OF COURSE I COULDN’T be certain it was a supply cylinder from Bill Carr’s Liberator, but it was a nice thought. It was the right size, eight feet long, but I guessed that scores of them had been dropped in this part of the world in 1944 and 1945. I caught the expression on Lindy’s face, though, and realised she was convinced it was from her father’s plane. I squeezed her arm.
‘Better late than never, eh?’ she said. ‘Does this mean that he’s …’
I shook my head. ‘Somewhere near? No. It just means he let the cylinders go. He could have crashed miles away.’
The rain was coming down heavily now, plastering her hair to her face. I found a waxed cotton sheet inside the steel tube and wrapped it around her shoulders.
I took out those supplies for which we had no immediate need, such as the dried food rations and cooking utensils, and put them to one side. I began a second pile of useful items, beginning with a first-aid kit and a pack of what were labelled ‘energy’ bars. Next out was a wooden crate. The planks broke easily, and the raindrops thrummed onto the thick waxed paper within. I tore through it with my fingers and felt steel. It was another Mark II Sten. Borrowing Lindy’s lighter, I read the marking on the top of the magazine housing. STEN MK II LONG BRANCH 1943. That made it Canadian. I did the same with the weapon she had taken from Ragno. There were the same markings. That suggested Fausto and Co had found another cylinder at some point and kept quiet about it. I remembered Ragno at Domodossola being very cagey about where he had acquired his brand new Sten. It made it very likely that my original thought had been right—that this particular cargo had come out of the belly of EH-148.
There was a second Sten and a box of ammunition. I didn’t like these crude machine guns as weapons—I preferred my Colt, any sane man would—but in terms of sheer firepower and noise, they made us a small army. Then came a metal case marked 20 x GP Mk 5, which made us a large army. I lifted it out very gingerly. There was no telling what two decades might do to grenades. It was when I reached the bottom of the tube that I began to feel giddy. I chuckled to myself.
‘What is it?’
‘Bloody marvellous, that’s what it is.’
Not all supply cylinders would have had identical contents, and I was sure that the one where Ragno had found his Sten hadn’t contained the six-foot-long crate that occupied the depths of this one. I used the lighter once more to read the crude stampings. M9A1. My history of ordnance was rather basic and I muttered to myself.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lindy.
‘I am wondering if this is magneto or battery operated.’
‘Why?’
‘If it’s battery, it’s more than likely useless after all this time. If it’s magneto, well, we’re in with a chance.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Give me a hand to lift it out and I’ll show you.’ I reached in and heaved up one end; she grabbed the other. ‘It was named after a musical instrument used by a comedian, I think.’
The pair of us manhandled it down to the ground. This crate had been nailed good and tight, so I fetched one of the old screwdrivers from the box of nuts and bolts and began to lever away at the plywood.
We both jumped as a zig-zag of electricity seemed to hug the mountainside, snaking off into the far distance. The clap of thunder immediately boxed our ears. The storm was overhead. It might move along soon, with a bit of luck. I looked at my watch. Eighteen minutes left. Just over a quarter of an hour to learn a set of totally fresh skills. As I pulled the lid off the crating with a squeal of protest from the nails, I tried not to think of old dogs and new tricks. Particularly wet old dogs. I ripped the top from the box, flinging the planks over my shoulders.
‘What is it?’ repeated Lindy.
‘A bazooka.’
I hauled the weapons over to the gateway of the fort and considered what Fausto would do now. It was the same old partisan out there, and he would be running through familiar scenarios. I tried to put myself in his position. We held the high ground, were armed—better than he knew—and he probably didn’t have enough men to rush us, not without inviting more casualties.
Who would be left out there? Fausto himself. Rosario. Pavel? Maybe. They weren’t good odds. I’d got lucky with Ragno. I just had to hope my luck held. The rain eased, and I caught the sound of a rockfall some way distant. I strained my ears, not sure if I had imagined it.
‘Did you hear that?’
Lindy nodded. ‘Sounded like stones falling.’
I peered up into the thinning rain, scanning the cliff face, but could see nothing. ‘Idiot,’ I said to myself.
She lowered her voice, as if we might be overheard. ‘What is it?’
We listened intently again to the sounds of the night and the storm. I thought I picked up more movement, but Lindy disagreed. ‘And I’ve got younger ears than you,’ she reminded me.
‘Maybe. But I didn’t imagine the first one.’
‘Could be a goat.’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
I stifled a laugh. ‘Of course not.’
I took the bazooka, checked it didn’t have one up the spout, and hoisted it onto my shoulder. I held my breath as I pulled the long lever that functioned as a trigger and heard the crackle of an electrical spark in my ear. Magneto, you little beauty, I thought. Maybe we aren’t going to die tonight after all.
I summoned Lindy to my side and sheltered us beneath the archway of the gate while I ran through what I thought their strategy would be if we were outflanked from above. I then outlined our response.
‘Sounds reasonable,’ she said in a tone that suggested it was anything but. I caught her shaking her head in disbelief. I’d been through stuff like this before, so I could believe it was happening. She must have thought she’d be waking up soon, telling Furio over breakfast all about the daft dream she’d had.
‘Reasonable? That’s the one thing none of this is. You shouldn’t be out here, for a start.’
‘Hey, as I remember I switched the fan on and helped heave the shit into it. Lang didn’t have to bully me, you know. He just told me … Well, it doesn’t matter now, I guess.’
‘You can tell me all about Archibald Lang later,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me if there was going to be a later. I opened the soggy cardboard box that held a dozen energy bars, ripped the greaseproof paper off one and bit into it. It was some kind of compressed fruit and cereal, horribly chewy, but as far as I could tell, still edible. I handed Lindy one.
‘Christ,’ she said as her teeth struggled into the bar. ‘You might as well have left the wrapper on.’
‘I’ll do the chicken chasseur in a while,’ I said. ‘Right now, it’s all we’ve got.’
A gust of wind moaned through the dilapidated doors and swirled around us. It sounded like the cry of a human being. ‘Are you scared?’ she asked quietly, as she took another mouthful of the rations.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’m terrified, Jack.’
I reached out and touched her face and could think of nothing to say but, ‘So am I.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘The brave TT rider? Mosquito pilot? Tally-ho and all that? I thought you were never scared, you guys.’
I pulled her close. ‘We’re always scared,’ I admitted. ‘Just a little. It’s what keeps us alive.’ I even half-believed it myself.