The trip to North Africa was not like the cruise Mac had taken on the Serpa Pinto. There was no gym, no badminton courts on deck, no dainty lounge chairs, nor were there fine dinners. There was a bunch of sweaty men, sleeping five high in hanging chain-linked bunk beds, stressing over what was to come. And yet, the camaraderie that developed between these men was extraordinary during their ten-day trip. Coffee in the canteen, cigarettes on deck, talk of sweethearts back home, dreams of what the future would bring after the fighting. The war in the desert was ending, but they all knew that Italy was on the horizon, and if not Italy, then somewhere perhaps even more menacing.
Mac had been informed by Foster Dulles that, at that very moment, the Joint Chiefs of Staff of both the United States and England, along with Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt, were deciding in which direction to go next after Africa and Sicily. The upcoming Trident Conferences in Washington, D.C., Williamsburg, Virginia, and Shangri-La in Maryland were intended to bring the minds together, but the minds were still diametrically opposed. The United States wanted an immediate cross-channel attack on the Axis as the only way to ultimately end the war, by taking the fight to the heart of Germany. The British wanted the Allies to go from Sicily to Italy, attacking the soft underbelly of the Axis, and thus, diverting German troops from the Balkans and France. Both sides were adamant in their positions and would stay so until a compromise would be reached at the conference between the heads of State. The Allies would push on into Italy but would prepare a trans-channel insurgency to be ready in the spring of the following year.
By the time Mac got to Algiers to discuss his mission with the Army Chiefs, the die had been cast. Sicily, he was told, would be breached by July of 1943, irrespective of the final decisions made as to a cross-channel attack, while Italy itself would follow, the timing to be determined. Mac was told that he was to be sent to northern Sicily in late January, and that he would have six months to organize the resistance to be ready for a July landing. Mac had indicated that he had made arrangements to stay in Palermo, for the time being, while he branched out over the island with different groups of insurgents. He would bring his own short-wave radio, to be hidden on the property of Don Corelli, and he would assume a position as one of the Don's men.
In the last week of January, Mac was parachuted into northern Sicily in the dead of night, landing on the beach near the villa of Don Corelli. He made his way to the villa, where he was welcomed as a prodigal son, to a midnight feast prepared by Lena, with enough red wine and cigars to finish the night by early morning. Mac had the blessing of Don Corelli, and that would go a long way towards his being able to accomplish his mission. He set up his short-wave radio in the loft of the garage, with no way to get up there without putting up a ladder that was on the floor of the garage amid the vehicles of Don Corelli.
Domenico greeted Mac like a brother, and he insisted on being part of any sabotage Mac had in mind. Mac had been given a list of bridges that needed to be destroyed before the landing, but that would have to wait until closer to the date. In the meantime, Mac would pose as one of Domenico's bodyguards, and travel the countryside checking on the Don's holdings, while they simultaneously checked on the fascist troop placements in preparation for a landing.
The fascists were not going to be caught off guard, as they long knew that the African coast, a mere one hundred miles away, would be a perfect incursion point into the mainland Europe. And yet, just as Mac had witnessed a year before, the fascist troops were concentrated in the middle of the island, off the coastlines, almost inviting the Allies to land on the beaches of southern Sicily. There were now more troops shoring up the coastal villages, but the strength was still centered in the mountainous region, hoping to fight the Allies with their backs to the sea.
Mac and Domenico visited the towns with the bridges that needed to be made impassable, taking in a cup of cappuccino, a light lunch, or perhaps a glass of wine at an outdoor café. Everyone would doff his hat to the baby Don, out of respect for his father, but knowing full well that someday soon Domenico would be the boss. The man traveling with Domenico became well known and accepted by both the Sicilian people and by the troops harbored in the region. From time to time, they would be stopped, but only so long as it took to find out that one of their men was Don Corelli's son. Mac, within the months following his parachuting in, had become a fixture in northern Sicily.
Weekly, at the same time and day, Mac was instructed to radio his handlers, to relate what he was seeing, and to secure any new orders. As the spring was about to turn into summer, these radio transmissions were expected each evening at the same time. The message was clear. The landing was imminent.
The first week in July, Mac was told to begin his operations, in preparation for a landing in the following week. Mac and Domenico, along with their minions, spent the week on nightly sojourns to set the explosive charges on the girders of the designated bridges, each to be exploded upon the landing of troops on the southern shore. On July 10th, the fireworks began, as the first troops landed in Gela and Licata. Mac and Domenico went from bridge-to-bridge lighting the fuses of the explosives they had previously set.
