A Good Clean Fight (40 page)

“Can
you
?” Kellaway asked.

“I can try,” Skull said. “Suppose we begin with what we know. We know the Germans are no fools. When you start strafing them, all day every day, and it's not part of a larger offensive, they must ask themselves why. We know that the Afrika Korps is a very tough army. It's been strafed before. It's not going to collapse just because a squadron of elderly Tomahawks attacks it. And we know our attacks are having less and less effect.”

“Rubbish!” Barton said. “They're running like rabbits.”

“Debriefing tells me otherwise. One in three of your targets is a dummy, perhaps one in two. Jerry's twigged what you're up to, Fanny. He's put more observers out in the desert, and further out, so by the time you reach the target his troops are in their trenches. And you're flying through heavy flak.”

“How do you know?” Barton growled. “You don't know.”

“I suppose it's what we'd do,” the adjutant said. “I mean, if we kept getting strafed.”

Barton's eyebrows were one thick black line. “That just proves how much we're hurting them. And I don't believe all that cock about decoys. Bloody hell! What is this? A war or a duck shoot?”

The silence lasted so long that it began to trouble Kellaway. “I suppose we could always ask Group's opinion,” he suggested.

“No! Never!” Barton slammed his hand on the table and made sand jump out of the cracks between the planks.

“That's fatal. They'll think we can't cope on our own. Next thing I'll be running a weather-station in Greenland. No!” Another whack sent the sand leaping again.

“Just a thought.”

“It really doesn't matter what Group thinks,” Skull said, “or what I think, or you think, or Baggy Bletchley thinks. All that matters is what the enemy
does.
That includes what he doesn't do. Let's face it, Fanny, he hasn't put up any standing patrols and he's not going to.”

“You give in too easy. The game's not over yet.”

“The game is
up
, Fanny. You've stung him and he hasn't jumped.”

“I'll sting him a bloody sight harder yet. Then he'll jump. You watch.”

“Or maybe you'll get stung. Badly. They're waiting for you now. You realize that, don't you? You know how lucky you've been, so far.”

“A squadron makes its own luck,” Barton said. The adjutant knew that clipped, flat voice. It meant the CO was fast running out of patience. Kellaway tried to catch the intelligence officer's eye, and failed.

“You can't manipulate the enemy,” Skull said. “It's time to cut your losses.”

“Horseshit. I'm nearly there. One more strafe and the sky's going to be lousy with 109s.”

“Very well.” Skull shoved up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Do as you please.”

“Don't worry, I shall.”

“Yes,” Skull said, and for the first time a trace of anger sharpened his voice. “In a shifting and uncertain world, that's one thing we can all depend on, isn't it? You will do what pleases you.”

“Oh, get out,” Barton ordered. “You're a pain in the ass, Skull, you can't fly, you've never been higher than you can jump, and you sit there telling me my job? Go away, you make me tired.”

“Ah-ha,” Skull said. “I seem to have drawn blood.”

“Meeting's over,” the adjutant said firmly. He took Skull by the arm. “Come on, I need a second opinion on my new latrine pits.” He led him out.

“Do it properly,” Barton called after them. “Take all day. Write me a nice long report.”

Not looking back, Kellaway waggled a hand in acknowledgment. “Let him have the last word,” he murmured. “It's his squadron.”

They did in fact walk to the nearest pit. A whiff of explosive still clung to the shattered stone. “You seem to be determined to get yourself sacked yet again,” Kellaway said.

Skull thought about that and kicked a small pebble into the hole. “I haven't got your diplomatic gifts, Uncle,” he said.

“Bugger diplomacy. Let me tell you something. If it wasn't for Fanny, this squadron wouldn't exist. I'd be shuffling bumf in Cairo, you'd be giving slide-shows on aircraft recognition and the pilots would be driving Hurricanes along the Takoradi Trail. Not a very glorious end to a squadron that cut its teeth in the Royal Flying Corps.”

“Takoradi,” Skull said. “Takoradi . . .” He sent another pebble rattling into the pit. “Was that really on the cards?”

