Harkaway's Sixth Column (9 page)

Harkaway’s head turned. ‘Can you speak Italian?’ he asked.

‘I’ve had to live with them.’

As they waited, the car drew up behind the lorry.

‘Che chosa videte?’

‘What’s that?’

‘He asking him what he can see.’

The corporal in the car made no attempt to climb out, and there was a little shouting back and forth between the two men. After a while the corporal decided to investigate himself and began to open the car door. It was time to move.

Harkaway looked at the woman. ‘You sure we can rely on you?’ he asked.

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Right. Here we go.’

As the Italian from the lorry moved towards the pile of rock and shale, Gooch appeared at the driver’s open window. As the rifle appeared out of the darkness and jabbed at his throat, the askari turned his head, saw the pale face in the moonlight and froze, his eyes rolling. The corporal had got one leg out of the car when he felt the cold muzzle of Tully’s rifle on his temple.

‘One move, you Eyetie bastard,’ Tully said, ‘and I’ll blow your sodding head off.’

The Italian didn’t speak English but he fully understood what was being said. He rolled his eyes to see whether the driver could help, but he was already raising his hands from the wheel and the corporal saw a white-clad figure beyond him at the other side of the car, holding a pistol at the driver’s temple.

Unaware of what was going on, the Italian from the lorry was studying the rock-face. He was still studying it as Harkaway appeared behind him and jabbed him in the ribs with his rifle.
‘Mani in alto,’
he said.

The Italian stiffened, then slowly lifted his hands. Harkaway took away his rifle and gestured to him to march back to the lorry.

As he did so, he said something in Italian and Harkaway turned to the woman. ‘What’s he say?’

‘He says you’ve bitten off more than you can chew,’ she explained. ‘Because he can see another of their lorries coming up behind us.’

Harkaway smiled. ‘Tell him that’s what he thinks. It’s one of ours. It’s Kom-Kom with the Bedford to collect the petrol.’

As the truck appeared, Grobelaar beat a hearty tattoo on the horn, then climbed out, grinning. As he did so, he saw the woman in the headlights and stopped dead.

‘Who’s this?’ he demanded.

‘We’ve just bumped into her.’

‘How?’

‘We blew her up,’ Harkaway said quietly.

The woman turned. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked in return.

‘Grobelaar. Piet Grobelaar. South African. Known as Kom-Kom.’ Harkaway gestured at the Italians and the African driver. ‘Look, we haven’t got all bloody night to get introduced. We’ve got to transfer this petrol to our lorry.’

‘Why don’t we just take the lorry,
jong?’
Grobelaar suggested.

Harkaway smiled. ‘Makes sense,’ he agreed.

‘Why not take the car as well?’ Tully said. ‘We’ve got enough petrol now to last us months.’

‘Who’s going to drive it?’ Harkaway asked.

Tully looked at Gooch and Gooch looked at Tully. Neither could drive.

‘I can drive,’ the woman said.

‘An Italian Lancia?’

‘We had a Lancia where I worked.’

‘Okay,’ Harkaway said. ‘Get in and turn it round.’

By reversing into the space where they’d left the camels, they faced the vehicles in the other direction. Harkaway beamed at the woman. ‘That was nicely done,’ he said. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Bronwen Ortton-Daniells.’

‘Mrs?’

‘Miss. I was sent out to Africa by LFM.’ ‘Who’s El Effem,’ Gooch asked.

‘It’s not a who,’ she snapped. ‘It’s an it. The London Foreign Mission. They sent me.’

‘Why?’

‘To preach the word of the Lord Jesus Christ. To teach them Christianity.’

‘But all the buggers round here are Moslems!’

‘They aren’t Moslems in Abyssinia,’ she pointed out. ‘They’re Coptic Christians. That’s where I was sent.’

‘You a missionary?’

‘I’m a mission worker. When the Italians came we moved into British Somaliland, but the British government doesn’t like missionaries and in the end we moved into French Somaliland. The French at least go to church.’

‘What are you doing here, then?’

‘Haven’t the French thrown in their lot with the Germans? I couldn’t live with cowardice. I set off for British Somaliland. I’ve been a long time on the way. I had to be careful. I hoped to reach Berbera.’

‘Bit late for that, miss,’ Tully said. ‘Everybody’s gone to Aden.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We’ve got a wireless.’

‘Where?’

