by Max Hennessy
‘This is one of my mates,’ Clutterbuck said.
The Australian stared. ‘An Italian?’
‘’E’s not a proper Italian. ’E’s English like me.’
The Australian looked bewildered as they helped him from the truck, staring round at the Italian flags, the Italian lorries, the portraits of Mussolini and Victor Emmanuel.
‘Well, if you’re Poms,’ he said, ‘what the hell are you doin’ here?’
‘I sometimes wish I knew,’ Clegg admitted. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I got out of the compound at Sofi, didn’t I? Where am I? I thought the Italians were in this place.’
‘They are.’
The Australian looked blank, so Clegg took him by the arm and drew him into the nearest tent. Caccia, who was sitting on a roll of blankets daydreaming about the girl at the Bar Barbieri, looked up.
‘Get Morton,’ Clegg said. ‘And bring a bottle of beer back with you.’
As Caccia vanished, the Australian stared after him.
‘That’s Caccia,’ Clegg explained.
‘He Italian or a Pom?’
‘A Pom.’
‘He had an Italian name.’
‘Some Poms do. Some have French. What’s yours?’
‘Irish, I think. It’s Fee. Athol Fee.’ The Australian looked suspicious. ‘What the Christ’s goin’ on here?’
‘We got stranded behind the Italian lines when they put on their push. We’ve been here ever since.’
Fee gestured. ‘That feller who went out – he was wearing an Italian cap—’
‘That’s right.’ Clegg picked up his own cap. ‘I’ve got one, too.’
‘What the hell for?’ Fee’s voice became a bleat.
‘So the Italians’ll think we’re an Italian vehicle repair unit.’
‘And what are you?’
‘Well, I’m part of a concert party but we got a bit mixed up with an equipment recovery unit under a colonel. He’s done his back in unloading Italian stores.’
The Australian was looking completely baffled now, but as Caccia returned with a bottle of beer, he stared at it in delight. ‘I’m not suffering, am I?’ he asked. ‘I’m not seein’ mirages?’
Clegg tried to make him understand. Fee looked so bemused, he was glad when Morton appeared with Rafferty and Dampier.
‘Escaped prisoner of war,’ Clegg introduced.
‘Where from?’ Dampier asked.
‘The compound at Sofi,’ Fee said. ‘I dug me way underneath the wire.’
‘Good God! How far did you walk?’
‘About four thousand bloody miles! To Cape Town and back! All round Africa! I dunno. Too bloody far. I know that.’
‘Good God, it must have been hot!’
‘Hotter than you think, mate.’ Fee began to pull his shirt off. Underneath it, wrapped round his waist, he had a Union Jack. ‘Wore that all the time,’ he said. ‘Ever since they put us in the bag. Couldn’t let the bastards have the old flag, could I? She was carried when we marched through Sydney on our way to the troopship and she’s goin’ to be carried through Sydney when we go home after this lot’s over.’
‘Saving the flag! A very commendable action.’ It was the sort of pointless, old-fashioned military gesture of which Dampier heartily approved. VCs had been awarded for similar actions before now. ‘Anybody else with you?’
‘No. “Where the hell do you run to when you’re out?” they asked. We knew the Italians were holding the coast and the Germans were directly to the south. It only left the desert. I decided to chance it. But I hadn’t any food or water and it only took me twenty-four hours to decide I’d made a mistake and the only thing I could think of then was to turn north and head for the coast. I thought I might steal a boat and sail it back to Alex. By the time I got here, I’d decided I’d be wiser to give meself up. What happens now?’
‘We take you with us.’
‘Where to?’
‘Back to the British lines. That’s where we’re intending to go. Eventually anyway.’
‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ The Australian’s gaunt face broke into a grin. ‘Then I didn’t make a mistake after all.’
Chapter 10
Company Sergeant Major Athol Fee’s arrival in the camp of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit caused few ripples. He was in far better shape than they’d thought and with two days’ food and drink inside him soon began to sit up and take notice.
