The Bridge Read online

  THE BRIDGE

  Robert Radcliffe

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  A letter from the publisher

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Standing Bear Ltd, 2019

  The moral right of Robert Radcliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781784973902

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781784973919

  ISBN (E): 9781784973896

  Typeset by Divaddict Publishing Solutions Ltd.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For Kate

  CHAPTER 1

  A little further and he came to another village, barely a ramshackle cluster of cottages and barns clinging to a hillside. He mopped his brow, squinting up at a brassy noon sun, then entered, following narrow cobbled alleyways to a tiny piazza with a stone water trough and a whitewashed chapel bearing the legend ‘San Felice’. He sat, filling his water bottle from the trough and massaging his ankle. A rooster crowed, nearby sheep stirred in a pen, and somewhere a dog started barking, but the piazza was empty of human life. Fled the area, he guessed, gazing around, or simply hiding indoors fearful of strangers, as in every village he visited. Pulling the crumpled photo from his pocket, he rose wearily from the trough and approached the nearest door.

  Twenty minutes later and having gained nothing but hostile stares and head shakes, he knocked on a door in a narrow alleyway, to have it opened by a grey-haired woman of about forty.

  ‘Scusi, signora,’ he began in his accented Italian, but after the merest hesitation she swung the door in his face. Instinctively his boot jerked forward, wedging the door ajar, for in that moment’s hesitation, that fractional hiatus, he glimpsed something he’d not seen all day. Recognition. Of the face in the photo. And the fact that she was now cursing him furiously and shouldering the door and kicking at his foot like a madwoman told him for certain she knew who it was.

  ‘Stop!’ he pleaded. ‘Cessare! Finire!’

  ‘Tedesco murderer!’

  ‘Tedesco? Me? No! I’m—’

  ‘You’re Gestapo, I can smell it!’

  ‘No, signora, you’re wrong, I’m— Ow! That’s my bad foot!’

  ‘Then get it out of my door!’

  ‘No, but listen…’

  A gun barrel appeared in the gap, a British one, he noted, Lee Enfield, old but well oiled. Then the wooden stock, gripped firmly in two large and hairy hands.

  ‘Step back,’ a gruff voice ordered. ‘Right now, or I shoot you dead.’

  He wrenched his boot free and stood obediently back, hands raised. Mad kicking women were one thing, menacing husbands with rifles quite another. The door opened wider and a middle-aged man appeared from the shadows, dark and swarthy, hefting the gun in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Not what you think, signore, I assure you!’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m… Well, I’m a friend.’

  It took another ten tense minutes to convince them, and in that time the rifle never left his chest for a second. Using his pigeon Italian and the photo, and the other documents he’d been given as bona fides, and electing wisely not to inflame the situation further by offering the bribe money he’d also been issued with, he recited his story, answered their questions and explained his mission, repeatedly and unwaveringly, until finally they looked at one another and exchanged a dubious nod.

  ‘Very well,’ the man warned grimly, ‘but if you’re lying, and the slightest harm comes to anyone up there…’

  ‘I’m not, and it won’t, I assure you.’

  ‘But if it does, I will hunt you down and kill you like a dog.’

  They gave him water to drink, an onion to chew on, vague pointing directions, and sent him on his way. The path was long, steeply uphill, and in the warm spring sunshine he was soon breathless and sweating once more. His foot too became troublesome and he paused frequently to rest it, gazing up towards the distant hills for signs of human habitation. None appeared until after nearly an hour, when the path began to level on to a narrow plateau, and became pockmarked with farmyard jumble: rusting buckets, coils of wire, an ox plough. Then a badly painted sign appeared warning strangers to keep away, and suddenly two hunting dogs on chains leaped up from the grass, furiously pulling on their tethers and snarling like wolves. He gave them a wide berth, left the path and struck out in a wide arc which took him into dank chestnut woods smelling of leaf mould and humming with flies. At one point he closed to the forest’s edge to glimpse a huge bull penned in a field. It tossed its head and stamped and snorted, and he knew he must be drawing near. Sure enough, ascending further on to a higher plain, the trees began to thin at last, bordering a sloping field of freshly sown maize. To one side, a second field had been newly marked out, and the coarse soil roughly turned ready for working. In it a man laboured, bent over, painstakingly clearing stones into piles by hand. Dressed in simple farmer’s garb of serge trousers cinched with string, a collarless white shirt, corduroy waistcoat and cap, he moved slowly and looked much slighter and older than he should. Then he stood up to stretch his back and, doffing the cap to dab his brow, tilted his face to the sky, head cocked, as though listening.

  And then there was no doubt at all.

