by John Harris
During the afternoon they found the body of an Eritrean soldier which had been hurriedly buried in a shallow grave and dug up again by hyenas, then that of an Italian sergeant who had wandered off into the bush, got lost and been left behind. His shirt and shorts were filled to bursting point and the skin of the tumid body inside was shining as it stretched tighter and tighter.
‘Twinkletoes is losing control,’ Harkaway observed.
Later, a South African Blenheim passed over them and as it disappeared they heard the thud of bombs ahead.
‘They’ve found Guidotti,’ Catchpole said.
They halted for the night at a waterhole. A nomad tribe was there with its flock of goats and sheep and they greeted Harkaway’s column with grins and called Harkaway Tillik Sau, the Abyssinian words for Chief. He was beginning to feel better now. The near-disaster at Djuba was fading and his confidence was returning with a new certainty of his luck.
He summoned the herdsmen to the car and asked them if they’d seen the Italians. They had. The Italians were not far away, and the herdsmen confirmed Harkaway’s suspicion that they were distressed and running out of petrol.
‘We’ve got ’em,’ Harkaway said.
‘You said that before,’ Tully reminded him flatly.
As they squatted by the fire, the radio began to cheep. Tully rose to his feet and crossed to the radio truck. A few minutes later he came back, a startled look on his face, a piece of paper in his hand.
‘They’ve given you the bloody DSO,’ he said. ‘Immediate.’
Harkaway smiled. ‘Now they’ll have to confirm the commission,’ he said. ‘Even when they find I’m only a corporal. They commissioned me in the field and decorated me in the field.’
‘That’s all you bloody wanted, wasn’t it?’ Tully said bitterly. ‘I notice there’s nothing for me and Goochy.’
Harkaway smiled. ‘I can recommend you,’ he said. ‘How about an MC? Nice purple and white ribbon on your chest. I’ll write out a recommendation at once.’
‘Do you know how to?’
‘I’ve seen it done.’
Tully was immediately suspicious. ‘Where?’
Harkaway gave one of his cold smiles and said nothing. Taking the message pad, he began to scribble. As he handed it back, Tully stared at it.
‘It thanks them for the DSO,’ Harkaway said cheerfully, ‘claims it’s an honour, and very modestly says that I feel that what we’ve done couldn’t have been done without your help and that I would like to recommend you for the Military Cross.’
Tully looked awed and Harkaway smiled.
‘I’ll now write out the citation. It shouldn’t take long.’
The general stared at the message with a frown.
‘Good God,’ he said, ‘this bloody man’s got a cheek! He’s recommending chaps for gongs now.’
‘He’s done it correctly, sir,’ Charlton pointed out. ‘You’ll notice that. Regrets the absence of Army Form W 2121 and hopes a signal flimsy will do as well. Everything’s above board and as commanding officer he has every right to do it.’
‘I suppose he has,’ the general admitted. He frowned again. ‘I wish we knew a bit more about the bloody man, though. I hope to God he isn’t some pansy who was dismissed the service for interfering with boy entrants.’
Charlton smiled. ‘At least, sir, he couldn’t have been dismissed for cowardice.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ the general mused. ‘Even this name of his is too much of a good thing. I bet he’s some relation of old MacTremayne. That family always had the nerve of the devil. Mac was your boss in the last lot, wasn’t he? I suppose we couldn’t get in touch with the family and ask ’em if they know anything about this one, could we?’
As they prepared to move off the following morning, Tully picked up the news that the Duke of Aosta, besieged in Amba Alagi, had sent envoys to Diredawa for a parley. It seemed to indicate he was seeking a way of throwing his hand in. Then there was a whole batch of other messages including one gem which announced to the East African army at large that hippopotamus could now be shot in the Atbara, a delight that was countermanded within the hour with ‘For “Now” read “Not”.’
‘Italians can be killed,’ Harkaway said dryly. ‘But not big game. We’re back with the army.’
