Harkaway's Sixth Column

by John Harris

  As he stopped in front of Guidotti, his large eyes were angry.

  ‘The road’s been blocked,’ he said.

  ‘Which road?’

  ‘Our road, Excellency. Your road. Just before last night’s petrol lorry got through.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘I hardly think so, sir. It was in the Wirir Gorge. The whole cliff’s come down on it. It will take days to clear.’

  ‘What is it, Piccio?’ Guidotti said stiffly. ‘A landslide? Because, if so, spit it out. I haven’t all day.’

  Di Sanctis stepped forward. ‘No, Excellency,’ he said. ‘Not a landslide. An explosion was heard. Somebody dynamited it. Despite what we thought, there is resistance.’

  Guidotti was sitting bolt upright now.

  ‘It was obviously carefully selected,’ Di Sanctis went on. ‘At its narrowest point. At the 200th kilometre sign. You remember we put up one of our markers there. One of the large ones with the eagle and fasces and the laurel wreath. It was our intention to place a bust of the Duce–’

  ‘Get on,’ Guidotti snapped.

  Di Sanctis stiffened. ‘A dead camel was found. There were also three stray camels wandering in the road.’

  ‘Who brought the news?’

  ‘Corporal Brazzi was in command, Excellency. He had with him two privates, one a driver, and an askari who drove the lorry. The askari appeared at the post at Dudub and they telephoned the post at Guldari which sent a car.’

  ‘What about Brazzi?’

  ‘He’s still somewhere outside Dudub, suffering, according to the askari, from blisters. He has the two privates with him. The askari ran the whole way after they climbed the pile of rubble the explosion had brought down.’

  ‘Then who–’ Guidotti demanded ‘–is guarding the petrol?’

  ‘Ah!’ Di Sanctis frowned. This was the part that had been bothering him. ‘I’m afraid the petrol has been lost, Excellency.’

  ‘Under the rubble?’

  ‘No, Excellency.’

  ‘Spilled?’

  ‘No, sir. It was stolen.’

  Guidotti exploded. ‘Maria, Madre di Dio!’ he yelled. ‘After all this time we have only just got to the crux of the matter! What you’re trying to tell me is that we have lost a lorry-load of petrol!’

  ‘And the lorry,’ Di Sanctis said.

  ‘Not only the lorry, Excellency,’ Piccio added, ‘but also the car. The car we sent to General Forsci to accompany the lorry on its journey here with the petrol.’

  Guidotti’s face went red. He forced himself to regain control. He knew all the stories about Italians being over-excitable but he came from Rome and couldn’t be expected to yell like a Neapolitan. ‘Go on.’ He spoke quietly, but his hands were trembling.

  Di Sanctis cleared his throat. He was not enjoying himself very much. ‘Quite clearly a large amount of explosive was used, Excellency. This officer–’ he gestured at the man from the car who had appeared just behind him ‘–says it was planted with great skill, by someone who clearly knew a great deal about it.’

  Piccio interrupted again excitedly. ‘It will need bulldozers,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t got bulldozers,’ Guidotti snapped.

  ‘Then we shall have to get them from Berbera, Excellency.’

  ‘If they’ve got them there. Turn out the 49th Colonial Battalion and get them up to the Wirir Gorge. Start clearing it at once. Recruit native labour. They can take the place of the 49th as soon as we have sufficient. We shall probably need explosives ourselves if there are large boulders.’

  As Guidotti gave his orders, he remembered General Forsci, in Jijiga, who commanded west of the border and had sent the petrol. ‘You’d better inform Jijiga,’ he said. ‘Warn them to hold up all traffic until we let them know the road’s clear.’

  As he’d been talking, Guidotti had been putting on his jacket and buttoning it up. His servant handed him his fly whisk and his cap and he was about to head after Piccio when he realized he still wore his bedroom slippers. He took a swing at his servant with his fly whisk and the servant vanished into the house, yelling. A moment later, a soldier appeared with a pair of newly polished riding boots. He was still rubbing at them as Guidotti pulled them on.

  An hour and a half later Guidotti was standing on top of the pile of rubble that blocked the Wirir Gorge.

