Renzo Crespi is a young Italian soldier serving in Italian-occupied Corsica during World War II. The locals aren't always pleasant with the occupying troops, particularly a young woman by the name of Adrienne Santi. Adrienne is the granddaughter of the we
The Ibex Trophy
By John Cammalleri Salvatore CammalleriiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 John Cammalleri and Salvatore Cammalleri
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-2625-8Chapter One
Arrival in Corsica
"Crespi, I need you in my cabin—now!" Captain Benelli's raspy voice startled Renzo Crespi, a twenty-year-old private, as he peered over the railing of the ship, watching the activity on the docks below.
Renzo never expected to see Corsica, never had any desire to leave his hometown of Agrigento, Sicily. The war changed his plans, as it did for so many young men around the world. The Italian army took him from his premedical studies in January 1942, and he was eventually assigned as an infirmary overseer of a light artillery company. It was part of the two army divisions, the Friuly and the Cremona, which were sent to occupy Corsica, along with other branches of the Italian military. Eighty-five thousand Italian troops were sent to an island with fewer than three hundred thousand inhabitants.
On the night of November 10, 1942, he sailed with his fellow soldiers from the port of Livorno, Italy, aboard one of the vessels that formed an impressive flotilla of transport ships and warships under the command of Admiral Vittorio Tur. The seventy-mile crossing had been safe and uneventful, except for the billowy waves that battered some of the men to intense seasickness all night long.
Until then, Corsica had just been a name on a map for the lanky young soldier, having no special distinction to him beyond its being Napoleon's birthplace. When morning came, they were safely anchored at the Port of Bastia. Renzo was on deck, along with many other soldiers, observing what awaited them. The port itself, filthy and smelly, was antiquated and congested. A large part of the pier was covered with donkey and horse dung. The smell from that, combined with the stench of dead fish floating above oil spills, the fumes of their ships' engines, and the foul odor of rotten seaweed, contributed to the nausea of several of the young men, who needed to go back below to vomit.
Renzo scanned what lay before him. Tall trees, leaves aflame with color under the bright morning sun, bordered a large square bustling with activity. A network of crooked streets and alleyways stretched mazelike from the square as far as he could see. They were lined with apartment houses, shops, and government buildings, many covered in faded and peeling blue, green, or red paint.
From the far side of the square, a church stared down on him. It was an impressive Baroque structure, with double towers outstretched to a blue sky. It seemed that it couldn't care less about the shipload of soldiers who still were unsure as to what their mission was all about. The church bells were silent, and its clock on the northern tower was no help to the villagers who wanted to know the time—the hour hand was missing. The huge white stone cross in the center of the church's triangular roof was the only thing that gave Renzo some comfort—it was as if it were an indication of a silent welcome from God. Renzo was a devout Catholic, and it made him slightly more at ease in a strange and potentially dangerous land.
Renzo's visual exploration was abruptly ended when Benelli called his name—Captain Giancarlo Maria Francesco Benelli wanted to see him immediately. As pretentious as the captain's name sounded, it was legitimate, exactly as it appeared on his birth certificate, and it was how he referred to himself. His soldiers, however, had a shorter name for him. Because of the captain's peculiar raspy voice, which sounded as if he had a handful of sardines perpetually stuck in his throat, they called him il rospo, the bullfrog. He was a career man; a balding, paunchy, bachelor of fifty; the only son of a wealthy Fascist family who boasted close ties with the Italian nobility. He liked to wear a monocle most of the time—he didn't need it for his vision, but he believed it made him look more intelligent and sophisticated.
By the time Renzo entered Benelli's cabin, the door of which had been left open, the captain was staring out the porthole with clenched fists on his waist, looking like a Roman centurion. The click of the door's latch as Renzo closed it made Benelli turn around wild and fast.
"My back is killing me," he growled. "Do you have the camphorated oil with you? I need a rubdown."
"No, sir," Renzo answered, standing at attention. "Everything is in the ambulance, and the ambulance is stored in the hull with all the other vehicles." The captain's unexpected and strange request puzzled Renzo. He could not conceive how the only thing his commanding officer was thinking about at this time was the need to relieve his chronic backache.
With a reassuring smile, the captain took a half-empty bottle of camphorated oil from a pocket of his small knapsack. "I didn't think you would. Here," he said, tossing the bottle to Renzo. "We have plenty of time."
"Aren't we going to disembark soon?" Renzo asked.
"Not for a while," the captain said with a shrug. "Admiral Tur and Colonel Farina have gone ashore with a delegation to negotiate the terms of our occupation with the French authorities." He looked out of the porthole once more and snapped, "Come on now! Let's get going." He began to peel off all the paraphernalia he wore. The binoculars were first, followed by the German cameras that always hung from his neck. He then removed a leather pouch containing charts and maps. The black leather belt on which his pistol was securely clipped came after that and lastly, his upper garments, which he deposited with meticulous care on the mate's bunk bed. Finally, bare-chested, he straddled a massive maple chair, his pudgy hands gripping the backrest and his head resting on his crossed arms, leaving a meaty torso half-covered with coiled black hair exposed to Renzo.
Renzo began his work, as he had many times before. He was used to these requests: the captain's backache was an ongoing torment, and Renzo was happy to give his captain some relief and put him in a good mood. Benelli obviously was disappointed because all the rigorous training on beachhead maneuvers that the company had gone through in the past few months was for naught.
One of the captain's many desires was to be able to show off his gallant heroism in action, as he'd told Renzo during previous sessions. Benelli opened up to Renzo often—his tensions disappeared with the comforting massages, along with any discretion. He wished to be given, at least once, he'd said, the opportunity to lead his company onto a battlefield so he could prove his indomitable courage and draw the attention of General Headquarters regarding his wide knowledge of warfare technique, which would guarantee him a promotion to major. Regrettably, his skills would not be needed now, and he was infuriated. As the captain ranted this time, Renzo felt he was facing an eruption of Mount Etna.
"We're an elite company in a strong regiment, one of the best in the nation," the captain continued as Renzo firmly kneaded the muscles in his back, "as good as any of Germany's men. We're well armed, physically and psychologically prepared, and ready and willing to sacrifice everything and to take any risk."
"Yes, sir."
The captain cleared his throat and then, lowering his voice, confided to Renzo, "This Corsican mission is folly. We should be put to better use, but who will listen? There was no good reason to change things."
The captain, now somewhat relaxed and comfortable with...
