‘Who says you’re not doing?’
Her eyes searched his face. ‘You mean that, Arturo? You mean you want to marry me?’
She wasn’t the first girl he’d promised and it cost him nothing to say he did.
She had backed away from him but now she allowed him to put his arms round her once more, and this time she raised no objection as his hand lifted her blouse. She giggled again, as if it had dawned on her that apart from the football shorts he was naked and she was only half clothed herself, then suddenly she threw all caution to the wind and flung herself at him, her lips fiercely seeking his.
As he clutched her, Caccia found himself thinking of Dampier’s instructions to remain in camp in case there was an air raid. Cocking his head, he listened. There was no sound outside. They weren’t coming tonight. It was going to be all right and he gave his full attention to the task in hand.
Rosalba also seemed to have thrown aside her doubts and was wrenching at the rest of her clothes.
‘È destino,’ she chirruped and, dragging at the football shorts, she pushed Caccia back on to the bed and yanked them over his feet with all the delight of a full-blooded girl who had been kept too long from men.
As he came up for air, Caccia was just savouring the situation when the siren went.
Sitting bolt upright, he stared at the ceiling. The blasted bombers had come after all! And he was supposed to be out at the camp of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit, ready to form a commando or something to blow up Scarlatti’s bloody refuelling depot! In spite of the letter he’d written to the AOC, the leader of the Eighth Army, the Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, and Churchill, the Desert Air Force was about to bomb Zuq after all, and he, Arthur Caccia, the great lover, the Napoleon of North Africa, was in the wrong bloody place!
He was still staring at the ceiling as if he could see through it and pick up the approaching aeroplanes when Rosalba clutched him.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Per me è lo stesso. I don’t care.’
Caccia fought free. ‘I do,’ he said.
Assuming that like most Italian soldiers he had been subject over the past months to the ministrations of the Royal Air Force and didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of a stick of bombs, she tried to reassure him. ‘They won’t come here,’ she said. ‘They only bomb the sunken ships in the harbour.’
As she made another grab at him, he backed away. ‘I’ve got to go!’ he yelled.
‘Codardo!’ she yelled back. ‘Coward! It’s because you’re afraid!’
‘No, it’s not! It’s duty! I’m supposed to be in camp when there’s an air raid. If they find I’m not—’ Caccia stopped, wondering what Dampier would do if he found out where he was. He could hardly confine him to camp, but perhaps he could have him flogged or staked out over an ant heap or something. Caccia was uncertain on the subject. As he grabbed for the football shorts, Rosalba stared at him furiously.
‘You’re going to leave me to be bombed on my own!’ she said. ‘I tell you, you’re quite safe here!’
But, even as she spoke, she became aware of a whistling sound that grew in intensity to a shriek.
‘Mamma mia!’ she screamed, leaping at Caccia; as he clutched her in his arms, they fell backwards on to the bed. There was a tremendous crash outside that rattled the shutters, then the banging of an anti-aircraft battery. Voices sounded in the street and Barbieri’s voice came up the stairs.
‘Rosalba! Are you all right?’
‘We’re all right, uncle. Teresa’s scared but we’re all right.’
The blast had put out the lamp but there were lights flashing in the street as people with torches moved about. Caccia heaved at the football shorts.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘If I’m missed, they’ll murder me!’
He dived frantically for the door but Barbieri was still at the bottom of the stairs and he drew back in panic.
‘Through the window!’ Rosalba had forgotten her complaints in her desire to help. ‘It’s not a long drop!’
At the camp of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit, the bombs had brought them out at once. Wincing against his lumbago, even Dampier fought his way to the door of his tent.
‘It’s an air raid,’ he yelled. ‘They’ve come! Turn everybody out, Mr Rafferty!’
Snatching at Italian jackets and caps, they were just emerging from the tents when the Lancia came hurtling round the corner, with Clutterbuck yelling that their opportunity had come. Nobody noticed that Caccia had arrived with him and, scrambling aboard, they rocked over the ruts back on to the road with creaking springs and a lurch that threw them all in a heap. Clutching the box of percussion grenades, Micklethwaite slid across the steel floor of the rear of the truck to slam against the back of the driver’s cabin. ‘Do these things go off easily?’ he asked nervously.
As they disappeared, Dampier stared after them sourly. It was his idea, he thought bitterly, but he was the one who, because of his lumbago, had to be left behind to guard the camp. Without a single bloody Italian speaker, too, if the SS decided to pay them a visit!
As Clutterbuck had promised, there were only two guards, both Libyan conscripts, at the refuelling depot and they were both in a ditch with their heads well down. Their officer, his jacket buttoned in the wrong holes, was still trying to skirt the wreckage caused by a couple of bombs that had landed on his route across town. It took no more than a minute to cut the wire and scramble inside the compound. The din over the town was tremendous now, the crash of bombs mingling with the iron rumble of aeroplane engines. The flash of explosions lit the square flat-roofed houses, the
