Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘Neustadt?’ Theo asked one man. ‘Do you mean Bad Neustadt. In Bavaria?’

  ‘Nein, nein! Wiener Neustadt, im Süden Österreichs.’

  ‘Oh.’ Theo picked up the man’s pay book. ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Supervising workers mostly. And having a good time! Easy posting, nice food, willing girls, you know...’

  ‘It is a lovely region.’ He flicked pages. The man was a sergeant of artillery. Or was before being demoted. Field postcodes or Feldpostnummern stamped in pay books enumerated a man’s unit, without naming it. Yale and his team had begun to recognize field postcodes of interest. ‘So how did you end up fighting in Tunisia?’

  ‘Ach. A fuss about nothing. Maybe I was indiscreet with one of the girls. She blabbed to her foreman – next thing you know I’m up before the plant commandant.’

  ‘Bad luck. What sort of plant? Munitions?’

  ‘Nein, nein! Fabrication. Metal casings or something. Steel got shipped in, milled into these big tubes then shipped out again. Other smaller components too. Nothing military, yet totally hush-hush. God knows why.’

  Returning to the office he mentioned the matter to Yale, who was soon rummaging through filing cabinets. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘That the finished product was not assembled there, but somewhere on the Baltic. I pressed him for more, but that’s all he knew.’

  ‘Ah!’ Yale waved a file. ‘Here we are, Wiener Neustadt, it’s on the list.’

  ‘What list?’

  ‘The list. Targets of special interest. So is the milling plant, and look here, a clipping of your old chum Rommel.’

  Theo took the clipping. The word ‘Crossbow’ was handwritten in English on the bottom. Taken from a German newspaper the picture was of a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the newly built factory. Rommel, in uniform, and his wife Lucie, in furs, were performing the honours.

  ‘When was this taken?’

  Yale checked the file. ‘Last October. Rommel was home on a month’s leave.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes, home. Neustadt. He lives there.’

  Two weeks passed, spring turned to summer, days became hot, nights sultry, then in mid-June Theo received a message from Frost. 1st Parachute Brigade was on the move again, to Sousse this time, on the east coast of Tunisia, for advanced jump training. Which could mean but one thing. Invasion. Frost requested Theo return ‘as soon as opportune’.

  Clare also had news. ‘I’m being transferred as well,’ she told him that evening.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know, but soon.’

  ‘What about our leave?’

  They managed three days. Antoine knew of a beach villa along the coast at Ténès. He gave them the key, and they travelled there on the bus. The villa was empty, the beach quiet, windswept and rugged. They swam, strolled, sunbathed, ate grilled fish, and sat up talking until the evening chill moved them inside.

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ she asked on the first evening.

  ‘Ah. That’s rather, um, complicated.’

  ‘When is it not!’ She smiled. ‘Who are you closest to?’

  He thought briefly. ‘My grandmother, Ellie. She raised me in many ways. Always very kind and patient. I think about her often.’

  That first night they slept apart, out of decorum, she on the canopied bed, he camping on the couch. On the second night he settled there again, but as he lay watching the moonlight on the wall, she called to him. He crossed the floor; she lifted the sheets, her body lying pale and naked within. ‘Come on.’ He slipped in beside her, and they made love, repeatedly, lips pressed, limbs tightly entwined, while the moon set and the surf combed the beach beyond the window. Towards dawn he awoke to find her cheek on his chest.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s France,’ she whispered.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Me. Antoine. Vichy France. Liaising with the Resistance. That’s the assignment.’

  He sat up. ‘My God, Clare!’

  Her eyes gleamed. ‘You did ask what my job is.’

  ‘Yes, but, I mean, France! And for how long? And, well, Antoine...’

  ‘I don’t know how long. Months, certainly. We go in as a team, husband and wife. He’s a textiles salesman; I’m his secretary, and wife.’

  ‘But... Whereabouts?’

  ‘I can’t say. I shouldn’t be saying anything. But I wanted you to know. In case.’

  ‘In case? My God, Clare, but...’

  ‘It’s what I’m trained for, Theo. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Can you at least tell me your name?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’ll go mad with worry, please, you must!’