  ‘Mother of God,’ he said. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Patriots?’ Piccio suggested.

  ‘There are no patriots in Somaliland,’ Di Sanctis put in. ‘The Somalis don’t care who runs the place so long as they’re left to herd their camels and goats and sheep.’

  ‘You know this, of course?’ Piccio said sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, Colonello.’ Di Sanctis spoke quietly. ‘I know.’

  Piccio was about to argue but Guidotti realized that Di Sanctis got his information from his black mistress, who doubtless got it in the market. They always said the best way to learn a language was in bed. Perhaps bed was also the best place to obtain information.

  He gestured at Piccio who turned back to the problem of clearing the pass. ‘When will native labour arrive?’

  ‘They’re on their way, Excellency.’

  ‘Good. Establish an armed post here. Within a day we shall have the road open and in a week back to normal. From now on there’ll be lorry patrols of infantry every two hours. They’re to stop and investigate anything suspicious. They’ll be accompanied by an armoured car. Arrange with Jijiga for refuelling and feeding. Native caravans will be kept off the road. They can go via Mandera. From now on this road will be used only by Italian vehicles.’

  To Bronwen Ortton-Daniells, the cave in the Bur Yi Hills looked remarkably uncomfortable.

  They were stiff and tired when they arrived at Shimber Addi and Tully was sleeping in the rear of the car, with his head on her baggage. As Grobelaar drew the Bedford to a halt she stopped the Lancia just behind him. As he came towards her, smiling, his eye-patch dark in his tired face, she leaned out of the cab.

  ‘That was a difficult road, Private Grobelaar,’ she said.

  ‘Mister Grobelaar,’ he corrected. ‘I’m not a soldier.’

  As she climbed out, Harkaway eyed her with interest. She was straight-backed and straight-legged, her head up proudly, her topee top-dead-centre on her hair. The sun was picking up the angles of her face, and despite the spectacles, it was a good face, with strong lines, a good chin, a short upper lip, a straight nose and a high forehead. He put her age at about thirty-two, older than himself but still good-looking, though the heat of East Africa had taken its toll, and there was a tightness about her mouth that suggested there had been some disappointment that had driven her there from England. He wondered what man had let her down.

  She was staring round the cave. It was untidy and full of opened boxes. Cigarette ends were scattered on the floor and there were dirty billycans and empty tins lying about, while the ashes of a dead fire smoked in the entrance. Three sets of boxes had been dragged together to make beds. A fourth bed had been made in the native manner with rope by Grobelaar who was older than the others and prized his comfort.

  ‘Is this where you sleep?’

  Harkaway threw down the captured Italian uniforms and weapons. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes we sleep in an old house in Eil Dif. Not so cold at nights.’ As he spoke, he wondered what she would think of the girls who visited Gooch and Tully.

  ‘Sleeping will be a problem,’ she commented. ‘I don’t think I could manage on a hard box. Women have hips.’

  ‘You can have my bed,’ Grobelaar offered. ‘I’ll make another.’

  She stared about her through the steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘It’s very dirty,’ she observed. ‘We must do something about it. Cleanliness is next to godliness.’

  ‘We’ve not had much time, Miss – er – er–’ Tully stumbled over her name. He could hardly wade through ‘Miss Ortton-Daniells’ every time he wanted to address her but ‘Bronwen’ seemed a bit too presumptuous for a mi
ssion worker. ‘We’ve got no brushes or anything.’

  ‘Surely you can make one? There are twigs outside. The French make their brooms of twigs.’ She looked at Gooch. ‘What’s your name?’

  Gooch looked at her. ‘Gooch,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t call you “Gooch”.’

  ‘Everybody else does.’

  ‘Haven’t you a Christian name?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Harvey. I prefer Gooch.’

  ‘Very well. Gooch it shall be. You can clear the dirty tins. They bring flies.’

  As she turned to Harkaway, he smiled coolly. ‘I’m an NCO,’ he said quickly, ‘NCOs don’t work. We lead the prayers on church parade.’

  She wasn’t in the slightest put out by his smile. ‘What’s your name?’ she demanded.

  ‘George. Most people call me “Squire”.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Better ask ’em.’

