Harkaway's Sixth Column by John Harris Page B

of chattering people, Harkaway smiled. He nodded at Gooch and Tully and Grobelaar, then at a tall man alongside with fuzzy hair who looked like an Ethiopian. The Ethiopian grinned back at him, pointed to the listing concrete column and laughed. Turning round, he indicated the column to another man and they began to laugh together, the laughter high and infectious. In no time it was running through the crowd with the high ululations of surprise from the women. In seconds half the marketplace was laughing, while the Italian police pushed them furiously back.
    At the other side of the square, there were shouts of ‘Aprire la strada per il Generate Guidotti,’ and, as the crowd opened, several officers appeared in a group. They crossed the square to examine the broken concrete, the one in the middle talking quietly to the man behind him.
    ‘So that’s Twinkletoes, is it?’ Harkaway murmured. ‘He doesn’t look much to write home about.’
     
    ‘Who did it?’ Guidotti demanded. ‘It’s impossible to say, Excellency,’ Piccio said. ‘The British?’
    Piccio shrugged. ‘It might have been British explosive, but that doesn’t mean a thing. A lot was left behind after their demolitions.’
    ‘Patriots? Bandits. Shifta, as we had in Abyssinia?’
    ‘It could have been, Excellency. It could even have been Somalis. A few of them are clever enough. It’s a land of warriors, Excellency. They’re brave, cruel men. In the sixteenth century, a Somali king conquered the whole of Ethiopia. And Mohammed bin Abdullah Hassan, the man they called the Mad Mullah, fought the British for twenty years, wiping out more than one expedition that was sent against him. He was only defeated when they brought in aeroplanes and destroyed his forts with bombs.’
    Guidotti looked at Piccio, startled; he hadn’t expected such erudition.
    ‘I read it, Excellency,’ Piccio explained, faintly embarrassed. ‘When we were informed we were to be part of the invading force. I obtained a book.’
    ‘And did your book inform you how to deal with such atrocities?’ Guidotti walked up and down, his hands behind his back. ‘The column’s only been up a matter of a few days,’ he snapped. ‘Why was no guard placed on it?’
    ‘Excellency, there was a sentry at the flagstaff directly opposite and only a few yards away.’
    ‘Then why did he see nothing?’
    ‘They placed the charge from the garden of the old house behind. They dug a hole in the wall and, since the column is two metres wide at the bottom, the sentry could see nothing.’
    ‘This house? What was it originally?’
    ‘It belonged to a British merchant, Excellency. It’s not occupied because orders were given that it had to be kept exclusively for the use of General Forsci if he should visit us from Jijiga.’
    Guidotti muttered something about General Forsci never being likely to leave the luxurious quarters he’d made for himself in Jijiga for a town like Bidiyu, and certainly not until the occupation of British Somaliland was more advanced and there was a greater degree of good Roman comfort.
    ‘This is bad,’ he said. ‘It indicates carelessness and it’s my wish that Italian troops should not show carelessness. You heard what the British said when we entered the war. They said they would provide us with more of the ruins for which Italy was famous. They regard us with contempt, Piccio.’
    ‘Excellency.’
    ‘Italian soldiers can fight as well as any other soldiers.’ Guidotti was working up to a fine show of bad temper. ‘This is the sort of thing that gives the English opportunity to laugh at us. There must be no more of it! Inform all commanders to be alert. Everybody must be alert, down to the merest local levy. What if the British should hear of it?’
     
    As it happened, the British heard of it within days.
    The Horn of Africa was full of Somali spies for both sides and news travelled swiftly across country by the grapevine. They knew in Mogadiscio what had