The Bridge Read online

  There had to be more. There was always more. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Wasn’t easy. Been traipsing around these villages for two days. Eventually got to the one down the hill here, San what’s-it-called…’

  ‘Felice.’

  ‘That’s the one. Banged on doors until I finally found someone who knew you. They pointed me here. Although not until they nearly shot me first.’

  Theo nodded. ‘Salvatore, and his wife. Good people. But I meant, how did you know where to look?’

  ‘Intelligence bods knew you were in the district, but not exactly where. They also knew you’d never agree to come with someone you didn’t know. Not voluntarily that is.’

  ‘I haven’t agreed.’

  ‘Oh, er, well… anyway, then I popped up with my report, your name was on it, intelligence sprog at Trivento sent it off to London and suddenly it’s all hands to the pumps. They’re flying us home in a Dakota, you know!’

  Rosa appeared, stooping to refill their glasses.

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘Ah, well…’ Harry gulped wine. ‘That possibility was discussed. Strictly speaking it’d be desertion, wouldn’t it? So they’d just send someone else, red-caps or whatever, to arrest you and bring you home anyway. By force if necessary.’

  ‘I’m done with it, Harry.’

  ‘Done with what?’

  ‘War. The fighting and the killing. I’ll not do it any more.’

  ‘Ah. Perhaps you could ask—’

  ‘Dovresti partire,’ Rosa murmured quietly.

  Theo shook his head.

  ‘He’s asking you to leave, isn’t he? And you should.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. It’s time, Teo.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must. You spend your days with your mind in the clouds. At night you cry out in pain and terror. You hide here with us misfits, haunted by your devils, between the horror of your past and fear for your future. This is no way to exist.’

  ‘I can’t, Rosa. Please don’t make me.’

  ‘God knows I hate to, and the twins will be heartbroken, but you must. It is the only way for you to heal.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘And you must think also of your fidanzata. Perhaps there is news of her. Clara, Teo. Perhaps she is waiting for you as we speak.’

  The sun was setting, fingers of dusty shadow creeping across the yard. Around them the spring air was already growing cold.

  ‘Can I come back?’ Tears gleamed on his cheek. ‘Can I come back if…’

  She stooped and kissed his head. ‘Of course, northern boy. This is your home.’

  CHAPTER 2

  John Frost entered the briefing room, a converted milking shed to one side of the main house, and made for his usual seat near the back. Familiar faces nodded in greeting while everyone shuffled to arrange themselves in priority order, like schoolboys at assembly. Lowly battalion commanders like him at the rear, brigade staff further forward, then the division prefects and their lackeys, and finally the crème de la crème, ‘Corps’, who sat at the front, relaxed and chatty as they waited for the head boy to appear. Everyone, he noticed, was sporting red berets, airborne wings and insignia.

  ‘From little acorns, eh?’ his neighbour said with a nudge.

  Frost nodded. ‘Indeed.’ 1st Airborne Corps, newly raised, two full divisions comprising six brigades, twenty battalions, or some fifteen thousand men-at-arms, all recruited, trained, equipped and ready to go. From scratch, in less than four years. It was scarcely believable, he mused, and a far cry from the days of Hardwick Hall and hiding in the bushes to grab recruits for a single battalion. Craning his neck, he glimpsed a tall figure sitting in front and recognized Richard ‘Windy’ Gale, his old boss from Hardwick Hall, now promoted to command the new 6th Airborne Division. As he watched, Gale turned, waved and signalled he wanted to meet later.

  And leading this mighty force? As if on cue a side door opened and to raucous applause a familiar moustachioed figure entered, tripped lightly up steps on to a dais and strode to the front. Lieutenant General Frederick Browning DSO. ‘Boy’ Browning, founding father of the airborne corps, the man who had overseen its formation, encouraged its development, nurtured its growth and secured its future as a mainstay of the Allied offensive. He’d even designed its uniform. No wonder he was popular. Grinning broadly, he brandished a newspaper.

  ‘We’re official, chaps!’ he shouted, to another round of cheering.

  Frost leaned to his neighbour. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘In The Times. 1st Airborne Corps. Officially announced today.’

