Up For Grabs

by Max Hennessy

  ‘We also need petrol.’

  ‘I have plenty. My refuelling depot’s at the other side of the harbour near the fort.’

  Watched uneasily by the others, among whom only Caccia had any idea what was going on, Morton debated for a while, then he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll give them five minutes to get their breath, then bring them over.’

  Scarlatti beamed. Morton nodded again, indifferent and supercilious, deciding it was a stroke of genius to promote himself to the aristocracy. Italians found it difficult to resist a title and Scarlatti was already behaving as if he were the junior officer.

  ‘I’m grateful, count. Colonel Ancillotti will not be able to make comparisons as he usually does. A most unpleasant man, Ancillotti. A mere works manager before the war. My family have their own business.’

  As he strutted off with Faiani, Morton pointed out to the others what was required; they looked a little startled.

  ‘Work?’ Clutterbuck said. ‘For the fuckin’ Italians?’

  ‘You weren’t doing such a lot for the fucking English,’ Clinch observed tartly, his round cheeks quivering with indignation.

  The unloading took longer than they’d expected and they found themselves stumbling in and out of the wired compound in the heat of the lowering sun until they were exhausted. Rafferty seemed almost to enjoy masquerading as an Italian, but to Dampier it came as a blow to his pride to have to stagger under heavy loads, goaded on from time to time by the sharp tongue of Morton, who kept telling him, almost as if he were enjoying it, to get a move on. Caccia stood close by, wearing the sergeant’s stripes, nervous and blank-faced, but ready, in case anybody came near, to step in if necessary with a mouthful of Italian.

  Clutterbuck was still muttering his disgust when Rafferty and Morton got their heads together. There were a lot of Italian vehicles near the harbour.

  ‘Not many,’ Rafferty said. ‘Just anything that’s up for grabs.’

  He pulled Clutterbuck out of line and explained what he wanted. Clutterbuck’s sly face broke into a grin.

  ‘Easy as oiling a bike,’ he said.

  Half an hour later, Clutterbuck reported that he’d got rid of the two fifteen-hundredweight trucks. ‘I got a couple of Lancias instead,’ he said. ‘Much better condition, too. I couldn’t get no more. One of their officers started ’angin’ about.’

  ‘Right.’ Rafferty was impressed. ‘Back to the compound then. And while you’re in there, nip around a bit and see if there’s anything else we could use. We might be here for longer than we expected.’

  When Rafferty explained what they were up to, Dampier was shocked. ‘Stealing?’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ Rafferty asked. ‘It belongs to the enemy.’

  ‘But Clutterbuck! A deserter! A military criminal!’

  ‘Sure, sir, I can’t think of anybody more suited. He’s already swopped the fifteen-hundredweights for Lancias. If nothin’ else, that’ll make us look better than we did.’

  Clutterbuck appeared like a shadow from behind a pile of crates. ‘Booze,’ he said. ‘Fags. Most of it captured Naafi stuff. British blankets, weapons and uniforms. Italian wine. Radios. Cheese. Sausage. Rice. Tinned meat.’

  By the time they had finished, there were several more Italian caps and jackets tucked away under the property baskets in the Ratbags’ Bedford, another Italian flag, a portrait of Mussolini, several bottles of chianti, sausages, boxes of cheese, a sack of rice, plywood, Italian money, two wristwatches, a pressure lamp, a pair of binoculars, tools, dixies, several pairs of the baggy trousers the Italians wore, two pairs of underpants, a rosary and half a dozen of the splendid German jerricans for which the mobile units of the Eighth Army would have given their right arms.

  ‘We captured 150,000 of these when Derna fell,’ Rafferty murmured. ‘And because nobody back at base pulled his finger out, they stayed there and were all recaptured when the Germans advanced.’

  As they finished, Major Scarlatti reappeared. This time he was alone and in a well-polished Lancia open-top tourer driven by a chauffeur. He had changed to his best tunic and was obviously anxious to impress ‘Count Barda’.

  ‘Now, count,’ he said to Morton, ‘I suggest you take your men to my cookhouse. It’s just over there. You, yourself, however, will perhaps join me in my office for lunch. It’s in the former harbourmaster’s room.’

