by John Harris
‘I hope to Christ none of those silly sods in the post there decides to go for a walk,’ he said, his thoughts clearly no longer on her. ‘I don’t want them setting off the mines before the lorries come.’
Five
In Bidiyu General Guidotti was aware of the unpleasant sensation of his world falling apart about his ears. Kismayu was in the hands of the enemy now and in Mogadiscio they were already preparing to surrender the town. It had been Italian a long time and there would be Italian families there, hitherto secure in a colonial way of life. But the colonial way of life in Libya had fallen to pieces already and they would now be expecting it to fall to pieces in East Africa. There would be frightened faces at upper windows and an attempt on the part of the police and the officials to remain calm before the silent Somalis, while the askaris in their scarlet fezzes would be rigid on the steps of the fascist headquarters, though Guidotti had no confidence that they could be trusted in defeat.
In Bidiyu they were already disillusioned. Food was no longer coming through from Jijiga and he was already aware that the askaris were watching him askance, wondering, despite their Italian badges and braid, when it would be safe to disappear. They were already short of petrol and with thousands of gallons in Mogadiscio about to fall into the hands of the enemy, he could see the whole Italian army and air force in the Horn of Africa running to a standstill.
He sighed. As it seemed to have come to a standstill in Libya, he thought. And even Greece. When the Duce had decided to invade Greece from Albania the previous October, he had expected a walk-over victory but the Greeks had proved tougher than expected, and not only had they repelled Italian attacks, they had managed, while the Italian navy was still reeling from Taranto, even to advance into Italian territory in Albania. The bombast and boasting had come to nothing. Instead of being a conqueror like Hitler, the Duce had turned out to be nothing more than a jackal whining at his master’s heels.
Tears started to Guidotti’s eyes. That very morning he’d heard that a British army had gone into Greece and he could envisage yet more defeats. And sooner or later, he knew, he would have to leave Bidiyu. Troops were already pouring through from Hargeisa and the coast. A convoy had arrived only that morning, consisting of every kind of vehicle Guidotti could possibly imagine – light tanks, trucks towing guns, petrol bowsers, ambulances, armoured cars, scout cars, staff cars, roaring in one after the other, shaking the town with their noise, setting everything vibrating under the sound of their engines.
General Barracca appeared during the afternoon, worried and anxious-faced.
‘It seems to be up to you, Ettore,’ he said. ‘We are withdrawing through you. Like a sock pulled inside out. You will withdraw through Forsci at Jijiga when the order comes.’
If the order comes, Guidotti thought. If Forsci weren’t too busy in other directions. If the road weren’t cut.
‘If things go wrong,’ Barracca went on, ‘you will head north towards Djibuti and try to join the Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of Aosta. He’s planning to concentrate near Amba Alagi if Keren falls. It’ll be your duty to try to reach him.’ Barracca finished his drink and lit a cigarette. ‘I think Africa Orientale is finished. I think the Duce’s pipe-dreams are finished also. Soon they’ll be finished in Greece.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps when we boil it all down, the Duce is finished also.’
Guidotti offered him another brandy then Barracca took a quarter of an hour off to visit the garrison church to light a candle and offer up a prayer to keep him safe to go home to his family. Finally he shook hands with Guidotti, climbed into his car and drove away.
Barracca’s first lorry ran over the land mines two hours later, almost to the minute. There was a tremendous explosion that set off two other mines, and as the lorry rocked back on its springs, one of the front tyres burst and it swung broadside on to the road. The doors of the cabin had sprung open under the blast and from one of them the driver fell out and sprawled in the road. His mate, torn by fragments coming through the floor, remained where he was, moving weakly. The second lorry, slewing sideways to avoid running into the wrecked vehicle, dropped a wheel into the ditch and canted over sharply, its nose within inches of the first vehicle. As the crew scrambled clear there was a puff of smoke as the petrol leaking from the first lorry’s punctured tank was ignited by the flames licking the underneath of the vehicle and a ‘whoomph’ as it went up.