  ‘Must have missed it.’

  ‘Nor does it end here!’ Browning tapped the newspaper. ‘In just a short time we’ll be raising history’s first airborne army!’

  More applause, albeit less strident, for everyone knew what he was alluding to. Much promised, much delayed, much agonized over, the long-awaited invasion of northern Europe was finally nigh. D-Day – though the word was never spoken – was coming. And thanks to Boy Browning, 1st Airborne Corps, everyone also knew, would be playing a vital role.

  Or half of it would.

  Frost listened while the briefing proper got under way. It was the fourth he’d attended in as many weeks, sitting there in that noxious-smelling barn beside the Wiltshire mansion that served as Browning’s HQ. And while his excitement over the coming invasion mounted with each briefing, so too did a nagging worry that his battalion might miss it. Each week he heard Browning and his staff describe the extraordinary magnitude of the preparations: two full army groups comprising five corps to be landed on beaches in northern France, airborne troops by the thousands to be dropped inland to secure the beach-heads, scores of individual targets, objectives and missions with code names like Tuxedo, Swordhilt and Skyscraper to accomplish. And that was just the first twenty-four hours. The timing, the complexity, the sheer scale of the plan was as bewildering as it was awesome.

  ‘Unfortunately, Operation Wastage has been called off,’ Browning announced to collective sighs from around the room. Frost too could only shake his head. To his counting, at least six ops had been proposed for his division as part of the invasion, only to be scrapped again. This latest one, Wastage, was a plan to drop 1st Airborne Division, including his 2nd Battalion, directly on to the invasion beaches in support of the seaborne troops. Frost had never liked the idea – one tiny error by the pilots and the entire division would end up in the sea, there certainly to drown. Yet the cancellation represented another disappointment for his battalion, which still had no role.

  ‘It’s frustrating, I know,’ Browning consoled them, ‘but don’t worry, we’ve earmarked you 1st Div chaps for something equally important.’

  Frost detected movement along his row and, leaning forward, saw a clerk waving a note at him. Handing it to the nearest man, the note began making its way along the line. Meanwhile, Browning was still talking.

  ‘It’s called Operation Quicksilver, and though it might appear inconsequential at first, let me assure you nothing could be further from the truth.’

  His neighbour handed him the note. He opened and read it, allowed himself a nod, then folded it into a pocket.

  Operation Quicksilver, it soon became clear, was little more than a diversion. A sham, a non-existent mission that would never happen. According to Browning, an entire fake army was being ‘assembled’ in Kent and Sussex, involving thousands of reservists and Home Guard extras, cardboard aeroplanes, inflatable tanks, dummy landing craft and vast fields of empty tents. This fictional force, called 1st US Army Group, had proper insignia and shoulder flashes, a general staff, and even a real commander, the American George Patton who was regularly photographed visiting his ‘troops’. The idea was based on a previous fake army, the 12th, which a year earlier had successfully fooled Hitler into thinking the invasion of southern Europe would be through Greece rather than Italy. This time he’d think the invasion of France was planned for the
Calais region, and so position his forces in the wrong area. At least that was the hope. 1st Airborne Division, as part of the deception, was to go to Kent and train for a massed parachute drop into Calais. A drop that would never happen.

  After the briefing, Frost went in search of Gale.

  ‘Johnny.’ Gale pumped his hand. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m well thank you, sir. If a little brassed off.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. And I do understand. But you mustn’t worry, your boys are sure to get their chance.’

  ‘It feels like we’re being sidelined.’

  ‘You’re not. Monty wants you in reserve, that’s all. In case of contingencies. Of which there are sure to be many.’ Gale nodded at a heavyset figure standing to one side. ‘You should speak to your new boss, Johnny. He’s a good man.’

  ‘General Urquhart? He’s not even a paratrooper!’

  ‘Roy’s a fast learner. Get to know him. He’ll do fine.’

