Harkaway's Sixth Column (34 page)

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not afraid.’

Guidotti was silent for a while, clapping his hands together in a distracted way. ‘I am a general, Colonel Harkaway,’ he said eventually. ‘Colonel Piccio points out that I’m entitled to an escort of high rank.’

Harkaway almost burst out laughing. The poor little bugger had nothing to recommend his future, yet he was haggling about a guard of honour. Still, it was little enough to ask.

‘How high?’ he asked.

‘Higher than lieutenant-colonel.’

Harkaway considered for a while then he gestured. ‘I come from a very distinguished English family,’ he pointed out.

Guidotti thought about this for a while then he nodded, satisfied. ‘There should also be a guard of honour,’ he pointed out.

Harkaway shrugged. ‘I expect it could be arranged,’ he said. ‘We’d have to send a message, though. In clear.’

‘It’s signed “Harkaway”!’ Charlton said.

‘Now what’s he want?’ the general asked.

‘I’d better read it: “Have Guidotti. Requests guard of honour. On receipt your confirmation will bring him in.” ‘

The general looked at Charlton, his mouth open. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘What’s he done? Talked him into it?’

Charlton smiled. ‘It begins to look like it.’ His smile widened. ‘You know, sir, I’m beginning to like this Harkaway. Whoever he is, he has a cool cheek that appeals to me. Do we confirm it?’

‘Where is he?’

‘The Sixth Column’s at a waterhole at Upi. But the message came in clear from the Italians, signed by Harkaway and marked for your perusal. He must be in the bush with Guidotti.’

‘And where’s
he?’

‘The Rajputs say he’s about twenty miles ahead of them somewhere.’

‘Have the air force spotted them?’

‘They have, sir. They want to know if they’re to bomb again.’

‘Not if Harkaway can bring them in without. Very well, Charlie. Give the bloody man his guard of honour. Tell the Rajputs to provide it.’

There’s a party of Transvaal Scottish there, sir. They want to know if they can play ‘em in with the pipes.’

The general’s face creased up in a grin. ‘By all means. If Harkaway hasn’t frightened ‘em to death, the agony bags ought to.’

When the message came, it was addressed to Lieutenant-Colonel G. Harkaway, DSO. The general was not inclined to quibble about rank if it brought in another batch of Italians.

Harkaway read it. ‘It confirms,’ he said, ‘that there will be a guard of honour.
And music.’

Guidotti and Piccio asked to see the message then, holding it in their hands, they conferred in low tones. Eventually Guidotti turned to Harkaway again, his body stiffening.

‘I am your prisoner, Colonel,’ he said. ‘In the words of Pagliacci,
la commedia e finita.
Do you like opera?’

Harkaway stared at him, still not sure whether to laugh or not. The poor little sod was over-acting like mad, yet it was difficult not to be sorry for him.

‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ he admitted.

Guidotti nodded and gave a twisted smile that was full of pain. ‘We will follow you into the British lines. I presume your men are in position.’

‘Yes,’ Harkaway said airily. ‘They’re in position.’

There must be many of them.’

Harkaway stiffened. He was getting control of the situation again. ‘Oh, yes! Quite a lot!’

‘What petrol have we?’ Guidotti asked.

Piccio shrugged. ‘Barely enough to carry the wounded.’

‘Have it siphoned out,’ Harkaway said, ‘and put into as many vehicles as will be needed for the worst of the wounded. The rest must stay behind to be collected tomorrow. They will be allowed their weapons to protect themselves.’

By the middle of the day they were ready. In his humiliation, Guidotti had tried to break his sword across his knee, but that splendid weapon he had received in the great days of Mussolini was so good he could do no more than bend it and he threw it away into the bush in disgust.

‘We shall need a white flag,’ Harkaway said, and a sheet was produced and attached to the lopped-off bough of a tree.

The men who were to accompany them waited quietly, their uniforms brushed, their buttons polished, holding their rifles. Harkaway looked about him. He had insisted on shaving with a borrowed razor and somehow, with the last of the water, the Italians had managed to wash and press his shorts and shirt. Of the lot of them he was the only one with any semblance of dignity.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘What about me? I’m not walking.’

‘You wish to ride in the truck?’ Piccio asked.

Harkaway looked down his nose at him. ‘I’m leading,’ he said. ‘I go on my own.’

