They sat down. The padre said grace, a mumbled ‘Amen’, then the chink of spoons on bowls as they began their soup.
‘The Last Supper,’ said George Ferguson, the C Company commander, grinning and looking around to see if others were smiling too. No one was.
Tanner sat between Peploe and Lieutenant Shopland, one of his platoon commanders.
‘Funny to think that this time tomorrow we’ll be eating rations again and on Sicily,’ said Shopland. His expression changed as he looked around the table.
Tanner knew what he was thinking: that not all of them would be alive tomorrow evening. The ship lurched, and Creer cursed as he spilled his tea. The ship rolled again, and Tanner saw that Creer’s face was now drained of colour. Staggering, the stewards managed to clear the soup bowls and reappeared soon after with plates of steaming stew. Tanner watched Creer. He could see the colonel was struggling. The ship was rolling and pitching, not violently but more than enough to make balance awkward and stomachs churn. A door banged open nearby, while the vessel creaked and groaned.
‘It’ll be fun loading into the assault crafts in this,’ said Shopland.
‘I’m sure it’ll pass,’ said Peploe.
‘I quite like it,’ said Tanner, tucking into his stew. ‘There’s a rhythm to it.’
Creer pushed back his chair and stood up, clutching the edge of the table. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, then rushed from the room, nearly falling as he stumbled out.
Tanner grinned, then felt Peploe’s elbow in his side. ‘Behave yourself, Jack,’ he said quietly.
Tanner glanced at him and winked. ‘He’s not called Croaker for nothing,’ he whispered. He wondered whether Creer would have recovered by the time they were due to get into their assault craft and head for the shore. He hoped not.
It was ten p.m. At their camp near Sortino, Captain Niccolò Togliatti sat at one of the long trestle tables in the mess tent playing cards with Riccio when he heard the faint drone of aircraft. Cocking his head, he listened. He was conscious of his heart beating faster once more.
‘Not again!’ groaned Riccio. ‘The fifth night in a row!’
Moments later, the camp siren droned. Togliatti and Riccio threw down their cards and hurried out of the tent, joining others already looking up at the dark night sky. The roar of engines grew, but it was not the camp at Sortino that these bombers were after. Nearby, antiaircraft guns began booming, the ground pulsing with the force of the shots. More guns thundered, further away, towards Catania. Searchlights began flickering, then flares dropped from the sky and, moments later, bombs were falling.
‘Cesca,’ mumbled Togliatti, as the airfields of Gerbini to the west of Catania came under attack. They were not fifteen kilometres from Motta Sant’Anastasia. He was worried sick about his sister and niece. Night after night, enemy planes had bombed Catania and the Gerbini airfields. The cellars in the house were deep, he knew, but he felt so impotent, so unable to help them.
More bombers arrived, this time heading straight for Catania. The anti-aircraft guns continued to thunder, searchlights flickering across the sky, and the ground shook, even from twenty kilometres away. Orders were being shouted and men were hurrying from their tents to the slit trenches that lined the camp.
A despatch rider sped by, heading towards Colonel Rizzini’s tent.
‘An invasion alert?’ said Riccio.
Togliatti shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to check on the men.’ He hurried over to the 2nd Company tents and found most of the men already taking cover in the trenches that ran alongside them. Spotting one of his platoon commanders, he was about to speak when a series of bugles sounded. The signal for immediate alert.
‘All right, boys,’ he called. ‘Time to move. Out of the trench. Go, go, go!’ He clapped his hands, urging his men to hurry, then ran to his own tent where he found Aldino, his soldier servant, hastily gathering his kit.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is this it, sir?’ asked Aldino.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Togliatti replied. ‘Now, let’s get going.’
They ran to the parade ground at the edge of the camp. Away to the north, bombs were still exploding with faint red and orange pulses, while the anti-aircraft guns continued to pepper the sky.
Togliatti strode between his men, making sure each platoon commander and sergeant was present. Good, all in order. Another bugle sounded, then an officer from Battalion Headquarters hurried over to him.
‘We’re heading out,’ he snapped. ‘Taking up positions south of here.’
‘When do we move?’
‘Now. In company order.’
