by John Harris
The general waved a hand. ‘I’m not so sure. Still it’ll be up to you to find out. Do what you can if you get the chance. The more the merrier. We haven’t all that many men.’
Six
Guidotti was inclined to consider the bombing of the victory column as an attempt by some disaffected Somali still loyal to the British to show his disapproval of the new regime. Since obviously a bomb would have had to be prepared by someone of intelligence from Berbera, however, he contacted Captain Scaroni, of the navy, in command there, and got him to set up a search. But, since the Somali intelligentsia had left almost to a man with the British in August, all that remained were the shopkeepers and traders who were perfectly happy under Italian rule, just as they would have been under any rule so long as trade continued.
Guards were doubled, officers and NCOs were warned to be on the qui vive in case of further attempts to undermine Italian rule, but when nothing happened it was assumed that it was an isolated incident and gradually they began to relax.
Unfortunately, just when Guidotti had decided he had everything under control again, the feud between the Habr Odessi and the Harari erupted once more, and quite by chance Colonel Piccio drove smack through the middle of a skirmish across the Strada del Duce that holed one or two lorries and caused their crews to duck hurriedly.
Guidotti listened to Piccio’s account with a frown. The Somalis, he had soon discovered, weren’t very fussy about who was running their country and most of them had gathered from the Eritreans and the Somalis from Italian Somaliland that the Italians were easier to work with than the British. They brought trade in mutton, milk, grain, hides, cloth and incense, which they used in the churches they built; they were not against sitting down with a chief for a cup of tea; and they laughed, sang and were honest about their need for women. The British were cold, proud, detached and hard; they never enthused about anything; and they maintained their frozen faces whatever happened, unmoved by the excitement or the laughter of the Somalis, whom it was known they despised.
Nevertheless, scuffles such as Piccio was now describing seemed to have been few and far between under their administration in recent years, and Guidotti’s job was concerned with law and order along the Strada del Duce from Jijiga to his headquarters in Bidiyu, so that groups of Somalis shooting at each other could not only create a danger to Italian troops but could also cause trouble for General Guidotti.
He had no wish for trouble. He was young and he was ambitious. One day perhaps he could become a marshal like Graziani or Balbo, perhaps a governor of one of Italy’s new colonies. He had a beautiful wife in Rome and two small daughters he adored, and it was only the thought of eventually having them with him, of living in comfort, that enabled him to be away from them so often and for so long. It was over a year since he’d seen them and he itched to prove himself so that he could be rewarded. If by nothing else, he thought wistfully, then perhaps by home leave, though, after Taranto, only God knew how he was going to get across the Mediterranean.
‘Tell me again,’ he said to Piccio.
‘We ran into crossfire across the Strada del Duce,’ Piccio said. ‘Nobody was hurt but we had to set up a machine gun and pepper the slopes. We found one dead Somali, a lot of spent cartridges – and this.’
He indicated an ancient Martini rifle, which lay on Guidotti’s desk.
‘British,’ Guidotti observed.
‘Undoubtedly, Excellency. The British army mark is on the butt. And the cartridge cases we found were of British manufacture.’
‘There can be no mistake? In its day, the Italian army has also used Martinis.’
‘Only our native levies, Excellency.’
‘What’s to stop native levies deserting and selling their weapons?’
‘Sir, we were in a crossfire. They weren’t shooting at us, though we were in danger of being hit. We decided, Di Sanctis and I, that there were around a dozen rifles firing across the road. We would surely know if a dozen men had deserted.’
Guidotti frowned. ‘Then if not from deserters, where did they get them?’
‘Could it be that the British set up a dump somewhere in this area to supply native troops and that the local tribesmen have found it?’
‘Twelve rifles is hardly a dump,’ Guidotti said. ‘Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps just a tribal quarrel. If it is some Englishman, then we’ll catch him. He’ll be begging for mercy before we’ve done with him.’
Piccio was unconvinced. ‘In the meantime, Excellency, shouldn’t we double the guards on the convoys passing along the road to Berbera?’
