Far from being unsympathetic, Dampier agreed to say nothing provided a few pairs of the X12s were turned over to him. They weren’t new and one or two were even damaged, but honour was satisfied.
‘Even if we haven’t caught many thieves,’ he observed to Rafferty as they headed for their vehicles, ‘we’ve surely frightened back a lot of stores.’
They had made a respectable start but dozens of vehicles were still missing. Hundreds had been torn apart to provide the spares the forward troops couldn’t get in any other way, but many more had crept into repair units which refused to admit having them because they were being used to convey sergeants to and from the mess.
‘They come under the heading of BLR, sir,’ Rafferty pointed out. ‘Beyond local repair. It’s a very useful label, especially when they’re not.’
Dampier sighed. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that we have to expect that, like laxative pills, we’re probably doing more good than we realize.’
At midday, they came to a group of tents and two fifteen-hundredweight trucks. Outside stood a painted sign: 38 Light Aid Duties, RASC. As the lorry stopped, a corporal appeared. Seeing Dampier’s rank, he saluted smartly and announced that the two men who worked with him were at that moment away.
They got down to business quickly and almost at once it occurred to Dampier that something fishy was going on. On the benches were two engines and the shiny surface of the metal of the casings indicated that the serial numbers had been filed off. To Dampier that meant only one thing – that they were there illicitly.
He had noticed that the corporal and the two missing men each had a tent to himself and that their beds were made from inner tubes stretched across the welded frames of old cars. Ammunition boxes stood alongside them for toilet sundries, mess tins were used for soap dishes, car-inspection lamps for reading in bed, and each man had a War Department padlock for securing his kitbag and a Tannoy for listening to the communal radio – kept in another tent nearby which looked as though it had been fitted out as a dining-cum-living room. There was a remarkable absence of oil, petrol, drills, lathes and tools.
‘You’re not very big,’ Dampier said.
‘No, sir.’ The corporal, a smooth-looking man with a Ronald Colman moustache, was all attention and military alertness. ‘At the moment there’s just the three of us. There was a sergeant and two privates but they was told to report back to base.’
‘Who’re you attached to for rations and so on?’
‘Base Depot, RASC.’
‘And the other two men?’
The corporal answered briskly. ‘At the parent unit, sir. Returnin’ a vehicle what belongs to the Royals. They’re also picking up petrol. We’re a bit low at the moment. I expect ’em back tomorrow.’
‘I’d better have your names.’
‘025, Corporal Clutterbuck, R., sir.’
‘Full number.’
Clutterbuck looked wary but he gave his full number, and those of the missing two men, whose names turned out to be Dow and Raye.
‘Dow, Raye an’ me,’ Clutterbuck said with a large smile that was designed to show willingness, open-heartedness and honesty. Dampier wasn’t deluded.
‘Where are your tools?’ he demanded.
‘’Ere, sir.’ Clutterbuck indicated an array of personal tools set out on a folding table which appeared to be doing duty as a workbench.
‘These are Italian tools,’ Dampier pointed out.
Clutterbuck was not put off. ‘Everybody’s got Italian tools, sir. They’re good. Italian screwcutters is the best there is.’
When Dampier asked to see the inventory, it appeared to have disappeared in the last move forward.
‘You know ’ow it is, sir,’ Corporal Clutterbuck said earnestly. ‘Things get lost.’
It didn’t satisfy Dampier but he continued to display the polite expression that was the stock-in-trade of all trained investigators when they sensed problems. ‘What about other stores?’ he asked.
Clutterbuck waved vaguely at a tent that turned out to be full of clothing, blankets, tyres and jerrycans of petrol, all of which, as Dampier well knew, were the currency of deserters.
He spoke quietly to Warrant Officer Rafferty. ‘What do you think?’
‘Sure, I’m thinkin’ they’re adrift, sorr,’ Rafferty said cheerfully. ‘Deserters. I bet they’ve been at this for months, movin’ about in the blue, pretendin’ to be a workshop and gettin’ petrol where they could.’
‘That’s what I think, too.’ Dampier turned to Clutterbuck. ‘What do you use to repair vehicles?’ he asked. ‘I see no drill, no lathe, no spare batteries, no oxyacetylene gear, no electric equipment.’
‘We don’t do electrics, sir.’
‘I’ll bet you don’t. You’re not a repair outfit at all. You’re deserters, aren’t you?’
Clutterbuck looked a little sick. ‘Well, we was attached to 71 Vehicle Repair Depot but they moved off and left us behind to check the stores. I think they forgot us and there we was.’
Dampier could well believe it. The desert was full of men who seemed to be attached to nothing and were responsible for nothing.
It didn’t take long to get the story clear. Dow and Raye, both corporals like Clutterbuck, had been deserters for a year now and had roped in Clutterbuck because he had picked up Arabic through working with mechanics at the Base Repair Depot. Following the usual practice, he had been given money by an Egyptian with the smiling assurance that it was to help the brave British soldier enjoy himself, and he had overstayed his leave until he had become classed as a deserter. Not fancying what might be coming to him, he had found himself being introduced to Dow and Raye, who said they could use him in their organization.
Finally disappearing with them into the Cairo underground, Clutterbuck had been away from the army now for four months, even accepting twenty pounds to drive a stolen