Messages addressed directly to the Sixth Column indicated that the South African Air Force days had spotted Guidotti two days before just to the north and bombed his column. Another informed them that the help and medical supplies they’d asked for were on their way. That didn’t please Harkaway too much, because the column was under the command of a major of the Rajputs who would inevitably be senior to him.
His run of luck, he decided, had ended. From now on he’d have to conform. But with a DSO and a major’s crown on his shoulder, he felt he could manage that. He might even admit who he was. There’d be a few quiet whistles at the information but there was a war on and people were inclined to overlook errors of behaviour in wartime. The last message confirmed that the recommendation for Tully’s gong had been passed to the right quarters.
‘If you never do another bloody thing,’ Harkaway said, ‘you can retire on it to Bognor Regis, with a better pension than you’d have got as a private soldier.’
During the day, the wind got up and filled the air with flying dust and peppered their skin like buckshot. It clung to their sweating skins, caking their lips and sticking to their nostrils and the corners of their eyes, and the vehicles filled with it so that it lay in the folds of their clothes and ended up as usual by giving them all paste-like masks that cracked in the wrinkles round their mouths as they spoke.
The wind held on until the sun went down, then it died suddenly and they camped in a strange calm, exhausted less by driving than by the wind and the flying grit. Making a circle of their vehicles, they built fires and the bully beef came out of the tins in a greasy rush.
Tully packed it away glumly. ‘I’m getting bloody sick of this,’ he said sullenly.
Harkaway said nothing, staring into the fire with faraway eyes.
‘You’re not, are you?’ Tully said.
‘No.’ Harkaway spoke brusquely.
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘When it’s over, my little friend,’ Harkaway said in a harsh dry voice, ‘we shall be part of the army again. There’ll probably be some feller in charge who’s never done anything more than sit at the end of a telephone line. Some little shit in starched shorts and shirt with a paintbox of colour on his chest who’s never tasted the sand and the grit we’ve tasted. He’ll tell you what to do and get away with it because, even if he’s only that, he’s senior to you. Have you thought of that?’
Tully muttered something but he didn’t press the point.
Harkaway went on in a dreamy voice. ‘I’ve enjoyed running my own show,’ he said. ‘They always say you enjoy independent command, even if you’re only a lance-corporal. Well, I have and I’m not looking forward to going back to being told what to do. I’ll probably join one of these funny outfits they’re raising at home. Commandos, aren’t they? I reckon I could do it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you bastard,’ Tully said sourly. ‘I expect you could. Bloody well, too. I only hope I’m not with you.’
The following morning, an Ethiopian came in with the news that Guidotti and his little column had come to a stop by a waterhole twenty miles further on. They were almost out of petrol.
Harkaway called Catchpole to the fire.
‘I’m going to scout forward, Sergeant,’ he announced. ‘I’ll find out just where they are, then we’ll move right round the bastards so they can’t run again. There’ll be no fight.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Tully said. ‘I’m sick of fighting.’
Catchpole could read Morse if it were sent slowly and they arranged for him to listen out for them, and organized a group of simple code words to indicate whether he was to stay where he was or follow in their tracks.
‘Right,’ Harkaway said. ‘Get in, Tully.’ He looked round for Abdillahi. ‘You want to come too?’
Abdillahi grinned. ‘In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, I am proud to, effendi.’
The wind had disappeared completely as they set off and the land lay dead and still like an exhausted tawny lion. There was a lot of scrub in front of them, cut up by lanes through which they could see the tracks of Italian lorries, and they moved slowly, bumping and rolling over the large stones, the scrub brushing against the sides of the vehicle.
They pushed forward another mile or so, and dropped down to a dried-out river bed. As they clattered across the stones, Harkaway’s eyes were all round him. Abdillahi sat clutching his rifle in the rear seat and Tully dozed alongside Harkaway, stupefied by the pounding of the sun.
They were just grinding up the sandy bank at the opposite side, when the firing started. It came in a tremendous blast that wrecked the scout car and flung Abdillahi out of the back to sprawl in the sand, blood pumping from his chest. Flinging himself down, Harkaway crouched under the steering wheel, waiting for the firing to stop. When he lifted his head he saw Tully was still sitting upright in his seat, but his eyes were staring, his jaw had dropped, and the front of his khaki shirt was soaked with blood. He’d never, he thought, live to collect his medal, after all.
