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their country and most of them had gathered from the Eritreans and the Somalis from Italian Somaliland that the Italians were easier to work with than the British. They brought trade in mutton, milk, grain, hides, cloth and incense, which they used in the churches they built; they were not against sitting down with a chief for a cup of tea; and they laughed, sang and were honest about their need for women. The British were cold, proud, detached and hard; they never enthused about anything; and they maintained their frozen faces whatever happened, unmoved by the excitement or the laughter of the Somalis, whom it was known they despised.
    Nevertheless, scuffles such as Piccio was now describing seemed to have been few and far between under their administration in recent years, and Guidotti’s job was concerned with law and order along the Strada del Duce from Jijiga to his headquarters in Bidiyu, so that groups of Somalis shooting at each other could not only create a danger to Italian troops but could also cause trouble for General Guidotti.
    He had no wish for trouble. He was young and he was ambitious. One day perhaps he could become a marshal like Graziani or Balbo, perhaps a governor of one of Italy’s new colonies. He had a beautiful wife in Rome and two small daughters he adored, and it was only the thought of eventually having them with him, of living in comfort, that enabled him to be away from them so often and for so long. It was over a year since he’d seen them and he itched to prove himself so that he could be rewarded. If by nothing else, he thought wistfully, then perhaps by home leave, though, after Taranto, only God knew how he was going to get across the Mediterranean.
    ‘Tell me again,’ he said to Piccio.
    ‘We ran into crossfire across the Strada del Duce,’ Piccio said. ‘Nobody was hurt but we had to set up a machine gun and pepper the slopes. We found one dead Somali, a lot of spent cartridges - and this.’
    He indicated an ancient Martini rifle which lay on Guidotti’s desk.
    ‘British,’ Guidotti observed.
    ‘Undoubtedly, Excellency. The British army mark is on the butt. And the cartridge cases we found were of British manufacture.’
    ‘There can be no mistake? In its day, the Italian army has also used Martinis.’
    ‘Only our native levies, Excellency.’
    ‘What’s to stop native levies deserting and selling their weapons?’
    ‘Sir, we were in a crossfire. They weren’t shooting at us, though we were in danger of being hit. We decided, Di Sanctis and I, that there were around a dozen rifles firing across the road. We would surely know if a dozen men had deserted.’
    Guidotti frowned. ‘Then if not from deserters, where did they get them?’
    ‘Could it be that the British set up a dump somewhere in this area to supply native troops and that the local tribesmen have found it?’
    ‘Twelve rifles is hardly a dump,’ Guidotti said. ‘Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps just a tribal quarrel. If it is some Englishman, then we’ll catch him. He’ll be begging for mercy before we’ve done with him.
    Piccio was unconvinced. ‘In the meantime, Excellency, shouldn’t we double the guards on the convoys passing along the road to Berbera?’
    "The arms convoys passing along the road to Berbera are already under heavy guard.’
    ‘There’s petrol, Excellency.’
    ‘The Somalis don’t steal petrol,’ Guidotti pointed out. ‘It can’t be used with camels and so far I’ve seen no other form of transport away from the coast.’ He frowned. ‘In any case, petrol lorries also carry an armed guard. On the orders of General Forsci at Jijiga. And since they travel in groups of ten, that means ten armed men with them, under the command of a sergeant.’
    ‘Sir -’ Piccio gestured ‘- that’s the petrol for the coast. But every evening we have one lorry which brings petrol for our personal use here in Bidiyu. That’s guarded by one armed man only.’
    ‘The driver also has a