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RGB: The rest of the AAR will be in much the same style, although it will jump back and forwards in time and space in later chapters
JimboIX: Vicious battles can make even the most loyal soldier question the reason behind their deployment
Kurt_Steiner: But rains of bullets can fall anywhere...
The next update should follow soon
JimboIX: Vicious battles can make even the most loyal soldier question the reason behind their deployment
Kurt_Steiner: But rains of bullets can fall anywhere...
The next update should follow soon
May 14th 1910, Syracuse
Smoke filled the upstairs room, billowing upwards from half a dozen cigars as Carmela collected the empty wine glasses. Downstairs, the place was filling up with khaki clad English soldiers as most of the locals grumbled under their breath and made their way to the exit. Although in one corner, she noticed as she carefully walked down the stairs, a group of young men refused to move and continued to laugh and enjoy their wine. ‘Carmela my darling!’ cried one as he saw her enter the room. ‘Another bottle, we’re still far too sober.’
She smiled and nodded. She liked Luigi and his friends, although most of the neighbourhood regarded them with contempt. All in their twenties, they had refused to join up at the outbreak of war, and had stayed in the town when it had fallen quickly after the initial British landings. They were lazy, unemployed most of the time, some said they were communists because of this. Her father let them owe him for their drink. He tolerated them because they amused him or perhaps, thought Carmela, they reminded him of himself in days gone by.
*
Upstairs the Major, Carmela’s father, was entertaining friends or at least those he was forced to associate with through social necessity. He was settled comfortably in his own chair as the conversation zipped back and forth across the table.
‘The British cannot last much longer, after they finally called off their offensive last month,’ exclaimed Councillor Russo confidently. ‘Soon they will tire of this, then leave the French to hang. They are already overstretched and have just committed forces to Greece, and yet the famous Royal Navy cannot even force a landing on mainland Italy. My only concern,’ he confided in his peers, ‘is this damned insurgency, for if attacks carry on increasing at the current rate we can expect British reprisals on honest citizens. You gentlemen know I am not one to suffer fools gladly, and these damned socialists and communists are the biggest fools of all.’
Pietro Rinaldi was the next to speak. He wore his police uniform as he always did when in public, as it guaranteed him the protection of the British and supposedly the respect of the townspeople. ‘You shouldn’t worry yourself about them, councillor. We will win the war with our armies and without the help of terrorists. If the Greeks can hold back the British, there is no reason to think that we shouldn’t.’
The third man to speak, an overfed landowner named Scafidi, became animated at the policeman’s comments. ‘I am surprised at your complacency officer. These scoundrels have no respect for authority, or property, whether English or Italian. You should arrest them all before you become a target yourself.’
‘And help the British?’ replied Pietro incredulously. ‘You know how little respect they have for Italian property when they force our own people out of our taverns and cafés. Not to mention the food from your own estates you have been forced into supplying.’ Unspoken guilt hung in the air. These men were all, in their own way, collaborators with an occupying force neither they not their people had any love for. They deflected their self-loathing onto each other as the evening wore on.
*
At their table downstairs, Luigi and his friends enjoyed their latest bottle. They were drunk enough to be uninhibited in the presence of enemy soldiers but not yet drunk enough to do anything they may regret.
Luigi, always a flamboyant and dashing character, stood up a little unsteadily. ‘A toast my friends, to Sicily. For as I have said many times before I would not leave her shores even if the hounds of hell themselves were overrunning us,’ this was said with a glance in the direction of some British soldiers, who were as oblivious to Luigi as they were to the language he was speaking. ‘For her wine is the most beautiful, and her women the most delicious!’ This last sentence was greeted with a faithful roar of laughter from the rest of the table, although it was most likely a slip of the tongue, as Luigi himself looked perplexed before regaining his composure.
‘And here’s to the tireless efforts of our town council and our police force,’ cried a burly friend mockingly (they all knew Luigi’s elder brother was a policeman), ‘Without whom we would not be able to entertain such a wide variety of troops from the British Empire. Every single damned night!’