  She hesitated. ‘AAB. They’re my code letters. Aurélie Anne Bujold.’

  In the morning Antoine arrived to collect her. ‘You must say nothing,’ she murmured as the car pulled up.

  ‘Tadzio!’ Arms spread, Antoine leaped out, wearing an open-neck shirt and flannels. ‘Fack me, you lose weight or what?’

  ‘Hello, Tony, good to see you.’

  He escorted her to the car; they kissed briskly.

  ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Yes, you too. Um, take care. On the road.’

  He went to the driver’s door, and stooped to the window.

  ‘You too, Tony.’ They shook hands. ‘Take care of her.’

  *

  At sunset on 13 July more than a hundred Dakotas took off from airfields around Sousse, formed up into V-shaped formations like vast skeins of geese, and set off on the 250-mile flight to Sicily. Aboard them were the three battalions of 1st Parachute Brigade, units of airborne Royal Artillery and Royal Engineers, plus the redoubtable 16th (Parachute) Field Ambulance to provide medical support. Towed gliders carrying heavy equipment were also among them. The evening was calm and warm, morale was high, and the mission – at the very spearhead of the invasion – was exciting, crucial and refreshingly clear-cut. No more crawling about muddy hills, no more hiding in holes, no more infantry slog, this was the kind of coup de main task the parachute corps was designed for: drop behind enemy lines; seize and hold a bridge; hand it on to someone else; retire from the scene.

  Theo rode in one of the Brigade aircraft. He was there to provide liaison between Brigade HQ and 2nd Battalion, who were in aircraft following behind. His Dakota was commanded by Lathbury’s chief of staff, the much-feared Major Hunter, who paced up and down scowling at all the liaison, intelligence, clerical and sundry other supernumeraries on board. ‘Bloody JAFOs’, he kept calling them disparagingly. One such JAFO was sitting beside Theo, a worried-looking captain who spent much of the flight hunched over a prayer book. A while after they passed Malta he leaned to Theo.

  ‘A little nervous,’ he confided. ‘First jump, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Operationally, I mean, not counting training. Yours too?’

  ‘Well, no, actually. It’s my fourth, I think.’ He counted back: Colossus, Bruneval, Depienne; then remembered Gabès, and the terrifying B Type plummet. ‘No, it must be my fifth.’

  ‘Fifth! Good heavens, you’re a veritable veteran!’ His hand appeared. ‘I’m Vere Hodge. Of COBU. Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Theo Trickey. Yours too. Um, COBU?’

  ‘Combined Ops Bombardment Unit. In case of spotting.’

  ‘Spotting.’

  ‘Artillery spotting. Monty’s chaps, for instance, when they come up the road. Or a captured Jerry 88 or something. Or the navy even.’

  ‘The navy.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Hodge shrugged. ‘But Brigade sent me anyway.’

  Ten minutes later the navy attacked them. Suddenly and without warning, somewhere between Malta and Sicily, a flash lit the night and the Dakota reared like a startled cow. Seconds more and the sky was ablaze with explosions as a furious anti-aircraft barrage erupted, filling the
night with bolts of fire and clouds of exploding steel. Recognition flares popped, signal lamps flashed, desperate radio messages were tapped out to try and stop the onslaught, but to no avail, the ships kept on shooting, and soon aircraft were dropping out of formation in flames, or turning back in panic. Theo looked to his pilots, two ashen-faced Americans hunched fearfully over their controls. Most were ex-civilians, humble cargo crews with no combat training and little night experience. Another flash exploded ahead, the aeroplane bucked, then he felt it banking into a turn. Moments later Hunter was lurching up the fuselage to the cockpit.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re turning back.’

  ‘Like hell you are!’

  ‘Nobody said nothing about getting shot at.’

  ‘Of course they did. It’s war!’

  ‘Sorry, buddy. We’re unarmed, no protection and no fighter escort. We ain’t sitting here getting blown to bits by your own goddamn navy.’

  The Dakota was still banked over, still turning for home. Hunter was braced against the slope, fumbling at his smock. Then his service pistol was out, and pointing at the co-pilot’s head.

  ‘Turn this plane around, or I shoot him!’

