7
Italy, Spring 1944
L ieutenant Thomas Arbuckle steered the motor torpedo boat into the quiet Italian harbor of Incantellaria, an unexpected jewel hidden within the red cliffs and caves of the Amalfi coast. The sea was clear, the color of sapphires. Gentle ripples caught the pale morning light and twinkled like diamonds. His eyes swept across the horseshoe bay that was port to this quaint, medieval town where gleaming white and sandy pink houses basked in the sunshine, their open windows and wrought-iron balconies adorned with red geraniums and carnations. The mosaic dome of a church rose up to Heaven and beyond, the hills soared steeply into the distance, from where the scent of pine now reached him. Sky blue fishing boats were pulled up onto the sand, like beached whales waiting for the tide to come in and wash them out to sea. He squinted and adjusted his cap. There was a small group of people on the quayside, waving.
“What do you make of this place, sir?” asked Lieutenant Jack Harvey, standing beside him on the bridge.
On Jack’s shoulder perched the little red squirrel that had accompanied him everywhere—from North Africa, where the acrid smell of death and mutilation had been tempered by the cheap whorehouses of Cairo and Alexandria, to Sicily, where even the bombings from German Messerschmitts had not dampened his enthusiasm for adventure. Brendan, named after Churchill’s redheaded crony Brendan Bracken, lived in Jack’s pocket, having defied authority for the duration of the war. He had earned his place in this family of eight battle-weary men with his indomitable spirit and strong instinct for survival. He was now a symbol of hope as well as a reminder of home.
“Beautiful, Jack,” Thomas replied. “As if time has stood still for about three hundred years.” After the darkness of war it was surreal to be blinking in the light of such tranquillity. “Are we in Heaven?”
“I’d say if I didn’t know better. It’s so green and vibrant! What about we hang around for a bit?”
“Take a holiday, you mean? There’ll be more action in this sleepy town than in the entire Med, I suspect. Still waters run deep,” said Thomas with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I could do with a bath and a decent meal.”
“And a woman. I could do with a woman,” added Jack, running a tongue over his dry lips, recalling the nubile girls he had tasted on leave in Cairo. When he wasn’t in action he could think of little but Brendan and his cock, not necessarily in that order.
“Now you’re talking,” agreed Thomas, whose mind often wandered to Shirley, who sent him perfumed love letters and food parcels. Shirley, who in a fit of postcoital delusion he had promised to marry if he survived. Shirley, who would be intolerable to his parents as a daughter-in-law by virtue of the fact that her father was the local builder. “We could all do with that!” he said, remembering Shirley.
Since the Allied forces had moved north there was relatively little action at sea. His job now was to patrol the Italian coastline, keeping the Allied supply lines open. Thomas had commanded the 70-foot Vosper, nicknamed Marilyn, for over three years now, based first in Alexandria, then Malta, Bône on the North African coast, and finally Augusta after the invasion of Italy. He—and she—had been in the thick of it: from aiding the landings in North Africa to nightly patrols of the Straits of Messina during the Sicily landings of July 1943. After that he had been used for clandestine operations by Special Services, which involved landing secret agents and supplies on Crete and Sardinia. Thomas was known for his daring and courage, especially during the dark days of 1942 when the devastating offensive against Malta peaked, nearly destroying the entire dockyard as well as practically all the Malta-based aircraft. MTBs were small and swift, capable of moving unseen over moonlit waters, penetrating minefields and harbor defenses, and sneaking up close to fire torpedoes at enemy vessels before speeding off into the night. The adrenaline rush was enormous. Since the death of his elder brother, Freddie, Thomas barely felt alive unless he was on the very edge of life’s blade. He felt more comfortable when he didn’t have time to feel guilty that while Freddie had died, he lived.
He had lost friends—everyone had—but no loss had been as devastating as that of Freddie, whom he had always looked up to, yearned to be like, and loved with the devotion of a dog. He had had a mountainous personality, Freddie, unbounded drive and ambition. He had been destined for greatness, not a gloomy grave at the bottom of the sea, entangled in the twisted wreckage of a Hurricane. No, Freddie had seemed immortal. If death had claimed Freddie, then death could claim anyone at any time. This left a deep and nagging scar on Thomas’s soul.
