‘What do you mean, Jack?’ asked Wiseman.
‘Those Eyeties won’t be able to see us, but there’s a good chance the sentries will see the sub or the canoes paddling to the shore. You brought me along to protect you, didn’t you?’ he said, turning to Spiro. ‘Take Baldini and Zucharini with you. We might need them to cause a diversion. In the meantime, sir, you head to those palms, send your signal, and I’ll have a dekko at the sentries.’
‘What the hell are you going to do?’
‘Trust me, sir,’ said Tanner.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Wiseman.
‘Easier done alone,’ Tanner replied. ‘Now go. I’ll catch you up.’
Spiro glanced at Wiseman, saw him nod, then said, ‘All right. Good luck.’
Tanner watched them hurry off, crouching, out of sight, then keeping low, he darted to the riverbank. Thick, tufty grass grew down to the water’s edge. Taking off his pack, boots and webbing, he slipped into the water, clenching his teeth at its chill. Still, he thought, not as cold as the English Channel. Silently, he swam to the other side, then feeling for the sand, carefully eased himself out of the water. There were low dunes here too, only a few feet high, undulating gently. He crawled forward through the grass until he reached a sand path through the dunes and saw, on a grass bank, thirty yards beyond, the encampment. He paused and listened. The gentle brush of waves on the shore, low snores from one of the tents and, yes, voices. Faint, but voices all right, coming from beyond the tents, towards the shore.
Tanner slid down onto the path and crawled forward until the cover of the grassy bank on his left lowered as it gave way to the beach. Cautiously raising his head, he looked across towards the tents, the nearest of which was now only ten yards away. A little further on, two men sat side by side on what looked like wooden boxes – dark silhouettes, shoulders hunched, rifles across their backs. Tanner watched for a moment, thinking. Silencing one was easy enough, but two, without waking the rest of the camp, was another matter altogether. Go on, he thought, move. A match sparked, causing a small halo of light, then was quickly cupped as the cigarette was lit. Tanner looked around him – a stone, or a stick, that was what he needed: something to distract them. He wondered whether Spiro had made contact with the sub. A glance at his watch. Getting on for four. Time was running out: the deep sleep of night would be replaced by the slow rousing of dawn.
Behind the tents he saw some shrubs – Yes, that’ll do. He would creep over there and make a small noise, something that might draw one of the men to investigate, but as he was about to turn and move back up the sand path, he saw one of the men stand, stretch and walk away from the shore. Quickly, Tanner hurried down the path, the head and shoulders of the man still in his line of vision. By the bushes, the man paused and fumbled at the front of his trousers. Seeing this, Tanner grinned, took his clasp knife from his pocket, then put it back. Not this time. Lightly stepping up onto the grassy bank and crouching, he ran quickly and silently towards the Italian.
The man was still urinating when Tanner tapped him on the shoulder. A turn of the head, an expression of bewildered surprise, and a split second later, Tanner’s clenched fist hit the Italian square on the side of the head, between eye and ear. He managed to catch the man as he toppled, gently laying the unconscious body on the grass.
He now walked back past the tents, the snores still rising through the dark canvas, and approached the second sentry. The Italian’s back was towards him. Don’t turn yet, mate. Just five yards now, and then as he drew almost alongside, Tanner cleared his throat. The Italian flicked away his cigarette stub, spoke and turned. As he did so, Tanner drove his fist towards the man’s skull. A brief look of utter surprise, visible to Tanner in the moonlight, then the eyes rolled and the man slumped sideways.
Good. Tanner scampered quickly back to the river, slipped into the water once more, swam to the far shore, collected his kit, put his boots back on and, after pausing briefly to make sure all was clear, ran along the beach.
‘You’re wet, Jack,’ Wiseman said.
‘I went for a swim.’
‘And those sentries?’ asked Spiro.
‘Out cold – only for an hour or so. I didn’t think it a good idea to kill them. They’ll struggle to explain it when they come to, but two dead bodies – well, we don’t want the Eyeties thinking the Allies have been here spying on them.’ He glanced at Spiro. ‘Are they coming?’
Spiro nodded and pointed. ‘Look.’
