Can't Catch Camillo: Camillo Ricchiardi, #1

By Felipe Kirsten

Camillo Ricchiardi can't help treating foreign wars like swashbuckling adventures.

If Winston Churchill wasn't in chains, the young reporter may have penned a scathing article about his captor's reckless sojourn with the Boers: underdog farmer-warriors fighting for their independence on African soil. Camillo, an Italian military maverick, seems unfettered in his ego-driven journey to become a household name—wreaking havoc behind enemy lines in what's fast becoming Britain's most embarrassing conflict of the nineteenth century.

But Camillo's luck can't last forever. Britain is rewriting the rules of traditional warfare, and the Boers are becoming desperate to maintain their advantage. When tasked to assemble an elite legion of Italians skilled in bridge bombing and guerrilla tactics, Camillo puts his best hand forward. He only serves his bulletin-perusing audience—those seeking the weekly wish fulfilment they won't forget in three lifetimes. Camillo must quell mutinies, bounty hunts and romantic desires in his thrilling quest to discover his physical and mental limits—at his persistent and ever-nearing peril.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felipe Kirsten
• Release date: Dec 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781990959042

Book preview

Something for You to Find your Way…

View more wartime maps at https://angloboerwar.com/other-information/16-other-information/2006-maps

1

Winston’s Threshold

Winston Churchill wanted to be a war hero; the kid’s political prospects depended on it.

The twenty-four-year-old correspondent for The Morning Post in London hooked a leg over the armoured side of the death-trap—a brown, rattling serpent of a train, with open-air carriages for daily reconnaissance and bristling rifle tips protruding from its dripping sides. When Winston’s other leg was over, he hung down using his strong arm and dropped with a small plod onto the muddy tracks.

Winston wiped his wet face, turned to face the simple station platform, and plodded towards it. Inspecting a doused campfire near the telegraph post was the commanding officer in charge of that morning’s expedition—Captain Aylmer Haldane, an old acquaintance of Winston’s from their tenure on the Sudan front. Haldane’s expression was that of concern as he nudged a balanced log with the tip of his boot, letting it crumble into wet cinders.

Captain Haldane! called their own telegraphist, who jogged past Winston to the officer. Colonel Long’s sent an update from Estcourt!

Good news, I hope? asked Haldane. Paul Kruger’s signed terms of surrender? No—this war’s still ongoing? Very well, let’s see what he says. Churchill, come over here!

Winston reached Haldane and tucked his hands into his damp pockets. Haldane took the note from the telegraphist, sheltered it from the drizzle, and read out the message.

Remain at Frere in observation, guarding your safe retreat, announced Haldane before he swallowed and frowned at Winston. A bit late for that now.

Carry on, Winston implored.

Haldane stretched his neck in a small circle and focussed on the page.

Remember that Chieveley station was last night occupied by the Boers. Do not approach.

Haldane folded the note and passed it back to the telegraphist.

"Remember? he glowered. When did he tell me this? Look at this place—it’s filthy; cups over here, trousers over there! Of course, they’ve been here! Churchill, did you see them on the hillside as we approached?"

They must have numbered in their thousands, replied Winston. Hard to miss.

"We were hard to miss in this bloody death-trap! How many of us—two hundred on this reconnaissance mission? Less? And the Boers are well behind us now! How are we going to get back without being shot?"

If a fight’s in order, nodded Winston before he cleared his throat, we must be ready.

Haldane sighed and wiped the droplets from his face.

Fine… Morrison, send a message back to Long. Inform him of our position and say we’re on our way back to Estcourt immediately. Definite signs of hostile visitation at Chieveley station. The Boers are inching over the Tugela River. Tell him I patiently await that army Buller’s bringing from India. Quickly, Morrison… Come now, Churchill.

Winston followed Haldane back to the armoured train and Morrison, their telegraphist, jogged to the front. The commanding officer hoisted himself up and over the side of the carriage—initially at the front when heading north, but now at the rear for their southbound return. Haldane hung a hand over the metal side and Winston gripped it, allowing the captain to heave him up. Winston pressed his chest over the edge and toppled in; the other officers lowered him down safely.

Let’s see how fast this piece of junk moves, muttered Haldane as he clicked a button repetitively to signal for the driver to move.

Close to a minute after Winston climbed in, a tall column of steam puffed from the central locomotive carriage. Steadily, the armoured train chugged back across the rainy landscape and between the grassy hills in the British colony of Natal—southeast Africa.

Shortly before the death-trap reached Frere, Haldane grew anxious and clicked his button several times to call for the driver to stop.

