Eight hours after that the last one left. Throughout that time Theo was offered no refreshments, no food, no rest breaks, not so much as a glass of water. Nobody enquired after him, or checked on him, or showed the slightest curiosity in his task; they merely brought prisoners, then took them away again. That another odd sod from Intelligence wanted to question them was clearly of no interest to anyone.
The prisoners themselves were all Italian, and also of no importance. Lowly of rank, often young, poor and ill educated, inadequately clothed in the coarse tunic of the foot soldier, most had been captured – or surrendered – during the early stages of Operation Torch. Few had seen any fighting, several were deserters, all just wanted to go home. Leading them through his questionnaire, Theo found them willing to talk, but ignorant of matters military, and when he got to their homes and families, they often broke down and wept. Some pleaded with him to contact loved ones; several muttered darkly of Mussolini and the evil that had brought them to this predicament. None showed conviction in the war, and just one, an older man from Milan, queried Theo’s loyalty.
‘You speak like a northerner. Why aren’t you in our army? Are you a Bolshevik?’
‘No. It’s because I believe in South Tyrol’s independence.’
‘Oh.’ The man sniffed. ‘One of them.’
He trudged back to the office with his forms. Bryce was gone, Yale also absent, only Clare the FANY clerk was still there, typing up her reports.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Bad day?’
‘Not quite as I imagined.’
‘What did you imagine?’
‘I don’t know. Some, um, defiance, I suppose. Pride in their cause. You know, fighting spirit, or something.’
‘Ah. You need to go up the ladder for that. These boys are bottom rung, the lowliest of the low, just humble draftees who’ve been away from home too long. You want fighting spirit you need regulars, preferably officers.’
‘I didn’t seen any officers.’
‘Nor would you – they’re housed elsewhere.’ She rose from her desk. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just Bryce throwing his weight about. It’ll get more interesting.’
‘You think so?’
‘My guess is Major Yale’s saving you up for something.’ She shrugged on a greatcoat. ‘There’s a NAAFI nearby. Fancy a cup of tea? Looks like you could do with it.’
A pattern evolved. Each morning he reported to Bryce and collected his instructions and satchel. Using a bike bought at the market, and provisioned with his own food and drink, he then pedalled to one of several transit camps in the Algiers area, and spent the day interviewing prisoners, before returning at dusk to hand the forms to Clare. Twice, contrary to orders, he cycled via the girls’ school at Maison Carrée to glean news of 2nd Battalion. The first occasion he found it empty and boarded shut, and the second it was occupied by a battalion of South Staffordshires. ‘2 Para?’ the guard on the gate shrugged. ‘Never ’eard of ’em.’
His evenings he spent with Antoine, who mainly worked at the Barberousse civilian prison, occasionally with Clare at a film or ENSA show, or alone, reading in his digs or out wandering the streets. This last soon lost its allure, as the popular venues were invariably packed with servicemen, usually drunk and often quarrelsome. Street crime was rife, thieves and pickpockets proliferated, fights broke out, the Redcaps were in frequent attendance. Disheartened by this seamy aspect of service life, he soon stopped going. Once or twice he donned Antoine’s civilian clothes and ventured into the casbah, captivated by its hidden mysteries, its winding lanes and alleys, tiled walls, cobbles and keyhole-shaped doors. However, he never went back to the Starlight Club.
One day, six weeks after arriving in Algeria, he returned to the office to find a packet of mail waiting. In it were five letters, all from women. Two were from Eleni Popodopoulos, who gushed and fretted like a doting aunt. One was from Carla and read like a manifesto for Partito Popolare Sudtirolese, and the fourth was from Susanna Price. Decorated with loops and curls and floral embellishments she wrote warmly of remembered hugs and kisses, Kingston gossip and the wonderful news that Kenny Rollings was safe and well in a German POW camp. Though he was glad to hear from her, and especially the news about Kenny, her words seemed so removed from reality. So far away.
‘Missive from the sweetheart?’ Clare enquired innocently.
‘Oh, yes. Well, no.’
‘Which.’
‘Actually, I don’t know.’
She stopped typing. ‘You don’t know.’