  Morton was wary. He had decided he didn’t trust Scarlatti’s assistant, Faiani, and he cautiously tried to find out where he would be.

  Scarlatti waved a hand airily. ‘Faiani will be busy,’ he said. ‘I don’t share meals which I wish to be private with a junior officer. He’ll be dining in the mess. He’s an uncomfortable man to have around too much. Because he came from the Bersaglieri and was hit by shrapnel last winter, he feels he’s the only patriotic Italian in Italy. Don’t worry about him. And I have a fine Orvieto, a tin of parma ham and a bottle of British whisky. You can refuel your vehicles afterwards.’

  The cookhouse had been set up in a shed just outside the compound and a long line of Italian soldiers was queueing up with their dixies.

  ‘How do we go about it?’ Clegg asked nervously.

  It was Clutterbuck, the deserter, who answered. ‘Just go and stand in the queue,’ he said.

  Dampier whirled on him, startled, and he gestured. ‘Stand in line,’ he said. ‘That’s all you do. Just stand there, say nowt and act daft.’

  So they did. Parking the vehicles alongside the ruins nearby, they stood among the grubby, unshaven, dusty, mutely exhausted Italian soldiers, Morton at the front and to the side of the group like a conscientious officer making sure his men were fed, Caccia at the rear in case anybody addressed them from behind. The rest huddled in a nervous bunch between them where they were safe.

  Nobody questioned the assorted British and Italian dixies they offered, and pasta with a meat sauce was dumped into them. Then they all drew a ration of rough red wine and were given a tin of captured British bully beef between every two men. Dampier came away looking slightly bemused. ‘They didn’t say a word to us,’ he pointed out.

  ‘They never do.’ Clutterbuck sounded contemptuous of his attitude to crime. ‘You only need a bit of nerve. I’ve been livin’ off British cook’ouses like that for months.’

  When Morton returned from his meal with Scarlatti, he looked pleased with himself. He and Rafferty had decided a little bribery and corruption was in order and he had gone armed with an excellent pair of X12 binoculars from the stock they had removed from the cavalry. Zeiss binoculars were something Scarlatti had coveted for a long time, and he had almost wept with gratitude, so that Morton had had an excellent meal. ‘Splendid wine,’ he observed. ‘The whisky wasn’t bad either.’

  ‘You’ve got more sauce than a bloody bottling factory,’ Caccia said admiringly and, exhausted after the unaccustomed labour in the dump, Dampier gave them a sour look. He had twisted his back and was in a bad temper.

  ‘Never mind drooling over the food,’ he growled. ‘What did the feller have to say? Didn’t he mention their plans? Surely you didn’t spend all that time guzzling with him without learning what they’re up to.’

  Morton smiled. ‘Well, he confirmed what the officer in Sofi said. He’s got orders to issue everything that’s needed. They are going to put on a follow-up attack.’

  ‘When?’ Dampier’s eyes were gleaming.

  ‘With the shortages and the way the Italian High Command works, he thought in about a fortnight.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He didn’t know.’

  Dampier turned to Rafferty. ‘What do you think, Mr Rafferty?’

  ‘South, I’m thinkin’, sir. Opposite direction, to catch our people off-balance.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like south,’ Morton observed. ‘That Scarlatti chap’s been ordered to direct his supplies along the coast to Sofi. They’d hardly send them there if they were going south.’

  Dampier had to agree. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then
it’s our job to find out when.’

  Rafferty didn’t like the look in Dampier’s eye. ‘What are you suggestin’, sir?’

  Dampier seemed surprised that he hadn’t guessed. ‘The Italian attack, Mr Rafferty. We could save thousands of lives. It might end in the total defeat of the enemy in North Africa. For want of a nail a shoe was lost, for want of a shoe a horse was lost, for want of a horse a battle was lost.’ Dampier’s enthusiasm was showing again like a recalcitrant underslip. ‘An Italian defeat could result in them withdrawing from Africa altogether.’

  ‘’Twould have to be a big one, I’m thinkin’, sir. And I doubt if Hitler would let ’em. An’ wouldn’t we be best pushin’ off as soon as we can?’