‘Is this the invasion?’
‘God only knows,’ replied the headquarters man.
Saturday, 10 July, a quarter to two in the morning. Tanner lay on his narrow bunk in the cabin he shared with Fauvel. Despite the gnawing thought of what was to come, he had been asleep, lulled by the rolling of the ship and the decent supper inside him, but for some reason had woken suddenly. Across from him, Fauvel was reading, the light in their blacked-out cabin still on.
Fauvel, noticing Tanner, put the book down with a sigh. ‘I think I’ve read this page eight times,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘A John Buchan. I thought it might take my mind off things.’
Tanner looked at his watch. ‘I reckon we’ll be off soon. Best get ready.’ He sat up. He was already dressed: denim battledress trousers, a map stuffed into the large pocket on the thigh, rubber-soled desert boots, ankle gaiters and khaki drill shirt. Some of the men carried the serge battle blouse, but Tanner preferred the denim version: it was lighter, for summer wear, but still plenty warm enough if need be. He put it on now, with its curved shoulder tabs, green writing on black that said, ‘Yorks Rangers’. Beneath was a square black patch with a single white ‘Y’, the 5th Yorkshire Division symbol. Above the left breast pocket were his medal ribbons, not worn on the shirt, but the jacket only: his DSO, MC and Bar, DCM and MM, the latter two given when he had still been in the ranks. Then came the webbing: two straps through the epaulettes, ammunition pouches, belt, haversack, binoculars and his Colt .45. He grabbed his Beretta and slung it over his shoulder.
‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘You?’
Fauvel swallowed and nodded.
Tanner looked at his watch. 0156. He tapped his feet on the floor. His mouth felt a little dry so he took a swig of water from the mug beside his bunk. The ship still rolled and groaned, but not as much as it had earlier. It would still be uncomfortable, Tanner thought, in the flat-bottomed assault craft, pitching and lunging on the swell. He had never suffered from sea-sickness, but others did. Not the best preparation.
The Tannoy now blared several sharp notes, then a voice broadcast, ‘Serials one to thirty, move to your waiting area. Take up position by your assault craft.’
Tanner glanced at his watch once more. 0200. Bang on. ‘Right,’ he said to Fauvel. ‘Let’s go.’
Fauvel smiled weakly, his face ashen. They stood up, steadied themselves, and left.
The ship was in blackout so only pinpoint lights guided them along the passageways. The rolling made them bang into the walls. Men were cursing. As Tanner and Fauvel reached the door to the deck, they heard the clatter of boots on the companionways.
‘Make way to your sally ports,’ blared the voice over the Tannoy.
Outside, men were shouting orders. More aircraft were thundering high above them. Faint lights could be seen on the distant horizon – fires? – while all around them, in the moonlight, the great hulking outlines of the Allied armada, Force A of the Eastern Task Force, could be seen, one after another. Put yourself in the shoes of the enemy, thought Tanner. This show of might would put the fear of God into them. Surely.
Reaching the assault craft, he found Sykes and Trahair. ‘Have we got everyone, Stan?’ he asked, clutching the side rail as the Dunelm rolled again. The rigging clanged above them as the
wind gusted across the ship.
‘They were all there down below, sir, but I’ll do another head count.’
Tanner turned to Trahair. ‘All right, Kernow?’ he said. ‘Got my rifle safe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Here,’ said Tanner. ‘Give it to me.’ He could see no sign of Creer; it was too dark in any case.
Navy personnel were handing out tots of rum. Tanner took his gladly, feeling the spirit fire his throat. Orders were now given for the men to clamber into their assault craft, which hung from the ship’s side. During the repeated rehearsals, both at day and night, these steel vessels had been calmly level with the ship’s deck, but now swung heavily; the men had not been prepared for this. Rope netting had been slung across, but even so, as Tanner was the first to clamber aboard, he cursed as he clutched the netting and felt his holster catch. Untangling himself, he was then swung violently against the side of the LCA, so that he gasped with pain.