Piccio, like Guidotti in full dress uniform, looked puzzled and Harkaway gestured angrily.

‘You’ve got donkeys,’ he said.

A donkey was brought forward and Piccio handed Harkaway his webbing belt and revolver which he strapped round his waist without speaking. Then Piccio handed him his cap - Watson’s cap - and he placed it on his head over the bandage.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s have your escort in three lines.’ The sergeants got the men into lines, watched by the anguished Guidotti. When they were ready, Harkaway studied them, then slowly strode up and down the lines, staring into the haggard, bearded faces, inspecting them as if he, not Guidotti, were their commanding officer, tugging at a belt here, jerking at a tunic there.

‘Right,’ he said to Piccio. ‘Let’s have them at attention.’

Piccio shouted a command and the tired men shuffled to stiffness.

‘Not like that!’ Harkaway roared, beginning to enjoy himself again. ‘Do it again! Make ‘em jump to it!’

Piccio flushed and put the men at ease, then repeated his order. This time they were smarter but Harkaway still wasn’t satisfied.

‘Again! They’re going to march out of here like soldiers. Tell them if they’ve got any pride left, they’ll hold their heads up. I have a reputation to keep up and, until it’s done properly, we don’t move.’

Piccio swallowed, then, standing in front of his men, he made a little speech that Harkaway didn’t understand. But the weary men stiffened gradually, and when Piccio shouted they slammed to attention like soldiers.

‘That’s better,’ Harkaway said. ‘Tell ‘em to slope arms!’

Their rifles on their shoulders, the Italians waited as Harkaway studied them. ‘Let’s have no slouching,’ he said to Piccio. ‘They’re going to surrender like soldiers. If they don’t, I’ll do nothing to help.’

Piccio made another little speech and the men listened to him silently, dark haggard eyes on Harkaway.

‘Right!’ Cocking one leg over the donkey, Harkaway took a final look about him, then he raised his arm and pointed.

‘Forward!’

The major commanding the Rajputs and the captain of the Transvaal Scottish were still trying to make up their minds what they were supposed to do when someone shouted. One of the Rajputs was pointing. In the distance they could see a cloud of dust approaching. As they gave orders, the lorries dispersed, then the two officers climbed on to a cabin roof and studied the cloud of dust with binoculars.

‘They’re coming in, man,’ the South African said excitedly. ‘Led by a feller on a moke.’

Climbing down, they deployed their men, and for safety magazines were clamped into place on Bren guns. The armoured cars swung round to make a deadly circle, their weapons pointing along the dusty track.

‘Where’s the guard of honour?’

Rajputs began to double up and fall in, facing the road, blank-faced, stiff as ramrods, heads up, rifles at their sides. At an order, they crashed to attention.

The approaching Italians came forward steadily, left-right, left-right, making no attempt to deploy or get into battle formation.

‘The buggers really
are
surrendering,’ Catchpole said in an awed voice.

‘Pipes!’

With the drone of chanters, the pipers of the Transvaal Scottish hitched at their instruments and the wailing started. The Italians were not used to Highland music and the march became a straggle. Then the man on the donkey at the front, pale, feverish-looking and bandaged, raised his arm and the group halted.

‘We’ll do without the pipes,’ he said.

Guidotti was staring about him. ‘Are these your men?’ he asked Harkaway.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are the rest?’

‘In position.’ Harkaway’s hand gestured vaguely.

Guidotti suddenly remembered something he’d said of the British in the Western Desert: despite their small numbers, they had had as many men as they had persuaded their enemies they had. With the memory came an uneasy feeling that he had been fooled, but it was too late now and suddenly he didn’t care very much anymore.

Harkaway mounted the donkey again. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get ‘em going, Piccio.’

The Italians set off once more, marching better than the Rajput major had ever seen Italians march before. In front of them, Harkaway rode the small white donkey.

‘Guard - !’

As the guard of honour slammed to the ‘Present,’ the Rajput major climbed down from the lorry and walked forward. As he appeared, Harkaway held up his hand and reined in the donkey. Behind him, Piccio yelled a command and the Italians came to a smart halt and stood swaying with exhaustion, their bearded faces dripping with sweat, their eyes dark pools under the brims of their helmets.

