Up For Grabs

by Max Hennessy

  ‘An’,’ he added, ‘the men are Libyan levies and the orficer’s got a bird at the other side of town so ’e’s never there.’

  Dampier eyed him warily. ‘What are you suggesting, Clutterbuck?’ he asked.

  Clutterbuck’s eyes widened. ‘Blowing the bugger up,’ he said bluntly. ‘I thought that was what you wanted.’

  It was indeed what Dampier wanted but it irked him that the idea had come, not from himself, but, of all people, from Clutterbuck, the deserter and thief.

  More forward-thinking, cleverer, wilier and more deeply conscious of the dangers, Rafferty was inclined to be wary.

  ‘It sounds all right,’ he said. ‘But won’t they immediately start askin’ who did it?’

  ‘Libyans,’ Dampier suggested. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘The Libyans don’t go in for that sort of thing, sir,’ Rafferty said. ‘For one thing, they don’t have the explosives, for another they don’t have the know-how, and for a third they’re pinchin’ the stuff.’

  ‘Even the bloody Libyans?’ Dampier sounded as though there were no longer anyone trustworthy in the whole world.

  ‘They take it on camels to sell in Derna and Tripoli, so it’s to their advantage to keep it intact, not blow it up.’

  Dampier frowned. ‘Could we let it be known it was the Long Range Desert Group?’

  They all knew of the Long Range Desert Group. It seemed to be officered entirely by young men of good family who were used to telling other people what to do and, when they’d been called up for service, so little enjoyed taking orders that they had organized themselves a murderous little private army in which they could all be generals.

  ‘If it’s goin’ to be thim boys, sir,’ Rafferty said, ‘somebody’s got to see ’em.’

  ‘Why not us?’

  ‘Because if we saw ’em, somebody’ll ask why didn’t they blow us apart? It’s a habit they have. And anyway, we have no explosives.’

  ‘We have those percussion grenades we found in the lorries when we first arrived.’

  Rafferty still wasn’t keen. ‘If it’s going to be done at all,’ he said, ‘it’s got to be done when the RAF are over, so they’ll think they did it.’

  Dampier bowed to the warrant officer’s greater experience. ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.

  ‘Have the grenades handy, sir,’ Rafferty smiled. ‘And nip along the next time they appear.’

  * * *

  Dampier made his plans carefully. They had wire cutters and getting into a wired compound didn’t present much difficulty. All it required was instant readiness.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out like that.

  Dampier and Rafferty weren’t the only ones in the group who were interested in what the dumps in Zuq contained. Nobody wanted a horse’s gasmask or an Italian general’s uniform but everybody was concerned with coffee, sugar and food.

  ‘And how about some of that scent?’ Caccia suggested.

  ‘’Ow much would you like?’ Clutterbuck asked.

  Caccia grinned. ‘Just enough to sweeten a bird, that’s all.’

  Two days later, Caccia was outside the Bar Barbieri, his Italian sergeant’s uniform tarted up to make him look smart and, for safety, with a heavy Webley .45 revolver belonging to Dampier which he’d lifted when its owner wasn’t looking. Acquired by Dampier in 1914, it was big enough to bring down an aircraft and, he felt, was enough to make anyone who started being awkward back away at once.

  Rosalba Coccioli’s wariness dissolved immediately as he produced a bottle of Fragranza di Violette.

  ‘Mamma mia,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’

  Caccia shrugged, the sort of shrug he’d employed just before his call-up as he’d slipped an extra piece of rationed sausage into the shopping basket of one of his father’s prettier customers, and she pushed him towards a table and made him sit down.

  ‘What will you drink?’ she asked. ‘Vermouth? Anisette? There’s some wine. Castelli Romani.’

  Caccia beamed, feeling at home. Rosalba Coccioli wasn’t the first Italian girl he’d chased. Cairo and Alexandria were full of them and every time the Italians or the Germans made an advance, no matter how insignificant, word always got around and they came out from under the stones. They were reputed to wear knickers in the Italian national colours and one woman, as bombastic as the Duce himself, had wrapped herself in the Italian flag and sworn to drink British blood. The Military Police were always very patient and merely told them to go home.