Thomas would have followed Freddie into the air force had his mother not intervened, arguing tearfully that two sons in the air was like sending both to God “and I’m not ready to hand you back, yet.” She would not have it. So Thomas had left Cambridge and signed up for the navy. He had been envious of Freddie; he was not envious now. Somewhere beneath his boat, in this vast, unforgiving sea, Freddie’s body was swept about on the eternal current.
The boat motored into the harbor. The early morning mists hung over the hills and Thomas breathed in the woody scents of pine and eucalyptus, a welcome antidote to the saline smell of the sea. The crowd of townspeople stood waving, attracting more people who gathered around like a herd of curious sheep. He noticed a small boy raise his hand in the fascist salute before his mother hastily slapped it down and gathered him into her arms. Il sindacco, the town mayor, stood polished and preening on the quayside beside the local carabiniere, who wore a grubby khaki uniform with large brown sweat patches beneath his armpits. He puffed out his chest like a fat turkey bristling for prime position, and adjusted his hat importantly. In spite of the war, his belly was fat and drooped over his trousers. Neither man had seen any action since the Allies had landed, sending the Germans scurrying up north. Now was their moment to assert their authority and reclaim their sense of value.
Brendan curled up inside Jack’s pocket, burying himself at the bottom as he had been taught. Suddenly Thomas noticed a beautiful girl with long black hair and large, timid eyes. In her arms she held a wicker basket. He couldn’t help being drawn to the brown swell of her breasts, exposed by the low décolletage of her dress. She stood in the crowd yet seemed to have a space of her very own, as if she remained a little apart. Her loveliness was such that her image seemed more pronounced than the rest. The faces around her merged into one, but hers was clear and perfect like the evening star in the night sky. She was smiling, not the broad, bovine smile of the townsfolk, but a gentle curling of the lips that reached her eyes and caused them to narrow slightly. A mere whisper of a smile. So subtle that it made her beauty almost hard to swallow, as if she were a figment of his imagination and not real at all. It was then that Thomas Arbuckle lost his heart. There on the quayside of the small fishing town of Incantellaria he let it go willingly. He turned to greet the mayor. When he searched for the girl again, she was gone.
The sindacco shook hands formally and welcomed them in Italian. He did not notice Brendan pop his little red head out of Jack’s pocket as if sensing that they were in Allied territory and free from superior officers who would object to his presence. Without taking his eyes off the mayor, who was excusing his poor English, Jack pushed the squirrel back into the dark. Thomas tried not to search the crowd for that beautiful girl. He reminded himself that he had business to do and, if he were cunning, he could extend that business until he found her again.
The mayor was a handsome man with black hair and skin the color of toffee. He was short in stature and held himself erect in order to appear taller. His slim physique belied his age, which must have been around fifty, and he wore a pair of round spectacles on a slightly aquiline nose above a neat mustache. His uniform was clean and pressed and Thomas noticed his nails were pink and manicured as if he spent more time in the salon than on the streets or behind a desk. He was clearly a fastidious man and full of pomposity; now that the Germans had gone, he was the most important man in town.
The carabiniere raised his hand in imitation of the naval salute and his mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “Lattarullo at your service,” he said, aware that he was upstaging the mayor. Thomas saluted back. His Italian wasn’t perfect but he had had a good grounding at school and plenty of practice in the last couple of years, although his use of verbs relied heavily on the infinitive. Lattarullo already irritated him. He was a stereotype. Fat, lethargic, and most probably incompetent. They were all open to bribes, as corrupt as the mafia itself, and there was little that could be done about it considering the pittance that was their wages. In times of war, when civilians were barely surviving, it wasn’t a surprise that the black market flourished, mostly on stolen Allied supplies, and that the local civil services were gaining from it. It was a losing battle the advancing armies didn’t have time to fight.
Thomas explained why he was there. They had information of an arms dump left by the retreating German army. He had been sent to investigate, to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. He asked to be escorted to a disused farm called La Marmella. The mayor nodded in acknowledgment. “Lattarullo will take you into the hills. We have a car,” he said proudly, referring to the only one in town. Everyone else, besides the marchese, traveled by horse and cart, bicycle or on foot. The marchese, who lived in splendid isolation in the palazzo on the hill, had a grand old Lagonda, in which he would send his servant into town to buy supplies whenever he needed them. The marchese himself was a very rare sight. He didn’t even attend church; instead, he had his own private chapel on his estate at which Padre Dino, the local priest, would administer communion once a month for a small fee. “I hand you over to Lattarullo,” continued the mayor. “If there is anything else you require, please don’t hesitate to ask. It is my duty as well as my personal pleasure to make your stay as enjoyable as possible. Good day to you.”
