The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  When she stopped, Francesca felt the last of her strength leave her. Her legs seemed to buckle and her head felt as heavy as lead. Suddenly she was on the floor, her head in her hands and convulsed with deep, uncontrollable sobs.

  16

  Later that afternoon, a Jeep pulled up beside the house on the southern edge of Melilli newly requisitioned by A Company Headquarters, and out stepped a corporal from Brigade Headquarters. It was Tanner he wanted to see.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, in a thick North Yorkshire accent. ‘Brigadier’s orders. You’re t’come wi’ me.’

  Tanner did not demur. ‘Any idea what it’s about?’ he asked, as they sped along the dusty road towards Syracuse.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I just do as I’m ordered. You’ll find out soon enough, though.’

  Tanner smiled to himself. He liked the plain speaking of Yorkshiremen. You knew where you stood. They were all like that when he’d first joined as a boy soldier – the men, at any rate – and even at the start of the war he and Sykes had been about the only outsiders. Now, there were men from all over. Cornishmen like Trahair, or Welshmen, as Griffiths had been. Sykes wasn’t the only Londoner any more. He wasn’t the only Londoner from south of the river, for that matter.

  A quarter of an hour later he presented himself at Brigade Headquarters, a palatial baroque villa at the heart of the town. Trucks and Jeeps lined the main square.

  In the hallway, tables had been set up, behind which were clerks with typewriters. Telephone cables ran into a makeshift exchange.

  ‘This way, sir,’ said the corporal, leading him into a modest, but high-ceilinged room off the main hallway.

  ‘Captain Tanner, sir,’ said the corporal.

  Brigadier Rawstorne was sitting at the side of an ornate dining-table, with a telephone, an in-tray, an overflowing ashtray and various papers before him. The smell of tobacco was strong.

  ‘Ah, Tanner, there you are,’ said Rawstorne, looking up. He smiled amiably. ‘The man who would turn down a promotion from his brigadier.’

  Tanner was surprised at this. ‘From you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, from me. I told Colonel Creer that you should be his new second-in-command.’

  ‘I didn’t realize that, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. You imagined it was Creer’s decision, did you?’

  ‘I – I thought— In truth, sir, I wasn’t sure what to think. But I had just lost a third of my company. I didn’t think it was right to leave them to a new company commander.’

  ‘Worried about morale, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I thought it was wrong for a captain to leapfrog a major.’

  Rawstorne sat back in his chair. ‘I can’t decide whether that’s modesty or arrogance, Tanner.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Tanner. ‘It wasn’t meant to be arrogant.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a think about this. You were company second-in-command under Major Peploe, then seconded to the Americans. You returned to the battalion in June, so have been in command of those men for a single month. You don’t think they might be able to cope with a new company commander now?’

  ‘Of course, sir, but I didn’t think it was the best moment. They’ve had enough upheaval as it is.’

  Rawstorne leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and bringing his hands together. ‘Look, Tanner, I have no idea when the battalion will receive more replacements, but the fact is, A Company is out of the action for a while. You’re the most decorated soldier in the brigade, let alone the battalion. Strictly entre nous, Creer is a good administrator, but lacks fighting experience. With Peploe gone, the battalion needs you as two i/c. So, please, take the bloody promotion and do as you’re told.’

  Tanner was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Is that an order, sir?’

  ‘If you like, yes. Do you think I haven’t got better things to do than waste time arguing with you?’

  Tanner said nothing.

  ‘And that’s not all, Tanner. It seems we’re in for a bit of a tougher fight than we’d first thought. Last night our airborne troops were dropped on a key bridge over the Simeto. Corps HQ had high hopes for this little operation. The Red Devils were to take the bridge intact, and then the road to Catania would be open. I don’t mind telling you it was thought Catania would be ours in a couple of days.’

  ‘So what happened, sir?’

  ‘Jerry got there first. MGs and mortars set up either side of the bridge, artillery trained on targets to the south and our airborne chaps scattered too wide. Airborne troops are all very well, Tanner, but not good at digging in for the attritional battle.’

  ‘We’ve got the force to deal with a few Jerries, surely.’

