by John Harris
‘Then you’d better not listen, my friend.’ Guidotti tapped the map. ‘Let’s think instead of this and its implications for us. How did it happen? Graziani had two hundred and fifty thousand men in Libya. Rome said so. And the Italian navy was well placed to control both the Mediterranean and the Red Sea.’
‘Unfortunately, Excellency,’ Di Sanctis put in, ‘since then there has been Taranto.’
‘But the British had no more than seventy-five thousand men for the whole of North and East Africa.’ Guidotti frowned. ‘Perhaps they just made them seem more. Perhaps too many of our people listened to the Duce’s promise that the war would soon be over without fighting and decided it wasn’t worth taking risks. Perhaps they hoped that if they did nothing the British would do nothing too.’
‘Though we call the Mediterranean our sea,’ Di Sanctis said slowly, as if he couldn’t believe his own words, ‘a large part of it has always remained their sea.’
Guidotti gestured. ‘My brother writes to me from Bardia–’ he paused, remembering that Bardia had been swept with Derna and Tobruk and a few other places into the British net and that there would not be very many more letters from there, ‘–he wrote that they managed to make one man look like a dozen, one tank look like a squadron, one raid look like an advance. In war, you have as many men as you can persuade your enemy you have. I think our country was psychologically unprepared for war.’
‘But Tobruk!’ Piccio’s arms flapped in a helpless gesture. ‘And now Bardia and Dernia! Excellency, it’s not possible. We were a hundred miles into Egypt. Now we’re fighting two hundred miles back in Libya.’
Guidotti frowned. Like Harkaway, he had a suspicion that the East African Empire Mussolini had so proudly proclaimed was before long going to be assailed from three sides. Weapons, men, munitions, petrol, transport and aircraft had been stockpiled because of what Mussolini had called a ‘total blockade’ of British possessions in Africa and the Mediterranean, and the idea was merely to await the relief that would be provided by a breakthrough via Egypt. The idea of cutting the British lines of communication with Egypt now seemed to have sunk with the ships at Taranto, however, and it seemed that the blockade was about to start working the other way. Moreover, never once since they’d crossed the frontier into British territory had the Italian forces been free of air raids. They had never been big but they’d nagged, and the number of Italian aircraft had dwindled with every day they’d appeared overhead. To Guidotti the air raids seemed to point to only one thing: the British intended to return and, now that they’d been relieved of the pressure in the Western Desert, their arrival seemed suddenly imminent.
The idea also seemed to have occurred to the natives. He’d heard revolt was stirring in southern Abyssinia. Circumstances there had always forced the maintenance of garrisons in the centres of populations and, since soldiers couldn’t be everywhere at once, the Duce’s writ ran only where his troops were massed and there had always been sniping and ambushes. It seemed there were bitter days ahead.
The bitter days Guidotti was expecting were already taking shape.
On the Kenya border, the British general in command was just winding up a staff conference. He’d not long returned from Cairo where he’d been meeting the C-in-C, Middle East, and the commander of the British forces in the Sudan. His men were still struggling to keep his aeroplanes flying against odds that Guidotti never realized. Working in the appalling heat, they were building new landing grounds, tearing down trees, filling up the holes of ant bears, burning the undergrowth, digging away the giant anthills, never with anything more than the miserable huddle of a native town as a headquarters.
As he pushed his papers aside, the general looked up at Colonel Charlton. ‘That’s it then, Charlie,’ he said. ‘They stir up rebellion in Abyssinia and retake Massala in February. They’ve got the 4th and 5th Indian Divisions. It isn’t much but the Italians can’t be feeling very happy now they’ve heard what’s happening in Libya. Their morale was never the best, anyway. We’re going to maintain pressure on Moyale and as soon as the rains are over, we advance on Kismayu and up the River Juba. We have the 1st South African Division and the 11th and 12th African Divisions. That also isn’t much, but it’s up to us to do the best we can.’
Colonel Charlton nodded, taking it all in quietly. ‘I think we shall manage, sir,’ he said.