  With his ability to speak their language, Caccia had got to know many of them. Most of them were living in a world devoid of Italian men and, because of his looks and his name, despite his British uniform they had welcomed him with open arms, sometimes half hoping to direct him towards the Italian cause. Caccia wasn’t interested in causes, however, just in getting them into bed and, with his black brilliantined hair and an ability as a dancer gained over many visits to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, he had acquired a considerable skill at picking up girls.

  With the perfume in her hand, Rosalba sat alongside him. ‘You wish to kiss me?’ she asked.

  Caccia obliged.

  ‘You think I’m pretty?’

  She was prettier than Max Donatello’s wife, her cousin, and had a better figure too, and Caccia held up his hand, making a circle with his forefinger and thumb in a sign of approval. ‘Prima,’ he said. ‘First class.’

  She looked pleased. ‘I think perhaps you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I’ll find you some food. My uncle’s in Derna again. There’s plenty to buy in Derna. Some of it comes from Tunisia and Morocco. He bribed a sergeant to sell him petrol for the car. He’ll be back before dark because the RAF will be over again to drop bombs on the harbour.’

  ‘Do they scare you?’

  She shrugged. ‘È destino. It’s fate. Mostly they just sink the ships they’ve already sunk. Come.’

  She led the way into a room at the back alongside the kitchen. On the mantelpiece was a family group photograph – ‘My cousin Ansaldo,’ she said. ‘When he was called to the colours’ – and on the wall a map of the Italian colonies of Tripolitania and Cyrenaica and the western border of Egypt. Small red, white and green flags had been marked on it, rubbed out and put in again.

  ‘What’s that?’ Caccia asked.

  ‘My war map,’ Rosalba said proudly. ‘Every unit in the Italian army. Some of them contained my boyfriends. But not many. Italian soldiers don’t make good boyfriends. They have no money. And most of them were captured in 1941, anyway.’

  ‘How about the Germans? You got them down, too?’

  Her finger indicated small swastikas.

  ‘If they found that, they’d think you were a spy.’

  She gestured, quite unperturbed. ‘Nobody comes in here. That German sergeant tried once but he got the floor cloth in his face.’

  ‘How did you find them all out?’

  She shrugged. ‘Zuq’s the dispatching point for supplies, and soldiers talk. And when we have anything to drink they come here to drink it. There are also four brothels in Zuq and I know the girls. You’d be surprised what they’re told. Let’s sit outside. It’s cooler.’

  The back of the bar faced a minute dusty patch where she’d planted flowers in small stone-enclosed circles. Red geraniums flared among the spiky leaves of cacti and there was another patch beneath a pergola where a vine gave shade to a rickety table and a long bench. Beyond, Caccia could see the dark shapes of trees and, beyond that still, white houses, the dome of the mosque and a glimpse of the indigo sea.

  She poured the wine and a few moments later, he heard her clattering dishes and pans in the kitchen. A ginger cat rubbed against his leg and he lit a cigarette – by kind permission of Corporal Clutterbuck a British Players from Scarlatti’s dump – and sat back to enjoy himself. Almost before he was ready, she slapped a plate in front of him.

  ‘Spaghetti napolitano,’ she said. ‘There is no meat. But there is cheese.’

 
; She banged a bowl of grated parmesan alongside it and produced another bottle of wine. ‘You’ll enjoy this, Arturo,’ she said. ‘Eat.’

  * * *

  The sun vanished in a flare of crimson and amber, streaking the blue-green sky with fiery sword-strokes. The shadows lengthened and the dusty patch at the back of the bar grew yellow in the lowering sun.

  ‘You’re not very busy here,’ Caccia said. By this time he had Rosalba on the bench with him and had backed her into the corner, one hand round her waist under her breast. She pushed it away occasionally but she wasn’t defending herself too vigorously.

  ‘Why not shut the shop?’ he suggested.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Italian soldiers have no money to buy anything and you’ve nothing to sell, anyway. Nobody’ll come and bother us.’

  ‘My uncle will come. He’ll probably shoot you.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘I am.’

  He pushed her up against the wall. ‘How long will he be?’

  ‘He usually comes back after dark.’

  ‘We’ve plenty of time then.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know for what.’

