The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  ‘No, sir,’ said Stokes. The colour drained from his face. ‘I was watching the targets.’

  ‘You bloody idiot!’ shouted Macdonald. ‘Both Charlie and Dog had been silenced before the first shell landed. You’re a forward observation officer, aren’t you?’

  Stokes nodded.

  ‘Then bloody stop this shelling now. You’re killing our own men!’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Stokes. He glanced at his signals man. ‘Carter, tell the battery to cease firing with immediate effect.’

  More shells whistled over as Carter tried to make contact with the battery.

  Macdonald watched them explode, flinching as they did so. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘what have you done?’

  ‘I – I was just carrying out orders, sir,’ said Stokes. ‘The colonel asked for a ten-minute stonk.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have done if he’d known he was hitting his own men.’

  Macdonald continued to stare ahead. A pall of smoke hung over the valley. The two explosions settled, then a strange silence descended. No small arms could be heard; no more shells came over. Only a low groan – the groan of wounded and dying men.

  Tanner found Sykes taking cover in one of the trenches that ran off pillbox Charlie just as the last of the shells had thumped into the Italian positions some sixty yards away. He was smoking a cigarette, his helmet and shoulders covered with earth, grit and debris. Either side of him lay two dead Italians, one with a large chunk of his head missing.

  ‘Stan! Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘More than can be said for these two. Can’t hear much, but otherwise I’ve not got a scratch.’

  Tanner heaved one of the dead Italians out of the trench and crouched beside him, gripping Sykes’s shoulder as he did so. ‘Mac’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Sykes drove his fist into the wall of the trench. ‘He was a diamond, was Mac.’

  ‘And how many more of our lads have been killed? That bloody murderer.’

  ‘Croaker? You reckon this is his doing?’

  ‘I’d put money on it.’

  ‘Reckon it’s over?’

  Tanner nodded. ‘Better be. Any rate, we need to take control here. Round up the prisoners, see who’s still alive, get B Company down. Mac’s by the entrance to Baker. We need to get him covered up. If you see him, brace yourself.’

  Sykes grimaced. ‘All right, Jack.’

  Tanner climbed out of the trench and ran around to the front of pillbox Charlie, where he found Phyllis still crouching with his radio set, Brown now beside him.

  ‘We need B Company down here and as many RAMC wallahs as possible. Get on to it now, Siff.’

  Men were now emerging once more. Tanner strode along the top of the trenches, his Beretta in his hands.

  ‘Come on, get up! Get up!’ he called. Along the top of the ridge, he saw a number of Italians fleeing their positions. Raising his Beretta, he was about to fire, then lowered it again. What was the point? Glancing around, he saw Lieutenant Shopland and Sykes lifting McAllister. Tanner sighed. Then, as more Italians stumbled towards him with their hands raised, he saw a body lying against some rocks a little distance from the pillbox.

  ‘Sir?’

  He turned and saw Trahair and Brown, their faces covered with dust, and a small streak of blood on Brown’s cheek.

  ‘Why were we being shelled, sir?’ said Brown. His eyes were wide and disbelieving.

  ‘God only knows,’ muttered Tanner. ‘At least you’re both alive. Look after these Eyeties, will you?’

  He left them and walked over to the prostrate body by the rocks.

  The man lay on the ground without an obvious wound on him. His officer’s uniform, although covered with grit, was unmarked. Tanner squatted beside him. What had been his name? He couldn’t remember, but he’d been talking to him just as that shell had rushed in. The man’s face was calm: eyes closed, a faint smile on his face. Tanner had never seen a dead man look so much as though he were merely asleep. He leaned forward and felt for a pulse on the neck, but there was nothing.

  What was his name? Tanner undid the man’s top breast pocket and felt inside. His fingers touched a collection of papers and booklets, just as he knew they would. Soldiers the world over kept their most personal documents there, close to the heart. A pay book, another booklet, blue, with ‘Libretto Personale’ printed on the outside. And inside an identity photo and his name, place of birth, date of birth and other key pieces of information. Niccolò Togliatti. Yes, that was it. He rifled through the booklets and some photographs dropped out. A group of men in uniform, arms around each other’s shoulders. Another, a family picture: a father, a teenage boy and girl and a younger girl. Then two more pictures, one of a mother and daughter, a very beautiful mother, and a second of the same woman: fair-haired, like Togliatti. Tanner whistled. She was lovely. Wife? Sister? He looked at the earlier photograph of the family group. Were the younger girl and the blonde woman one and the same? He thought maybe, but it was hard to tell.