Harkaway’s arm moved vaguely. ‘Up in the hills.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Soldiers, miss,’ Tully said. ‘I’m Paddy Tully, Private, Royal Signals. That’s Private Gooch, Ordnance Corps. Armourer by trade. That’s Corporal Harkaway. Squire Harkaway. Engineers. All on attachment to the King’s African Rifles. We got cut off.’

There was a long silence as she studied them. ‘What do you intend to do?’ she asked. ‘Head south for Kenya?’

‘Eventually,’ Harkaway said.

‘But how have you managed to live, surrounded by Italians?’

They looked at each other, wondering how they might explain to someone devoted to the promotion of peace that they’d been selling arms to the natives who, unfortunately, had been using them to shoot each other.

‘We managed,’ Harkaway said.

‘How about food?’

‘Bought a bit. Shot a bit. We’ve got guns.’ Harkaway indicated the weapons they’d taken from the Italians. ‘Now, it seems we have four more.’ His eyes were gleaming. ‘And since we’re at it,’ he went on, ‘we might as well have their uniforms, too. They might come in useful. We’ve been wondering if we couldn’t stir up the natives against the Italians a bit.’

Gooch and Tully nodded hurriedly. Trust Harkaway to think of something that sounded honest and patriotic.

For a moment she stood in silence as the embarrassed Italians stripped to their underwear then, as Harkaway threw their uniforms into the back of Grobelaar’s truck, she turned to them and flung her arms wide in a dramatic gesture.

‘I shall join you!’ she said.

Harkaway turned. ‘Doing what?’

‘Resisting the Italians. The Church was never militant enough against the wicked!’

Gooch and Tully eyed each other. This was an unexpected bonus. Despite her spectacles, Bronwen Ortton-Daniells was a good-looking woman - early thirties, straight back, good before, good behind - and it crossed Tully’s mind that even missionaries could probably have a change of heart about things like morals - especially when faced with a fine military presence like that of P. Tully, Esquire.

‘What
are
you, miss?’ he asked warily.

‘I’m Methodist,’ she informed them proudly. ‘What are you?’

A Liverpool Irishman by birth, Tully was Catholic by upbringing, but since he’d joined the army it had never meant much and at the moment it seemed wiser to keep it dark.

‘I’m a Baptist,’ he said stoutly, hoping his Catholic God wouldn’t strike him dead on the spot for his lies.

The woman gestured. ‘There’s little difference,’ she conceded. ‘I think we should offer up a prayer of thanks for our safe delivery and for help in our project.’

Gooch and Tully would have let her get on with it but Harkaway, who’d been watching them with his sardonic smile, interrupted. ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ he said briskly. ‘The middle of a bloody battle’s no time to be getting down on our knees. Save it till we’re well away from here!’

For a moment, she looked at him in the gathering darkness, tall, lean, good-looking with his red hair and foxy face. At first it seemed she was about to protest but in the end she meekly acquiesced.

‘Of course,’ she said, equally briskly. ‘We must get away.’

They found her baggage beside the dead camel and from it, she fished out an old cardigan which she slipped on and buttoned firmly to hold her blouse in place, then she dragged out a comb and started work on the dusty mop round her face.

‘I shall need to wash my hair,’ she said.

‘Not here,’ Harkaway pointed out.

‘I don’t intend to wash it here,’ she retorted sharply. ‘Merely to comb it.’

‘Save it,’ he said. ‘For all we know, the Italians have already heard what’s happened and we ought to be on our way.’

She was on the point of objecting again but, in the end, she stuffed away the comb and was about to pick up her baggage when Tully picked it up for her. Neither he nor Gooch had any intention of riding with Harkaway in the Italians’ lorry or with Grobelaar in the Bedford. In fact, Gooch was already sitting in the front of the Lancia alongside the woman and Tully gave him a dirty look, tossed the woman’s baggage in the back then climbed aboard himself and put his head close to the woman’s. ‘Okay, miss,’ he said.

As the convoy began to move off, Grobelaar leading, Tully looked back to where the Italians and the askari were still standing disconsolately at the side of the road. He indicated the direction towards the north-west.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Hop it, you lot.’

The news that the Strada del Duce was blocked arrived at General Guidotti’s headquarters in Bidiyu the following morning. He was on the verandah drinking his coffee when a car came tearing into the town, trailing a cloud of dust, and pulled up at the gendarmerie he had set up. A man jumped out and ran inside.