‘Yes, I think we shall,’ the general agreed. ‘All the same, let’s not be unprepared. We shall need bearers, mules, and horses, together with drivers. I know it’s a mechanized war but you’d better put out feelers just in case. And if we can manage to start a local revolt, so much the better.’
The local revolt the general was hoping for was nearer than he realized.
Because, by a miracle, to the east of Bidiyu, Habr Odessi and Harari tribesmen were standing in lines, mixed together yet not attempting to knock each other’s heads in.
It had taken a lot of doing but they’d done it. It had required hours of talking by Danny Ortton-Daniells before Yussuf had been prepared even to put it to Abduruman, his chief. More hours of talking had followed with the promise of much loot before the chief had agreed to meet Chief Daoud of the Harari.
‘So far, so good,’ Harkaway had said. ‘Now we have to persuade Chief Daoud of the advantages of killing Italians instead of Habr Odessi. Can you do it, Danny?’
She studied him, her eyes gentle. ‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘I usually manage what I set out to do.’
He looked questioningly at her and she smiled. ‘I was brought up on a regime of porridge, bread and dripping and the sincere milk of the Word. The house was frugal both in food and affection, and I read the Bible under the superintendence of my father. But there were always fierce shafts of revelation from it to keep us warm and teach us that when we chose a goal we should set out to attain it.’
Harkaway studied her. She tried to meet his eyes but failed.
‘Bronwen isn’t a name that suits you,’ he said. ‘Know what it means?’
‘No.’
‘I had a Welsh aunt who was also called Bronwen. It means “white-breasted”.’
He smiled at her and rose, leaving her pink with embarrassment.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that,’ she said.
‘Why not? Would your milk-and-water preachers complain that it was lecherous?’ He looked at her, smiling. ‘Take your glasses off.’
She stared at him for a moment then, as her hand lifted to remove the spectacles, his smile widened.
‘I’ve seen all the films, you know. They always turn out to be beautiful. In fact, it usually makes no difference, but fiction’s nice and cosy, isn’t it?’
‘What about me? What category do I fall into?’
He smiled. ‘You look much better.’
‘I might look better,’ she said. ‘But I don’t see better.’
Nevertheless, she didn’t replace the spectacles. Suddenly, they seemed less important than they had and the extra effort to see things properly more than made up for the fact that Harkaway approved.
They started on Chief Daoud as soon as they could get him pinned down.
‘There will be loot,’ they explained. ‘Plenty of loot. There will be gold and silver. The Habr Odessi are not wealthy. They have no gold and silver and not many camels. The Italians are from Europe. They are different and when the Italians are all dead or defeated, the Habr Odessi will be powerful.’
‘Why must we fight the Italians?’ Daoud asked. ‘We have no quarrel with them.’
‘One day–’ Danny leaned forward ‘–this country will be yours. There will be nobody here. Neither Italians nor British.’ She wasn’t sure she was right in offering independence to an obscure chief with little influence outside his own area, but independence and freedom were heady words in anybody’s language and, even if the old man were indifferent, the young men who stood around were listening.
The talking went on all day and halfway into the night. It seemed impossible to the Harari that the
y could stand alongside the Habr Odessi in battle against a common enemy.
‘May we not perhaps kill just a few Odessi?’ Daoud asked.
‘Not one! The Italians and their soldiers are your enemies. Chief Abduruman of the Odessi has decided this.’
‘Then perhaps we should decide the opposite.’
‘Chief Abduruman sees wealth in the future. He sees Italian land becoming Odessi land.’
Daoud looked at his young men and tribal advisers. Someone whispered to him that if Abduruman were allowed to obtain too much of this Italian land it could be dangerous for the Harari.
‘Where do we get our guns?’ someone asked.
‘From the Italians. We have some guns already. But not enough. Just enough to kill Italians and take their guns. If we use our guns and our machine guns, we could kill fifty, a hundred, Italians. Then we shall have twice as many guns. These can then be turned on other Italians. Until we have many hundred guns.’
