He took an electric torch from a stone shelf, and leaving Angela to take charge of the other commandos, led Caine and Copeland back out into the night. They paused for a moment on the slab, drinking in moonlight and starlight, trying to get a handle on the place. It was hard to make out the full extent of it in the moonlight, but Caine got the impression that they were in a huge amphitheatre enclosed by steep rock walls as much as a couple of miles in diameter. On one side, a massive stone buttress obtruded into the enclosed area – an unbelievably monstrous, fairy-tale tower, half a mile long and rising sheer out of the stone slab, hundreds of feet high. This ‘tower’ was riddled with dozens of natural caves, but the one they'd just seen appeared to be the largest. The area in front of the buttress, where the wagons were leaguered, was a flattish plain of rocky outcrops, grass tussocks and acacia groves stretching as far as the narrow defile where they'd entered the place – according to Michele, the only way in or out. Immediately to their left, where the buttress wall turned sharply north, there lay acres of Mediterranean woodland – juniper, ilex, cork-oak, arbutus, myrtle and Aleppo pine – rolling away to the towering rock walls on the eastern side, their dark mass only just visible in the wan light. Caine understood why they called this place the Citadello – the Citadel: if ever there was a natural fortress, this was it. With that single entrance it would be almost impossible to take by storm, and even if it were bombed, these caves would make ideal shelters. Although they couldn't see them from here, Michele explained that the defile was watched around the clock by pickets with machine guns hidden high on the cliffside. ‘No one sneak up on us here,’ he commented.
‘How did you discover this place?’ Caine enquired, as the chief ushered them down crude stone steps into the woods.
‘Some colons buy it off Senussi before the war. The Bedouins, they use it for cattle, sheep, goats. The animals graze here, shelter in caves during the rains. Is a good place, no? Very hard to find, very hard to see from the air because of the trees. We do not live in caves, of course too hot. No, we have tents in the trees, but the caves are there if we get bombed. It never happened, of course, because even at night aircraft see only small lights and think it is Senussi camp.’
‘But surely they must know you're here,’ Caine said. ‘I mean, they'd only need a Senussi tracker to find the place.’
Michele shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Is too much trouble for them to fight us as well as you English, no? For now, they leave us alone. Later, who knows? Here…’ He shone the torch forward and Caine saw among the trees a thirty-foot ziggurat covered in tarpaulins. Michele whipped one of the covers back, revealing hundreds of stacked petrol cases. Caine whistled. Copeland stared at the British War Office arrowhead on the boxes. ‘These look familiar,’ he said. ‘Shell's finest, I see.’
Michele screwed up his face. ‘British tins are so bad – one fifth is lost in wastage. Odd, because usually British stuff is practical, no? German jerrycans are better – no leaks. We have German and Italian too…’ He shone the torch around and Caine realized that this was only one of several similar mountains of bounty hidden under the trees. ‘This is all petrol?’ he asked.
Michele shook his head. ‘Petrol, weapons, ammunition, military clothing, medical stuff, more tinned rations.’
‘How did you get it here?’
Michele dropped the tarpaulin and ushered them further on through the woods, to where more than twenty vehicles were drawn up in line under camouflaged awnings. In the torchlight Caine saw jeeps, light cars, Bedford, Ford, Mercedes, Breda and Fiat lorries – even motorcycles – all in tip-top condition. Michele pointed with his torch to what looked like an Eighth Army command caravan. ‘That is mine,’ he said proudly. ‘That is where I live when I am not in Citadello.’ He took a deep breath and turned to face Caine and Copeland. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how much benzina you want?’
Cope had already worked out the figures. ‘Three hundred gallons ought to do it,’ he said.
Michele considered it. ‘It is a small price to pay for my Angela,’ he said. ‘I send my men to load it later. OK?”
‘That's very generous of you,’ Caine said, grinning. ‘Even if it is our own petrol you're giving back to us.’
Michele laughed, tossing back his long hair in a curiously narcissistic gesture. ‘You are welcome,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘It was generous of you to rescue Angela also, even if it was not her you were looking for.’
‘Ouch,’ Caine said, chuckling. ‘Perhaps that's something else you could help us with?’
