Harkaway's Sixth Column Read Free

rocks. There were two aeroplanes, both biplanes, the sun catching their varnished wings, and as they turned towards them, they saw the stub noses round the radial engines, the wheel spats of the fixed undercarriages and the W-shape of the interplane struts. The white cross on the rudders was centred by the arms of the House of Savoy and on the wings was the emblem of the fasces.
    ‘They’re Eyeties,’ Tully yelled above the howling of the engines. ‘You can see the firewood and chopper.’
    The aeroplanes, Fiat CR42s, were heading towards them now in a shallow dive, coming nearer and nearer until they could see the brown and green speckled camouflage. Even as they saw the flash of the guns over the engine cowling, they were aware of the little row of dust spurts flung up on the left side of the lorry. As they caught up with him, Watson seemed to do a double somersault and went rolling over and over like a shot rabbit among the rocks. Tully, Gooch, Harkaway and the South African cowered in the bush as the bullets sent small cascades of dry earth trickling down the hillside on to them.
    As the aeroplanes lifted into the sky, turned on their wingtips and raced away north, Harkaway raised his head and stared towards the lorry. The canvas cover showed small rents where it had been torn but otherwise it seemed unharmed. But, beyond it, Lieutenant Watson lay among the rocks in a crumpled heap, a silent dusty figure, the blood red and shining on his shirt in the sun.
     

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    Watson was huddled in what seemed an impossible posture. His head was under his shoulder and his right leg was twisted up under his humped body. There were two holes in his back, both leaking blood.
    Harkaway was turning him over as the others reached him. His eyes were open, though there was dust on them, as if there hadn’t been enough strength left to close the eyelids. His jaw moved as he tried to say something, then his head fell back and his body became limp. Harkaway laid him down and straightened up, wiping the blood off his hands on his shorts.
    ‘The bastards,’ Tully said. ‘The lying, treacherous bastards!’
    ‘We are supposed to be at war,’ Harkaway pointed out calmly.
    There was a long silence. Gooch stared at the sky as if half-expecting the aeroplanes to return. ‘What happens now?’ he asked. ‘We’d better get back to base, hadn’t we?’
    ‘Why?’ Harkaway asked.
    ‘Because the officer’s dead.’
    ‘We all know what he was up to. So why not go on and do it?’
    ‘It’s not our bloody place to do things.’
    ‘Why not?’ Harkaway snapped. ‘We’ve got brains. We don’t have to have a bloody officer standing over us, saying “Do this” and “Do that” for it to be done. We’ve come to blow up a dump. Why don’t we?’
    Gooch sneered. ‘Listen to the gentleman ranker who knows everything,’ he said.
    Harkaway’s face went stiff. Everybody knew he’d joined the army because of some private disgrace he never spoke of. He was well-educated, intelligent and, from the things he said occasionally, had once been used to money. It rankled sometimes, but it never made any difference when there was anything to be done. A few of them thought the stripes he wore on his arm were there because he had influence among the officers, perhaps even because someone had known him in the old days, at least because he spoke better than the others. The truth was that Harkaway was a natural leader, and all too often they did things merely because he said they should. As they were doing now.
    Gooch frowned, unwilling to concede anything. ‘You know how to blow it up?’
    ‘Of course I do. I helped Willie more than once.’
    ‘You have to get it right.’
    ‘I’ll get it right.’
    Tully looked from one to the other but nobody had any better idea and he shuffled his boots in the sand awkwardly and looked at Watson’s body. Grobelaar picked up the dead man’s cap and placed it over his face. He was a quiet man, not old but