Rafferty smiled. ‘You never know, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘They might recommend you for promotion.’
Chapter 2
As it happened, it turned out to be more difficult than they’d imagined, and a series of unexpected events rather changed their plans.
Morton returned from an interview with a subdued and an at first none-too-willing Scarlatti – with lunch all the same, however, of pasta, parma ham and lacrimae Christi – to say that the second Italian push was due to start on Thursday. Unable to forget that Morton now apparently commanded a unit whose equipment was almost totally his, Scarlatti had been inclined to be wary but had finally been won round by promises of a helping hand for his family’s business after the end of the war – or even before – and a strong hint that the equipment he assumed had come illicitly from his dump had in fact come illicitly from the dump run by his old enemy Colonel Ancillotti, in Derna.
‘And there was no air raid on at the time it disappeared,’ Morton pointed out cheerfully. ‘He’s going to have a lot of explaining to do.’
He was surprised how delighted Scarlatti was at the news. The idea of one in the eye for his old enemy pleased him enormously, and after that it took only a brandy or two before he unwittingly confirmed the date they’d picked up.
He made no bones about his doubts, nevertheless. ‘The Duce,’ he said lugubriously, ‘fixes dates, postpones them and abandons them, then picks them up again as if he had a smoothly working military machine, which we all know it isn’t. Last time we came to a standstill because there was a shortage of shells and our so-called armoured divisions consisted of nothing more than a regiment of Bersaglieri, a regiment of artillery and three battalions of sardine tins on wheels.’
‘At least, sir,’ Rafferty pointed out as he listened to Morton’s report, ‘it proves the girl can be trusted. What about the other feller? Faiani? What did he have to say?’
‘Nothing,’ Morton said. ‘He hardly said a word. He’s given up, I think.’
‘And when do we get the other half of the map?’ Dampier asked.
‘After the wedding,’ Morton announced. ‘I’ve seen the girl.’ He smiled. ‘She wants to marry Caccia. In fact, I’d say she was determined to marry Caccia. But Scarlatti’s turned up trumps and offered to take her into his dump and let her choose a dress from some he’s got there. They were about the only things that weren’t pinched or destroyed during the raid. Some of them are rather splendid, I gather. Belonged to mistresses of various senior Italian officers who got snatched up in our push last year. Nobody’s ever claimed them so he says she can have one as a wedding present. He’s also offered a bottle or two of champagne for the reception.’
Dampier’s eyebrows shot up. ‘They’re having a reception? Who’re the guests, for God’s sake? Hitler? Mussolini?’
They were still discussing the arrangements when Clegg stuck his head through the tent door.
‘Sir. Trouble. There’s a car on the way. I think it’s that German general again.’
Morton shouted for Caccia and headed out of the tent. The car came down the hill trailing a cloud of yellow dust. As it stopped Morton saluted, briskly at attention.
Erwin’s smile was friendly as he climbed out. ‘So, tenente,’ he said. ‘We meet again. We thought we’d lost you. We hadn’t seen you in your usual place in the town.’
‘Instructions to move into the desert,’ Morton said smoothly. ‘To be nearer the troops. What can I do for your excellency?’
Erwin gestured. ‘You might call it a favour. As you doubtless know, we shall be on the move again on Thursday.’
Morton nodded, noting that Erwin was also unwittingly confirming what Caccia’s girl had said.
‘I feel like a last little celebration,’ Erwin went on. ‘When we spotted you just now, the idea occurred to me. I’ve enjoyed our stay near Zuq. It’s been what might be called a touch of civilization after the desert, and Captain Stracka and myself are intending to do a last little bit of painting at the end of the wadi before we leave. Obergefreiter Bomberg has undertaken to make it worthwhile and has acquired wine and a few extra rations. A cold collation eaten as we paint. Perhaps you’ll join us for a drink before we start?’
‘I’d be delighted, excellency.’
‘One final thing.’ Erwin smiled. ‘Our gramophone’s given up the ghost. Sand in the works. It gets everywhere, as I’m sure you’ve discovered. Aeroplane engines. Tank turrets. Gramophone motors. Mozart begins to sound like a cat with its head caught in a set of railings. Then Stracka had an idea: your splendid singer. Could you arrange for him to sing for us?’
Morton’s knees went weak. He could just imagine Jones the Song serenading a German general. If anything would bring on one of his headaches, that would.
‘We have a gramophone, excellency,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Perhaps we could lend it to you.’
Erwin waved a hand. ‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘Portable gramophones are no good anyway. They always sound tinny and I expect yours is no better than ours. We’d prefer your singer.’
Great God in the Mountains, Morton thought. Aloud, he said, ‘He doesn’t sing in German, excellency. He’s not a professional. Just an Italian who has a voice.’
‘Then let him sing in Italian. Surely there are Neapolitan songs that he knows. Stracka and I want only to be entertained for a while before we disappear into the desert again. This time we either reach Cairo or else we get nowhere and I suspect it might go on for a long time.’
‘Wouldn’t the general be happier with a German orchestra?’
Erwin eyed him quizzically, then he gestured. ‘I know German orchestras,’ he said flatly. ‘Fiddles, drums, piano accordions, guitars and clarinets. Everything they play sounds like a victory march. Around 6.00 p.m. tomorrow then,’ he went on firmly. ‘We’ll arrive around