Fourteen
The men who appeared from the bush were Eritreans and Harkaway recognized them as belonging to a Gruppo Banda. They were dangerous enemies and as likely to murder him as take him prisoner.
An Italian sergeant appeared first, then other men, black men in scraps of uniform with lanyards and tassels of different colours. They came from all sides, their rifles pointed at Harkaway, and he climbed slowly from the car to the dry surface of the river bed, his hands high above his head.
It was only then that he realized he’d been wounded, probably by flying splinters, and blood was trickling down his arm. The men approached him warily as if they thought he’d make a fight of it. Keeping his revolver aimed at his head, the Italian slowly reached out to remove the weapon from his belt then, swinging his arm, crashed the heavy butt against Harkaway’s face.
Harkaway knew at once that his nose was broken. Blood poured from his nostrils and over his mouth and he fell to his knees. Immediately, the others were on him, kicking him and hitting him with the butts of their rifles so that he could only crouch on the sand, trying to protect his head. The persistent feet kept coming and he could feel the rifle butts jabbing at his kidneys, but after a while, the Italian spoke and the hammering stopped and he was dragged upright. There was a cut over his eyes and his nose was still pouring blood over his shirt.
The sergeant walked round him slowly, speaking in Italian. Harkaway had no idea what he was saying, but the Italian seemed to think they’d worked him over enough because he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. Harkaway pointedly ignored it and took out his own, holding it to his forehead to mop the blood that persisted in running into his eye.
The other men were walking round the holed vehicle now, gazing with interest at the corpse of Abdillahi. Harkaway stared at the lean, sprawled black body, its hand still clutching its rifle, the tin coat of arms Grobelaar had cut still proudly on its wrist, and he swallowed hard. He felt more for the Somali, he realized, than he ever had for Tully or Gooch, because Abdillahi had never swerved in his loyalty, had never questioned his intentions
One of Eritreans picked up the dead man’s rifle and kicked him in the face. Then the Italian walked across to Tully who was still sitting in his seat, his head fallen forward, his jaw open, his eyes staring at his feet.
‘Capitano,’ the Italian said, touching the blackened tin stars on Tully’s shoulders. He walked back to Harkaway and indicated the insignia on the shoulder staps of his shirt.
‘Colonello?’ he asked.
‘Yes, you nasty little bastard,’ Harkaway said.
The Italian was clearly worrying now that they had beaten up somebody important and Harkaway was signed to lower his hands. His arm was bandaged and another bandage was put round his forehead but his nose persisted in bleeding and his eye was now almost sealed up with the blood that was clotting on his eyelid. Nevertheless the Italian was also clearly concerned that he might escape and his hands were tied behind his back.
‘Avanti!’ Placing himself at the head of his men, the Italian sergeant began to march away, followed by Harkaway, then by his men, pushing Harkaway in front of them. They made no attempt to bury Tully or Abdillahi and no attempt to salvage the wrecked scout car. It was left there in the glaring sun with the long body of the Somali sprawled on the ground like a huge black spider, Tully still sitting upright in his seat.
Further in the bush, the Italian had donkeys and he and several of his men climbed aboard them. They made no attempt to offer one to Harkaway and he struggled along at the tail of the last of them, shoved whenever he missed his footing by one of the men marching behind. After an hour, he was sweating profusely and the dust the donkeys stirred up stuck to his skin like paste. He was stumbling now because the ground was rough and, with his hands bound, it was hard to keep his balance. Several times he fell but no one made any attempt to help him rise, merely kicking him until he struggled to his feet, watched by the Italian on the donkey. After three hours of it in the heat, he was weaving from side to side with exhaustion.
Eventually they came to a river. It was narrow and shallow and yellow with mud but, as they stumbled across, he fell on his face and was able to drink. Scrambling to his feet, dripping muddy water, he felt a little better. No one spoke to him and he stumbled on, his clothes drying rapidly in the sun.
