by Max Hennessy
‘So!’ He straightened up, grinning. ‘What have we here? Che è? Come si chiama, tesoro?’
He leaned against the wall, his arm outstretched, his hand flat against the brickwork, making it impossible for Caccia to bolt.
‘Cara mia! Carissima! Buona sera! Don’t be afraid!’
Caccia was afraid – very afraid – but for a very different reason from the one Schwartzheiss was imagining.
‘Non trovo più la strada! I’m lost. Non so parlare italiano. I can’t speak Italian.’
Caccia was crouching back into the darkness as Schwartzheiss’s face drew closer.
‘Parla tedescho?’
Caccia shook his head. No, he didn’t speak German. How the bloody hell, he thought, did he get out of this one?
‘Che bella ragazza. Dove va?’
Schwartzheiss, Caccia decided, had learned off by heart all the best phrases from a tourist’s phrase book.
‘Quanti anni ha? How old are you?’
The German had Caccia pinned against the wall now. His breath smelled of beer and Caccia guessed he’d been enjoying the evening in the German soldiers’ canteen and was after anything he could get. Caccia was in a panic. From his own experience, he knew exactly what the next step would be and he knew it mustn’t take place.
There was a distant burst of firing from the desert, a faint thud-thud-thud, almost too far away to be heard. But Schwartzheiss heard it as plainly as Caccia. His head turned and, as it did so, Caccia saw his chance. There was no time to fish the Webley out of the linen handbag so he brought up the handbag itself and swung it as hard as he could against the back of the German’s head.
As the heavy revolver inside clunked against his skull, Schwartzheiss dropped like a felled tree. Caccia stared down at him, startled by his success, and was just about to bolt for Rosalba when it occurred to him that Schwartzheiss had to be convinced there was no connection between the ‘girl’ he’d met and the nearby bar, or he’d come searching for his attacker as soon as he recovered consciousness. Dragging him into the shade of the trees, Caccia dropped him with his head among the bushes and, turning him over, fished in his pockets. He found a penknife, a notebook, a length of string, a grubby handkerchief and a large bundle of notes. Tossing everything aside but the money, which he stuffed into his pocket, he headed for the bar. When he woke up, Schwartzheiss would assume he’d been attacked and robbed. He might even, Caccia thought with some pleasure, come to the not very difficult conclusion that the ‘girl’ he’d waylaid had been a bait. He might even consider himself lucky not to be dead.
Reaching the bar, Caccia banged on the side door. Rosalba was waiting for him and it opened so sharply he almost fell into her arms.
‘Fate presto!’ he muttered. ‘Quick! Disopra! Upstairs!’
She didn’t ask questions and pushed him up the red-tiled steps at once. As they reached the top, Caccia twisting his ankle agonizingly in his haste as the high-heeled shoes he wore threw his foot over, they heard Barbieri’s voice.
‘Chi è la? Who’s that?’
Rosalba turned. ‘It’s Teresa, uncle. She doesn’t feel very well.’
‘Tell her not to be sick in my house,’ Barbieri growled.
‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ Rosalba said. ‘She needs to lie down a little, that’s all. I’ll lie down with her and keep her company.’
Pushing Caccia into her room, she slammed the door and collapsed against it, her hands to her mouth to stifle her laughter.
‘He’ll not come up,’ she said. ‘Don’t look so scared. He sleeps in the room behind the bar in case anybody tries to break in and steal anything. Who’d want to steal anisette?’ She realized he was still leaning against the wall, frozen with fear. ‘What’s the matter? What happened?’
As he told her, her hand flew to her throat and, peeping through the shutters, she signed to Caccia to join her. Schwartzheiss had staggered to his feet and was stumbling away into the town.
‘He’ll think your boyfriend did it. It’s happened before. Arab girls have been known to lure soldiers round corners where there’s a man waiting. What did you hit him with?’
Caccia fished in the linen handbag and produced the revolver.
