In the midday glare the walls of the houses were dazzling and the heat was enough to strike them speechless. The few Germans they saw – and there weren’t many because under an agreement between the German and Italian commanders-in-chief Zuq was Italian territory – looked keen and well equipped in their grey jackets and peaked caps. By contrast, the Italians looked apathetic and poorly clad in khaki drill or plus-four-type trousers with ill-fitting bluish coats, like cyclists bereft of their cycles.
As Dampier’s little group climbed down from their vehicles, wondering how and where to set about obtaining food, the work of unloading the freighter stopped and the stream of Italian soldiers, dusty, shabby and unshaven, collapsed. Bottles were passed round and sausages and bread appeared.
Caccia’s throat worked. ‘Think we could cadge a bit?’ he said. ‘My guts are as empty as a last bus.’
After a quarter of an hour a whistle shrilled and the groups of men stumbled to their feet and the work started once more. Dampier’s group were just on the point of turning away when Clegg gave a bleat of alarm. ‘Morton,’ he hissed. ‘There’s an Italian officer coming over here.’
There was an immediate move towards the lorry but Morton stopped it dead. ‘Stay where you are!’ he snapped. ‘I can handle him.’
The Italian officer, a small fat man with a major’s badges and strapped about like a Christmas tree with dangling map case, a pair of shabby binoculars and a pistol, was striding towards them, a look of determination on his face. Two steps behind him was another, younger officer, slender, dark, intense-looking, who wore the uniform of one of the crack Bersaglieri regiments and walked with a limp. Halting in front of Morton, the stout officer gave him a quivering fascist salute with outstretched arm.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded aggressively.
Morton looked down on him with his cold stare. ‘Unità di Riparazione,’ he said. ‘Veicoli Leggeri. Numero 64.’
The Italian seemed a little disconcerted and stared along the line of dusty vehicles. ‘Those are British,’ he said.
‘We’ve been engaged in collecting and repairing abandoned enemy transport,’ Morton explained.
‘Where are your own?’
‘Coming up behind. I’m looking for a site for my workshop. I’m Tenente Mortoni. Ugo, Conte di Barda. At your service.’
The major’s head jerked up at the title Morton had awarded himself; he stiffened and adjusted his tunic. It was a well-pressed bush jacket which had probably originated in South Africa and had doubtless been part of the loot from the recent disaster at Mechili when Gambier-Parry’s divisional HQ and the 3rd Motor Brigade had been overwhelmed.
‘Scarlatti, Giulio. Major.’ His manner changed as he introduced himself. ‘Town major, under the immediate command of Commandante di Brigata Olivaro in Derna, and Commandante di Brigata Marziale, who has this area. I have command of No. 7 Base Stores and Resupply Dump, all ancillary services in the town, the harbour, the refuelling depot at the fort, the Arab labourers and the furniture factory, whose products it will eventually by my duty to commandeer for the war effort. This is my assistant, Sottotenente Faiani.’
The younger man saluted smartly, his eyes searching Morton’s face. He looked puzzled. ‘Count,’ he said in greeting. ‘I didn’t recognize you.’
‘We’ve met?’ Morton’s heart thumped.
‘No, count.’ Faiani’s eyes were bright and shrewd. ‘But I’ve seen your pictures in the magazines. You’re taller than I expected.’
Morton was momentarily disconcerted. Recognition was something he hadn’t expected and he didn’t like the look in Faiani’s eye.
‘Lost a lot of weight,’ he explained quickly. ‘Being thinner makes you look taller.’ He decided it might be a good idea to change the subject and nodded casually to the barbed-wire compound nearby that surrounded a group of large huts. He affected to be totally unimpressed by what was clearly Scarlatti’s pride and joy. ‘That your dump?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Scarlatti answered briskly as if Morton was not showing sufficient awe. ‘It was an Italian dump the British took over. We’ve taken it back again. It’s my job to refit the army. It’s my duty to extend the dump and fill it with spares. I have supplies to unload and could do with every man I can get. Brigadier Olivaro has ordered me to get them under cover before the British planes spot them. He forgets that, unlike Colonel Ancillotti, who has the dump in Derna, I can’t call on thousands of base troops.’
‘My people,’ Morton pointed out quickly, ‘are just in from the desert. They’re tired and hungry.’
‘They look well equipped,’ Faiani said quietly.
Morton lifted his eyebrows and the Italian explained.
‘Their boots,’ he said. ‘British boots.’ He turned to the Italian soldiers behind him, a long stream of human ants, some of them stripped to the waist, pushing carts or carrying equipment into the dump, and jerked a hand at the ugly boots they were wearing.
‘Our people wear the Duce’s yellowbacks,’ he said. ‘Cheap. Made by prisoners in jail.’
Morton gestured. ‘We found a captured lorryload and helped ourselves.’
Scarlatti sniffed. ‘Some of my men have had to stuff cardboard in where the soles have worn out.’ He eyed the British group. ‘Your men are quiet.’
Morton was acting like mad to sound casual and indifferent. ‘They’re tired. And they’re from the mountains round Stresa. In fact they’re not like Italians at all. Until 1918, of course, they were Austrians. But they know what they want and if they don’t get it they make a point of taking it.’ It sounded like a threat.
Scarlatti became almost apologetic. ‘It won’t take long, count. An hour or two. You can feed them with my people as soon as you’ve finished.’
‘We also need petrol.’
‘I have plenty. My refuelling depot’s at the other side of the harbour near the fort.’
Watched uneasily by the others, among whom only Caccia had any idea what was going on, Morton debated for a while, then he