*
The incessant roar of Sicilian laughter carried itself across the wide interior of the café, to where newly promoted Sergeant Archie Barry sat in silence. He had been paying close attention to the table of young Sicilian men, for lack of anything better to do. Although he couldn’t understand the language, the mannerisms of carelessness and joy reminded him of pubs and workmates back in Liverpool. Reminded him of Eddie O’Hare.
On the first day of the January attack at Castelbuono, Eddie had been found in the frontline trench. His face had been an unrecognisable mass of red and grey material, and they had identified him from the letters he kept in his pocket. He hadn’t even made it a yard out of the trench before falling victim to Italian machine gun fire. Since then Archie and Will Craddock had become slightly closer although they still rarely talked for long, especially not about that bloody January day. But Craddock was the sort of eternal pessimist that Archie could feel himself turning into, and in any case he found himself almost despising the strangers who came to replace the friends they both had lost.
Archie watched the familiar serving girl flirting with her countrymen across the room, communicating in a way he would never be able to. The strange sounds of a foreign language exacerbated the jealousy he felt towards the men who he didn’t know, and he felt a strange passive hatred build inside him. What do these men know of life, and death? How can they ever have felt true sorrow or pain? They weren’t there, they don’t know.
*
The Major took another drag of hit cigar as he half-listened to Councillor Russo’s inane babble about the war.
‘I’m saying the French can’t last much longer,’ the man was saying arrogantly, ‘This Alpine offensive will break their backs. Caught between our boys and the Germans, they’ll be damned lucky if there’s any of them left in a month, eh Major?’
The Major sighed inwardly, in no way pleased that he had been addressed directly. No doubt the idiot was excepting the most experienced soldier in the room to back up his wild claims.
‘Councillor,’ he began slowly, ‘I today received a letter from my sole surviving son. As you know, he is in the frontline in France. He is hungry, and cold, and he sees his men grow more weary every passing day. I have lost one son, and fear I may soon lose another. Although I must say I agree with Renato,’ he replied to Scafidi’s earlier comments positively. ‘We should move against the extremists here. Why should we allow them to create more death on our doorsteps? Oh, would that this war were over.’
A brutal war for all parties involved. I assume the Americans opted out of this scenario? Good update.
Yep. The Italians must be suffering even more than the British, somewhere in the Alps.
A short update follows just to round off the day, I would've made it longer but I thought this was an appropriate place to stop
‘Even if I knew who all these who you call communists were, the consequences of arresting them would be disastrous,’ explained Pietro Rinaldi. He was becoming increasingly tired of the ignorance that those in his company possessed about the practicalities of policing. Politicians and landowners and businessmen, he thought contemptibly, they all think that the law should serve their own ends. ‘Imagine if, as a result of putting one or two behind bars, we became the enemies of the terrorists instead of the British. Who do you suppose would be the premier targets in Syracuse. Perhaps Giustino Russo, the most prominent anti-communist politician in the town? Or maybe Renato Scafidi, the biggest landowner in the area?’
‘And you think that these idiots have enough support to pull that off?’ cried Russo.
‘No, that is exactly my point. Why risk so much to squash another fringe group? People will forget about them when the war is over anyway,’ said Pietro.
The Major seemed to be convinced by the policeman, but Scafidi was bubbling with rage.
‘Honestly Rinaldi!’ he cried, ‘Sometimes I have my doubts about you. Whose side are you on anyway? I think you might be a communist sympathiser. After all, you never move to investigate your useless brother’s activities.’
Luigi was, as usual, eliciting constant laughter from his friends but soon grew bored with it. He excused himself to go outside for some air, lighting up a cigarette as he went. The night was cold and almost cloudless, the noises of the city drifted to the rooftops where they vanished into the darkness. He stared at the lit end of his cigarette and watched it merge with lights from the windows of the houses before taking another drag. Luigi had a lot to think about.
Archie nearly lost his footing as he stood up to leave, not realising how much he had drunk on his own since Will had left. There would be hell to pay on exercises in the morning, but at least the walk back to billet would sober him up. Steadying himself against an adjacent table, he saw Carmela the serving girl go outside and moved to follow. Outside he breathed in air free of smoke and smell of alcohol, glanced around and saw her talking in her native tongue to the silhouette of another man. He sighed and sat down in the shadows.