  ‘I think we should stay, Mr Rafferty,’ Dampier said doggedly.

  Rafferty wondered if he ought to hit him with something. It was his firm conviction that, as soon as they’d refuelled the lorries and acquired food and water, they ought to disappear immediately when darkness arrived. But as the sun sank and the white walls of the town turned bronze-yellow, a German column roared through Zuq. It came along the coast road from the direction of Tripoli, filling the place with rolling clouds of dust. The young men in the vehicles, wearing peaked khaki caps and the briefest of shorts, showed no interest in Zuq, the Italians or Dampier’s group and, swinging south, began to head out into the desert. Vehicle after vehicle came past, big Panzer IVs with short 75 mm calibre weapons, monster eight-wheel cars, Panzer IIIs with 50 mm armament, and vast guns with barrels like telegraph poles. They set Rafferty wondering.

  ‘Eighty-eights,’ he commented. ‘I’ve seen pictures. They’re better than anything we’ve got.’ Spitting out the whirling grit, his eyes narrowed as he watched the tail of the steel column thunder past. ‘I’m thinkin’, sir,’ he observed, ‘that with that lot deployed just to the south we might after all be safer to stay where we are for the time bein’.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree, Mr Rafferty,’ Dampier smiled. ‘Dammit,’ he went on, bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘nobody looks twice at us. We have Italian uniforms, we look like Italians, we have two Italian vehicles and two people who speak Italian, and the Italians are noted for their lethargy, indifference and laziness.’

  ‘Some of ’em, sir. They’re not all mugs.’

  Dampier conceded the point. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘they are short of transport and have to use whatever they can pick up. What’s to stop us finding out a few things? Numbers. Regiments. Divisions. Plans. What sort of chap this Brigadier Marziale is. Zuq’s now only a base area. Let’s use it to our advantage.’

  Rafferty’s idea had been merely to lie low and say nothing and hadn’t included anything as dangerous as gathering information, but he allowed Dampier’s enthusiasm to carry the day.

  ‘All the same, sir,’ he said dubiously, ‘I doubt if it’s quite time to let the rest of ’em know. I can just imagine their indignation when they find they’re staying in Zuq instead of bolting for home at the first opportunity.’

  * * *

  As they climbed into the lorries, it happened that Sottotenente Faiani was heading for the mess and he stopped near the end of the mole to watch them.

  Faiani was suspicious. He had, in fact, never heard of Count Barda but there was something about the group just driving away that set his mind buzzing. He had been a policeman – a very junior policeman – in Naples until he had been swept into the army, and he had the sort of mind that was quick to notice anything odd. He couldn’t put his finger on anything in particular because he had heard nothing but Italian spoken and they all seemed to be dressed in much the same sort of uniform as everyone else. Even Faiani, like Scarlatti, wore a captured South African bush jacket. No, it wasn’t clothing or speech. It was behaviour. They clung together as if they were scared and, Naples having one of the biggest criminal populations in the world, Faiani had come to know something about criminal behaviour.

  He lit a cigarette and watched the lorries disappear towards the old fort, then he turned and walked slowly towards the army police post just beyond the end of the mole. It was a square whitewashed building which had once been the office of the Director of Harbour Control.

  Captain Bianchi, the officer in command of the post, was a man he’d known in Italy and he explained his suspicions over a glass of grappa. ‘It’s nothing I can be sure of, you understand,’ he said. ‘But there’s something. Just a feeling.’

  The policeman gazed at him over his desk. ‘Where are they based?’ Bianchi asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But I can find out. That idiot Scarlatti has taken them on trust and seems willing to supply them with anything they want.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  There had never been much liaison between Faiani and Scarlatti. Scarlatti considered Faiani dour, un-Italian, ill-mannered and obsessed with duty. Faiani considered Scarlatti a fool. It didn’t lead to a lot of co-operation.

  He explained carefully to Bianchi, who nodded understandingly. ‘What do you think these people are up to?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you know what goes on. They may be running some sort of racket.’

  ‘If they are, they could be deserters. We could hit them hard for that. They might even be more. They could be British agents. They wouldn’t be the first to operate behind our lines. And they’re wearing Italian uniforms, you say? For that they could be shot.’

