The Silent Land

commanded Operation Pepino behind enemy lines in the mountains of northern Italy during the winter of 1944–45. Thirty-two men were parachuted in in broad daylight. Their instructions were to make themselves highly visible and simulate the actions of a much larger company to divert enemy troops who were preventing an Allied advance. The operation was successful and the Germans unwittingly diverted thousands of troops.

It was a fierce winter and there was close-combat fighting with both Italian blackshirts and German troops. Peter brought back eighteen of the thirty-two men, or, as he always put it another way—lost fourteen good men. Somehow, he was back there now, in the snow-covered Italian mountains.

Jake returned to the room. His father seemed to be sleeping now. Jake took the brandy out of his bag along with two paper cups and placed them on the cabinet. Then he sat down in the plastic chair next to the bed, his hands on his knees, watching his father sleep.

After five minutes, Peter opened his eyes and said, ‘You should contact your Uncle Harold. I loaned him a couple of thousand, years ago. You should have it. I’ve no need for it, but you should have it.’

‘Harold’s been dead a long time, Dad. A long time.’

Peter lifted his head from the pillow. ‘Really?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘Good lord. No one tells me anything. I doubt if we shall get that back.’

‘Let it go, Dad.’

Peter wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ll have a grape.’

‘I’ve washed them,’ Jake said. ‘You’ve no need to worry about that.’ He handed his father the grapes.

Peter lay back, feeding the grapes to himself, chewing them very slowly while gazing up at the ceiling. Perhaps twenty minutes went by. Then at last Peter said, ‘Where’s Charlie? I’m worried to death about Charlie.’

‘Charlie’s gone, Dad.’

‘Gone? He was here a moment ago.’

‘Dad, listen. You’re in hospital.’

‘What?’

‘Warwick Hospital. You’re getting treatment for your cancer and you’re going to be well.’

‘What?’

‘Zoe is coming to see you with me tomorrow.’

‘Zoe? Zoe’s your wife.’

‘That’s right.’

Peter dragged himself upright. It was a struggle and his face contorted as he pulled himself up. Then he looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I’ve got cancer.’

‘Yes, Dad. But you’re doing well.’

‘Liar.’

‘You’re doing good. I was just speaking with the ward sister. Look, I brought you a drop of cognac. The good stuff.’

‘Cognac. You are a star, son. A star.’

Jake stood up and poured two—this time generous—measures of cognac into the paper cups. He handed one of the cups to his father, who took a healthy gulp. Then the door swung open.

A middle-aged lady with close-cropped hair bounced into the room wielding a clipboard in one hand and rapidly clicking a ballpoint in the other. She wore a tight-fitting dark suit slashed by a wide crimson belt. There was an almost pantomime energy in the mobility of her face. ‘Hell-o, hell-o! How are we today?’

‘We’re fine,’ said Jake. ‘Thanks.’

‘That’s really great and fabulous,’ she said, ‘because I’m taking requests for WHR.’

‘Requests?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Peter bellowed at her. ‘Who the fuck let you in here?’

The mobility drained from the lady’s face. She over-focused on Jake. ‘WHR. Warwick Hospital Radio. I’m making a request list and we’ll play the requests this evening.’

‘You insufferably silly cunt!’

Jake said, ‘My dad kind of likes Sinatra. Stuff like that.’

Peter shouted, ‘Do you know the song “Me and You in a Lead Canoe”? No? Me fucking neither. You should be buried in a Y-shaped coffin. Cunt!’

‘His name is Peter Bennett and he’d like “Love Is the Tender Trap”.’

The lady wrote it down carefully. ‘Love. Is. The. Tender Trap. I like that one. Well, that’s really great and fabulous! I’ll leave you boys to it!’

Peter had his glasses on now and he was squeezing the lens-frame and wrinkling his nose in disdain at the lady in the red belt.

‘Thanks,’ said Jake. ‘He’ll enjoy that.’

Peter said quietly after she’d gone, ‘Never mind that twatting whore, come over here. I want to tell you something. Come closer.’

Jake leaned in towards the bed. Peter beckoned him still closer. He wanted to whisper something. He pressed his thumb and his forefinger together. ‘We’re out of supplies. There isn’t going to be another drop. No. Our only chance is to get across the mountain.’

‘You know—’

‘Shut it and listen. We’ll dump the Bren guns and the ammo with the partisans. The Krauts will think we’re still here. Charlie’s got gangrene and he can’t even move. I love the bloke—none finer—but you know what I’m going to have to do.’

‘No, Dad.’

‘No other way, son, no other way.’

Jake watched his father grind his teeth. Peter lay back twisting his fingers together. He was clearly in a state of anguish.

Jake cleared his throat. ‘Dad. I’ll take care of that for you.’

‘What?’

‘Charlie. I’ll deal with it.’

‘No. Not having that. Absolutely fucking not. I’m the CO around here and I’m the one who has to do it.’

‘I’m going to take care of it for you.’

‘No you won’t and that’s an order. My responsibility. Not yours.’ Peter eyeballed him and perhaps for the first time ever, Jake realised what a ferocious and determined figure was his father.

‘You can’t move,’ Jake said at last. ‘You’re laid up here. I’m going to do it with or without your permission.’

‘Don’t even think about it, sonny. Don’t even think about it.’

‘I’m going out of that door right now and I’m going to do it.’

Peter raged. Ignoring his father’s protests and all the obscenities that went with them Jake got up, went out of the room and closed the door. From behind the door he heard his father roaring, Come back here, you little shit, and the rest. Jake vented a deep sigh and ran both hands through his hair. A pretty nurse at the desk looked up at him. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the closed door for about three minutes.

Then he went back inside. His father had calmed down. He looked at Jake expectantly.

‘It’s done,’ said Jake.

‘I didn’t hear a shot.’

‘I muffled it. Charlie’s dead. It’s all taken care of.’

Peter removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Bloody good man. One of the best of us.’ Then he looked around the room again; and at the bottle of brandy that stood on the cabinet; and at the grapes; and finally at Jake. ‘Jake, what the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m visiting you, Dad.’

‘But you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be— God, I’m so confused. So confused.’

There was a tremble in his voice; a tremble Jake had never heard before. It was the first sign of emotional frailty he’d ever witnessed in his father and it lacerated his heart. He got up and made to hug him, but Peter