The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  A gun boomed from the lava hills, and they heard the shell screaming across the plain. Campbell paused, waiting for it to land. It came down a few hundred yards to their left. ‘Any questions?’ he asked.

  ‘Presumably this will be a night attack,’ said the colonel from the Cameronians.

  Campbell nodded.

  ‘Will we have artillery support?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the gunner major. ‘We’re moving them up today, although I’m afraid they’ll be in rather open positions on the southern edge of the plain. That’s why we need you to get that railway line.’

  ‘So, a creeping barrage,’ said Campbell. ‘The attack will go in about midnight on a three-battalion front, with the Rangers and Green Howards in reserve. The RAF are going to soften up targets through the day as well.’ He glanced at the air liaison officer, who nodded in agreement.

  ‘Now,’ said Campbell. ‘Shall we go forward a bit? Get the lie of the land. About two thousand yards north of here, there are a number of cornfields. This will be the start point.’

  They set off, the entire Orders Group, making their way northwards along an old track. Desultory shelling continued, but none landed dangerously close. Away to their right, from the area around the Primosole Bridge, they heard a roar of machine-gun and cannon fire and then four Me109s were climbing out to sea, a Bofors gun pumping shells after them. None hit.

  ‘I hope that wasn’t your boys taking the brunt,’ Campbell said to Tanner and Colonel Shaw.

  ‘My thoughts exactly, sir,’ said Shaw.

  They reached the edge of the vineyards. Directly in front of them was another water channel and dike. Troops dug in there had made rough wooden footbridges, which they crossed, then climbed the dike. With the sun now high above them, Tanner knew there was no chance of using any binoculars. Even so, as he peered across the fields in front of him, he pitied the men who would be attacking there that night. He could picture it all too clearly: an artillery barrage that was never quite as accurate as it promised to be, flares crackling in the sky above, lighting up the advancing infantry like daylight, mortars bursting around them and withering enemy machine-gun fire pumping thousands of bullets towards them. Taking those German forward positions would be quite possible, but it would need a hasty advance, no dithering, and the knowledge that men were going to be hit in the process.

  Shelling continued all day, the Germans and Italians lobbing 105s and 150s onto the British positions on the plain, the British returning with their own 5.5-inch and even some heavy 3.7-inch anti-aircraft guns. Twice, a gaggle of Messerschmitts and Macchis came over to strafe the road north across the Primosole Bridge, the Bofors guns defending either end pom-pomming after them. British medium bombers droned over in the afternoon and pasted both German forward positions and the heavy guns in the lava hills. For a while, Etna’s lower slopes disappeared in a long, rolling cloud of smoke and dust, but when it eventually cleared, the desultory shelling continued once more.

  Then at around half past five a signal arrived at Battalion HQ that they were once more to revert to command of 15th Brigade.

  ‘What about the attack tonight?’ said Tanner.

  ‘Probably cancelled,’ said Creer. ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.’

  Ignoring him, Tanner turned to one of the signallers. ‘Find out where Brigade HQ now is, will you?’ He stood behind the signaller, chewing at one of his nails. Christ, it’s hot still. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. A mosquito landed on his arm, but he smacked it before it could fly away.

  ‘It’s a farmhouse half a mile north-east of Grapes, sir,’ said the signaller at length. ‘886705 is the reference, sir.’

  Tanner looked at his map, found the spot, then hurried out. It did not take him long – a ten-minute walk cutting across the southern-curving bow in the Simeto river.

  He found Rawstorne there, talking to Captain Verity of the 1st Green Howards.

  ‘Major Tanner!’ said Rawstorne.

  Tanner saluted and acknowledged Verity. ‘What’s going on, sir? I thought Thirteenth Brigade were leading an attack tonight.’

  ‘Change of plan, I’m afraid,’ said Rawstorne. ‘The Inniskillings took a bit of a hammering this morning and it seems half the brigade are struggling with malaria. I saw Campbell earlier and, of course, he was insisting on going ahead, but our chaps are fresher. So we’re going to lead the attack.’