When they had gotten to Corleone, the word was out that there were saboteurs blowing up the bridges across the center of Sicily, and there were troops waiting there for them. Mac told Domenico that he would create a diversion, while Domenico was to light the fuses. Mac settled in the center of town, where the wedding procession had gone by a little more than two years ago, and he shot off his rifle into the air. The troops standing by the bridge turned in his direction, and he began to run. As he was being chased among the old buildings of Corleone, an explosion was heard, and the sound of twisted metal falling to the riverbed was heard through the streets. The soldiers chasing Mac turned to run back towards the bridge. As Mac began his circular route back to his vehicle, a lone soldier stood in his path, his rifle trained on Mac. The man yelled “Arresto,” as he raised his rifle towards Mac's head. With the flick of his wrist, Mac had a knife come down into his hand from his shirtsleeve, and in one motion threw it at the soldier, hitting him in the heart.
Mac was devastated, as he had never killed a man. But he knew it was either the soldier or himself. He pulled the knife out of the dead soldier, he wiped it off on the man's uniform, and he made his way back to Domenico, and the vehicle, with a heavy heart. Domenico was elated at their success, but Mac was silent.
“What's wrong, Tommaso? We did good, no?”
“Very good, Domenico; but I had to kill a man.”
“The first is the hardest, my friend. It was him or you, no? You did what you had to do.”
“Yes, I suppose. Let's get back to the villa. I must radio in our success. They will be looking for us now. Be careful!”
“I know the side roads, Tommaso. Don’t worry. They would not dare come on our property.”
By the time the two men got back to the villa, there was a Gestapo field car in the gravel driveway. Mac and Domenico pulled their car into the open garage, and Mac checked to make sure there was no incriminating evidence anywhere to be found. Mac was happy to see the ladder still on the floor of the garage, allowing him to presume that his well-hidden short-wave radio was still secure. The two men exited the rear of the garage, and walked confidently around the side of the villa, coming off the lawn onto the back patio. Don Corelli was seated in his customary chair, while the young Gestapo agent had a Lugar pointed in his direction.
“Welcome home, gentlemen,” said the Gestapo agent to Mac and Domenico. “It seems you have been very busy today!”
“We were watching our Army kick the bejesus out of the Allies,” lied Domenico to the man in black uniform.
“Oh, yeah, where were you that you could see that?”
“Down by Gela,” said Mac, knowing where the Allies were supposed to land.
“There is no way you would be able to get down to Gela, with all of the bridges blown.”
“Well, we got there just fine. It was getting back that was a problem. We had to cut to the west of Corleone, through Marsala to get back.”
“You are lying to me!” yelled the Gestapo agent. “Tell me the truth, or I will kill the old man.”
“Oh, I do not think it smart to threaten the life of Don Corelli, sir,” said Mac. “Do you know who he is?”
“I don’t care who he is. In fact, I will show you I don’t care,” yelled the Gestapo agent, as he raised his gun in the direction of Don Corelli's head.
“Grandpa,” yelled young Franco, sitting on the patio stairs. “Grandpa!”
Without even thinking, Mac flicked down his arm, allowing his knife to come to rest in his hand, as the Gestapo agent first looked at the young boy, then to Mac in shock at the quickness of his movements. Before the man could react, Mac raised his arm across his chest, throwing the knife at the Gestapo agent with severe prejudice, it lodging in the neck of the officer before he could scream for help. The German slumped to the ground, gurgling from his throat, as the will to live left him. Mac grabbed the Luger from the dead man's hand, and he walked out of the front door, as the Don and his son looked on with amazement, Franco in horror. Mac proceeded to walk down to the field car, where there were two young Gestapo agents leaning up against the vehicle. Mac neatly disposed of each with a bullet to the forehead of both men from the barrel of the luger he had picked up before they could react, dropping them in their place.
Mac returned to the villa, with the smoking gun in his hand. He removed the knife from the neck of the Gestapo agent, and he looked at the Don.
“Don Corelli are you alright?” asked Mac.
“You saved my life, Tommaso. I am grateful and honored. We have to get rid of the bodies. Domenico, tell Roncallo to bring them to the seawall. Get someone to drive their vehicle into Palermo and leave it by the brothel. We will dump the bodies at sea. No one is to ever know that they were at this house.”
“Don Corelli, if you could give me the use of a boat, I will dispose of the bodies. I need to leave here, before I endanger any of you again. I will take the boat to Salerno and get a friend to drive me to Rome. I must get to the Vatican. I will leave immediately. Let me get my radio, and I will say so long, for now.”
“Tommaso, take my fastest boat,” said Domenico. “You are a brave man, my brother. You not only saved my father's life, but you acted to protect my son, as well. You will always have a brother in the House of Corelli, Tommaso Martini!”