Tanner glanced out to sea. Faintly, some two hundred yards away, maybe more, he saw a dark form resting above the surface and then, closer towards them, three shapes. Tanner watched as the figures became clearer. Three men, three canoes. He smiled.
‘Time to catch our ride,’ said Spiro. He turned to Baldini and Zucharini, spoke to them, shook hands, then waded into the sea.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ said the man, softly, as Tanner approached one of the canoes. ‘Just hold her steady and get into the back. There’s a blade for you there.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tanner. The canoe wobbled, but he managed to clamber in, and a moment later, the man in front was paddling again, the blade quietly slipping into the water and the small vessel surging towards the waiting submarine. Tanner paddled too, watching as the conning tower and long, dark hull of the sub loomed towards them. Then they were alongside and men were helping to haul him up.
‘Quick,’ said a man, ‘let’s move.’
Wiseman and Spiro were aboard now too, the collapsible canoes were being pulled from the water, and as Tanner climbed up the tower, he looked back. The coast was so peaceful. Not a sound. Nothing stirred. Away, far behind the beach, the mountains rose darkly. Tanner glanced at his watch. A little after four. We pulled it off.
4
Wednesday, 2 June. At the doctor’s house at Motta Sant’Anastasia, Francesca Falcone was preparing lunch in the kitchen when she heard a motor engine rip into life below the balcony.
‘Listen, Mamma,’ said Cara, who was seated at the table drawing. She scraped back her chair and hurried to the balcony. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘It’s Uncle Nico!’
Francesca followed and saw, at the open doors of one of the barns, her brother squatting beside his motorcycle, screwdriver in hand. The engine was ticking over, then suddenly revved into a roar.
‘He’s got it working again!’ said Cara. She jumped up and down as she peered through the iron railing.
‘He’s a clever man, your uncle,’ laughed Francesca.
As though sensing he was being watched, Niccolò looked up, grinned, then switched off the engine. Quiet returned. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘All right, I admit I was wrong. You did it.’
‘Come down,’ he said.
‘I’m making lunch.’
‘For five minutes.’
She smiled. ‘All right.’
Cara came with her, hopping down the stone steps that led to the yard below the house. ‘Can I sit on it?’ she asked, running to her uncle.
‘Of course,’ said Niccolò. ‘Shall I start it up again?’
Cara nodded, then screamed with delight as the engine burst into life.
‘Now, remember what this is,’ Niccolò told her, as he switched it off once more. ‘A Benelli Monalbero Sport. One of the most beautiful motorcycles ever built.’
Francesca leaned against the barn door. Inside there was a workbench with a number of old tools, as well as several ageing cans of oil. The place smelt of oil, wood and rubber. It smelt of Nico, Francesca thought. As a boy, he’d always had oil on him somewhere – on his hands, under his nails, a smear on his trousers or shirt. The barn here had become a workshop, where old and broken motorcycles came back to life.
‘Are you going to take it with you?’ she asked.
‘What – and let my men anywhere near it? You must be joking.’ He grinned at her again. ‘Anyway, it might get damaged, or worse. It might get hit by a bomb. No, I’m going to leave it here, locked up and safe, and ke
ep it for when the war’s over.’
‘There’s no fuel in any case.’
‘That’s true enough. A drop in the tank, but that’s all. It wouldn’t even get me as far as Catania.’
She watched her brother as he stood back and wiped his oily hands with a rag. ‘Do you think it’ll be long?’ she asked.
‘Will what be long?’
‘Until the war is over?’
He straightened up and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘No – no, I don’t. Well, our war at any rate. What Hitler and his Germans want to do is up to them, but I think for us it’s almost over now.’
‘You think the Allies will come?’
‘Yes. Soon, I should think. I was talking to some people in Naples a couple of weeks ago and they still think Sardinia might be the Allies’ target.’
‘Sardinia? Could they?’
Niccolò shrugged. ‘I suppose so. If they took Sardinia they could then make a landing north of Rome.’
Francesca’s eyes widened. ‘My God, Nico.’