  ‘But how to keep the bridge intact? It’s an awkward crossing. And every day we’re held up there, so more Jerries are pouring across the Strait of Messina. They’re preparing a defensive line west of Catania along the lower slopes of Etna. It’s a hell of a position. Views right across the Plain of Catania – a plain riddled with rivers, dikes and other unmentionable obstacles.’

  ‘So we’re going to have to slog it out the hard way?’ Tanner sighed and ran his hands wearily through his thick but unkempt dark hair.

  ‘Yes. I’m rather afraid we are. And in that fighting the Yorks Rangers are going to have to pull their weight.’

  Tanner closed his eyes, then nodded. I understand now.

  ‘Now, I still don’t know what happened the day before yesterday – it sounds like Creer got a little jumpy. But these things happen in the heat of battle. An accident of war.’

  ‘An accident of war?’ said Tanner, sitting up. ‘Sir, it was—’

  Rawstorne held up a hand to silence him. ‘I don’t want to hear it, Tanner. I’ve asked Creer for a full report, which I will receive in due course. What happened happened. I’m sorry some of your men were killed. I’m sorry we lost Peploe. But war is dangerous. People do get killed. Thank goodness you were not one of them.’

  He looked at Tanner and his face softened. ‘Look, take this job, and grasp the battalion by the scruff of its neck. The Rangers need you. Damn it all, I need you, Tanner. If the brigade can do a good job here, then there’s every chance the rest of the campaign will take care of itself. We will win. It’s merely a question of time. But the sooner we do, the sooner this battle, and indeed the entire war, will be over.’

  He patted his hands on the table in a show of finality. ‘So do we have a deal, Tanner?’

  ‘There is just one problem, sir,’ said Tanner, slowly.

  Rawstorne looked at him. Yes?

  ‘Colonel Creer and I do not exactly get on.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, man!’ Rawstorne exclaimed. ‘Then start getting on! Sort it out! You’re both adults, damn it! Whatever differences you have, patch them up and in double-quick time. I’ve got more pressing concerns than the petty squabbles of two subordinates. Think of the battalion and the brigade and all the young men who look to you, Tanner, for leadership, and for experience. “I don’t get on with Creer, sir.” Good God, man. I don’t want to hear another word about it.’

  Tanner stood up and so did Rawstorne.

  ‘So, Major Tanner. Let’s hear no more about any contretemps with Colonel Creer, all right?’

  Tanner swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Congratulations on your promotion and good luck.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tanner. He saluted, and Rawstorne leaned across the table and offered him his hand. Tanner gripped it and looked into the eyes of his brigadier.

  ‘Don’t let me down, Tanner. I’m relying on you.’

  Later, around seven that evening. Tanner had gathered most of the headquarters staff including the intelligence officer, Captain Jerry Masters, and the RSM, Tom Spiers, in the garden of the Villa Cortese, a baroque townhouse of faded glory near the town square in Melilli. There were around forty men in all, mostly administrators: clerks, the quartermaster and his team, the battalion MO and the adjutant. The men who made the batt
alion function as a whole. Tanner had chosen his moment carefully, waiting for Creer to disappear. ‘He’ll be visiting an Italian bint,’ Spiers had told him. Favours rendered in return for rations.

  He stood under the large fig tree, the chirping of cicadas loud around him, and wiped his brow. Christ, he thought, but it was still hot. The brows of the men glistened, dark patches of sweat marked their shirts. A mosquito buzzed near his ear and he waved it away, then cleared his throat.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost Major Peploe. He’s a fine man and a fine friend and the battalion will miss him. But I’m going to do my best. I’ve served with this battalion for most of my career and in that time we’ve repeatedly proved ourselves. We’re good, bloody good, and experienced too. I saw the brigadier earlier, and he made it quite clear that he’s looking to us to show the way in this brigade. It’s up to us to justify that faith. People come and go, but the spirit should never be allowed to die. The spirit of a battalion is what binds it, what keeps everyone going even when things are tough.’ He paused. Were they all listening? Yes. Good. ‘We need to work and fight together. All of us. I know what you’ve heard about me, these rumours that have been doing the rounds.’ Several men now shuffled their feet sheepishly, but Tanner continued to stare them down. ‘They’re to stop,’ he said, ‘before I do kill someone. Is that clear?’