  My name is Lance Corporal Harry Reginald Boulter and this report is written by me April 27 1944. My birthday is March 12th 1915 so I am 29 years old. I live at 58 Oakley Road, Huntingdon, I am married to Janice Rose Boulter, we have no children. I first joined the army in 1938 as a private in 1st Battalion Royal Berkshires based in Reading under Col. Dempsey. In 1939 the battalion went to France with the BEF and fought at Dunkirk where we had bad casualties, but was rescued on 3rd June 1940 and returned by ship to Folkestone. After that we was stood down so I applied to join a special services unit and after being accepted in the autumn of 1940 was sent to 11 Special Air Service Battalion where I trained as a paratrooper at Ringway Airport near Manchester. A while after that we heard of a special op that was asking for volunteers and so I put my name forward without thinking. A while later I was interviewed by Major Tag Pritchard who was i/c the op which was to blow up an aqueduct in Italy. After the interview I learned I had been accepted and met the others in the team which was called X Troop including section leaders Capt Daly and Capt Lea and Lt Deane-Drummond who was intelligence officer. There was seven officers in all
and forty or so ORs I believe including a number of sappers from the Royal Engineers plus two interpreters one called Picchi and one called Trickey. Picchi I heard later was executed by the Italians. Anyway we flew in for the mission which was called Operation Colossus on Feb 10 1941 but unfortunately I broke my ankle when I landed and so played little part in the mission which was partly successful, the aqueduct being blown at one end but not completely destroyed. Anyway our orders was then to march sixty miles cross country and get picked up at the coast but there was no way I could do it, so was left behind. Maj Pritchard I want to testify was very nice about it but said that orders was orders and we all knew any injured got left behind. Private Trickey I want to testify was specially kind, he offered to help me but Maj Pritchard said no and I agreed as I would only hold everyone up. Private Trickey did promise to get a note to my wife Jan which he did I learned much later for which we are both very grateful. Anyway the others all left and I stayed behind at the aqueduct. Next morning Italian soldiers arrived in strength and though I fought them off best I could, I soon ran out of ammo and had to surrender. After a spell in hospital during which my ankle was badly set I eventually was sent to Sulmona POW camp where I met the rest of X Troop who had all been captured before they reached the rendezvous. We stayed at Sulmona POW camp two and a half years until September ’43 when the Italian army surrendered. During that time Private Alf Parker and Lt Deane-Drummond escaped separately and I believe made it home. Anyway a few days after the Italian surrender we got up for roll call and found the guards had all run off and the gates left open so we just walked out. We all split up then, some stayed put to wait for the Allies to arrive, some went north to the Italian ports, while I decided to head south and make for our lines. This took some months and I had some adventures on the way, sleeping rough and living with partisans, I even went on a couple of raids with them, anyway I spent most of last winter living in a hay loft in a village near Chieti. Then when spring came I headed south again, until I could hear gunfire and artillery getting nearer, eventually sneaking across into Canadian held Allied lines near Trivento. This ends my report.

  The officer slowly lowered the page.

  ‘That’s, ah, that’s certainly quite a story, Lance Corporal.’

  ‘God’s truth, every word.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Holding it between finger and thumb like a discarded tissue, he turned the sheet over, examining its creases and stains. ‘Which unit did you say you were in?’

  ‘X Troop.’

  ‘X…’

  Boulter rolled his eyes. ‘X Troop, 11 Special Air Service Battalion, 2 Commando. It’s written right there!’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘That’s not my problem!’

  ‘Actually it is.’ The officer shot him a warning glance.

  Boulter slumped back, arms folded, waiting while the man reread his story. Yet again. The latest man that is, the third or fourth at least, after the Canadian perimeter guard, then the Canadian red-cap, then the Canadian major, then a blindingly stupid captain of the Irish Guards, then this one – a chinless wonder of a second lieutenant, about twenty years old by the looks of him and straight from Oxbridge into the Intelligence Corps. Smartly turned out, Boulter couldn’t help noticing, with shirt and tie beneath a battledress jacket adorned with unit flashes and divisional insignia. How things had changed in the British army, he mused, in his three years away from it. Then again maybe not. Still the same old officer bullshit. Ducking suddenly, he glanced up as two Spitfires thundered overhead, heading west towards Monte Cassino. In seconds they were gone, and the thunder faded to a hum. Still waiting, he looked around the tent, a typical army canvas-sided affair, with flaps for a door, a camping cot, table and chair for furnishings. And an armed red-cap standing outside.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  The lieutenant folded the sheet and, taking out cigarettes, offered them across the little table. ‘Not at all.’

  Boulter lit one then pocketed the pack. ‘Then what?’

  ‘You’re under guard, for your own protection as well as ours.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means there are all sorts of people wandering the countryside hereabouts, hundreds probably, and many find their way through to our lines. Some, like you, are escaped British POWs, or say they are. But some are deserters, some fifth columnists, and a few, unquestionably, are enemy agents posing as British POWs.’

