‘Hold fire!’ Edward shouted, ‘Hold fire!’ then turning to Giorgio said, ‘they’re prisoners, they’re Allied prisoners.’
The firing stopped, almost as suddenly as it had begun. Silence – even the birds had stopped singing. The attack had lasted less than half a minute. A thin haze of smoke covered the road. Edward could see the driver of the first truck slumped over the steering wheel, and the second dead against the side of the door. He swallowed and felt a small amount of vomit rise into his mouth.
‘Come out slowly with your hands in the air,’ he called out in English.
A head tentatively poked around the edge of the first truck, then a man emerged, hands held aloft, followed by several more.
‘All the Jerries are dead,’ said the man in a Scottish accent, ‘but we’ve got two wounded.’
Edward glanced both ways along the road, then leapt out of his position. ‘Where are they?’ he asked the man.
‘In the second truck.’
Edward beckoned for some of the partisans to come over. Half a dozen men jumped from the bank. Most wore British army battle blouses, but one – a tall man with dark wavy hair, was wearing an RAF jacket. For a moment Edward froze. ‘Harry,’ he muttered, and felt his heart leap. But then he saw that it wasn’t Harry at all, someone quite different. He cursed. A renewed sense of grief swept over him. For a second, he’d sworn it had been Harry.
‘Fucking hell,’ said the Scot, ‘how many are there of you?’
‘Thirty,’ said Edward, picking his way over the dead soldiers. A pool of thick, dark blood spread from underneath one who lay face down on the road. Edward swallowed hard again. ‘But many more in the mountains,’ he added.
One of the wounded men had been hit in the arm and was groaning in pain, but the other had taken several bullets, including in the stomach. His eyes were wide, his face pale. ‘Let’s get them out, quick,’ said Edward.
‘Lucky we weren’t all hit,’ said the Scot. He called to the man with the wounded arm. ‘Hey, d’you think you can walk?’
The man nodded. ‘Jesus, my fucking arm,’ he cried. Two partisans jumped up into the truck and helped him down, then they lifted the other.
‘Come on,’ said Edward impatiently, ‘we need to get off this road.’
‘He’s nae going to make it,’ said the Scot.
‘Well, we can’t leave him here. Come on, get him onto the bank at least, out of the way.’
They had no stretcher; instead they had to carry him, hands under his shoulders, crutch and legs. He groaned softly as they scraped through bushes and undergrowth away from the road. On the path they laid him down. His teeth were chattering, his eyes glancing at the faces looking down at him. ‘Where’s Billy?’ he said.
‘Here,’ said Billy, pushing through. He was young – early twenties, Edward guessed, like himself, with two stripes on his arm and a maroon strip on his shoulder that said, ‘Rifle Brigade.’
‘Don’t leave me, Billy,’ said the man, grabbing Billy’s hand.
‘I won’t. You’re going to be all right.’
‘Someone get him some water,’ said Edward. A flask was handed forward.
Edward looked down at the man, at the waxy complexion, and at the blood pumping dully from his stomach. It looked almost black against the dark khaki serge.
‘Shit,’ said Billy.
Edward looked again. The man’s eyes were still open, but the chattering of his teeth had stopped. Billy dropped his hand, then closed the man’s eyelids.
‘Stupid fucking war,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Edward.
‘Yeah, well what can you do? At least we’re all free now, I suppose.’
‘Eduardo, we need to get a move on,’ said Giorgio. ‘Tell these men they’re free to do what they want, but if they’d like to come and join the Brigade we’d welcome them with open arms.’
Edward did so. ‘We could do with your help,’ he told them. ‘Men who have some experience and training – you could make a big difference.’
To a man they agreed. ‘What about Parky?’ said Billy, pointing to the dead man. ‘We can’t just leave him here.’
‘We’ll take him back to the road, son,’ said the Scot. ‘He’ll be picked up all right.’ Quickly, they carried the dead man back and laid him down on the bank, then hurried back up the track to the mountains.