  ‘I think, like the German, Sergeant Schwartzheiss, you’re trying to get into my bed.’

  ‘Better me than him.’

  ‘Better nobody at all, I think,’ she said spiritedly. ‘I’ll allow into my bed only the man I’m going to marry.’ She paused. ‘On the other hand,’ she admitted, ‘you’re a handsome man, Arturo Caccia.’ She was studying him shrewdly, her mind working at top speed. ‘Perhaps—’ she said. Then she stopped.

  ‘Perhaps what?’

  ‘Perhaps—’ She stopped again and Caccia took it as a strong hint that he wouldn’t be unwelcome despite what she said.

  Close to the kitchen there was a stone staircase lined with red tiles for easy cleaning, and he rose and pulled her towards it. She didn’t seem more than normally unwilling and he’d actually got her halfway up when they heard a car stop outside. She pushed him down again at once and into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s my uncle,’ she said. ‘He’s back.’

  Barbieri appeared in the doorway, a sack over his shoulder. ‘Unlock the store shed,’ he said. ‘We’re loaded. Sausage. Pasta. Rice. Wine. Anisette. Dio, always anisette!’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ Rosalba asked.

  ‘Where do I always get it? The black market. Always I have to go to the black market. How else am I supposed to get supplies? Walk with them on my head like the Arab women? Perhaps I should wear a robe and a veil and worship Mohammed instead of the Lord Jesus Christ, son of the Virgin Mary.’ Barbieri flung his head back and started to wail in the manner of the muezzins in their high towers, ‘Lah illa Lah Mohammed rassoul Allah. There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His prophet.’ He suddenly noticed Caccia and stopped dead. His head swung to Rosalba. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Arturo Caccia, uncle,’ she said. ‘He came for a drink.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then there must be something wrong with him. No young man visits a girl when she’s alone unless he’s after something other than a drink. Why isn’t he fighting the war?’

  ‘My day off,’ Caccia said.

  ‘You have days off?’ Barbieri’s eyebrows danced. ‘When Italy totters and the British are preparing to wipe us off the face of the earth?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Rosalba said sullenly. ‘The British have been driven back.’

  ‘They’ll come again. The British always come again.’

  ‘The Germans will stop them.’

  ‘Always it is the Germans who will stop them!’ Barbieri slapped himself on the forehead. ‘Why don’t the Italians stop them? Because they have days off. Tell him to go!’

  Rosalba pushed Caccia to the door. Under a cyclamen-coloured sky a convoy of trucks carrying a batch of new recruits was just debussing in the road. The soldiers, undersized boys in ill-fitting uniforms, were staggering under kitbags. They looked poorly equipped and a few were even shouting anti-war slogans.

  There was a sad motherly look in Rosalba’s eyes as she watched the column disappear between the ever-hopeful hawkers offering lemonade for sale, then she turned and gave Caccia a quick kiss. ‘Come again,’ she whispered.

  ‘Next time,’ he said, ‘I won’t take no.’

  ‘My uncle will be there.’

  ‘It gets dark.’ An idea occurred to Caccia. ‘You got any girlfriends?’

  She stared angrily at him. ‘So! Because I am not available you want the addresses of my friends.’

  Caccia grinned. ‘Tell him one of them’s coming to visit you. To talk. About clothes. About scent. Girls do, I know. I’ve got sisters. Tell him one of them’s got some for you on the black market. I’ll bring some.’

  ‘And you’ll entertain us both?’

  Caccia grinned again. ‘I’ll be the girlfriend. I’ll dress up. I’ve got a wig.’

  The sad motherly look had gone and she stared at him with eyes full of mischief. ‘This is something you do often? Where did you get it? Where will you get the clothes?’

  He gestured vaguely in the direction of the dump. ‘There’s everything we need in there. Even a horse’s gasmask.’

  She looked blank. ‘We shall need a horse’s gasmask?’

  She caught on eventually. ‘You’ll need somewhere to change,’ she said. ‘You can’t walk through the streets after dark. You’ll get dragged down an alley and raped.’

  ‘Some rape!’

