‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But I’d always look after you both. You have my word.’
Friday, 13 August. Wiseman arrived at Battalion Headquarters mid-morning, and found Tanner cat-napping among the olives below the house.
‘So this is what you do off-duty. Get the zeds in while your men do all the work.’
Tanner got up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Why are you here, Charlie?’
‘The chief’s in bed with a fever, so I decided I’d come and see my old pal. Actually, I’ve got to go to Syracuse. C’mon, I’ve got some things for you. Can you spare me an hour?’
‘I should think so,’ said Tanner.
He followed him out onto the square. ‘No Jeep?’ he said, looking around.
‘I left it outside of town. I get fed up driving through these narrow alleys. Anyway, it’s good to walk sometimes.’
They crossed the square and took the steps down to the olive grove where they had talked before. Finding a quiet spot, Wiseman took out his satchel and threw Tanner another bottle of Coca-Cola. Tanner caught it, but when he looked back at Wiseman, he saw the American had produced a pistol and was pointing it straight at him.
Tanner sighed. Damn it all. ‘So it was you.’
‘I did warn you, Jack.’
‘I thought you were my friend. I thought your warning was out of concern for my safety.’
‘And so you are and so it was. Nothing’s changed on that score, believe me. I hate to do this, I really do, but there’s too much at stake.’
‘Why?’ said Tanner. ‘We’ve won, haven’t we? What do we care whether we piss off the Mafia now?’
‘Because without the Mafia Sicily will collapse. There will be riots, there will be violence. There will be a whole load of trouble. They hold the key to controlling this island. We’ve got the rest of Italy to sort out, a much bigger, more complicated task. The last thing we want to have to do is waste money and manpower controlling Sicily. And your actions, Jack, have pissed them off in a big way, let me tell you.’ He nodded towards Tanner’s Colt. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Jack. Careful.’ Tanner passed it to him; it wasn’t cocked and he knew he had no chance of firing first.
‘Where are we going?’ Tanner asked him.
‘Don’t you worry about that. Now, I’ve a vehicle a little way from here. It’s not far. You lead, Jack.’
Tanner wondered how he might disarm him, but Wiseman was too far behind. Perhaps in the Jeep. Jesus. Wiseman. My friend.
But when they reached the road, there was no Jeep. Instead there was a military Ford light sedan, and sitting at the wheel was an Italian, dark-haired, about thirty, Tanner guessed, with a Beretta beside him.
‘Get in the back, Jack,’ said Wiseman.
‘So we’ll go for a drive, somewhere remote, I suppose.’
‘I’m afraid so, Jack. Trust me, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But it’s out of my hands.’
They drove off, leaving Motta Sant’Anastasia behind, then dropped down towards the plain, pulled off the road and went down a narrow track between yet more groves.
‘Here,’ said Wiseman, as the car came to a halt. ‘This time, Jack, it really is goodbye. It’s been good knowing you.’
Tanner stared at him and at the pistol still pointing at his stomach. The Italian opened the door. ‘Out,’ he said in English.
Tanner got out.
‘Walk,’ said the Italian.
Tanner did so, praying that these really were not going to be his last moments. For the first time in his life, he’d believed he had a future. He’d been fighting this long, terrible war because he was a soldier, it was his job, and because he had accepted that Nazism and Hitler were blights on the world that needed defeating. He had believed it was a moral crusade and that the Allies had right on their side. Sicily had made him question that. But suddenly the prospect of a life with Francesca and Cara had been offered to him and it had given him a reason to keep going, to keep fighting, because the sooner it was all over, the sooner he could be with them. For ever. She was going to marry him, he knew she was.
‘All right, stop.’ They were among the trees, the car hidden from view.
Tanner stopped and turned, so that he was facing the man, the pistol pointing at his stomach so close the barrel was almost touching his shirt.
‘On your knees,’ said the Italian.
Bugger that. Tanner swung his left arm up and knocked the Italian’s arm clear. The pistol fired, high and wide, as Tanner swung his right fist into the man’s face. The blow, delivered with all Tanner’s strength, rammed the Italian’s nose back into his skull. A moment later, he collapsed onto the ground, dead.