“It really does sound like a holiday,” hissed Thomas to Jack as the mayor turned on his well-polished heel. Lattarullo scratched his groin and shouted into the crowd to let the officers through. The two tall men in their naval uniforms cut more than a dash in that small town. Jack strode behind, his eyes searching the faces for beautiful young women, of which there were one or two whose inviting eyes caught his attention and held it for a moment, before he was whisked off in the official car that gurgled and coughed like an asthmatic geriatric.
They bumped over the narrow cobbled streets, avoiding the odd cat that leaped back into the shadows again, unused to such a noisy vehicle. The road began to rise and wind as they left the quiet cove for the hills. Thomas wanted to ask about the girl he had seen on the quayside. Lattarullo was sure to know who she was. She had stopped time with her loveliness and held it there, quite still, so that nothing had moved around her, only the breeze wafting her long hair like threads of fine silk.
Lattarullo chatted all the way up the narrow, dusty track. He took great pleasure in his own importance, relating stories of his heroism against marauding bandits. “I have seen Lupo Bianco,” he said in a low voice. “I looked him straight in the eye, long and hard. He could see that I am a fearless man. Lattarullo is afraid of no one. Then, you know what he did? He nodded at me with respect. With respect! You have nothing to fear of Lupo Bianco while you are under my protection.”
Thomas and Jack knew all about Lupo Bianco, “White Wolf”: it was thanks to him and other powerful men that the Allies had successfully landed in Sicily. However, they were playing with the fire of hell, for Lupo Bianco was a murderous criminal. Both feared and admired, he was discussed in hushed voices, as if the very walls had ears and could inform against them. Of course, Lattarullo claimed he had never supported the Germans. Mussolini had been a big fool to take Germany’s side. “If Mazzini and Garibaldi could see their country now, they’d turn in their graves,” he said with a heavy sigh and Thomas knew that Lattarullo would scamper just as quickly to the other side if the war turned to favor the fascists.
They passed fields of olive groves and trellises of vines where the soil was arid, parched in the heat of the Italian sun, a small farm where skinny goats stood in the shade, sniffing the ground for blades of grass, and the odd, starving mongrel. Ragged children played with sticks and stones, and a haggard-looking mother washed clothes in a tub with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her face red and sweating with exertion. Thomas resolved to bring his pastels and paper next time he came ashore to record with his artist’s hand what he saw as charming pastoral scenes. He had kept a pictorial record of his experiences. But his heart ached for the people whose innocent lives were blighted by war and his thoughts turned once again to the mysterious girl. He’d draw her too. So beautiful was she against the ugliness of war.
They found the munitions dump. It wasn’t as big as Thomas had expected. Most of it stolen by the local Mafia, no doubt. Only hand grenades, machine guns, and other small arms hidden in an abandoned barn. Hardly worth the bother. With the enthusiastic help of Lattarullo, they loaded some of them into the back of the car.
While they stood, hats off, wiping their wet brows, Lattarullo suggested they stay. “Have a wash, something to eat, a glass of Marsala. I can bring you women too, if that’s what you want. Trattoria Fiorelli is the best restaurant in town.” He did not mention that it was the only restaurant in town.
“Something to eat would be nice,” Thomas replied, ignoring Jack, who was indicating with the frantic widening of his eyes that the women would be nice too.
“Do you want to catch the clap?” he hissed when Lattarullo was out of earshot. “How many soldiers do you think have been there before?”
“There must be some clean ones, surely,” he pleaded.
“It’s up to you, but I’m staying well clear.”
“My hand needs a break,” Jack chuckled, waving it in an unmistakable gesture. “I saw a couple of girls on the quayside when we arrived. They were panting for it, I could tell. Probably on the game. Might try my luck. I always scored in the Four Hundred.” For a moment he could taste the smoke and perfume of the Four Hundred club he had patronized in London before the war. Thomas thought of those dark, mysterious eyes and his heart twisted with anxiety. He hoped she wasn’t on the game. He’d rather she was married and out of reach than pursuing that shameful degradation. Brendan popped his head out of Jack’s pocket again, as if in protest at the suggestion of whores.