Daoud looked at Danny. ‘I am an old man,’ he said. ‘And I have seen many ramazans. I’m not sure I like this idea. But my young men see wealth in it for their sons. They see grazing land and Somalis in Berbera running their own country. I will meet Abduruman.’
The meeting was difficult. The two old chiefs appeared, the elders of their tribes behind them, tall men wearing robes of every shade and variety knotted at their waists, on their heads loose turbans of pink, white and blue. Behind them were their young men, and behind them in their turn their young women, lighter-skinned, soft-featured, enormous-eyed. At first the two chiefs behaved like dogs about to have a fight, bridling and sidling and dodging, their back hair on end. But their vanity and their greed finally told. Neither could bear the thought of the other being stronger or richer, neither could bear the thought of missing the spoils that were promised. Even stronger was their wish not to end up as a secondary tribe to the other. Each was determined that if anybody was going to benefit, it was not going to be their old enemies.
‘Comes back to what Churchill always used to say,’ Harkaway said as they sat back in a break in the talks and drank native tea spiced with herbs. ‘Balance of power. It works even here.’
The outcome of the talks was the line of Harari and Odessi. They no longer wore their robes like togas, but had wrapped them several times round their waists as loincloths, as they always did when they wanted their arms and chests free for work or fighting. Lean black bodies shone in the sun. A few tried to hold spears or the heavy-headed clubs they used for beating their enemies senseless, but with Danny’s assistance, Harkaway persuaded them to lay them aside and concentrate on the old Martini rifles.
They mixed them up well, first a Harari, then a Habr Odessi, then a Harari, then a Habr Odessi, on the understanding that any quarrel would be settled at once between two men and not be allowed to grow until the whole group joined in. With the rifles from the dump they managed to arm over two hundred.
‘We will learn to use the guns of the white man,’ Harkaway told them. ‘We will kill the Italians who have brought war to your country. We will take their clothes and their weapons and their vehicles. We will capture their silver and gold.’
‘Suppose,’ Chief Daoud asked from where he stood watching on the side surrounded by Harari elders, ‘suppose we fail?’
‘Suppose,’ Chief Abduruman asked from where he stood in the middle of a group of Habr Odessi elders, ‘that instead of us killing them, they kill us.’
‘They won’t,’ Harkaway explained, and Danny’s hands flew as she clattered into the dialect. ‘The art of war, as your warriors will tell you, is surprise. If they don’t expect us, they can’t win.’
The two chiefs were still doubtful but then, from the group of women who stood watching, arose a contemptuous crying sound. Others joined in and the group started swaying, first the Harari women then the Habr Odessi, slapping the flats of their hands against their mouths until their shrieks became a fierce ululation. The sound excited the young men. One of them leapt into the air and spun like a ballet dancer, his shock of hair flopping over his eyes.
‘Are you men or women?’ one of the women shrieked.
‘We are men!’
More young men started leaping into the air until the whole lot were prancing about, waving their rifles and shouting. It took a good half-hour to calm them down.
‘I reckon this is going to be a long job,’ Tully observed.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Harkaway said. ‘It hasn’t got to be. We haven’t time. Danny, go and tell those bloody women to keep their stupid traps shut. They’ve done their job and many thanks. Now it’s up to us.’
The women were led away and they began to train the troops. Harkaway got the men into a line again and village boys started to set up stones and bottles and cans. None of them were hit but a few of the younger men who were quicker to learn than the others managed, with the aid of Abdillahi, their first successful recruit, to throw up puffs of dust within a foot of their target.
‘A few more days, jong,’ Grobelaar said, ‘and they’ll be hitting ’em.’
The following day, one of the young Odessi hit the can he was aiming at. At least, they thought it was the can he was aiming at. It might have been the next in line but as the can jumped he threw down his rifle and leapt into the air, while a great shriek of joy came from the watching women.
Harkaway leapt forward. ‘Tell him to pick up that bloody rifle!’ he roared. ‘You don’t chuck a rifle down in the dust like that! You look after it! You cherish it! You wrap the breech in your robe! You keep the muzzle clear of dust and grit! Tell him that!’
