‘So what happened?’ asked Sykes.
‘One by one his rich clients left him. He was threatened and once beaten up. His car was burned. His career in Palermo, where he had achieved much good, was ruined and we had to sell up. Of course, the house had to be sold for a fraction of its value because no one would buy it. We moved here, to Motta Sant’Anastasia, thanks to one of his oldest clients who felt bad – he owned the land and house and sold it to us for almost nothing. So, one bit of good fortune, I suppose. But it killed my mother. She never recovered, and within a year of moving here, she was dead. It changed my father too. He was so much fun when we were young – outgoing, caring, a good man and a good doctor. In his last years he barely spoke. It killed him too. The shame and the grief broke his heart.’ She looked at them both. ‘Soon after we moved here, Cesare Mori declared war on the Mafia, and by the time war broke out, he was winning too. But now, you Allies come here as our liberators from Fascism, and Salvatore Camprese is left in charge of the town.’
‘He’s Mafia?’ asked Sykes.
‘Of course!’ said Francesca. ‘It’s like a shroud spread over the island. A big, dark shroud. We Sicilians are slaves to these people. Really, that’s what it is. Slavery.’
Later, Tanner found Sykes and took him out into the square. ‘I want to talk to you a moment, Stan,’ he said, as they ambled towards a small metal railing near the church. From there, the view stretched up to Etna, looming over them to the north, right across the lava hills to Catania, the plain and the deep blue sea beyond.
‘Bloody beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Sykes.
‘Much better up here than down on that stinking plain,’ said Tanner. He lit a couple of cigarettes and handed one to Sykes. ‘I don’t like that bloke, Camprese,’ he said.
‘Me neither,’ agreed Sykes. He drew on his cigarette. ‘This Mafia lark. It’s just a protection racket, ain’t it? I mean, we used to have gangs like that when I was a boy. You paid them a cut of what you got and they saw to it that you were all right. Fear – that’s what it was all about. Making people afraid. Francesca’s afraid, isn’t she?’
Tanner nodded. ‘And with good reason. She’s a good-looking bint and she’s got this Camprese joker slobbering all over her, and there’s her daughter to take care of. And no bloody escape.’
‘We’ve got to help her.’
‘I know. And I feel in part responsible. That trip I did over here back at the end of May – that was to see the head of the Mafia. I didn’t know it then. The Yanks were keeping him sweet.’
‘Promising him the earth.’
‘In return for ensuring the Italians on the island barely put up any resistance. The Yanks didn’t race into Palermo by accident, you know. All the bloody Eyeties just laid down their arms and buggered off. I saw his influence at first hand, but I had no idea at the time that he was a bloody glorified gangster.’
‘Well, you wasn’t to know.’
‘But I do now and I feel guilty. We’ve got to do something, Stan. But what, I don’t know. I really don’t.’
23
Thursday, 5 August. In the morning, Tanner was ordered up to 15th Brigade Headquarters, now camped in the foothills to the north of Misterbianco. He took Brown with him.
‘Funny to think we’re finally driving into this place, sir,’ said Brown, as they sped in a Jeep along a narrow, straight street. ‘We’ve been looking at it for so long, and now here we are.’ Unlike Motta Sant’Anastasia, Misterbianco had been severely hit, mounds of rubble lying in gaping holes between the fine old houses that were still standing.
‘I preferred it in the desert, Browner,’ said Tanner. ‘It was just us and the enemy and nothing in our way.’ A number of children watched them pass, some waving, outsize malnourished heads on thin little bodies. Few wore shoes, most barely a shirt.
‘I know what you mean, boss,’ said Brown. ‘I used to hate Eyeties, but then you see these poor buggers and you feel a bit different. Me and the lads have given out so much chocolate and so many boiled sweets we haven’t any left.’
They sped on through the town and then were in the country again, the sun beating down relentlessly, Etna looming ever closer. Signs had been put on the roads and they soon found Brigade HQ, a collection of trucks, tents and camouflage nets in an olive grove.
The brigadier was in the office, a converted thirty-hundredweight truck, but came down the wooden steps attached to the back.