‘But I think they’ll land here. Much closer to Tunisia, to Malta. And they will win. They have more aircraft than us, more ships, more guns, more men, more tanks and more fuel – especially more fuel. If we hadn’t lost North Africa, well, who knows? But a quarter of a million men were taken in Tunisia, Cesca – that’s a lot of soldiers. It’s hard to recover from that, you know, and so much left behind. Aircraft, weapons. Trucks. We didn’t have as much as the Allies before that, but now … We’re finished. Mussolini’s finished.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘If it means the end of the war.’
Cara tugged at her mother’s skirt. ‘I’m going inside, Mamma.’
Francesca stroked her hair. ‘All right, darling.’ She watched her daughter climb the steps.
‘She’s a sweet kid,’ said Niccolò. ‘Happy too.’
‘For now. But what about when the Allies come?’
‘You’ll be safe enough here. It’s along the coast that the fighting will take place. With a bit of luck, you might miss it altogether. Catania might get a pasting, but stay here and you should have nothing to fear.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll be fine, and so will Cara.’
Francesca’s heart quickened. He sounded so calm, so reassuring, yet something close to panic gripped her. She felt a little giddy and lowered herself onto one of the wooden crates by the open barn door.
‘To think Mussolini might go – that he might soon be no more,’ she said.
Niccolò’s brow creased and he looked up at the house.
‘What is it?’ said Francesca.
‘Nothing.’
‘What? Tell me!’ Alarm in her voice.
‘Well, I suppose the Allies will govern the island for a bit but then what? We don’t want a return to the bad old ways: an island governed by bullies and henchmen. I don’t want Fascism a day longer, but we have Mori to thank for one thing.’
‘Mori is a brute,’ muttered Francesca.
‘Maybe, but where is the Honoured Society now? A return to those old days is unthinkable. It would destroy Sicily.’
‘The Allies believe in democracy.’
‘They believe in beating the Axis.’
Francesca put her head in her hands. She could feel tears welling. Niccolò was going in the morning, heading back to his battalion, leaving her with Cara and the pestering of her suitors. The future was unknown, uncertain, but one that promised war on their doorstep, danger for her brother – for all of them – and the prospect of the constant, inescapable shroud of fear when the fighting was finally over.
She felt her brother’s arm around her shoulders. ‘Why did you have to say that?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it bad enough that we might have tanks and soldiers pouring through our town?’
‘You asked me.’
‘Because you looked so serious.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m probably wrong.’ A rueful smile. ‘It’s hard to be optimistic when you’ve seen what I have. Come on,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Cheer up. At least we have today. Summer is here. It’s a beautiful day. My Benelli is running again, and you are about to give me an incredible lunch. What is there to be glum about?’
Francesca laughed, even though tears were sliding down her cheeks.
The convoy had been late in starting, so that by midday, they had barely travelled forty miles, and now were being slowed again as they passed through the coastal town of Sousse.
‘Will they never bloody learn?’ muttered Corporal Brown, leaning on the steering-wheel.
‘Is that Browner moaning again?’ said Sykes, from behind. ‘What are you on about this time, Browner?’
‘Having to go through these sodding towns,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go round them? The trucks can cope. Going through just slows everything down.’
Tanner looked up. The column had ground to a halt. Mules pulling carts and even cattle were ambling past them. The streets were busy with people and market sellers, and it smelt too: woodsmoke, animal dung, probably human dung as well, for all he knew. People were shouting. Why did Arabs have to bloody well shout all the time? Across the far side of the road he saw a dog, dead by the look of it.
Tanner pulled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. ‘I’ll admit, Browner, you’ve got a point,’ he said, ‘but what’s the hurry? Ten days to get to Alex. Think of it as a holiday.’
‘Can we go to the seaside, sir?’ said Phyllis. He was sitting behind Tanner in the main body of the truck.
‘You’re at the bloody seaside now, Siff,’ he said. He pointed lazily. ‘It’s over there.’
‘I meant have a swim, sir.’
‘Don’t see why not. What time did Major Peploe say we were going to stop, Stan?’
‘He said we’re to aim to leaguer up at about five o’clock, sir,’ said Sykes. ‘Unless, of course, we get held up and fall behind schedule.’
‘So there’s your answer, Siff. No swimming today. But if we’re ever by the sea, and there’s time, you can have a swim. Fair enough?’