“It was. And if you think the chaps would prefer flying a bunch of gash Hurricanes straight out of packing-cases, probably assembled with the wings upside-down, four thousand miles across bits of Africa so nasty that even the dimmest native won't live in them, and if the kite packs up and you survive the crash it's a hell of a long wait for the next number eighty-eight bus . . .”

“Which is almost certainly full anyway,” Skull said.

“I've forgotten what I was saying.” Suddenly the adjutant's mind was as blank as the desert. Its abdication alarmed him; he felt betrayed; this sort of thing happened too often nowadays. “What are we doing here?” he asked.

Skull misunderstood the question. “Too deep for me, old chap,” he said. Another pebble was balanced on the toe of his boot and he lobbed it in. “You were speaking of what the chaps would prefer.”

“Yes.” Kellaway's mind cleared. “And it's not Takoradi. Ask any of them. They didn't join the Desert Air Force to become long-distance bus drivers.”

“I see.” Skull nudged one more pebble onto his left boot with his right, but it fell off. “Fanny saved the squadron from Takoradi by volunteering to let it strafe itself to death. Am I right?”

“No. Just give the CO credit for having the best interests of his squadron at heart. And for the love of God stop chucking stones into my latrine pits!” The adjutant had gone from calm reason to raging fury in an instant. He jumped into the pit and grabbed the pebbles and hurled them at Skull. “If you can't get anything right, you four-eyed fart,” he shouted, “for Christ's sake don't make life more difficult for the rest of us!”

Skull dodged and eventually ran. He had never known the adjutant lose control like that. It shocked Skull, and it made him wonder what he had done to cause it. Maybe he was wrong about Barton's strafing campaign. The adjutant was a mature, sensible man. If he was upset, something was very seriously wrong.

*   *   *

After two days in another cave, the Arabs moved Greek George to some tents in a long, very wide wadi that actually had grass growing in it. By now he could walk, although his right knee soon swelled and locked solid if he worked it hard. And his ribs still weren't happy. If he coughed or sneezed they caught fire. He guessed that something had snapped or cracked and probably the bone was setting wrongly. Nothing he could do about that. Or about the
many scabs and desert ulcers that marked his violent argument with the sharp bits of the Tomahawk's cockpit.

He walked a bit, collected scraps of desert thorn for the fire, sat in the sun until it burned his skin and then sat in a tent and played games with the serious little girl. She liked cat's-cradle; it fascinated her; her eyes would follow his fingers working the web of thread and finally she would look up at his face with such open admiration that his heart was touched.

Now that they could cook, the food was better. They gave him eggs, small but good, and meaty black olives. Sometimes they killed a goat or a sheep, and there would be a long, silent feast.

George could feel himself getting better. He learned some words. The sour milk was
leben.
A kind of porridge of barley flakes soaked in butter was
esh.
A guide was a
khabir. Nasrani
meant “enemy.” A
basas
was an informer. Some words he knew already: a
bir
was a well,
kebir
meant ‘big,' a
gilf was
a cliff or sometimes a plateau. As the days went by he picked up more words. The one word that was always in the back of his mind was
basas.
He never used it but he couldn't forget it either.

*   *   *

Skull looked out the information concerning enemy wells and water points and sent it across to the CO. That left nothing to do. He put a fresh needle in the gramophone and played “Empty Saddles.” Geraldo appeared, circled the apparatus a couple of times and stood with his head on one side, gurgling and clicking, watching the record go round.
Empty boots covered in dust . . .
Geraldo pecked the record. The voice hesitated but did not stop.
Empty guns, covered in rust . . .

“Silly bird,” Skull said. Geraldo strutted away. His
philosophy was if you can't eat it, fight it, or fuck it, then it's not worth your attention.

At 1100 hours Barton summoned Skull to attend a flight commanders' briefing.

“Takeoff in half an hour,” he told them. “I'll lead ‘B' Flight with Sneezy as my number two. When we get there we'll split up into sections and go looking for ration convoys and water-carriers. Pinky, you take what's left of ‘A' Flight and hit this bloody great fuel dump, here.” He showed Dalgleish a cross on the map. “The troops are changing your ammo,” he said. “You'll have three rounds of incendiary to one of armor-piercing. No tracer, you won't need it, the dump's too big to miss. Set the bastard on fire, it'll burn for a month.”