  ‘Doubtless because you’ve had the benefit of a superior education. You’ve obviously been well brought up. You must be in charge, since you’re an NCO. But you can still do a little tidying up, surely. Who’s the cook?’

  ‘Won’t you be the cook?’ Tully asked.

  ‘I’ve never been a cook, Paddy,’ she said coldly. ‘At home in England my family employed a cook. Out here in Africa, we always had an African. Perhaps we can get one from the village down the hill.’

  ‘We don’t want them up here,’ Harkaway said sharply.

  ‘Why not?’

  He gestured at the crates of food and weapons and she was silent for a moment. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘In that case we must take it in turns.’

  ‘Where shall we hang the chintz curtains?’ Harkaway asked sarcastically.

  Unwillingly they started to tidy the place while Bronwen Ortton-Daniells poked about among the boxes.

  ‘There are Primus stoves,’ she said. ‘And plenty of food.’

  ‘Not enough for a banquet,’ Harkaway pointed out. ‘There are four of us. Five now. Same with paraffin. It’s dark up here at night without a lamp. That’s why we use fires instead of Primus stoves.’

  ‘I see,’ she said again. ‘Are there many guns?’

  ‘Two Vickers. Two Brens. Four old Lewises. Two hundred rifles.’ He glanced at Gooch and Tully. ‘Slightly less now. They’re mostly old Martinis intended for native levies with a bullet as big as your finger. Relics of old South African wars, I expect. There are still a lot about. The rest are Lee Enfields.’

  ‘How about water?’

  ‘We get it from Eil Dif.’

  ‘Have we got enough for me to wash my hair and have a bath?’

  Tully looked up quickly. Gooch stopped what he was doing and Grobelaar fumbled the twigs he was trying to tie round the end of a pole he had cut from a stunted tree to make a broom.

  Harkaway smiled. ‘It’ll have to be a stand-up affair with a bucket,’ he pointed out. ‘I expect we can cut the top off one of the petrol cans for you. You’ll look like that picture, “Morning” – girl stripped to the buff shoving her toe in a pond.’

  She looked round, not in the slightest put out. ‘I expect I shall manage,’ she said. ‘I’ve had bucket baths before. I think also, for the sake of hygiene and good sense, I’ll cut my hair short.’

  Grobelaar finished tying the twigs. ‘I know how to cut hair,’ he said.

  She dragged up a box, found a pair of scissors in her baggage and handed them to him. Half an hour later, watched all the time by the others, she emerged with her hair cropped.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tully said approvingly. ‘I once had a girl in Widnes who had her hair cut like that.’

  Even Harkaway was impressed. Bronwen Ortton-Daniells was a good-looking woman with a splendid figure, like the Somali women lean as a gazelle but far from lacking in shape.

  She ran her fingers over the stubble on her neck. She was well aware that they were all watching her silently and it was a new experience. The men she’d been used to working with were on the whole men whom, she realized now, she hadn’t greatly admired, men who prayed a great deal, talked a lot about Jesus and were largely dull. There had been an Italian doctor who’d arrived with the Italian army whose advances had troubled her, because he was strikingly handsome like so many Italians, but her hatred of them after the butchery of the Ethiopians during the Abyssinian War and the massacre of the Abyssinian intelligentsia following an attempt to assassinate the Governor, Graziani, had been so heartfelt she’d been unable to bring herself to reply when he spoke to her. These men were different. They were British and they were frankly admiring, in a virile, manly way that she found disturbed her.

  She turned away abruptly, her face pink.

  ‘I shall now wash it,’ she announced.

  Nine

  When Tully rose the following morning, Bronwen Ortton-Daniells, her glasses gleaming in the sunshine, was using a towel on her neck. The bucket they’d made for her was full of dirty water and she was obviously bathed and clean.

  Tully looked at her, his eyes full of disappointment. The previous night she had washed her hair with a cake of scented soap she possessed and Tully had hung around for ages in the hope that she’d take a bath. But she’d been as crafty as he was and had bided her time.

  ‘You’ve had it!’ he said indignantly.

  ‘Yes, Paddy,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve had it!’

  Tully stared at her sullenly. ‘I never saw you disappear,’ he said.