  ‘That doesn’t give us much time, sir. When’s the O Group?’

  ‘We’ll have to do without. You were there earlier, weren’t you, at Campbell’s O Group?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And so was Colonel Shaw. First Yorks and Lancs are reconnoitring now, as I was explaining to Verity here. D’you know I once faced Captain Verity when he was still a boy? The rascal clean bowled me with one that dipped late.’

  ‘The brigadier played a few games for Lancashire, Jack,’ said Verity.

  ‘Really?’ said Tanner.

  ‘I wasn’t bad, but never quite cut it. Not for want of trying.’ He smiled as though remembering. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘got a pencil and a piece of paper?’

  Tanner nodded.

  ‘Take these orders down then. Bridges Grapes and Lemon being re-bridged by CRE Fifty-one Div approaching Paterno. Recce forces in touch with Five Div, which will attack to break through existing bridgehead and advance to high ground to deny enemy observation and approaches from Catania.’ He paused. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tanner and Verity said in unison.

  ‘Good. Fifteenth Infantry Brigade will attack under barrage and will occupy high ground south of Misterbianco. Seventeenth IB to follow up. Armour to move in between. On right, First Green Howards, in centre, Second Yorks Rangers, on left, First Yorks and Lancs, First KOYLI in reserve. Start line to be the road 9071 going west to 8572. Your objective is the road running 9075 to 8573.’

  Tanner looked at his map and found both roads. ‘So that’s the road behind the railway line, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. Those are Jerry’s forward positions.’

  Tanner looked again and saw a snaking dike to the south of the railway embankment. It was marked up as the ‘Massa Carnazza’. ‘What about this feature, sir? Do we know if Jerry’s here?’

  ‘Probably, Tanner. There will undoubtedly be MGs along there.’

  Christ, thought Tanner.

  ‘What time do we go, sir?’ said Verity.

  ‘We’re aiming for a half-hour barrage from twenty-three thirty, but I will confirm timings later. Any other questions?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Good. You’d better get going. Move up into positions before last light.’ He smiled at them amiably. ‘Good luck, gentlemen. Knock ’em for six, eh?’

  Outside Tanner paused, looking at the map, and scratched his head.

  ‘What are you thinking, Jack?’ Verity asked. ‘Are we in for a tough fight tonight?’

  ‘It’s these dikes that worry me a little,’ said Tanner. He held out the map. ‘See this one here, south of the railway line? The Massa Carnazza?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you’re defending, a nice curve is what you want. It means you can have interlocking fire. From the start line to the Massa Carnazza is about a mile, give or take, but the last half-mile is open country. There’s corn there, which will give you some cover, but you need to push hard. Keep going and get that southern bulge of the Massa Carnazza just as soon as you possibly can. Get that and work around behind it and take out any other Jerry MGs. Then head for the railway.’

  Verity nodded.

  ‘Have you been under enemy fire, Hedley?’

  ‘Not much. I’ve never been in an attack like this. None of us have, to be honest.’

  Jesus. ‘All you need to do is keep your head. There’ll be lots of noise, and it’ll seem disorienting, but just keep heading straight. Their MGs, particularly the new one, the 42, have a terrific rate of fire, but that’s a problem for them too. They get hot ver
y quickly, and when they get hot they lose accuracy. They’ll invariably fire high, so keep low and you’ll be fine. You know, they don’t tend to fire more than a three-second burst at a time, so keep low when they’re firing, then run in between. Also, they frequently have to change ammo belts and barrels, so you’ll never come under continuous fire. There will always be opportunities to move forward. Just don’t let your men get bogged down. Keep ’em moving.’

  He looked at Verity, who was nodding thoughtfully. ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Tanner.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Do you know who will be leading the attack?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘But probably three companies and one in reserve?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then just make sure you all keep up. Problems occur when one company gets ahead of the others. Suddenly flanks are exposed. Stick together.’

