Harkaway's Sixth Column (24 page)

‘Of course, Excellency.’ Di Sanctis paused. ‘But then where, sir? Where do we go from there?’

Guidotti was silent for a moment then he shrugged. ‘God alone knows, Di Sanctis,’ he said. ‘I don’t. General Barracca told me that the Duke of Aosta’s made plans to concentrate his troops near Amba Alagi if Keren falls. From French Somaliland, we ought to be able to reach Assab and from there head inland. If the Duke
is
at Amba Alagi, then we can join up with him. If he’s not - ‘ Guidotti became silent, lifted his hands and let them fall to his sides.

Guidotti wasn’t the only one who was bewildered by the turn of events. The British general in the south, moving north behind his troops towards Jijiga and Harar, was puzzled by the reports that were coming out of British Somaliland. It was an empty, God-forsaken country not worth fighting for and certainly not one to plan for. But
someone
was fighting for it and someone was planning for it. And, what was more, appeared to be making a good job of it, with a remarkable amount of energy and considerable military skill.

This so-called Sixth Column we keep hearing about, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Where’s it come from? Are you sure the navy haven’t landed?’

‘Not to our knowledge, sir,’ Charlton insisted.

‘Contact Aden. Perhaps something went wrong somewhere and we’ve missed a message. Perhaps they landed troops at Assab in Eritrea. I can’t see any other alternative.’

But the Royal Navy in Aden, concerned with the forthcoming attack on Berbera, and well aware that their plans were already pointless because there would be no fighting anyway, promptly reported that
they
had been about to ask the general the same question.

The general stared at his maps. This new and obviously very potent force seemed to have sprung to life in the
middle
of British Somaliland and he had received reports of a new and very decisive defeat inflicted on a large group commanded by no less than an Italian general, while the RAF was reporting wreckage near the Wirir Gorge and a distinct sign that the Italians were preparing to move out of Bidiyu.

‘Can we contact them by radio?’ he asked.

‘Sir - ‘ Charlton coughed apologetically ‘- that’s something that occurred to me. I thought I might even be able to provide you with a
fait accompli.
But Intelligence and Signals insist that they’ve never even heard them transmitting.’

‘But, dammit - ‘ the general lit a cigarette and slapped the map with the palm of his hand ‘- their movements are quite clearly conforming to ours!’

‘Perhaps they’re receiving,’ Charlton suggested. ‘But can’t transmit. If they have an experienced radio op., he could pick up
our
signals.’

‘But how the devil do they get about? They were last heard of in the Eil Dif area. Now the RAF says they’ve seen a great mass of men south of the Jijiga-Berbera road. How the devil did they get there without going over Bur Yi range?’

‘That’s not possible, sir.’

‘Hannibal crossed the Alps,’ the general reminded him. ‘So did Napoleon.’

‘But the reports say they’re using trucks, sir.’

‘For God’s sake, Charlie, other people have got trucks over mountains. Kitchener got an army to Khartoum the wrong way up the rapids of the Nile. What men have they got?’

‘So far, sir, our reports mention only four white men and one white woman. Everyone else seems to be Somali, drawn, it seems, mostly from the Odessi and Harari tribes, though I understand that now they’re coming from all over Somaliland. Their vehicles are largely Italian but their weapons probably came from a dump left at Shimber Addi in the Bur Yi Hills. It was placed there for a forward stop against the Italians but never used. We were informed it was destroyed by a party under a Lieutenant Watson.’

‘Where’s this Lieutenant Watson now?’

Charlton gestured. ‘I’ve tried to trace him, sir, but I gather that after he and his party went out to destroy the dump, nothing further was heard from them and it was assumed they ran into the Italians.’

‘Do you have the names of the party?’

‘Nobody important, sir. Specialists. One radio operator. One engineer. One armourer. All on attachment to the King’s African Rifles. There was also a civilian driver from the Public Works Department. None of them had any rank. They couldn’t have had much knowledge of what to do.’

The general frowned and took a puff at his cigarette. ‘Not that it matters,’ he said. ‘Since Wavell biffed the Italians out of Libya, nobody notices
us,
anyway.’

In that, however, the general was wrong, because two war correspondents, both of them with famous names, appeared the same day asking questions.