  ‘Are you calling me a bloody deserter!’

  ‘No, Corporal, it’s just that we need to be absolutely sure whom we’re talking to.’

  ‘You’re talking to me, Harry Boulter, you have my word on it.’

  ‘And I believe you. But unfortunately we must verify it, through the proper channels, London, your former regiment, your, ah, special ops unit, and so on. Which could take a day or two.’

  ‘But I’ve been here three days already!’

  ‘I know. So to speed things up, I’m asking you to tell it to me again.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Everything. From when you joined up, to when you arrived here three days ago. Every last detail. With dates, places and names. Especially names, as many as you can remember. We’ll then type it all up into a proper statement, send it off, and have you on a ship home in no time.’

  ‘And how bloody long is all that going to take?’

  ‘Shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks.’

  But it wasn’t a couple of weeks. Just two days later the lieutenant was back, ducking under the flap, waving papers and gabbling excitedly about friends in high places.

  ‘What friends?’ Boulter asked incredulously.

  ‘I can’t say. But high enough to get you an air ticket home.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true. Forget weeks rolling round a troopship getting torpedoed by U-boats. They’re going to fly you home in a Dakota.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘I told you, I can’t say!’

  ‘Strewth! What’s a Dakota?’

  ‘The height of luxury and comfort. Fast, too; it’ll have you home in a day…’

  Boulter shook his head. ‘Blimey.’

  ‘… just as soon as you complete a little job for them.’

  *

  As casually as possible, Theo replaced the cap on his head and bent once more to the task of sorting rocks from the tilth. He was being observed, of that he was now certain. First warning had been the distant barking of the dogs. Then had come the telltale roar from Bruno the bull a while later. Finally the glimpse of movement at the edge of the woods confirmed his worst suspicion. What he could not be sure of was how many were watching, and more importantly who. But it didn’t matter, his carelessness had allowed strangers on to the farm and that was unforgivable. Now he must correct the situation.

  Deeply ingrained procedures from half-remembered training courses came to him; instinct did the rest. First essential was to lead his quarry away. Straightening slowly once more he rubbed his back as though in pain, then began to wander across the field, unbuttoning his trouser fly as he went, all the while monitoring the movement in the trees. Just one person, he soon sensed, was following inexpertly along. So much the simpler. Entering the woods a hundred yards ahead of the man, he broke immediately into a sprint, bending double and moving swiftly along the rat runs and deer tracks that criss-crossed the forest floor. In just a few minutes he was behind his prey and moving stealthily forward, stooping momentarily to gather a fallen branch. Vaguely he wondered what should follow next; he only knew that protecting Rosa and the twins transcended all other considerations. Soon he could hear his man tramping breathlessly through the trees. A minute more and he could see him.

  It was swiftly over.

  Running forward and leaping up, he smashed into the man’s back using his whole body’s weight. The man sprawled forward with a shocked grunt; Theo was astride him in a second, and in another had the branch braced across his neck.
>
  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded quietly in Italian. The man sputtered and choked. ‘Answer me now.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Trick!’ Boulter gasped. ‘It’s me, for God’s sake. It’s Harry!’

  *

  They walked back down to the farm together.

  ‘You’re limping,’ Theo remarked. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘Yes, you bloody lunatic!’ Harry grinned. ‘No, it’s the ankle. Never set proper. Plays me up sometimes.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’

  They arrived at the cottage and Rosa appeared, casting sidelong glances and suspicious scowls until Theo introduced Harry as a ‘safe friend’. Then the twins came up, first Vittorio, nodding and grinning shyly, and finally Francesca, who accepted Harry’s hand with a frosty nod, then turned away, as if already sensing what was coming.

  ‘She seems a bit anti,’ Harry murmured.

  ‘They’ve learned to be cautious.’

  He carried chairs out into the late-afternoon sun, Rosa brought wine and olives and the two men seated themselves in the dusty yard among the ducks and chickens.

  ‘Lovely spot, Trick.’ Harry gazed around.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘A few months.’

  ‘Farming and that.’

  ‘That’s right. Who sent you, Harry?’

  ‘Intelligence bods back in Blighty. Top brass too. I’m to bring you home.’

  ‘Did they say why?’

  ‘You’re wanted, I suppose.’

  ‘Was there a message?’

  ‘No, just that they want you back and, er, and that your dad’s sick. Dying, in fact. He’s asking for you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry and that.’

  Victor. The father he never knew. Who’d disowned him even before he was born. The only message he’d received was the letter in Cairo. Written nearly a year ago and asking for money. Now he was asking for his son.