  Tanner could see Verity was nervous. Christ, he was nervous himself. Who wouldn’t be? ‘This must seem a long way from Headingley.’

  Verity smiled. ‘It does rather. But it’s what I joined up for. I never wanted to be treated with kid gloves, just because I play a bit of cricket.’ He held out his hand to Tanner. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Tanner.

  At ten to one in the morning on 20 July, the battalion began moving forward to the start line. Timings had reached them late, around nine p.m. They were to cross the start line at 0200 behind the barrage. Most of XIII Corps’ guns were now in the plain, on the southern side of the Simeto; the movement there had gone better than expected. That was something. It would be noisy.

  Creer had insisted on belatedly forming a battalion Orders Group. With the adjutant, the RSM, the battalion intelligence officer and company commanders in tow, they had reconnoitred forward, to the edge of open ground. Ahead, around six hundred yards away, the railway line bulged south as it curved around a low spur in the Etna foothills. The spur was covered with citrus groves, by the look of it. Beyond that, maybe two miles further north, was the village of Motta Sant’Anastasia, jutting out on a promontory. To the east, and perhaps another mile to the north, lay the town of Misterbianco. Between where they stood now and the railway embankment, however, there was a series of cornfields, already high and ripe. They were criss-crossed by rough tracks, and the road that cut south-west across the line of their advance. Getting over that embankment and onto the spur would be key. Tanner was conscious, though, as he looked at the ground ahead, that their objectives were more straightforward than those of the less-experienced Green Howards: the Massa Carnazza veered north, behind the railway line, in their sector, so that there was no double-line of defences to overcome.

  ‘We’ll attack with B Company on the right,’ Creer had told them, ‘C Company in the centre and D Company on the left, with A Company in reserve. Major Tanner will lead the attack.’

  Tanner rolled his eyes.

  ‘Where will you be, sir?’ asked Macdonald.

  ‘At the battalion CP at the start line with the signals section.’

  ‘How about that hut, sir?’ said Spiers, pointing to a small tiled barn by the side of the track thirty yards behind them.

  ‘Ideal. Yes, that will be the CP.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Tanner, ‘but you see that bulge in the railway line up ahead? That’s where we all need to head for. Straight across this open ground. Take that railway embankment and get into the hills, and we’ll be in a good position to exploit either side.’

  He had made it sound so simple. Already, as they moved forward towards the start line in darkness, the ground looked very different. Ahead, the mass of Etna loomed, but it was a dark night. Tanner glanced at his watch. Nearly one a.m. An hour of waiting, of getting used to the faint light of the night. Pockets and ammunition pouches filled. Kit stripped to the minimum. Rifles, Bren and sub-machine guns cleaned, oiled and ready. Tanner walked along the companies, whispering encouragement to the platoon commanders and sergeants. ‘Keep going, don’t stop, head for the bulge.’ With him were Spiers and Private White, with the portable No. 18 set.

  He paused by Ivo Macdonald, took a swig of water, then peered out into the inky darkness. It was still warm, but mercifully cooler than it had been earlier. This attack had been set up too hastily, he thought. XIII Corps’ artillery, a hurriedly put-together barrage and the cream of 15th Brigade attacking on a three-battalion front. It was the current thinking, he supposed; Eighth Army had the fire-power, these days, so they might as well use it to overwhelm the enemy. Even so, he couldn’t help thinking there was a better way: a stealth attack to neutralize the MG outposts, followed by a heavy bombardment of the enemy main positions while the infantry assaulted in force. True, they had portable radios, these days, but infantry following creeping barrages smacked of old-school Great War tactics to him, and from what his father had told him, they had rarely worked. They hadn’t worked much in this war, either, as far as he could tell. Alamein had been a fiasco as far as he was concerned.

  Perhaps it would be all right, but he could feel the dull weight of nausea in his stomach. He thought of Creer, waiting at the CP, hovering behind the signals team. The bastard. Hoping I’ll get the bloody chop. ‘Tanner will lead the attack.’ Said so nonchalantly. This attack and every other attack until some Jerry bullet or stray piece of shrapnel struck him down.