‘Well done, Tanner,’ he said. ‘The brigade has done bloody well and your boys put up a good show. Twelve miles in twenty-four hours is pretty good going.’
‘It felt slow, sir, always stopping for the sappers.’
‘Still, worth their weight in gold, those boys.’
‘I’ll admit we only lost a handful of men in the entire operation. Which is just as well, as we’re at half strength.’
‘Won’t be long now, though. A week, maybe two, and the island will be ours. How are you getting on in Motta Sant’Anastasia?’
‘Fine, sir. The Italian mayor is a badmash, but the lads are looking a bit cleaner. They badly need new uniforms, though. Shirts, denims, underwear. We’ve been washing them in petrol, but they’re in a bit of a state all the same.’
‘Leave that with me. The build-up is pretty good now, so this should be possible. The port at Catania should be open any day now too, which will ease things even further.’ They paused by a set of fold-up canvas chairs beneath an olive tree, and Rawstorne offered Tanner a seat. It was still blisteringly hot, but in the shade there was some comfort from the canopy above and the faintest whisper of a breeze. Crickets chirruped in the grass, while lizards scuttled over rocks and up the trunk of the tree.
‘Just thought I’d put you in the picture, Tanner. It’s been decided we’re going to assault the mainland.’
‘I suppose that makes sense, sir.’
‘Yes. After all, there’ll be no cross-Channel invasion until next year now, and we’ve one heck of a force in the Mediterranean. It’s the airfields that the brass are interested in, though, at a place called Foggia on the east coast. If we can get our heavies over there, we can attack Hitler’s oilfields in Romania and bomb the Third Reich from the south as well as from the west.’
‘And we’re going in, are we, sir?’
‘Yes. The brigade are going to be in reserve and it was the intention to have us pull out now and start to get ready.’ He breathed in heavily. ‘But I’m afraid XXX Corps are finding the going tougher than they’d hoped and are getting a bit held up around Rinazzo. The Yanks are finally slowing a bit as well, now that they’re up against real soldiers rather than those that bugger off at the first sight of a Sherman. So Monty’s bringing Fifth Div back into the scrap. We’re going to be advancing on a two-divisional front alongside Fiftieth Div around the west slopes of Etna.’
‘When do we move, sir?’
‘Not yet. And it will be a limited thrust just to break through Jerry’s next line of defence. He’s calling it the Etna Line apparently. Original, eh? Leave Echelon and Battalion HQ in Motta Sant’Anastasia. You’ll get M/T as well to take you up to the front. You’ll be two, maybe three days, then you can have some well-deserved rest back in Motta Sant’Anastasia. ENSA are moving into Catania, films are being laid on too. Swimming in the sea. A chance for everyone to get their strength back.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Good man.’ He sighed with satisfaction and stretched. ‘Nearly there. Last over of the day, eh, then off to the pavilion for a well-earned beer. Talking of which, I’m afraid we’ve received some sad news. It seems Hedley Verity didn’t make it. Died of his wounds at Caserta.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘It’s a tragedy. England’s lost one of her greatest ever bowlers, and what really sticks in the gullet is that he was due to join Dempsey’s staff. He’d have sat out the rest of the war in a comfortable staff job here on Sicily. I feel partly responsible, if I’m honest. Should have given Creer th
e chop earlier. Verity might still be alive if I had.’
With the knowledge that they would be staying in Motta Sant’Anastasia for four more days, Tanner had decided to try to get hold of Wiseman. He knew he was on Patton’s staff, and before leaving Brigade HQ, he asked Rawstorne whether it might be possible to get a message to an American G2 at Seventh Army Headquarters.
‘I can do that for you, Tanner,’ said Rawstorne. ‘Of course, you know a lot of Yanks, don’t you?’
The message was simple and Tanner watched the brigade signals officer fill in the message form. It was a request for Wiseman to make urgent contact.
‘What’s this about, Tanner?’ Rawstorne had asked.
‘An operation we did before the invasion, sir. I need his advice.’
‘All right, and I’ll give you mine. Don’t get involved.’
It was too late for that, Tanner thought, as he and Brown drove back to Motta Sant’Anastasia. He was involved. He’d become involved the moment he’d agreed to drop into Sicily with Wiseman and Spiro.