What are you doing? asked Winston.

Haldane pointed at the downward curve in the tracks ahead and the prominent ridges overlooking it. He peered through his set of binoculars.

If I was a Boer, he said, I would lay a trap right in front of us.

As they spoke, the armoured train slowed and gradually hissed to a halt.

So, we’re just going to wait? Winston asked.

Not quite, said Haldane.

The commanding officer passed the bincoluars to the correspondent.

Go scout for us at the peak of this hill here, won’t you?

Why me, Haldane?

It’s my knee, Churchill; you know that. You were with me in Sudan when—

Have you forgotten about my shoulder? Winston growled as he lifted his Mauser C-96 pistol. That’s why I have this damn thing!

No trouble getting over the edge with an injured shoulder, my friend, sighed Haldane.

He patted Winston’s right shoulder and the young correspondent winced.

I am the commanding officer on this train, Haldane affirmed, and I am ordering you to take my binoculars and scout for Boers at the top of this hill. Now.

Winston glared up at the drizzling sky, then down to Haldane. He bit his bottom lip, took the binoculars and shuffled past khaki-dressed soldiers to the edge of the carriage. Two men helped hoist Winston up, and he clambered over the top again and plodded down into the mud. He ambled away from the train and scaled the hill beside the tracks.

At the top, Winston brushed his fingers through his damp hair and lifted the binoculars. He scanned the ridges for signs of the enemy. Unable to spot any, and with the lenses getting blurred from the rain, Winston sighed and wiped them with his coat.

A piercing whistle screeched from the train. Winston turned and saw Haldane standing on the box in the rear carriage in order to be seen. He waved ferociously and blew his whistle again.

Churchill! he bellowed. Churchill, they’re here! We need to leave!

Winston raised the binoculars and scanned the ridges again.

I can’t see them from here! he cried back.

Churchill, listen to me! Haldane screamed. "Get back into the train and let’s go!

A column of steam hissed up from the locomotive carriage and the death-trap chugged southwards. Winston lowered the binoculars and darted down the hill.

Haldane! he shouted. Haldane, wait for me!

Hurry, Churchill! the captain replied. Run faster!

Winston slipped on the wet grass but quickly regained balance. He stumbled down the slope towards the moving train—clutching the binoculars tightly. At the bottom, Winston raced down the tracks in pursuit of the fleeing reconnaissance company.

Haldane, you bastard! shouted Winston. Slow down!

We can’t! Keep running, Winston!

Haldane pulled his body higher and hung over the backside of the snail-paced armoured train. He stretched a hand down to Winston as he caught up. The correspondent scaled the metal side and raised his strong arm. The captain gripped it and tugged.

Almost there! shouted Haldane.

The officer pulled Winston with both arms until he could grip the edge. Haldane continued to pull Winston up the back of the moving train until his stomach slipped over and he fell. Three soldiers caught Winston, and they lowered him.

With his gaze up at the sky for less than a second, Winston saw a projectile zoom overhead. Immediately afterwards, a bright yellow light ripped past from the same direction—blinding before the backdrop of the deep blue clouds.

Winston’s feet impacted into the floor of the carriage with a clang, and he glanced skyward again. Streaks of yellow filled the sky—welcoming a dozen small white flashes followed by two larger ones. The bright lights then ushered in a giant ball of white smoke that blasted into a cone—or a comet—with an echoing bang. Shrapnel showered the surrounding hills.

As bright blasts echoed overhead, Boer snipers joined in a resounding chorus. Winston gripped his pistol and glanced at Haldane’s rifle. Both men listened. The bullets pinged against the train’s metal shell.

It’s a trick… Winston mumbled.

Say that again! Haldane shouted.

It’s a trick! he repeated. We’re moving too fast!

We’re not moving fast enough! rebuffed Haldane.

We need to slow down! urged Winston. Press the button; warn the driver! We’re moving downhill at full speed—if we get around this bend and they’ve—

A tremendous jolt knocked Winston and the soldiers off-balance. It threw every man in the rear carriage of the nicknamed death-trap off their feet. Winston’s head smacked against the metal floor and felt the vibrating carriage grind to a deafening halt.

2

Camillo’s Conceit

Camillo Ricchiardi peered through his binoculars down at the armoured train’s collision. Speeding around the downhill bend, the metal snake smacked into the rocks piled between the tracks and the guide rail. The sticks of dynamite—which Camillo and his four fellow Italians planted—exploded in the rain, derailing the two front carriages and forcing the first to catapult and tumble down the hill. The Boer marksmen—standing beside the thirty-four-year-old Italian with an impressive beard—showered the trapped British soldiers with bullets.