The others in his Company Headquarters were clambering aboard too, cursing as they clung to the rope, then were dropped into the belly of the assault craft. Tanner moved to the bows, urging his men to find a seat on the benches that ran along each side and down the centre of the vessel. ‘Come on!’ He saw Brown stumble, weighed down by his heavy pack and other gear. ‘Here,’ he said, offering a hand and pulling the corporal to his feet.
Men shouted and swore as the assault craft filled and hung there, suspended on its davits from the side of Dunelm, swinging precariously.
‘Jesus,’ muttered Sykes, stumbling down beside Tanner. ‘It’s not the bloody Eyeties we need to worry about it, but getting this thing into the sodding water.’
Another wave of bombers roared overhead; from the shore, still some miles away, anti-aircraft guns were pounding into the sky, gun blasts and bomb explosions mixing in a deep, dull cacophony that could be easily heard over ten miles out to sea.
Tanner counted the men. All sixteen of Company Headquarters present, plus a dozen sappers, several carrying mine-clearing explosives, and a three-man mortar crew from the Battalion Support Company. Several men clutched the cardboard cups they had been given to vomit into. Minutes passed. Impatience creeping in, the LCA still swinging in the wind. But the wind was dying down.
‘That’s something,’ said Sykes, sitting next to Tanner at the bow. ‘Admittedly, it’s still blowing, but it’s not a storm, is it?’
Barely had he said this than Dunelm’s engines stopped and the LCA was lowered unsteadily to the water. Tanner saw Taffy Griffiths cross himself, and Brown clutch his rifle, his head lowered. With a smack, the LCA hit the water, clanking chains were released, the coxswain opened the engines and the craft began to move away from the ship. For a further ten minutes, they circled Dunelm, waiting for the other LCAs to join them, and then, at last, they were off, speeding the eleven miles towards the shore.
The invasion of Sicily had begun.
7
Saturday, 10 July, around 2.30 a.m. In Motta Sant’Anastasia, Francesca Falcone sat in the cellar of their house, clutching Cara. Opposite, Salvatore Camprese was watching her. Why had he had to come, she wondered, banging on the front door, just as the air raid sirens had sounded? She had been on her way in her nightclothes to the cellar, Cara in her arms, when she had heard him.
‘Francesca! Francesca!’ he had yelled. ‘Are you all right? Let me in!’
‘Go away!’ Francesca had replied.
‘Please, Francesca, let me in!’ A bomb crashed nearby. ‘Please, Francesca! I came to make sure you were all right. You can’t turn me away now!’
And so, reluctantly, she had let him in. ‘All right, but only until the raid is over. Understand?’
‘Of course.’
So now she was stuck with him.
‘I wish you’d let me look after you, Francesca,’ he said. ‘It’s not right, you being here on your own with Cara in this big house. If you were to marry me, I’d be a good husband to you. I’d look after you, I’d—’
‘Stop this talk, Salvatore. Not here, not in front of Cara. I don’t want to marry you. Please understand that, and don’t come here again in the middle of the night.’
Several bombs seemed to land nearby, the building above them shaking as they exploded. Small bits of grit and plaster fell from the walls. Another, much louder, much closer, crash followed and Francesca felt Cara clutch her ever more tightly.
She wondered whether anything of Catania would still be standing, or any aircraft at Gerbini in flying condition.
Another crash, this time to the north of them, within the town, by the sound of it. Francesca closed her eyes, hugged Cara and felt more grit and dust fall on her. She coughed and spluttered, then Cara and Camprese were coughing too.
‘Quick,’ he gasped, ‘put this over your mouths.’ Taking a large handkerchief, he poured water from a small ewer onto it and passed it to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said grudgingly.
Slowly, the dust settled, and the explosions faded away. They waited a few minutes, and then the all-clear sounded.
‘It’s over,’ said Francesca. ‘You can go now.’
They dusted themselves down, then climbed the stone steps to the main part of the house.
‘I only wanted to make sure you were all right,’ said Camprese. ‘You know how much I admire you, Francesca.’ He took her hand and kissed it.
‘Good night, Salvatore,’ she said, opening the door. Once he had gone, she closed and bolted it, then took Cara upstairs to bed. After she had settled the little girl, she went back downstairs into the kitchen and opened the French windows onto the balcony. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and explosives. Away, towards the coast, she saw fire burning in Catania, an orange glow throbbing against the sky.