  Tanner stared at the photograph again, then slipped it into his own pocket before closing the booklet and putting it with the rest back where he’d found it. He stared at the dead man again, then pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. The sun was rising, the valley now bathed in light. A pall still hung along the valley floor but here on the ridge the smoke had cleared, even if the stench had not. Tanner stood up and inhaled deeply. What a fucking morning. Mac gone, this decent Italian too. God knows who else.

  ‘There you are,’ came Fauvel’s voice.

  Tanner turned. ‘Gavin. Good to see you in one piece.’

  ‘And you, Jack.’

  ‘McAllister’s dead,’ he said.

  ‘I heard. And a number of others beside. Harker’s bought it, and so, too, has Griffiths, I’m afraid. We’re sixteen dead and twenty-two wounded.’

  Tanner rubbed his brow. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘That’s more than an entire platoon.’

  ‘But I’m afraid that’s not all, Jack,’ said Fauvel.

  ‘What?’ said Tanner. ‘What is it?’

  Fauvel sighed, then said, ‘It’s Major Peploe. I’m sorry, Jack.’

  14

  Tuesday, 13 July, around 1.30 p.m. War, as Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Wiseman had been discovering these past nine months, never went entirely to plan. Take the airborne drop, for example. The 82nd Airborne Division had been supposed to capture the high ground and road junctions around six miles north and north-east of Gela. This, it was hoped, would prevent enemy counterattacks down those routes as the main American invasion force landed. However, to do that, Colonel Gavin’s 505th Regimental Combat Team had to be dropped in a pretty tight DZ, and that was the last thing that had happened.

  Sitting in a tent at the new Seventh Army Command Post, Wiseman was reading through the sitreps barely able to believe just how far and wide those paratroopers had landed. Over most of south-east Sicily, as far as he could tell, including a fair number in the British sector. Had they taken the key nodal points north of Gela, the bridgehead might have been established more quickly, but as it was, the Rangers and the 1st Infantry had beaten off counterattacks by the Livorno and Hermann Göring Divisions with far greater losses to the enemy than themselves. It had been what Patton called a ‘hard fight’ but their boys had prevailed. Meanwhile the paratroopers, spread far and wide, had caused mayhem. They were trained to use their initiative and to think on their feet, and so they had. Newly taken prisoners repeatedly claimed having been harassed and attacked by marauding paratroopers, while intercepted signals suggested the Axis command reckoned some four airborne divisions and fifty thousand men had been dropped. This had clearly hampered Axis plans and sown seeds of doubt and confusion. In fact, just one regimental combat team had been dropped, Colonel Gavin’s, which amounted to just under three and a half thousand men.

  Maybe, Wiseman thought, they were using airborne troops all wrong. Maybe the scattergun approach was more effective. When he
had parachuted into Villalba, the C-47 had managed to drop them pretty much where they intended, but it was quite another matter accurately dropping men over an active battle front with flak pumping towards you, in high winds, all surprise gone. So maybe they shouldn’t even try in future. Maybe spreading mayhem and confusion, ambushing supply lines, shooting up any enemy that moved was a better use of such highly trained and resourceful troops. Perhaps he would write a few notes about it and hand them to Patton or Gay.

  He wondered how Patton and Gay were getting on with General Alexander and his delegation. The Allied Army Group commander had arrived just after one, while Patton was having his lunch. He’d not been best pleased to be disturbed, even by Alexander, although he liked and respected the British general. Alexander, Patton had told him, had seen action at every rank of command, and was the most experienced battlefield commander the Allies had. Patton liked fighting soldiers, not pen-pushers; he admired courage, and respected the kind of battlefield experience Alexander evidently held.