‘You should go back inside, your friends are always so lost without you to amuse them,’ said Carmela to Luigi.
‘Yes, I amuse them so much they rarely take anything I say seriously anymore. I suppose I brought that on myself didn’t I?’
‘Not at all, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she spoke softly and took his hand in hers, ‘They just need some relief. You know what the rest of the town thinks of them.’
Luigi laughed bitterly, ‘Yes, and me as well. They call me a troublemaker. My brother warned me again today not to do anything stupid. But this whole damn town is stupid. They almost seem to enjoy the occupation.’
‘As do you sometimes,’ Carmela countered. ‘Don’t you enjoy bating the soldiers? I can see it in your eyes, everyone calls you lazy but you come to life when there’s important work to be done. Besides, my father…’
‘I’m not saying anything against the Major,’ said Luigi hurriedly. ‘He lets the English drink here but he has no choice, he does more than enough to compensate. He has helped us. He mustn’t think we’re not grateful. It’s just the rest of the people… there’s no fight in them… the war hits us harder and they just get beaten down.’
‘Can you blame them? Not everyone is as committed as you.’ She kissed him on the cheek in a friendly manner, and before she pulled away he took her jaw gently in his hand and guided her lips towards his. They kissed, not passionately, but neither did Luigi get the feeling it was completely unwanted.
From the shadows, Archie watched them go inside.
‘Even if I knew who all these who you call communists were, the consequences of arresting them would be disastrous,’ explained Pietro Rinaldi. He was becoming increasingly tired of the ignorance that those in his company possessed about the practicalities of policing. Politicians and landowners and businessmen, he thought contemptibly, they all think that the law should serve their own ends. ‘Imagine if, as a result of putting one or two behind bars, we became the enemies of the terrorists instead of the British. Who do you suppose would be the premier targets in Syracuse. Perhaps Giustino Russo, the most prominent anti-communist politician in the town? Or maybe Renato Scafidi, the biggest landowner in the area?’
‘And you think that these idiots have enough support to pull that off?’ cried Russo.
‘No, that is exactly my point. Why risk so much to squash another fringe group? People will forget about them when the war is over anyway,’ said Pietro.
The Major seemed to be convinced by the policeman, but Scafidi was bubbling with rage.
‘Honestly Rinaldi!’ he cried, ‘Sometimes I have my doubts about you. Whose side are you on anyway? I think you might be a communist sympathiser. After all, you never move to investigate your useless brother’s activities.’
*
Luigi was, as usual, eliciting constant laughter from his friends but soon grew bored with it. He excused himself to go outside for some air, lighting up a cigarette as he went. The night was cold and almost cloudless, the noises of the city drifted to the rooftops where they vanished into the darkness. He stared at the lit end of his cigarette and watched it merge with lights from the windows of the houses before taking another drag. Luigi had a lot to think about.
*
Archie nearly lost his footing as he stood up to leave, not realising how much he had drunk on his own since Will had left. There would be hell to pay on exercises in the morning, but at least the walk back to billet would sober him up. Steadying himself against an adjacent table, he saw Carmela the serving girl go outside and moved to follow. Outside he breathed in air free of smoke and smell of alcohol, glanced around and saw her talking in her native tongue to the silhouette of another man. He sighed and sat down in the shadows.
*
‘You should go back inside, your friends are always so lost without you to amuse them,’ said Carmela to Luigi.
‘Yes, I amuse them so much they rarely take anything I say seriously anymore. I suppose I brought that on myself didn’t I?’
‘Not at all, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ she spoke softly and took his hand in hers, ‘They just need some relief. You know what the rest of the town thinks of them.’
Luigi laughed bitterly, ‘Yes, and me as well. They call me a troublemaker. My brother warned me again today not to do anything stupid. But this whole damn town is stupid. They almost seem to enjoy the occupation.’
