Morton smiled and Schwartzheiss went on with the arrogant contempt of all Germans for all Italians. ‘All Mussolini’s after is glory. We’re only here to enhance his prestige.’
Morton smiled again. ‘And we’re only here to make up your numbers.’
Schwartzheiss laughed. ‘It’s a marriage of convenience, tenente,’ he agreed. ‘Not one of joy. Still, why should I worry? The real estate’s Italian not German. At the moment, though’ – he shrugged – ‘Nichts klappt. Nothing works. And I’ll bet nobody knows it better than your boys.’
Though Schwartzheiss was friendly enough, No. 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit were glad to see the back of him. The Germans were twice as alert as the Italians and twice as shrewd, and their Intelligence, unlike Italian Intelligence, which was reputed to spy less on the enemy than on doubtful friends, was efficient. After his departure, with their eyes constantly straying towards the road in case a squad of German field police appeared, it took them the rest of the day to calm down.
They had just begun to feel safe when two Mercedes cars appeared over the brow of the slope. Micklethwaite was on lookout, sitting on the edge of the wadi nursing a split finger he’d caught in one of the lorry doors and dreaming of the bestseller he intended to write when he returned to the British lines. He was just wondering how to spend the royalties when he became aware of the two cars and of high-peaked long-visored caps such as German officers wore.
‘Oh, my God,’ he croaked and scuttled at once to Dampier’s tent, where Dampier, Rafferty and Morton were holding a conference.
‘Visitors!’ he bleated. ‘They look like Germans!’
Convinced they were German field police sent by Schwartzheiss, they waited nervously. Unaware of what was going on, in one of the tents Jones the Song was shaving in the mirror of a Lancia truck. Dampier had told him to smarten himself up because he looked scruffy even for the Italian he was supposed to be impersonating and he was consoling himself with a verse or two of ‘Land of My Fathers’:
‘…Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tramâd,
Tros ryddid collsant eu gwaed,
Gwlad, Gwlad…’
Jones thought a lot of the land of his fathers and his splendid high tenor soared up to scratch at the sky.
As the cars slowed in a drifting cloud of yellow dust, Morton stepped forward, smart in his Italian officer’s tunic. Following the drill they had devised, somebody had also warned Caccia and he waited nearby with Clegg, ready to supply Italian chatter in case anybody was listening who might understand.
As the cars stopped, a tall German officer with a general’s badges and a thin sensitive face climbed out, followed by a younger officer who was obviously his aide. The general was dressed in drill slacks and jacket. The younger officer wore shorts.
Morton drew a deep breath. Ordinary, brutalized Italian soldiers, not too well educated and knowing nothing of the rest of the world, were one thing; Schwartzheiss, shrewd, clever, a German with a German’s efficiency, was another; this man, a general, knowing everything, a man with authority who knew what made an army – any army – tick, was still another.
The German general, however, seemed less interested in 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit than in the offside-rear tyre of his car. ‘Il pneumatico si è—’ He stopped and looked enquiringly at the younger officer.
‘Sgonfiato,’ the younger man prompted from a dictionary he held.
‘So!’ The general turned again to Morton. ‘II pneumatico si è sgonfiato. Per favore—’
As he paused, Morton smiled. ‘I speak German, excellency,’ he said.
The German smiled. ‘So? That makes it much easier. I am General Erwin, 4th Light Division. The tyre needs air. Is it possible to inflate it?’
‘Of course, excellency. We have compressed air.’ They hadn’t but Morton had no doubt someone – probably Jones, who was least likely to object – could be bullied into doing the job manually. ‘It’s punctured, perhaps? Perhaps the general would like me to check it?’
Erwin glanced at the aide. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Räder mussen rollen für den Sieg. Wheels must turn for victory, eh? One of Dr Goebbels’s latest slogans. Some people might call it one of the German atrocities we hear so much about. Please fix it. We have plenty of time.’
For a moment he stood with his head cocked listening to Jones, who was still in full spate.
‘…Trwy deimlad gwladgarol, mor swynol yw si
Ei mentyff, afonydd i mi,
Gwlad, Gwlad…’
Clegg caught Morton’s frantic look and gestured at Clinch. ‘Shut that bloody fool up,’ he hissed.
Having disposed of the land of his fathers, Jones was now into ‘Guide me, O, thou Great Jehovah’.
‘…Dal fi pan bwy’n teithieo’r manau
Gierwon yn fy ffordd y sydd:
Rho imi fanna,
Fel no bwyf yn llwfrau…’
As Clinch arrived and the song stopped abruptly, the German officer shrugged.
‘Che peccato,’ he said. ‘What a pity! He has a splendid voice. He is a professional, perhaps?’
‘No, excellency,’ Morton said. ‘He just sings because he likes singing. They all do. They aren’t Berufssoldaten – regular soldiers – just peasants in uniform. From the mountains. Mountaineers always sing. You’ll have heard the Swiss, I expect.’
‘You should encourage him,’ Erwin suggested. ‘There’s little enough beauty in the world. Especially these days. But that’s surely not Italian he’s using? My Italian isn’t good but I can recognize it when I hear it.’
Morton thought fast. ‘A dialect, excellency.’
‘Of course. He comes from the mountains.’
‘Near Stresa.’
‘So! Austrian territory originally. I expect it’s a crude form of German. I thought I recognized one or two of the words.’
You were clever if you did, Morton thought. Nobody but the Welsh understood Welsh, and not all of them.
Erwin smiled. ‘I’m going out into the desert there,’ he said. ‘Stracka’ – he gestured at the aide – ‘and I are watercolour enthusiasts. We’ve noticed that from there you can get a glimpse of the roofs and palm trees of Zuq. It’s a splendid subject.’
‘I have
