‘Crystal,’ said Spiers. A fourth flash of orange burst in the distance, followed by a low, angry roar. ‘Where the hell are Goodridge and Tanner?’
‘Let’s hope nowhere near those explosions,’ said Creer.
‘I hope not, sir,’ said Dawnay. ‘Tanner sent us all back. He made sure we got out first, then went to look for Goodridge and his platoon.’
‘He’s a brave man,’ said Spiers.
‘Indeed,’ said Creer.
‘What of the others, sir?’ asked Spiers. ‘Where are the other companies?’
‘Most of B Company have made it back to their start positions,’ replied Creer. ‘D Company have also been ordered to fall back to the edge of the open ground and are digging in.’
A number of men now approached the CP, emerging from the darkness beyond.
‘A few more, sir,’ said Dawnay.
It was Lieutenant Goodridge, leading his men in. Still short of breath, he saluted. ‘I have twenty-eight men with me, sir.’
‘And Major Tanner, sir?’ asked Spiers.
‘I don’t know. He told us to head back across the open ground and that was the last we saw of him.’
‘Damn,’ cursed Spiers.
‘At least you and your men are safe, Lieutenant,’ said Creer.
‘Take the men to C Company positions, Goodridge,’ said Dawnay, producing a hand-drawn map. ‘They’re here, digging in around their start positions. I’ve got to speak to the IO, then I’ll join you.’
Creer went back inside the CP. The signals team were still hunched over their wireless sets, canvas-cased battery packs on the floor beside them, while at another makeshift table, Captain Masters was making notes as he listened to Dawnay’s breathless account of the battle. The attack, Creer knew, had been a fiasco, but little blame would be apportioned to the battalion for that. The Yorks and Lancs had completely overshot their mark, and most of one company were reported as captured. Only one company of the Green Howards had made any headway. The only breach in the German lines had been made by Tanner and C Company, but that had now been lost.
So, a bad night, yet Creer felt his spirits rising. A spark of hope had crept into his mind, one that grew with every passing minute. This time, he prayed, Tanner really had gone. Dead, or taken prisoner, he did not care, so long as he never had to see the man again. He wondered whether it was possible to hate a man more, then chuckled to himself. If the Germans had taken care of Tanner, he would owe them a debt, for sure.
Ahead, towards the enemy lines, the sound of battle could still be heard. Machine-guns barking, rifle shots, the dull thuds of shells. It was now past four in the morning, and away to the east, the first thin streaks of dawn were lightening the sky.
‘Sir?’ said one of the signals team, hurrying from the barn.
Creer turned and took the message. It was from Brigade: Bring all troops back to original positions of 0045 hours 20/7/43 with immediate effect. Dig in and prepare for further assault night 20/21. So now it was official. Creer folded the piece of paper and put it into his pocket, then looked at his watch. Twenty past four. And still no sign of Tanner.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled heavily, then felt his body freeze. Up ahead, emerging through the early first light was the tall figure of a man, helmet slightly askew, a rifle on his back and a sub-machine gun in his hand.
‘No!’ said Creer, aloud.
Villalba, Tuesday, 20 July, 11 a.m. The column trundled up the main road that led to the town square, the tanks and half-tracks squeaking and rumbling, the barrels of the Shermans pointing resolutely forward. In his Jeep at the head of the column, Wiseman spotted the façade of the church he had last seen nearly two months earlier. Either side of him, standing in doorways or peering from windows, were Villalba’s residents, Sicilian peasants watching the grand procession.
Fluttering from the aerial on his Jeep was a yellow flag with the black-stitched L, like the one he had dropped over the town almost a week before; there was another such flag on the lead Sherman too.
Wiseman gripped the steering-wheel and felt a dull ache in his stomach. His heart, he could feel, was beating just that little bit harder. Swallowing hard, he turned into the square, parked the Jeep and climbed out. Above, that blue and cloudless sky. Ahead, the honey-coloured church. Blue and gold. He squinted, the brightness suddenly overbearing. A few old men sat outside the bar. He saw several children, pointing excitedly as the tanks and half-tracks fanned out and came to a halt.
Leaning against the Jeep, the engine ticking beside him, he lit a cigarette, then saw two carabinieri walk towards him. As they neared, he recognized them.
‘Saluti, Maggiore!’ said the captain.
