‘You can always come back when we’ve won the war,’ Clegg said.
Caccia exploded. ‘In a thousand bloody years’ time,’ he snarled.
‘Is she that important?’ It hadn’t occurred to Clegg that she was.
‘I married her,’ Caccia yelled. ‘That’s important!’
Soon after daylight the Lancias they’d loaned to the LRDG arrived and drew to a stop alongside their own vehicles. The men in them, still dressed in German and Italian uniforms, had handed over Faiani and his men to one of their patrols and were now bubbling with excitement because they had since raided the airfield and claimed to have destroyed several Italian aircraft on the ground, together with a few of the lorries parked outside the fort.
‘The stupid bastards never learn,’ Sergeant Grady said. ‘The buggers weren’t even guarded. Because they were fifteen miles behind their lines they thought they were safe. What’s fifteen miles on wheels with us lot about?’
They had had two men slightly wounded but the raid seemed to have been a success. They had destroyed nine aircraft, several lorries and a petrol and ammunition store, and were only waiting to cap the feat with the kidnapping.
They took over Schwartzheiss but didn’t stay long to ask questions. It wasn’t their policy to remain in one place for long, but as they clambered into their vehicles Coffin studied the two halves of the map Rosalba had marked. ‘Jesus,’ he said, awed. ‘She’s got the lot!’
As they peered over his shoulder, he jabbed a finger at the marked arrows on the squared sheet. ‘Right along the inter-corps line, right between the Bologna Division and the Buckhardt Brigade. Seventh Armoured’s just to the south. If we move ’em up a bit, they’ll run smack into ’em. And that,’ he ended with satisfaction, ‘ought to stop the bastards laughing in church.’
He folded the sheet and stuffed it into his map case. ‘When we put this through, the whole of the Eighth Army’ll be waiting for the poor sods,’ he said with murderous cheerfulness. ‘It’ll be a massacre.’ He climbed into the passenger seat of his Chevrolet and nudged the driver. ‘Okay, George. Take her away and pile on the coal a bit. We’re in a hurry.’ He waved – to Morton, Dampier noticed bitterly, not to him. ‘We’ll be back here at four thirty to pick up your painter pal.’
The Italian units in and around Zuq were vanishing into the folds of the desert now. But the RAF was on the move, too, and there seemed to be aircraft over them all the time. Fortunately, the attacks were chiefly directed at the bigger groups of vehicles and none of them bothered with the few belonging to 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit.
Then, suddenly, the desert became silent. They all knew what it meant. The Italians were poised for their move forward. The minefield had been opened and their tanks were waiting. Behind them the infantry was ready, with all the support columns eager to follow them.
Clutterbuck had brushed Dampier’s uniform and Dampier was dressed as a British colonel again. His lumbago had improved a little, though it still troubled him; but, if there were to be any fighting, he was determined to be in it dressed as a British officer not as a bloody bottle-washer and errand runner in the Italian army, and had insisted on his proper seat in the Humber next to the driver. They were all anxious to revert to their proper identities, in fact, all save Caccia who sat on his own, still wearing the Italian sergeant’s jacket, his face stony and expressionless.
‘I think he must have thought more of her than we realized,’ Clegg murmured sympathetically.
As they wondered what to do, Dampier became aware of the Australian, Fee, standing beside him.
‘What about my cobbers?’ he was demanding. ‘There are over two hundred of ’em out there outside Sofi, waiting to be shipped to Italy. Aussie isn’t a heavily populated country and two hundred men will be missed.’
‘What had you in mind?’ Dampier asked politely.
‘Rescuin’ ’em.’
‘On your own?’
‘No. With you lot.’
‘Including you, there are eleven of us,’ Dampier pointed out patiently. ‘Eleven, that’s all. And that includes Caccia, who isn’t feeling much like a hero at this moment; Micklethwaite, who’s a civilian; three other men belonging to a concert party, who aren’t trained to fight; Signor Barbieri, who’s a bar owner and belongs to the other side, anyway; Corporal Clinch, Clutterbuck, myself and Mr Rafferty. Out of that lot, only you, me and Mr Rafferty appear to be trained fighting men, and Mr Rafferty and I have been relegated to picking the nits out of army equipment because we’re considered too old to go into battle.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ Fee seemed surprised. ‘Can’t nothing be done?’
Dampier frowned. Fee seemed to fit in very well with the rest of his little group and was as chary at calling him ‘sir’ as everybody else. He was beginning to think, in fact, that, apart from Rafferty, the only one who showed him any respect was the man he’d arrested, Clutterbuck.
‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘that I’ve been bending my mind to the possibility. I joined the army to fight the Germans and I don’t consider picking up fiddlers and deserters a soldier’s job. We shall do our best to release your friends. Would you be prepared to go back into that camp?’
Fee’s face fell. ‘Jesus, I only just got out.’
‘It might make all the difference to your friends. We need to have them organized, not just swanning off in every direction imaginable. If we stick together, we ought to be able to expect the Eighth Army to be looking out for us. Of course, it may not work, and we’re pinning our faith chiefly in the fact that the gentlemen of the Long Range Desert Group have passed on the details of that map of ours to British headquarters so that the Italians will be defeated and