  She giggled. ‘There’s the hut behind the house. My uncle uses it as a store. I’ll see the padlock’s unfastened. There’s a lamp and a mirror. I used to sleep there in the summer before the war when he let my room off to tourists.’

  ‘I’ll be there just after dark.’

  ‘And I’ll tell him there are soldiers billeted in Teresa Gelucci’s house and her father’s worried they’re trying to get into her bed, and she wants to stay with me.’

  Caccia grinned. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  Chapter 12

  The following evening Caccia headed into town again. He was shaved to the bone and slung over his shoulder was an Italian side-pack which contained the dress he’d used in the Ratbags’ female-impersonation act. They’d often found that the soldiers they entertained, despite the fact that they knew full well what was under the dress, were more interested in Caccia than all the rest of the company put together. With it was a linen handbag, a wig and, for safety, Dampier’s heavy revolver.

  It was a warm night with a sky full of stars all glowing like headlamps. Somewhere a man was singing in a light tenor voice.

  ‘Kennst du das Land

  Wo die Zitronen blühn,

  Im dunkeln Laub

  Die Gold-Orangen glühn…’

  Caccia had no idea what it meant but it sounded sentimental and the thought of Rosalba was pushing his voltage up so much he felt about to burst into flames.

  A lorry pulled up alongside him with a low squeak of brakes and he saw the driver was Clutterbuck.

  ‘Dampier said we’d all to stay in camp in case there was an air raid and we ’ad a go at Scarlatti’s refuelling depot,’ he pointed out cheerfully.

  ‘If that’s the case, how is it you’re out?’

  Clutterbuck pulled a face. ‘They couldn’t keep me in if they tried.’

  As he climbed into the passenger seat, Caccia decided that perhaps he ought to have written to the Air Officer Commanding the RAF.

  ‘Dear AOC, Could you possibly hold off your boys tonight? I’ve got this date with this bird. Yours faithfully, A. Caccia.’ Or why not the Commander of the Eighth Army, whoever he was? Why not Auchinleck, the Commander-in-Chief, Middle East? Or for that matter, Churchill? Why not go right to the top? The thought made him grin.

  ‘What time are you coming back?’ he asked.

  ‘Midnight. About that.’ Clutterbuck laughed. ‘I’ve got a few petrol tanks
to pee into.’

  ‘See you outside the Bar Barbieri.’ Caccia paused. ‘Unless there’s an air raid. If there is I’ll be outside as soon as the sirens go.’

  * * *

  As Caccia made his way to the bar, in the Italian cap and jacket no one looked at him. It was almost dark when he arrived and he walked up and down for a while, his blood thumping in his veins at the thought of Rosalba’s warm flesh under his hands. Then, as the outlines of the buildings faded in the blue dusk, he slipped through the cactus hedge and into the garden at the back.

  As Rosalba had promised, the shed was unlocked. The shutters were already closed and his feet were silent on a floor covered with wood shavings. He struck a match and found the lamp, then, his heart thumping, began to strip off his shirt. Adjusting the padded brassiere he had used to sing ‘Olga Paulovski, The Beautiful Spy,’ he hitched at the football shorts he wore as underwear and slid into the red and yellow dress and the pair of size 9 women’s shoes for which they’d had to search every shop in Cairo. Carefully putting on the wig, he began to apply make-up round his eyes and lipstick on his mouth; then, reaching for a shawl, he draped it over his head to hide his face and, picking up the handbag, slipped into it the lipstick Clutterbuck had acquired for him, and Dampier’s revolver.

  Feeling full of oats, he looked around him. The shed contained flour and cartons of pasta, to say nothing of two cases of anisette and one or two bottles of Italian brandy, one of them unsealed. To give himself courage, he took a swig from it and, grasping the handbag, was just moving down the side of the bar when he heard the crash of glass and Rosalba’s voice screaming.

  ‘Via! Va via! Che faccenda sporca!’

  He pulled back quickly into the shadows as the door was wrenched open and the German, Sergeant Schwartzheiss, appeared. He was holding his head but, as usual, he was laughing. As the door slammed behind him, he leaned against the wall, still laughing softly, then he jammed his peaked forage cap straight on his head and was just about to walk away when his eye fell on Caccia in the shadows.