Grabbing the pistol, Tanner hurried through the groves to the edge of the track behind the sedan. He could see Wiseman, still sitting on the back seat, smoking, flicking ash from the open window. Crouching low, Tanner scurried silently across the grass behind the car, then moved around so that he was below the window of the rear door. There he waited until he saw Wiseman extend his hand again to flick away the cigarette. As he did so, Tanner grabbed the arm, breaking the bone against the edge of the car door.
Wiseman yelled in pain as Tanner stood up and swung his fist through the open window. He felt Wiseman go limp, so opened the door and caught him as the American’s unconscious body fell towards him.
Laying him on the ground, Tanner felt his pulse. Good. He’s alive. Quickly, Tanner searched him. He found a second pistol in his pocket, a small Walther, and a knife, both of which he took. From the leg pocket on his denims, he pulled out a field dressing, made a sling for Wiseman’s broken upper arm, tied the uninjured wrist tightly to the American’s belt, then lifted him into the front passenger seat.
He was about to get into the car himself when he heard a vehicle pull off the road and saw a Jeep coming towards him.
‘Stan,’ he muttered.
‘Blimey, there you are!’ shouted Sykes, leaping out. Tanner grinned. With him were Brown and Trahair. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way. Tell Trahair to take the Jeep back and you and Brown can come with me.’
‘On the way where?’
‘Villalba.’
Sykes told him he had seen him wander off with Wiseman and had been worried. He knew Wiseman was a friend of Tanner’s but a few things didn’t add up as far as he was concerned. It had seemed to him that Wiseman had to have been a prime suspect for the ambush on the way back from Enna.
‘The thought had crossed my mind too,’ admitted Tanner. ‘I hoped I’d got it wrong.’
Sykes had followed, and had seen Wiseman leading Tanner away. He had immediately run back for Brown and Trahair. They had all jumped into the Jeep and hurried after them.
‘How did you know which way we’d gone?’
‘I saw from the town. You were heading south but then turned off. I couldn’t find the turning, though. Not at first. Then we saw the tracks in the dust. There’s not many cars around here, as you know. I was worried we’d be too late.’
‘You almost were, but my Italian assassin made the mistake of letting me get close.’
‘So you were able to knock the pistol clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Kill him?’
Tanner nodded.
‘So why Villalba?’
Tanner told them about the drop into Sicily back in May, and about Don Calogero. And he explained about Wiseman’s role and the Allies’ use of the Mafia.
‘Jesus!’ whistled Sykes, when Tanner had finished. ‘So why are we going to Villalba? Shouldn’t we go back to Motta and lie low?’
‘No,’ said Tanner. ‘Don Calogero holds the key. He’s the head man. I need to see him.’
Beside him, Wiseman stirred, then cried out in pain.
‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ he muttered, then glanced at Tanner. ‘Jack? Christ, Jack, what are you doing here? Aren’t you dead?’
‘No,’ said Tanner. ‘But this is the end of it, Charlie. I’m sick of this. U
se the sodding Mafia for all I care, but I want them off my back.’
‘I’m not sure that’s possible, Jack,’ muttered Wiseman.
‘Course it is. We just need to ask the right person, which is why we’re driving to Villalba.’
‘Jack, it was Don Calo who ordered you dead.’
‘What?’ said Brown, from the back. ‘And now we’re going to see him?’
‘Relax, Browner. It’ll be fine.’
They reached Villalba soon after four o’clock and drove straight to Don Calogero’s villa. Untying Wiseman’s arm, Tanner told Sykes and Brown to wait by the car.
The door was opened by Bartolomeo and Wiseman spoke to him.
‘I always knew you could speak Italian,’ said Tanner.
They were ushered in, Bartolomeo looking at both men suspiciously.
‘It’s good timing,’ said Wiseman, as Bartolomeo disappeared. ‘He’s had his siesta.’
After a few minutes, Bartolomeo reappeared and led them into the same room where they had had their first audience with Don Calogero. He looked much the same: short-sleeved shirt, braces, dark trousers and glasses perched on his nose.
