by John Harris
‘Oh, Jesus!’
As Gooch spoke, there was a tremendous roar and a flash that lit up the pass. They saw the camel smash down, legs asprawl, then the pass was full of clouds of dust and billowing brown smoke.
For a moment they stared, then they became aware of soft plops and clicks around them and realized that they were being bombarded by falling stones thrown up by the explosion. Flattening themselves against the ground, their arms over their heads, they waited until it had subsided, then they rose, covered with dust, and began to scramble down the slope again.
The camel was on its side, blood coming from its nostrils. The rider was huddled by its side.
‘The bugger’s dead,’ Gooch said.
But the rider stirred. A shaking hand pushed a pair of steel-rimmed, dust-covered spectacles straight, then the figure was on its feet, its face contorted with rage. Immediately their jaws dropped. The topee and the blanket had been snatched away by the blast and the shirt beneath had been blown open to the waist. And what they could see underneath clearly didn’t belong to a man. It was a woman, tall, slender as a sapling, her skin covered with sandy dust, her dark hair, blown into a mop by the blast, looking as if it had had an electric shock.
‘Who in the name of Christ,’ Harkaway said, ‘are you?’
Seven
The woman was tempestuously angry, unable to get her words out in her fury.
‘Those wretched Italians,’ she managed at last. ‘Catholics every one of them! Slaves to the credo of Rome! Speaking peace even as they make war!’
Clearly she regarded them not as her attackers but as her saviours and was venting her spleen on the invaders as the sole cause of her disaster and discomfort.
‘My camel’s dead,’ she raged on, her hands busy wiping the lenses of her glasses. ‘And everything’s ruined! I hadn’t much, Heaven knows! And look at me! Look what they’ve done to me!’
She was still dazed and seemed unaware of what had happened to her clothes and they were indeed looking at her, and, now that it was clear she wasn’t much harmed, were thoroughly enjoying the sight.
‘Look, ma’am,’ Tully said, ‘what in the name of Christ are you doing here? There’s a war on, didn’t you know?’
She became aware at last of their stares and that her blouse was flapping open. Hurriedly she drew it together and stood with her hands across her breasts holding it in place. Her hair, covered with dust, still stood out like a mophead round her face.
She gazed at them for a moment as it suddenly dawned on her that there was something a little odd about meeting three English-speaking men dressed as Arabs in the middle of Italian-occupied territory.
‘Who are–?’
Harkaway waved her to silence. His mind was still occupied with the reason for their being there. He had been standing with his head cocked as they talked and now he gestured abruptly. ‘Listen!’
They stopped arguing at once and immediately became aware of the grind of gears as a heavy vehicle slogged slowly up the slope in the dusk towards them. There were only two men in it, an African askari driver with an Italian soldier as guard and they were both eager to be in Bidiyu. Like many of the Italian vehicles, their lorry was past its best. It had been among those which had been driven into Abyssinia in 1936 and since then four hundred thousand kilometres had appeared on its clock. Because they were cut off from home by Egypt, however, there had been little chance since war had been declared of its being replaced and since Taranto there was none at all, and it was held together by wire while the Italian mechanics in Jijiga daily performed miracles on its ancient engine to keep it going. When it had failed to start, they had left behind schedule, the last vehicle on the road, and the corporal was anxious to be where it was safe before darkness.
As it approached, Harkaway grabbed at the woman and began to drag her among the rocks. Imagining he was about to assault her, she began to scream. Harkaway clutched her close to him and as he forced her down out of sight, clapped a heavy hand over her mouth, so tight it made her cheeks bulge.
The approaching lorry had its headlights on and they could see the light playing on the stony verges as it swung round the corners.
The woman in Harkaway’s arms was still struggling. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Will you be quiet if I let you go?’
She nodded and he took his hand from her mouth.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘Never mind who we are.’
She made no attempt to move and Harkaway realized he was still clutching her to him. In her state of semi-nudity, it was far from unpleasant and he made no attempt to release her.
‘Who’s in that lorry?’ she whispered.
‘Italians.’
