by Max Hennessy
‘What’s the trouble, Tom?’ he asked the sergeant. ‘Why aren’t these chaps being stripped? We want their uniforms – undamaged and unstained by blood – so why haven’t you got on with it?’
The sergeant swung round. ‘Because they’re not fucking Italians, sir.’
The officer stared at Morton and the others. ‘They’re not?’ He sounded as if he’d discovered they’d all got two heads.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then what the hell are they doing in Italian uniform?’ The sergeant looked at Morton. ‘What the hell are you doing in Italian uniform, the officer wants to know.’
‘We’re doing the same as you’re doing,’ Morton said coolly. ‘Operating behind the enemy lines.’
The officer and the sergeant stared at each other, then the officer turned to Morton. ‘Who are you? SAS men? Or one of our patrols we don’t know about?’
‘Neither,’ Morton said. ‘We’re the Desert Ratbags.’
‘The Desert Who?’
‘We’re a concert party. We got cut off. We’ve been living in Zuq ever since, waiting to get back to our own lines. There are some of our chaps back there. One’s a colonel.’
The officer frowned, then he gestured with the fly whisk. ‘This is bloody nonsense!’ he said. ‘We didn’t come here to talk to you lot. We came to pick up two or three Italian uniforms.’
‘That’s all right,’ Clegg said. ‘We’ve got plenty of those. German ones, too, if you want ’em.’
The officer looked at the sergeant. ‘Where?’
Morton gestured in the general direction of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit. ‘Over there. We’ve got enough enemy uniforms to dress the lot of you if you want ’em.’
The officer thought for a moment, then he introduced himself. ‘My name’s Coffin,’ he said. ‘Miles Coffin. Not a particularly appropriate name in wartime. After all, it’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in. This is Sergeant Grady.’ He turned again to Morton. ‘Did you say you could fit us all up with a uniform?’
‘German or Italian. One or the other. Take your pick. We’ve got plenty of spares.’
Coffin beamed at Grady. ‘Well, that’s better than just three of us, Tom. We can all go now. Safety in numbers, what?’
‘What are you up to, anyway?’ Clegg asked.
Coffin shrugged. ‘Well, we came originally to knock off the airstrip here near the Wadi Sghiara. There’s a squadron of Fiats there. We can polish the lot off with a bit of luck. Then we heard about the general. We heard he was coming to Zuq. So we decided we might as well kill two birds with one stone. Well, not kill ’em. First we knock off the airstrip, then we kidnap the general.’
‘Which general?’
‘Which general do you think? Erwin. The man himself. Taking him prisoner would make ’em sit up a bit, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t know whether they were sittin’ on pos or piano stools.’
Clegg, Morton and Jones exchanged glances. ‘You’re too late,’ Clegg said. ‘He’s already gone into Zuq.’
Coffin frowned. ‘We heard he wasn’t coming until the day after tomorrow. We heard he was due to make an inspection.’
‘He never said anything to me,’ Morton pointed out.
Coffin’s eyes widened. ‘Do you know him?’
‘We’ve just been singing to him.’
‘You’ve – what the Christ is this?’ Lieutenant Coffin, like everyone else they met, seemed to become a little bogged down in their explanations.
‘He’s a painter,’ Morton said. ‘Watercolour.’
‘I never heard that.’ Coffin stared at Sergeant Grady, then back at Morton. ‘You’re not having us on, are you?’
Morton shook his head. ‘I’ve just been watching him,’ he said. ‘At the end of the wadi there. He was splashing the stuff all over the shop. You could pick him up easily. He said he’d be back around this time tomorrow to finish his picture.’
Chapter 5
With the arrival of a British officer who hadn’t a bad back and seemed to know what he was doing, it seemed to Morton to be time to hand over command.
Within half an hour, the Long Range Desert Group had met Dampier and Rafferty, and the planned kidnap had been brought forward to the following night, particularly in view of the half-map which Dampier produced.
‘The girl will bring the other half tonight,’ he said.
‘Which girl?’ Coffin asked.
‘The girl Caccia married.’
‘Who’s Caccia?’
