Captain Corelli's mandolin (8 page)

A guilty man wishes only to be understood, because to be understood is to appear to be forgiven. Perhaps in his own eyes he is guiltless, but it is enough for him to know that others consider him culpable and he feels the need to be explained. In my case, however, no one knows that I am guilty, and nonetheless I wish to be understood.

I was picked for the mission because I am a big man, because I had acquired a reputation for endurance, because I am reasonably intelligent (Francesco used to say that in the Army `intelligent' means `doesn't usually fuck anything up'), and because I was 'soldierly', which means that I kept my men in order, polished my boots when they were not too wet, and knew the meaning of most of the acronyms that customarily reduce our military documents to impenetrable code.

I received an order by motorcycle messenger asking me to report to Colonel Rivolta, bringing with me one other reliable man. Naturally I chose Francesco; I think I have already explained that it was my intention to use my vice as a means to becoming a good soldier. With him at my side I felt that I was capable of anything. As we were not at war it did not occur to me that I would be leading him into danger by taking him with me, and little was I to know that very soon I was to have the opportunity to demonstrate to him the quality of my heroism.

To receive an order is one thing and to obey it is another. At that time we had only about twenty-four lorries per ten thousand troops. Colonel Rivolta was fifteen miles away. To reach him we had to run five miles, ride a pair of mules for another five, and finally hitch a lift on the back of a tank that was going for repair with only the reverse gear operating. We went by going backwards, a veritable motto for the whole of the impending campaign.

Rivolta was an exorbitantly portly man who had clearly risen in the ranks by knowing the right people. He was a prodigal mine of fashionable slogans like `A book in one hand and a gun in the other', and he displayed the consummate heroism of one who sites his HQ fifteen miles away from his troops in an abandoned villa so that he can use the lawns for receptions. We in the Alpini are notorious for having fisticuffs with the Black-shirts, and this may have been a reason why I was picked for the mission; it would not have mattered very much if I was killed, since I was not automatically in line for preferral. Those who wonder why our soldiers have been ineffective compared to their fathers in the 1914 war should bear in mind that this time around it was impossible to become a senior officer by merit alone; it was done by browning the tongue.

Rivolta was short, fat, bored, and the owner of several medals from the Abyssinian campaign even though everybody knew that he and his men had stayed in one place and done nothing at all; this had not prevented him from sending home lurid reports of successful operations. They were fabulous and highly imaginative works of fiction and it was commonly said by the soldiers that his medals were for literary prowess. Also, his tongue was busy and almost perfectly brown.

When we marched into that noble, high-ceilinged room and saluted, Rivolta responded with the Roman salute. It occurred to both of us that perhaps he was mimicking the Duce, and Francesco giggled. Rivolta glared at him and probably made a mental note to have him transferred to latrine duty.

`Gentlemen,' said Rivolta dramatically, `I trust that your courage can be relied upon and that your discretion is complete.'

Francesco raised an eyebrow and glanced at me sideways. I said, `Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,' and Francesco made an unmistakable gesture with his tongue that fortunately was not observed.

Rivolta beckoned us over to a map that was spread upon a large and exquisitely polished antique table, and leaned over it. He pointed with a fat finger to a spot that was in the valley next to the one where we were bivouacked, and said, `At 0200 hours tomorrow night you two will go under cover of darkness to this point here and . . .'

`Excuse me, sir,' interrupted Francesco, `but that is in Greek territory.'

`I know, I know. I am not stupid. That is beside the point. There are no Greeks there and so they will not know.'

Francesco raised his eyebrows again and the colonel said, sarcastically, `I presume you have heard of such a thing as operational necessity?'

`Are we at war, then?' asked Francesco, and the colonel probably made a mental note to double the length of the latrine duty. The mouse Mario took the opportunity at that point to emerge from Francesco's breast pocket, and had to be pushed back down before Rivolta noticed. This added to the irreverence of my friend's mood, and he smiled idiotically whilst the colonel continued: `There is a watchtower there, a wooden one, and it has been taken over by a band of local brigands who have killed the guards and adopted their uniforms. They look like our soldiers but are not.'

He paused to let this information sink in, and continued, `It will be your task to take this tower. You will be armed and equipped by our quartermaster here, who has special supplies for you. Any questions?'

`We have two companies of Bersaglieri in that valley, sir,' I said. `Why can't they do it?'

Francesco chipped in with, `If they are merely brigands then this is a matter for the Carabinieri, is it not?'

The colonel puffed himself up with indignation, demanded, `Are you questioning my orders?' and, quick as a flash, Francesco came back with, `You did ask for questions, sir.'

`Operational questions, not questions of policy. I have had quite enough of your impertinent attitude, and I must warn you to give respect where it is due.'

`Where it is due,' repeated Francesco, nodding his head vigorously, and thereby courting further reproof. The colonel said, `Good luck lads, and I wish I was coming with you.'

Sotto voce, but clearly audible to me, Francesco muttered, `I bet you do, shithead.'

Rivolta sent us packing with the promise of medals in the event of success and a thick packet of orders that also contained maps, a precise horary, and a photograph of Mussolini taken from low profile in order to emphasise the jut of his chin. I think that this was intended to fire us up and lend rigidity to our moral backbone.

Outside the villa we sat on a wall and went through the papers. This is fishy business,' said Francesco. `What do you think it's really about?'

I looked into his beautiful dark eyes and said, `I don't care what it is. It's just orders, and we have to assume that someone knows what it's all about, don't we?'

`You assume too much,' he said. `I think it's not only fishy, but dirty.'

He took his pet from his pocket and said to it, 'Mario, this is not a good thing for you to be involved in.'