‘No wonder his head hurts. Did he try anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘Una fornicazione straordinaria, I think.’ She giggled. ‘He was in the bar. He tried to get me in a corner. I had to hit him with a bottle. He’s had a bad day today, I think.’
She stopped and studied the dress Caccia was wearing. ‘You look good,’ she said. Then she stared at him, suddenly alarmed. ‘You’re not one of them? There are men who—’
Caccia laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I was, would I?’ He fished into the handbag. ‘I brought you something.’
She stared at the small tube he put in her hand. ‘Rosetto? Lipstick?’ She flung her arms round him and clutched him tightly. ‘I haven’t had a lipstick for months.’
Snatching the wig from his head and throwing it on to the bed, he kicked off his shoes and slipped out of the dress. Turning, he found Rosalba curled up with laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Le cami-mutande.’ She pointed to the football shorts. ‘The cami-knickers.’
He kicked his shoes off and, as she tossed a towel at him, wiped the lipstick and rouge from his face. Standing in front of her, wearing nothing but the football shorts and his socks, he reached for her. She turned in his arms and, kissing her, he started to unbutton her blouse. She put a hand on his chest. She had stopped giggling and looked scared.
‘No,’ she said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘I’m afraid.’ She looked at him with large worried eyes. ‘I’ve never done this before. My mamma always told me to save myself for my husband.’
‘Who says you’re not doing?’
Her eyes searched his face. ‘You mean that, Arturo? You mean you want to marry me?’
She wasn’t the first girl he’d promised and it cost him nothing to say he did.
She had backed away from him but now she allowed him to put his arms round her once more, and this time she raised no objection as his hand lifted her blouse. She giggled again, as if it had dawned on her that apart from the football shorts he was naked and she was only half clothed herself, then suddenly she threw all caution to the wind and flung herself at him, her lips fiercely seeking his.
As he clutched her, Caccia found himself thinking of Dampier’s instructions to remain in camp in case there was an air raid. Cocking his head, he listened. There was no sound outside. They weren’t coming tonight. It was going to be all right and he gave his full attention to the task in hand.
Rosalba also seemed to have thrown aside her doubts and was wrenching at the rest of her clothes.
‘È destino,’ she chirruped and, dragging at the football shorts, she pushed Caccia back on to the bed and yanked them over his feet with all the delight of a full-blooded girl who had been kept too long from men.
* * *
As he came up for air, Caccia was just savouring the situation when the siren went.
Sitting bolt upright, he stared at the ceiling. The blasted bombers had come after all! And he was supposed to be out at the camp of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit, ready to form a commando or something to blow up Scarlatti’s bloody refuelling depot! In spite of the letter he’d written to the AOC, the leader of the Eighth Army, the Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, and Churchill, the Desert Air Force was about to bomb Zuq after all, and he, Arthur Caccia, the great lover, the Napoleon of North Africa, was in the wrong bloody place!
He was still staring at the ceiling as if he could see through it and pick up the approaching aeroplanes when Rosalba clutched him.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Per me è lo stesso. I don’t care.’
Caccia fought free. ‘I do,’ he said.
Assuming that like most Italian soldiers he had been subject over the past months to the
ministrations of the Royal Air Force and didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of a stick of bombs, she tried to reassure him. ‘They won’t come here,’ she said. ‘They only bomb the sunken ships in the harbour.’
As she made another grab at him, he backed away. ‘I’ve got to go!’ he yelled.
‘Codardo!’ she yelled back. ‘Coward! It’s because you’re afraid!’
‘No, it’s not! It’s duty! I’m supposed to be in camp when there’s an air raid. If they find I’m not—’ Caccia stopped, wondering what Dampier would do if he found out where he was. He could hardly confine him to camp, but perhaps he could have him flogged or staked out over an ant heap or something. Caccia was uncertain on the subject. As he grabbed for the football shorts, Rosalba stared at him furiously.
‘You’re going to leave me to be bombed on my own!’ she said. ‘I tell you, you’re quite safe here!’
But, even as she spoke, she became aware of a whistling sound that grew in intensity to a shriek.