  Wiseman liked to think Patton had gained Alexander’s respect too. In Tunisia, Patton had done all that Alexander had asked of him. He had taken command of a demoralized II Corps and given it self-belief and a new fighting edge – which had been only too evident these past few days on Seventh Army’s front. He hoped Patton would be given the free rein he deserved to push north right away, slicing up through Sicily, around the western side of Etna and to Messina before more reinforcements arrived. He knew that was Patton’s plan and hope. Confidence at Seventh Army was high. The Livorno had been badly mauled, the HG Division thrown back. More and more supplies and vehicles were reaching the beaches with every hour. The feeling in the camp was that the worst was over, that the moment of danger, when the bridgehead had been threatened, had passed. Now the roads were open. Success, as Patton never failed to remind them, should be exploited.

  Since Alexander’s arrival, the commanders had been shut away in the map tent. Wiseman had not been invited to join them but now got up and stepped outside his own tent. Another bright, beautiful and scorching day. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The CP had been set up around the remains of an ancient Greek temple overlooking Gela. Not much remained – just a lone column and a few stones on the ground – but it held a good position. It was close to the edge of the town where Patton’s personal digs had been established, but with views back down to the beaches and to the hills beyond. A good spot.

  Wiseman had not even finished his smoke when Alexander emerged from the map tent, looking as dapper and unruffled as ever, followed by Patton and others. Alexander chatted amiably, made some amusing remark, at which the others laughed, then stepped into his waiting command car and, moments later, sped off. Wiseman watched Patton punch his hand a couple of times, then turn back into the tent. A moment later, one of the general’s aides strode towards him.

  ‘Colonel,’ he called. ‘The general wants you.’

  Flicking away his cigarette, Wiseman walked up to him.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Brace yourself,’ said the aide. ‘New boundaries.’

  ‘Bad, then?’

  The aide nodded.

  Inside the tent, Patton, Gay and Major Stiller stood around the map table.

  ‘Sir!’ said Wiseman, saluting.

  ‘Gay, put Wiseman in the picture, will you? I’m still too mad to speak.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gay. He cleared his throat. ‘It seems the British are doing pretty well, almost no resistance to speak of, so General Montgomery believes Eighth Army can wrap up this show in double-quick time. A matter of days, apparently. He’s suggested to Alex that we hold the HG Division here, that Leese’s XXX Corps then cut in behind them, wedging them between us and the Brits.’ He pointed this out on the giant map spread across several trestle tables. ‘Meanwhile, Eighth Army’s main thrust pushes on north along the coast and east of Etna, and then, with the Krauts isolated and cut off, XXX Corps attacks north around the west of Etna.’ Gay sighed heavily. ‘So, in other words, XXX Corps will be advancing down this road here. Highway 124.’ He pointed to the road that ran north from 45th Division’s sector. ‘Through Caltagirone, Enna and Leonforte.’

  ‘The road Forty-fifth Division was to use,’ said Wiseman.

  ‘Exactly. Or, rather, Seventh Army’s main artery of advance north.’

  ‘And now it’s been handed to Monty,’ thundered Patton, bringing his fist down hard on the table. He leaned forward, his jaw set. ‘They take us for Goddamn fools. Alexander came here with no Americans in his team. Not one. What fools we are.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear this, General,’ said Wiseman.

  Patton raised himself up again. ‘Orders are orders. That’s what we do in the Army: we obey orders. When Alexander orders us to hand over Highway 124, there is nothing we can do but accept it. But we don’t have to like it, and let me tell you, gentlemen, this makes me only more determined to show those sons-of-bitches a thing or two. Monty thinks he can steal our thunder. He thinks he can relegate us to a side-show. We’re going to prove him wrong. Alex has agreed to let us advance west and take Agrigento.’ He pointed to the port some thirty-five miles to the west.

  ‘He has agreed to a reconnaissance force to attempt to take it,’ interrupted Gay.

