‘Quite the pugilist,’ Wiseman had said.
‘I wasn’t Eighth Army boxing champion for nothing,’ Tanner had replied.
Honour. It had been a matter of honour not to tell Peploe, and yet that word, onore, had been used over and over again by those Sicilians. Those Men of Honour. He thought of that first night back in Tunis, a drink with Wiseman in a quiet bar near the centre of the city.
‘You haven’t once asked me about what we’ve been doing,’ Wiseman had said.
‘I supposed you’d tell me if you thought I ought to know,’ Tanner had replied.
‘You’re a good man, Jack.’ Wiseman had chuckled. ‘But aren’t you curious?’
‘A bit.’
Wiseman had eyed him, as though weighing up how much he should say.
‘I heard a lot of talk about honour,’ said Tanner. A smile from Wiseman. ‘I like to think I’m a man of honour too,’ Tanner continued, ‘but it’s not something I shout about.’
‘Not in the Sicilian sense, you’re not,’ said Wiseman. ‘A man like Don Calogero is …’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘He’s a protector. He owns much of the land around there. He is, I suppose, an unofficial governor, for want of a better phrase. Being a man of honour is like being part of a special society. Kinda like the Freemasons, or the Knights of St John. Men of honour look after one another, but of course there’s a hierarchy, and Don Calogero is the man at the top.’
‘In all of Sicily?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ said Tanner. ‘He hardly seemed the type.’
‘It’s not about being showy,’ said Wiseman. ‘In fact, the less ostentatious the better. Don Calogero doesn’t need to strut about in fine clothes to show he’s boss. He just has to blink and people do as he says. People respect his authority for what it stands for, not for how he parades about the place.’
‘No wonder he hates the Fascists,’ muttered Tanner.
‘The Fascists have been trying to stamp out the Honourable Society,’ said Wiseman. ‘It’s another reason why Don Calogero is so willing to help the Allies.’
‘They haven’t succeeded, then?’
‘No – at least, not in the heart of Sicily. In the coastal regions it’s a bit different. Their grip has been loosened a bit.’ He paused, then said, ‘Sicily used to be owned by knights and barons but they weren’t interested in living on their estates, in a place like Villalba, miles from anywhere. So they had managers, overseers, who did it for them. Eventually the overseers became more and more powerful and bought the estates from the landlords. Don Calogero’s family is one of those. His brother is the priest of Villalba, you know. That makes him the second most important person in the town. So you see, Jack, Don Calogero’s got it all sewn up,’ said Wiseman.
‘And those bandits?’
‘He offers protection from men like them. And they know better than to take him on.’
‘It’s a protection racket,’ said Tanner.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Sounds like it to me. All those Sicilians huddled together in towns, with men like Don Calogero keeping them safe, and in return, he rules the roost.’
Wiseman lit a cigarette, flicking open his brass lighter with one hand. ‘But it’s more refined than that.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Anyway, that’s not our concern.’ Wiseman blew out a cloud of swirling smoke. ‘The point is, Don Calogero can make sure we have minimal trouble should we decide to invade Sicily.’
‘Should?’
‘All right. When. Jeez, it’s not as though it’s a hard one to guess.’
Tanner nodded slowly. ‘So we help Sicily get rid of Mussolini and Fascism and put men like Don Calogero in power instead.’
‘We get rid of Mussolini, then Italy drops out of the war. If Italy’s outta the war, the Nazis have got to either fill Italy and Greece and the Balkans with Germans or hand them over to us. If they go for the former option, then those are troops that can’t be fighting the Russkies or waiting for us when we invade France. And if they don’t go for it, then we’re a massive step closer to Berlin. Whichever way you look at it, Hitler’s got a massive problem on his hands. So men like Don Calogero get to be a little more powerful as a result – so what? You saw what it was like over there. Fuckin’ miserable. Who’d want to be a Sicilian peasant, no matter who’s the boss man? Not me, I can tell you.’
