Harkaway's Sixth Column (33 page)

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.

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 the 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 straps 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 just 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’e 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.’

During the evening, more Italians straggled in. Several of them were wounded. They had lost touch with the rest of the column and, when their lorry had run out of petrol, had started walking without really knowing which way to go. There was a lot of muttering that was over Harkaway’s head, then in the evening the officer Guidotti had addressed as Piccio appeared, and led Harkaway to one of the lorries.

‘There are blankets inside,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you will be well guarded, so it’s pointless trying to escape.’

When he’d gone, Harkaway loosened the canvas to peer round him. Banda men were sitting all round the lorry and, having no fancy for another beating up, he crept back to the blankets and tried to decide what to do. But the day had taken its toll and the next thing he knew was that it was daylight and he could hear voices outside.

As he was released, he heard aircraft overhead and the Italians started scattering into the bush. He was about to follow them and take his chance but Piccio appeared with a revolver in his hand and ordered him to accompany him.

The aircraft, three Blenheims, circled overhead before dropping their bombs. The whistle of them coming down sent everybody flat on their faces, then with the crash of the explosions, showers of sand and grit and small stones were thrown up. As they disappeared, they left two of the lorries burning, sending up huge columns of black smoke slanting into the brassy sky. No one appeared to have been hurt but the Italians seemed more depressed than ever. Guidotti was in tears and seemed to be indicating there was little hope left.

‘Sono all’ ultimo espediente,’
he was saying.
‘A che scopo?’

While Harkaway watched, Piccio came towards him with the brandy bottle. It was almost empty, he noticed, and he guessed they’d both been at it during the night.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘This is a very sad moment for us,’ Piccio said. ‘Somehow, today, we must make up our minds. Even if we put all the petrol together there is not enough to take us all into the hills. Once there, we might have been able to reach friends, but now
some
will have to stay behind. It would be pointless taking the wounded. They can do no good. We could leave them here and send a message to your army to pick them up, but they are terrified the Ethiopians will slit their throats. I have suggested that surrender would make sense.’

‘Sometimes it does.’ Harkaway agreed.

Piccio was looking sideways at him. ‘We would need to send a man with a white flag,’ he said. ‘We would need an emissary.’

The hint was clear and Harkaway’s heart leapt. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he said.

Piccio studied him. ‘We have just heard that a second column has joined your men,’ he said. ‘We expect them to be up with us by tomorrow night or the following morning at the latest. There’s little hope for us and it’s hard to sacrifice more lives. Do you have any influence with your general?’

‘Yes,’ Harkaway lied. ‘He listens to me a lot.’

‘Perhaps I can arrange for you to be sent back to speak for us.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Harkaway said. ‘Why not let me take you prisoner?’

‘Me?’

Harkaway was pushing his luck again, he knew, but the Italians were in a distressed condition, with sick and wounded on their hands, short of food and with no means of transporting themselves to safety.

‘Not just you,’ he said. ‘The lot of you.’

Piccio stared at him for a while, then he turned abruptly on his heel and marched away to Guidotti. Harkaway thought he’d insulted him and that he’d cut the discussion short out of pique, but after a while Guidotti came back with him.

‘Colonel Piccio has told me what you said,’ he pointed out.

‘I can do it.’

‘It would be humiliating.’

‘It’s better than being dead.’

Guidotti nodded thoughtfully and Harkaway went on. ‘You’ll all be prisoners before long, anyway. Even the Duke of Aosta. He’s asking for surrender terms.’

He had no idea what the Duke of Aosta had asked for, but he knew he couldn’t be far out in his estimate.

‘You have heard this?’ Guidotti asked.

‘On the radio. The night before your people brought me in.’

Guidotti turned away with Piccio and they spoke in low tones for a while. Eventually they turned back to Harkaway. ‘It must be done with honour,’ Guidotti said.

‘It can be,’ Harkaway agreed. ‘Your chaps can march out of here with their rifles on their shoulders. Me leading.’

‘Aren’t you afraid one of us will shoot you in the back?’

Harkaway looked round at the men watching them. They were standing in groups, some without weapons. Their clothes were dirty, stained and torn, and half of them wore bloodstained bandages. Their expressions were bewildered and defeated.