Volpe’s headquarters were now in some barns in Sant’Angelo, a mountain village several miles further south of Capriglia. The mood was buoyant, the younger members of the band talking animatedly and gesticulating wildly, just as Edward remembered he and other young fighter pilots had done on returning from a hard-fought sortie. Volpe was also pleased to see the eleven men liberated from the German trucks. They were prisoners of war, and had been on their way to a different camp. All had been captured since being in Italy. Two were engineers: the Scot, ‘Jock’ McGuire, and another sergeant. Four were riflemen, including Billy. The others were all South African, except for the pilot, the man Edward had thought was Harry. The similarity seemed less close up – and he was a New Zealander. Unsurprisingly, the others called him ‘Kiwi’.
Edward had mixed feelings about them, even after he’d got used to the fact that Kiwi was not Harry. They reminded him of what he had been like before he’d been shot down; they all carried a faint air of superiority and condescension towards the Italians. Nonetheless, he was glad to be able to speak to people who understood the world that he had come from. Talking to them, they all seemed willing to stay and help. Like him, they were confident the front would be moving forward soon. And there was no doubting their experience and training would make a big difference: the riflemen could teach the others much about using the new weapons that were being dropped by the British, while the expertise of the two engineers would prove invaluable.
It was late afternoon, and Edward was lying under a chestnut tree outside the barn. His head was heavy and he kept drifting in and out of sleep. The sun was warm on his face, the fresh leaves above occasionally rustling in the light breeze.
He awoke as a shadow fell across him.
‘Eduardo, we’re needed,’ said Giorgio. Edward rubbed his eyes, yawned and stood up. ‘Volpe wants to talk to us.’
Giorgio led him to a clearing in the trees overlooking the barn. Also there was Jock McGuire and one of the South Africans. Shafts of sunlight shone down on them, so that the clearing looked almost hallowed. Insects darted in the light, and Edward slapped his neck as he felt something land on his skin.
‘Eduardo, there you are,’ said Volpe. ‘I’ve been thinking more about what Colonel Bianco told us. The arrival of these prisoners makes a difference.’
‘I agree,’ said Edward.
Volpe squatted on his haunches, his Sten gun hanging loosely at his side. ‘We’ve got to get these companies better organised. These men can help us, but I’ve also just been told that there’re some Italian regulars hiding out not far from here. They’re looking for us, apparently. I’ve sent a couple of men to try and make contact.’ He outlined his plans. The core of the brigade was to be the Headquarters Company. He wanted both Giorgio and Edward to stay with him. ‘We’re in charge – me, then Giorgio, then you,’ he said. He also wanted Jock in his company. ‘He’s an explosives expert.’
Edward nodded. ‘Yes – we were talking about it earlier. It’s good news.’
‘And I want Billy as well. He used to be a mortar man.’ The rest would be split up in pairs and attached to the other companies.
‘What about the wounded laddie?’ asked Jock. ‘He’s a bullet hole through his arm.’ Jock was older than the others – thirty at least, Edward guessed. He was missing one of his front teeth and had a broken nose that had been flattened against one side of his face. Crow’s feet stretched down from the corners of his eyes. There were tattoos on his forearms. Edward was not surprised he was a sergeant: there was an air of toughness about him, of confidence too. Volpe had chosen wisely.
Edward repeat
ed the question back to the others.
‘It’s a clean wound isn’t it?’ Edward said to Jock.
‘Aye. It shouldn’t take long to mend.’
‘We’ll get the doctor to look at it,’ said Edward, ‘but he can still join his company.’ He turned to Volpe. ‘What about language differences?’
‘There’s nearly three hundred of us now,’ said Volpe. ‘There must be enough people amongst us to act as interpreters in every company. But let’s put the word around the rest of the brigade.’
‘Do we know how many there are in this band of Italian regulars?’ Edward asked.
Volpe shook his head. ‘No, but hopefully there’ll be enough to help train up the others. We want each company to have a core of people who know what they’re doing.’
After Edward had explained Volpe’s plans to the two sergeants, they were sent back to Sant’Angelo. ‘But you, Eduardo,’ said Volpe, ‘stay here a moment. I need to talk to you and Giorgio alone.’
