Churchill's Hellraisers. Damien Lewis
particular peak, unmistakeable due to its pyramidal shape, and picked it out on the map.
‘We’ll make for Mount Grammondo. There’s a full moon tonight, and we can’t miss it.’
They’d set out as soon as it got dark, knowing they had to make safe territory by daybreak. Before departure, Lees penned a short letter to Morton. He outlined the route they planned to take, but advised the press man to explore the sea-borne option, if a suitable boat could be found. That done, he sent someone to carry the note back to Pigna village.
Lees and his men prepared for the off, checking kit and weaponry to ensure nothing was loose or clanked as they moved. Apart from Lees’ Sten, Salvi and Piva also carried sub-machine guns, and Balestri had a rifle, while Dobson hefted two grenades. It was scant weaponry if they ran into any trouble. Just then the gypsy man’s wife emerged from their tent, pressing a hip flask of cognac into Lees’ hands, with murmurs of good luck.
Lees thanked her, before turning to his men. ‘No talk,’ he warned them. ‘We get through without a fight if possible. No one fires unless I give the order. Keep closed-up all the way. We are few enough to avoid being seen and we can’t afford to get separated.’
They set out. The moon was not due to rise until nine, and Lees wanted to get as far as possible under the cloak of night. Below, he could just make out the phosphorescent shimmer of the river. Their gypsy-guide led them forwards until he dared go no further. Lees pressed a bundle of Lire gratefully into his hands. That done, they flitted onwards, hugging a hedge until the road melted out of the darkness.
Lees signalled a halt. From up ahead came the tread of boots on tarmac. Lees crept on a few paces, until he spied a sentry. He paced slowly past, so close that Lees could almost reach out and touch his boots. Fifty yards further on the sentry stopped to exchange a few words in German, before turning and pacing slowly back again. It looked as if there was a guard in place for every hundred yards or so.
From his right Lees heard a new noise, cutting the still night air. The thud of hooves and the rumble of wagons, bearing a heavy load. He signalled to his party. ‘Dash across just as soon as the wagon column has passed,’ he hissed.
The noise grew to a deafening roar, as the line of wooden carts thundered closer, the horses’ manes flowing and their harnesses jingling rhythmically. Just as soon as the last was past, Lees dashed across, keeping as low as he could. Four figures flitted after him. They made the open field on the far side without any cries of alarm, and sprinted across it in pairs. Moments later they scrambled down the riverbank and were lost from view.
Just as Lees had intended, the column of passing carts had masked any noise that they had made. The river was wide but mercifully shallow. They waded across one at a time and pressed onwards into a maize field. To their right the clank of steel on steel revealed the location of an artillery position. Moments later, the roar of a gun firing split the night, the flash of the muzzle throwing all into momentary stark relief.
Monte Pozzo, the first of the wooded hillocks, was revealed in that harsh pulse of light, just a few hundred yards ahead. Keeping to the shadowed edge of the maize crop, Lees led his men on. Every now and then the guns fired a further salvo, and with each Monte Pozzo drew noticeably closer. Finally, Lees slipped in among the trees that fringed its lower slopes.
It seemed as if only a few scant minutes had passed, but in reality they’d been on the move for two hours. In another hour the moon would rise, and before them lay a second river that they had to cross. Lees hurried on. A road snaked this way and that up the side of Monte Pozzo. As Lees tried to steer a straight course, their route kept crossing it.
All of a sudden there was a clatter in the darkness. A pair of German soldiers had been freewheeling down the road on bicycles. Spotting Lees and his party, they’d jumped off, the bikes falling to the ground. As Lees dashed ahead shots rang out in the darkness. Thankfully, the German troopers were armed only with rifles, but those shots had doubtless raised the alarm. From behind, Lees heard the soldiers remount their bicycles to pedal frantically onwards.
Lees was hyper-alert for any watchers now. They reached a vantage point, looking outwards across the valley. Before them nestled the town of Torri, cradled at the foot of a steep ravine. That precipitous crevice offered the only obvious route via which to scale the mountains beyond. To reach it Lees would have to lead his men across the river, which lay just this side of the town, via a bridge. There was no other way.
As Lees scrutinised the road, he detected several glowing pinpricks of light, rhythmically pulsing in the darkness: sentries enjoying a smoke. The moon rose, large and bright, bathing the river in its light. The main question in Lees’ mind was whether Torri was occupied by the enemy. In the moonlight, it looked like a mass of shattered, shell-blasted ruins. It was just possible that the ferocity of Allied bombardments had caused the town to be evacuated.
Lees pulled his men in close. ‘We’ve got to cross the bridge. If we try to wade the river they’ll see us. We’ll have to march openly, hoping they mistake us for one of their own patrols.’
There were silent nods in the darkness.
With Lees leading, five figures stole down the hillside, before stepping brazenly into the open. They formed up as a column, turned right and began to march towards the bridge. From behind Lees could hear figures talking and laughing in German. He tensed for a cry of challenge, but none came. After three minutes of utter spine-chilling tension, they made it across the bridge without a shot being fired or even a cry of alarm.
The war-blasted streets of Torri seemed utterly deserted. Once or twice a stray chicken or pig started at their presence, sending five pairs of hands to their weapons, but they reached the far side of the ghost town without facing a single challenge. Ahead rose the lower slopes of the mountain, terraced into vineyards like a gigantic ladder. They began to scramble up, scaling one terrace after another and tripping and stumbling over the wires which held up the vines. They were reluctant to seek out any paths in case they were mined.
Directly ahead lay the bulky form of Monte Grammondo, its peak grey and forbidding. A salvo of shells burst between them and the heights, setting a copse of pines ablaze. The fire scorched and crackled, throwing ghostly shadows across the dark heights. Now and again a machine gun rasped out a long burst of fire, but it was impossible to tell exactly who was shooting at whom, or if nervous German gunners were simply unleashing upon ghosts.
Finally, the vineyards came to an end. The slopes were more precipitous now, forcing Lees to take a path that snaked ever more steeply. It was around 0200 hours when Salvi tapped him on the shoulder. He sank to the path, doubled over and in pain.
‘I can’t go on,’ the resistance leader murmured.
‘What’s wrong?’ Lees hissed.
‘My stomach. I have an ulcer. The walking must have aggravated it.’
Lees considered their predicament. He reckoned they had climbed about halfway to the heights, beyond which he figured lay the Allied front line. It would get light at six and they had to make it across by then. He allowed the resistance leader half an hour to rest, before telling him they had to press on.
Reluctantly, Salvi clambered to his feet. Lees dropped the pace a little, as they recommenced the climb. They entered a knife-cut ravine, following a faint path strewn with mule droppings. As Lees led them through, Dobson, the escaped British POW, drew level with him.
‘There’s someone following us,’ he whispered, hoarsely.
Lees turned and listened. Sure enough he could detect the faint murmur of voices from further down the narrow cleft. He had no option but to up their pace. If their mystery pursuers cornered Lees and his small party in that ravine, it would be the end of them.
A few minutes later, panting hard as he climbed, Lees stumbled over a wire strung along the track. It looked like a communications cable and it had to lead to a field telephone. As Lees stared at it, trying to catch his breath, Salvi pointed excitedly. ‘That’s no German wire! Theirs is always black.’
He was right: the strand of cable was a bright red. Still, Lees