The collision flung dozens of khaki soldiers out of the train; the tumbling front carriage crushed some, and others lay dead on the tracks—mutilated by the powerful explosion. The second carriage overturned on the tracks, blocking the central locomotive engine and the two rear carriages. Camillo clapped in self-congratulation.

"Dynamite, generale, Camillo boasted to Louis Botha—the Krugersdorp Commando’s Boer leader—in English. It’s a marvellous innovation, perfected by Italians!"

Botha lowered his binoculars and nodded; seemingly unimpressed. He wiped his wet forehead, turned, and faced the hundreds of Boers lined down the back slope of the ridge.

Bring the Pom-Pom! Botha bellowed in the Boer taal.

The Dutch-descended farmer-warriors—most of whom wore civilian clothing—sprung into action. Each carried a Mauser rifle imported from Germany and rode their own horse. Camillo stood aside as a group of Boers heaved the small autocannon—a Pom-Pom—to the top of the ridge. He smirked, looked over his soldier, and gestured for Guglielmo Martinaglia—another Italian—to join him at the top.

"Take a look, amico, said Camillo in Italian as he passed Martinaglia the set of binoculars. Our dynamite worked."

Quite a mess, remarked Martinaglia after he peered through the lenses. What’s that one doing?

Camillo squinted down at the wreckage.

"Fammi vedere," he ordered, and Martinaglia passed the binoculars.

Camillo peered through the set down at the rear carriages. A young man—no older than twenty-five—sprinted through Boer fire alongside the train, clutching a small pistol.

He’s got guts, Camillo noted and lowered the binoculars. "Not for much longer, però."

A Boer gunner fired the Pom-Pom and the shell pierced through the rear carriage’s armour like paper. Camillo tapped the Boer’s soldier and the gunner glanced around.

Aim for the engine, he instructed.

The Boer sniffed derisively and spat on the ground.

They’re trying to get away! Camillo warned. Hit the engine!

"Don’t tell me what to do, uitlander!" the gunner barked.

Wolmarans! shouted General Botha, and the gunner looked over his shoulder. "Come with me. Italianer, man the Pom-Pom."

Camillo grinned down at Wolmarans and gestured for the gunner to move away. Wolmarans bitterly obeyed his general’s command, and Camillo took a seat behind the autocannon. A Boer reloaded the gun, and Camillo manoeuvred the wet barrel to face the locomotive engine.

Martinaglia! Camillo summoned. "Binocolo!"

Martignalia held the binoculars over Camillo’s eyes. He watched the young man with a pistol argue with the driver, whose head was bleeding. Camillo aimed and fired. The shell tore through the top of the engine carriage, and the blast ignited a small fire. The young man ducked, pulling the driver with him and out of sight.

More rounds! Camillo ordered to the Boer beside him. "Send them straight to hell, ragazzi! No survivors!"

While Camillo’s rounds wreaked considerable damage throughout the conflict, killing multiple soldiers, the young man with a pistol curiously seemed to always avoid his target. Within the hour, the man had ordered ten of his countrymen with him to push the second carriage away from the tracks, and the driver had tugged the engine to freedom. While the back carriages had been decoupled during the chaos, the young man with a pistol and the driver managed to save the engine from Camillo’s continuous bombardment, and get it to chug southwards again towards the town of Frere. Camillo planned on stopping them.

When the rain had briefly subsided and the sun pierced through the clouds, the Italian military maverick got up and paced to his horse. The other Italians—all of whom had joined the Krugersdorp Commando and ridden down to the war front in Natal at the same time—gathered around him.

Ricchiardi! shouted Mario Antoniazzi. Where are you going?

Antoniazzi, Martinaglia, and the two Buglio brothers watched Camillo as he prepared his horse’s saddle. He stroked the silver mare—named Lucciola—and she whickered.

The soldiers who got away with the engine… said Camillo. If they warn their garrisons of the Boer proximity, we’ll be in big trouble far sooner than we think.

But Botha’s instructions are to—

I don’t care what Botha says, snapped Camillo before he pulled himself up onto the saddle. I’m on my own adventure.

Camillo hit his heel against Lucciola’s side. The silver horse galloped down the embankment. Before he passed the camp on the other side of the ridge, filled with thousands of Boers, a redheaded field cornet on horseback—Sarel Oosthuizen, Camillo recalled—spotted him and shouted out.

"Uitlander!"

"Arrivederci, ragazzone!"

The field cornet whipped his stallion’s reins and galloped after Camillo.