He chewed his fingers for a moment, then said, ‘This is getting pretty big, isn’t it? A month ago we were just a rabble. Now look at us.’ He eyed them both. ‘We’ve got to be careful. We’re dependent on the contadini, but we all know they can barely feed themselves half the time, and especially not with bastard Blackshirts hassling them and taking their stocks. As our numbers grow this is only going to become more of a problem.’
‘What do you suggest?’ said Edward.
Volpe shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘We could make some raids. Attack some of the fascist barracks. They’ll have supplies.’
‘Maybe. How do we get the supplies back again?’
Giorgio shrugged.
‘Perhaps we should widen the net even more,’ suggested Edward. ‘Operate in a larger area. It’s what Colonel Bianco suggested, isn’t it? How far do these mountains go?’
‘Quite a way,’ said Volpe. ‘A lot further south than we’re operating now. Maybe we could start occupying the mountains the other sides of the valleys too.’
‘If we make sure there’s never too many companies in any one part of the mountains at the same time, the pressure on the contadini will be less,’ said Edward.
Volpe nodded. ‘Well, we must think about it.’ He smiled. ‘And eat less. We can’t afford to turn the contadini against us, especially as the Germans are bound to launch a rastrellamento soon.’
‘They will,’ nodded Giorgio. ‘They won’t take these attacks lying down.’
They walked back down through the trees towards the barn. Volpe put an arm around Edward’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Eduardo? You look sad.’
‘Ah, don’t worry about him, he’s just lovesick,’ said Giorgio. ‘He’s missing his girl.’
‘Well, that’s understandable,’ said Volpe.
Edward smiled. ‘I’m fine, Volpe. Just a bit tired.’
‘You did well today, Eduardo – you and Giorgio. I’m proud of you both.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Giorgio grinned.
‘You know,’ Volpe continued, ‘for so long I’ve felt completely powerless. I can’t tell you how frustrating it has been, to hate fascism, to loathe every aspect of it, and yet not be able to do anything about it. But now – now I feel we’re really doing something, and I tell you, I’ve never felt more alive.’
Taking part in fire-fights and watching men die before his eyes did not invigorate Edward, however. He was pleased that he had kept his fear and apprehension under control, but the sight of the dead men had affected him more than he would have liked. Of course, the Germans were the enemy, but the sight of those men, slumped in their trucks or lying prostrate in ever-widening pools of viscous blood, had shocked him, and he thanked God he had been a fighter pilot and not an infantryman. He realised that when he had first joined the RAF, the thought of seeing anyone actually die had never occurred to him. Once more he marvelled at how he could have been so small-minded and so callow. He thought of Chuck burning to death in his Hurricane at Takali, and of the young man today: Parky, they’d called him. Watching his life drain away, and the fear in his eyes. He had been alive just a few minutes before, a man with friends, family, and people he loved and who loved him, a man with a lifetime of memories, thoughts and learning. Now he was nothing. It was horrible, and yet these were images that were now seared into his mind.
Volpe had suggested he get some rest, and so once again he had settled under the chestnut tree by the barn. He was not asleep, but he had his eyes closed when he heard someone approach, and looked up to see Father Umberto.
‘Ah, you are awake, then,’ said the priest. ‘I was just wondering what I should do – whether to wake you or not.’ He beamed.
‘No, I’m wide awake,’ said Edward. Father Umberto had a genial, kindly face, round, like his glasses. He was, Edward guessed, in his late thirties, and while hardly fat, was certainly more amply covered than most of the people in his flock. Priests, Giorgio had told him, never ever went hungry. ‘The women all cook for them,’ he’d told him. ‘They feel they need to mother them. And, of course, it makes them feel closer to God.’
‘I have something for you, Eduardo,’ said Father Umberto.
‘Really?’ said Edward, sitting up.
‘A letter from Carla Casalini.’
‘From Carla?’ He brightened immediately.
‘A beautiful girl,’ smiled Father Umberto.