‘Mamma mia!’ she screamed, leaping at Caccia; as he clutched her in his arms, they fell backwards on to the bed. There was a tremendous crash outside that rattled the shutters, then the banging of an anti-aircraft battery. Voices sounded in the street and Barbieri’s voice came up the stairs.
‘Rosalba! Are you all right?’
‘We’re all right, uncle. Teresa’s scared but we’re all right.’
The blast had put out the lamp but there were lights flashing in the street as people with torches moved about. Caccia heaved at the football shorts.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘If I’m missed, they’ll murder me!’
He dived frantically for the door but Barbieri was still at the bottom of the stairs and he drew back in panic.
‘Through the window!’ Rosalba had forgotten her complaints in her desire to help. ‘It’s not a long drop!’
* * *
At the camp of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit, the bombs had brought them out at once. Wincing against his lumbago, even Dampier fought his way to the door of his tent.
‘It’s an air raid,’ he yelled. ‘They’ve come! Turn everybody out, Mr Rafferty!’
Snatching at Italian jackets and caps, they were just emerging from the tents when the Lancia came hurtling round the corner, with Clutterbuck yelling that their opportunity had come. Nobody noticed that Caccia had arrived with him and, scrambling aboard, they rocked over the ruts back on to the road with creaking springs and a lurch that threw them all in a heap. Clutching the box of percussion grenades, Micklethwaite slid across the steel floor of the rear of the truck to slam against the back of the driver’s cabin. ‘Do these things go off easily?’ he asked nervously.
As they disappeared, Dampier stared after them sourly. It was his idea, he thought bitterly, but he was the one who, because of his lumbago, had to be left behind to guard the camp. Without a single bloody Italian speaker, too, if the SS decided to pay them a visit!
* * *
As Clutterbuck had promised, there were only two guards, both Libyan conscripts, at the refuelling depot and they were both in a ditch with their heads well down. Their officer, his jacket buttoned in the wrong holes, was still trying to skirt the wreckage caused by a couple of bombs that had landed on his route across town. It took no more than a minute to cut the wire and scramble inside the compound. The din over the town was tremendous now, the crash of bombs mingling with the iron rumble of aeroplane engines. The flash of explosions lit the square flat-roofed houses, the dome of the mosque and the white walls of the fort.
Shoving several drums of petrol together, Rafferty unscrewed the cap of one of them and tipped it on its side. As the petrol poured out, he gestured to the others to disappear. As they scrambled into the ditch, he pulled the pin of one of the grenades and, placing it carefully in the pool of petrol, hurtled after the others.
They were all crouching with their heads down as the grenade exploded. It went off with a crack and a flash of flame, and almost immediately the stack of drums went up, less with a bang than with a whoof. A whole series of explosions followed, as if a giant were blowing breathy belches across the desert, and in seconds the whole area of the refuelling depot was sending huge black clouds of smoke into the sky. The heat was enough to create a whirlwind and they could feel the air roaring past them to feed the flames. Dust and uprooted bushes went with it, to disappear as cinders into the heavens with the smoke. Almost at once, lorries appeared from the fort. Imagining it to be an attack by the Long Range Desert Group, the officer in command had given orders to evacuate the place and the lorries were pouring out, one after the other, to head for the safety of the desert, the faces of the drivers lit up by the glare of the flames.
It was Rafferty who came to life first. It was a long time since he’d enjoyed himself so much. ‘Come on, bhoys,’ he said, his accent thickening in his excitement as it always did. ‘’Tis time we were off.’
Caccia followed in a daze. It was only twenty minutes since he’d been in Rosalba Coccioli’s arms.
Chapter 13
When Scarlatti finally appeared at 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit, it was noticeable that Faiani had surfaced again. They had seen nothing of him for some time but on this occasion he was with Scarlatti in the Lancia and Clutterbuck promptly disappeared to the stores tent and kept his head down.
