Wednesday, 4 August, around 3 p.m. Tanner was crouched beside Sykes, Captain Fauvel and a sapper lieutenant called Cartwright at the edge of a track that led up towards the town of Motta Sant’Anastasia, perched on a promontory about two miles ahead. In between lay gently rising and undulating ground, lined with small fields filled with corn or citrus groves.
They were looking at a farmhouse or, rather, what remained of it, for it had been hit several times. Half the roof had gone, and so had one side of the second floor. To their right, several hundred yards away, a German machine-gun spat a three-second burst, then another. A Bren answered.
‘B Company sound a bit stuck too,’ said Sykes.
Tanner sighed. ‘I want a sodding bath,’ he said. ‘What do we reckon we’re facing here?’
‘A platoon, I reckon,’ said Sykes. ‘Two, maybe three MGs.’
‘And a whole load of booby traps,’ said Cartwright. He was a young man with a red face and a thin, unconvincing moustache. ‘The road’s bound to be mined, too, and probably the land either side.’
‘I tell you, they’re men after my own heart,’ said Sykes.
‘Well, I haven’t heard any mortars yet,’ said Tanner.
‘True,’ said Fauvel.
‘And there can’t be that many mines. This place obviously had artillery here until last night. All we’re facing is a small defensive outpost.’
He looked at his map, then took out the aerial photograph of the land around Motta Sant’Anastasia. Yes, there it is. He was looking at the artillery symbol that had been drawn on the photograph. There was another near the road where B Company were also advancing. Always easier, he thought, bringing up ammunition, supplies and, of course, the guns near a road or track.
Perhaps they could simply outflank the positions. Away to their left, the ground dropped a little towards what looked like a dry watercourse.
‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘We could keep Jerry busy here, and send a platoon round and up that riverbed. At least then we’d be opposite the open side of that farmhouse.’
Fauvel nodded. ‘All right. We set up a Bren here, make sure the chaps keep taking rifle shots, then creep around, keeping out of the line of sight of that Spandau.’
‘Something like that,’ said Tanner. ‘One more Jerry strongpoint, then hopefully into town and have a scrub.’
Behind them, A Company were waiting among the groves. Fauvel detailed a two-section platoon under Lieutenant Hewitson, informed B Company on their left and C Company waiting in reserve five hundred yards behind, then said, ‘All right, sir, we’re ready.’
‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘Stan, you and I will go with Hewitson and Chalkie White. We’ll send you a signal when we’re in place, Gav, then you’ll open up with the Bren.’
Heading back down the slope, they reached a grass track, then cut along it until they found the riverbed. It appeared clear, so making sure they kept low, they hurried along the grassy verge beside the tumbled stones. A small reservoir, then a kink in the river, and they were scrambling up a slope, with the top of the enemy-held farmhouse just visible to their right. Some bushes. Another grove beyond; between them, the road and the farmhouse. Good, thought Tanner, plenty of cover.
Suddenly a man cried out and fell forward.
‘Jesus, what was that?’ cried Hewitson.
‘Down!’ hissed Tanner, as another bullet skimmed overhead. ‘Quickly!’ he said. ‘Drop back down to the riverbed.’
The wounded man was gurgling, as Sykes and one of the others grabbed him and dragged him with them.
‘Snowy!’ said another man. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘All right, calm down,’ said Sykes.
The young man had been hit in the neck. His eyes were wide and wild, his legs kicking. Blood poured from his mouth and from the wound.
‘It’s not hit the jugular,’ said Sykes, tearing open a field-dressing pack. ‘Come on, you lot, bloody give me a hand here!’
‘Yes, stop gawping at him and help,’ added Tanner. ‘What’s his name?’ he asked Hewitson.
‘Private Jackson, sir. He’s only eighteen.’
‘Maybe he’ll be lucky. Get four of the lads to take him back and iggery, because otherwise there’s going to be more of us hit like him.’ Tanner turned to White. ‘Chalkie, send a message to Captain Fauvel. Tell him we’ve got a sniper to deal with. Chances are, we’ve already been reported to the farmhouse over there. Tell him to stand by for further instructions.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said White, pulling the radio off his back.