Guidotti sat up, interested, wondering what could have caused such urgency. There had been no sign even of British aeroplanes for several days now. He fingered a signal he’d received from Rome in answer to the one he’d sent informing Mussolini of the naming of the road from Jijiga to Bidiyu in his honour. It offered congratulations and ended with the usual virile fascist greeting. ‘The nation’s strength comes from its brave men.’ It pleased Guidotti and he began to wonder when he might expect promotion.

As he daydreamed, a figure detached itself from the gendarmerie and started to hurry across the sandy square. It was Major Di Sanctis and Guidotti sat more upright, wondering again what had happened. Di Sanctis was a good officer, if inclined to peacock a little. He had an Ethiopian mistress who’d been with him ever since 1938, Guidotti knew, and he’d contrived to bring her to Bidiyu. It was against regulations, he supposed, but since senior officers did it, Guidotti had no intention of stopping Di Sanctis, especially since she was decorative enough to be a pleasure to see.

As he watched, Colonel Piccio appeared from his billet, on his way to take coffee with the general as was his habit. He was spotted at once by the hurrying Di Sanctis and Guidotti saw them confer. Then Piccio began to hurry towards him, struggling to keep his dignity as he tried hard not to run.

As he stopped in front of Guidotti, his large eyes were angry.

"The road’s been blocked,’ he said.

‘Which road?’

‘Our road, Excellency. Your road. Just before last night’s petrol lorry got through.’

‘An accident?’

‘I hardly think so, sir. It was in the Wirir Gorge. The whole cliffs come down on it. It will take days to clear.’

‘What is it, Piccio?’ Guidotti said stiffly. ‘A landslide? Because, if so, spit it out. I haven’t all day.’

Di Sanctis stepped forward. ‘No, Excellency,’ he said. ‘Not a landslide. An explosion was heard. Somebody dynamited it. Despite what we thought, there is resistance.’

Guidotti was sitting bolt upright now.

‘It was obviously carefully selected,’ Di Sanctis went on. ‘At its narrowest point. At the 200th kilometre sign. You remember we put up one of our markers there. One of the large ones with the eagle and fasces and the laurel wreath. It was our intention to place a bust of the Duce -

‘Get on,’ Guidotti snapped.

Di Sanctis stiffened. ‘A dead camel was found. There were also three stray camels wandering in the road.’

‘Who brought the news?’

‘Corporal Brazzi was in command, Excellency. He had with him two privates, one a driver, and an askari who drove the lorry. The askari appeared at the post at Dudub and they telephoned the post at Guldari which sent a car.’

‘What about Brazzi?’

‘He’s still somewhere outside Dudub, suffering, according to the askari, from blisters. He has the two privates with him. The askari ran the whole way after they climbed the pile of rubble the explosion had brought down.’

‘Then who -’ Guidotti demanded ‘- is guarding the petrol?’

‘Ah!’ Di Sanctis frowned. This was the part that had been bothering him. ‘I’m afraid the petrol has been lost, Excellency.’

‘Under the rubble?’

‘No, Excellency.’

‘Spilled?’

‘No, sir. It was stolen.’

Guidotti exploded.
‘Maria, Madre di Dio!’
he yelled. ‘After all this time we have only just got to the crux of the matter! What you’re trying to tell me is that we have lost a lorryload of petrol!’

‘And
the lorry,’ Di Sanctis said.

‘Not only the lorry, Excellency,’ Piccio added, ‘but also the car. The car we sent to General Forsci to accompany the lorry on its journey here with the petrol.’

Guidotti’s face went red. He forced himself to regain control. He knew all the stories about Italians being over-excitable but he came from Rome and couldn’t be expected to yell like a Neapolitan. ‘Go on.’ He spoke quietly, but his hands were trembling.

Di Sanctis cleared his throat. He was not enjoying himself very much. ‘Quite clearly a large amount of explosive was used, Excellency. This officer -’ he gestured at the man from the car who had appeared just behind him ‘- says it was planted with great skill, by someone who clearly knew a great deal about it.’

Piccio interrupted again excitedly. ‘It will need bulldozers,’ he said.

‘I haven’t got bulldozers,’ Guidotti snapped.

‘Then we shall have to get them from Berbera, Excellency.’

‘If they’ve got them
there.
Turn out the 49th Colonial Battalion and get them up to the Wirir Gorge. Start clearing it at once. Recruit native labour. They can take the place of the 49th as soon as we have sufficient. We shall probably need explosives ourselves if there are large boulders.’

As Guidotti gave his orders, he remembered General Forsci, in Jijiga, who commanded west of the border and had sent the petrol. ‘You’d better inform Jijiga,’ he said.