Scarlatti’s face was as mournful as Mondi’s behind the wheel. His plump features seemed to droop and he was full of woe. ‘First the furniture factory,’ he complained. ‘Then the dump. And now, last night, the refuelling depot. Why is it always me and never Ancillotti? The RAF have bombed Derna again and again and his dump is always spared. I begin to think the Holy Father in Rome doesn’t pray hard enough for us or that his prayers aren’t answered, because nobody deserves success less than Ancillotti. The way he’s filling his pockets is disgraceful.’
‘Perhaps,’ Morton said mildly, ‘you should report him to Brigadier Olivaro.’
Scarlatti had no intention of reporting anybody in case a general enquiry should be set in motion to cover all dumps, including his own. ‘Those damned bombers are becoming too accurate,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Or else some traditore sporco – some filthy traitor – is signalling to them. I think I shall have to have a few heads blown off by a firing squad.’
Morton didn’t take him very seriously because he’d long since realized Scarlatti was a soft-hearted man longing only to return to Italy and his plump wife and three daughters.
The jeremiad continued for a while, then Faiani’s sharp eyes detected that there were more tools about 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit than previously and he turned sharply, his eyes narrow.
‘I see your equipment turned up, count,’ he said suspiciously.
‘Not mine.’ Morton smiled. ‘That appears to have disappeared somewhere near Sofi. Commandeered, I expect. You know what soldiers are. These’ – he gestured about him – ‘these are all new issues. I signalled Brigadier Olivaro. He’s an old friend of my family. I pointed out that we couldn’t function without equipment. It arrived during the night. At the height of the air raid.’ He flourished the inventories, all sporting Clutterbuck’s version of Brigadier Olivaro’s signature.
Faiani nodded. ‘There have been some disastrous happenings in Zuq lately,’ he observed shrewdly. ‘Funny you should be here to see them all, count.’
‘Fortunes of war,’ Morton said. ‘Some people have doubtless gone through the war without hearing a shot fired in anger.’
Scarlatti said nothing. He suspected the signatures were false, and it was common practice in the army, he knew, to help yourself to what you needed if the opportunity arose. If you lost something, you helped yourself to the next man’s, while he replaced what you’d taken from the possessions of the person next to him in line, and so on. The last man started it all over again by helping himself from the possessions of the first. It was an army adage that only a fool allowed himself to remain without. Nevertheless, even though he suspe
cted that what he saw in front of him was his, Scarlatti had already, as Clutterbuck had predicted, followed another army adage and was protecting his own rear by writing it all off as ‘lost due to enemy action’. And, having done so, he had no intention of making an ass of himself by suddenly discovering that it hadn’t been.
All the same, Scarlatti thought, considering the amount of help he’d given to 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit, the advice he’d offered, the food he’d supplied, it was nothing less than base ingratitude, and the Italian nobility clearly wasn’t what he’d always thought.
* * *
Though Scarlatti didn’t worry them much, Faiani was another kettle of fish, while Schwartzheiss was yet another. And when Schwartzheiss arrived within a couple of hours of Faiani’s departure, it had 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit alarmed.
He was driving a Kübelwagen and there was a large plaster on his head where Dampier’s revolver had contacted it. Seeing him from his tent, Caccia bolted for the marquee where Morton was standing with Rafferty.
‘It’s him,’ he said frantically. ‘That German I bonked over the conk.’
Rafferty was nervous but Morton was confident he could handle things.
‘I’ll attend to him,’ he said.
As the Kübelwagen stopped, he stepped forward. ‘Good morning, sergeant,’ he said. ‘Your car is in need of repair?’
Schwartzheiss smiled. ‘If it were, I’d get it serviced at our own workshops.’ He was looking about him, his eyes shrewd. His comment was the same as Faiani’s. ‘I see your lost equipment turned up, tenente.’
Morton smiled. ‘During the air raid that destroyed Scarlatti’s dump.’
‘Pity you weren’t here to welcome it.’
Morton smiled again. ‘But I was, sergeant. I’m always careful to remain in camp at night. To guard against pilferers. Doubtless you were doing the same.’
Schwartzheiss’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Of course.’