‘Saluti,’ replied Wiseman, ‘ma e ora colonello.’ But it’s colonel now.
The carabiniere captain apologized. Then, holding out his hands deferentially, he said, ‘Accogliamo i nostri alleati americani.’ We welcome our American allies.
Wiseman was about to respond, when from across the square he saw a short, elderly man with a pronounced paunch ambling towards him. Don Calogero Vizzini was accompanied by several others, walking a pace behind him. Wiseman recognized Bartolomeo, Zucharini and a third man, someone he’d last seen back home in the States. As they slowly approached, Wiseman was conscious that the square had begun to fill: Villalba’s residents had come out to witness a historic moment.
Don Calogero stopped a few yards from Wiseman. He was wearing the same short-sleeved shirt he had had on the last time they had met. He was holding something, which now unfurled: the folded flag Wiseman had dropped over his villa.
‘Libero, eh, Saggio?’ He chuckled. ‘Libero.’ He held out his hand, and Wiseman took it and felt dark eyes boring into him from behind Don Calogero’s spectacles.
‘Saluti, Don Calo,’ he said.
Don Calogero nodded, then half turned and waved a hand vaguely at the man on his right, a young, dark-haired man. ‘Mio nipote.’ My nephew.
‘Domiano Lumia,’ said Wiseman. ‘How are you? It’s been a few years.’
‘Yes, it has.’ He grinned. ‘Good to see you, Charlie.’
‘And you. Don Calo has been true to his word.’
‘Of course. He is a man of honour.’
Don Calogero walked over to one of the Shermans and, looking up at the barrel, patted the armour plating at the front.
‘We’re going to come with you,’ said Lumia, ‘to Palermo.’
‘Good,’ said Wiseman.
‘Your advance has been clear so far?’
‘Yes, but it seems there’s still a lot of Italian troops in the Monte Cammarata area and they’re not showing any sign of budging. At present they’re barring our route to the west.’
Lumia smiled. ‘Don’t worry. My uncle has sent his agents there. By tomorrow, there won’t be any more of the Assietta.’
Wiseman nodded. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Of course I am. My uncle is a man of his word.’ They glanced across at Don Calogero as he walked around the Sherman, beaming at the tank crew. ‘So,’ said Lumia, after a moment, ‘now we come with you. My uncle, myself, Baldini and Zucharini. We come with you all the way to Palermo.’ They were rejoined by Don Calogero and the carabiniere chief.
‘Tutto e finite per il fascismo,’ chuckled the policeman, then spat emphatically on the ground. It’s all over for Fascism.
They all laughed, Wiseman too.
‘Libertà,’ said Don Calo. ‘Libertà in Sicilia ancora una volta.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Wiseman. ‘Now shall we go?’
The Yorks Rangers remained in their forward positions all day. Shelling from both sides continued. The German artillery was comparatively light but relentless, while the 5th Division’s guns were more concentrated: a heavy stonk early in the morning, and another a few hours later, with desultory shelling in between. At the battalion CP, Tanner heard the shells whistling and screaming overhead, a ping-pong match of heavy ordnance. Sometimes he could even see them, a whir
r of black flashing through the sky. Two waves of medium bombers attacked the German main line of defence soon after the first heavy stonk. Tanner watched the faint white mass of Misterbianco disappear behind rolling clouds of smoke. It always struck him how immensely destructive such attacks appeared, yet when the bombers had gone and the smoke dispersed, it was as though no bombs had fallen at all. The towns and villages nestling along the lower slopes of Etna were still there, and before long, the German guns were firing once more.
Enemy Spandaus and mortars also kept up a persistent presence. The men were now dug in, but if a vehicle moved, or someone poked his head above the slit trenches in view of an enemy machine-gunner, the familiar sawing sound of the Spandau would ring out, and mortars would fizz across.
And each mortar round, each burst of MG fire, was a reminder of the failure of the night attack, a failure, Tanner was convinced, that should never have been. All morning, he had been struggling to control his anger. He kept replaying his arrival back at the CP in his mind: the surprise on Creer’s face, the shock of seeing him still alive. And then it had dawned on him with sudden clarity: Creer had deliberately tried to cut him off, starved him and his men of reinforcements so that they might be trapped, then killed or taken prisoner. He had sacrificed the potential success of the attack purely to get Tanner. ‘I can’t believe what you’ve done,’ he had told Creer. The man had stuttered, denied it, said he’d made a sound tactical decision on the basis of the information he had at the time. But Tanner knew the truth. ‘You’re a liar,’ he’d snarled.