She wished the Allies would come. The waiting was so terrible. I just want this over. It was funny, she thought, how Niccolò cherished this place. He could have it when the war was over, if that was what he wanted, but she would not stay. She was here with Cara because she had no choice, but later, when peace returned, she would leave Sicily and small-minded men like Salvatore Camprese.
She wished her father was still alive. She had Cara, but she was lonely. She missed him. She missed Niccolò. What a terrible time to be alive, she thought sadly.
4.10 a.m. They had put to sea further out than expected – the coxswain reckoned about eleven miles – and at seven knots per hour, that meant at least ninety minutes to the shore. It was true the wind was dropping, but in a flat-bottomed assault craft even the slightest swell could be felt. Fountains of spray rained over the men as the vessel buffeted through the waves. They were all soaked. Tanner prayed his weapons would still fire; he had covered the end of his Beretta with the condom issued earlier to each man, and wrapped an oily rag around the breech of his rifle, but whether these measures would suffice, he had no idea. A number of men had vomited as the flat-bottomed boat had lurched and rolled, not into the cardboard cups but over the wooden floor. The stench of vomit, oil and salt spray was overwhelming. From where he stood, Tanner had been able to see little – only the clouds scudding across the moon – but now, more than ninety minutes into their journey, he could see the dull outline of the coast in the first thin light of dawn.
From inland, enemy artillery was firing, the shells hurtling over them. Stabs of tracer were criss-crossing from the shore and the approaching LCAs. How far now? Four hundred yards, Tanner guessed. He glanced around – assault craft either side of them, white furrows trailing behind, and way back, out at sea, the dark, distant shapes of the armada. The naval gunner in the machine-gun shelter opposite the coxswain opened fire, the sound loud and tinny. Columns of water were erupting around them – mortars, Tanner guessed. Come on, come on. He ducked instinctively as tracer zipped above his head. Let’s just bloody well get there.
He turned to the men. ‘Make sure your buttons are undone on your battledress.’ He looked at Griffiths. ‘All right, Taffy? Ready to throw your kit off if
you have to?’
Griffiths nodded. Tanner couldn’t decide whether he was sick or scared. Or both.
A burst of bullets clattered against the edge of the boat. Everyone ducked. Tanner looked up again. From the shore, a searchlight was switched on, but as a dozen machine-guns opened fire from the advancing LCAs, it went off again.
Two hundred yards. The first assault craft now landing, men pouring out onto the beach. Guns booming, shells screaming, the roar of the LCAs’ engines. Another plume of sea-water. Tanner gasped, wiped it from his face. One hundred yards. More firing from the shore. Ahead, two LCAs collided, one slewing around. Tanner glanced around. Fauvel at the back, Sykes beside him. Also ready at the front were the sappers. Coils of wire on the beach and, yes, there was the shallow cliff. A lurch as the assault craft hit sand, the coxswain looked around, the doors swung open, the ramp dropped and Tanner ran out, dropping into water that came up to his knees.
‘Come on! Come on!’ he yelled, standing there, urging the men to get out. A bullet fizzed overhead, then a roar as two Italian fighter planes appeared from nowhere, no more than fifty feet above them, machine-guns clattering. Lines of bullets spat across the beach, and Tanner was conscious of several men falling. Then the planes were past, lines of tracer following them as the assault-craft gunners opened fire. Another LCA had drawn up alongside them, men pouring out. Who the hell were they? Not Rangers. Tanner now ran forward onto the beach, then yelled at his men to crouch down as the sappers fitted anti-tank mines to the wire, ran fuse back down the beach, then detonated them. A loud blast, sand and grit spewing into the air, spattering onto Tanner’s helmet, and then he was on his feet again, urging his men forward, through the blasted gap, onto the shingle and clambering up the small cliff onto the ground beyond. It was flat, but small trees and bushes dotted the land in front. Good cover. Occasional bullets were fizzing and zipping overhead, but it was hard to say where they were coming from. He held out a hand and pulled several men up, then urged them forward. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Keep going!’
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