‘Well, yes, I know who it’s from. Obviously. I’m just not sure if she’s, that is, if we’re, you know...’
Clare rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you think you should know?’
‘Should I?’
‘I’d say so. For her sake if not yours.’
The final letter, astonishingly, was from his cousin Renata in Rome. Dated the previous year, and badly dog-eared after months of travel, it spoke in unusually subdued tones of the deteriorating situation in Italy, the strife and suffering, the disenchantment with Mussolini and the war, the political infighting, and the plight of the poor and starving. She made passing mention of her parents, and his grandmother now living in a sanatorium, concluding that she wished him well, and thought of him with affection. He lowered the page, recalling their evening in Rome two years earlier. Walking through the streets arm in arm, singing to Tyrolean folk music, the chance meeting with Rommel. The coolness of her body beside his.
That evening he asked Clare on a date. Wearing his clean uniform and with boots and beret brushed, they met at her digs and then walked to the colonial quarter, eventually selecting a bar off Rue Saint-Augustin called Café de Paris.
‘Looks civilized enough,’ she said, peering through the window. ‘Quiet too.’
‘That’s because it’s officers only.’ He pointed to a sign.
‘Stuff and nonsense! Chin up, hold my arm and act like you own the place.’
‘But—’
‘No buts!’ With that she pushed through the door and strode in. Heads turned, conversations stopped, a waiter pounced, she disarmed him in fluent French, gesturing haughtily to a table by the window.
‘Ça va pour toi, Théodore?’
‘Oh, um, oui, tout à fait.’
‘Shall I order wine?’
‘Not Muscatel.’
‘Rosé then please, waiter.’
Two years at the Sorbonne, she explained, when he complimented her French. That and finishing school in Switzerland. ‘Hideous place.’ She shuddered. ‘All starched clothes and frozen lavatories.’
‘Where?’
‘Gstaad. The Alps. Your neck of the woods.’
‘I’m from the other side, the Italian side, a town—’
‘Bolzano. In the southern Tyrol. Yes I know.’
‘You do? How?’
She smiled. ‘Because I do.’
He sipped wine, studying her anew. Dark hair cut regulation short, smart khaki uniform, she had an oval face with teasing eyes and a tiny scar by her mouth. They saw each other daily, and spoke often, and went to occasional films, or the NAAFI, yet how little he knew of her, he realized. And how much she knew of him. Which didn’t seem fair.
‘What is FANY? Is it a women’s branch of the army?’
‘Not likely. First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. We were formed in the First War, to do nursing, and drive ambulances, that sort of thing. These days it’s more, sort of, administrative.’
‘Driver Taylor, Bryce calls you, yet you’re not a driver.’
‘I am, actually. A jolly good one. But no, it’s my rank, not my job.’
‘So your job...’
She shook her head. ‘My turn. Why do you use the name Theodor, when your first name’s Andreas? Which is a beautiful name.’
‘That’s rather a long story.’
She smiled again. ‘I have all evening.’
So he told her. Of growing up above the Bolzano print shop, with its smell of ink and turpentine. Of living with his vol
atile grandfather Josef, anxious grandmother Ellie, and beautiful but headstrong mother Carla. Of winter hikes in the mountains with his great-grandfather, and summer camping with school friends. Of political indoctrination, ethnic strife, family arguments and riots in the street. Of the undertaker Tolomei toppling statues in the square, and of Hitler, Mussolini and the humiliation of the Option Agreement.
‘And you never signed?’
‘Some in the family did. That caused a lot of tension. And my grandmother wanted us to; she worries a great deal. But my grandfather refused. Mother too. That’s why we left.’
‘And why he’s in prison.’
He looked up. ‘I never said that.’
‘Sorry.’ Her hand touched his. ‘I hope I’m not intruding.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I must’ve heard it somewhere. Bryce perhaps. But do go on, please, I want to hear about London, joining the army, forming the paratroops and that.’
‘No.’ He held her gaze. ‘My turn now. What is your job?’
‘You know that.’ She looked away. ‘Same as yours.’
‘But doing what?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh. Well then.’ He made to rise.