The driver of the second lorry was just struggling to get clear when the first pack gun fired. It was only a seven-pounder of antiquated design which had found its way to Somaliland from the North-west Frontier of India and, because of its age, had been relegated to the reserve and pushed into the dump above Eil Dif. But it still worked and, as the little shell struck, engine covers, wings, pieces of piping, fan, radiator and scraps of metal flew through the air. Just dropping to the ground to run for safety, the driver was hit at the back of the head by a piece of engine casing that shattered his skull and flung him into the ditch.
The Italians were still looking round for this new assailant when Gooch fired the second gun, aiming at the gap between the first and second lorries. Because of its age, this time the shell failed to explode, but it nevertheless removed the rear wing of the second lorry and buried itself in the engine of the third lorry, bringing that to a stop too, so that the whole road was jammed.
Barracca was standing up in his car, halfway along the column, staring ahead. He gestured angrily at one of his aides. ‘Get up there,’ he ordered. ‘Get that road clear!’
It was easier said than done and, from the crest, Harkaway and Danny watched the panic below as lorries tried to back away from the fire. The second lorry’s tyres had now also caught fire and a thick pall of black smoke began to rise from the burning rubber.
The Somalis were behaving well and none of them had fired. Harkaway was anxious to spring his trap properly and he was staring backwards with the binoculars down the road to where Grobelaar waited. In the distance, half a mile beyond Barracca’s last lorry, they could see small figures swarming down out of the hills and across the road. Yussuf’s people were blocking the road as he had ordered. But there was still no sign of the explosion and he began to frown. Without the gully smashed and the surface of the road holed, Barracca could escape.
‘Come on, Kom-Kom,’ he said aloud.
Even as he spoke, he heard a dull thud and saw a smoke ring lifting slowly into the air. Turning, he saw Tully watching him. Down below in the gorge, the Italians were trying to take up positions to protect themselves from something they knew was coming but hadn’t yet appeared. Because they didn’t know the direction, they were confused. But Barracca was an old soldier and his aides had not been idle. Already, a group of native levies were assembling among the stranded lorries, clutching rifles. They were looking in the direction from which the pack guns had fired and Harkaway could see Gooch and his teams struggling to reload. They seemed to be having difficulty and within seconds they could be overwhelmed.
Harkaway smiled and signed to Danny just below him on the slope with the battery and the loose wire. At his wave she touched the battery terminal.
The faces of the men in the gorge lifted, horrified, as the new explosion came from above their heads. For a while, to Danny it seemed as if nothing had happened and they had failed. Small rocks and stones were arcing into the air and beginning to bounce down the slope through the swelling cloud of brown smoke; and, having moved closer to the point of explosion than she should have done, afraid she might not do correctly what she had to do and terrified that Harkaway would be disappointed in her and scourge her with his tongue, she cowered now as small stones and earth rained down on her. As the shower stopped, she looked up. The pinnacle of rock was still standing and she began to pray, terrified of Harkaway’s rage if they failed. Then she realized that the pinnacle was no longer upright, but was slowly tilting outwards towards the road.
As it moved further and further, it cracked in the middle and broke in two, and a t
remendous yell went up from the Somalis lining the crest that was echoed by one of horror from the men in the valley. It crashed across the slope in a cloud of dust and a shower of debris and went roaring downwards, carrying with it a whole landslide of rocks, stones and scree that thundered down to the road and crashed into the gorge. The driver of a lorry directly beneath looked up in horror as he saw it coming and tried to leap from his cab. But with the door half open, it was struck by a bounding boulder that slammed it shut, neatly severing his fingers, then the whole cabin crumpled and bent beneath the weight of the rocks, stones and earth that piled down on it.