  ‘Are you out of your mind!’

  ‘Do it. I mean it.’

  Still the pilot hesitated, eyes wide with disbelief. Then came a muffled crack and the shot rang out, piercing the Dakota’s roof. The pilot ducked. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Do it, or I will kill him.’

  Even as they turned back on course, the barrage began to slacken, as if the navy was belatedly realizing its mistake. But too belatedly, for the damage was done. Quite apart from those shot down, damaged or fleeing, the rest were like startled sheep on a mountainside, a scattering shambles, the neat formations gone, the meticulous drop plans in tatters. Few of the pilots had night-flying skills: they depended on lead navigators to guide them; now they were alone, and lost, and as the Ionian Sea turned to surf, then to a rugged coastline, then to the wild Sicilian interior, most had no idea where they were – or where to go.

  Aboard Theo’s Dakota, minutes of directionless wandering ensued while the dazed crew searched for clues. Hunter too stayed up front, peering vaguely through the windscreen, pistol at hand. After a while Hodge sighed and stood up.

  ‘Perhaps I can be of help, sir? Landmarks are rather my thing.’

  Hunter tossed him the map. ‘Be my bloody guest.’

  Another half-hour and they were closing in. Scrub fires could be seen glowing up ahead, machine-gun tracer rose to unseen targets, while puffs of flak burst above. Then:

  ‘There!’ Hodge pointed. ‘That’s the river, look. And there’s the bridge too. Catania’s beyond, and you can see Mount Etna in the distance.’

  Hunter followed his arm. ‘That’s it, all right. OK, stand to, everyone!’

  ‘Well done, Vere,’ Theo murmured. Hodge winked, and with that the familiar ritual began. Standing up and shuffling into line, clumsy with packs and weapons. Hooking on, checking the strap, and checking the man’s in front. Moving towards the door, nerves tightening as the black void beckons. Red light on, bunching up closer. A glimpse of ground, a blazing haystack and the gleam of a river. Tracer curling up. Hunter at the door: ‘Stay close, boys!’ Vere behind, muttering prayers. The engines popping as the pilot throttles back. The floor tilting, then green light on and go! The frenzied scuffle, the gaping door, the roar of the slipstream, and the wild leap. Warm wind buffeting, the tumble, the jerk, the swing. The relief. Flames and tracer rising all about, the rushing ground, too soon as always. Shouts, the crackle of small arms and the smell of smoke. The last seconds, knees bent, tuck, roll, and down.

  *

  ‘Well, there it is.’ Brigadier Lathbury peered through binoculars.

  ‘Looks quiet,’ Hunter murmured.

  ‘Hmm. Question is, who have we got to take it?’

  ‘And who have they got defending it.’

  Theo followed their gaze. He was lying in a ditch amid a motley gathering of fifty or so random Paras, which was all Lathbury had managed to assemble since landing. Scattered sounds of gunfire echoed all round the darkened plain, near and distant, suggesting other units were in contact with the enemy. Vineyards and olive groves concealed hundreds more, both friend and foe, while others were still arriving. He heard engines and looked up to see a late Dakota rumble overhead, disgorge its stick, then hurriedly wheel for home. Parachutes fell near and far, many of them unfamiliar in shape and colour. Earlier a glider had whooshed in right beside them, silently like an owl, only to crash into a culvert and explode. Nobody got out, and crackling flames still lit the scene a sickly yellow. Elsewhere scores of other fires burned, glowing across the scrubby plain like beacons: deliberately started by the enemy, or accidentally by the Paras, he couldn’t tell. Glancing back, he scanned the ground 2nd Battalion was supposed to occupy, only to see the entire area was ablaze. Hoping Frost and his men weren’t there, he turned forward again and focused his binoculars on the target.

