It seemed that, as with the Italians, food was a favourite topic of conversation.
‘And the clothing,’ Erwin went on. ‘So tough, but so cool to wear. I was terrified my men would be seduced into indiscipline. A distinctive trait of the German is his capacity for envy, and British clothing is enough to make a saint break the Tenth Commandment. And when a German soldier loses faith in his army he finds it hard to face reality.’
The smile grew wider. ‘We’re taking advantage of the quiet spell. Stracka and I thought we’d spend a few days enjoying ourselves. We expect to be on the move again soon but unfortunately your general doesn’t move very swiftly.’
Morton smiled, confident of Erwin’s friendliness. ‘I’ve heard it said that the only thing that stops the Germans getting to Cairo is the Italian general staff.’
Erwin gave a bark of laughter. ‘And loose bowels,’ he agreed.
They laughed together and Morton bent over Erwin’s painting to admire it.
‘It’s not very good,’ Erwin said modestly. ‘I think it is another German atrocity. Every nation has them. With the British it’s bagpipes.’
They laughed once more, then Erwin became serious. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘we must count ourselves lucky here in the desert. We have none of the hard-eyed zealots of the Gestapo in this theatre. War brutalizes and battle has many bestial by-products, but out here, thank God, it’s a war without rancour and there’s not the sad destruction of beautiful things that war normally brings.’ He smiled. ‘There aren’t even too many bad frights – only about one every week or two. And still human virtues and good manners and a little of what’s been lost lately in Europe: Ritterlichkeit und Kameradschaft – chivalry and comradeship. It’s the only thing that makes war endurable.’
Morton found himself actually liking the German. He was a sophisticated, urbane military man of the type he thought only the British army with its amateur attitudes could produce. Despite an inclination to talk too much, he had a sense of humour and clearly saw through the sham of dictatorships. And, though it was clear he despised the Italian High Command, he was treating Morton, whom he believed to be Italian, with considerable courtesy.
He was gesturing with his glass again in a sweeping movement. ‘This spot is full of pictures, tenente. The light and shade in the afternoon are splendid. The desert itself – pink, purple, grey, yellow, blue – and just to the east there, the dunes catching the light. One day I shall hold an exhibition of my desert paintings.’
Morton tested the water. ‘When the British are driven out of Africa,’ he said.
Erwin gave him a sidelong glance and in it there was doubt. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘When the British are driven out of Africa.’
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then Morton drove away with Caccia. As they disappeared, Erwin stared after them.
‘A good young man that, Stracka,’ he said. ‘But strange.’ He glanced again at the disappearing cloud of dust. ‘I wonder who he is.’
Chapter 8
Though no one was keen to see General Erwin again – ‘Generals know too much about the army,’ Rafferty said – Scarlatti seemed too concerned with his own affairs to worry anybody much.
Despite his bounce, he was an anxious little man whose thoughts were always with his family back in Italy, and it was easy to draw him out. By talking about his children, it wasn’t hard to get him worrying about the outcome of the war and from there to his hopes for the new push. By discovering what he was issuing, in what quantities and to where, it then wasn’t hard to build up the sort of picture Dampier was seeking. As Morton reported what he learned, Dampier, still confined to his tent with a back that stubbornly refused to improve, put it all down on paper. And while Dampier occupied himself with gathering information, it became Rafferty’s job to preserve their anonymity.
They had already effected simple repairs to one or two vehicles, but since they had had to turn away others more seriously damaged, the wary Rafferty thought that Clutterbuck should put his skills to use once more.
‘The notice out there says 64 LIGHT VEHICLE REPAIR UNIT,’ he pointed out. ‘So, unless we want somebody to surround the place with storm troopers we’ve got to look as if we really are a light vehicle repair depot.’
Clutterbuck saw his point at once. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
The following morning, Clutterbuck, Clegg and Micklethwaite, dressed in galabiyahs from the Ratbags’ property basket and wearing a lot of brown No. 7 from the make-up box, set off for Zuq in Dampier’s car with Morton and Caccia. Morton was done up to the nines in his Italian officer’s jacket and cap. Caccia, wearing his sergeant’s stripes, was armed – just in case – with a bundle of the requisition forms they had found on the night they arrived, filled in by Rafferty and completed by Clutterbuck – who, it seemed, could add forgery to his other skills – with a fair facsimile of the signature of Brigadier Olivaro.
Morton dropped them near the dump and Micklethwaite was left outside the wire fence, squatting by a ditch clutching a sack.
‘You just sit there, old mate,’ Clutterbuck said. ‘When Cleggy ’ere appears, you pick up what ’e drops and shove it into your sack. Got it?’
‘Won’t anybody want to know what I’m doing?’ Micklethwaite’s plump face was worried under its make-up.
‘You’re just sittin’ in the sun thinkin’,’ Clutterbuck explained patiently. ‘Nobody’ll take any notice. If anybody comes along ’oo looks suspicious, just ’old out your ’and an’ say, “Backsheesh.” That’s beer money. If they start gettin’ stroppy, pretend you don’t understand. You wouldn’t, o’ course, them bein’ Italian. If they try to kick your arse, beat it. It’s safer. You can always come back when they’ve gone.’
‘Suppose they find out I’m not an Arab. Won’t they think I’m a spy and shoot me?’
Clutterbuck considered the possibility. ‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘they