He wondered whether his message would ever reach Wiseman, and, even if it did, whether his friend would respond. God only knew what he had been up to, or where he was now. It might take days. For all he knew, Wiseman might not even be on Sicily any more. Maybe he was planning a drop on the mainland in preparation for the next invasion.
But Wiseman did respond, and that same day, at a little after seven in the evening, the signals team taking down the incoming message in pencil, then passing it to Tanner. Got message. Flying to Gerbini tomorrow a.m. Will call in on you. CW.
Good. Tanner was not quite sure, having dragged Wiseman all the way over to see him, what he was going to ask him, but it was something. If anyone knew how to play it with Camprese, it was Wiseman.
Friday, 6 August. It was around nine in the morning when Wiseman arrived. Tanner heard him before he saw him: a knock at the door, then, ‘I’m here to see Major Jack Tanner.’
Stepping out of the battalion office, Wiseman grinned. ‘So you’re the boss-guy now!’ He looked fit, clean and trim, conspicuously so, standing beside the tattered uniforms of the battalion staff.
Introductions first: to some of the men and then to Francesca.
‘Ma’am,’ said Wiseman, taking her hand and bowing. He grinned at Tanner and winked.
‘Charlie,’ said Tanner.
‘Yeah, sure, we need to talk. Let’s go some place else, shall we?’
‘Definitely,’ agreed Tanner.
Out on the square, Tanner saw the Jeep with a GI at the wheel.
‘Sergeant Schwartz,’ said Wiseman, putting on a pair of sunglasses and his garrison cap. ‘He’s a good man in a tight situation.’
‘Have you had any?’
‘Sure, about an hour ago when we landed at Gerbini. None of you Brits wanted to give me a vehicle, even though we’d requested one. Eventually I had to point out that a number of Jeeps there were not being used and that they were kind of ours anyway since we invented and built them. The wingco wasn’t looking too convinced until Schwartz scowled at him and then he rapidly changed his tune. I tell you, Schwartz has the best scowl of any man.’
Tanner laughed as Wiseman grabbed a canvas bag from the back of the Jeep. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.
They walked down some stone steps that led to the groves directly below the town. Then, when they were well away from any other soul, they sat down beneath an olive tree and Wiseman opened the bag.
‘Here,’ he said, tossing Tanner a carton of Camels. ‘I know how much you like them.’
‘Thanks. I was spoiled when I was with your lot.’
‘And a coupla Cokes, two Hershey bars and a tin of ham. What’s not to like?’ He opened the Cokes, passed one to Tanner, then raised his own. ‘Cheers. You guys’ve been having a tough time of it, I hear.’
‘We seem to be winning now.’
‘Oh, yeah. We’ve squeezed Papa Fritz tight into the corner. Ten days max and it’ll be all over. The thing that amazes me about these Krauts is why the hell they keep on fighting when they know they’re beat. Why not do what the Eyeties do and call it quits when it’s clear the fight’s only going one way?’
‘Because the Eyeties have the Mafia breathing down their necks and Jerry doesn’t.’
Wiseman smiled. ‘Old Don Calogero certainly lived up to his promise, I’ll give him that. It was a Goddamn walk in the park.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Sure. Dropped a flag on his house – a kind of prearranged warning order that we’d discussed when we saw him back at the end of May – then met him in Villalba, only this time we had a few tanks and the carabinieri were waving us in, not pointing Berettas at our heads. Then he came with us. Christ, Jack, everywhere we went there were crowds of Sicilians cheering us. The guy was phenomenal. Even the boss was impressed and that takes some doing, as you well know.’
‘What’s the scale of this, Charlie?’ Tanner asked. ‘The Mafia? Is it the whole of the island?’
‘What are you driving at, Jack?’
‘Is it here, in Motta Sant’Anastasia?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Because there’s a bloke called Camprese who used to be a Fascist mayor until a week ago but now he’s a non-Fascist mayor. His appointment has been approved by AMGOT. Or that’s what I’ve been told, anyway.’
