Читать книгу The End of the Battle - Evelyn Waugh - Страница 14

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THE processes of army postings were not yet adapted to the speed of the Electronic Personnel Selector. It was a week before Guy received any notification that his services might be needed by anyone for any purpose. Then a letter appeared in his In tray addressed to him by name. It contained a summons to present himself for an interview with an officer who described himself as “G.I. Liberation Italy.” He was not surprised to learn that this man inhabited the same building as himself, and when he presented himself he met a nondescript lieutenant-colonel whom he had seen off and on in the corridors of the building; with whom indeed he had on occasions exchanged words at the bar of the canteen.

The Liberator gave no sign of recognition. Instead he said: “Entrate e s’accomode.”

The noises thus issuing from him were so strange that Guy stood momentarily disconcerted, not knowing in what tongue he was being addressed.

“Come in and sit down,” said the colonel in English. “I thought you were supposed to speak Italian.”

“I do.”

“Looks as though you needed a refresher. Say something in Italian.”

Guy said rapidly and with slightly exaggerated accent: “Sono più abituato al dialetto genovese, ma di solito posso capire e farmi capire dapertutto in Italia fuori Sicilia.”

The colonel caught only the last word and asked desperately and fatuously: “Siciliano lei?”

“Ah, no, no, no.” Guy gave a lively impersonation of an Italian gesture of dissent. “Ho visitato Sicilia, poi ho abitato per un bel pezzo sulla costa ligure. Ho viaggiato in quasi ogni parte d’Italia.”

The colonel resumed his native tongue. “That sounds all right. You wouldn’t be much use to us if you only talked Sicilian. You’ll be working the north, in Venetia probably.”

“Lì per me tutto andrà liscio,” said Guy.

“Yes,” said the colonel, “yes. I see. Well, let’s talk English. The work we have in mind is, of course, secret. As you probably know, the advance in Italy is bogged down at the moment. We can’t expect much movement there till the spring. The Germans have taken over in force. Some of the wops seem to be on our side. Call themselves partisani, pretty left-wing by the sound of them. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Ask Sir Ralph Brompton. We shall be putting in various small parties to keep G. HQ. informed about what they’re up to, and if possible arrange for drops of equipment in suitable areas. An Intelligence officer and a signalman are the essentials of each group. You’ve done Commando training, I see. Did that include parachuting?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you’d better take a course. No objection I suppose?”

“None whatever.”

“You’re a bit old, but you’ll be surprised at the ages of some of our chaps. You may not have to jump. We have various methods of getting our men in. Any experience of small boats?”

Guy thought of the little sailing-craft he had once kept at Santa Dulcina; of his gay excursion to Dakar and the phantasmagoric crossing from Crete, and answered truthfully, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. That may come in useful. You will be hearing from us in due course. Meanwhile the whole thing is on the secret list. You belong at Bellamy’s don’t you? A lot of loose talk gets reported from there. Keep quiet.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Arrivederci, eh?”

Guy saluted and left the office.

When he returned to the Transit Camp he found a telegram from his sister, Angela, announcing that his father had died suddenly and peacefully at Matchet.