‘The arms convoys passing along the road to Berbera are already under heavy guard.’
‘There’s petrol, Excellency.’
‘The Somalis don’t steal petrol,’ Guidotti pointed out. ‘It can’t be used with camels and so far I’ve seen no other form of transport away from the coast.’ He frowned. ‘In any case, petrol lorries also carry an armed guard. On the orders of General Forsci at Jijiga. And since they travel in groups of ten, that means ten armed men with them, under the command of a sergeant.’
‘Sir–’ Piccio gestured ‘–that’s the petrol for the coast. But every evening we have one lorry which brings petrol for our personal use here in Bidiyu. That’s guarded by one armed man only.’
‘The driver also has a weapon in the cab.’
‘Two then, sir. But if a serious attempt were made on it, two men would hardly be enough.’
Guidotti frowned. ‘Very well then,’ he conceded. ‘Let’s have it accompanied by a second vehicle. Or have Jijiga send the lorry through every two days so they can travel in twos.’
‘Sir, General Forsci claims he hasn’t sufficient transport for that. I’ve already discussed it with his transport officer. It’s one lorry or nothing. It makes the journey here in the evening, unloads during darkness and returns in the early morning so that General Forsci has its use during the day.’
‘General Forsci is a narrow-minded–’ Guidotti stopped and smiled, remembering General Forsci was his superior in rank. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then we’d better send something to Jijiga in the late afternoon which can return with the lorry in the evening and be available for our use during the following day. If General Forsci can do this, so can we!’
‘Sir, we have only one spare vehicle. A car. A Lancia. And at the moment that has a broken spring.’
Guidotti was growing angry. ‘Very well, then,’ he snapped. ‘As soon as the spring is repaired, send it to General Forsci to accompany our lorry-load of petrol. Until then, we shall just have to take a chance. Perhaps this skirmish that worries you so much was nothing, anyway. We’ve seen no sign of enmity from the natives. The war’s over. The land’s at peace. There’s no more resistance.’
In that, however, he was dead wrong.
The need for petrol was growing urgent. Without it, they couldn’t move and they’d been prodigal in its use since they’d arrived at Shimber Addi. Nobody liked walking in the heat and they’d used the truck to collect water and meat, even for Tully and Gooch to visit the girls Yussuf had found for them. With Yussuf still hostile, they needed it more than ever.
Something had to be done and, since they’d already discovered that petrol went regularly from Jijiga to Bidiyu, they decided to find out exactly when. It was a risk they had to take if they were to survive.
Driving Tully and Harkaway to a spot near the main road before first light, Grobelaar dropped them and headed back to Eil Dif.
‘We’ll be here a week from now, Kom-Kom,’ Harkaway said as the lorry started to move. ‘And keep an eye on that stupid bastard, Gooch.’
As the lorry rattled off, they began to climb into the hills that overlooked Guidotti’s Strada del Duce. By afternoon, they were staring down at the Wirir Gorge, a slit in the red rocks where the road started to drop down to Bidiyu. Italian working parties had cleared the fallen rocks that had always plagued the road, a neat stone edge had been built and a concrete marker post had be
en erected.
‘Make a nice job of ’em, don’t they?’ Tully said. ‘Roman eagle and the usual firewood and chopper.’
They found a niche in the rocks and erected a tarpaulin. It was cold enough at night to make them shiver as they huddled together to sleep, but there were stunted trees with which to make fires. They were always glad to see the sun next morning, however – just as they were glad to see it disappear after a whole day of its blazing heat watching the road.
Occasional camel trains plodded through the gorge, the cries of the drivers – ‘Ei! Ei! Huh-hu-hu-hu!’ – drifting up to the watching men like the barking of the baboons they occasionally saw. For the most part, the Italian lorries from Jijiga or Berbera travelled in small convoys, guarded by soldiers, and once they saw a car roar past containing four men in different uniforms.
‘Germans,’ Tully said. ‘One of the buggers is wearing an iron cross.’
Harkaway nodded. ‘Watson said there were a few liaison officers with ’em,’ he agreed.
