By the time they drove in, however, the wind had increased and most of the town was obscured by whirling clouds of sand which was already building up in drifts against the walls, and it was almost impossible to see what lay ahead. Not that it mattered because they already knew. The place had been bombed and shelled by both sides so often there wasn’t a great deal left. The houses still stood, though some had sagging roofs and walls, and the harbour was filled with wrecks, their funnels and masts showing above the water, rusty relics constantly pitted and twisted by fresh high-explosive until they were almost unrecognizable as ships. But there was still a passage between them so that lighters could move at slow speed from the freighters, which were obliged to anchor outside the harbour, to a pontoon wharf newly constructed from planks and oil drums against the ruins of the old one. The war had swept three times across Zuq and few of the buildings near the harbour had escaped the scars of battle.
By this time the sky had turned a dirty grey and they wore their respirators as they groped about for their belongings. The heat in the flying sand was appalling and they could hear the monotonous beat of the wind drumming the canvas of the vehicle covers. Strangely empty, the town was like a new kind of suburbia with the houses all standardized. Even the furnishings came in three natty shades approved of in Rome.
Reaching a stretch of parched grass beneath a group of wind-whipped palms on the outskirts, they decided not to struggle any further and bedded down inside the three-tonner, taking it in turns to stay awake to make sure Clutterbuck didn’t bolt. With the sandstorm still raging, they became aware during the night of aircraft overhead, and then the whango-whango-whango of guns and the clatter of machine-gun fire. Assuming it was just another air raid on Zuq, they turned over and went to sleep again. The noise was all at the other side of the town and most of the bombs seemed to be falling on the wrecked ships in the harbour.
In his corner of the truck, Micklethwaite was looking miserable. He had developed a nasty case of the trots and kept having to disappear into the darkness with the spade. Fortunately, Clinch had a bottle of tablets which he carried around for just such an emergency.
‘What are they?’ Micklethwaite asked.
‘I dunno,’ Clinch said. ‘And I don’t want to. That way, if they kill you, I’m not responsible.’
Eventually they became aware of vehicles passing and the noise of engines and the excited chatter of men, but they were all tired and weren’t sufficiently involved in army movements to care much. When they woke the following morning, the town seemed more empty than the previous evening and during a lull in the storm Rafferty saw a flight of Messerschmitts heading towards Cairo. He eyed them with a grave face and said nothing, but soon afterwards, seeing rolling clouds of dust to the east, he watched them for a long time before turning to Dampier.
‘With respect, sir,’ he said, ‘I think the Italians are on the move.’
Dampier, who had been leaning on the side of the lorry drinking the first mug of tea of the day, came bolt upright at once.
‘I’ve seen it before, sir,’ Rafferty went on. ‘Something’s up. Where is everybody?’
True enough, the town appeared to be deserted by troops, though a few Arabs were still in residence. The white houses stood in pairs on the yellow cliffs above the harbour, like shoeboxes set at mathematical intervals, all alike and nearly all empty. Once there had been gardens and sheep and cows, but the sheep and cows had long since been eaten and the white houses were beginning to have a shabby look. On the edge of the town, where the road that ran along the coast entered, there was one of the triumphal arches that Mussolini liked to erect in his own honour. On one side of it was his virile slogan: The Italian people and the Fascist people deserve to have the victory. Benito Mussolini. On the other, in case the passers-by had failed to notice the first, there was another slogan: A people that abandons the land deserves to be condemned to decadence. Benito Mussolini. In paint some British soldier had written his reply: And any nation that puts up with a pompous pill like Mussolini deserves all it gets. Arthur Farnall, RASC.
Rafferty and Dampier stared around at the white buildings and the parched lawns. Something very odd had happened. The town was there all right but where were the British troops who were supposed to be garrisoning it?
Moving cautiously round the outskirts, they came across an empty British gun position. Nearby a group of vehicles kneeled forlornly on smashed front axles, one of them still sending up wisps of smoke from burning tyres. Around it were scattered scraps of uniform, and a pile of silver British petrol cans caught the sun. Because they were running short of fuel, it seemed a good idea to fill up from them. As usual, most of them were punctured and only half full.
Rafferty looked grim. ‘I think we’re in trouble, sir,’ he announced. ‘I think that somehow the front’s moved further east in the night and we’re behind it.’
Dampier looked alarmed. ‘You mean our people have pulled back?’
Rafferty looked worried. ‘I mean, sir, that I think Zuq’s been evacuated.’
Even as he spoke, a line of lorries came roaring towards them from the desert through the thinning clouds of sand. The signs and numbers they carried looked unfamiliar and the leading vehicle had a flag flapping from its cabin roof, something the British army didn’t usually go in for. Then, as the vehicles drew nearer, Rafferty recognized the