"Don’t pursue without orders from Generaal Botha! Uitlander!"

Oosthuizen chased Camillo along the backside of the ridge, heading to Frere—less than a kilometre away. Before Oosthuizen reached him, Camillo spotted a lone Briton running towards them along the tracks.

"Ragazzone…" Camillo hissed and held a hand up for the field cornet to stop.

The redheaded Boer slowed his horse and watched the man running towards them from one hundred metres away.

Just one? Oosthuizen asked. What’s he doing?

Probably heading back to save his friends, said Camillo, and he glanced through his binoculars. Didn’t realise most of them are already rounded up. It’s him—he and the driver got the engine free.

From a distance, the young man spotted Camillo and Oosthuizen waiting for him on horseback. He halted, turned, and ran.

"Let’s get him, uitlander!" Oosthuizen insisted.

Camillo nodded and put his binoculars away.

Ready your Mauser, said Camillo as he unstrapped his rifle and loaded it. "Andiamo!"

Camillo kicked Lucciola’s side and the silver mare sprinted forward along the tracks. Oosthuizen’s brown stallion galloped beside Camillo’s silver mare, and both men aimed their rifles at the helpless Englishman.

As they drew nearer, the Italian and Boer fired, reloaded, and fired again. The Englishman sprinted off the tracks and leapt into a shallow cutting alongside the rails. Too shallow to provide cover; the young man heaved himself to his feet and scrambled up the bank on the other side. Camillo raced ahead of Oosthuizen—headed directly for the Englishman. He loaded his Mauser, fired, and missed.

While reloading, Camillo guided Lucciola around the Englishman and intercepted his hopeless escape. Oosthuizen took aim from behind, and Camillo’s Mauser hooked down at the young man—pointed only metres away from his petrified face.

Hands in the air! Sarel Oosthuizen ordered in broken English.

The Englishman clutched his holster and paused. His pistol was missing. Lucciola trotted in place and Camillo aimed between the man’s eyes. After a few confused seconds, the Englishman raised both his hands.

Oosthuizen trotted ahead—eager to get back to the camp—while Camillo guided Lucciola alongside his prisoner on their march back to the ridge. Camillo’s muddy boots smacked against Lucciola’s side as he rode, and the Englishman glanced at them before looking ahead. As they walked, Camillo spotted the prisoner reach into his breast pocket from the corner of his eye. Carefully, the prisoner slipped an ammunition cartridge from his pocket and gently dropped it into the long veld grass.

On the second attempt of disposing his ammunition, Camillo turned his head sharply.

What’s that in your hand? he demanded.

The prisoner’s jaw clenched and he looked up at Camillo. The horseback Italian held a hand down and gestured to the Englishman.

Pass it to me.

The prisoner handed the second cartridge to his captor. Camillo examined it and chuckled.

Expanding bullets, he noted. "Heard of the Hague Convention? When was it? Beh, 1899—the one earlier this year. Surely you’ve heard of it, it was—"

Yes, I have, the Englishman mumbled. I’m a war correspondent.

"A war correspondent, eh? inquired Camillo. You’re like me. Which paper employs you?"

The Morning Post, he said. In London.

Camillo smirked. Subtly, he dropped the second cartridge into the veld. The prisoner frowned and looked up at Camillo, confused.

You won’t tell the others?

Camillo sighed as he rode.

"You should be well aware that the punishment for expanding bullets is death. Barbaric little beasts—they tip the scales in a conflict. Detto ciò, as far as I’m concerned, you were an unarmed civilian caught up in this dreadful mess. Dimmi, what’s your name, young man?"

Churchill, he said. Wait—you’re Italian? An Italian war correspondent? Fighting for the Boers? Why?

I’m actually a Boer with a funny accent. Can’t you tell?

Camillo chuckled and shook his head. Churchill scratched his neck awkwardly.

"Italiano vero. The name’s Ricchiardi. I write articles for the Americans, and I fight battles for the Boers. Come to think of it, Churchill, in my home town—in Alba—there is this big hill… Serralunga. And at the very top of that hill, there is this big church. Back home, we used to call it la chiesa sulla collina. Do you know what la chiesa sulla collina means?"

No—I’m afraid not.

Camillo grinned with personal bemusement.

"Beh, amico mio, said Camillo as he shuffled a hand in his coat pocket, I’m sorry that it had to come to this. I’m sure that you were as excited as I am to see how this war pans out. You are brave, too. Ad essere onesti, you’ll need all the bravery you can get as a prisoner to these big brutes."

Camillo took out his silver matchsafe and plucked a celebratory cigarette with it, which he fitted into the corner of his mouth.