Tanner turned his glass. ‘This war,’ he said. ‘I’ve been fighting Jerry for more than three years now, and when I started I thought it was because we wanted to rid the world of Nazis. The waters are getting muddy, though. I know we’re still trying to smash Adolf and his mob, but it’s not so black and white now.’ He looked up at Wiseman. ‘You’re a good bloke, Charlie, but keep me out of this cloak-and-dagger lark in future, will you?’
Wiseman gave a mock salute. ‘All right, Jack. I’ll try.’
Well I’m out of that game now. He was back in the battalion, with his own company, Sykes as CSM, and his old friend John Peploe as battalion commander. He smiled to himself. This was more like it. From what he’d seen in Sicily, he reckoned the invasion would be a pushover. One last effort, he told himself, and then, with a bit of luck, the Rangers might be given a rest.
Just so long as there were no more surprises lying in wait. But what surprises could there possibly be?
5
Monday, 14 June 1943, early morning. At the 76th Infantry Regiment’s camp outside Sortino in south-east Sicily, Captain Niccolò Togliatti was taking a shower, the cool water trickling over his thin body. Oh, to be fat. He reached up and turned off the tap. The showers were rudimentary to say the least – a row of old fuel drums with holes in the bottom and taps attached – but they got rid of the previous day’s grime and sweat. The showers, Togliatti reflected, as he stepped clear, were rather indicative of the Army’s entire set-up in Sicily – or what he’d seen of it, at any rate. They had been under-equipped in Russia, but here, in Sicily, the situation was far worse. The 76th Infantry Regiment appeared to be short of just about everything: weapons, ammunition, vehicles, rations. Experience, too. He had not seen any armoured units although, according to Lieutenant Colonel Rizzini, the battalion commander, there were a few, both Italian and German. Training with these was clearly out of the question, though.
As Togliatti dried himself and dressed in his sand-coloured breeches and vest, his thoughts turned back to the Eastern Front. It was true there had been times when supplies had been short out there, too, but at least the men had known how to make the best of what they had. Experience, he thought, counted for a great deal, and he reckoned that in Russia he and his men had become pretty good soldiers. The problem with the 76th Regiment and with the rest of the Napoli Division, as far as he could make out, was that very few of them had ever seen any action. Not for nothing had they been nicknamed the Ghost Division.
Reaching his tent, he finished dressing: a tropical tunic – sahariana – over his vest, then belt and pistol holster, socks, tall black leather boots, and finally his bustina side-cap. Once ready, he headed to the mess for breakfast. His stomach was rumbling painfully, but the two hard-bread crackers and mug of ersatz coffee were never enough – not when they were burning so much energy on endless route marches.
He was pleased to see Riccio already sitting in the canteen. As a newcomer, Togliatti had had little chance yet to get to know many in the battalion, and had lost so many in Russia that he was loath to build new friendships. Riccio, however, had proved an exception. He, too, was a combat veteran, although of North Africa, and had also been wounded, evacuated back to Italy, then posted to the Napoli Division. Although they were the same age, Riccio seemed older: he drank more than Togliatti, had a whore in Sortino, a weary cynicism and barbed wit that Togliatti found entertaining; it was such a contrast with their fellow officers, most of whom were as keen as they were naïve.
‘May I join you?’ Togliatti asked.
‘At the morning feast? Be
my guest,’ muttered Riccio. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I’ve already heard today’s training programme. You’ll never guess.’
‘A full-kit route march?’
‘Ah, yes, but with a difference. We’re also going to dig some communication trenches between the new bunkers our engineers are building, so there won’t be gymnastics this afternoon. God forbid that we should actually train to fight anyone.’
Togliatti laughed. ‘Colonel Rizzini wants us fit, you know that.’
‘The good colonel wants us fit only because General Porcinari has said we’re to be fit. And he’s been telling us to get fit because otherwise what would we do all day? How do you keep an entire division busy when there’s hardly any fuel and scarcely any ammunition? But now he’s had a flash of inspiration – we can dig as well as march.’ He pushed his mug away and rested his cheek in his hand. ‘Argh,’ he groaned. ‘I do wish the Allies would get a move on. Get it over and done with.’
