Morton and Rafferty, however, hearing of Faiani’s arrest of Clutterbuck, were nervous, and only the thought that the imminent commencement of the new Italian attack would allow them to disappear reassured them. Despite his suspicions, Faiani had made no move against them and they persuaded themselves that he’d stopped asking himself questions.
The only snag was that the camp had now grown so important-looking with all the tents and vehicles and painted notices they’d acquired, they felt they could expect a visit at any moment from some important Italian politician, who everybody – even the British – knew liked to slip across the Mediterranean on a visit to collect the ritual silver medal that was given for service overseas. At the very least, an inspection by Brigadier Marziale, the area commander, or Brigadier Olivaro, the quartermaster general from Derna.
By this time Clutterbuck had a group of Arabs operating for him in and around the German workshops at the other side of the town where Sergeant Schwartzheiss worked. Despite their vaunted efficiency, it seemed the Germans were no cleverer at protecting their materiel than anybody else.
‘That Germany sergeant’s workin’ a racket, too,’ Clutterbuck said. ‘Got ’isself appointed Director of Native Labour for Zuq, din’t ’e, an’ ’e’s takin’ bribes to give jobs and paddin’ the rolls somethin’ terrible.’
‘Are you sure?’ Dampier was wondering if the information might possibly contribute to the winning of the war.
‘It don’t take more’n a coupla glances to see what ’e’s up to, does it?’ Clutterbuck said. ‘They’re supposed to be buildin’ a new pipeline between Zuq an’ Jeniffa, and ’e’s the bloke what’s ’irin’ the labour and indentin’ for the material. Steel, cement, petrol, rations for the workforce, ’uts, beddin’, tents. Only there isn’t a pipeline between Zuq and Jeniffa. I ’ad a look. Everythin’s goin’ to Arab and Italian contractors in Derna and that Schwartzheiss feller’s linin’ ’is pockets with the proceeds, to say nothin’ of the wages ’e draws for labour what don’t exist.’
Clutterbuck knew exactly where the enemy units in the desert were because he was careful to study the direction forms he saw about Scarlatti’s dump and, to Dampier’s surprise, he found they were building up a remarkably clear picture of the enemy’s order of battle, because Mondi, Scarlatti’s driver, was also never slow to air his grievances.
He still hadn’t got over his jaundice. He was as yellow as a lemon – even his eyes were yellow – and it had left him low in spirits, sentimental and full of nostalgia for home, so that he liked to talk of girls, bowls, wrestling matches and hunting hares in the fields outside Naples where he lived to add to his family’s rations. He often listened to the officers of the ships arriving in Zuq and he was worried about the news they brought because Italy was expecting to be bombed and food was scarce so that there were queues at all the shops and his family were being driven into the black market.
‘It’s as bad as here,’ he said.
Due to inefficiency and corruption, in the desert he and his friends had been existing on biscuits, captured bully beef and beans, and, because there was a shortage of pasta, had been issued with rice which they loathed, while at times they had even been driven to netting migrating birds.
‘And that’s no diet for a sick stomach,’ he said. ‘But what do you expect? The ships only carry things for the fighting, and there are so many sinkings our own Mare Nostrum’s nothing but a swimming pool for Italian sailors.’
Even the fuel situation was sinister, he claimed, because the ships that managed to cross to North Africa had to have so many escorts, as much fuel was used as was brought across, while, with Tripoli, the only really workable port in North Africa, always a bottleneck because of lethargy and indifference, when they arrived the ships had to wait to be unloaded and became sitting ducks for the RAF.
The activities of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit had produced remarkably useful information that couldn’t have been bettered by a paid spy, though they did seem to Dampier to give Clutterbuck, the thief and deserter, a surprising hold over them. He had become indispensable, and, what was more, he had realized it, and these days he and Morton, with help from Rafferty, were almost running the little unit. Occasionally – almost, it seemed, with condescension – they took Dampier into their confidence and told him what they planned next.
It was, Dampier decided, an extraordinary situation they were in.
Morton was on easy terms with Scarlatti, and Clutterbuck had set up an arrangement with the leader of an Arab gang that was milking Scarlatti’s stores for all it was worth. A lot of what they stole disappeared into hidden passages and rooms in the Roman amphitheatre. Nobody wanted the place and most of the Arabs considered it haunted, so Clutterbuck had set up a stores of his own in one of the chambers at the back that was full of items from Scarlatti’s warehouses. In another he had opened a canteen where an Arab boy dispensed stolen coffee and it actually seemed to be making money.
‘I’d never have believed it,’ Dampier admitted. ‘Not without first seeing it in Cairo.’
‘It takes all sorts.’ Clutterbuck’s face was cunning. ‘Scarlatti’s got a ’ut full of stuff he’s nicking and ’e’s fitted a bloody great padlock on the door. But what ’e don’t know is that I’ve got the same padlock on my door. Anything you want,’ he encouraged in fatherly tones, ‘just ask for.’
To Dampier it sometimes seemed that, while the governments of Europe were beggaring their countries to provide for their troops, those same troops were busy robbing them hand over fist.