‘She is, Father.’
He held out the letter and Edward took it eagerly, then paused, not wanting to read it in front of the priest; some things, even in these strange times, needed to remain private.
But the priest continued to stand over him. ‘May I speak frankly?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Edward, a touch of irritation in his voice.
‘She’s a lovely girl – a kind girl; and I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences when I say that she has rather lost her heart to you.’ He adjusted his hat, and glanced around furtively to check no-one was listening, then said, ‘So I’m trusting you not to break it, or act in any way improperly towards her.’
Edward laughed. ‘I would never do such a thing, Father, really you –’
Father Umberto raised a hand to silence him. ‘I do worry for her, Eduardo. The time will come when the Allies will reach here and you will be sent back to the Royal Air Force. You’ll have to leave Carla, and no doubt when the war is over and a thing of the past, you will return to England and then the differences between you will seem too great. Maybe you will remember her beauty, and her charm but you will say to yourself, “She was just a peasant girl,” and you will forget her.’
‘No, Father, you’re quite wrong.’
‘These wartime romances,’ he continued, ‘so easily begun and too easily ended as well.’
‘No,’ said Edward again. ‘I swear to you. When the war is over, I’ll come back and if she’ll have me, I’ll marry her.’
The priest looked at him, eyeing him thoughtfully, then his face softened once more. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ve said my piece. I think you’re a good man, Eduardo; I do so hope you won’t prove me wrong.’
‘I won’t father, I promise – not where Carla is concerned at any rate. Did she seem all right to you when you saw her?’
Father Umberto smiled. ‘A little melancholy perhaps, but otherwise perfectly well.’ He clasped Edward’s hands. ‘I’ll leave you now to your letter. Keep up the good work.’
As soon as he was alone once more, Edward tore open the envelope; he was familiar with her handwriting already from the lessons she had given him: old-fashioned, florid even, yet precise. He pulled out the letter, a simple sheet of thin white paper.
My Darling Eduardo,
I've missed you these past days, and am thinking about you constantly, wondering what you are doing, and where you are. We heard the partisans held up some German trucks this morning. Mamma heard the shooting. I wonder whether you were there. I hope you are all right and that you are safe.
M
y darling, I long to see you. Everyone at Pian del Castagna has a rest in the afternoon now, but I will walk up the track and wait for you by the hidden path. I will be there every day, about two o'clock, and hopefully, one time, you will be able to come too.
Be careful – please be careful.
Carla
Edward read the letter over and over again, then folded it away into the right-hand breast pocket of his jacket. Tomorrow, he thought. All things being well, he would try to get see her tomorrow. The thought lifted his spirits.
The Italian soldiers arrived in the night; there were over a hundred of them. There were also a number of Russians, Mongolians – an entire platoon who had deserted from their German infantry division a few days before. Sant’Angelo became an army barracks for the night, swarming with men in various degrees of uniform, but all armed, and many talking and laughing loudly, excitedly. Edward wondered what the villagers made of it. Did it make them feel safer, or more vulnerable? Quite intimidated, he guessed – young men with guns, but with little military discipline were intimidating, regardless of what side they were on.
He slept near the three youngsters again: Bruno and Alfredo, and Pietro, another fair-haired lad like himself. They had been at his side during the ambush earlier in the day and had stuck close to him during the climb back to the mountains. They had been solemn that night. The adrenalin and initial euphoria brought on by the attack had worn off; they had become sullen, sombre.
‘I keep thinking about the man driving the first truck,’ Alfredo confessed as they lay in a corner of the barn. ‘I saw his face. He was terrified – just for a moment. Then we killed him.’
‘You have to try and put it out of your mind,’ Edward told him. ‘And if it makes you feel better, the first is always the worst. The shock of it, I suppose.’
They looked thoughtful. ‘I hate the Germans and the fascists,’ Pietro said, ‘and I hate what they’re doing to Italy, but I never wanted to kill anyone. I still can’t believe I’m doing this.’
‘Do you think they’ll come after us?’ Alfredo asked.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 35