The week dragged. His face coated with the dust which stuck to the sweat, Harkaway frowned as an Italian convoy roared past.
‘We can’t tackle that many,’ he said.
Then they noticed that each evening just before dark a single lorry passed. It went by every night at speed, but only when, on the fourth day, it roared by with its tarpaulin flapping loose did it dawn on them that it was carrying cans of petrol.
‘Two men,’ Harkaway breathed. ‘Just two men! We could fix two of the bastards.’
Two days later the same camel train that had visited Bidiyu moved slowly from Eil Dif south through the foothills of the Bur Yi to Guidotti’s Strada del Duce. Guidotti’s lorries passed them without their drivers even noticing them, because there were plenty of other camel trains on the road, moving towards Berbera.
As the vehicles roared past, the flying grit they lifted settled on the dusty hides of the camels, in the folds of the travellers’ clothing, and in the wrinkles of their skin. The perspiration made it stick so that they were masked like mummies, a layer of moist dust like mud on their faces. After their fashion, the camels grunted and belched and farted as they plodded slowly along the road. On their backs they carried the same bundles of hides that had been to Bidiyu.
As they halted to drink from a water skin, the tallest of the drivers looked round. ‘This is the place,’ he said.
He gestured with his head at the entrance to the Wirir Gorge whose sides towered over the road. The fierce white light of the sun reflected dazzlingly from the rocks and made the place look clinical and sterile.
‘A charge under that rock there,’ he said, pointing, ‘and it’ll bring the lot down.’
He looked up as a car approached, trailing its cloud of dust. As it passed, he lifted his hand and waved – in the Italian manner the Somalis had been quick to learn, with the back of his hand to the recipient, the fingers moving slowly.
There was a small recess at the side of the road where the hills lay back and where convoys had been in the habit of halting. Its surface was covered with powdery dust criss-crossed with the marks of tyres. At one end, where the camels of nomad tribesmen stopped, the surface was composed of trodden dung and the heavy smell of the animals hung in the air. With a stick, Harkaway prodded the camels forward and persuaded them to kneel. Then they squatted down by the rocks, waiting, watching the traffic. There were no guns and few troops. They had passed through long since. Now it was only lorries bringing up supplies, or an occasional car containing an officer.
‘You sure them explosives are safe?’ Tully asked.
‘Perfectly.’
Tully eyed the sack on the nearest camel. ‘It’s bloody near,’ he said. ‘Suppose it fell off?’
‘Do no harm,’ Harkaway assured him. ‘You could burn it and it’d only fizz. It has to be put in a hole and tamped down, with a fuse attached.’
‘You sure?’
Harkaway smiled in the quiet way of his that irritated the other two so much, then as a car approached, heading at full speed through the pass, he stiffened and did his Italian wave again.
As dusk came, the reds and greys around them died into blues and purples and the sky was full of wild vermilion fires. The traffic stopped and a hot wind came through the pass from the plain, blowing the dried dust of ancient camel dung and lifting the surface of hard fine shale from the earth until little ridges appeared like bones in the reddish sand.
‘We’d better get on with it,’ Harkaway said. ‘Get the crowbar.’
Tully began to unfasten the heavy iron bar they’d found in the cave at Shimber Addi.
‘That ought to make a hole big enough,’ Harkaway said. ‘We’ll find a crack and work on that. Get up the slope, Paddy, and keep a look out. Give us a whistle when the petrol lorry comes. If we’re ready first we’ll whistle to you to come down.’
As Tully began to scramble up the rocky slopes, Harkaway began to jab with the crowbar at a crack in the rock beneath one of the huge pillars that held back the cliff.
‘Christ,’ Gooch said disgustedly. ‘Gimme that! You’re poking about like a tart with a knitting needle.’ His great shoulders working, he jabbed at the rock with the heavy iron bar. ‘How deep do you want it?’
Harkaway held up one of the packets of explosive. ‘Big enough and deep enough to get one of these in,’ he said.
‘How much fuse?’
‘Enough to give us time to run.’