“Thank you, Domenico. Please, stay out of harm's way. The Americans and the British will be pushing up through Palermo within days. I am going to leave you a letter to give to whoever is in charge, and I will reach someone on the radio so that they know you are friends. I love you, my brother. Franco, take care of your papa, and your mamma. Your grandpa can take care of himself, I would think,” said Mac with a smile at the old man.
“Come here, Tommaso,” said Don Corelli, reaching up to Mac.
The old man put his hand behind Mac's neck, and he pulled him down, giving him a hard kiss on both cheeks.
“God speed, my son!” wished the Don. “Be careful.”
“You as well, my Don. Your help has been appreciated. I will make sure that my president knows what you have done for both your country and for mine.”
Mac got his things together, but before he left, he made a final transmission from his short-wave radio. He filed his last report, as to what he saw and heard, and he closed the radio with a flourish.
“To the men along the southern coast, I will see you in Rome!”
Mac got on the swift sloop of Domenico Corelli, along with three dead bodies, for the trip to the mainland. Somewhere along the way, the only occupant of the boat was Mac himself, as his three passengers took a swim somewhere in the Tyrrhenian Sea, along with Mac's radio. Mac drifted by moonlight into Salerno in a rubber dinghy, leaving behind the boat of Domenico Corelli, moored outside of the harbor. As he floated into port, he went through his things for the telephone number of Gia, his trusty cab driver friend. Arrangements were made to meet Gia by the Salerno train station for a quick trip up the coast.
An hour passed as Mac waited outside of the train station. There was no sign of Gia. Every cab made his heart skip a beat when it did not stop. By noon after the evening he had left Villa Corelli, as he was ready to give up on his friend, Mac saw Gia approach slowly in his cab. Mac could tell something was not right by the dour look on Gia's face. He turned to run, but it was too late. Italian soldiers surrounded him, their rifles pointed in his direction.
“I’m sorry, boss,” said Gia, without getting out of the cab, or offering any other explanation.
“Signore, you will come with us,” ordered an officer.
Mac was taken into a windowless room in the rear of the Salerno train station, where he had pulled his shenanigans two years before. He was put in a hard metal chair, his back to the wall, his hands lashed behind his back. A burly officer, with his uniform shirt busting across his prodigious midsection, came into the room. The soldier immediately smacked Mac across the face, leaving a red mark the size of his hand, before saying anything.
“Talk, Americano!”
“What would you like me to talk about?” asked Mac in Italian, with a belligerent attitude.
The man hauled off and smacked him again.
“Talk, Americano!”
“What would you like me to talk about, sir?” asked Mac again, trying to shake off the sting from the slap.
Smack, across the face, once again
“Talk!”
Mac did not answer. He just glared at the man.
“What are you doing here in Salerno?”
“I am visiting my friend Gia.”
“Where did you come from?”
“I live in Rome.”
Smack, across the face.
“That is not what I asked you, smart ass.”
“I came from Rome, where I work at the Vatican. What is your problem?”
“You are the one with the problem, Signore.”
The man walked out of the room, leaving Mac to think about his plight. He was left in the room alone for what seemed to be an hour, before someone came back in. It was not the same burly man.
“Signore, you must realize that it is in your best interest to cooperate, at this point.”
“I sincerely do not know what you are looking for. Contact the Vatican. Ask for Father Leiber. He will tell you who I am.”
“No, Signore, you will tell us who you are, and what you are doing here in Salerno. If not today, then perhaps tomorrow. If not then, then when you are ready. We will take you somewhere you can think about it.”
“Where am I going? You have no right to hold me!”
“You are lucky we didn’t shoot you; that is what they wanted to do. I convinced them that you could be a wealth of information, which is the only reason you are still alive.”
“I should be grateful, but I have nothing to say, Signore. Do with me what you will, but it will change nothing.”
“Perhaps PG21 will loosen your tongue. Take him away, said the man, to the soldiers in the room with him. Sit him with the other smart-ass prisoners for a while, and we will see how tough he is. By the way, I am keeping your knife we found on you. Very interesting piece of equipment; do you know how to use it?”
Mac was silent, knowing full well that it was time to keep his mouth shut. He was led to a military train to Chieti, the site of the infamous Campo Prigioneri di Guerra Number 21, known as P.G. 21, to the east of Rome in Abruzzo, about twelve miles from the east coast of Italy and the Adriatic Sea. He was not mistreated on the way, but his face was still sore from where he had been hit a half a dozen times by the burly officer. He was kept handcuffed on the train, forced to sit in the baggage car, along with a number of other detainees, and the soldiers transporting them. He tried to strike up a conversation with the Italian soldiers, but no one would respond.
Mac was obviously concerned, particularly as no one knew where he was. He knew Allen Dulles would find him, but when? He was concerned for Carla, who would be undoubtedly beside herself when his letters stopped coming.