  ‘We’ll Goddamn take it, Gay.’ There was a glint in his eye now. ‘We take Agrigento, we don’t need Syracuse, which saves us a turn of around 140 miles over bad roads, and having to share it with Eighth Army. It also means we can abandon the beaches as a means of unloading. With Agrigento in our hands, we can speed the build-up of forces, and with more forces and especially more vehicles, we can operate both more quickly and with a hell of a bigger punch.’ He looked at them all in triumph. ‘Bradley won’t like it, but Forty-fifth Division will come in behind First Division and advance north through the interior. But this is where you come in, Wiseman.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I told you I wanted your man in Villalba to keep the Italians out of our hair. I still do, but we’re now going to use the main road that crosses the island. I want your man to make sure we have as little trouble as possible. We’re going to rush Palermo, take it, then cut back along the northern coast road and take Messina before Monty does. It’s a hell of a lot longer, but these are the best roads this Godforsaken island’s got. Our magnificent Seventh Army, gentlemen, will have the last laugh.’

  Wiseman grinned. It was a brilliant plan. Whether or not the British XXX Corps managed to trap the Germans was another matter, but it was surely the case that Eighth Army would now draw the bulk of the island’s defenders. If Don Calogero Vizzini could deliver on his promise, the road to Palermo would be virtually open. In Monty’s plan, Seventh Army was the anvil, and Eighth Army the hammer. In fact, it would be the other way around.

  ‘But, Wiseman,’ said Patton, ‘we need your man to deliver on his promise. We’ve invested a lot in this little venture of you intelligence fellows. Be sure you make good that promise. We need Signor Vizzini to demonstrate this influence of his. If he does, his organization can have the whole Goddamn island as far as I’m concerned. If he helps us get rid of the Fascists and Nazis, we’ll help him get his kingdom back.’

  Wiseman smiled. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’

  Over to the east, in Eighth Army’s sector, the Yorks Rangers had reached the town of Melilli, and were now leaguering in olive groves to the south, taking over positions from the 1st Green Howards, who were pushing north along with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Tanner sat down beneath an old gnarled olive tree and pulled out a cigarette.

  ‘Kernow, make us a cup of char, will you?’ he said to Trahair.

  ‘Now, sir?’ he said, as he pulled his rain cape from his pack.

  ‘Yes. Tea first, then bedding arrangements.’

  The sun beat down, dappling brightly between the dark leaves. Tanner breathed in the smell of earth, sweat, tobacco and gun oil. It was the smell of life
: of the Sicilian countryside, of soldiers. McAllister came into his thoughts: lying there in his arms, his blood-slicked guts trailing from the open cavity of his shattered stomach, the life seeping out of him. And now gone, no more. Nothing. Hastily buried that morning in a temporary grave. Later, his rotted corpse would be dug up, the bones and what flesh remained taken away and reburied in a newly marked-out cemetery. A stone would be added, just like those of all the dead from the Great War. McAllister would never return to Yorkshire. He wondered whether his parents and siblings would one day make it out here to see where their boy was buried. Unlikely. Mac’s family were working-class folk. There wasn’t much money. The Army shipped you out here for nothing when there was a war on, but when it was over the cost would be dear.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the hubbub going on around him. Men talking, calling out, the crump of distant shelling to the north, and the faint sound of small arms. Then the familiar voice of Sykes.

  ‘Well done, Kernow. That for me?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s for the captain.’

  ‘’E’s asleep. ’E won’t mind.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Tanner, ‘and I would.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll take yours, Kernow. You don’t mind brewing up some more, do you?’

  ‘Would it make any difference if I did, sir?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Sykes grabbed the tin cup, then raised it. ‘Cheers.’ He came and sat down next to Tanner. ‘I’ve checked on the men. Captain Fauvel’s still with Battalion.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Pissed off. Knackered. Sore feet. Wishing they had their vehicles back. Gutted about Mac and the others, and gutted about the major too.’

  Tanner rubbed his eyes. ‘You think he’ll be all right?’

  ‘Peploe? Yes, I’m sure he will.’

  Maybe, thought Tanner. Wounded in the leg, head and shoulder. The piece of shrapnel in his leg had still been sticking out when he’d found him lying on the side of the hill, his head propped against a rock. It had hit an artery, and looked bad. Tanner had seen plenty of people die from loss of blood when an artery had been hit; Peploe’s trouser leg had been soaked. And how much cloth had gone into the wound? It was such things that ensured a wound turned bad, that gangrene or septicaemia set in. The shoulder wound appeared less severe, as was the gash in his cheek; he’d be scarred for life, that was for sure.