‘Wait!’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Please stay. I... I do want to tell you. Something that I shouldn’t.’
He hesitated. ‘Like what?’
‘Sit down.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Please?’
He sat. ‘Tell me, Clare.’
‘Yes, yes I will. But it’s things, actually. Three things. In fact, no, four.’ She glanced round the room. ‘Firstly. And I definitely shouldn’t be telling you this. But your work is about to get a lot more interesting.’
‘Really? How d’you—’
‘Secondly. Be careful with Antoine. I’m not certain he’s entirely trustworthy.’
‘Ah.’
‘Thirdly.’ She paused. ‘Yes, I read your file, and I apologize for that. But, well, it’s because I like you, and want to know about you. Sorry, but there it is.’
‘Oh.’ He sat back. ‘And fourthly?’
‘There are two men in the corner. Army officers. One of them is staring at you.’
He checked. ‘So we’re about to be thrown out.’
‘Yes and he’s coming over now.’
‘Right, let’s—’
‘Trickey? Private Trickey, is that you?’
He stood, and stared, and his mind reeled back, and he recalled a tall figure waving a pistol in the moonlight, on the cliff top at Bruneval. Attacking upward? He’d grinned at Frost. Or attacking downward?
‘Lieutenant Timothy. It’s good to see you.’
‘You too!’ Timothy pumped his hand. ‘I thought it was you. What on earth are you doing in Algiers?’
He glanced at Clare. ‘Oh, I’m on temporary detachment. Helping out with translating and so on. What about you? I heard you went to America after Bruneval.’
‘I did. Liaison officer with the first American airborne units. Marvellous time, taught them a thing or two. But now I’m back and rejoining Battalion.’
‘That’s wonderful news. At Maison Carrée?’
‘Maison... No, they’re in Tunisia, didn’t you know? A town called Beja. Busy working up to strength there. Loads of new faces apparently. Frost’s recruiting like mad, you know Johnny!’
‘He’s rebuilding 2nd Battalion.’
‘You bet. And he’s made me a platoon commander in A Company, reckless bugger! I join them tomorrow.’
They stayed for one drink, then Clare had to get back to her digs. On the way she took his arm.
‘It’s very special to you, isn’t it? Your battalion.’
‘I feel I belong there.’
‘I had a nice evening, Theo.’
‘Me too. A little unusual, but nice.’
‘Very funny.’
They reached her digs.
‘I’d ask you inside, but...’
‘I understand.’
‘No, I want to, but it’s utterly forbidden. And I share with two other girls. Both fusspots, of course.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s been quite an evening.’
‘Yes.’ She rested a hand on his chest. ‘Busy day tomorrow too.’
‘So I hear.’
She leaned up and kissed him. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’
*
‘Ever heard of the LRDG?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Long Range Desert Group. They’ve been doing recce work for Monty in Libya.’
‘I see.’
‘No you don’t. Long-haired irregulars in beards and turbans, charging round the desert in souped-up Jeeps, answerable to no one. Bloody liability, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s no way to run a war.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, well, anyway...’ Yale, scowling, shook open a map. ‘Like I say, they’ve been scouting ahead of 8th Army, and actually probing round behind Jerry, who as you know is retreating towards us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But retreating where, is the question, and that’s what LRDG is trying to find out.’ He jabbed at the map. ‘Best guess at the moment is this natural bottleneck here on the coast between Libya and Tunisia. Town called Gabès, malaria-ridden fleapit of a place. There’s a line of disused fortifications the French built there, called the Mareth Line. Monty thinks they’ll dig in there. However our 1st Army HQ bods aren’t so sure. And want it looked into.’
Theo felt a thrill of anticipation. Clare was right; this was more interesting. Yet what followed was not as expected.
‘Now then. Two days ago, whilst scouting south of Gabès, an LRDG patrol stumbled on a lone German vehicle and captured it.’
‘What kind of vehicle?’
‘Unarmed, one of those Jeep-type things...’
‘Kubelwagen?’
‘That’s the one. Anyway, in it is just the driver, who turns out to be an officer, and a staff officer to boot. But he flatly refuses to talk to anyone, either that or he speaks no English – and these LRDG boys speak little German. They were all for passing him back to 8th Army for processing, but fortunately checked his papers, which show he’s from 10th Panzer.’