‘How many?’
‘Two, we hope.’
The lorry was drawing near now and as it laboured round the last corner, Harkaway became aware that there was a second vehicle behind it, its headlights throwing it into silhouette.
His voice was touched with alarm. ‘There are two of the buggers!’
They raised their heads a fraction.
‘It must be Kom-Kom,’ Tully said. ‘Come to pick up the loot.’
‘He’s not that daft,’ Harkaway snapped. ‘He’d never follow that close behind. It must be one of theirs.’
‘The one behind’s a car,’ Gooch pointed out.
‘With two swaddies in it,’ Tully said. ‘One of ’em’s got what looks like a Tommy gun.’
‘We can’t tackle four of ’em!’ Gooch sounded alarmed. There are only three of us.’
‘Four,’ the woman said.
‘Kom-Kom’s a mile away.’
‘I don’t mean this Kom-Kom, whoever he is. I mean me.’
They turned to look at her. Then Harkaway shook his head. ‘We’ve only got three rifles.’
‘I have a pistol,’ she reminded him. ‘If you recall, I used it to shoot at you. It’s not very big but it works.’
They stared at her for a moment, then back down the slope. The lorry and the following car were drawing closer.
‘Can you use it?’
‘Of course I can.’
‘You didn’t hit any of us.’
‘That’s because the camel was moving.’
‘Would you use it?’
‘I once shot an Abyssinian in the leg when he tried to rape me.’
Harkaway studied her for a second. ‘Okay,’ he said briskly. ‘Tully, you and Thingy here take the car. Gooch and I’ll take the lorry.’ He glanced at the woman. ‘Stick your pistol up the driver’s nostril, and tell him not to move. That’s all you have to do.’
The lorry was almost on top of them now and as its headlights fell on the mass of rocks and earth blocking the road ahead, they heard the squeak of brakes as it slowed to a stop. The Italian soldier alongside the driver opened the door of the cab and stood with his foot on the step, studying the rocks.
‘Una frana,’ he said.
‘What’s he say?’ Tully whispered anxiously.
‘He says it’s a landslide,’ the woman said.
Harkaway’s head turned. ‘Can you speak Italian?’ he asked.
‘I’ve had to live with them.’
As they waited, the car drew up behind the lorry.
‘Che chosa videte?’
‘What’s that?’
‘He asking him what he can see.’
The corporal in the car made no attempt to climb out, and there was a little shouting back and forth between the two men. After a while the corporal decided to investigate himself and began to open the car door. It was time to move.
Harkaway looked at the woman. ‘You sure we can rely on you?’ he asked.
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Right. Here we go.’
As the Italian from the lorry moved towards the pile of rock and shale, Gooch appeared at the driver’s open window. As the rifle appeared out of the darkness and jabbed at his throat, the askari turned his head, saw the pale face in the moonlight and froze, h
is eyes rolling. The corporal had got one leg out of the car when he felt the cold muzzle of Tully’s rifle on his temple.
‘One move, you Eyetie bastard,’ Tully said, ‘and I’ll blow your sodding head off.’
The Italian didn’t speak English but he fully understood what was being said. He rolled his eyes to see whether the driver could help, but he was already raising his hands from the wheel and the corporal saw a white-clad figure beyond him at the other side of the car, holding a pistol at the driver’s temple.
Unaware of what was going on, the Italian from the lorry was studying the rock-face. He was still studying it as Harkaway appeared behind him and jabbed him in the ribs with his rifle. ‘Mani in alto,’ he said.
The Italian stiffened, then slowly lifted his hands. Harkaway took away his rifle and gestured to him to march back to the lorry.
As he did so, he said something in Italian and Harkaway turned to the woman. ‘What’s he say?’
‘He says you’ve bitten off more than you can chew,’ she explained. ‘Because he can see another of their lorries coming up behind us.’
Harkaway smiled. ‘Tell him that’s what he thinks. It’s one of ours. It’s Kom-Kom with the Bedford to collect the petrol.’
