‘Our lot,’ Rafferty observed admiringly to Dampier, ‘would have made a shambles of it.’
The Germans were all in the water now, yelling, splashing and leaping about like little boys in a swimming pool. From the Humber Rafferty eyed the piles of clothing, all placed in neat rows. It was almost dark and suddenly Dampier’s idea didn’t seem quite so silly.
‘Lots of German caps and coats lying about loose,’ he commented thoughtfully.
Chapter 5
By the time the sun rose the next morning, a great pulsing disc in an aura of incredible golden light, it was beginning to dawn on Rafferty that they were safer than they’d thought and Dampier’s idea seemed to grow better all the time. There were dozens of Italian units of all kinds in and around Zuq now and, thanks to the Italian uniforms they had acquired and Morton’s quick thinking, they had got off to a good start. Because of Italian military inefficiency, nobody had even noticed them.
It took twenty-four hours for it to sink in among the hoi polloi that they weren’t after all going to head off into the bright blue yonder back to their own lines – the group was so small everybody soon knew when anything was in the wind – and they promptly pushed forward to put their oar in. To most soldiers, the order of battle had God and the generals running the world, with the officers and NCOs administering the law somewhere just beneath, hearing everything, seeing everything, missing nothing, while they themselves, with the lance corporals – who didn’t count – hovered in the depths below. It didn’t, therefore, normally pay very well to make one’s opinions too clearly known but, with nothing to lose but their chains, when the personnel of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit finally found out what was going on there was a considerable amount of muttering.
‘Stay here?’ Jones the Song’s high tenor rose almost to a falsetto. ‘Behind the enemy lines, man?’
By this time, however, even Rafferty was becoming enthusiastic. The idea had started to appeal to his mischievous Irish mind. And, as Clutterbuck had pointed out, they were able to draw rations so long as they had Caccia and Morton handy to answer awkward questions. With Rafferty’s knowledge of procedure and Morton’s knowledge of the Italian army gleaned during his period in Intelligence, they felt they were capable of dealing with all eventualities. All the rest of them had to do was appear to be stupid.
‘And,’ Morton observed sagaciously, ‘as the average soldier, British or Italian, is normally expected to be stupid, nobody will bother to enquire any further.’
They found a quiet place not far from the wrecked warehouses where they had hidden on their first night in Zuq. It was handy for the harbour but out of the immediate neighbourhood of any other units, most of which were near the fort, and, to make themselves look as if they belonged there, Clutterbuck recruited the usual Arab labourers to dig slit trenches in case the RAF came over and bombed them by mistake.
As it happened, the plan was very nearly abandoned within the first few hours. Having just escorted a convoy of supplies to beleaguered Tobruk not far away along the coast, the Royal Navy, well fed and feeling their oats, decided it was time they did something spiteful to the opposition to make up for the loss of Zuq and Sofi. They arrived off the little harbour in the early hours of the morning and started to bang away with everything they possessed. The first cracking explosions brought everybody at 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit bolt upright in their blankets at once.
‘What the hell’s that?’ Clegg demanded.
‘Go to sleep,’ Caccia said. ‘It’s the RAF again.’
‘That’s not bombs, old comrade and boon companion. Listen. There aren’t any aircraft engines.’
Caccia sat up again. Clegg was right. Whatever was being flung at them wasn’t coming from above. Then, as the coastal batteries began to hammer away, it dawned on Clinch what was happening.
‘It’s the navy!’ he screeched. ‘They’re making a raid! They’re putting troops ashore!’
All thoughts of being heroic by remaining in Zuq were forgotten at once, because if there really were a naval landing there was a good chance of being picked up. To hell with winning the war on their own, they thought – even Dampier agreed – and, dressing hurriedly, they scrambled for the trucks, eager to be first on the deck of a warship. They were just sorting themselves out when they realized they were wearing Italian uniforms.
‘They’ll fuckin’ shoot us!’ Clutterbuck yelled, and they all scrambled out again to collect their British uniforms so they wouldn’t be shot at by the Eighth Army as it swarmed ashore.
In fact, by the time they reached the town, the navy’s spitefulness had worn itself out. The ships were a long way from base and, with the Luftwaffe commanding that particular stretch of sea, it wasn’t a good idea to be caught around it in daylight; and, after a few salvos, the warships had bolted. Arriving in a panic, 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit scrambled from the trucks aware of a sinking feeling in their chests.
‘The rotten bastards have gone without us,’ Caccia said bitterly.
They stood staring out over the indigo sea, all the sour things they’d heard about the navy churning in their minds. Then, as they turned away, it dawned on them that in the town they could hear cries of rage; they realized that two or three of the navy’s shells had struck the furniture factory on which Zuq depended for so