There was only one alarm. A soft whistle stopped them as they worked and, tossing the crowbar behind the rocks, they squatted down alongside the camels.
‘These buggers niff a bit, don’t they?’ Gooch said. ‘You ever smelt their breath? I had one belch straight in my face once.’
A car rushed past at speed. The men in the rear seat didn’t even turn their heads to look at the two men with the camels. As the car disappeared, Gooch got to work again.
‘It’s big enough now,’ he said. ‘Shove it in.’
Harkaway stuffed in the explosive. ‘Better give it an extra one to make sure,’ he said.
Gooch grinned. ‘Why not an extra two,’ he said. ‘Make no mistake.’
Stuffing in the last of the explosive, Harkaway attached the fuse. Packing earth round it, he looked up.
‘Better shift the camels,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want the poor sods to go sailing over the hill there.’
Leading the disgruntled animals down the road, they manoeuvred them into the recess among the rocks.
‘Okay?’
As Harkaway nodded, Gooch put two fingers in his mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle.
‘Could never do that,’ Harkaway commented. ‘Always envied chaps who could. So bloody useful when you want a taxi in London.’
Almost on top of the whistle there was an answering signal from the dusk and they heard the clatter of stones as Tully began to scramble down the slope towards them. Walking back to where they had planted the explosive, Harkaway paused until he saw the figure of Tully appear, then he lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs and applied the end to the fuse. Immediately, it began to burn, moving swiftly in short jerky runs.
Tully was coming towards him, waving his arms.
‘Run,’ Harkaway shouted.
As he set off towards Gooch, he was aware of Tully yelling but he ignored him and they ran together towards the bend in the road. As they fell into the recess where Gooch waited, Tully was fighting for his breath. ‘There’s a–’
‘Keep moving,’ Harkaway snapped.
Gooch picked up the heavy iron crowbar and Harkaway the sack of explosives and they began to scramble among the rocks.
‘Listen–’ Tully panted, struggling along behind them.
‘Save your breath,’ Harkaway said.
They scrambled part-way up the slope, the stones and shale slipping beneath their sandalled feet.
‘Listen–’
‘For Christ’s sake, man,’ Harkaway snarled. ‘Dry up!’
Reaching
a ridge, they threw themselves over the other side.
‘We’ll be all right here,’ Harkaway panted.
‘Listen–’ Tully was still fighting for breath.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’
‘Somebody’s coming up the pass.’
‘What?’
‘I whistled. Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I thought that was to indicate you’d heard our signal.’
‘I saw ’em just as you whistled. They’ll be coming round the corner any minute.’
‘I hope they’re not too bloody quick,’ Harkaway said, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t want the petrol to go up with the gorge. That’d be a waste of time and effort.’
‘It isn’t the petrol lorry,’ Tully gasped. ‘And it isn’t an Italian. It’s somebody on a camel.’
Gooch and Harkaway exchanged glances then they stared at Tully.
‘A Somali?’
‘I’ve never seen a Somali wearing a topee.’
For a moment they were silent again, then they stared down into the pass. Just as Tully had warned, a solitary camel was just rounding the bend and on its back was a figure wearing a topee, a Somali blanket decorated with flowers wrapped round its shoulders.
‘It might be an Italian,’ Gooch said.
‘Here?’ Harkaway said. ‘Alone? At this time of night? Not on your bloody life!’
‘Well, if it’s not an Eyetie, who is it?’
‘A civvy. Trying to get to the coast. You’ve got to stop that bang!’
‘How, you bloody fool?’ Harkaway snapped. ‘It’s just about there now. I’m not going near it!’
‘Well, we’d better warn him.’
Together, they started to scramble down the slope, yelling. The rider looked up. The face was shadowed in the grey dusk by the brim of the topee but they caught the glint as the last of the light touched the lenses of a pair of round spectacles. Clearly the rider thought their approach was an attack and they saw a hand fish under the blanket then there was a crack and they heard the whine of a bullet sailing over their heads. Automatically, they flung themselves down. The rider spurred the camel into a lope and it began to approach the spot where the pass narrowed.