By this time the whole crest was lined with men who had begun to set the very slopes rattling down on the men in the defile. With the sides rearing at an angle of almost ninety degrees, the Italians had no chance. The men above them could set virtually the whole hillside moving, and boulders began to hurtle and bounce into the ravine in blinding clouds of dust and loose shale, to break bones, bring blood and send men flying. Sheer terror threw the Italians into confusion as the rocks swept them off their feet, and clanged against the sides of lorries, smashing wings, buckling wheels and wrenching at fenders.
Still no one fired from above, though the Italians, hidden by the rising cloud of dust, were shooting blindly into the air at their hidden attackers. Gradually, however, the stones began to stop bouncing and rolling and the dust began to settle and the running figures below began to appear again.
‘Now!’ Harkaway roared and, bending over the Bren gun, Tully fired a long burst into the valley. Immediately, the whole crest erupted into flame; and the men below, still wondering which way to face, still staring horrified at the great landslide of earth and rocks that had cut off the rear half of the column from the front half, began to fall like ninepins. Diving under their vehicles, they began to fire back but, as they did so, mortar bombs began to fall among them. There weren’t many and they weren’t even well aimed but they were coming regularly and were landing among the scree that bordered the road, flinging fragments of metal and stone to smash windscreens and tear into flesh.
Back in Bidiyu, Guidotti felt cut off.
He had little in the way of orders, except to remain where he was, holding the road open so that the army could pass through him on the way to Jijiga. After Jijiga, he wondered, then what? If the British were coming down from the Sudan, where could he go?
He decided it might be a good idea to light a candle himself. The priest was obviously also preparing to leave and the church had a bare look about it.
‘What are we to do, Excellency?’ he asked.
‘I know as much as you, Father,’ Guidotti said. ‘However, as soon as General Barracca’s safely through and in Jijiga, someone will surely inform us that we can go, too.’
An hour later, however, Di Sanctis telephoned. ‘The post at Kilometre 207 reports the sound of firing, General,’ he said. ‘Between them and the frontier.’
Ten minutes afterwards, Piccio arrived, hot and hurried. ‘We’ve had a radio message from Barracca yelling for help,’ he announced excitedly. ‘He’s bottled up in the Wirir Gorge. There’s heavy fighting and he’s under fire from machine guns, mortars, grenades, and guns.’
In the pass Barracca’s troops were still battling to break out. The engineers were struggling to cut a way through the heap of rock and rubble but only the smallest vehicles could make it and the heavy lorries on the other side would have to be left behind. At the front, the burning truck was filling the gorge with blinding smoke and they were trying to edge the following trucks to one side so that a couple of the light tanks could move forward to nudge it out of the way. But there wasn’t much room for manoeuvre and the rearmost lorry had to be moved first, then all the others all the way down the line to the front. And all the time a devastating fire was coming from the slopes, rifle fire in unsteady volleys and a steady clattering of machine guns – among which Barracca recognized Italian weapons – that knocked men over in groups whenever they tried to assemble. Then he heard the thump of mortars again from a position too far up the slopes for his own mortars to reach and he turned to one of his aides.
‘Let’s have a couple of companies up there,’ he said, crouching on the ground alongside his car, well aware that it wasn’t particularly safe because the firing was coming from both sides at once. ‘They’re lining the crest. Find those machine guns and destroy them.’
A company of native infantry set off up the slopes, but they were met by showers of grenades. Some of them were British Mills bombs and some their own Japanese-made grenades, which came rolling down the slope to spray the climbing men with their fragments. There wasn’t a lot of skill in the way they were being delivered but they were remarkably effective.
Taking heavy losses, the infantry struggled upwards, one or two of the braver souls attempting to snatch up the bouncing grenades and throw them back, a not very profitable exercise because the bombs mostly bounced back again on to the throwers. With difficulty they struggled to the crest, only to find that the machine guns and the men who had manned them had already vanished.
