‘Yes, but they’ll have to find us, won’t they?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bruno. ‘And we know this place better than them, don’t we? They won’t be able to get us up here, will they?’
‘No, because we’ll be able to see them coming and we’ll be waiting for them. It’ll be all right.’ They seemed to accept his word on this, but Edward really had no more idea about what to expect than they did. He watched them: Alfredo re-lacing one of his boots, his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated on feeding the frayed shoelace through a narrow eye; Bruno, polishing the barrel of his rifle with a handkerchief; and Pietro, his eyes staring without focus, and absent-mindedly picking his nose. What’s he thinking? Edward wondered. Probably much the same as he was thinking himself: fearing for the future, and scared about what the ensuing days would bring. That sense of dread again – it was consuming him: a dull and constant beat drumming in the back of his mind, making his heart pound and his fingers shake; making his stomach heavy and his throat tight. He wished he was a child again; how carefree he had been. Oh, there’d been worries and anxieties, but they had been about whether he would get any runs in the next day’s cricket match, or whether he would make an ass of himself on his trumpet in the school concert. Remembering made him sad.
He thought of Carla again, picturing her sitting on the edge of the track, waiting for him. A fantasy came into his mind: he had gone to meet her and together they climbed the path to the charcoal burner’s hut. But then the Germans decided to attack Monte Luna and they were trapped up there, first for a day, then for several more. Then for weeks on end. No-one knew they were there; they were stranded, their mountain hideaway like a desert island, the German troops that surrounded them as impassable as the ocean. For months they would survive, like orphans of the storm, living off nuts and wild fruits and the occasional boar. Then the Allies would finally come, Monte Luna would be free and the war all but over. They would descend from the mountain, and the Casalinis would welcome them home, ecstatically relieved to discover they had been safe all along.
Ah, well, one can always dream.
Soon after he awoke he knew, with a sense of crushing disappointment, that he would not be seeing Carla that day. Partisan scouts further down the slopes had spotted truckloads of German troops pulling into Montalbano, news that was soon after confirmed by sympathetic contadini living near the village.
There was no time to lose. They had to leave the villages and barns immediately and head for the woods and shrub that surrounded the peaks of the mountains.
‘We’re going to go to the heights above Capriglia,’ Volpe told Edward. ‘I’m going to leave half our force at Monte Torrone, but I want our headquarters on Monte Luna. That’s our base, and that’s where we’ll fight.’
Quickly, they hammered on the doors of the farmsteads and houses in Sant’Angelo. ‘The Germans are coming, the Germans are coming!’ they shouted. ‘Stay inside and keep out of the way.’
It was half-past six in the morning. Bruno, Pietro and Alfredo were once more beside Edward as they haphazardly marched along the path towards Capriglia. A low mist hung over the Setta Valley, thick and creamy. The fields either side of the path were thick with dew and silvery cobwebs. The air was fresh. Edward fretted about Carla and Christina. He hoped they had stayed put in Montalbano; they lived on the edge of the village, to the north. The Germans, it appeared, had come from the south, along the same road where the partisans had launched the ambush that day. They should be all right, he thought. Please God, let them be all right, but he was tormented by the thought of the girls already climbing the white, dusty track towards the mountains and then finding themselves caught in the crossfire. As the track from the valley came into view, Edward watched it constantly, straining his eyes trying to see if there were any figures climbing towards them out of the mist. But there was no-one.
Before they reached Capriglia, they climbed onto the slopes of Monte Luna. Edward had been walking towards the back of their column and watched as they melted into the shrub.
‘Now you see ’em, now you don’t,’ said Billy, the young rifleman, who was standing beside him. ‘That’s amazing cover.’
‘We’ve got to get the Brens in good positions,’ said Edward.
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Billy. ‘Well hidden, but with a very clean line of fire.’
They scrambled off the track and into the trees and thick undergrowth, Alfredo, Pietro and Bruno following close behind. Some thirty feet above the track they found a small outcrop of rock, almost flat. Billy stood on it, then lay down and looked ahead. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here would be good. Those with rifles can stand if necessary, but the Bren can go here. Perfect place.’ He stood up again, ran his hands through dirty brown hair and lit a cigarette.
