‘How did you get inside, man?’ Rafferty demanded.
‘Drove in.’ Clutterbuck didn’t seem to think it odd.
‘How?’
‘Well, there’s this Arab, see—’
‘Which Arab?’
‘This Arab what organizes papers and things. He’s a printer. He’s got a nice little business goin’.’
‘In Italian?’
‘Oh, yes. Caccia talked the lingo, and ’e knew what to do, anyway, because ’e’s done it afore. ’E fixed us up with passes and identity papers for workin’ in the dump. All ’is pals ’as ’em.’
Dampier was concerned that Clutterbuck might have gone too far, but Clutterbuck wasn’t worried.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘’S nothin’ to worry about. ’E’s runnin’ a racket ’isself, anyway, isn’t ’e?’
‘Who is?’
‘Scarlatti. There are several of ’em at it. ’E must be fillin’ ’is pockets.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw four Lancia engines with the numbers filed off, didn’t I? You know what that means.’
‘He’s stealing them.’
‘Exact. Well, you know what they say: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. If ’e can do it, so can we.’
‘Perhaps you’d better explain,’ Dampier said coldly, feeling he was on the slippery slope to perdition.
Clutterbuck obliged. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if we run rackets on our side of the line, so do the Italians, don’t they?’
‘Except that we don’t speak Italian,’ Rafferty pointed out.
‘Two of us do. And that goes a long way. Them Italians the police picked up workin’ in Cairo didn’t speak much English. There was even one who got a job in a senior officers’ mess where ’e ’eard army secrets discussed.’
‘How do you know?’
‘’E told me, din’t ’e?’
‘You’d better give me the name of the mess,’ Dampier said.
‘It wun’t do no good. ’E ’opped it to South Africa. Got on a ship and went through the Sewage Canal. ’E didn’t like the war much.’ Clutterbuck smiled. ‘I’ve got a contact who’ll ’elp. Found out I did a bit of business with a mate of ’is in Cairo. That’s the best of bein’ able to speak the language. ’Ad a girlfriend there, see.’
Dampier eyed Clutterbuck’s oily face. He’d often heard it said that the best way to learn a language was in bed from a girl.
‘These fellas ’ere is workin’ a fast one,’ Clutterbuck went on. ‘So, if we threaten to tell on ’em, they’ll ’elp us, won’t they? So long as we ’elp them, too, and let ’em ’ave their fair share.’ He paused and grinned. ‘There’s also an Italian lorry in that dump what don’t work any more,’ he added.
‘Did you disable it?’
Clutterbuck grinned again. ‘Them Italians is careless buggers. They never guard nothin’. I peed in the petrol tank. That’ll stop it. Probably miles from anywhere, too. It’ll give ’em a right laugh.’
Chapter 6
By the end of the afternoon, the newly acquired lorries’ numbers and signs had been changed, their engine markings filed off and, smeared with grease and dirt, fresh numbers stamped on in their place.
With the new additions, they now had acquired enough vehicles to indicate a unit of some importance. No self-respecting repair unit, whether Italian, German or British, would have been seen dead without spare vehicles to ride about in. As Dampier, who had been working to bring an end to this very problem, well knew, it just wouldn’t have looked right.
Unfortunately, older than the others and unused to hard labour, Dampier was also beginning to suffer from the effects of the heavy work they’d done at Scarlatti’s dump. His twisted back had given way to something suspiciously like lumbago and he could hardly move.
‘Leave it to me,’ Clutterbuck said cheerfully. ‘I’ll sort it out.’
Heading into Zuq with Caccia in one of the Lancia trucks he’d acquired, he returned the following morning trailed by Caccia driving yet another Lancia.
‘No need to get alarmed,’ he said. ‘Nobody’ll find out. I never take ’em from the same place twice.’
He had also brought back timber, inner tubes, a complete set of carpenter’s tools, two stretchers and a set of pillows, and, with the help of Micklethwaite, began to build a bed frame which he stretched across with cut-up inner tubes.
Covering the inner tubes with blankets, he placed a pillow at the head and as they lowered Dampier on to it, he couldn’t help letting out a long sigh of relief.
‘’Ow’s that?’ Clutterbuck asked with concern. ‘Comfortable?’ He disappeared and returned with a motor inspection light, which he strung to the tent pole.
‘So you can read in bed,’ he pointed out. ‘I brought you some books, see.’
Clutterbuck’s idea of literature turned out to be a set of what were known to the Merchant Navy as ‘Blue Books’, pornographic publications, some in Italian, some in English, some in French, produced by Arab printers in North African ports before the war for the delectation of frustrated passing seamen, and their contents made Dampier, a stickler for propriety, go hot all over.
Clutterbuck quite failed to notice his shocked expression.
‘Fancy a bit of music?’ he asked. ‘I can get you a wireless set if you like.’ He paused. ‘I peed in the tanks of two more lorries today,’ he ended. ‘Doin’ me bit for the war effort.’
By the following day they had acquired yet another light truck complete with changed signs and engine numbers. With it came a small lathe and an electric drill, for which, unfortunately, they had no generator. Nevertheless, it all looked very impressive and it had all arrived by kind permission of Corporal Clutterbuck and had the effect of making them look more like what they claimed to be. By this time Dampier was looking a little bemused. In effect, and although it concerned an army that was not his own, he was a party to the sort of stealing he had only recently been trying to halt, and moreover using the skill of an acknowledged deserter and thief. His guilt troubled him.
So that no questions should be asked, Clutterbuck made a red-cross flag out of a sheet and erected it outside Dampier’s tent. Outside