‘I’m trusting you, Charlie,’ said Tanner. ‘No – I’m warning you now.’
Wiseman waved his good hand. ‘OK, OK,’ he said, then spoke to Don Calogero.
‘Tell him,’ said Tanner, ‘that it is out of respect for him that I have come here. Our enemies are the same enemies: the Nazis. Tell him I have been fighting the Nazis for three long years and I am ready to fight them some more, but I cannot if he has me killed.’
Tanner watched as Wiseman spoke. Ahead, perched on his chair, Don Calogero sat with an implacable expression on his face.
‘Tell him I’m sorry if I insulted him. It was not intentional. My grievance was with Salvatore Camprese and him alone.’
Again, he listened as Wiseman relayed his words.
There was silence for a moment, and Tanner was struck by how still the room had become. Then Don Calogero cleared his throat.
‘Lei è un uomo coraggioso.’
‘You are a brave man,’ said Wiseman.
‘E io rispetto il fatto che siete venuti qui.’
‘And I respect the fact that you have come here to see me.’
‘E hai ragione. Hai un altro nemico da combattere.’
‘And you are right. You have another enemy to fight.’
‘Si può andare. Non saranno danneggiati.’
‘You can go. You will not be harmed.’
Tanner breathed out heavily with relief. ‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘Grazie mille.’
Don Calogero bowed his head, then turned to Wiseman. ‘Saggio, si è fortunati ad avere solo un braccio rotto, credo.’ He chuckled.
As they left, Tanner turned to Wiseman. ‘Why does he call you Saggio? He used that name before, last time I was here.’
‘It’s Italian. Saggio means “wise man”. But it’s also because he knows I’m Italian, Jack.’
‘You are?’
‘My parents are. Sicilian, in fact. From Mussomeli, just down the road from here. Came over to New York in 1918. I was seven. I was in trouble as a kid, so when I applied to join the Army, I changed my name. To sound more American.’ As they stepped outside, Wiseman turned to him. ‘I’m glad you’re not dead.’
‘So am I,’ said Tanner. ‘But when we get back, Charlie, I don’t want to see you again.’
Tanner married Francesca Falcone five days later, on 18 August 1943, in the church across the square, with Sykes as his best man. It was the day after the Italians surrendered the island. An understated wedding. Tanner didn’t care. In fact, he was glad. He’d asked the brigadier for permission, which had been given, not that he’d needed it at his age. Even the priest has left his religion unquestioned.
Francesca had agreed to marry him when he returned from Villalba. ‘It won’t be easy,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to have to go and fight again, but when it’s all over, we can start a life together. A proper life together. And I’ll look after you always. I promise you that.’
Later as they lay in bed, Tanner realized he had never felt happier in his life. He wished he could be with her like this for ever, but that, he knew, could not be. Soon they would be invading mainland Italy, and the fighting would begin again. But one day, Tanner thought, the war would be over. And I’m going to be there when it is. He kissed his wife. The thought of her would keep him going.
Historical Note
Even now, and despite numerous books and other exposés on the subject, the workings of the Mafia are shrouded in myth. What is not in doubt, however, is that during the years of Fascist rule, Mussolini made it a priority to stamp out the Mafia, sending to Sicily a particularly tough and uncompromising Fascist governor called Cesare Mori. During his time on the island, Mori arrested some eleven thousand suspected Mafiosi, and restricted Mafia influence to a few isolated pockets deep in the interior, such as that of Villalba. Mori left the island in 1929, claiming the Mafia was finished, but over the next fourteen years, the organization continued to function, although they never reclaimed the position they had had before Mori’s arrival. Then the Allies landed, Fascism was overthrown and power handed back to the Mafia, since when their influence has continued.