  * * *

  Blissfully unaware that they had already raised suspicions, Dampier’s group were heading for the old fort, where they filled the lorries and all the German jerricans they possessed, and cruised slowly back into the town, Morton, Rafferty and Dampier arguing fiercely about what to do next.

  There were few goods in the open-fronted shops, the mosque had a battered look, half the palm trees had lost their fronds to blast, and the awnings outside the bars were torn and lopsided, their stripes pale in the growing dusk. The few Germans they saw were interested only in stripping off their clothes and plunging into the sea to wash from their bodies and hair the dust from the recent storm. A length of beach had been cleared of mines and naked men were disporting themselves in the dark water. Nearby was a bar, the Bar Barbieri, where a few Italian soldiers were drinking. One of them had a mandolin and they were singing to it.

  ‘Time slips by.

  Our prime of youth

  We’ll not see again.

  And that’s the truth.’

  It was a sad soldiers’ song they’d heard Italian prisoners singing and one of the men had a soaring tenor that stood out from all the others.

  ‘You’d give your top teeth to sing like that,’ Caccia taunted Jones. ‘You’ve got the sort of voice you can sharpen knives with.’

  Jones’s lined scruffy face twisted and he was just looking as though he’d have liked to brain Caccia with the jack when a young sottotenente arrived on a motorcycle and started shouting. The soldiers in the bar finished their drinks in a hurry and began to shuffle off. As the place emptied, dry British throats worked.

  ‘Think we might take a chance?’ Dampier’s mind was filled with thoughts of a cold gin and tonic.

  As the vehicles drew to a stop, a German sergeant appeared from inside the bar. He was handsome, blond and cheerful-looking and he was dragging by the hand a girl who was obviously Italian. Reaching the street, he turned, swung her round and slapped her behind. She responded with a straight-armed swing at him, missed and fell to her knees. The German laughed, waved and climbed into a kübelwagen. As he drove away, still laughing, the girl was spitting with fury and an empty bottle snatched from a table followed him. An Arab woman filling a chatti at a standpipe down the street watched with interest.

  As Dampier’s group climbed down, the owner of the bar appeared, gave the girl a push so that she disappeared inside out of sight, still spitting with rage, and approached Morton, wringing his hands, his face moist with sweat.

  ‘A little trouble, excellency,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to trouble you. You know what girls are lik
e. What can I get you?’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Alas, excellency. No beer.’

  ‘Cold white wine?’

  ‘Alas!’

  When Morton asked what was available, the Italian shrugged and launched into a long diatribe.

  ‘What did he say?’ Dampier demanded.

  ‘He says they have anisette and red wine – and poor red wine at that.’

  ‘He’s got whisky and gin on the shelves.’

  Morton gave his aloof smile. ‘The whisky’s cold tea and the gin’s water. They’re there just for the look of the thing.’

  The drinks were brought by the girl. She was good-looking and at that moment still flushed with anger. Slamming the tray down in front of them, she vanished at full speed.

  ‘Bit of all right,’ Caccia murmured knowledgeably. ‘In a right old tear, too. Playing it big and using both hands.’

  ‘Them Italian girls aren’t bad,’ Clutterbuck agreed.

  ‘It’s nice just to see a woman,’ Jones the Song observed gloomily. ‘I’d almost forgotten how they were made.’ He lost himself in a mental picture of Swansea on a Saturday night, garish with lights, full of women and redolent of the smell of fish and chips.

  As they had been warned, the red wine was poor enough to taste of iron filings. As they emptied their glasses and left, the girl was standing in the doorway, watching them, her face sullen. As he passed, Caccia the ladykiller couldn’t resist winking and her sulky face immediately broke into a smile which transformed it. Caccia was encouraged.

  ‘Buona sera,’ he said.

  She gestured. ‘Buona sera, soldato.’

  ‘Come si chiama?’

  ‘Rosalba. Rosalba Coccioli.’

  ‘Signora?’

  She gave him a cold look. ‘Signorina. I am not married.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘E Lei? Come si chiama Lei?’

  ‘Caccia, Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur?’