‘All right,’ said Edward, and told Bruno and Alfredo to set up their machine gun, then he went in search of Giorgio and Volpe, struggling through thick undergrowth of brambles and ferns.
He found them with another of the riflemen, who was helping them set up the mortars. Once more, Volpe’s eyes were shining with excitement. He’s enjoying this, thought Edward.
‘We must be disciplined,’ said Volpe. ‘We mustn’t fire too soon. We’ve got to remember what Colonel Bianco told us: that we should only fire back when we’re fired upon.’
‘Billy thinks this is a brilliant defensive position,’ said Edward.
Volpe grinned. ‘And we’ll be ready for them. The reports I’ve had are that they’re infantry only. No field guns.’
‘What’s he saying?’ the rifleman asked Edward.
Edward told him. ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘It’s always difficult attacking a strong defensive position, especially with like on like.’
Edward made his way back. The woods were thick with men, and not just partisans – a number of contadini had also left their farms and villages and had taken temporary refuge in the wooded slopes of the summit. Most of the partisans now wore blue scarves around their necks; Edward wore one himself under his RAF jacket – Volpe had given it to him. Some had on their adopted British battle blouses and trousers, others wore only cotton shirts, dark wool trousers held up by braces or thick leather belts. They looked a ramshackle bunch, Edward thought, even with British uniforms. The assurances of Billy and Kiwi had given him confidence but he still doubted whether they would be much of a match for the highly trained and disciplined Germans. We look like boys playing soldiers in the woods, he thought.
It was some time after nine in the morning when they saw the first of the troops. The mist in the valley was just beginning to thin under the force of the sun’s rays, when small, dark figures emerged, walking up the paths and across the fields in open formation. They were spread out, flushing out the lower slopes in an unhurried fashion.
‘They’re nervous too, you know,’ said Billy. ‘They’ll be on edge, waiting for that first shot.’ Directly beneath them, half a mile below, stood an isolated farmhouse. They watched them encircle the place. A dog was barking furiously then a single shot rang out, resounding across the undulating slopes of the mountain, and the dog stopped barking. Edward saw Alfredo and Bruno flinch. Distant shouts – Germans yelling at the farmer; a pig began squealing – another shot and then the troops moved on, climbing the slopes, drawing ever closer. Edward thought about the Casalinis at Pian del Castagna. Where was Orfeo, he wondered – hiding in the woods or defiantly working on the farm? It seemed as though the Germans were attacking from the Setta Valley only, in which case they would be spared for the moment. He hated the idea of Germans swarming over the place, shooting oxen and chickens, violating Rosa and Nella.
‘The Bren’s quite a good range, but like anything, it’s more effective the closer they are,’ said Billy beside him. ‘About four hundred yards should be about right.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘These blokes are goners. They’ve got nowhere to hide at all. I can’t believe I’m seeing this.’
The troops continued to climb towards them. There were
hundreds of them, well spaced, carrying rifles and light machine guns. Edward spotted several machine-gun teams. Beside him, Billy was giving a running commentary. ‘Five hundred yards, that’s good – don’t want to get too excited yet. Good lads, good – hold your fire just a bit longer.’
‘You don’t think they can see us, then?’ Edward asked him.
Billy shook his head. ‘Nah – and look, they’re just beginning to fan around towards those villages.’
Edward watched – Billy was right. They were heading for Capriglia and Cortino, on the extended spur below and away to their left.
‘Any moment now,’ said Billy, raising his rifle to his shoulder. ‘Come on, you fucking Jerry bastards.’
A long burst of machine-gun fire chattered loudly away to their left, and a row of Germans crumpled to the ground.
‘Well, that’s all right,’ said Billy, firing his rifle. Alfredo also began shooting, empty bullet shells clanging onto the rock beside him as Bruno fed through the ammunition belts. Cracks of rifle fire rang out sharply from all along the partisans’ position. More Germans were collapsing to the ground, some because they’d been hit, others because they were desperate to flatten themselves against the sudden fusillade of fire. Edward was startled by the noise, deafening amidst the close cover of the trees. He saw a German raise himself up and try and move forward, and aimed his rifle and fired, the snap of the bolt making his ears ring. To his relief, he missed. The woods were thick with the stench of cordite. Bullets pinged into the trees above, making him involuntarily duck and crouch, branches and twigs breaking and tumbling among them. Edward could see a German machine-gun crew open fire, but their bullets were low and wide.
