’

  ‘Yeah, like how did the Krauts know I’d be in Orsini when they picked me up?’ Ettore cut in. ‘How did they know you were going to ambush my escort? And they did know: that’s why the convoy lagged behind – it was a trap.’

  ‘Almost came off, too.’ Caine nodded.

  ‘Yeah, somebody told the Krauts what you were planning to do.’

  ‘Must of bin quick,’ Wallace mused. ‘Even we didn’t know we was doin’ it till last night. Then there’s the little matter of why Savarin tried to arrange it so as Taff an’ me would be nabbed by Fritz, an’ why he left Butterfield behind.’

  There was quiet for a moment: the men mulled it over. Then Cope said. ‘Let’s get this straight. You want to go to the partisans’ camp, even though you think Savarin’s compromised?’

  Caine heard the doubt in his voice, guessed that he was already seeing the exfiltration plan he’d worked out being diverted to yet another lost cause.

  ‘I reckon we’ve got to,’ Caine said. ‘Like I said, Roy and Furetto need a doctor. Second, we have to pick up Butterfield. If we abandon him, the regiment will never let us forget it.’

  Before they mounted the jeeps, Copeland called Caine over and presented him with yet another of his belongings: his Thompson sub-machine gun, cleaned and wrapped in oilcloth, with two hundred rounds of .45 calibre ammunition.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Near Montefalcone, Le Marche, Italy

  11 October 1943

  The partisan camp lay in a bowl of darkness: the trees rose around it like black bones, joined by a crazy weave of shoots, boughs and brambles, sharp-focused against the creamy blueness of the night. The place was without movement except for the last few Giappisti rolling up bedding and loading packs. Almost everyone else had left. Word had reached Savarin of the attack near Orsini that morning: Ettore Falcone had been successfully snatched from a Kraut convoy. It was clear to him that Caine’s group had been responsible, though there were disturbing reports that other elements had been involved.

  Savarin wasn’t officially the leader of the partisan banda – his role was logistic support and liaison with Allied Forces HQ – but in practice his advice was almost always listened to. He’d pointed out to them that the Germans knew Ettore was a partisan: they would order a new search for the camp.

  Savarin left the last few stragglers to sort themselves out, struck out into the forest. The Torn ‘e’ transmitter was hidden inside a hollow tree-trunk, about ten minutes’ walk from the camp. The first thing he did when he got there was to check with his torch for any sign that anyone else had visited the place. He found none: the wireless-set was just as he’d left it, wrapped in oilcloth. He leaned his rifle against a tree, put the heavy box on a moss-covered rock, extended the antenna, attached the battery-unit, Morse key and headphones. The set hummed, began to warm up: he rolled the knob, tuned into the Sipo-SD frequency, watched the needles flicker on their crescent-shaped dials. He fitted the headphones, listened to squibs of static, tapped in ‘Q’ codes. The Gestapo operator came back at once.

  The Nazis didn’t know who Savarin was: to them he was an anonymous source who sometimes gave them accurate information. The way Savarin looked at it was that he was using them, giving them judicious tip-offs when he saw a tactical advantage. He was and always had been dedicated to the liberation of Italy, his father’s country, but he couldn’t stand interference from the Allies. For him, their role was to drop weapons and supplies, keep their noses out. Ever since Mussolini’s departure, though, they’d acquired the irritating practice of sending in parachutists and behind-the-lines parties – commandos and saboteurs who knew nothing of the local situation: their blundering and heavy-handed activities drew the Hun’s attention to the Giappisti, or resulted in atrocities against civilians. That had to be avoided at all costs.

  As far as he was concerned, the Codex was irrelevant. Why the British were wasting energy on it, he couldn’t fathom: the scheme had stirred up a hornets’ nest. He’d thought it would be enough to tip off the Nazis about Butterfield’s stick when they’d jumped near Ancona. How was he to know they’d be executed? He’d honestly believed they’d be treated as ordinary POWs.

  When Ettore and the other young bloods had brought in Wallace and Trubman, he’d refused to believe they’d escaped from an execution. Even when he’d got word of Butterfield’s convoy, he’d tried to persuade the boys to let it go. Much to his chagrin, Furetto and the others had ignored his advice and gone and ambushed the convoy anyway. Then he’d found himself burdened with three SAS soldiers the Germans were looking for. At the last camp, he’d attempted to sacrifice them: it would have been all right if that wild card Caine hadn’t shown up.

  Partisans sometimes donned Nazi uniforms on their operations, but what Caine had done was different: he’d worn the uniform of a collaborator. Whatever his intentions, he’d created a precedent, given the Hun a propaganda victory. That Savarin’s own actions in giving information to Sipo-SD might also be construed as collaboration didn’t bother him: he knew his motives were pure.