He was quite certain now that he was going to be shot. He guessed his captors belonged to Guidotti’s group and, considering what he’d done to them, he couldn’t make out why they bothered to wait. Colonel bloody Harkaway, he thought bitterly. He was right back where he started, right down to nothing, lower even than that. Nobody cared about the insignia on his shoulder now and the Italian even seemed to enjoy his humiliation. Tully had been right. He’d enjoyed his little bit of power. He’d even pushed it too hard. He might have been wiser to have gone quietly back to the army, find Danny and lie low, doing as he was told, obeying orders, enjoying the kudos that would inevitably come to him as leader of the Sixth Column.
Soon afterwards, he saw the smoke of a fire. Men appeared from the bush and from starved-looking bivouacs that had been made by draping canvas from the sides of lorries. They looked shabby and tired as they came forward, curious to see the prisoner.
An officer with a bandaged hand appeared, studying him with interest, then he turned and shortly afterwards reappeared with another officer with a general’s insignia and more than the usual number of buttons and braid on his tunic. Harkaway knew at once that it was Guidotti. At close quarters, he was younger than Harkaway had expected, and good-looking, though his face at that moment was haggard with worry and bleak with the absence of any future.
‘Come si chiamo?’ he asked.
Harkaway shrugged and the Italian spoke again in halting English.
‘What is your name?’
For a moment, Harkaway wondered whether to give a false name then he thought, no, be damned to that. He was proud of what he’d done, even if they knocked hell out of him.
‘Harkaway,’ he said.
The Italian general turned to the officer with the wounded hand and nodded. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Finally, Colonello Harkaway, we meet. I am General Guidotti.’
‘Thought so,’ Harkaway said.
Guidotti gestured to the sergeant and Harkaway’s hands were freed.
‘You have been wounded?’
‘Your bloody soldiers beat me up.’
Guidotti spread his hands. ‘I must apologize,’ he said. ‘They are frightened men these days. You have made them frightened. They are nervoso – nervous? Is that the word? I regret I do not speak English good.’
‘You’
re doing all right.’
Guidotti turned to the bandaged officer. ‘Piccio, find water. And perhaps there is some brandy left.’
The other officer vanished and returned with water and a bottle of brandy. Harkaway took a swig from the water bottle, then let the brandy run down his throat. It seemed to set him on fire but he felt better at once and they started to talk in a mixture of Italian and English, haltingly at first, then faster and more confidently.
‘I thought I was about to become your prisoner,’ Guidotti said. ‘Instead you have become mine.’
‘Luck of the draw,’ Harkaway said.
‘Com’è triste la vita!’
They talked for a while about what had happened at Djuba and Guidotti seemed to feel that somehow Harkaway had cheated. But when he explained anything was allowed in love and war, Guidotti agreed and led him to his tent and sent for food. It was only a paste of white beans from a tin but there was an army biscuit with it and a tin mug of wine.
‘Chianti,’ Guidotti said. ‘Italians make sure they have their wine.’
As they talked, Harkaway began to wonder why he had hated this man so much. Guidotti was not a bit like the pompous bullfrog he’d expected, but was quiet-voiced, compassionate and concerned for his hurts. For God’s sake, Harkaway thought disgustedly, he was finding he even liked the little bugger.
After he’d eaten, a doctor bathed his injuries, talking softly all the time in Italian. When he left, another man arrived who said he was a padre. ‘Father Vaccetti,’ he introduced himself. ‘I am a Catholic priest, of course, and you will be a Protestant, no doubt.’
‘I’m not much of anything,’ Harkaway admitted. ‘What are they going to do with me?’
Vaccetti shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my son. There is little they can do. Our men have melted away and we are almost at the end of our tether. Until yesterday we seemed to have a chance, but then your planes found us and bombed us. They killed seven and wounded over twenty. Unfortunately, they also hit our petrol lorry and now we are almost out of fuel. We also have many wounded from Djuba and the fighting we have had on the way here. The Abyssinians would not leave us alone.’