  A few nods.

  ‘Yes?’ said Tanner. ‘You all got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ muttered several.

  ‘Right,’ said Tanner. ‘In the days to come, we’re going to have some hard fighting. We’re not facing ill-trained Eyeties any more, but well-trained and motivated Germans. Men who know how to fight. We all need to work together, to make sure we keep the strong spirit that’s served us so well through France, Greece and Crete, through the Desert War. Spirit that’s seen us lead the way in the days since we’ve been on Sicily. And know this: I’ll not ask any of you to do anything I’m not prepared to do myself, but I’ll also not put up with any muttering behind my back. You have a problem, you tell me, or the RSM here. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Good. Dismissed.’ He watched them leave, until only Spiers and Masters remained.

  ‘Well done, Jack,’ said Spiers. ‘It was needed.’

  ‘The boss won’t be happy,’ said Masters.

  ‘To hell with him. I don’t give a damn what he thinks. I care about the battalion. And I’m not going to have my authority undermined by these stupid rumours. Rumours, I might add, that were peddled by Croaker.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘Can’t I? Look, I’m not going to speak ill of Croaker to the men, but I am going to do this job my way. Be straight with people, and usually they’ll be straight with you in return.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Spiers.

  ‘Well, it’ll be interesting, I’ll admit that,’ said Masters. He turned to Tanner. ‘And now how about a drink in the mess?’

  ‘All right,’ said Tanner. Why not?

  His first afternoon in the job had gone better than he had imagined it would when he’d left the brigadier some hours earlier. On arriving back at Melilli, he’d first gone to see Ivo Macdonald, one of the company commanders he liked and respected. It had, of course, been too late to back down, but clearing his promotion with Macdonald was a courtesy he had been determined to make.

  ‘Mind?’ Macdonald had said. ‘My dear fellow, that’s very noble of you, but no, I most certainly don’t mind. I’m delighted!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. If anyone can keep Creer under control it’s you.’

  ‘I’m conscious I’m jumping past you other majors. This time last year I was still an NCO. Now I’m a major, albeit a temporary one. I don’t want to piss off you and the other company commanders. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is.’

  Macdonald had smiled. ‘I don’t want to run the battalion and I’m not sure Ferguson and Mallinson do either. I think you know full well what I think of the colonel. I’d be out on my arse in no time if I had to be two i/c. I know I wouldn’t be able to stick it. The man’s a half-wit.’

  Tanner had then gone to see Creer and told him he had accepted the brigadier’s promotion.

  Creer had laughed. ‘The most stubborn man I have ever met has finally climbed down. A miracle!’

  ‘Orders are orders,’ Tanner had said.

  ‘You didn’t seem to think so the other day.’

  ‘It was an order impossible to fulfil. If you’d been at the front, you’d have realized that.’

  In that moment, Tanner understood that everything had changed. Up until then, he had been wary of the officer commanding’s influence and authority, but as he had stood before him, he had felt strangely empowered. Creer could order him into battle, but he could not push him around. He couldn’t bully him. Not any more. The days when he had been a powerless private and Creer a platoon commander had long gone. Creer’s efforts to undermine Tanner’s reputation and authority might have worked perfectly in India, but had been less successful out here.

  It had occurred to him there and then that later, that evening, he would stop the rumours once and for all; and he was now confident that his pep-talk had done just that. In India, where the most action they had seen was an occasional skirmish with natives, an arch-manipulator like Creer could thrive. But in the full fury of war, actions spoke a lot louder than words. Tanner knew he had never had much of a gift for the gab, but he could handle himself on the battlefield. Creer knew that too. What was more, he was now second-in-command because the brigade commander had demanded it. That, too, gave him considerable authority. It had given him confidence as well.