  Tanner sighed, and gripped his Beretta tightly.

  18

  In Motta Sant’Anastasia, Francesca and Cara lay on the rough bed in the cellar, listening to the sounds of battle outside, beyond the house. Several bombs had fallen on the town earlier in the afternoon, and the noise of the aircraft and guns had not stopped all day. An old chandelier had fallen and smashed; bits of plaster had dropped from the cornicing. The house had been repeatedly shaken.

  Nothing, however, had prepared Francesca for the onslaught that had begun ten minutes earlier. She had been asleep when the guns had opened up but, waking instantly, had rushed to the window. Flickers of orange fire could be seen from across the plain. Shells screamed and whined, then exploded. The vibration was unlike anything she had experienced before. It was as though an earthquake had begun.

  Francesca had rushed to find Cara, who was crying, and led her to the cellar. It didn’t feel safe now. The building continued to shake. Dust sat heavily on the fetid air, while showers of grit and plaster rained down, getting in their hair, going down their backs, in their eyes and clogging their mouths. What if the whole building collapsed? They would be entombed there, trapped for ever.

  She was wondering whether she should take Cara back upstairs when the cellar door opened and Kranz was coming down the stairs towards them.

  ‘Are you all right, Signora?’ he asked. ‘We think you would be better in the sheds out in the yard. They are strong, and there is less chance of the house collapsing on top of you there.’

  ‘We are safe here,’ she said.

  ‘Please, it would be better. We can look after you.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘I don’t like it here, Mama,’ said Cara. ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘You see?’ said Kranz. ‘Cara has the right idea. You should listen to her.’

  He held out his hand again. ‘Signora,’ he said, this time more firmly. Francesca felt in her pocket, but the knife was not there. Of course. It was not in her dressing gown but still in the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, lifted Cara and began to climb the steps. A shell screamed over and landed nearby, shaking the house once more and making Francesca slip. She gasped, but Kranz caught and steadied her. She could feel his hand run across her back, and clasp her close, very close, to her breast.

  ‘It is all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you.’

  Francesca hurried on up the steps and out of Kranz’s grasp, Cara’s arms tight around her neck. Taking the outside stairs this time, they hurried down to the sheds by the yard – where Nico had kept his motorcycle. It was still there – she had to give Kran
z credit for that – hidden underneath a tarpaulin.

  ‘Inside,’ said Kranz, behind her. ‘Go on, Signora.’

  Uncertainly Francesca sat on one of the wooden crates the Germans had brought with them. A team of artillery directors were still operating from the kitchen, but five men were here, taking shelter from the bombardment.

  Francesca looked around at them, then at Kranz in the open doorway. Nico had said they would be safe; he had said it would soon be over. But it was not over yet, not by any means, and nor were they safe, no matter what he had promised. Rather, they were living on the front line, with shells falling around them and surrounded by strange German soldiers. She wanted to bury her head in her hands and cry, but instead she stroked her daughter’s hair and stared at the stone wall opposite, praying that they would survive the shelling, that Kranz and his men would soon leave them alone.

  Across the island, the US 3rd Division’s lead units had leaguered for the night to the north-east of the small town of Casteltermini. It had been a good day for Patton’s spearhead, and Charlie Wiseman was enjoying a few bottles of beer with his new friends in the 7th Infantry Regiment. Colonel Sherman had allocated a small ad hoc group to Wiseman for the advance on Villalba: four Sherman tanks, a couple of Jeeps and three half-tracks, which amounted to one platoon of tanks and one motorized infantry platoon.

  It had been Colonel Sherman and his boys who had taken Agrigento and Porto Empedocle a few days earlier, and Wiseman recognized in them the confidence of troops who now felt invincible. Forty-five miles they had advanced that day. Forty-five miles! In a day! Resistance had melted away.