‘What about ice-creams?’ said Sykes.
‘Oh, I’d die for an ice-cream,’ said Phyllis.
‘When did you last have one?’ asked Sykes.
‘On leave in Cairo, I think. Before Alamein.’
‘What?’ said Sykes. ‘You mean you didn’t have one at Suleiman’s in Tunis?’
‘No, sir,’ said Phyllis. ‘What’s Suleiman’s?’
‘What’s Suleiman’s?’ said Sykes, in a tone of incredulity. ‘Can you hear that, boys? Siff here’s never even heard of Suleiman’s. Blimey, Siff, I worry what planet you’re on sometimes.’
Tanner smiled.
‘Suleiman’s had the best ice-cream you ever tasted, isn’t that right, sir?’ said Brown.
‘Too bloody right, Browner,’ said Sykes. ‘Cold and creamy and sweet and more flavours than you can imagine. Christ, I reckon I must have spent five quid there on ice-cream alone. Siff, I can’t believe you’ve never even heard of it. Where were you? I reckon Siff’s just about the only Allied soldier in Tunis who never went there, don’t you, Browner?’
‘Must be,’ agreed Brown. ‘I can taste it now. Chocolate ice-cream, melting in my mouth, cooling my throat. Dee-bloody-licious.’
In the mirror, Tanner saw Phyllis scratch his head. Griffiths was asleep, but Trahair was awake, a big grin on his face.
‘What about you, Kernow?’ Phyllis asked him. ‘Did you go there too?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Trahair. ‘Several times.’
‘Where was I, then?’
‘Well, I went once when you had your hair cut that time. And then when you got drunk and fell asleep by the fountain, me an’ Taffy went.’
‘You never said.’
‘No? I’m sure I did. Must have forgotten to.’
Phyllis was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘So where was it?’
‘Sort of in the middle,’ said Sykes. ‘Near the market.’
‘Not far f
rom that big mosque,’ added Brown. ‘I s’pose it was quite discreet, wasn’t it, sir?’
‘Now you mention it, Browner,’ agreed Sykes, ‘yes, I s’pose it was. But, really, Siff, you missed out there. Hmm – yum yum.’
‘What about you, sir?’ asked Phyllis. ‘Did you go?’
‘Didn’t need to, Siff. I was with the Yanks. They have ice-cream for breakfast.’
They all laughed.
The column rolled forward again, trundling along at walking pace. A little further on, they passed a group of Arabs trying to right a large cart that had overturned. A number of watermelons – presumably its load – lay in the dust at either side of the road.
‘What was it like, sir,’ said Brown, ‘being with the Americans?’
‘All right,’ said Tanner. ‘Good lads, most of them. Patton ain’t all there much of the time, but he’s got spirit, I’ll give him that.’
‘I seen pictures of him,’ said Brown. ‘He was wearing cowboy pistols.’
‘He always had them. Pearl-handled. A bit of a showman, is General Patton.’ He pulled a shred of tobacco from his teeth. ‘I’ll say one thing for the Americans, though. They learn fast. Reckon they’ll be pretty good before long.’
‘Should make our life easier, then,’ said Sykes. ‘Maybe we really have turned a corner.’
Maybe, thought Tanner, but there was a long way to go. Of that he was sure.
‘Well, sir,’ said Brown, ‘it’s good to have you back.’
‘Thank you, Browner. It’s good to be back.’
‘Funny to think you’ve been gone three months. You were with us all that time and then we have three company commanders just like that.’
‘Captain Tanner’s the luck of the devil,’ said Sykes. ‘I told you that before, Browner.’
‘Speak for yourself, Stan,’ said Tanner. He and Sykes had been together since the start of the war when they had been deployed to Norway in April 1940 with the 5th Battalion. People came and went in war – some killed, some wounded, some simply moved on. It was often sad yet inevitable, but he knew he had been lucky to have Sykes alongside him for much of that time. A bloke needed a mate in war, Tanner thought. A bloke to chat with, to sit in silence with, to share experiences with. A bloke you could trust. A mate who’d watch your back. He reckoned he’d have been killed several times over if it hadn’t been for Sykes.
The Devil's Pact (2013) Page 5
