Somewhere in the Tuscan hills, two English spinsters, Evelyn Skinner and a Margaret someone, were eating a late lunch on the terrace of a modest albergo. It was the second of August. A beautiful summer’s day, if only you could forget there was a war on. One sat in shade, the other in light, due to the angle of the sun and the vine-?­strewn trellis overhead. They were served a reduced menu but celebrated the Allied advance with large glasses of Chianti. Overhead, a low-?­flying bomber cast them momentarily in shadow. They picked up their binoculars and studied the markings. Ours, they said, and waved.

This rabbit’s delicious, said Evelyn, and she caught the eye of the proprietor, who was smoking by the doorway. She said, Coniglio buonissimo, signore!

The signore put his cigarette in his mouth and raised his arm—part salute, part wave, one couldn’t be sure.

Do you think he’s a Fascist? said Margaret quietly.

No, I don’t think so, said Evelyn. Although Italians are quite indecisive politically. Always have been.

I heard they’re shooting them now, the Fascists.

Everyone’s shooting everyone, said Evelyn.

A shell screamed to their right and exploded on a distant hill, uprooting a cluster of small cypress trees.

One of theirs, said Margaret, and she held on to the table to protect her camera and wineglass from the shock waves.