  It was true that he’d also provided the Gestapo with the names of Ettore Falcone and other young partisans when they’d visited Orsini: that had been his way of disposing of the unruly faction in his group. It hadn’t worked, though: Furetto and others were still around. Furetto had warned Caine that Savarin planned to stop
them snatching Ettore: the youth was too clever for his own good: he’d no doubt facilitated their attack that morning, even allowed them to take the Alfa Romeo, which he wasn’t expecting to see again. It was only a matter of time before Sipo-SD started combing the woods for the partisan camp. He’d decided to anticipate them by giving away its location: when they arrived, they’d find no one but Butterfield there. Savarin considered himself a good judge of character, and he didn’t trust the fat major: under the bumbling exterior there was something about the man that wasn’t kosher.

  He finished the transmission, removed the headphones: he was about to wrap up when he heard a rustle in the undergrowth. He swung round, just as a pot-bellied figure stepped out of the darkness: it was Butterfield. Savarin let out a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He placed a hand on his heart. ‘You scared the heck out of me. What are you doing, creeping around like that?’

  Butterfield didn’t smile: there was a stillness to him that Savarin didn’t recognize. ‘I followed you from the camp, old boy. You see, I can move quietly when I want to. Who were were you sending to? The Krauts?’

  Savarin’s smile was a mouthful of blue. ‘Just business with Allied HQ.’

  ‘Really? That’s a German set, isn’t it? A Torn “e”? What’s wrong with the wireless you’ve got back in camp?’

  ‘It’s diss: this is a back-up. There’s nothing odd about using a German wireless – we use Jerry weapons, too.’

  ‘Always the slick answer, eh, old chap? I suppose you hid it in that tree in case there was an attack on the camp?’

  Savarin tossed his long hair. ‘Something like that.’

  Butterfield took a step closer to the wireless, squinted at the dials on its square face. ‘I’d hazard a guess that it’s tuned into a Jerry frequency. If I were to key in some “Q” codes right now, isn’t that what I’d find?’

  ‘Try it.’ Savarin grinned. ‘Be my guest.’

  Butterfield shifted on his thick legs, made a movement as if to pick up the discarded headphones, thought better of it. In that instant, though, Savarin drew a pistol from under his jacket, stood up, jabbed it in Butterfield’s midriff. ‘Not so fast, old boy,’ he said.

  Butterfield’s eyes widened. ‘So, after all that guff about Caine being a traitor, we find out who the traitor really is.’

  Savarin glowered. ‘I’m no traitor. I’ve done nothing here that wasn’t for the good of the partisans.’

  Butterfield made a clucking sound: his eyes were hard black buttons. ‘What about divulging the time and place of my drop to the Hun? What about my men, murdered by the Nazis? What about dumping me for the enemy to find, last time you moved camp? Was that for the good of the partisans?’

  Savarin bristled: levelled the pistol at Butterfield’s dome-shaped skull. ‘You damn’ SAS,’ he spat. ‘You drop in, carry out some mad scheme and clear off again, leaving us and the civvies to take the flack.’

  ‘We are trying to win a war, old boy.’

  ‘Win a war? Is that really why you’re here, Major? You don’t look much of a fighting man to me. And while we’re on the subject of traitors, why did you tell me that Caine had joined the enemy and then do a complete about-face? There’s something shifty about you: I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there.’

  Butterfield opened his mouth: Savarin cut him short, pressed the muzzle of the pistol into the flesh below his ear. The major took a step backwards. ‘That’s it,’ Savarin said. ‘Go back . . . right back into the bush. I was going to leave you alive for the Hun, but now it occurs to me that you might open your mouth too wide. You know what they say about dead men telling no tales.’

  Butterfield’s face was shiny in the darkness. ‘This is silly, old fellow. I’m your superior officer. Put that weapon down at once.’

  Savarin gave him a sad smile. At that moment a dark whirlwind erupted: a figure hurtled out of the bush, moving so fast it seemed a black blur: Butterfield flinched, clocked violent movement, heard the cricket-bat clump of a butt hitting Savarin’s head, took in the groping white fingers that closed on the wrist of his shooting hand, shook the pistol free.

  Butterfield stared at Savarin’s suddenly horizontal body and up into the dark features of Tom Caine. It wasn’t until that moment that he started shaking.

  Caine let out a low whistle: Copeland and Trubman pushed through the black grid of branches: Ettore and Emilia followed close behind. Copeland produced a hank of parachute-cord: together he and Caine lashed Savarin to a tree. He was still conscious, his eyes flickered irately: there was a bump the size of a carbuncle on his head. Trubman crouched by the Torn ‘e’ set with Savarin’s torch, examined the dials, donned the headphones, listened to the Morse traffic. ‘That’s it, boys,’ he declared. ‘Tuned to the Kraut network. He was in comms with the enemy, see.’