He had a great deal of information about Sofi and knew roughly what units were in the area around. He had picked up a little Italian and, Italian guards being as garrulous as they were, had managed to learn what tanks and what guns they possessed and roughly what they intended. He had also been careful to count the Australian prisoners who were still at Sofi.
‘Two hundred and seventy-nine,’ he announced. ‘Exactly. And every one of the buggers wantin’ to know what’s goin’ to be done about him.’
Two hundred and seventy-nine extra men – especially Australians who were not noted for their affectionate natures or for their fondness for the enemy – were a godsend to a man like Dampier, eager to imprint himself on the war. With a group that big, he felt, he could take over Sofi, radio the navy to pick them up, and hold off the opposition until the job was done. At the very least create another Tobruk to be a thorn in the enemy’s side.
It was a pleasant enough thought but, without weapons and supporting artillery or armour, he knew it was nothing but a dream. He was well aware that they ought long since to have moved east, but somehow the feeling that they were living under the noses of the enemy intrigued him. Still nobody had investigated them and they all, even Jones the Song, felt safe now.
Morton and Rafferty, however, hearing of Faiani’s arrest of Clutterbuck, were nervous, and only the thought that the imminent commencement of the new Italian attack would allow them to disappear reassured them. Despite his suspicions, Faiani had made no move against them and they persuaded themselves that he’d stopped asking himself questions.
The only snag was that the camp had now grown so important-looking with all the tents and vehicles and painted notices they’d acquired, they felt they could expect a visit at any moment from some important Italian politician, who everybody – even the British – knew liked to slip across the Mediterranean on a visit to collect the ritual silver medal that was given for service overseas. At the very least, an inspection by Brigadier Marziale, the area commander, or Brigadier Olivaro, the quartermaster general from Derna.
By this time Clutterbuck had a group of Arabs operating for him in and around the German workshops at the other side of the town where Sergeant Schwartzheiss worked. Despite their vaunted efficiency, it seemed the Germans were no cleverer at protecting their materiel than anybody else.
‘That Germany sergeant’s workin’ a racket, too,’ Clutterbuck said. ‘Got ’isself appointed Director of Native Labour for Zuq, din’t ’e, an’ ’e’s takin’ bribes to give jobs and paddin’ the rolls somethin’ terrible.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dampier was wondering if the information might possibly contribute to the winning of the war.
‘It don’t take more’n a coupla glances to see what ’e’s up to, does it?’ Clutterbuck said. ‘They’re supposed to be buildin’ a new pipeline between Zuq an’ Jeniffa, and ’e’s the bloke what’s ’irin’ the labour and indentin’ for the material. Steel, cement, petrol, rations for the workforce, ’uts, beddin’, tents. Only there isn’t a pipeline between Zuq and Jeniffa. I ’ad a look. Everythin’s goin’ to Arab and Italian contractors in Derna and that Schwartzheiss feller’s linin’ ’is pockets with the proceeds, to say nothin’ of the wages ’e draws for labour what don’t exist.’
Clutterbuck knew exactly where the enemy units in the desert were because he was careful to study the direction forms he saw about Scarlatti’s dump and, to Dampier’s surprise, he found they were building up a remarkably clear picture of the enemy’s order of battle, because Mondi, Scarlatti’s driver, was also never
slow to air his grievances.
He still hadn’t got over his jaundice. He was as yellow as a lemon – even his eyes were yellow – and it had left him low in spirits, sentimental and full of nostalgia for home, so that he liked to talk of girls, bowls, wrestling matches and hunting hares in the fields outside Naples where he lived to add to his family’s rations. He often listened to the officers of the ships arriving in Zuq and he was worried about the news they brought because Italy was expecting to be bombed and food was scarce so that there were queues at all the shops and his family were being driven into the black market.
‘It’s as bad as here,’ he said.
Due to inefficiency and corruption, in the desert he and his friends had been existing on biscuits, captured bully beef and beans, and, because there was a shortage of pasta, had been issued with rice which they loathed, while at times they had even been driven to netting migrating birds.