As Danny spoke the women started wailing, and the young man’s proud grin died as he sheepishly picked up the rifle.
‘Now tell him to get down there and hit it again. And when he’s done it, to stay there quietly.’
The young man lay down again and with his third shot hit the can again, proving that even if the first shot had been a fluke, he was at least getting the hang of it. What was more, he remained where he was. His success even seemed to stir the others to try harder and by the end of the day they had six young men who could hit their target more or less at will.
‘Keep ’em at it,’ Harkaway said. ‘We’ve not only to get ’em to hit things, we’ve also got to stop ’em shooting when we tell ’em to. When we’ve got ’em shooting properly, we’ll teach ’em how to fire volleys.’
‘Volleys?’ Gooch stared. ‘Volley firing stopped in the bloody Boer War.’
‘Well, it’s going to start again,’ Harkaway said coolly. ‘Leave it to them, and they’ll work their way through every scrap of ammunition we possess in half an hour. Volley firing’ll preserve ammunition and in volley firing some of the targets always go down, so that every man who’s pulled a trigger can claim he was the one who hit it. He often isn’t but who’s to know? It’s good for morale. Besides, it’s discipline we want. March ’em up and down a bit. Drill’s good for the soul.’
Gooch was soon working at it, with the aid of Yussuf and Danny, marching a squad of young men up and down the dusty marketplace, halting them, about-turning them, making them mark time and stand still. For the active tribesmen, totally unused to discipline, it was difficult. They preferred to express their anger or their pleasure with wild leaps and yells but Gooch was managing to keep them quiet and making them stop and start when he told them to. They were hardly the Guards, and their halts were invariably on the wrong foot but he got them into a squad and marching in threes.
‘We’ll never get ’em wheeling into line proper,’ he pointed out as Harkaway appeared.
‘We’re not rehearsing the Trooping of the Colour,’ Harkaway said. ‘They’re guerrillas. So long as they can shoot straight. So long as they stay quiet when we tell ’em to. So long as they keep their heads down until we tell ’em to shove ’em up. So long as they hold their fire until we tell ’em to let go, and stop when we tell ’em to stop. That’ll be enough.’
By the end of the week, they had a
squad of twenty of the keenest and most intelligent men whom they considered they could safely use. They had been careful to pick ten from each tribe so there should be no jealousy and no grumbling, and their ages ranged from sixteen upwards, lean-faced men with skins of different hues and dusty hair, often daubed into ringlets with red mud. Their eyes were bright and their grins were wide and, while their line was never quite straight and they couldn’t march in step, they could use a rifle and they did as they were told. There was a lot of grumbling from those who hadn’t been chosen but Harkaway got Danny to explain that they’d be chosen when they were good enough, in the hope that it would encourage them to try harder.
By this time, Grobelaar had managed to teach Gooch and Tully to drive. With the British soldier’s wariness of being caught for something that wasn’t his job, neither of them had been keen.
‘Why do we have to?’ Tully asked. ‘I once tried and it didn’t work. I hit a tram.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Harkaway fumed. ‘There aren’t any bloody trams here! There’s nothing but desert. Hundreds of miles of it. And we might capture a lorry carrying a load of whisky and need someone to drive it.’
In the end Grobelaar had them both able to handle the Bedford, and, what was more surprising, four of the young tribesmen, too.
Their gear grinding was enough to make your hair stand on end and the chief problem was to stop them pounding along at full speed. Grobelaar had to explain that the desert floor was uneven, and that driving too fast could break a spring. Gradually it sank in and the day came when Grobelaar, driving the Lancia, led a convoy of two of what the Somalis called ‘Iron Camels’, at slow speed round Eil Dif, one driven by a Habr Odessi and one by a Harari.
The sight prompted the women to shriek and start dancing, and the young men began to leap and twist in the air in their delight and pride. The two drivers stopped as Grobelaar stopped – jerkily and uncertain, but they stopped – and climbed down to stand at attention alongside their vehicles, looking like a couple of black storks and grinning all over their faces.