Tanner scurried over to Sykes, peering back up the slope behind them. ‘Where d’you think he fired from?’
‘That building over there,’ said Sykes, pointing to the north-west. ‘But one way to find out for sure.’ Taking off his helmet, he drew his old seventeen-inch sword bayonet, balanced the tin hat on the tip and slowly raised his arm. A moment later there was a loud ping and Sykes carefully lowered it again. A neat hole ran through the helmet. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the one, judging by the line of trajectory.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Tanner. He pushed his helmet back and scratched his head. ‘All right,’ he said at length, ‘this is what we’ll do. I’ll crawl up the riverbed with Corporal Hicks and the Bren. When I give the signal, put a couple more helmets in the air. As soon as I hear a shot, Hicks and I will dash for cover and pray we can get a clear shot at both targets.’
Sykes nodded doubtfully.
‘Have you got a better plan?’
‘Call in some air or artillery? Ask them to take them out?’
‘Too long. It’s been like this ever since we set off. Stop, start, stop, start. Bloody mines, wait for the sappers, then some sodding Jerry pinning us down. I’m fed up with it. Look, if it doesn’t work, we’ll call up the artillery, all right?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Sykes. ‘You’re the boss.’
A minute later, Tanner was moving up the stony riverbed, Hicks behind him. Forty yards or so further on, he glanced back. There were Sykes, Hewitson and the others. On his right, the bank climbed about ten feet, he reckoned, but there was a slight gap in the bushes that lined the slope.
‘What d’you think, Hicks?’ he said. ‘Reckon you can scramble up there in under five seconds?’
Hicks swallowed, then nodded.
Tanner grinned. ‘Good. We’ll do it together, on my signal, all right? And one other thing. Take off your helmet.’
‘Take it off, sir?’
‘Yes – you might be safer without it. Trust me.’ He looked back down towards the others and raised his thumb. Sykes waved back, then three helmets were raised slowly.
A crack of a rifle, the report ringing clearly, and Tanner said, ‘Now!’ Both men jumped up, ran up the bank and dived into the bushes as another bullet hissed by and Tanner felt a searing pain across the top of his shoulder.
‘Damn it!’ He grimaced, as he scrambled clear.
Beside him, lying in the grass, Hicks was gasping. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘I’ll live,’ said Tanner, wincing. He put his hand to his shoulder and saw blood. ‘Just nicked me,’ he said, rolling his shoulder. ‘Anyway, there’s a job to be done.’
They inched forward until they could see through bushes back towards the farmhouse. Tanner glanced back to check they were out of view of the sniper, then pulled his rifle off his good shoulder. He lay there and peered through the scope. He could see several men on the ground, then two on the open first floor, adjusting position, moving their machine-gun around.
‘We need to be quick, Hicks,’ he said, ‘or our sniper chum is going to tip off the section in the farmhouse.’
At that moment, firing opened from further down the riverbed, and immediately the machine-gunners responded, firing two short bursts in quick succession.
‘Won’t our lads get hit by the sniper, sir?’ asked Hicks.
‘Nah,’ said Tanner. ‘Sykes will have taken them out of sight.’
No sooner had he s
aid this than two Brens were firing from the south, peppering the far wall of the farmhouse.
Tanner smiled to himself and peered through the scope. Yes, there was the platoon commander, ordering something from below.
‘Just for the moment, Hicks,’ said Tanner, ‘I want you to hold fire.’
‘Right, sir.’
Tanner aimed, the cross-sight on the commander’s head. Someone calling to him, then him leaning forward, what was that?, and suddenly he turned, as though looking directly at Tanner. Tanner felt his finger squeeze the trigger, felt the butt press into his shoulder and saw a spray of blood and brains as the man collapsed from view. At the same moment, the machine-gunners stopped and hastily moved their weapon, but as they did so, Tanner had a clear shot. The bolt had already been drawn back and, without moving his cheek, he carefully raised the barrel, picked out the machine-gunner and fired. He saw the man’s head jerk backwards and the body slump.
