He moved to the back of the lorry. Inside, lying on looted bedding, was a sleeping man wrapped in a blanket.
‘Who’s this?’ Clegg demanded.
‘’E reckons ’e’s an Australian. I once thought I’d like to emigrate to Australia.’
‘Which part?’
‘All of me, you stupid sod! ’E says ’e’s a company sergeant major. I found ’im wanderin’ about at the edge of the town.’ Clegg took another look at the sleeping man. ‘How do you know he’s not an Italian spy?’
Clutterbuck grinned. ‘No Italian spy I ever ’eard of could ’ave swore like ’e did.’
As they talked, the man in the lorry opened his eyes and sat up. He was unkempt, thin-faced, unshaven and dressed in tattered khaki drill. He was staring puzzled at Clegg’s Italian jacket.
‘This is one of my mates,’ Clutterbuck said.
The Australian stared. ‘An Italian?’
‘’E’s not a proper Italian. ’E’s English like me.’
The Australian looked bewildered as they helped him from the truck, staring round at the Italian flags, the Italian lorries, the portraits of Mussolini and Victor Emmanuel.
‘Well, if you’re Poms,’ he said, ‘what the hell are you doin’ here?’
‘I sometimes wish I knew,’ Clegg admitted. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I got out of the compound at Sofi, didn’t I? Where am I? I thought the Italians were in this place.’
‘They are.’
The Australian looked blank, so Clegg took him by the arm and drew him into the nearest tent. Caccia, who was sitting on a roll of blankets daydreaming about the girl at the Bar Barbieri, looked up.
‘Get Morton,’ Clegg said. ‘And bring a bottle of beer back with you.’
As Caccia vanished, the Australian stared after him.
‘That’s Caccia,’ Clegg explained.
‘He Italian or a Pom?’
‘A Pom.’
‘He had an Italian name.’
‘Some Poms do. Some have French. What’s yours?’
‘Irish, I think. It’s Fee. Athol Fee.’ The Australian looked suspicious. ‘What the Christ’s goin’ on here?’
‘We got stranded behind the Italian lines when they put on their push. We’ve been here ever since.’
Fee gestured. ‘That feller who went out – he was wearing an Italian cap—’
‘That’s right.’ Clegg picked up his own cap. ‘I’ve got one, too.’
‘What the hell for?’ Fee’s voice became a bleat.
‘So the Italians’ll think we’re an Italian vehicle repair unit.’
‘And what are you?’
‘Well, I’m part of a concert party but we got a bit mixed up with an equipment recovery unit under a colonel. He’s done his back in unloading Italian stores.’
The Australian was looking completely baffled now, but as Caccia returned with a bottle of beer, he stared at it in delight. ‘I’m not suffering, am I?’ he asked. ‘I’m not seein’ mirages?’
Clegg tried to make him understand. Fee looked so bemused, he was glad when Morton appeared with Rafferty and Dampier.
‘Escaped prisoner of war,’ Clegg introduced.
‘Where from?’ Dampier asked.
‘The compound at Sofi,’ Fee said. ‘I dug me way underneath the wire.’
‘Good God! How far did you walk?’
‘About four thousand bloody miles! To Cape Town and back! All round Africa! I dunno. Too bloody far. I know that.’
‘Good God, it must have been hot!’
‘Hotter than you think, mate.’ Fee began to pull his shirt off. Underneath it, wrapped round his waist, he had a Union Jack. ‘Wore that all the time,’ he said. ‘Ever since they put us in the bag. Couldn’t let the bastards have the old flag, could I? She was carried when we marched through Sydney on our way to the troopship and she’s goin’ to be carried through Sydney when we go home after this lot’s over.’
‘Saving the flag! A very commendable action.’ It was the sort of pointless, old-fashioned military gesture of which Dampier heartily approved. VCs had been awarded for similar actions before now. ‘Anybody else with you?’
‘No. “Where the hell do you run to when you’re out?” they asked. We knew the Italians were holding the coast and the Germans were directly to the south. It only left the desert. I decided to chance it. But I hadn’t any food or water and it only took me twenty-four hours to decide I’d made a mistake and the only thing I could think of then was to turn north and head for the coast. I thought I might steal a boat and sail it back to Alex. By the time I got here, I’d decided I’d be wiser to give meself up. What happens now?’
‘We take you with us.’
‘Where to?’
‘Back to the British lines. That’s where we’re intending to go. Eventually anyway.’
‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ The Australian’s gaunt face broke into a grin. ‘Then I didn’t make a mistake after all.’
Chapter 10
Company Sergeant Major Athol Fee’s arrival in the camp of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit caused few ripples. He was in far better shape than they’d thought and with two days’ food and drink inside him soon began to sit up and take notice.
He had a great deal of information about Sofi and knew roughly what units were in the area around. He had picked up a little Italian and, Italian guards being as garrulous as they were, had managed to learn what tanks and what guns they possessed and roughly what they intended. He had also been careful to count the Australian prisoners who were still at Sofi.
‘Two hundred and seventy-nine,’ he announced. ‘Exactly. And every one of the buggers wantin’ to know what’s goin’ to be done about him.’
Two hundred and seventy-nine extra men – especially Australians who were not noted for their affectionate natures or for their fondness for the enemy – were a godsend to a man like Dampier, eager to imprint himself on the war. With a group that big, he felt, he could take over Sofi, radio the navy to pick them up, and hold off the opposition until the job was done. At the very least create another Tobruk to be a thorn in the enemy’s side.
It was a pleasant enough thought but, without weapons and supporting artillery or armour, he knew it was nothing but a dream. He was well aware