‘As do you sometimes,’ Carmela countered. ‘Don’t you enjoy bating the soldiers? I can see it in your eyes, everyone calls you lazy but you come to life when there’s important work to be done. Besides, my father…’
‘I’m not saying anything against the Major,’ said Luigi hurriedly. ‘He lets the English drink here but he has no choice, he does more than enough to compensate. He has helped us. He mustn’t think we’re not grateful. It’s just the rest of the people… there’s no fight in them… the war hits us harder and they just get beaten down.’
‘Can you blame them? Not everyone is as committed as you.’ She kissed him on the cheek in a friendly manner, and before she pulled away he took her jaw gently in his hand and guided her lips towards his. They kissed, not passionately, but neither did Luigi get the feeling it was completely unwanted.
From the shadows, Archie watched them go inside.
I think someone wants to aggravate tensions. And poor Archie will be caught in the middle.
August 3rd 1910, central Sicily
Rumours have a way of defying the iron laws of army censorship. The Liverpool regiment was sandwiched between Irish units in the line, and with a massive proportion of its own members of Irish decent, this particular rumour was deadly. Soldiers clustered around copies of an American newspaper that had somehow invaded the trench with more vigour and determination than any Italians had managed. Suddenly discipline melted and debate took hold. The fear of the officers was palpable. In Archie’s dugout reports were being read aloud.
‘Three more rebel leaders were executed yesterday, after courts-martial lasting less than two days… British soldiers launch night time raids on houses across Ireland… Dozens of IRB members forced to flee in exile… Sporadic fighting continues in parts of Dublin… British patrols attacked by locals…’
There was heated argument, the indignation of soldiers who identified with both sides in the Summer Rising. Even amongst the most strongly nationalist Irish soldiers were still aware on some level that they too, were occupiers of someone else’s land. As the flowering of debate rippled along the frontline the soldiers of the British Army began to question the wisdom of their own mission. While Archie was merely confused, Craddock was indignant regardless of a lack of Irish ancestry.
‘How many wars are we fighting? Italy, France, Greece and now Ireland’s a battleground. Give them their country if they want it, who are we to stop them?’
‘That’s bloody treason Craddock, you’re a British soldier,’ growled Sergeant Reeves. ‘If you were in Dublin you’d be their enemy. Do you think they’d care how sympathetic you were? We’re soldiers of the Empire, you agreed that when you joined up.’
‘Yeah, and I was told we were defending liberty against the aggression of the Huns, so how come we’re the invaders in Italy? I’ve never even seen a German soldier.’
‘So you should shut your mouth. There’s those of us who’ve been in it from the start, we saw them in France, didn’t we Archie? And Byrne was there. We’ve been in twice as long as you, and we keep fighting, eh Byrne?’
They looked to where Corporal Byrne lay on his bed, staring at the wall silently. Nothing seemed to get his attention, from the lice in his clothes to the shouts of his fellow soldiers.
‘What the hell’s the matter with him these days? Never bloody talks,’ cried Will contemptuously. ‘He’s been like a bloody hermit since Castelbuono.’ It was true, Byrne had retreated into his own world for the most part, although he still followed and gave orders easily enough. Occasionally he was sick for no apparent reason, they had put it down to the heat which affected many of the men. But there was something worse about Byrne, in the way his eyes seemed dead, windows into a tired soul. He had lost more friends than anyone in January, so it was perhaps understandable that he was wary of making more. Or perhaps the matter was out of his hands. He began silently shaking as argument continued to rage around him.
I think Byrne is shell-shocked, and Britain looks overwhelmed. That's a lot of fronts.
JimboIX: Yes, poor Corporal Byrne isn't having a good time of it. Then again neither are the others. As for Britain they're not finished that easily, remember this is based on a Vicky game after all 
RGB: It remains to be seen whether they go from mere discontent to all out mutiny.
I've got the rest of Chapter 1 in my head so with any luck updates should be fairly regular for a while from now on.
RGB: It remains to be seen whether they go from mere discontent to all out mutiny.
I've got the rest of Chapter 1 in my head so with any luck updates should be fairly regular for a while from now on.
Great story, I can almost feel the futility the soldiers are experiencing and I can just about smell the gunpowder.