Wiseman looked thoughtful. Then, leaning a little closer to Tanner and lowering his voice, he said, ‘We asked Don Calo to prepare a list of suitable mayors for the big towns. So we get to Palermo and the day after we take the place, we have this big meeting. All the top civil-affairs guys are there, including Charlie Poletti, who’s now senior CAO in the city. And there’s Don Calo, the self-proclaimed top man in Sicily. And he’s not just got a few names, he’s got names for all the towns in Sicily just about. Some are so-called Fascists, some are not. Jesus, some are in prison and have been for years under Mori’s rule. And guess what happens?’
‘What?’
‘Every single Goddamn name on that list gets approved, there and then. I tell you, Jack, if Don Calo wasn’t the most powerful man in Sicily when we first met him, he is now. There’s no one to touch him.’
‘But how do we know the men on his list are going to do a good job?’
‘We know because, ultimately, they’re answerable to Don Calo. These new mayors are going to ensure we get out of this place in double-quick time and get on with hammering the Krauts on the mainland. The sooner we hammer the Krauts, the sooner we win the war. The Mafia, Jack, are saving lives. American lives, British lives, the lives of millions of Goddamn Europeans.’
‘But making the lives of Sicilians a misery.’
Wiseman shrugged. ‘A small price.’
Tanner sighed and lit a Camel. ‘When I parachuted into Villalba I had no idea what we were doing. I had no idea I was helping the Allies sign a pact with the devil.’
Wiseman smiled. ‘A devil’s pact. Well, yes, I suppose it was, if you think Don Calo is the devil. He’s a rather impressive one, though, for all that.’
Tanner exhaled heavily and scratched his head. ‘And what about the bastard that runs this place?’
‘What about him?’
‘I can’t just sit here watching him lord it over these people. They’re half starving and he’s swaggering about the place, murdering Germans, threatening people and acting like Hitler.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not what?’
‘Why can’t you watch him playing at Hitler?’
‘Because – because it’s wrong. Because I haven’t fought the war for three years from Norway to Africa to see bastards like him benefit. We’re fighting for a better world, not a worse one.’
‘You’re fighting to get rid of Hitler and the Nazis. Don’t worry about places like this. Small-town redneck Sicilian backwaters. Life here has been crap for centuries and probably will continue like that. Christ, Jack, Sicily’s barely out of the Dark Ages. My advice? Get the girl out, if yo
u want, and leave Signor Mini-Hitler alone. And don’t look at me all innocent. The girl’s a peach. You know it, I know it, and I wouldn’t mind betting Mini-Hitler knows it too.’
‘So, do nothing?’
‘Do nothing. I’m telling you, Jack. Keep out. In fact, I’m warning you. You’re a buddy and I’d hate for anything to happen to you, but start crossing the wrong people here, and you’ll find yourself in a whole load of trouble.’
Perhaps, Tanner thought, Wiseman had been right. Maybe it was best to leave the Sicilians in Motta Sant’Anastasia to their fate. In any case, Camprese kept out of their way, and there were other matters to occupy him: the arrival of new uniforms, condolence letters to write to families and wives, sitreps to read, sigint to go through. And a bit of time not doing very much. He spent two hours cat-napping in the shade, another taking Cara for a ride in the Jeep. Francesca had been teaching her English but Tanner gave her a few more words – army words like ‘wallah’ and ‘iggery’, ‘char’ and ‘badmash’, words that had mostly originated in India, then followed the men to the Middle East and the North African desert.
He was not the only one enjoying Cara’s company. So, too, were the other men, especially the NCOs and ORs billeted in the sheds below. They were spoiling her, giving her chocolate and sweets, and playing games. A favourite was Sykes’s coin tricks.
‘Again!’ Tanner heard her say.
‘Blimey, missy,’ said Sykes, ‘you’re a full-time job. All right, see this coin here … Oh, where’s it gone?’ Giggles from Cara. ‘Oh, look, Cara, it’s behind your ear! What’s it doing there?’ More laughter.
Later, the officers had supper together, around the kitchen table, Francesca joining them. She had offered to cook, but Tanner wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Our lads will do it,’ he told her. ‘They’re used to the rations.’
The Devil's Pact (2013) Page 32