  ‘He told them the location of the camp,’ Butterfield warbled. ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

  Caine and Copeland exchanged glances, the whites of their eyes like polished pearls in the blue dimness. They’d left Wallace and the rest of the SAS boys with the wagons, leaguered near the place they’d found the Alfa Romeo that morning. They’d moved in silently, using the track Furetto had shown them. Caine, scouting ahead of the others, had picked up wireless-hum, the sound of voices: he’d called the rest of the party to halt, gone to investigate. He’d lingered motionless in the bushes long enough to hear Savarin’s virtual confession.

  ‘What about the camp?’ Caine asked Butterfield.

  ‘Nobody there. Everyone’s gone –’

  Somewhere a grenade went kaa-THOMMPPP: the night air shuddered. Butterfield jumped: Caine half crouched, gripped his Thompson, heard the pop of Very pistols. He strained to peer up through the leaves, saw flares hanging like green cat’s eyes on the night sky.

  There was a sudden groan from Savarin. ‘Too late. They’re here.’

  The forest crackled with gunfire: the tack-tack-tack of machine guns, rifle shots like brittle branches being snapped. Another grenade went kaaa-BOMMFFFF: Caine heard the rip of blasted metal, smelt oil and smoke fumes. ‘One of theirs,’ he said. ‘That was a No. 36: tell it a mile away.’

  ‘Good old Fred,’ Trubman said.

  Copeland grabbed Caine’s arm, manouevred him out of Savarin’s hearing: the others followed, squatted together. A Spandau snickered tacka-tacka-chack-chack-chack: a Vickers ‘K’ answered with a deep-throated punka-punka-punka-punk.

  ‘We’ve got to get back to the leaguer, Tom,’ Cope whispered. ‘Get our wagons out.’

  More flares went up: Caine saw ladders of green light like bottle-rockets arcing across the sky. He turned his face to Emilia, saw her brush wayward strands of hair out of her eyes. ‘How long will it take us to get to the villa from here – on foot?’

  ‘On foot?’ she repeated.

  ‘About twenty minutes,’ Ettore cut in. ‘There’s a short-cut through the forest: the short side of a triangle.’

  ‘You know the way?’ Caine asked.

  ‘Sure. I grew up in these woods.’

  ‘OK.’ Caine leaned forward. ‘Harry, you and Taff go back to the leaguer with Major Butterfield. Get the jeeps out if it’s the last thing you do. When you do, drive like the clappers to the villa.’

  Copeland nodded: Caine could sense his reluctance. He hadn’t wanted to get mixed up in Caine’s mission, and now he’d got caught – just what he’d been afraid of.

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re going to get the Codex. We’ll take the path through the woods to the villa. We’ll meet you there.’

  ‘But didn’t you agree that the place might be full of Jerries?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll take our chance.’

  Copeland was quiet for a moment: his face lay in shadow, his eyeballs stood out whitely. Rifles whomped, machine guns rack-tacked: Cope heaved a long breath. ‘All right, Tom. But if we’re not there in an hour, don’t hang about.’

  ‘You’ll b
e there, Harry. I know you will.’

  ‘Now wait a minute, old boy,’ Butterfield steamed in. ‘I’d rather go with you.’ Caine glanced at him: his eyes were dark caverns, his billiard-ball head sheeny with sweat.

  ‘Sorry, Major. We need to move fast on this one.’

  ‘But the Codex is my mission: I’m the ranking officer here.’

  ‘You effectively handed command over to me. Now I’m deciding. If you want to report me for insubordination, you can add it to the list.’

  Butterfield brooded in silence.

  ‘What about Savarin?’ Trubman asked.

  ‘Three choices,’ Caine said. ‘Leave him there, let him go, or kill him. Whatever you decide, don’t take too long.’

  There was a spike of gunfire from the direction of the leaguer: Caine heard bullets zing, heard slow ricochets drone like bluebottles.

  He cradled his Thompson close. ‘Emilia. Ettore. You ready to do this?’

  ‘Why not?’ Ettore said. ‘I was on my way to be executed this morning, anyway.’

  ‘We have to come,’ Emilia said. ‘The Codex is our business.’

  ‘All right. You got weapons and ammunition?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Caine paused for a last glance at Copeland’s face, a pale ellipsis in the darkness. ‘Thanks for pulling us out, Harry. I owe you another crate of beer.’

  Copeland stood up, let his SMLE drop into his hands. ‘See you on the ledge, mate.’

  ‘Not if I see you first.’

  They didn’t shake hands or say goodbye but rose silently, melted like shadows into the darkness of the forest.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Villa Montefalcone, Le Marche, Italy

  11 October 1943

  They approached the villa from the western side, passed the rocky crag where they’d sheltered and the hidden door in the forest. It occurred to Caine that they might use the key, get in that way, until Emilia pointed out that the chapel was built into the old girdle wall of the villa and could only be entered from the outside. He remembered the claustrophobic terror he’d suffered in the shaft, whispered a silent prayer.