  Finally, he had been to see A Company. Fauvel had been given command in his place, while Shopland had become 2 i/c. For the time being, they were down a platoon, but they would recover. He would miss having Sykes to watch his back, but at least they were unlikely to be committed to battle any time soon, unless the situation became desperate. His friends there would be safe for a while.

  Tanner now followed Masters into the mess, which, until the battalion had requisitioned the villa, had been a reception room on the first floor. A number of cases of wine had been found in the cellar and ‘liberated’.

  ‘Actually, it’s not at all bad,’ said Masters. ‘My people used to ship over Italian wine before the war, but I’ve never had Sicilian until now.’

  ‘It’s a shame Peploe’s not here,’ said Tanner. ‘He’d appreciate this. He always fancied himself as something of an expert when it came to wine.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s still alive,’ Masters said.

  ‘Course he is,’ muttered Tanner. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  He left Masters soon after, and went to his new room on the second floor, but although he felt suddenly tired, sleep once more eluded him. Instead, he sat by his window and, with a paperback on his lap, listened to the sounds of the night: the crickets and cicadas, distant booms, the crackle of guns and small arms a few miles to the north. Primosole Bridge.

  He wondered what had happened to Peploe, and wished he’d not mentioned him in the past tense. If he’d survived the first couple of days, the chances were he would be all right. He wished he could find out, but so many people passed through the casualty clearing stations and then the various and hastily set-up field hospitals that he knew there was no chance of that. All he could do was wait. The battalion would be informed in due course if he had died, and he was sure Peploe would write if he was recovering. Then he thought of the Italian officer, lying there so peacefully, apparently unblemished, killed by the concussion of the blast. He delved into his shirt pocket, pulled out his ID card and looked at the photograph of the young woman he had taken. He now felt rather bad about it; he wasn’t sure why he had kept it. He supposed he’d been struck by the image of a pretty girl in the middle of that carnage.

  At some point, he must have fallen asleep because suddenly he jolted awa
ke. There was someone down below, out on the street, talking.

  ‘… and don’t say a bloody word.’

  Creer. Grabbing his torch, he left his room.

  Creer was halfway up the stairs when Tanner switched on his torch. The officer commanding wore nothing but his underwear, a pair of cotton briefs.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ he barked. ‘Turn off that bloody torch.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Tanner, feigning innocence.

  ‘Tanner,’ said Creer. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing prowling about?’

  ‘I heard something, so came down to see what it was. More to the point, what are you doing?’

  ‘I fell asleep and the stupid bitch stole my clothes.’

  ‘How embarrassing.’

  ‘And now you’re here. For God’s sake,’ he muttered, as he continued walking up the stairs towards him. ‘Always turning up when least wanted.’

  As Creer now reached him, on an impulse, Tanner drew up a hand, and brought it tight around his neck, then rammed him against the wall. Creer choked. ‘Yes,’ said Tanner. ‘I am.’

  ‘Tanner!’ he croaked.

  ‘You’re a bloody disgrace.’ He loosened his grip and stepped away.

  Creer gasped. ‘I’ll court-martial you for this.’

  ‘You wouldn’t bloody dare. Jesus, look at you! How did you ever get this job? Peploe’s a hundred times the man you are.’ He shone the torch in Creer’s eyes. He saw fear in them.

  ‘Tanner,’ said Creer. ‘Don’t do anything rash now …’

  Christ, he really is scared. ‘Look at you,’ he said again, ‘Jesus.’ Then, switching off his torch, he turned and climbed back up the stairs.

  17

  Monday, 19 July, five a.m. The sun was already well above the horizon, beaming brightly, the sky a deep and cloudless blue. It was going to be another hot one. On the edge of the ancient town of Agrigento, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Wiseman sat in his Jeep alongside two G2 junior staff of the US 3rd Infantry Division, and marvelled at the sight before him. Stretched out ahead along the winding dusty road that headed north was a vast column of vehicles: tanks, half-tracks and trucks, part of Patton’s spearhead for the drive on Palermo. Truly, thought Wiseman, this was the might of America. From Agrigento’s position on the hill, he could see the mountainous interior up ahead, while behind lay the dark blue sea and the harbour of Porto Empedocle, still thick with ships and landing craft.