Oh, and you've been awarded the Weekly AAR Showcase ! Congratulations!
Oh, and you've been awarded the Weekly AAR Showcase ! Congratulations!
Just a short update follows, hopefully after this they will be more regular in length. Thanks to TeeWee for the award, it's really encouraged me to keep writing.
August 17th 1910, Syracuse
Carmela could not share in the optimism that was running through the streets of the town. They were saying that the British couldn’t get their troops to attack, they were saying they could only just manage to keep them in the trenches. But the Major wasn’t convinced, and Carmela reasoned he knew more than most who were probably letting their wish for an end to the war heighten their hopes somewhat.
On the other hand, the Major had his own reasons for being pessimistic. He had lost his other son, Carmela’s half brother, in mid-July. Domenico had been part of the failed attack on Marseille, and had now joined his older brother in the war cemeteries. The letter had said he had fought bravely and was killed for the defence of the Kingdom. The Major had scoffed, then sighed, then said very little for the last month as the condolences of the town’s residents had been sombrely received. Carmela could see the life draining out of him every day, as it had been for years now, but much quicker. She feared she may yet lose another relative to the war.
From the last she had heard of her three younger half-sisters, they were all still safe with their husbands’ families in Naples. Yet Carmela, always being free spirited and the favourite of all the Major’s children from three different mothers, had stayed to help her father oversee her brother’s business, even when her father had refused to leave Syracuse in the face of British invasion. She knew her father was more ill than he let on in public, being a well respected figure in town. But rather than fear for herself if anything should happen to him, she feared for the safety of others who the Major’s approval might be protecting.
Another thing was preying on her mind. She hadn’t seen Luigi for days now. He and some of his friends had ceased in their regular visits, to the relief of most of the other customers. With every hour that passed and every table she waited, Carmela felt more alone as around her the continent tore itself apart.
August 17th 1910, Syracuse
Carmela could not share in the optimism that was running through the streets of the town. They were saying that the British couldn’t get their troops to attack, they were saying they could only just manage to keep them in the trenches. But the Major wasn’t convinced, and Carmela reasoned he knew more than most who were probably letting their wish for an end to the war heighten their hopes somewhat.
On the other hand, the Major had his own reasons for being pessimistic. He had lost his other son, Carmela’s half brother, in mid-July. Domenico had been part of the failed attack on Marseille, and had now joined his older brother in the war cemeteries. The letter had said he had fought bravely and was killed for the defence of the Kingdom. The Major had scoffed, then sighed, then said very little for the last month as the condolences of the town’s residents had been sombrely received. Carmela could see the life draining out of him every day, as it had been for years now, but much quicker. She feared she may yet lose another relative to the war.
From the last she had heard of her three younger half-sisters, they were all still safe with their husbands’ families in Naples. Yet Carmela, always being free spirited and the favourite of all the Major’s children from three different mothers, had stayed to help her father oversee her brother’s business, even when her father had refused to leave Syracuse in the face of British invasion. She knew her father was more ill than he let on in public, being a well respected figure in town. But rather than fear for herself if anything should happen to him, she feared for the safety of others who the Major’s approval might be protecting.
Another thing was preying on her mind. She hadn’t seen Luigi for days now. He and some of his friends had ceased in their regular visits, to the relief of most of the other customers. With every hour that passed and every table she waited, Carmela felt more alone as around her the continent tore itself apart.
Wonder what happened to Luigi.
Safe in Naples? That's not too far from Sicily...
Depends on how well the Italians defend.
Safe in Naples? That's not too far from Sicily...
Depends on how well the Italians defend.
Has Luigi gone under ground? I like your use of the town, it allows for more than just a soldier's perspective- broadens the scope. Let's hope Luigi's alive and well.
You can feel how Carmela feels distanced from her own community. The people she feels closest to seem to be outside the community too: Luigi and Archie.
I do wonder where Luigi will turn up next.
I do wonder where Luigi will turn up next.
RGB: You're right about Naples. And I will say that the city has a special significance for many Italians in this timeline.