‘The girl?’ Michele asked. ‘The one you are seeking? My wife told me about her.’
Caine was serious now. ‘She's a British officer. Her aircraft was shot down south of the Green Mountains a few days ago, and she parachuted out. Have you heard anything?’
Michele scratched his goatee. ‘I might have heard about a plane coming down three days ago,’ he said vaguely. ‘I did not pay much attention. It happens all the time here, no? Planes go down, people parachute out.’
‘Not a lot of women, though.’
Michele was watching them slyly. ‘What is the importance of this woman? She is Auchinleck's ragazza, perhaps?’
‘Something like that,’ Caine said, staring at him intently. ‘Could you find out?’
Michele shrugged. ‘I will send out my people to make enquiries. It will take time, though. It is night.’
‘Thanks. I'd appreciate that.’
‘You are welcome. Now, my wife say she promise you a bath. I must show you our hot springs.’
He led them through the forest, along the wall of the slab. As they approached they heard the sound of raucous English voices: they emerged from the bush to find themselves in a shallow depression filled with a vast rock-pool of inky water: most of their mates – Wallace, Murray, Sweeney, Turner, and the others – were already bathing up to their chests – splashing, horse-playing, cracking jokes like children at the seaside. Caine was pleased to note, though, that they'd been wary enough to leave two men on stag to look after the weapons. ‘Come on in, skipper,’ Wallace yelled when he saw Caine. ‘The water's beautiful.’ Caine remembered his wound, but it hadn't bothered Wallace, and the prospect of a bath was too tempting. He and Cope were soon luxuriating in the lukewarm water beside the others.
Caine heard more excited voices and was astonished to see a crowd of leggy young Italian girls coming out of the bush. The first thing that occurred to him was that they intended to join the commandos in the water. Then he saw that they were carrying fresh clean towels, bundles of brand-new British khaki drills of all sizes and bottles containing what turned out to be a homemade mixture of oil, honey and eau de cologne. They laid out their gifts, chattering and bantering with the commandos, coyly resisting attempts to entice them into the pool. The girls were dressed in clinging khaki trousers or cut-off shorts and tailored army blouses, and with their dark masses of hair, perky breasts and squeaky soprano voices, they were almost painfully alluring, Caine thought. In a moment, though, they had vanished back into the shadows: Caine followed the music of their elvish voices until it disappeared.
Washed, rubbed, clad in a clean uniform and with his dressing refreshed, he felt an entirely new person. The men relaxed, the ugly skirmish of the morning all but forgotten. When they were ready, Caine moved them back to the leaguer in a squad and had them store their main weapons and ammunition in a makeshift ‘armoury’ in the back of the White scout-car. Every man was to carry his Colt pistol, loaded and made safe, and a spare clip of rounds: under no circumstances was any man to allow a civilian to handle his weapon. Above all, he told them, they were commandos, and whatever happened they must remain alert.
As they climbed back up the steps to the slab, Caine saw that the festa was already in full swing: several fat suckling pigs were being roasted on spits over charcoal fires, and the air was full of charcoal smoke and the delicious smell of roasting pork. It was warm inside the cave and the lights were dimmer. Romantic Italian music playe
d on a gramophone, and men and women were locked together on the dancefloor, smooching to the slow melody. Others were standing in groups or lounging in the recesses on the rich carpets and cushions, drinking wine, chattering gaily. It seemed less a wake for Angela's dead brother than a spontaneous celebration: Caine had the feeling that these people were ready to leap at any excuse for a knees-up.
The women had dolled themselves up for the occasion as best they could, some in hugging, low-cut dresses, mostly faded and old-fashioned, but no less eye-catching for all that. Many had arranged their hair in opulent coiffures, had applied lipstick that was evidently homemade, and had darkened their eyes with kohl, which Caine guessed they obtained from the Senussi. Most were evidently the jealously guarded wives of the menfolk, but there were more than enough spare women to go around, and almost all of them were beautiful or, at the very least, nubile. Caine didn't know whether this was an illusion, exaggerated by the fact that he and his mates had lived for years almost without feminine contact, or whether the Italians – or these Italians – were simply a people whose women were especially attractive. Or was it just the way they dressed, the way they made up, the way they moved and held themselves? He couldn't work it out, but one thing was certain: he and his men had just dropped like castaways into an exotic and sensuous dimension that was very far from the harshness of war.