I guess you have no option but to make your own luck, Englishman.

Camillo Ricchiardi struck a match against the silver case, ignited the tip, and puffed out a string of smoke—caught with the morning breeze drifting through the Natal countryside.

3

Camillo’s Palate

There wasn’t a single tomato in Colenso, and this predicament caused contagious anxiety among the Italians in the Krugersdorp Commando.

Before joining the Boer war effort, Martinaglia relished in exaggerations about a fateful afternoon when perchance he had stumbled upon an ‘Italian Warehouse’ on Pretoria’s Church Street. He passionately framed it as a ‘culinary mecca on the edge of the world’. Not long after the train ambush, however, Martinaglia dramatically threatened to pack his bags, abandon his military post and ride back to the capital so he could purchase ingredients appropriate to his cultural dietary requirements.

Apparently, the warehouse stocked imported delicacies from the heart of Camillo’s home country—everything from macaroni to salami to fresh mozzarella. Further down one aisle, Martinaglia had even spotted bottles of olive oil from Puglia and tins of preserved tomatoes from Campania. As the slow weeks went by, sticks of chewy dried beef and boiled vegetables in a stout pot did little to satisfy a Mediterranean palate. By late November, the myths of the warehouse tormented the imaginations of each of the five Italians fighting for the Boers on the Natal front.

The Italians stayed together in a small bell tent within a shared laager–a campsite enclosed by walls of wagons, which protected the men inside from an enemy attack. Their laager was large enough for multiple tents, occupied by groups of Irishmen, Hollanders, Frenchmen, or Boers. Each cultural group spoke their own language amongst their fellow nationals and kept to their own circles—not even a Hollander and Boer could hold a conversation together for very long.

Camillo was one of the few multilingual men around Colenso, commanding no less than six languages learnt from his travels, and had quickly realised that African Dutch differed vastly from regular Dutch. So different, in fact, that the Hollanders would often smirk at the vulgarity of the local dialect. When no Boer burghers were around the camp, Camillo would hear the Hollanders throw jesting comments about kombuistaal—kitchen language.

The Boer language intrigued Camillo because it reminded him of the linguistic beauty of his own country’s plentiful ‘kitchen languages’. The variation of Dutch spoken in southern Africa was fleshed-out and distinguished from any other around the world, undeserving of any such denouncement as a bastardised version of its European cousin. In three decades since the Risorgimento and the unification of Italy, dozens if not hundreds of dialects were still in common use across the country’s twenty regions. Even neighbouring Italians sometimes could not understand one another. Formal education was expensive, and there were still many rural areas that had refused official Italian as their region’s language of instruction. Scars of the Risorgimento lingered on in the broken tongues of his people, but like the Boers, their dialects gave them pride and unity unlike anything else could.

Even the five volunteer Italians sometimes misunderstood each other. Antoniazzi was from Varese in Lombardy, while Camillo, Martinaglia, and the Buglios were from different towns in far corners of the Piedmont region. As a courtesy of their culture, they referred to each other by surname and hometown or region. The others would refer to Camillo as ‘Ricchiardi d’Alba’ or ‘Ricchiardi di Piemonte’. Only the five of them knew about the little intricacies of their culture—the Boers, Hollanders, Irishmen and Frenchmen in the laager knew them as ‘those Italians with fervent tomato addictions’.

One evening, Martinaglia’s patience snuffed out with little provocation as he spat chunks of boiled vegetables out into the veld. He was, as the Boers would say, gatvol.

"I’m done with this, Ricchiardi! Every day, every week, it’s potjies and biltong! Potjies and biltong! Potjies and biltong! Just give me some mozzarella, ti prego, per il gusto di—"

Boys! Camillo called out to Antoniazzi and the Buglios. Come quickly—Martinaglia is on edge! We need proper food, boys! We need to make a plan!

The other Italians didn’t take long to gather around. Camillo took charge and kicked off the meeting, judging Martinaglia’s disgusted expression as too emotionally fuelled to handle the responsibility of chairing a matter as urgent as this.

Boys, I think the time has arrived, he said. One of us will need to abandon his post, ride fast to Church Street in Pretoria, buy us enough imported food from Italy, bring it all back to Colenso, and face a firing squad after being court marshalled by Louis Botha himself. We don’t have a choice; we have to do it.

"Sciocchezze, Ricchiardi, retorted the elder Buglio brother. That’s not true. Volunteers only pay fines. No firing squads. If we can afford it—how much is the fine for abandoning post?"

"Nineteen gold pounds or three