We could hardly believe it when the stores that we drew from the quartermaster turned out to consist of British military uniforms and Greek weapons. It seemed to make no sense at all, and there were no instructions for using the Hotchkiss light machine-gun. We worked it out for ourselves, but later on we concluded that perhaps we were not intended to have done so.

Francesco and I were saved by the weather in a most curious fashion. We were well prepared in advance, and crept out of our own lines at ten o'clock in the evening. Across the border we changed into our British uniforms as instructed, and then found our way over the escarpment into the next valley. At this point Francesco and I were caught up in a turmoil of conflicting moods.

I do not think that a person who has never seen action can truly understand what whirlwinds revolve inside the head of a soldier in the hours of combat, but I shall try to explain. In this case we were both proud to have been chosen for a serious military mission. It made us feel very special and important. But neither of us had ever done anything like this before, and so we were deeply afraid, not only of the physical danger, but of the heavy responsibility and the possibility that we would make a mess of it. We kept making foolish jokes to conceal this fear. The soldier also always has the fear that the authorities know more than he does and that he does not know what is really happening. He knows that sometimes the High Command will sacrifice him for some greater interest without informing him of the fact, and this makes him contemptuous and suspicious of authority. It also augments his fear.

The uncertainty of outcome makes him superstitious and he will cross himself continually or kiss his lucky charm, or put his cigarette case in his breast pocket in order to deflect bullets. Francesco and I developed the superstition that neither of us should employ the word `certamente'. We never said it once either on that mission or during the war afterwards. Francesco seemed to feel the constant necessity for confiding in his mouse, and he would cradle it in his hands and talk nonsense to it whilst the rest of us were chain-smoking, pacing up and down, gazing at dog-eared photographs of our loved ones, or rushing off to the latrines every five minutes.

We found that there is also a wild excitement when the tension of waiting is done with, and that sometimes this transforms itself into a kind of demented sadism once an action is commenced. You cannot always blame soldiers for their atrocities, because I can tell you from experience that they are the natural consequence of the inferno of relief that comes from not having to think any more. Atrocities are sometimes nothing less than the vengeance of the tormented. Catharsis is the word I was looking for. A Greek word.

Lying in the scrub in front of that nocturnal tower I felt Francesco at my side and knew that Phacdrus was right in believing that a lover is more valorous with his beloved at his side. I wanted to protect Francesco and prove to him that I was a man. I found that my love for him was increased by the thought that soon we might lose each other to a bullet.

It was just before midnight, the owls were shrieking, and in the distance I heard the mellow chiming of goat-bells. It was intensely cold, and a freezing wind had sprung up from the north. We called that wind by a lot of names, but `ball-shrinker' was probably the most apt.

At midnight Francesco looked at his watch and said, `I can't stand much more of this. My fingers are dropping off, my feet are like ice, and I swear it's going to rain. For Christ's sake let's get this over with: `We can't,' I said. `The order is not to attack until two o'clock.'

`Come on, Carlo, what does it matter? Let's do it now and go home. Mario's pissed off and so am I.'

'For you, home is Genoa. You can't go there. Look, it's a question of discipline.'

I lost the argument because in truth I agreed with Francesco and I didn't want to die of exposure in that godforsaken spot lust because we had arrived early on account of efficiency and enthusiasm.

The order had been to use the machine-gun on the brigands, but out there in the night in that lethal temperature it no longer seemed a very good idea. It was so cold to the touch that it hurt the fingers, and besides, we were not sure that we could operate it in the dark. We decided to scout nearer the watchtower.

They had a lamp up there, and we were astonished to see that there were at least ten men. We had expected three at the most. We also saw that there were four machine-guns perched on the outer railings. Francesco whispered, `Why did they only send the two of us? If we fire on them, we're dead. I tell you, it's fishy business. Since when did brigands have machine-guns?'

There was the sound of singing from the tower, and it seemed that they must have been a little drunk. It gave me the confidence to crawl forward and do a close reconnaissance, trying to ignore the pine cones that scratched my hands and the little sharp rocks that seemed to cut through to my bones. I discovered that there was a large heap of kindling and a drum of kerosene under the tower, where it would be protected from the rain. All the watchtowers had wood-burning stoves and oil-lamps, and naturally the supplies were always kept underneath them.

That is why Francesco and I not only began the attack two hours early, but did it by overturning the drum and setting fire to it. The tower went up like a torch, and we filled it with machine-gun bullets from almost directly underneath. We fired and fired until we had used a complete belt. If there were screams we could not hear them. We were only aware of that leaping gun, the clenching of our own teeth, and the horrible madness of desperate action.

When the belt ran out there was a horrifying silence. We looked at each other and smiled. Francesco's smile was weak and sorrowful, and I should think that mine was the same. It was our first atrocity. We felt no triumph. We felt exhausted and tainted.

It was Francesco who fell over the body of Captain Roatta of the Bersaglieri, who had tumbled over the railings of the tower and broken his neck. The body lay spreadeagled and twisted, as though it had never contained a life. It was Francesco who found the orders that had instructed the captain to take nine men to the tower in anticipation of an attack by the Greek Army, which Intelligence expected at 0200 hours.

Francesco sat next to me beside that body and looked up the stars. `These aren't British uniforms at all,' he said at last. `The Greeks wear the same uniform as the British, don't they?'

I too looked at the stars. `We were supposed to be killed. That's why we were told to go without identification discs. We are Greeks attacking the Italian Army, and we're supposed to be dead. That's why they only sent two of us, to make sure that we couldn't win.'

Francesco stood up slowly. He raised his hands in a small gesture of anguish, and then let them drop to his side. He said bitterly, `It looks as though some stupid bastard wants to provoke a little war with Greece.'