‘Asa Wye,’ one of them said,
‘Globe.
This is Russell, of APA. We’re trying to find out something about this bloody Sixth Column. The RAF say there’s a great pile of scrap iron in the Wirir Gorge that was once Italian transport and that this Sixth Column did it. Who are they? Why
Sixth
Column? And who’s leading it?’

Charlton held up his hands. ‘I might as well be honest,’ he said. ‘I know as much as you.’

‘You mean they’re guerrillas?’

‘We don’t know what they are.’

‘Well, they’ve not been idle,’ Wye said. ‘We’ve just learned that they hit an Italian motorized column for six and pinched all their transport. To say nothing of kidnapping an Italian colonel some time back.’

‘Brigadier, actually,’ Charlton said placidly, pleased he knew something the newspapermen didn’t know. ‘Name of Ruffo di Peri. Commandante di Brigata Ruggiero Ruffo di Peri, if you want his full title. We picked it up from monitored radio messages.’

‘Was
he kidnapped?’ Russell asked.

‘His chauffeur said he was.’ Charlton paused, aware that the military hierarchy had no great fondness for guerrilla forces who hogged the limelight. Since Lawrence of Arabia had been discovered by an American newspaperman and made to appear to have won the war in the Middle East in 1918, they were none too keen on having their thunder stolen, because the fame of guerrilla leaders tended on occasion to be somewhat overblown. ‘Those were small operations, of course,’ he went on. ‘Their big efforts seem to have started only since the Italians have been thrown into disarray by our own advance. It makes good sense, of course. If you hit a chap hard from every angle and all at the same time, he obviously doesn’t manage to defend himself quite as well.’

‘Okay, Colonel,’ Wye said. ‘Then where did they come from? Aden?’

‘We don’t think so. They know nothing of them there.’

‘Down from the north? We know a couple of our people were sent in there to stir things up. One of ‘em a chap called Wingate.’

Charlton spread his hands. ‘That might be the explanation. But our reports are that Wingate’s still in Abyssinia.’

Wye scratched his head with a pencil.
‘Somebody
must know who they are.’

‘Of course they must,’ Charlton agreed. ‘But they seem to have failed to inform us.’

As the conference ended, the war correspondents went outside to their car. They were a dusty raggle-taggle couple, despite their fame and prestige. They had followed the African war for months now, flying backwards and forwards between Egypt and East Africa, trying in the last few weeks to keep up with the tremendous march of events. They had heard the reports from Egypt and it seemed that splendid stories were going begging up there for the sake of a doubtful and difficult journey across Africa, and they were constantly trying to be in two places at once - at the front or back at headquarters. Either way you got the news, but if you were caught halfway you got nothing and, even if you
had
information, you had no means of sending it.

‘We seem to breed these odd characters who raise private armies,’ Russell said. ‘The South African columns are full of elderly gentlemen who’ve spent all their life in the bush after big game and relish having a go at something tougher than an elephant. They’ve all suddenly become majors in command of recce columns.’

‘It’s not exactly new,’ Wye pointed out. ‘Half the best regiments in India were raised by types like that.’

He stared northwards. The land ahead was sand and rock for miles and the desert was a sheet of glaring whiteness. The last waterhole they had passed had been fouled by a dead camel and they had found vultures waiting near a beautiful young Somali woman who had held out a can for them to give her water for her baby. She hadn’t spoken a word as they had filled it and the baby had remained silent, its head lolling, but she had given all the water to the child, careful not to spill a drop, accepting none for herself. Wye was a hard man with few sparks of conscience but it had filled his heart with misery.

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the grim and blistered horizon. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘that we ought to try to get up there into British Somaliland. If we can get to Jijiga we can surely make contact and it seems there’s a hell of a story going begging.’

‘It’ll be bloody uncomfortable,’ Russell commented.

Wye shrugged. ‘What’s the difference?’ he said. ‘It’s bloody uncomfortable here.

Guidotti’s plans for departure took time to mature and it was already growing difficult.

Telephone lines were being cut all over the country. Cut telephone lines were nothing new because the Somalis had always taken them to make bangles and anklets for their womenfolk, but these days it had reached epidemic proportions and it was clear the wire wasn’t now being taken merely for decoration.