‘One of our people. He has an Italian name, but he comes from London. He got married this afternoon.’
The glazed look returned to Coffin’s eyes and Rafferty explained quickly, starting at the beginning and taking everything in its proper order.
‘Christ,’ Coffin said when he’d finished. ‘You’ve been having quite a time, haven’t you?’
‘You could say that, sir,’ Rafferty agreed.
‘And this girl’s going to be taken through our lines with the map?’
‘When we get the other half. We promised she’d go with us.’
‘Can’t you just leave her?’
‘She could get shot if anybody finds out,’ Morton explained.
Coffin didn’t seem unduly disturbed by the possibility. ‘How’re you going to get this map to our people?’ he asked.
‘The Italians are going to open the minefield the other side of Sofi. We thought we’d try to get through with them.’
‘Sounds a bit dicey. Be a bit late, too. Why don’t we radio the details? We’ve got a couple of trucks out in the blue waiting for us.’ Coffin gestured towards the desert. ‘Down there. One’s a radio truck – with a No. 11 high-powered set. We often signal a distance of several hundred miles. Once somebody managed fourteen hundred. No plain language, of course. It’d save a lot of trouble. We could have all the grid references in their hands within an hour or two. They expect us to come up every evening and they’re listening out for us. We could send two of our vehicles off with it – we always move in twos – and have them back in the morning ready to pick up our little German friend, the general, when he appears.’
* * *
Two of the LRDG Chevrolets had just departed southwards when a Lancia truck appeared over the rise. Just ahead of it was Faiani’s little Fiat.
It was Morton who spotted them first. ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘this looks to me remarkably like trouble.’
Faiani was smiling grimly as he clapped on the brakes of the Fiat. The little car slid sideways in a spectacular stop, throwing sand, dust and small stones on to Morton’s boots. The truck drew to a more sedate halt just behind and, as the tailgate slammed down, half a dozen men with rifles jumped out.
‘Faiani,’ Morton said, moving forward. ‘To what do we owe this splendid visit?’
‘To me,’ Faiani snapped. ‘And to General Erwin! He suspected you of being something other than what you claim to be, and what he suspected confirmed not only what Sergeant Schwartzheiss suspected but what I myself suspected from the minute you arrived.’ His eyes swept over the group of men who formed 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit.
‘First of all, we’ll have your hands up. All of you. Then, please, we’ll have everybody in a line.’
As he stood them in line, their hands on their heads, watched intently by his half-dozen men, Faiani’s glance fell on Clutterbuck. ‘So,’ he said. ‘It isn’t often one takes the same prisoner twice.’
‘Arseholes to you, mate,’ Clutterbuck returned delicately.
Faiani was staring with glittering eyes now at Morton. ‘You were not so clever as you thought, my friend.’
He was in a cheerful mood. Having drawn a blank with the Barda family’s home, it had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he might find out more about Barda himself. The police had supplied the information that, like most other Italians, Count Barda had been swept into the army with his class. After that it had been easy and a signal to the War Department in
Rome had brought him his answer.
‘I guessed there was something fishy about you the moment I saw you,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I decided you were deserters, living off the army and doing nothing towards victory.’
Morton’s eyebrows lifted sardonically. ‘I’d heard you have them, too,’ he said.
Faiani frowned. ‘Don’t be too amused, my friend. I then suspected you might be more. I watched you and I noticed that, while you could pass as Italian, not all of your men could. So I took the trouble to check with Rome. You are not Count Barda. Count Barda is a prisoner of war in Greece. He was captured near the Italian border at Koritsa last November.’
‘Oh, hard luck!’
‘I think you’re being sarcastic.’ Faiani was marching up and down now, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I even have your name,’ he said. ‘It is Morton. Lancelot Hugh Morton.’
For the first time, Morton looked surprised. ‘You’re cleverer than you look,’ he commented.
Faiani smiled. ‘I was once a policeman. I found out that Count Barda had an English companion who was constantly being investigated by the police. You are that companion. You are in trouble, my friend. You realize you could all be shot as spies.’