Michele arrived, beaming, a ten-inch-long Cuban cigar stuck in his mouth. He was carrying two five-litre flagons of red wine in straw envelopes, one in each fist. He thrust the flagons at Caine and Copeland and waved them towards a table spread with ragged but dazzling white linen, covered in dozens more wine flagons and terracotta goblets. ‘Drink,’ he roared. ‘Tonight we have Chianti – the very best.’
When all the commandos had poured themselves generous goblets-ful, Michele raised his own cup high, throwing his head back so that his lion's mane of black hair swung like a cloak. ‘To Carlo's memory,’ he bawled. ‘To your fallen comrades, and to liberty, fraternity and peace. Salute.’
He drained his cup in one draught, and the commandos followed suit, rolling with incredulous laughter, hardly believing their luck in finding such a cornucopia of excellence tucked away here in the wilderness. ‘By God,’ Caine said, putting his goblet down. ‘That is good.’ Michele disappeared and came back a moment later hefting a cardboard carton, doled out tins of fifty Player's Navy Cut cigarettes to each man. There were murmurs of delight from the commandos. Michele handed a tin of cigarettes to Caine, then pointed at the cigar in his teeth. ‘You have a light?’ he asked. Caine fished out his Zippo lighter, and Michele chortled when he noticed that it was wrapped in a condom. ‘Unused, I hope,’ he said. ‘You know they are illegal in my country?’
‘Cigarette lighters?’
Michele guffawed. ‘Condoms.’
‘Condoms can save your life,’ Caine said, chuckling. He snapped the lighter open, lit the cigar. Michele took a long toke, blew a weft of smoke, let out a long sigh of pleasure. He peered at the Zippo. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘American. You give me as present?’
Caine shook his head. ‘I'd like to, but I can't. It was given to me by my Sapper troop, the day I was field-commissioned lieutenant.’
Michele puffed out a chain of smoke blobs, like a model steamtrain, and raised an eyebrow. ‘But you are no more a lieutenant? Why?’
Caine shook his head, lighting a cigarette one-handed. ‘It's a long story.’
‘Is good, my friend,’ Michele said, nodding approvingly. ‘Is very good you reject the ruling class, the elite who manipulate the rest of us like slaves.’ He leaned over to Caine conspiratorially. ‘You should stay here with us,’ he whispered. ‘I say cazzo to the war. I say cazzo to Mussolini and his thugs. You know how the Blackshirts got power? They were a band of bullies paid by factory owners to beat up communists. The capitalists were terrified there would be a communist revolution in Italy, like in Russia, and they would lose everything. Ecco qua – our beautiful country is ruled by thugs and murderers.’ He took another long pull on his cigar. ‘You should join us, Thomas. We need good men like you, and’ – he winked an eyelid, nodding towards the dancefloor – ‘there are many beautiful girls here. Beautiful and free… you know what I mean?’
The wine flagons were going their rounds with frantic speed, and Caine noticed that the commandos had entered into the spirit of the party like men reprieved from a death sentence. ‘I remember when I was out with the Long Range Desert Group…’ Caine heard Wallace's voice boom.
‘You were never with the LRDG, you big blob,’ Cope's voice cut in.
‘That's all you know, clever dick. When I was in Sphinx Battery in '41 I was attached to them for a mission behind the Wire. Bofors Gunner. They used to portee a forty-mil Bofors on the back of a Ford wagon, and we'd fire from the wheels. No shields in them days – gunners went down like flies. That's why they needed volunteers. Well, on this jaunt we wiped out an Itie supply convoy…’ He stopped and stared around guiltily, but none of the locals seemed to have noticed. ‘Or maybe they was Jerries,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Anyway, we copped about a dozen casks of Cognac – I don't mean little barrels, I mean great big things, bigger'n oil drums. We dumped most of 'em on the Australian Division HQ. They was planning an offensive for the next day, but the Ozzies got so stinko on Cognac that night they had to postpone the attack.’