‘Let’s go!’ he said, getting up and running forward, through the citrus grove, slinging the rifle across his shoulder and gripping his Beretta, darting between the trees, Hicks beside him. Up ahead, men in panic, bullets from the south, bullets peppering the farmhouse from their left. Sixty yards, a rifle crack but the bullet wide, fifty yards, and now Tanner said, ‘Fire, Hicks, from the hip!’ and men were falling, scattering, as Tanner pulled back the bolt. At thirty yards, from the edge of the grove, he raised his weapon and fired. Two men fell and then he was shouting, ‘Hände hoch! Hände hoch!’ Another two-second burst from Hicks and now the hands were going up.
‘Cease fire!’ yelled Tanner, as loudly as he could, then stepped onto the road, his Beretta still drawn into his shoulder. Hicks followed as they pointed to the men to move out of the house.
‘Schnell!’ barked Tanner. ‘Go on, shift your arses!’ As he stepped into the house, he said, ‘Hicks, stay in the doorway, and watch them. Don’t touch anything. Knowing these monkeys the place’ll be booby trapped.’ Several men, all filthy, lay dead, one collapsed against a broken chair, another propped against a wall. Tanner moved quickly out of the back of the farmhouse and saw several more men running through the groves beyond. Moving up the stone staircase, he took each step carefully, watching, listening. Nothing. At the top of the staircase, he paused. There, with the floor open to the world, lay a dead machine-gunner and an MG42. Of his mate, there was no sign. Making sure he kept in shadow, he took out his binoculars and trained them on the house four hundred yards away, beyond the dry riverbed. There it was, clear as day, lit up beautifully by the sun. And there at a window, his rifle leaning on the balcony outside, was a German sniper, and he was not looking at the farmhouse but a little further south, towards, Tanner guessed, where Sykes and the others had been.
‘You want to be more careful, son,’ muttered Tanner, softly, as he swiftly took his rifle off his shoulder once more, briefly closing his eyes as another shard of pain coursed through him.
It took around fifteen seconds. The scope was already perfectly zeroed to four hundred yards. Raise the rifle, aim, breathe in, squeeze the trigger. Bang.
Tanner watched the German sniper fall, waited, then using the discarded MG42, sprayed the house with bullets until the belt ran out and the barrel overheated.
Another German outpost had been destroyed.
It was after six by the time they made their way up into the little town of Motta Sant’Anastasia. It had seemed almost within touching distance back at the farmhouse, but it took time: prisoners had to be sent back, B Company had to catch up, the road had to be made safe, sappers cautiously leading the way, preventing any gallop forward by the rest of the battalion.
Finally, they reached the dusty road that wound its way up to the edge of the promontory. At first, just a few children had run down the road to meet them, but as they climbed up into the town, more and more people emerged, cheering, as the exhausted troops tramped up the road. Tanner’s hand was shaken and old women blew kisses.
At a small triangular piazza in the centre, they halted, some hundred and fifty men from Headquarters, A and B Companies.
‘All right, boys,’ Tanner called. ‘Fall out, but stay here for the moment.’ He looked around. Palm trees offered shade from the sun. There were steps and ornate iron benches, a shrine and a war memorial. He turned to White. ‘Chalkie, get on to Major Macdonald and tell him we’re at Motta. C Company are following, but we’re staying put for the night. Get Echelon up here. These men need some scoff and we need them billeted.’ He turned to Sykes and Fauvel. ‘Right, Stan, we need a new Battalion HQ.’
‘You need that wound looked at.’
‘Stop fussing. We’ll get a nice basha first, then I’ll have the wound cleaned up. It’s just a gash, nothing serious. Anyway, the MO will be here soon with Ivo and the rest of the battalion. Come on, let’s go.’
With Brown, Trahair and White in tow, they climbed up to the top of the town, past still curious Italians. The road narrowed with small alleyways running off each side as it curled its way up to the church and to a small square.
‘Will you look at this?’ said Sykes. ‘Very quaint.’