The enemy had stopped advancing. They were pinned down a few hundred yards below. The firing lessened; Bruno changed belts on the Bren. In between, Edward could hear shouts, Germans yelling orders to their men. Then all of a sudden they began to disappear entirely. For a short while Edward watched tensely, wondering whether they were moving into an area of cover from which they would try and outflank the partisans. A cheer from within the woods to their left told him otherwise, and then he looked again and saw what the others had seen: the Germans were retreating back down the mountain. Left behind were the bodies of more German dead and wounded than Edward could count.
‘Told you,’ said Billy. ‘Stupid fucking Jerries.’
There was jubilation amongst the men. Alfredo stood up from his position and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look at my hands,’ he said, grinning, and held them out. ‘They’re shaking. I can’t keep them still.’ They laughed; Bruno slapped Alfredo’s back. ‘I think it must be from the vibration of firing the Bren,’ said Alfredo.
‘Of course it is,’ Edward laughed.
‘We must have shot about fifty, don’t you think?’ Alfredo said to Bruno.
‘If not more,’ said Bruno.
‘There’s more than fifty lying out there,’ said Edward.
‘I mean Bruno and me.’ The others laughed.
Edward smiled, but thought, we’re joking about killing. It was as though they’d knocked over skittles, not young men. He wondered whether the Germans joked about killing Italians, but already knew the answer. Everyone hardened in war – even airmen, and he suddenly remembered Mike Lindsay and the Italian pilot who’d been impaled on the fountain. What a joke that had been too. He wiped his brow, then shouted along the line of men still standing, waiting in the trees. Was anyone hurt? No, came the answer. Well, that was something.
Distant firing now broke out, yet resounding across the mountains. ‘The others on Monte Torrone,’ said Billy. ‘Those Krauts are probably getting a bellyful over there too.’
Once again the firing died down, and a while after they saw more Germans in the distance returning back down towards Montalbano. More cheering – first blood to the Blue Brigade.
Giorgio appeared.
‘What now?’ Edward asked.
‘We’ll move up a bit – in case they come back. How are you doing for ammunition?’
‘All right at the moment.’
‘Good. We’ll stay on these slopes all day, and then move south when the sun begins to go down.’ He glanced out to the open land where the Germans lay. ‘First, though, lets go and scavenge that lot.’
Boots, watches, grenades, rifles and ammunition belts: all were lifted without respect or ceremony from the dead. There were few wounded; most had been taken back down the slopes as the Germans retreated. Edward sat on the track watching. He saw Billy going from man to man, kicking any he thought might be alive and occasionally firing several rounds into them, their bodies lurching as he did so. None of the others seemed to bat an eye; rather, several were copying him.
Edward looked away. We’ve become hardened, all right. Billy had been at Cassino, captured in March during the Third Battle. Before that, he’d been at Salerno. He’d told Edward something about what they’d been through. ‘I wouldn’t wish it on anyone,’ he’d said of Cassino. ‘I knew it was going to be tough the moment I saw that fucking great monastery on top of that fucking great mountain, and even bigger fucking great mountains behind. But I hadn’t realised what total fucking hell it was going to be. I nearly cried with joy when I was captured.’ And now here he was, fighting with the men who’d killed his friend, against the men who’d rescued him from his prolonged nightmare at Cassino, kicking and firing and plundering like a dog in a pile of rubbish; like a man who had lost all respect for humanity.
The Germans did not attempt another assault that day, and at dusk the partisans slipped out of their positions and tramped back to Sant’Angelo, where those who had been on Monte Torrone were waiting for them. They, too, were in triumphant mood. In both battles, only one partisan had been wounded; but over two hundred Germans lay dead and the Blue Brigade had further stocks of arms and ammunition.
Night fell and they continued southwards, making their way along moonlit mountain paths until they reached San Stefano, a village some eight miles south of Monte Luna.