As the truck appeared, Grobelaar beat a hearty tattoo on the horn, then climbed out, grinning. As he did so, he saw the woman in the headlights and stopped dead.
‘Who’s this?’ he demanded.
‘We’ve just bumped into her.’
‘How?’
‘We blew her up,’ Harkaway said quietly.
The woman turned. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked in return.
‘Grobelaar. Piet Grobelaar. South African. Known as Kom-Kom.’ Harkaway gestured at the Italians and the African driver. ‘Look, we haven’t got all bloody night to get introduced. We’ve got to transfer this petrol to our lorry.’
‘Why don’t we just take the lorry, jong?’ Grobelaar suggested.
Harkaway smiled. ‘Makes sense,’ he agreed.
‘Why not take the car as well?’ Tully said. ‘We’ve got enough petrol now to last us months.’
‘Who’s going to drive it?’ Harkaway asked.
Tully looked at Gooch and Gooch looked at Tully. Neither could drive.
‘I can drive,’ the woman said.
‘An Italian Lancia?’
‘We had a Lancia where I worked.’
‘Okay,’ Harkaway said. ‘Get in and turn it round.’
By reversing into the space where they’d left the camels, they faced the vehicles in the other direction. Harkaway beamed at the woman. ‘That was nicely done,’ he said. ‘Who are you, anyway?’
‘Bronwen Ortton-Daniells.’
‘Mrs?’
‘Miss. I was sent out to Africa by LFM.’
‘Who’s El Effem,’ Gooch asked.
‘It’s not a who,’ she snapped. ‘It’s an it. The London Foreign Mission. They sent me.’
‘Why?’
‘To preach the word of the Lord Jesus Christ. To teach them Christianity.’
‘But all the buggers round here are Moslems!’
‘They aren’t Moslems in Abyssinia,’ she pointed out. ‘They’re Coptic Christians. That’s where I was sent.’
‘You a missionary?’
‘I’m a mission worker. When the Italians came we moved into British Somaliland, but the British government doesn’t like missionaries and in the end we moved into French Somaliland. The French at least go to church.’
‘What are you doing here, then?’
‘Haven’t the French thrown in their lot with the Germans? I couldn’t live with cowardice. I set off for British Somaliland. I’ve been a long time on the way. I had to be careful. I hoped to reach Berbera.’
‘Bit late for that, miss,’ Tully said. ‘Everybody’s gone to Aden.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We’ve got a wireless.’
‘Where?’
Harkaway’s arm moved vaguely. ‘Up in the hills.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Soldiers, miss,’ Tully said. ‘I’m Paddy Tully, Private, Royal Signals. That’s Private Gooch, Ordnance Corps. Armourer by trade. That’s Corporal Harkaway. Squire Harkaway. Engineers. All on attachment to the King’s African Rifles. We got cut off.’
There was a long silence as she studied them. ‘What do you intend to do?’ she asked. ‘Head south for Kenya?’
‘Eventually,’ Harkaway said.
‘But how have you managed to live, surrounded by Italians?’
They looked at each other, wondering how they might explain to someone devoted to the promotion of peace that they’d been selling arms to the natives who, unfortunately, had been using them to shoot each other.
‘We managed,’ Harkaway said.
‘How about food?’
‘Bought a bit. Shot a bit. We’ve got guns.’ Harkaway indicated the weapons they’d taken from the Italians. ‘Now, it seems we have four more.’ His eyes were gleaming. ‘And since we’re at it,’ he went on, ‘we might as well have their uniforms, too. They might come in useful. We’ve been wondering if we couldn’t stir up the natives against the Italians a bit.’
Gooch and Tully nodded hurriedly. Trust Harkaway to think of something that sounded honest and patriotic.
For a moment she stood in silence as the embarrassed Italians stripped to their underwear then, as Harkaway threw their uniforms into the back of Grobelaar’s truck, she turned to them and flung her arms wide in a dramatic gesture.
‘I shall join you!’ she said.
Harkaway turned. ‘Doing what?’
‘Resisting the Italians. The Church was never militant enough against the wicked!’