Wallace roared with laughter at his own story, and the commandos laughed with him. The explosion of mirth was cut short by general ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ that greeted the arrival of the roast suckling pig on huge platters. ‘This is our speciality,’ Michele said. ‘Served with roast potatoes and pickled vegetables. It is delicious – so tender. Try it.’
The highlight of the feast, though, wasn't the suckling pig, but the fresh lobsters boiled in garlic. ‘We get these from Senussi fishermen on the coast,’ Michele informed them. ‘This year has been a very good year for lobsters. The ones here are smaller, but more succulent, than those in Italy.’ He showed them how to break open the claws to get at the white meat inside. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you must be careful how much lobster you eat.’ He lowered his voice theatrically, and made obscene thrusting movements with his pelvis. ‘Too much and you make love all night long.’
Few of the commandos had ever tasted lobster before, but they ignored Michele's warning and attacked the succulent meat with relish. Between courses they quaffed endless goblets of wine, recounted war stories, told jokes, rolled with laughter, chatted animatedly with the locals, danced with the girls.
The only man who seemed out of sorts was Copeland. Caine saw him hovering morosely in a recess, walked over to him and offered him a Player's Navy Cut. ‘What's up with you?’ he demanded, lighting the cigarette with his Zippo.
‘I keep thinking I'm dreaming this,’ Cope said, inhaling deeply. ‘Maybe I was killed in that skirmish this morning and I'm in the afterlife.’ He stared at Caine, his lean, heron-like profile outlined perfectly in the lamplight. ‘What are we doing here, skipper?’
‘Drinking good wine, eating good scoff,’ Caine said, ‘and hoping for news about Runefish. Enjoy it, Harry. By this time tomorrow we might really be dead.’
Just then, Angela separated herself from the crowd and glided towards them. Wearing a tight red dress that showed off her lithe brown arms and legs, her lean hips and her pointed breasts, she moved with the pneumatic grace of a model, a walk so enticingly provocative that both of them stared. She kissed Caine on both cheeks, then turned to Copeland. ‘Do you want to dance with me?’ she asked, parting sulky lips.
If Cope was surprised he didn't show it. ‘I don't think your husband would like it,’ he said.
Angela laughed, displaying her sharp white teeth. Her jade-green eyes, heavily made up with kohl, were incandescent in the lamplight. ‘My husband is pleased to see me,’ she said, ‘but there are other girls he is also pleased to see.’ She nodded towards the dancers on the floor, and for the first time Copeland noticed that Michele was dancing with
a pretty, long-legged, snub-nosed girl of about seventeen with a bird's nest of curly hair, wearing an almost indecently short dress. The two were wrapped around each other like snakes.
Cope glanced back at Angela, embarrassed.
‘You don't like me very much, do you?’ she said. ‘Or perhaps you are shy?’
‘It's not that,’ Cope said. ‘It's just that when I look at you, I think of Sirens.’
Angela let out a delicious peal of girlish glee. ‘Sirens. Sirene?’ She leaned very close to him. ‘Watch out, or I tie you to the mast,’ she purred.
Caine was distracted by Wallace's big hand on his shoulder, and the next time he looked, he was amazed to see Copeland and Angela in a slow-clinch on the dancefloor. A little later they had disappeared. He couldn't suppress a pang of envy: there was a seductive quality about Angela that had drawn him from the moment they'd first talked, a feeling he'd tried to suppress – especially as he knew she was a married woman. While he'd shown her every kindness, though, Cope had never spoken a civil word to her, and had hinted darkly about ‘Sirens’. It didn't seem fair, but there must be some lesson about the female sex here that had eluded him, he thought. Cope had treated her with disdain, and yet she'd homed in on him like a bloodhound, right under her husband's nose. He had no doubt they were already in her tent, writhing between freshly laundered sheets.
Caine didn't waste much time thinking about Cope and Angela, though: there were, as Michele had suggested, plenty more fish in the sea. Time trickled past, wine flowed, the lights grew dimmer, the music grew sweeter and more intoxicating. The smoky air was charged with sensuality. Occasionally there were indignantly raised voices from the shadows and the sound of faces being slapped, but elsewhere men and women paired off: the excited banter dropped to a low hum, to ecstatic gasps and pants of bliss from dark alcoves.
Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando Page 23