‘And that’s no diet for a sick stomach,’ he said. ‘But what do you expect? The ships only carry things for the fighting, and there are so many sinkings our own Mare Nostrum’s nothing but a swimming pool for Italian sailors.’
Even the fuel situation was sinister, he claimed, because the ships that managed to cross to North Africa had to have so many escorts, as much fuel was used as was brought across, while, with Tripoli, the only really workable port in North Africa, always a bottleneck because of lethargy and indifference, when they arrived the ships had to wait to be unloaded and became sitting ducks for the RAF.
The activities of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit had produced remarkably useful information that couldn’t have been bettered by a paid spy, though they did seem to Dampier to give Clutterbuck, the thief and deserter, a surprising hold over them. He had become indispensable, and, what was more, he had realized it, and these days he and Morton, with help from Rafferty, were almost running the little unit. Occasionally – almost, it seemed, with condescension – they took Dampier into their confidence and told him what they planned next.
* * *
It was, Dampier decided, an extraordinary situation they were in.
Morton was on easy terms with Scarlatti, and Clutterbuck had set up an arrangement with the leader of an Arab gang that was milking Scarlatti’s stores for all it was worth. A lot of what they stole disappeared into hidden passages and rooms in the Roman amphitheatre. Nobody wanted the place and most of the Arabs considered it haunted, so Clutterbuck had set up a stores of his own in one of the chambers at the back that was full of items from Scarlatti’s warehouses. In another he had opened a canteen where an Arab boy dispensed stolen coffee and it actually seemed to be making money.
‘I’d never have believed it,’ Dampier admitted. ‘Not without first seeing it in Cairo.’
‘It takes all sorts.’ Clutterbuck’s face was cunning. ‘Scarlatti’s got a ’ut full of stuff he’s nicking and ’e’s fitted a bloody great padlock on the door. But what ’e don’t know is that I’ve got the same padlock on my door. Anything you want,’ he encouraged in fatherly tones, ‘just ask for.’
To Dampier it sometimes seemed that, while the governments of Europe were beggaring their countries to provide for their troops, those same troops were busy robbing them hand over fist. The only consolation he could find was that the looting he had struggled so hard against in the British army went on in the enemy’s camp, too. At least, one cancelled out the other.
By kind permission of Clutterbuck, Jones the Song had acquired a portable gramophone – like Erwin’s once part of some British officers’ mess – together with a set of records of popular English ballads. Their repetition drove everybody mad.
‘It’s for after the war,’ Jones insisted. ‘I’m learnin’ ’em, see. Thought mebbe I’d go on the stage.’
‘You have to wash to go on the stage,’ Caccia pointed out.
‘If you want to move into the top bracket,’ Clegg agreed, ‘you have to behave as if you’re already there. Washing’s important.’
Jones wasn’t the only one who had profited. Conscious that he was sitting on a tremendous scoop, Micklethwaite was writing on stolen paper with a stolen typewriter reams of notes for when he was in a position to make use of them in the story he was going to publish as soon as he was free. It had always been his ambition to write something sensational and in his notes he had the scoop to end all scoops. Drama and comedy – even a touch of scandal.
Even Clinch had acquired a German radio receiver that was twice as good as anything the British possessed and had collected reams of information for Dampier to collate. Since Clutterbuck had stolen a code book from Scarlatti’s signals office, they knew exactly which signs meant which units and Clinch was busy pinpointing where they were on Dampier’s map.
Nevertheless – Dampier was suffering from a mixture of nerves and guilt – the thing had gone wrong. They had arrived in Zuq intending to return to the British lines with the Italian plan and order of battle, to say nothing of a few additions such as notes on German weapons and Italian morale. With Dampier’s full approval, they had even stolen Italian equipment to improve their disguise, while Morton had prostituted – Dampier couldn’t think of a more apt word – his skill at languages to pick Scarlatti’s brains. But now, he realized, the thing was out of control. The tail was beginning to wag the dog. Clutterbuck had pushed them further than they’d intended so that they were now stealing Italian equipment merely because it was there, and Morton was behaving with the arrogance of a subaltern in the Brigade of Guards. It was affecting the lot of them.