  Frost glanced around. The room was steadily emptying, attendees filing out while orderly staff collected unused notes, wiped blackboards and scoured the floor for dropped scraps of paper. Secrecy, everyone was constantly reminded, was of paramount importance. ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’

  Gale sighed. ‘6th Airborne Division’s going in a few hours ahead of the main force, Johnny, that’s definite. While Roy and 1st Div is being held in reserve. I’m sorry but there it is. And that’s all I can say.’

  ‘As I feared.’ Frost nodded glumly. Then forced a smile. ‘You’re going in ahead of the main force?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you might be the first Allied general into France.’

  ‘I fully intend to be.’

  ‘Good for you, sir.’

  ‘Which brings me to another matter.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘An operation. Part of our brief. A coup de main. Another bridge, small team, company size, airborne of course, I’m to oversee it.’

  ‘I’ll do it!’

  ‘Sorry, Johnny.’ Gale patted his shoulder. ‘Browning’s already earmarked a company from the Ox and Bucks. They’re training for it as we speak.’

  ‘Then…’

  ‘The thing is, it’s an intelligence-led op, French Resistance and so on. And there’s a chap in your battalion who has detailed knowledge of the target, and is also known to the locals. We need him on the team.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Name of Trickey. Apparently he’s been on SOE ops in Italy the last few months but is due back any day. I need you to contact me the minute he reports in.’

  Frost patted his pockets, withdrew the note and handed it to Gale. ‘He already has.’ He sighed. ‘He got back this morning.’

  *

  The Dakota had deposited Theo on a breezy airfield south of Grantham. While the other passengers gathered their bags and dispersed, he and Harry waited on the tarmac beneath blustery skies, dazzled by the iridescence of the grass, and sniffing the Lincolnshire air like homecoming hounds.

  ‘Wow.’ Boulter gazed around. ‘Would you look at that!’

  ‘How long has it been, Harry?’

  ‘Three years, two months and twenty-something days.’

  ‘That’s a long time. Janice will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘I bloody hope so, I’m as hard as a chocolate frog.’

  ‘I… Pardon?’

  ‘Never mind. What about you, Trick? How long you been away?’

  He thought back. Clumping down a gangplank in Algiers. November 1942. Another lifetime ago. ‘About a year and a half. It seems longer.’

  ‘Got a girl waiting?’

  A Jeep appeared, raced across the apron towards them and squealed to a halt. ‘Lieutenant Trickey?’ the driver asked.

  Harry jerked his thumb. ‘That’d be him.’

  ‘Actually I’m not—’

  ‘Right-oh! Hop in please, sir. I’m to take you straight to 2nd Battalion HQ.’

  Theo hefted his rucksack. ‘What about Harry?’

  ‘Who’s Harry?’

  ‘Me,’ Harry replied. ‘The man who brought Lieutenant Trickey home.’

  ‘The 2 Commando bloke, now attached to 1st Battalion?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘They’re based in Melton Mowbray. Bus stop outside. Cheerio!’ He crashed gears, let the clutch out and sped off.

  Twenty minutes later he turned the Jeep on to a gravel driveway and pulled up outside an imposing stately home. ‘Stoke Rochford. Brigade HQ. Dead posh. 2nd Battalion’s on the third floor.’

  Theo plodded up a curving oak stairway, found the door, knocked and entered.

  ‘Wait!’

  An officer, a major, was standing with his back to the door, head lowered in concentration, gripping an upturned umbrella for a golf club. As Theo watched, he took careful aim and putted a ball across the carpet towards a cup.

  ‘Missed, bugger it!’ He turned. ‘Your fault!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Theo dropped his rucksack and made to salute, but the officer was striding forward.

  ‘You must be Trickey.’ They shook. ‘Been expecting you.’

  He was Digby Tatham-Warter, he explained, a recent addition to 2nd Battalion, and the new commander of A Company.

  ‘Call me Digby, everyone does.’

  ‘A Company? But where’s Major Lonsdale?’

  ‘Posted to 11th Battalion as second-in-command, lucky bugger.’

  Colonel Frost was at a Corps briefing in Wiltshire, Digby added, offering Theo a chair, while the new battalion second-in-command, Wallis, was also away. As seemingly was everyone.