“As you wish. We could stay a while. Why not? We all need to stretch our sea legs.”
“And these women need a bit of sea cock!” Jack added with a grin, squeezing his groin.
Lattarullo drove down the dusty track, the arms rattling in the back like a tool box every time the car hit bumps and stones. Suddenly there was a loud hooting, the screech of brakes, the flash of white and glint of metal, and Lattarullo shouting “Madonna!” in panic as he swerved off the road. A white Lagonda purred sedately to a halt. The skinny driver stepped out and dusted himself down, his face twisted with disgust. His immaculate gray uniform and cap did nothing to hide his emaciated, aged body, which would have looked less incongruous had it been laid out in a coffin. Lattarullo staggered on to the track, his face red with fury. He let out a round of profanities. The chauffeur simply looked at him as if he were an irritating beetle that had scuttled into his way. He sniffed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he turned, climbed back into his car, and drove away. His nose barely reached over the steering wheel. It was clear from the way he squinted that the sun had momentarily blinded him, causing him to stray into the middle of the road.
“Who is he?” asked Thomas, once Lattarullo had managed to maneuver the car out of the ditch.
“The marchese’s lackey,” he replied, then snorted and spat into the road. “That is what I think of him!” he added, grinning as if the filthy gesture had won him a small victory. “He thinks he’s important because he works for a marquis. Once the Montelimone was the most powerful family in the region, a charitable family too, but the marchese has all but destroyed their good name. You know what they say about the marchese?” He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “You don’t want to know!” Although Thomas and Jack were mildly curious, they were drowsy and their bellies groaned with hunger. Lattarullo snorted and spat again before driving on, mumbling to himself the string of abuse he would have liked to have inflicted on the chauffeur.
They returned to the quay and, with the help of the rest of the crew, they unloaded the arms onto the boat. Joe Cracker, the fattest of the eight-strong team, opened his large mouth and began to sing his favorite aria from Rigoletto, hence his nickname “Rigs.” He was coarse to look at with ruddy skin and thinning ginger hair, yet he sang with the voice of a professional baritone. “He thinks he’ll get the girls like that,” said Jack, allowing Brendan to scamper up his arm and perch on his shoulder.
“It’s his only chance,” commented another. “He’ll be singing under their balconies next.” They laughed heartily but Rigs continued to sing. He had seen their eyes mist on those lonesome nights when their survival had been nothing short of miraculous, when music had been the only escape from their fears.
Leaving a couple of crew on deck to keep watch over the boat, the rest walked the short distance to Trattoria Fiorelli. Wooden tables spilled out onto the road where a bony donkey stood with a couple of baskets over its back, blinking wearily in the sunshine. Two old men sat at a table playing a game with counters, drinking tumblers of local gin that smelled of turps, and ragged-looking children with grubby faces ran about with sticks, their shrill cries ricocheting through the still afternoon air. The menu was displayed by the open door. Inside a couple of waiters sat listening to a wireless in the cool, ready for business. When the two officers appeared with Lattarullo, followed by four crew members, one singing loudly, they leaped to their feet and showed them to tables outside with more enthusiasm than they had mustered since the Germans left.
Lattarullo sat with Thomas and Jack, amazed at the sight of Brendan, who in these hard times would make a tasty meal. “You’d better keep your eye on him,” he commented, finding to his shame that his mouth was beginning to water. Squirrel prosciutto would be very tasty indeed. “There is always food at Immacolata’s. When the rest of the country is suffering from starvation, Immacolata produces meat and fish in a sumptuous banquet. You will see! Jesus turned water into wine and fed the five thousand with nothing more than a few loaves of bread and some fish. Immacolata is blessed.”
Suddenly a voice bellowed from within. “That is Immacolata Fiorelli,” hissed Lattarullo confidentially, taking off his hat and wiping his sweating forehead. “This restaurant is the engine that makes the town turn. And she’s in the driving seat. I know that, the mayor knows that, Padre Dino knows that. Even the Germans knew better than to mess with her. She’s descended from a saint, you know.”
Thomas pulled back his shoulders. After all, he was a commanding officer in the British navy; what could possibly be so terrifying about a loud-voiced Italian woman berating her lazy staff?