Edward settled down in an orchard above a farm, where the hay had been newly cut and stacked in sheaves. It smelled sweet and comforting. The men were everywhere – a tired and hungry ramshackle force, billeting themselves on an unsuspecting contadini community: in barns and sheds and under trees; and like locusts they ate and drank whatever they could find. Pietro discovered a sausage and several bottles of wine and he came back to the orchard clutching them to his chest, a wide grin on his face. Edward took long swigs of wine as the bottles were passed around and chewed on the fatty sausage, with its strong taste of garlic and pepper. For once, the rough wine tasted delicious.
Italy – August, 1995
Despite having flown over the city and despite his proximity to the place during his time with the Blue Brigade, Edward had never been to Bologna before. He found driving into it from the airport an alarming experience, and soon realised he had made a terrible mistake. How much easier it would have been to have taken a bus or a taxi into town, and then, once he got his bearings, to have hired a car from his hotel. He cursed his stupidity. ‘You damned fool,’ he muttered, ‘you’re too old for this sort of caper.’ On the motorway, cars had undertaken and overtaken, swerved in front of him and sat close on his tail, beeping their horns and making him realise what an ordered and civilised place Britain was to drive in. As he went further towards the centre of the city, the speed lessened but the number of cars and scooters – not to say amount of horn-blaring – increased. To make matters worse, his efforts at map-reading were hindered by the number of one-way streets and the standard of signposting, which to his mind was extremely poor. As a consequence, he missed turnings, got lost more than once, was blared at for trying to turn down a one-way street the wrong way, and spent much time dabbing his increasingly hot brow and cursing. When he did at last reach his hotel, he emerged from his car feeling quite shaken, and somewhat surprised that both he and the car were still in one piece. It was, he reflected, a much easier
place to fly over than drive through.
A certain degree of calm was restored by a stroll into the centre of the city. His pensione was only a short walk from the Piazza Maggiore where he found, quite by chance, a large memorial tableau dedicated to the partisans of the area. He did not recognise any of the names, but the faces of some of those imprinted on oval-shaped discs in the stone reminded him sharply of many of the men he had served alongside: the dark eyes and black hair swept back – their youthfulness – had been a feature of many of them. He could remember few who had been fair like him: Carla, of course; perhaps a handful of others.
He wondered where Carla had lived during her time in the city, when she’d been working as a dressmaker. Fairly near the centre, he remembered. And Bruno and Alfredo had both been Bolognese too. Well, here I am at last, he thought. He walked on, around the church of San Petronio and then down a quieter side street where he found somewhere to eat. Much of his Italian had long since been forgotten, but as he sat at his small table, turning his fork around the first bowl of pasta he’d eaten in years, and listening to the waiters and other diners, he was surprised by how much he could still understand, and how quickly it all came flooding back.
He’d told no-one he was coming to Italy – no-one apart from his next-door neighbours at home. Nor had he tried to contact anyone he’d known back then. There was no Lucky to guide him round his old haunts; nor, for that matter, did he know of anyone like Pete Summersby, who could have pointed him in the right direction. Anyway, his time in Italy – on Monte Luna – had been so very different to Malta, and his memories so especially personal, that he wanted to begin his pilgrimage alone.
Bologna was a new experience for him and so he had not felt particularly troubled to be there; even when looking at the partisan memorial, he had been able to distance himself. The following morning, however, he awoke feeling irritable and apprehensive, and not just at the prospect of driving through the city once more. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he would be able cope with what lay in store; whether coming face to face with the places that had troubled him for all this time would prompt even darker memories – things he had successfully suppressed for fifty years. Shakily, he poured the warm milk into his coffee. You can’t turn back now, he told himself. Not now you’ve come this far. As he drank his coffee he again examined the road map of the area; it was the largest scale map he had managed to find. The Monte Luna area was now a national park: Parco Storico di Monte Luna, it said over a shaded area of green that ran between the Reno and Setta Valleys. Monte Luna itself was marked roughly dead centre – only 668 metres above sea level; not that high at all really, but both Monte Luna and the peaks and high ground around it had been the ideal place in which to operate as partisans, of that he was sure. Of the many mountain villages and hamlets, there was no mention, although there appeared to be several roads now crossing over the mountains.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 36