‘Don’t say that to D’Angelo or Del Boca. They think North Africa is nothing but a minor setback. They’re planning personally to send the enemy back into the sea.’
‘Mary, Mother of Jesus.’ Riccio sighed.
Two hours later Togliatti was marching at the head of his company, the sun burning down on them, this latest march already eight kilometres long. He could feel the sweat mixing with the dust kicking up from the company in front, but although his mouth felt parched, he dared not drink any more water for a while. His canteen had to last all day and that meant careful rationing.
In truth, he did not mind the route marches as much as Riccio did. The initial frustration he had felt at the lack of proper training had quickly made way for feelings of more ambivalent sangfroid. The thought of the island being overrun by British and American troops hardly appealed, but on the other hand he did not believe they could possibly stave off an invasion. Allied superiority meant the enemy was bound to prevail. That being so, he reasoned, the sooner it was all over the better. What was the point in getting killed if they were bound to surrender sooner or later anyway? Rather, he had decided he would do what was asked and expected of him; he would look after his men, most of whom were little more than boys, try to help them survive, and then, perhaps, they would one day all go home.
Home. It wasn’t so very far away – just thirty kilometres or so to the north. He wiped his brow as they climbed up the winding road towards the row of pillboxes still being constructed on the ridge ahead. He had been so glad to leave that house, to get away from Sicily to Rome, the vibrant, sophisticated capital. He still remembered the sense of shame he had felt when his father had been drummed out of Palermo, cut adrift from the Society and people he had served. Motta Sant’Anastasia had seemed so small, so backward – a terrible exile that cast a shadow of shame on them all. His father had become withdrawn and irritable, lashing out in anger at the slightest provocation. They’d all wanted to leave – even his darling sister, Cesca.
He smiled when he remembered his decision to join the Army. How young and foolish he had been, like many of the young platoon commanders under his charge now. He had been in Rome when Mussolini had declared war on Britain and France, and remembered the exhilaration he had felt. He and his friends had cheered, and raised their arms in salute, but then he had seen an old lady in black staring at them with tears rolling down her face. ‘Why are you sad?’ he had asked her. ‘Italy is going to be great again!’
She had put a hand to his face. ‘My boy, you have no idea what you are saying. May God protect you.’
Togliatti cringed now at the memory. What a callow, feckless youth he had been, falling for Mussolini’s rhetoric and believing what the Duce had promised. ‘We will win!’ he had assured them. A new Rome, a new Empire, one that bound the Mediterranean and half of Africa. How hollow that seemed now. He thought of Giulio and Marco, his two greatest friends, dead in the snow in Russia. Russia! That had never been part of the plan, part of the new Italian Empire. He swallowed hard, a wave of emotion overwhelming him. Tears pricked his eyes. Come on, pull yourself together.
As they continued climbing out of the valley, his thoughts turned to his sister. She had been scared – not for herself, he knew, but for little Cara. A sweet kid, and as pretty as her mother. Cesca was an angel, he thought, a truly good person. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being unhappy with Giovanni; he’d had no idea the man had treated her so badly. But Giovanni was gone, dead, like so many in this war, and Cesca had started to make something of a life again – a life that was now threatened. He cursed and gazed upwards, tears welling once more. Suddenly his heart was telling him to fight, to do everything he could to defend his family and home – and, yes, it was his home, a beautiful place that promised peace and happiness. He wanted desperately to help Cesca and Cara to live the life they deserved, yet his head was saying something quite different.
