The airfield buildings were intact, even if the aircraft were not. The Italian pilots had lived in comfort with dressing tables, all equipped with wing mirrors and scent sprays, but the baths, like most Italian baths, didn’t work and Arab looters had got in and electric lighting, heating and water fittings had all been smashed.
The following morning, with the fighting over, the civilian population streamed back into Zuq in a strung-out caravan; and Avvocato Carloni, the mayor, arrived with the Roman Catholic priest and three police officers, anxious to surrender the town, every military establishment, the Italian, Arab and Greek population, and anything the captors chose to regard as theirs. Those parts of the Italian army that hadn’t fled were prisoners so they hadn’t much choice. With them came the local Arab chief, smiling broadly and anxious to do his bit, with tribal banners flying and drums beating, trailing behind him a sheepish crowd of Italian carabinieri.
Leaning heavily on a silver-topped walking stick Clutterbuck had found for him in one of the looted houses, Dampier accepted the surrender with an old-world courtesy. He wasted no sympathy but he was not harsh, and it occurred to Clegg that out of them all only he could have done it properly. As he stepped back, there was a flutter of clapping from a small crowd that had gathered and he issued orders that were to last until the British army came up and appointed someone in his place. Morton translated his speech as he reappointed the mayor and all the civil officers, ordered them to make sure the shops and businesses were reopened and instructed the civil guard to act with British troops.
Micklethwaite, who had found a German camera in one of the houses, tried to set the surrender down on film for posterity and as proof of the story he hoped to write, only to discover when it was half finished that the camera had a broken shutter. By the time he’d found another one it was over and people were saluting all the British and Australians they saw, no matter what their rank. A shopkeeper took down his shutters and, as others followed suit, the town was in motion again.
As Dampier set up his headquarters in the Palazzo Municipale, on the table was a form filled with the message that Brigadier Marziale had sent to Rome before bolting for Derna: Duce, we are in extremis. Long live Italy. Long live the King Emperor. Long live the Duce. Rome, I embrace you.
As Morton translated, Dampier sniffed. ‘You don’t win wars on such stuff as that,’ he said.
The first of the pursuing British arrived the following morning. Clegg was standing with Morton as the first tank roared up the street, its exhaust echoing hollowly against the white walls. As it approached, it stopped and the hatch opened, and the head and shoulders of a lieutenant who looked about sixteen popped up.
‘All right, you lot,’ he said. ‘Mani in alto!’
Clegg looked at Morton and laughed. Captured by their own bloody side after all they’d been through!
‘With respect, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Get stuffed.’
The officer looked puzzled. ‘Who are you lot?’
‘British soldiers. We captured the town for you. You can have it now. We don’t want it any more.’
During the day, more units arrived, their trucks full of looted wine, chocolate and tins of fruit from Italian officers’ messes, a lot of it captured from their own army not very long before. They even had china plates and silver cutlery, many had new watches, binoculars, automatics and cameras, and half of them flew captured flags from their aerials. Aware of his official position, Dampier made an attempt to persuade them to hand everything over but, still aggressive and cocksure after their victory, their response was such that he wisely decided to forget it.
With the town safe, however, he insisted on gathering all of 64 Light Vehicle Repair Unit together and making them a little speech. It was faintly pompous, like most of his utterances, but he surprised them all by saying how much he appreciated what they’d done.
‘Splendid chaps,’ he said, trying to avoid looking at Clutterbuck and Jones the Song as he spoke. ‘All of you. Now I suggest that you go and celebrate – if you can find anywhere open and they’ve got anything to drink.’
Feeling a tremendous warrior and mentally retracting a lot of the things he’d thought about Dampier over the past days, Clegg headed for the Bar Barbieri. Barbieri seemed suddenly to be doing very well and the bar, full of Australians, for once seemed well stocked.
‘From the Italian officers’ messes,’ Barbieri announced. ‘Il Signore Clutterbuck. What a man that is!’
Caccia was helping behind the bar, and Rosalba, radiant in the yellow dress in which she’d been married, was darting about between the tables, dodging the grabbing hands of the grinning Australians.
McBean was there, surrounded by bottles, and he shouted across to Clegg. ‘Come and sit down, mate,’ he yelled. ‘The booze’s on me.’
Clegg took it all in. This was more his cup of tea than fighting, he decided. He put a coin in the music box and to his surprise the music that came out was Gene Autry singing ‘South of the Border’. It made him feel at home.
He smiled. He’d had enough of war and wanted to get back to acting the goat on a stage, to making people laugh, telling them the old jokes – ‘What did the brassiere say to the hat? You go on ahead, I’ll give the other two a lift’ – singing the old comic songs he’d got away with for years – ‘Nobody loves a fairy when she’s forty’. As he came out, he saw Dampier walking with Rafferty just ahead, both of them smart and starched as a British colonel and his warrant officer should be. Still suffering a little from his lumbago, Dampier was limping badly. His age and the limp made Clegg suddenly