  ‘It’s one of my skills. Living in Africa where there isn’t a great deal of privacy, one learns these things.’

  ‘She’s had her bloody bath!’ Tully said later to Grobelaar. ‘While we were asleep.’

  Grobelaar shifted in his blankets. ‘Next time you’d better get her to let you scrub her back, man,’ he said. ‘Then you won’t miss it.’

  Over breakfast, they studied the three vehicles standing near the cave, all dusty, their wings a little dented, but all in good working order.

  ‘What are we going to do with ’em?’ Tully asked.

  As they talked desultorily, Bronwen Ortton-Daniells listened to them. It didn’t disturb her to be surrounded by men. She’d always lived in a man’s world. She had four elder brothers and had spent most of her youth keeping her head above water among them. Men, she considered, had let her down. Her father by going bankrupt and hanging himself just when she’d been thinking of marriage, and the man to whom she’d been engaged by backing away at full speed when her father died. For several years after that she had looked after a sick mother because her brothers, all married with families, had, like her flancé, backed away from responsibility as fast as they could go. When her mother had died, because she was untrained and could think of nothing else, she had offered her services to the London Foreign Mission.

  She had not expected problems. As a child she’d been given the Bible and set the task of learning by heart great chunks of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Judges, Proverbs and Psalms. She’d done it with a dogged willpower, determined to answer her father’s fanatic zeal with a zeal of her own. She’d read the Bible to her sick mother, even re-enacting scenes from the Old Testament with her, and in the arid religious household she’d inhabited it was the only fun she remembered.

  When she’d reached Abyssinia she’d found it very different from what she’d expected, but by then it was too late and she’d thrown herself into the work. Her mother and father had never spared the rod in bringing up their children and it had given their daughter a courage that took a lot of holding down. She’d often thought of changing her job but she’d started late and, with her life beginning to slip away, it had been too late to think of anything else.

  As she sat outside the cave and stared over the dusty plain, she decided it had probably been a dreadful mistake. After six years she’d achieved nothing and, despite her warm heart, the only children she’d had to love had been small black children belonging to other people whom she’d taught in a little school that was pathetic by anybody else’s standards but had be
en accepted with gratitude by the people among whom she’d worked. It had taken all her courage to give it all up and head for Somaliland.

  As she sat silently, her Bible on her lap, a lizard stared back at her, motionless, unblinking and statuesque. Somewhere overhead in the brassy sky an aeroplane was droning but she couldn’t see it and had no idea whether it was Italian or British from Aden. Unnoticed, the lizard she’d been watching slipped away. Somewhere in the scrub was the strong musty smell of leopard, probably the one which had once inhabited the cave they’d taken over. None of the others seemed to have noticed it and she realized her years in Africa had probably made her more perceptive.

  They were still discussing the vehicles they’d acquired.

  ‘We ought to do something with ’em,’ Tully said, nagging at the idea.

  ‘Okay,’ Gooch said, ‘what?’

  Bronwen Ortton-Daniells sat up.

  ‘We could always go to war,’ she said.

  Gooch’s head turned. ‘We went to war,’ he pointed out. ‘And we lost it. Here, anyway.’

  Tully shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to do with us now,’ he pointed out.

  ‘It was something to do with you when you blew up the road – and me with it.’

  They looked at each other. She’d made no further mention of the incident and they’d assumed she’d not known the culprits.

  ‘How did you know it was us?’ Harkaway asked quietly.

  ‘I’m not a fool.’

  Grobelaar smiled. ‘No offence taken?’

  ‘It was in a good cause. It still would be. Why don’t you fight the Italians?’

  ‘Four of us?’ Gooch said.

  She looked coldly at him. She knew about guns and had no fear of them. Before her father’s bankruptcy, he and her brothers had all shot and she’d often handled guns. And when the Italians had come to Abyssinia, she’d several times been under fire while helping the wounded.

  ‘Five,’ she said quietly. ‘There are five of us now.’

  They were still staring at her when Grobelaar stood up, suddenly alert and peering over the plain below. Harkaway joined him and the two of them moved to where the three vehicles they’d been discussing stood on the edge of the road, overlooking the rocky slope.