  ‘Most of the boys are home for a long weekend. We’ve been twiddling our thumbs rather, weeks now, lots of training, lots of promised ops that never happen, it’s all getting a bit tiresome.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Affecting morale too. The lads keep getting in trouble, going AWOL, fights in the pub, failing to come back after leave, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Captain Timothy?’ Theo asked. ‘He was in A Company.’

  ‘Tim got promoted and transferred to 1st Battalion.’

  ‘Major Ross then. Commanding C Company.’

  ‘Ross was captured, didn’t you know?’ Theo shook his head. ‘In Italy, after Primosole, got snatched messing about behind enemy lines. He’s in a German POW camp somewhere, causing mayhem no doubt. Vic Dover heads up C Company now. Sound chap. D’you know him?’

  ‘Not really.’ Lonsdale gone, Timothy gone, Ross gone, and so many others before and since. ‘Is anyone left? From Tunisia, I mean.’

  ‘Not sure. Oh, but Doug Crawley’s back. He fought in Tunisia. Did you know him?’

  A tar-black night, creeping down from Sidi Bou with Euan Charteris and the others. Then the nightmare walk to Medjez. Crawley, blinded by a shell, was led by the arm for two days to safety. By Dickie Spender.

  ‘Yes I knew him. He was wounded.’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle now. He leads B Company. And Padre Egan’s still here – can’t get rid of the old bugger!’

  Theo nodded, overwhelmed suddenly by icy waves of memories. Memories that weren’t his, but belonged to someone else. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. His ‘uniform’ consisted of a second-hand battledress reeking of camphor and his old LRDG boots. No beret, no insignia, no lanyard, no lieutenant’s pip; he wasn’t even wearing his dog tags. He glanced down at his hands, cracked and calloused from Rosa’s fields. They belonged all right, they were real, together with the other cracks and callouses he carried. But this room? This man? This battalion of strangers…

  ‘Colonel Frost,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Won’t be back until Monday.’

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘I’ll see he’s informed.’ Digby was studying him, his expression an easy smile. ‘He asked to be told as soon as you landed.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘In the meantime, you’re to go home and get some rest. Transport’s laid on, travel warrant for the trains, some petty cash and so on.’
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  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We could stop by stores too, if you like, and fix you a proper uniform.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘As you prefer.’ Digby made to rise. ‘Then I’ll see you downstairs.’

  ‘It’s not necessary.’

  ‘It’d be a pleasure.’ He picked up his umbrella, resting it on his shoulder like a rifle, then followed Theo down to the hall. There their boots rang on flagstones, dust motes drifted from a chandelier, and through the open doorway the Jeep could be seen waiting beneath gathering clouds.

  ‘He thinks very highly of you, you know. Frost does.’

  ‘I think highly of him.’

  ‘He told me something of your record, with the battalion and, er, some of the other stuff too.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He says you’ve done more than should be asked of any man.’

  *

  By the time he reached Kingston heavy rain was falling. Trudging along Burton Street in his soaked and stinking battledress, he could only but reflect on another wet afternoon, six years earlier, when he and his mother Carla, wearily humping their baggage, had first arrived in London so full of hope and expectation. Only to have their expectations dashed to the pavement, and their only hope the kindness of a stranger.

  This time there was less kindness. No effusive welcome, no shrieks of delight, no pinching of his cheeks or ruffling of his hair. Eleni Popodopoulos, looking older and slighter than he recalled, opened the door, sank to her knees and burst into tears.

  ‘Eleni! My God, Eleni, what is it?’ He stooped to her.

  She swatted him away, one arm over her eyes like a child.

  ‘Eleni, are you ill?’

  ‘Is heart.’

  ‘Your heart? Here, let me help you.’ He raised her up and began leading her through the door. But she broke free and started flailing at him with her fists, pummelling his chest as though battering down a door.

  ‘Bad, bad, you BAD!’

  ‘Eleni, stop! What is it?’

  ‘You break my heart!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought you bloody DEAD!’

  He led her, sobbing, into the kitchen, sat her at the table and gave her water, then ransacked cupboards until he found the ancient bottle of ouzo she kept for special occasions. He poured, she drank, and gradually her sobs subsided to hiccups and sighs.