  Five hundred yards away lay the winding waters of the Simeto River. Spanning it was the Primosole Bridge, a simple box-girder affair standing out criss-cross white in the moonlight like a model. Of modest size, this minor bridge was nevertheless of major importance. Theo knew this, as did everyone, because three days earlier two huge invasion forces had landed on Sicily’s southern coast. Their job was to quickly advance across the island, in order to invade Italy itself via the Strait of Messina. One force, the American 7th Army under General Patton, was storming up the west side of Sicily, while the other, Britain’s 8th Army under Montgomery, was advancing up the east. This route, more direct than Patton’s, would bring 8th Army along the coast road, past Syracuse, Taormina and on to Messina. Halfway along it, at Catania, just south of the smouldering giant Etna, the road crossed Primosole Bridge.

  ‘Right, chaps, here’s what’s happening,’ Lathbury announced. ‘1st Battalion was to seize the thing from the north side, with 3rd Battalion covering from the east and 2nd from the south. But everything’s to cock, men are all scattered, radios are missing, so frankly that plan’s gone. What we do know, however, is that the bridge must be taken, and right now it looks pretty quiet. So we’re doing it.’

  Murmurs circulated, someone choked a laugh, a distant mortar exploded with a crump. As if to comment.

  ‘All right, now there’s fifty of us, so we divide into four sections. I’ll lead A Section, Major Hunter B Section, Captain Foy C Section, and Captain, er, Hodge D Section. Each section will—’

  ‘Sir?’ Hodge raised his hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sir, much as I’d like to, I suggest I not lead D Section.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘I was only brought in at the last moment, you see. As a JAFO. I’ve not attended any of the briefings. I don’t know a thing about this operation.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Thought I should mention it.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Right, well, in that case then, er, Thickey, you’re leading D Section.’

  ‘Um...’

  ‘Right! Here’s what we do.’

  D Section, he learned, comprising himself, Vere Hodge, and eight others – mostly clerks and signallers – was to crawl along the ditch, away from the bridge and parallel to the river, find a quiet place, and wade or swim across to the north bank. Once there they were to crawl back to the bridge, clamber up and seize it. At the same moment, Lathbury’s section would seize the southern end, while the other two sections would provide covering fire.

  Before they set out Theo assembled his men. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Just rifles it looks like.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘The weapons containers all got scattered.’

  ‘Stens, anyone? Gammons? Anti-tank rifles?’

  ‘I’ve got a Very pistol.’

  ‘And I’ve got a grenade, look!’

  ‘So that’s one gr
enade then. And one flare gun.’

  Ten minutes later they were on hands and knees, rifles slung, pushing through dense reed beds towards the river. Then they were elbow-deep in evil-smelling marsh. Finally they reached water.

  ‘Ye Gods.’ Hodge peered across. ‘Are we really doing this?’

  ‘Speed’s the thing, Vere. Go fast and don’t stop.’

  ‘Er, sir?’ A voice from behind. ‘Lieutenant Thickey? I should probably have said earlier. But I can’t swim. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. You’ll wait here and cover our crossing. We’re going now, everyone. We move quickly and quietly, we keep on moving, and we all stay together. That’s all. Let’s go.’

  He was the first Allied soldier on to Primosole Bridge.

  Having safely attained the north bank, they hurriedly retraced their steps, reaching cover beneath the bridge without incident. Hearing only silence above, he motioned half his force to the other side, and upon an owl-hoot signal, everyone leaped up the bank.

  ‘Non sparate!’ An anguished Italian shout. Four soldiers, arms raised high, were standing beside a machine gun. One had his overcoat on, and a suitcase at his side, as though late for his train; the others too seemed eager to leave. Other than these four the bridge was deserted. While D Section set up positions, Theo questioned them, learning they were alone, wanted only to surrender and bore no ill will towards Tommies. ‘Churchill splendido!’ one man grovelled. Theo corralled them into a corner, checked his men and waited for Lathbury to arrive. But a moment later heavy footsteps were heard running in from behind.

  ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Pearson, you bloody idiot!’

  A score of Paras arrived, sprinting from cover, weapons raised as though for attack. At their head was the unmistakable profile of Colonel Alastair ‘Jock’ Pearson, officer commanding 1st Battalion.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  ‘He is.’ Hodge pointed at Theo. ‘We just took the bridge.’

  ‘You did? Well... good work. Have you got the charges off?’

  ‘Charges?’

  ‘Yes! This thing’s rigged to blow sky high. In fact I’m surprised—’