JimboIX: The next update should illuminate us all about Luigi's whereabouts...
TeeWee: Yes Carmela is a good charcter to write. Future chapters will help explain why she feels out of place.
Black Baron: Thankyou very much, and thanks for commenting!
Thanks for reading everyone and an update should follow shortly.
JimboIX: The next update should illuminate us all about Luigi's whereabouts...
TeeWee: Yes Carmela is a good charcter to write. Future chapters will help explain why she feels out of place.
Black Baron: Thankyou very much, and thanks for commenting!
Thanks for reading everyone and an update should follow shortly.
August 20th 1910, Syracuse
Every day was busy for Pietro Rinaldi. Between meetings with the British military authorities and investigations into the black market trade infiltrating the town, policing had become much more tiring, and interesting, in wartime. Morning was drifting lazily into afternoon and Pietro, having just taken an earful from an ignorant British colonel via an incompetent interpreter, was in a bad mood as he walked through town to his headquarters. It was about to get a whole lot worse.
*
This was a main street, and quite busy with pedestrians. One of them moved with a determined look, barely taking notice of the crowd around him and yet managing to blend seamlessly in. Certainly to the two British sentries at the nearest corner, he was just another Sicilian making his way home for lunch. Sentry duty was boring but less dangerous than frontline work. The soldiers were told not to mix with the locals, but they hadn’t been told exactly what it was they were supposed to be looking for. This resulted in a lot of rather bemused detached British patrols across the island, and fed resentment of course.
After standing for hours in a Mediterranean summer, a soldier’s concentration could fail him easily. A man reaching under his jacket for a weapon could go unnoticed, even as he stepped to the edge of the crowd to get a clear shot. And after the sound of the bullets had rung out across the street, it would be too late.
Three shots. Two dead British soldiers. One cry of ‘Long live the revolution!’ and the gunman was gone.
*
The western outskirts of Syracuse, where a British company marches towards the town. Weary from the heat, weary from the war, under the disapproving gazes of Sicilians from small open windows. All in perfect step, officers on horses like a scene from a military textbook.
Then two explosions in quick succession, from grenades thrown from unknown windows, and the column scattering, and the screams of the wounded. The rattle of a machine gun for a few blistering deadly seconds and then silence. Seven dead Englishmen as the smoke clears.
*
Luigi stared from the top window of a nondescript house near the town centre. If they had predicted correctly, the British knee jerk response to the initial incidence would see soldiers running down the street outside to help their wounded comrades. Luigi was ready to join his own comrade across the street in producing a deadly crossfire when they did. He settled down and waited.
He was conscious of the effects of his decisions on his family, and the possible consequences for Carmela and her family too. These considerations had affected all his thoughts in the past few weeks, yet he was still here with his gun, waiting for the British. Why? It wasn’t he was sure, from ideological conviction. Luigi’s grasp of politics was fairly poor, although he knew what he thought to be right and wrong. The occupation was wrong, the war was wrong, and so opposing them must be right. Was it from a desire to see his country free? He had no great love for its institutions. Perhaps the reason was much closer to his own mind, a longing to prove to himself that he wasn’t the useless younger brother that others saw.
Khaki figures at the edge of his vision jolted him back from self-contemplation. Half a dozen British soldiers ran down the street, fanning out as they went. Wait for them to go past, thought Luigi. His finger tightened on the trigger, his gaze settled on the street. Then ear-splitting shots rang out, bullets ricocheted off the cobbles. Shit, Luigi silently cursed. Too early comrade. The soldiers stopped, ducked into doorways. One identified the window that the hostile fire had come from; Luigi was still unknown to them, but he knew the plan. Once they stop, once they have time to look round, get the hell out.
*
The whole police station was in chaos, the shouting blocking the sounds of gunfire that rippled across the city. Pietro had given up trying to restore order. They hadn’t been targeted, they had no orders from the British to assist if soldiers came under attack. There were a good number who would desert or defect on being given any such order anyway. Wrestling with his own divided loyalties, the senior police officer thought of his younger brother. ‘Too soon Luigi,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Too soon. They’re too strong.’