Only Dampier, it seemed to Dampier, had failed to get much out of their extraordinary circumstances. Then he remembered the bed strung with inner tubes and covered with Italian army blankets, the stretcher pillow, the inspection lamp that enabled him to read – even the English copy of The Pickwick Papers, found by Clutterbuck among the loot of a defeated British column in Scarlatti’s store to replace Le Raggazze, II Amore and the other books he’d originally produced. When he thought of them, Dampier’s shame was almost enough to overwhelm him.
If only, he thought in a depressing moral scour-out, they could move from their passive role to an active one. If nothing else, it would ease his feeling of guilt.
‘It seems to me,’ he said to Rafferty, ‘that we ought to try to put someone across the lines with the information we have.’
He frowned at the map stretched on the table near the bed Clutterbuck had built for him. He still moved with difficulty and it irked him that he couldn’t do the gathering of information himself.
He produced a file – looted – and from it took a bundle of paper – also looted – on which he had scrawled his views, and they began to consider what they had collected.
They had seen nothing of Scarlatti since the raid on his dump and could only assume that, busy sorting out his inventories, he was covering himself to account for what had disappeared – ‘’E’s at it like a bloody market trader fiddlin’ ’is income tax,’ Clutterbuck said – but, though he himself didn’t appear, Scarlatti clearly had no intention of losing his grip on the man he thought was Count Barda, and Mondi appeared regularly with titbits for Morton’s pleasure. And, though he was apathetic enough about the war to be depressing, Mondi had a deep insight into the attitudes of the ordinary Italian soldiers.
Wavell’s shattering advance at the beginning of 1941 had destroyed Italian confidence and for the most part they were men without hope. With their poor weaponry and a government that bred cynicism, they considered themselves to be despised by their allies and a laughing stock to their enemies. This was all useful information that went down under the heading of ‘Morale’, to be passed on, like all the other items they’d collected, when 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit returned to the British lines just ahead of the Italian advance.
‘But,’ Dampier demanded, ‘when are they going to make their advance?’
‘According to Scarlatti’s estimate,’ Morton said, ‘in about seven days. They’ve got to open the minefield first and
they haven’t started yet.’ He picked up Dampier’s map and jabbed with his finger. ‘He said it would be about there.’
‘And the Germans?’
‘More than willing to take advantage of any success.’
‘You’re sure of this?’
‘Scarlatti likes to talk. His dinner parties are a great success.’
Dampier gave him a bitter look. ‘I wouldn’t mind sharing them with you,’ he growled.
‘I could always,’ Morton smiled, ‘take you with me as an orderly, sir. They’d probably give you something in the kitchen.’
As Morton disappeared, Dampier stared after him sourly. ‘Mr Rafferty,’ he announced to the warrant officer, ‘any minute now that damned man’ll start ordering me about.’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ Rafferty said, ‘we should be grateful that he’s pretty good at it.’
A thought occurred to Dampier. ‘Why isn’t he an officer, Mr Rafferty? The boy’s a born leader.’
‘Those are my sentiments entirely, sir.’
‘The fact that we’re still free – if you can call free being stuck behind the Italian lines and subject to every alarm that arises – to say nothing of an acute case of lumbago that refuses to go away – is entirely due to his quickness of mind. And’ – Dampier looked sheepish – ‘let’s admit it: the deserter Clutterbuck’s skill at removing things that ought not to be removed.’
‘A quare feller that one, sir,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘If we get out of this, I think we should recruit him into our organization. They always say, “Set a thief to catch a thief.”’
Dampier frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Rafferty,’ he admitted, ‘that’s something that’s already occurred to me. He could clean up the Middle East.’
Chapter 11
Dampier’s need to do some damage received a fillip a few days later when Clutterbuck informed him that he’d discovered that Scarlatti’s refuelling depot near the fort at the other side of Zuq was guarded at night by only two men and an officer.