Don Calogero Vizzini was very much a real character, lived in the house in Villalba as described in the book, and was leader of the Sicilian Mafia until his death in 1954. His influence remained strong, even during the years of Fascism, and there seems to be little doubt that he cut some kind of deal with the invading Allies. Just what this deal was, and to what extent it was he and his associates who persuaded so many Italians to throw down their arms during Patton’s lightning drive to take the western half of the island, remains shrouded in mystery. Among the stories – and one that Don Calogero certainly cultivated – was that a yellow flag with the letter L stitched in black was dropped by an Allied plane on Villalba. And, according to the myth, the L did not stand for libertà but ‘Luciano’ – Lucky Luciano, the pre-war American-Italian mobster. Some claimed that Luciano was freed from prison, where he was still serving time, and sent on a clandestine mission to Sicily, others that he gave advice and re-established links with the Mafia on behalf of the US intelligence services from his cell. Sadly, there is no written evidence that proves either was true. Plenty did claim the flag was dropped for Don Calogero, however, and that when American tanks reached the town on 20 July, the old Mafioso climbed aboard.
He was away from Villalba for six days, helping to pave the way for the US advance and then, after the fall of Palermo, ensuring that his fellow Mafia leaders took most of the plum posts as AMGOT began facing up to the difficulties of imposing military rule on the island. It was true that Don Calogero provided the list of men recommended to take over as mayor in many of the island’s towns, and that they were largely accepted; some were even released from prison to take up their new posts. Such was the poverty of most Sicilians, and so bad was the problem of distributing food and getting the bomb-damaged cities back on their feet, that the Allies accepted Mafia collaboration would make life considerably easier. But it was a devil’s pact in many ways. Many Sicilians would feel they have been paying the price for that collaboration ever since.
Although Tanner’s exploits and those of the Yorks Rangers are fiction, the framework of events was much as described. After quick gains in the first days of the invasion, Eighth Army did become bogged down in the Plain of Catania, while XXX Corps to the west also struggled against a determined and mostly German defence along what was known as the Hauptkampflinie, that is, at the foot of the lower slopes of Etna. The hard battle for Primosole Bridge also happened much as described. Very real, too, were 15th Infantry Brigade and 5th Division, the former led by Brigadier Rawstorne. He had fought through and survived the First World War, then briefly became a first-class cricketer, winning a cap for Lancashire. Also real was the great Hedley Verity, one of the finest bowlers ever to have played for Yorkshire
and England. Joining up at the start of the war out of moral conviction, he was mortally wounded in the night attack on 19/20 July, as described, and suffered a tragically protracted death as he was put on carts and trucks, boats and trains to a hospital in Caserta on the Italian mainland. He could have survived, but lack of proper medication and the onset of infection did for him, sending ripples of shock through Eighth Army and beyond. He is buried in the Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery at Caserta.
Motta Sant’Anastasia is a real place, perched on a rocky outcrop among the lava hills beneath Etna. However, there is no record that the town had a Mafia mayor at that time and, in reality, it took a few months for Mafia control of the island to really take grip. Not only were a large number of Mafiosi released from prison, but the chief civil-affairs officer of Palermo, an American called Colonel Charles Poletti, was horribly corrupt, had strong Mafia ties, and later, in 1944 when he took over the civil affairs of Naples, went into business with Vito Genovese, one of the most notorious and unsavoury American-Italian gangsters around. Their black-market profiteering, while thousands were being killed and wounded at the front, and with many Italians literally starving, was an abomination. But, to a large extent, the Allies had only themselves to blame.
As ever, I need to say a few thanks to a number of people who have helped along the way: Oliver Barnham, Dr Peter Caddick-Adams, Professor Rick Hillum, Bill Scott-Kerr, Mads Toy and all at Transworld, Patrick Walsh, and last but not least, Rachel, Ned and Daisy.
About the Author
James Holland was born in Salisbury, Wiltshire, and studied history at Durham University. He is the author of the best-selling Fortress Malta, Battle of Britain and Dam Busters, and has also written nine works of historical fiction, five of which feature the heroic Jack Tanner, a soldier of the Second World War. He regularly appears on television and radio, and has written and presented the BAFTA-shortlisted documentaries Battle of Britain and Dam Busters for the BBC. He is also co-founder and Programme Director of the hugely successful Chalke Valley History Festival. His interviews with veterans of the Second World War are available at the Imperial War Museum and are also archived on www.griffonmerlin.com.
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