But Tanner was looking at a house just off the far side of the square – a house perched on the edge of the promontory, made of small, dark bricks, with a terracotta roof and an iron balcony that looked back over the square. It was big, solid, and had steps leading up to the main door.
‘There,’ said Tanner, striding towards it.
A number of Italians were watching as he walked up the steps and knocked on the door. He paused and looked around. Hurrying towards him, he saw a priest, black gown flowing, and saw him raise his hand to catch his attention, but then the door opened and Tanner turned. A tall, young woman with long, fair hair, pale almond-shaped eyes and full lips was standing before him.
‘Buona sera, Signora,’ he said, hardly able to believe his eyes.
‘Good evening,’ she said in English.
Tanner swallowed. ‘It’s you.’
22
Tanner stood on the step and stared. The woman in the photograph he had taken from the dead Italian officer was standing before him. He was certain it was her: thinner perhaps, but the hair, the eyes, the strikingly unusual features were the same. They had captivated him when he had first seen the picture among the officer’s papers. What had been his name?
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘I, er, nothing. I’m sorry,’ he said, embarrassed to have Sykes and the others witness his discomfort.
‘Your wound needs cleaning.’
Tanner shrugged. ‘Yes, but it’s not serious.’
A little girl now appeared, clinging to the woman’s legs. Her daughter – had to be, Tanner thought. She said something and the mother replied, a burst of rapid Italian.
‘My daughter is rather wary of strange men in uniform turning up on our doorstep,’ she said. ‘First it was Germans, now you.’
‘The Germans were here, in your house?’
‘Yes. Artillery. They were watching the plain, telling their guns where to fire.’
‘On us.’ Tanner smiled ruefully.
‘I had no choice. I suppose I don’t have any choice now, either.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tanner. ‘We need billets, but don’t worry. We’ll find somewhere else.’ He took a step back. ‘You speak very good English.’
‘I learned as a child.’
‘Civil-affairs officers will be here soon, but would you consider helping us? We’ll pay.’
She eyed him intently. ‘A translator?’
The priest had reached them and began speaking to the woman. Tanner listened to the flurry of words, the rapid exchange.
Eventually the woman turned back to Tanner. ‘He says he welcomes you and your men, but where will you go? Do you expect to be housed here? We have very little food and he is worried that your men will eat what stocks remain.’
‘Tell him that we have our own rations and we will do what we can to share them. Britis
h civil-affairs officers will reach the town soon and will help.’
She did so. The priest smiled and took Tanner’s hand in both of his.
‘Thank you,’ said Tanner. ‘Will you think about my offer?’
The woman eyed him again, then said, ‘I think you had better come in.’
Francesca had spent half of the morning in tears. Cara had been distressed by this, but Francesca had not been able to help herself. ‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ she had told her. ‘It’s just the war. I’ll be better soon, I promise.’ And, in a way, she had been right: it was just the war because without it she would not have lost her brother, she would probably not have lost her father, she would not be feeling hungry all the time, she would not have been almost raped by a German. The war – it was all the war’s fault.
Camprese had appeared at lunchtime, bearing some German rations. There had been a renewed swagger about him and his lips had lingered on her hand when he had kissed it. She had thought about stabbing him too. If it hadn’t meant leaving Cara an orphan, she might have done it. At least Kranz had gone, clutching the wound on his arm, out of her life for ever, but Camprese was still here, still strutting about the town as though it were his personal fiefdom. Would he tire of trying to woo her and force himself upon her, as Kranz had done? She had not thought of it before, but now it was a little nugget of fear that had lodged in the back of her mind. What Kranz had done had reminded her of just how alone she really was. How vulnerable.
By the afternoon the tears had stopped. She knew she had to pick herself up and pull herself together. The war could not go on for ever, she told herself. The Germans had gone, the British would be here soon – that was what everyone was saying. Perhaps things would improve. No more bombs, no more shelling. Mussolini had fallen, and Sicily would soon be in Allied hands. Perhaps Camprese would be kicked out by the British; he had been a Fascist, after all, regardless of what he claimed now. Perhaps she would be left alone. Perhaps, she thought, she would get through this after all.
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