The Rajput major crashed to a halt and saluted. Harkaway solemnly dismounted and returned it. Other officers stepped out of the bush and moved forward, then the NCOs, and finally the men began to appear, all staring at the bunch of ghosts who waited at attention a few yards away.

Harkaway introduced himself and the Rajput major smiled.

‘You’re supposed to be missing,’ he said.

‘Well, now I’m not,’ Harkaway said. ‘I’ve got your prisoners for you. And there are about three hundred more back there if you can be bothered to collect them.’

‘I couldn’t believe my bloody eyes,’ the Rajput major was saying. ‘He had the buggers marching towards us, left-right left-right, rifles on their shoulders, picking up their feet and swinging their arms, as if they were about to mount guard at St James’.’

‘They didn’t need us after all,’ he went on. ‘He was bringing them in on his own.’ He paused, his expression awed. ‘One man. On a donkey. I’ve never seen anything like it: Guidotti, what was left of his staff, and a squad of men marching with their heads up and looking like Guardsmen. No wonder he made something of the Somalis. He had a nerve.’

Yes, he had, Charlton thought. But then the Tremaynes all had nerve. They’d found out at last who Harkaway was and Charlton now understood the force that had driven him on. Signals had flown back and forth and information had finally turned up. Asked to leave the army for pinching a fellow officer’s car and driving it without insurance! Police court proceedings. A dud cheque. Family pleas to avoid cashiering. Charlton sighed. Perhaps there had been more to it than that, but perhaps also it had been no more than a boyish prank. Perhaps the owner of the car had disliked him. The Tremaynes were an arrogant bunch and never popular, despite their ability, but there was a suggestion of vindictiveness and envy about it all the same that he didn’t like.

While he was still brooding, unaware of what the Rajput major was saying, a commandeered Italian staff car braked to a stop and three or four newspapermen jumped out. Among them were Wye and Russell.

‘I hear Harkaway’s brought in Twinkletoes,’ Wye said.

‘That’s not how he’s known to us,’ Charlton said mildly. ‘But if you mean General Guidotti, yes, he has.’

‘Where is he?’

Charlton gestured. ‘You’ll find him down the road there. You’ll see a horde of black men holding rifles and clutching blankets. I’m sure you’ll recognize them as the Sixth Column.’

Wye gestured at the other newspapermen and, as they scrambled back into the car, it hurtled off with a shriek of rubber.

‘Can’t think why they can never leave without tearing the tyres to shreds,’ the Rajput officer said.

Charlton smiled. ‘Tradition,’ he said. ‘You must have seen those James Cagney-Humphrey Bogart pictures.’

Harkaway had been provided with a tent, a table, a waste-paper basket, a camp bed and various other items of equipment. For half of them he couldn’t think of a use. So far nobody had told him to take away the pip he wore beneath the crown Danny had embroidered and he had no intention of doing so until he was ordered to.

He was struggling with papers. Some idiot had dumped a whole pile of stores forms on him and he was expected to sort them out and send them back, filled in with requisitions. He stared at them for a moment, then he picked up the whole pile and tossed them into the waste-paper basket. At least he’d discovered what
that
was for.

He was just lighting a cigarette when a shadow fell across the door and a face appeared.

‘Wye, Colonel,’ the newcomer said. ‘You’ll remember me from Bidiyu. Russell’s here and we’ve got a couple of other chaps.
Express
and
Daily Mail.
Perhaps we could talk to you for a while.’

Harkaway stared at him coldly. ‘Not allowed to,’ he said stiffly. ‘Back with the real army now. Have to do as I’m told. Anything you want you’ll have to get from the general’s press officer.’

Wye frowned. ‘We thought it would be all right.’

‘Well, it isn’t. Nothing I can do about it.’ Harkaway wasn’t taking any chances. He was doing what he’d wanted all his life to do - command soldiers - what his whole background and his whole nature had designed him to do. The fact that they were black and wore little in the way of uniform didn’t matter. People were taking notice of him again and he intended to keep it that way. From now on, he wasn’t going to put a foot wrong. From now on, he was only going upwards to where he belonged - at the top.

Russell looked disappointed. ‘What about the others, Colonel? Captain Tully and Lieutenant Gooch. Where are they?’

Harkaway looked up. ‘Lieutenant Gooch was killed when we took Fort San Rafaelo,’ he said shortly. ‘Captain Tully, who I might add, had been recommended for the MC, was killed in an ambush near Upi.’