‘I doubt it,’ Morton said. ‘Not this time. And it’s you who’s in trouble, old son. Right up to your eyebrows.’
‘Trouble?’ Faiani glared. ‘What sort of trouble?’
It was Morton’s turn to smile. ‘You were good. Damn good. But you were unlucky enough to arrive just when we were having visitors. I think you’d better shove your hands up.’
‘That’s it!’ Sergeant Grady’s iron voice rang out. ‘Mani in alto, you bastards. Up with them bleedin’ ’ands.’
‘And don’t turn round,’ Morton added. ‘Just throw your weapons down and shove your hands on your heads, there’s good chaps. Half the British army’s at your backs ready to blow your heads off if you move.’
As the rifles clattered down and the hands lifted slowly, Morton stepped forward and removed Faiani’s pistol.
‘Terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘You deserve better. Especially as you seem to be the only one to have caught on from the beginning. You can turn round now.’
Faiani turned slowly to find himself facing Sergeant Grady and half a dozen men armed with sub-machine guns. Coffin was leaning elegantly on the wing of one of the trucks. It was then that Faiani noticed for the first time that there were two British Chevrolets parked among the Lancias of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit.
‘You said half the British army,’ he said bitterly.
Coffin strolled forward, flapping at the flies with his blue horsehair whisk. Stopping in front of Faiani, he pointed with the whisk. ‘Know him?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Morton said. ‘He’s worried us a lot. He’s deputy to Scarlatti, the chap who runs the dump here.’
‘What about Scarlatti?’
‘More trusting.’
‘Scarlatti is a stupid fool,’ Faiani snapped.
Morton shrugged and looked at Coffin. ‘What do we do with ’em?’ he asked.
‘Don’t trouble your heads about them,’ Coffin said. ‘They’ll not escape.’
‘Treat ’em carefully,’ Rafferty put in. ‘Faiani came from the sharp end and stopped a piece of our shrapnel last December.’
‘No bother,’ Coffin agreed. ‘Decent war out here. Don’t believe in violence to a chap who’s done his stuff. We’ll leave a guard and the rest of us will come with you. Then we’ll knock off the airfield.’
‘In the meantime,’ Morton commented, glancing at his watch, ‘we’d better pick up Caccia. We don’t want him making a pig of himself.’
* * *
There was a lot of activity in Zuq when Morton and Clegg arrived in Dampier’s Humber. Lines of vehicles were already moving down the hill towards the desert, followed by groups of the small Italian tanks. Soldiers were dragging equipment from houses and dumping it in lorries and lines of men were carrying shells, yellow Italian ammunition cases and German jerricans of petrol from a warehouse. Coffin, Grady and a group of their men who had accompanied them studied it from one of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit’s borrowed Lancias. They had washed and were all wearing Italian caps; even their beards didn’t look out of place because the Italians went in a lot for beards.
‘Very interestin’,’ Coffin observed quietly. ‘We could knock that off as well as we’re leaving.’
They drew to a stop with faint squeaks from the brakes as darkness came. There was a brief discussion with Coffin, then they pushed through the streets towards the harbour. Here the LRDG men left them.
‘You carry on,’ Coffin said cheerfully. ‘We’ll be watching and, if you’re in trouble, we’ll be there. Just get that map, that’s all.’
The air-raid siren had gone and the nightly bombing of the Italian airfields had already started, and they could see the flashes against the horizon. The sky seemed full of aircraft but for a change none of them seemed to be near Zuq.
Barbieri was waiting inside the bar, all smiles. ‘Party-rally bombing,’ he said, pointing upwards. ‘They sail over in lines like a Nazi get-together.’ He gestured to the Italian army trucks moving beyond the trees on the road out of town. ‘They are all going. Soon they’ll be in Cairo. Perhaps not, of course. But at least they’ll be away from Zuq. They say Mussolini’s thinking of having a white horse brought from Italy so he can ride through Cairo at the head of his army. Perhaps someone will shoot him. He’d make a good target.’
The Italian vehicles were swinging eastwards near the harbour, heading along the coast road, the noise of their engines loud. Morton studied them for a moment, then he pointed to the stairs.
‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘Fetch ’em down.’
Barbieri rolled his eyes. ‘They’ve had so little time together, Signore. Give them a little longer.’
Morton didn’t argue. He ran up the red-tiled staircase and started banging on the only door he could see. ‘Morton here. Out you come.’
‘Already?’ It was Caccia’s voice. ‘We’ve hardly started.’
‘You’ve had long enough to last you till the war’s over.’
The door opened and Caccia appeared, holding a towel round him. Beyond him, Morton could see Rosalba staring indignantly at him over the top of a sheet.
‘The missis, too,’ Morton said. ‘I’ve come for the map. We fulfilled our part of the bargain. And look slippy. Things are moving.’
Rosalba slid from the bed and Morton had a tantalizing glimpse of a great deal of bare flesh. When she appeared at the door, she was wearing a cotton dressing gown tied at the waist. It was open for a long way down the front and didn’t conceal much. She thrust the second half of the map at Morton.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Now leave us alone.’
‘We’re going,’ Morton said. ‘All of us.’
‘Now?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Mamma mia! I haven’t packed.’
‘You have five minutes.’
As Morton appeared downstairs again, Barbieri thrust a glass into his hand. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To the young couple. And perhaps a cigar. German cigars. Very good ones.’
He handed cigars round and Morton and Clegg lit up, drinking with Barbieri until Caccia and the girl appeared, both a little flushed.
‘The car’s outside,’ Morton said.
The girl dropped the small leather bag she carried containing her belongings. Sticking out of one corner was the yellow dress Scarlatti had obtained for her. She clutched at Barbieri.
‘I’ll send for you,’ she said. ‘Everything will be all right. In England everything’s always all right. We shall be rich.’
The all-clear was sounding as Morton pushed them towards the door and stuffed Rosalba into the back of the car.
‘No standing on the platform,’ she chirruped. ‘Pass down the bus.’
As he turned to give Caccia a push, Barbieri indicated the shed where he kept his stores. He gestured conspiratorially.
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‘Un momento,’ he pleaded. ‘A bottle for them to take with them.’
There was a strong smell of petrol as the door swung open and they could see stacked square silver cans among the straw and shavings.
‘What’s he got in there?’ Morton asked. ‘It looks like petrol.’
‘It is petrol,’ Caccia said. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t go near it with that cigar! It’s British petrol and, judging by the smell, the cans are leaking as usual.’
As they turned away, they became aware of Schwartzheiss, the German sergeant, standing in the shadows. He’d obviously been watching them for some time.
‘So,’ he said, grinning. ‘What have we here?’
‘They’ve just got married, sergeant,’ Morton explained in German.
‘And now they’re going where?’
Morton shrugged. ‘To the bridal bed.’
Schwartzheiss stepped forward. ‘They’ve already been in the bridal bed,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was standing beneath the window listening. It was most entertaining. Who are you?’
‘Mortoni, Ugo. Conte di Barda. Tenente, 34th Engineers. In command of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit.’
Schwartzheiss smiled. ‘I dare bet you’re not,’ he said. ‘Faiani doesn’t think you are either.’
Morton’s heart began to thump. Clegg was watching him, wondering what had gone wrong, and Rosalba’s face appeared from the back of the Humber.
‘Your car,’ Schwartzheiss went on. ‘An English Humber, no? And’ – his smile widened – ‘according to my instructions, army vehicles are not to be used for the transportation of civilians.’
Morton managed a shrug. ‘It happens,’ he said.
‘Not in the German army. Of course, I know that the Italian army is different. It provides lorries to transport its whores. Perhaps this lady is one, hein?’
It was a mistake. Rosalba understood German and her screech of rage swung their heads round.
‘Porca miseria!’ she screamed. ‘I’m a good girl!’
She scrambled from the car and stood in front of Schwartzheiss, shaking her fist under his nose. ‘We were properly married! I have the documents! The mayor himself, Signor Carloni, performed the ceremony! And then the priest, Father Anselmo, who’s with the army, married us in the eyes of God! He’s my husband!’