Gooch and Tully eyed each other. This was an unexpected bonus. Despite her spectacles, Bronwen Ortton-Daniells was a good-looking woman – early thirties, straight back, good before, good behind – and it crossed Tully’s mind that even missionaries could probably have a change of heart about things like morals – especially when faced with a fine military presence like that of P Tully, Esquire.
‘What are you, miss?’ he asked warily.
‘I’m Methodist,’ she informed them proudly. ‘What are you?’
A Liverpool Irishman by birth, Tully was Catholic by upbringing, but since he’d joined the army it had never meant much and at the moment it seemed wiser to keep it dark.
‘I’m a Baptist,’ he said stoutly, hoping his Catholic God wouldn’t strike him dead on the spot for his lies.
The woman gestured. ‘There’s little difference,’ she conceded. ‘I think we should offer up a prayer of thanks for our safe delivery and for help in our project.’
Gooch and Tully would have let her get on with it but Harkaway, who’d been watching them with his sardonic smile, interrupted. ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ he said briskly. ‘The middle of a bloody battle’s no time to be getting down on our knees. Save it till we’re well away from here!’
For a moment, she looked at him in the gathering darkness, tall, lean, good-looking with his red hair and foxy face. At first it seemed she was about to protest but in the end she meekly acquiesced.
‘Of course,’ she said, equally briskly. ‘We must get away.’
They found her baggage beside the dead camel and from it, she fished out an old cardigan, which she slipped on and buttoned firmly to hold her blouse in place, then she dragged out a comb and started work on the dusty mop round her face.
‘I shall need to wash my hair,’ she said.
‘Not here,’ Harkaway pointed out.
‘I don’t intend to wash it here,’ she retorted sharply. ‘Merely to comb it.’
‘Save it,’ he said. ‘For all we know, the Italians have already heard what’s happened and we ought to be on our way.’
She was on the point of objecting again but, in the end, she stuffed away the comb and was about to pick up her baggage when Tully picked it up for her. Neither he nor Gooch had any intention of riding with Harka
way in the Italians’ lorry or with Grobelaar in the Bedford. In fact, Gooch was already sitting in the front of the Lancia alongside the woman and Tully gave him a dirty look, tossed the woman’s baggage in the back then climbed aboard himself and put his head close to the woman’s.
‘Okay, miss,’ he said.
As the convoy began to move off, Grobelaar leading, Tully looked back to where the Italians and the askari were still standing disconsolately at the side of the road. He indicated the direction towards the north-west.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Hop it, you lot.’
Eight
The news that the Strada del Duce was blocked arrived at General Guidotti’s headquarters in Bidiyu the following morning. He was on the veranda drinking his coffee when a car came tearing into the town, trailing a cloud of dust, and pulled up at the gendarmerie he had set up. A man jumped out and ran inside.
Guidotti sat up, interested, wondering what could have caused such urgency. There had been no sign even of British aeroplanes for several days now. He fingered a signal he’d received from Rome in answer to the one he’d sent informing Mussolini of the naming of the road from Jijiga to Bidiyu in his honour. It offered congratulations and ended with the usual virile fascist greeting. ‘The nation’s strength comes from its brave men.’ It pleased Guidotti and he began to wonder when he might expect promotion.
As he daydreamed, a figure detached itself from the gendarmerie and started to hurry across the sandy square. It was Major Di Sanctis and Guidotti sat more upright, wondering again what had happened. Di Sanctis was a good officer, if inclined to peacock a little. He had an Ethiopian mistress who’d been with him ever since 1938, Guidotti knew, and he’d contrived to bring her to Bidiyu. It was against regulations, he supposed, but since senior officers did it, Guidotti had no intention of stopping Di Sanctis, especially since she was decorative enough to be a pleasure to see.
As he watched, Colonel Piccio appeared from his billet, on his way to take coffee with the general as was his habit. He was spotted at once by the hurrying Di Sanctis and Guidotti saw them confer. Then Piccio began to hurry towards him, struggling to keep his dignity as he tried hard not to run.