Theo touched the map. ‘Which is based up here. In our sector.’
‘Two hundred miles north of Gabès.’
Teichman: It looks like we’ve found 10th Panzer. ‘We fought them. At Oudna.’
‘Indeed. So technically he’s our prisoner, not Monty’s. And now HQ’s wondering what a staff officer from 10th Panzer is doing two hundred miles away in Gabès.’
‘Arranging a link-up between German forces?’
‘Maybe, or maybe it’s just coincidence. But the long and short of it is we need better information, so I’m sending you and Sharif to get it.’
‘Antoine.’
‘Yes. He knows the area and can blend in like a local. He can also negotiate with the French and pump the Arabs for gossip. Meanwhile you’re to link up with the LRDG, and interview the prisoner.’
‘But he refuses to talk.’
‘Then make him! We need to know what the wily fox is up to.’
‘The prisoner.’
‘No, Rommel of course! What we want to know, what the whole world wants to know – including German High Command apparently – is will he stand and mount a defence against Monty. Or will he turn and attack us here in Tunisia.’
Theo stared at the map. ‘Both, probably.’
Yale waited. ‘Go on.’
‘We learned that in France. He likes to surprise people. General Fortune—’
‘You knew Victor Fortune?’
‘A little. We learned Rommel prefers to keep people guessing: you know, do one thing while everyone thinks he’s doing another. It was a tactic he developed in the First War, when he was a junior officer.’
‘Is that so.’
‘That and always moving quickly. My grandfather served with h
im in Austria.’
Yale began folding the map. ‘So it’s true. You and he have history.’
‘We, um, we’ve met. On a few occasions.’
‘So I gather.’ He produced a note. ‘Now, there’s one more thing, Trickey, as if things weren’t complicated enough.’
‘Sir?’
‘A colonel. Name of Stirling. Another beardy bloody irregular. He commands something called 1st SAS, who do special ops in Libya: blowing up fuel dumps, sabotaging airfields, that sort of thing. Mad as a hatter apparently. Anyway, he’s been travelling the area with the LRDG, with a view to mounting an operation there.’
‘What sort of operation?’
‘A capture-or-kill operation.’
‘On who?’
‘On Rommel. Only the problem is he’s gone missing.’
Less than twenty-four hours later Theo was ten thousand feet above the snow-capped Atlas Mountains aboard a small, twin-engined aeroplane called a Bisley. Noisy, cold and smelling strongly of petrol, the Bisley featured a cramped cockpit for the pilot, behind whom Theo sat wedged in a dickie seat. Out of view below and forward of the pilot lay Antoine, reclining on a bomb-aimer’s couch, and by peering past the pilot Theo could just make out his feet. Somewhere down at the back of the Bisley, sealed into his capsule like a chick in an egg, was the gunner, who was asleep. Although unsettling, this was understandable, as they’d all been airborne since long before the dawn, which only now was throwing misty shadows into the valleys ahead, like pointing fingers, while draping the mountains with pink.
‘Mes couilles sont gelées!’ Antoine’s pained tones came over the intercom.
‘What’s that, old sport?’ the pilot queried.
‘His, um, testicles are frozen.’
‘Nasty. But don’t worry, you’ll be roasting them when you land.’
‘Yes! ’Ow bloody long now, God’s sake?’
‘Not too long. We’ll be descending to the plain soon, then another hour or so. What about some more coffee, to warm up?’
‘Don’ mention bloody coffee! I bloody bursting already!’
Theo too was uncomfortable. His seat was too small, and his parachute too big. It was completely unfamiliar to him, a Type B5, as issued to bomber crews for use in emergencies. It had no static line and didn’t open automatically, the user was required to leap from his stricken aircraft, wait a few seconds to get clear, then pull a metal ring on his chest to open the chute. Theo had never done this, nor even simulated it in training. ‘But you’re a paratrooper, ain’t you?’ the quartermaster at the airfield had scoffed. ‘One two three pull! Should be a doddle.’
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