They reached the brow of the ridge and the first of the row of pillboxes overlooking the road. The harsh, gritty smell of fresh concrete filled the air. Engineers, stripped to the waist, backs glistening, were hard at work. As the column halted, Togliatti looked back down towards the valley. The land around, he knew, naturally lent itself to defence. Stretching away to their left was the sea, but the ground rose up a kilometre or so inland. The valley behind them was just one of many formed by ancient rivers that had scythed through one ridge after another. Anyone advancing north could be clearly seen as soon as they reached the ridge, but were they to gain that ground, they would then have to negotiate the valley beyond. Determined defence, Togliatti reckoned, would slow the enemy considerably. Instinctively, he thought of what might be achieved by carefully positioned mortars and machine-guns, then remembered the hopelessness of the situation. Dear God, please let me get through this. The end – it was nearly upon them. It had to be.
Later that day, more than a thousand miles away. The Yorks Rangers had covered almost two thousand miles in ten days, but at last the battalion drove into the tented camp at El Shatt on the south-eastern shore of the Suez Canal. Tanner had initially felt glad that the journey was finally over, that the men would soon be busy once more, training for the invasion that was surely only weeks away, but on crossing the canal and seeing the camp spread before them – row after row of tents, vehicles, flags and sand – relief quickly gave way to something close to disenchantment. For that ten-day period, they had talked, smoked, drunk tea, laughed, relentlessly taken the piss out of Phyllis and Brown, and almost daily swum in the Mediterranean. They had also passed a near-endless procession of battle debris – burned-out tanks, aircraft, trucks, petrol tins, blackened hunks of jagged metal – that had reminded them of the long and bloody battle they had fought along the North African shores. But, Tanner realized, they had been together, the morale in the company as good as he had ever known it, and free of any bother from above. No red-tape-loving staff officer to stick his oar in, no over-officious brigadier or divisional commander telling them what to do. Here, though, as they saw the coils of wire that surrounded the camp and passed through the gates, guarded by Thompson-carrying sentries, their autonomy had been removed in the snap of a salute.
Following the procession of Battalion Headquarters and HQ Company, Tanner led his A Company down the sand tracks, glancing out at the array of flags as they went. There was 5th Division, a khaki square with a single white ‘Y’ for Yorkshire stitched across it, and then, a little further, 13th Brigade and 15th Infantry Brigade. They turned off down another sand street and passed the 1st Battalion Green Howards, one of the infantry battalions they were to join in the brigade. At the Green Howards’ camp area there was plenty of activity, with men cleaning weapons and preparing their supper, the familiar smell of paraffin mixed with bully beef wafting on the air. Soldiers looked up as they passed, then the vehicles in front were turning again and men with clipboards were directing them towards their allotted encampments. Several larger tents denoted Battalion Headquarters and the mess. At last Brown brought the vehicle to a ha
lt.
‘We’re here, sir. End of the road.’
Tanner nodded, lit a cigarette and got out. Back in the Canal Zone. It was as though the past ten months had never happened.
An hour later, he had finished touring his platoons and was looking forward to some food when he saw Sykes approaching him.
‘You heard the news?’ Sykes asked.
‘What?’
‘We’ve got a new battalion commander.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Tanner. ‘I thought Major Peploe was doing a grand job.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Tanner. ‘Who the hell makes these decisions? Who is he anyway?’
‘You might know him, actually. Used to be with the 2nd Battalion out in India before the war. Name of Creer.’
Tanner stopped. ‘Croaker,’ he said. He looked at Sykes, then pushed back his cap and rubbed his brow. ‘Croaker Creer. Please, God, no.’ He moved a few steps away.
‘Jack?’ said Sykes.
Tanner had his hands to his head. Then, aware that some of the men were looking at him, he said, ‘Come with me, Stan.’
Pushing open the flap of the bell tent he shared with Fauvel, he was glad to see it was empty. While he liked Fauvel well enough, he did not want his second-in-command hearing what he was about to tell Sykes.
‘Here,’ said Sykes, passing Tanner a hip flask. ‘As bad as that, is it?’
Tanner nodded, then took a swig. ‘Thanks,’ he said, pulled out one of his American Camels and offered Sykes one.
Tanner sat down on the folding canvas chair next to his camp bed. ‘He’s a bastard,’ he said.
‘In what way?’
The Devil's Pact (2013) Page 7