Its disappearance made it difficult for Guidotti to contact his outposts, and he was concerned for the few Italians and their women who had moved into Bidiyu after its capture the previous year. They were frightened and disgruntled and complaining the war was Mussolini’s, not theirs.

Guidotti’s honour demanded that he should not abandon them and he knew that somebody would have to stay behind with them. A little clever manoeuvring could delay enemy forces until the rest of them got away and he asked Di Sanctis and Piccio to decide which of them was to take over.

‘Honour indicates I should stay myself,’ he said. ‘Particularly as I speak a little English. Unfortunately, honour and military good sense aren’t always compatible and it’s never a good idea from the point of view of morale for generals to be captured. I’m afraid, gentlemen, it will have to be one of you.’

There was only a moment’s hesitation. Both Piccio and Di Sanctis spoke passable English but it was Di Sanctis who stepped forward and Guidotti suspected he was finding it difficult to put his Somali mistress behind him and was delaying the fatal moment as long as he could.

‘At least we can’t leave a mere major in command,’ he said. ‘No one will take any notice of him. You’re a colonel, Di Sanctis, as of this moment. You’d better try to find some insignia to put on your uniform. Perhaps you can search Di Peri’s kit. It was brought here after he disappeared.’

The following day, dressed in Di Peri’s tunic and cap, Di Sanctis listened to his orders. They had just heard that the British navy had landed in Berbera and that it was expected to head for Hargeisa within a very short time.

‘When they arrive - ‘ Guidotti began.

‘When
who
arrive, sir?’

‘The British, of course.’

‘It may not be the British, sir,’ Di Sanctis pointed out gently. The South Africans are already north of Sassabaneh. It may be
them.
It may also - ‘ he paused ‘ - it may also be this Sixth Column which has done us so much damage.’

The same thought had occurred to Guidotti but he let the matter pass and continued to give his instructions.

‘You will be responsible for order,’ he explained. ‘You will go out to meet them. I will leave you two armoured cars. Your job will be to delay. To haggle about terms. To take as long as you can to arrange a formal surrender. Anything that will give us time to get clear. After that, insist on retaining your position as military governor here to keep order. Piccio reports that we’re losing native troops every day, but they’re still in the town and in the area around, and they’ll undoubtedly create trouble. After that - ‘

Di Sanctis frowned. ‘I venture to suggest, sir, that there will be no “after that”.
That
will be the end.’

Guidotti frowned and patted the young officer’s shoulder.

He tried to say a few words of comfort but was unable to find anything.

He ate a last meal alone and drank a little wine. Because it was unlikely that comfort would be in his programme for some time, he then decided to have a brandy and called in Di Sanctis and Piccio to share it with him. The drink was accepted in silence and swallowed in silence and, because he was at a loss what to say to disperse the gloom, Guidotti decided it was time to break up the party. He rose and extended his hand to Di Sanctis.

They were still clasping hands when the door opened. In the entrance was a young officer of Signals.

‘Sir, I regret the interruption, but I felt you ought to know. The British have reached the outskirts of Jijiga.’

‘Already?’ Guidotti snatched at the signal and studied it.
‘Mamma mia,’
he said in a whisper.
‘Che disastro!
They’ve picked up Barracca and most of his men.’ He stood still a moment, drawing in a deep breath, then he crossed to the map spread on the table by the brandy bottle.

For a long time he was silent, staring at the map, before he spoke. ‘We have no alternative now,’ he said. ‘With that road denied us, we must go to Djibuti and up to Assab, then inland in the hope of finding the Duke of Aosta.’ His hand moved over the map, then it stopped, his finger pointing. ‘We must head for Fort San Rafaelo on the border at Djuba. Pavicelli’s there with infantry, a squadron of native cavalry and a Gruppa Banda. They can give us support. Piccio - ‘ the despondency had left him now and his mind was moving briskly ‘ - inform everybody that the column will be moving off within the hour and that we shall swing north towards Boramo.’

It was Yussuf who brought the news that Bidiyu had been abandoned.

His wrinkled face twisted into a smile as he brought his fingers to his breast in the traditional salute.
‘Salaam al-eikum!
God be with you, effendi!’