“Signora Fiorelli,” said Lattarullo with the greatest respect, jumping to his feet. “May I present to you two fine officers of the British navy.” He stepped aside and the tiny woman lifted her chin to reveal deep-set, intelligent eyes of chestnut brown. She narrowed them thoughtfully and studied their faces, as if calculating their reliability and character. Thomas and Jack rose to their feet, dwarfing her in size but noting that her personality was more formidable than the two of them put together.
“You are very handsome,” she said to Thomas in a quiet voice, quite unlike the bellow of earlier. Her beady eyes traced him from top to toe as if she were a seamstress assessing which suit would fit him best. “I will prepare you spaghetti con zucchini and treccia di mozzarella.” She turned to Jack. “And the good people of Incantellaria must lock up their daughters,” she said, sniffing through dilated nostrils. Jack gulped and Brendan scurried back into his pocket. “For you, frittelle,” she added, nodding with satisfaction. “Once this place vibrated with life. The war has choked the life out of it. People can barely afford to eat, let alone dine in a restaurant. I pray for better times. For a swift ending to the bloodshed. For the lion to lie down with the lamb. I invite you both to dinner at my house. A small corner of this country where civilization still exists as it has for generations. Where old-fashioned standards are upheld. I will cook for you myself and we can raise our glasses to peace. Lattarullo will bring you. You can bathe in the river and forget the war.”
“You are a generous woman,” said Thomas.
“I am just a humble hostess and you are in my town.” Thomas didn’t think she looked at all humble; her face was etched with arrogance. “Besides, your presence here will help the community. Your spending will add much needed fuel to the economy. What little economy we have. These are hard times, signore. If you are as rich as you are handsome we will all rejoice.”
“Do you have daughters?” Jack asked cheekily. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him down her imperious nose, although she was at least three feet shorter than him.
“And if I do, I would be unwise to introduce her to you and your squirrel.”
“Why Brendan?” he asked, putting his hand in his pocket to stroke the animal’s fur. “Brendan has an eye for the ladies.”
“Because my daughter has an eye for squirrels,” she laughed, but her laughter was heavy and doleful like the melancholy sound of bells. Ah, thought Lattarullo, squirrel prosciutto, and he licked his lips and salivated like a dog.
It wasn’t long before the restaurant was full of pretty girls, their faces painted like dolls with the little makeup they could scrounge, wearing their best dresses and hairdos. Their breasts swelled over the low décolletages of their dresses like creamy cappuccinos. They did nothing to hide their flagrant desire to hook an Englishman. These sailors were their tickets out of the poor, claustrophobic town. They eyed them flirtatiously, giggling and whispering behind brown hands, shamelessly displaying their calves and ankles by crossing their legs and raising their skirts immodestly.
Jack’s eyes bulged and Brendan hurried up onto his shoulder for a better look. The pretty squirrel was irresistible to them and soon Jack was surrounded by perfume and brown limbs as they reached out to stroke the animal. “Ah, Brendan, my lucky charm,” he chuckled, endeavoring to chat them up in broken Italian. Not to be outdone, Rigs climbed onto a chair and opened his tremendous lungs to everyone’s delight. He gesticulated dramatically as though on the stage in Covent Garden.
Slowly the townspeople emerged from behind their shutters, drawn to Trattoria Fiorelli by the heartrending music of Rigoletto that resounded through the still afternoon air. The girls quieted down, returning to their chairs, their heads now resting on their hands, their eyes full of melancholy. Thomas lit a cigarette and watched the scene through a veil of smoke. He thought once more of the beautiful girl he had seen on the quay and wondered why she had not come. The others were nice enough to look at—Jack was barely able to keep himself contained within his trousers—but they weren’t for him. As the crowd grew thicker his eyes searched their faces, ever hopeful that she might appear. But he was disappointed.
An old man with no teeth began to play the concertina. Rigs sang with ever more drama, his eyes filling with tears as he lost himself within the words and the music, for they gave him the means to vent his desolation without shame. The war now seemed very far away although its imprint burned upon all their souls. They would never be free from the horrors they had witnessed. Branded for life, they would carry the scars until their spirits outgrew their bodies and they joined those, like Freddie Arbuckle, who had gone before.
When Rigs finished, Thomas demanded a happy song, one with which they could all sing along. Rigs dabbed his damp face with a napkin, took a large gulp of water, and with great gusto launched into La donna é mobile…and soon the trattoria was vibrating with voices, clapping hands and stamping feet.