Swinging round to where they could see other black heads further along the crest, they pushed along the shale slope towards them, firing as they went, only for the guns they had been attacking to reappear behind them. It was like rabbit shooting. Every time a man moved forward across the slope, slipping and scrambling as he went, he was caught by a burst of firing so that he fell forward, rolled over and over until he fetched up against a rock and lay still. Occasionally several men tried to run forward at once but the machine guns and the volley firing sent them tumbling, limp and shapeless, down the slope, and in the end Barracca called off the attack.
The burning truck had finally been nudged off the road, however, and now lay on its side in the catchment ditch, still sending up its thick column of smoke. With the column moving again at last, the road was beginning to clear. But Barracca was well aware that he was going to lose a lot of the heavier vehicles, which would never make it through the blocked pass.
‘Tell the crews they must abandon them and rejoin with what they can carry,’ he ordered.
But even as the aide turned away, he was hit by a heavy bullet from a Martini wielded by an Odessi youth and crashed down at Barracca’s feet. As he was carried away, Barracca gave the message to a sergeant of Savoia Grenadiers, only to be hit in the shoulder himself a moment later.
As the doctor arrived and tried to bandage up the groaning man, he was cursing.
‘Where’s Guidotti?’ he was asking.
The front half of Barracca’s column burst free just before dark, but his troops were totally demoralized. Their losses in men had been heavy but their losses in vehicles were disastrous, though Barracca was hoping many would be salvaged by Guidotti when he finally reached them.
As the survivors scrambled on to what lorries remained and broke away to the west, the Somalis came down the mountainside towards the abandoned vehicles, brandishing their rifles and spears. A few fell to the shots of the wounded still in the lorries but the rest came on, leaping like stags over the scree, their high ululating yell enough to strike terror into the stoutest-hearted.
There was bloody scuffling among the abandoned lorries and the spears jabbed and became reddened, then Danny arrived like a fury, knocking up the weapons and pushing the excited youths to one side. One of them, driven to the point of hysteria by the killing, lifted his spear to her and, only just in time, Tully swung a rifle butt and sent him flying.
‘Thank you, Paddy,’ she said, then she swung round to find Harkaway, his eyes bright, his red hair flying, wielding a revolver.
‘Stop them!’ she screamed. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’
Even Harkaway finally accepted that the fighting should stop and he rampaged among the yelling black men, knocking up their weapons and pushing them aside. There seemed to be bodies all over the road, most of them Italian or Italian native levies. On the western side of the road-block they could hear
the dwindling sound of engines as the front portion of Barracca’s column escaped, but on the eastern side there appeared to be twenty-three abandoned undamaged lorries and a few other vehicles of all types from Lancia trucks to scout cars.
‘Prisoners?’ he asked.
‘About forty,’ Danny said, staring round her, sickened by the red splashes on the surface of the road and the crumpled corpses among the rocks. ‘But no thanks to you.’
As Guidotti’s rescue column roared out of Bidiyu, the first of Barracca’s lorries was rocketing down the slope from the road on to the plain. Driven by a nervous askari, with an armed Somali alongside him, it swung over the lip and, tilting crazily, slithered down, to bounce to a halt below, rocking on its springs.
‘Now the next,’ Harkaway yelled. ‘Hurry up! Get a move on!’
Caught by the excitement, the Somalis were yelling and laughing as the second lorry rocked and slithered down the slope to take up a position behind the first. One after the other, they went down, some skilfully, some with a frenzied enthusiasm as the drivers were urged on by the wildly excited Somalis. One of them, slithering sideways, as its driver struggled to keep its nose pointing the right way, swung beam-on to the slope and slowly began to turn over. The Somali jumped clear but the driver was crushed under the cab.
Behind them, Gooch was rapidly taking the mountain guns and mortars apart. Lashing them to the backs of the mules, they were swung off the road and into the hills. Sweating Somalis hurried down the slopes with the machine guns to push them with the captured weapons aboard the vehicles lining up on the scrubby plain below the road.
‘Keep going,’ Harkaway was yelling, waving his arms. ‘Don’t stop! Keep going!’