Embers of War

RJJ Hall

Description

When opera clashes with the Battle for Italy in the dying days of WWII, who can stay alive, sane and in love? It's summer 1944. Nine months after its liberation, war-torn Naples teems with Allied troops but the inhabitants struggle with lack of food and work, and prostitution is rife.As the bitter Italian campaign enters its second year, Frank, a British officer, knows he's a lucky man. Since reopening an abandoned theatre, he is relishing the chance to stage operas to entertain the Tommies. Vermillion, an officer in the ATS, loves the independence and fulfilment of working at the theatre. And with Frank falling for her, she begins to return his feelings.But firebombs from an air raid fan the flames of Frank's memories of four years of war. Nightmares threaten to undermine him. Should he hang on in Naples? Or should he confront his fears by rejoining his former comrades as they fight their way north towards the Alps?And if Frank returns to the front, what will Vermillion do? She won't stay in Naples just waiting for his return.

Sujets

• Northern Italy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 02 juillet 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838596170
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 RJJ Hall

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks


ISBN 978 1838596 170

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To the men and women who served in the
liberation of Italy – 1943 to 1945

And to my mother – Patricia Hall (1915-2015)



Contents
Part I
– Late May 1944 –
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9

Part II
– June 1944 –
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24

Part III
– August 1944 –
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39

Part IV
– October 1944 –
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54

Part V
– March 1945 –
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68

Acknowledgements

Part I
– Late May 1944 –
Chapter 1
Captain Frank Hill wakes abruptly.
Last night, as he fell asleep, he had prayed that his luck would hold. But could it last till the end of the war?
A siren wails. He hears the bass growl of bombers overhead. Is that his answer?
Frank raises his head from the pillow and listens to the familiar din, but tonight something is missing. He sits up, stretching for his torch as his mind starts to clear. Where is the shudder of high explosives?
Damn them! The buggers must be dropping firebombs.
His watch shows 0235. He clambers out of bed and begins to throw on his uniform. The curfew applies to everyone, including officers, but that won’t stop him. If he wavers, the theatre – his theatre, where for seven months he has entertained Allied troops – could burn down.
The theatre is close to Frank’s heart. It has been his passion since October ‘43, when he reached Naples. Finding the abandoned building and getting the Colonel’s permission to reopen it, had saved his sanity after the Battalion’s drubbing on the beaches at Salerno.
Out in the street he flicks on his torch until he hears another wing of enemy planes. Anti-aircraft guns boom out a distant response. Searchlights sweep the sky, illuminating the planes and a thousand incendiaries. Frank raises his fists, aware that each stick of magnesium carries a detonator to ignite it on impact.
The bombers are heading for the docks where their targets will be the Allied supply ships and the warehouses near the quays. For the Fascists, Naples had been the port of empire; but now it’s the main port of entry for the men and supplies the Allies need on the road to Rome.
Naples has seen many raids: the Allies bombed the port when the Germans were supplying Rommel in North Africa; before the Germans abandoned the city, they sabotaged the sewers and utilities; and since Naples was liberated, it has been a frequent target for German bombers. Mercifully, as the front has inched northwards, there have been fewer raids. Until now.
Frank keeps in the shadows as a fire appliance clangs by, its crew unconcerned about his theatre. They don’t lie awake at night, worrying about its vulnerability so close to the docks.
Before landing in Italy, Frank had fought in North Africa where he often organised entertainments for the Battalion, but nothing on the scale of this theatre. Yet, as he recovered from Salerno, something drove him to stage a revue. It proved so successful that he was ordered to stay in Naples to provide daily entertainment for the troops passing through the city on their way to the front. And by keeping Frank away from the fighting, it had probably saved his life.
He hurries on. There’s a blackout of course, intended to reduce the danger from air raids, but in Naples poverty ensures greater control: few inhabitants can afford electricity.
In the darkness Frank’s boot strikes something solid. He tenses as a bottle shatters. That’s the sound of his father all those years ago, stumbling over the empties – milk bottles on the front step awaiting collection.
He freezes as glass scrunches beneath his boots. He must avoid both the Military Police and the looters who come out after every raid. Briefly he flicks on his torch; the red unblinking eyes of two rats stare back.
He sets off again, walking as fast as he dares. He would like to run but can’t afford to fall. Another fire appliance speeds past. He covers his ears as its bell resounds in the narrow street.
Frank was slow to join up when the war began. It had been different in ‘37 when he volunteered for Spain, but he had soon grown disillusioned with the horrors and treachery of that war. It was only when his wife, Maggie, was killed in the London blitz that he felt compelled to enlist again.
Somehow he had survived the brutal fighting in North Africa where he was part of the Eighth Army’s retreats from Benghazi and Gazala before Monty got a grip in the summer of ‘42. But the landing at Salerno – south of Naples – was different. Days and nights of unending bombardment on the beachhead had killed a third of his Platoon, and by the time the Germans withdrew Frank feared he was becoming unhinged.
Reopening the theatre had changed his life; even after months at the helm he finds it hard to believe. He never dreamt that one day he would run one of Italy’s great opera houses, the Real Teatro di San Carlo. In the midst of this interminable war, it feels like a miracle.
Frank knows, however, that his run at the theatre could end suddenly, if just one incendiary were left ablaze on the roof. Of course, opera houses often burn down – the San Carlo theatre itself was destroyed by fire in 1816 – but he couldn’t bear that to happen again, especially not on his watch.
Frank had fallen on his feet when he was ordered to run the theatre. He had been fortunate to miss so much of the fighting, but he doubts this good fortune can last. Tonight he senses that the war has tracked him down. Is the moment finally coming when the army will change its mind and pack him off to the front?
From the next corner, he looks down towards the docks. A blazing building stands out against the moonless sky and the pitch-black sea. Its windows glow with an inner light, like a crowded church at Christmas. Then a windowpane explodes and tongues of fire start licking at the lintels, preparing to devour the roof.
Frank watches, mesmerised, as he had watched from Ealing while the heart of London blazed. The hot air is heavy with the reek of burning and the sight of buildings transmuted into pyres raises hairs on the back of his neck. He coughs as he presses on. With the road now illuminated by the conflagration he lengthens his stride. Through the smoke rolling up from the port he finally glimpses the theatre; and with a hundred yards to go he starts to run.
He hammers on the stage door. ‘COME ON, GIOVANNI!’ he shouts in Italian. ‘HURRY UP!’
Silence. He considers drawing his pistol. When he first entered the derelict theatre, Giovanni, the night watchman, was waiting in the shadows with his rifle and forced Frank to raise his hands. Luckily, he relented when Frank offered him sufficient cigarettes.
Frank kicks at the solid wooden door. ‘GIOVANNI! PLEASE! THIS IS URGENT!’
At last he hears slow footsteps.
‘VENGO! PORCA MISERIA! VENGO!’
A bleary-eyed face appears. ‘Ah, Franco!’
Giovanni sways as his words stumble out. ‘You must be my guest. Have some wine.’
Frank glares at Giovanni, struggling to follow his Neapolitan dialect, which is hard enough when Giovanni is sober.
‘NO, G