‘No, no, no!’ Rosalba pounded on his chest with her fists. ‘This is not Teresa. This is my man. I love him.’
Barbieri studied the Italian sergeant’s jacket Caccia was wearing and the Italian forage cap he clutched in his nervous hands. ‘Why him?’ he said contemptuously. ‘Why don’t you pick yourself someone with a good future.’
‘He has a future! Mamma mia, what a future!’
‘An Italian soldier?’ Barbieri made a spitting movement with his mouth. ‘Italian soldiers have no future. If they’re not starved to death or killed by the stupidity of the Duce, they’re starved to death or killed by the stupidity of their generals. In the last war they dressed us in puttees to which the mud clung so that we marched about with two great balls of clay at the ends of our legs. Italian soldiers never have a future. You should pick yourself a German.’
Rosalba made a spitting gesture. ‘You think they have a future? With that monster Hitler?’
‘At least they wear good boots.’
‘They will be beaten by the Anglish.’
‘All right then!’ Barbieri gestured wildly. ‘Why not an English? Your cousin Cecilia found an English, and nowadays she has a big house in the country and a Rolls-Royce.’
Max Donatello’s family, Caccia decided, had either suddenly started doing well or Cecilia Neri had been spinning some tall yarns.
‘There is much money in—’ Barbieri stopped dead and slapped his forehead. ‘Why are we speaking in English?’ Rosalba made a sweeping gesture at Caccia. ‘Because Arturo is my innamorato. My lover.’
‘So what has that to do with speaking English?’
‘Arturo is Anglish.’
Barbieri’s jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. ‘English? He’s an English?’
‘Part of the Great Distance Desert Gruppo.’
Barbieri’s head was swinging from right to left in alarm, his eyes staring, as if police were pouring in at every door and window. ‘Mamma mia,’ he wailed. ‘Get him out of here! They’ll find out! They’ll shoot me! They’ll shoot you! Him, too, I expect! If the Germans find out, they’ll send the Gestapo to tear out our fingernails.’
‘Shut up, uncle,’ Rosalba said coldly. ‘He’s going soon.’
‘Tell him not to come back.’
‘Arturo will come back. He speaks perfect Italian. He is Italian. Well – Anglish-Italian. His family are very wealthy. They have the big food store in London. They have many lorries to carry the food about the city. They deliver to all parts of the country. They are never without food. Not even in wartime. They drink wine – good Italian wine – with every meal.’
Barbieri calmed down abruptly. ‘They do?’
‘Arturo is the only son. He will inherit all. Think of it, uncle: a vast store. A fleet of lorries.’
‘Mamma mia!’
Barbieri swallowed, then slowly he began to smile. ‘Perhaps it will be all right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, if we’re careful and say nothing, nobody will find out.’ He paused, scratching at his beard. ‘Perhaps we should celebrate. Have we not another bottle of that white Sicilian wine somewhere?’
‘It’s gone. Arturo drank it.’
Barbieri gave Caccia a sour look, but it only lasted a second. ‘No matter. When I went to Derna I brought back some more Castelli Romani. And why not make us some spaghetti? I think we should celebrate.’
Part Three
Chapter 1
When Caccia slipped back into camp the following morning, he was looking worried. After a while, he sought out Clegg, who was sitting on a toolbox drinking a dixie of coffee with Company Sergeant Major Fee. The Australian was recovering rapidly and even beginning, like the rest of them, to enjoy the situation in which they found themselves.
‘Cleggy,’ Caccia said. ‘I want to see the Old Man.’
Clegg looked up. ‘Fancy a spot of leave then?’
‘I want to see the Old Man,’ Caccia said stubbornly. Clegg put down the dixie. ‘What’s up? Something wrong? What you been up to? That girl you been seeing?’
‘I think I’d better see the Old Man.’
‘You sound like a gramophone record. Okay, go and see him.’
‘I’m trying to do it right,’ Caccia said indignantly. ‘You’re supposed to go through the sergeant, aren’t you? You’re a sergeant.’
Clegg grinned. ‘I hardly ever noticed it. That’s only so there was somebody to speak up for the Ratbags.’
‘Well, stop looking at me like I’m something hanging off your boot. Start speaking. For me.’
Clegg looked puzzled. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll go and see Morton.’
‘Not Morton. He’s not the Old Man.’
‘He behaves as if he was.’
‘I want to see the proper old man. Dampier. Morton’s just a corporal.’
Clegg eyed him, glanced at Fee, and began to head for the colonel’s tent. ‘All right, then: Dampier. I’ll go and see Rafferty. He’ll know what to do.’
Caccia looked gloomy. ‘I’ll bet he won’t know what to do this time,’ he said.
A little later, Rafferty strolled over to where Caccia was waiting. ‘There’s something on your mind, lad,’ he said. ‘Spit it out.’
‘I’ll talk to the CO, sir.’
‘I’m a warrant officer. I’m supposed to be here to save him work.’
‘Sir, Colonel Dampier hasn’t got any work to do. He hasn’t done any work since we came here. Because of his lumbago. I want to see him.’
Rafferty studied him warily. ‘All right, lad. Follow me.’
Reaching the tent where Dampier lived, Rafferty signed to Caccia to wait and disappeared inside. A moment or two later, his head appeared, gesturing to Caccia to step inside after him.
Dampier was sitting at a table, writing what looked like a report.
‘Well, Caccia,’ he said. ‘What’s the trouble?’
Caccia’s throat worked once or twice then he drew a deep breath and blurted out his request. ‘Sir, I want to get married.’
Dampier had been listening with only half his attention, his eyes still on the report he was writing. His lumbago was nagging at him again and, in addition, he had a feeling that he was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he finally managed to return to the British lines and he had been giving a lot of thought to his words. He looked up sharply.
‘You want what?’ he said, wincing