This time, Tanner told himself, Creer had gone too far, but how he should deal with it, he was unsure: they were still in the front line, the battalion dug in around the previous evening’s start line. It was expected they would launch another attack that night although, God only knew, their numbers were depleted. Now was not the moment to mutiny against the officer commanding because that was what it would be if Tanner, Spiers and others made a stand against him. Mutiny was an ugly word.
By midday, he had still not decided what to do, which frustrated him even more: he liked to think of himself as decisive, as a man who always knew his own mind. Now, though, he was second-in-command of the battalion. He was still new to this role, while the situation in which he found himself was unlike any he had faced before.
Tanner sighed and squinted at the enemy positions up ahead – the hazy cluster of Misterbianco and, above, Etna. As ever, a small cloud of smoke hovered over its summit, a smudge of white in an otherwise endless blue. A mosquito landed on his arm and he squashed it. That was another problem: the men were getting hit by malaria – there had been half a dozen more cases that morning. He ambled into the barn, where the intelligence officer was making notes, and the signals lads were still hunched over their radio sets. Tanner lit a cigarette and headed outside again, where the headquarters men were dug in either side of the track. At least Creer was not about – he’d headed to Battalion HQ several hours earlier with some cock-and-bull story about having admin to attend to.
He glanced at Trahair, who was crouched over a Primus by one of the slit trenches, preparing some food. Seeing Tanner look his way, he said, ‘I’m making tiffin, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Tanner, suddenly hungry. He realized he’d not eaten since before the attack.
A few minutes later the meal was ready, and Tanner joined Trahair and Spiers on the edge of the slit trench. Suddenly, a whistle of incoming mortar shells cut through the air. Flinching, Trahair jumped into the slit trench at the side. Neither Tanner nor Spiers moved.
‘Watch it, sir!’ said Trahair. ‘Blimey!’
‘Bit jumpy, aren’t you, Kernow?’ said Tanner. ‘They were way off.’
‘You’ll learn, Kernow,’ said Spiers.
Trahair had retrieved his mess tin and clambered back onto the edge of the slit trench when the brigadier unexpectedly arrived with Major Standish, the brigade artillery commander. Tanner saw that the brigadier had cut his arm. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked, putting down his mess tin and hurrying over.
‘Fine, thank you, Tanner. Just had a bit of a close one with a mortar shell.’
‘There’s a lot coming over.’
‘But I’d like to think we’re hitting them harder.’ Rawstorne looked at Trahair and Spiers, who had set down their lunch and were now standing to attention. ‘All right, at ease, you two.’
‘Can I get you both some tiffin, sir?’ asked Tanner.
Rawstorne glanced at Standish, then said, ‘Yes, why not? Thank you, Tanner. What have you got on the go?’
‘I think we can manage some Maconochie’s, sir, then maybe a bit of tinned fruit and condensed milk.’ He called over to Trahair. ‘Kernow, fix the brigadier and Major Standish some tiffin, will you?’
‘Good man,’ said Rawstorne. ‘Sounds delicious.’ He looked towards the CP. ‘Where’s Colonel Creer?’
‘Actually, sir, he’s gone back to Battalion HQ.’
‘Never mind. You’ll do, Tanner.’
‘Do you want to talk in the CP, sir, or are you happy to stay here?’
‘Here’s fine, Tanner. Not in direct view of the enemy, I take it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, I must commend you on your CP, Tanner,’ said Rawstorne. ‘I’ve just come from the Green Howards’ and it’s a little more lively there.’
‘What news from them, sir? They had a hard fight last night. It was tough ground they had to cover.’
‘B Company copped it hardest. You’ve heard about Captain Verity, I take it?’
Tanner’s stomach lurched. ‘No, sir. What happened?’
‘I’m afraid he was wounded. Rather badly by the sound of things. He’s been taken prisoner. His two i/c tried to mount a rescue, but couldn’t reach him. With a bit of luck, Jerry will look after him and he’ll see out the war as a prisoner, but his wound sounded bad.’
‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Tanner. He wanted to hit something, preferably Creer, but instead turned away and rubbed his brow. That stupid bloody bastard.
‘I’m sorry, Tanner. I know how you feel – we’re all a bit shaken, to be honest. I know he was a soldier, like the rest of us, but he was also one of the finest cricketers I’ve ever seen. A little bit special, our Captain Verity.’
‘It’s not that, sir,’ mumbled Tanner. ‘It’s just so – so bloody unnecessary.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Spiers, ‘but I would like to second what Major Tanner has just said.’
Rawstorne turned towards him, a frown of irritation on his face.
Tanner sighed. ‘Forgive me, sir. This is RSM Spiers.’
‘Were you here at the CP last night, Spiers?’ asked Rawstorne.
‘No, sir,’ said Spiers. ‘I was with Major Tanner and a number of men from C Company.’
‘I’m sorry it wasn’t more successful. I know the attack was mounted in haste, and the Huns are dogged bastards in defence. It was a very tough nut to crack. Break through here, though, and the island will be ours. And break through we will.’
Spiers glanced briefly at Tanner, then said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but our attack was successful. We did break through the enemy lines, forced him to retreat, and cut back behind the Green Howards’ sector. We should have won the day. The enemy line was there for the taking, but the reinforcements we repeatedly asked for were not sent.’
Rawstorne’s brow furrowed further. ‘What’s this? Tanner, is this true?’
Tanner nodded. ‘We broke across the railway line, destroyed their MG and mortar positions and were on the lower slopes, working our way to the east to help the Green Howards. I repeatedly called for reinforcements, and even spoke to the OC myself, but my requests were refused.’
‘It was a disgrace, sir,’ said Spiers.
Tanner glanced at Spiers. He’d always liked him and had always rated him highly as a soldier. And here he was, confronting the brigadier. Spiers was telling him what he, as 2 i/c, should have been saying. What are you so worried a
bout, you bloody coward? he asked himself. He thought about Verity, lying out there, wounded, then carried off by the enemy, and of Tredwell, a young lad with his leg near severed at the thigh. All because of Creer.
‘Tanner?’ said Rawstorne.
‘Spiers is right, sir. It was a disgrace,’ said Tanner. ‘A criminal disgrace.’ He could feel the blood rushing to this cheeks. ‘Jerry’s defences are thin. A few hastily sown mines, a bit of wire, then the MG nests and a few mortars. No strength in depth at all. We bloody had them beaten. Lack of ammo and support did for us, but if we’d properly got behind the Green Howards’ front, Jerry would have been unable to stop us. And we should have done. A Company were never committed, as I requested. D and B Companies were never redirected to support us. Was any request made to Brigade? Was it hell. The entire KOYLI were in reserve. The whole bloody battalion!’
‘All right, Tanner, take it easy.’
‘Take it easy, sir? All those lives lost – and for what?’
‘Tanner, calm down,’ said Rawstorne. ‘Now.’
Tanner clenched his fists. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just so – it’s just so wrong.’ He eyed the brigadier. ‘Colonel Creer had no right to refuse our requests.’
‘Just what are you saying here, Tanner?’ Rawstorne took a step towards him.
Tanner looked across at Spiers, then at Standish and Rawstorne. ‘I’m saying, sir, that Colonel Creer is a murderer and does not deserve to wear the cap badge of the Yorkshire Rangers.’ Tanner paused, then said again, ‘He’s a murderer.’
Rawstorne looked dumbstruck and stared at him.
‘That’s quite an allegation, Tanner,’ said Standish.
‘It most certainly is,’ said Rawstorne. He paced the ground for a moment. The sun was beating down once more and the air was heavy and cloying with the stench of smoke and cordite. And death.
‘All right, Tanner,’ the brigadier resumed. ‘You’ve had a hard night. A bloody difficult and frustrating night. Feelings are running high. So this is what I want you to do. I want you to consider what you’ve just said. As it stands, we’ll be attacking again tonight, but when this fight’s over and we’re back out of the line, and assuming we’re all still in one piece, I want you to make a decision. Either you take back what you just said and we’ll make no more mention of it ever again, or you’d better have a very good reason for standing by your accusation. And I mean a very good reason. Hard evidence. Is that clear?’
The Devil's Pact (2013) Page 27