“Not Sidi Zamzam again,” Dalgleish said. “Not that damn dump again.”

“This is a freelance sweep, right?” Patterson asked. “I mean, each section is on its own?” Barton nodded. “What if a section can't find any water-tankers? Is there an alternative target?”

“No!” Barton said. “Find them! Look harder.”

“Are you absolutely sure about this, sir?” Dalgleish asked. The “sir” made Skull and Patterson turn.

“Sure I'm sure. What's up? Not thrilling enough?”

Dalgleish swiveled the map and leaned on his knuckles, arms stiff and straight. The hairs on his arms were so black that even the desert sun could not bleach them. He had shaved that day, which was unusual, and a fine sheen of sweat coated his face. Skull, looking at his profile, guessed his age as twenty-four. That was old for a flight leader. By twenty-four you were either dead or promoted. Skull lowered his head to get a better view and saw that Dalgleish was not looking at the map, he was looking through it: his eyes were out of focus. How odd. “We've been to Sidi Zamzam before,” Dalgleish said, his voice as flat as glass. “We've been there . . . how often?”

“Three times in the last week,” Barton said jauntily.

“Three times in five days, actually,” Skull said.

“They're bound to be waiting for us,” Dalgleish said.

“No, it's the last thing they'll expect us to do,” Barton said brightly. “They'll never believe we'd come back again. Not with a hundred other targets waiting to be hit. We'll fox 'em. You watch.”

“That dump . . .” Dalgleish heaved himself upright. “That dump is going to be filthy with flak.”

“Not a chance,” Barton said. “They've moved the flak. Now it's there, there, there, there and there.” His forefinger stabbed at the map.

“The fourth strafe in six days,” Dalgleish said. “It's not going to work, sir.”

“It's a glorious opportunity, Pinky. One good kick in the slats and they'll burst into tears.”

“Lousy with flak.” Dalgleish's voice was still dead level. “Four strafes in six days. It won't work.”

“If you're not tough enough for the job,” Barton said, “then say so, but don't go on bleating at me.” Dalgleish was silent. “Are you tough enough?” Barton asked.

“I don't know, sir.” Dalgleish raised his head and looked Barton in the eye. “I suppose I'll soon find out.” There was more sweat on his face, and for a moment Skull thought the wetness below his eyes was tears. Then Dalgleish went out.

Ten minutes before takeoff he walked into the orderly room and handed the adjutant a small bundle of papers. “That's my diary,” he said. “You'd better burn it, Uncle.”

“Diary,” Kellaway said. He recognized that empty, stony look on Dalgleish's face; he had seen it before, on other pilots. “Burn the diary. Right-ho, Pinky.”

“Six blank checks, all signed. I've got some debts in Cairo and there's my mess bill to be settled.”

“I'll see to them all.”

“Three letters, all for England. I suppose they'll need
stamps. Here are some snapshots. Pilots' names are on the back. Might be handy for a squadron history some day.”

“Yes indeed.”

“Everything else is packed. I want you to have this, Uncle.” It was a small silver penknife.

“My stars! Thanks awfully. It's . . .” But already Dalgleish was walking away.

The ten Tomahawks got airborne with the usual massive battering of noise, made one thunderous circuit of the landing-ground and flew west.

Kellaway and Skull watched from their separate tents. When the last weak rumble had soaked into the sky, the adjutant strolled over to Dalgleish's tent. All his kit was neatly packed, his bedding rolled up and stowed in a corner. The tent looked very empty.
How can he be so sure?
the adjutant thought. Yet this was not the first time a pilot had come away from a briefing and put his affairs in order. By now, Kellaway knew better than to try to reassure the man, or try to turn it into a joke. A fighter pilot should know his own business.

He thought of asking Skull about the briefing, and he was actually walking toward his tent when he heard the melancholy opening bars of “Empty Saddles.” He turned and went back to the orderly room.

*   *   *

For once, navigation was not a problem for Lieutenant Schneeberger. He steered by the sun. The map said the Calanscio Sand Sea ran north and south, so he made his little group follow the sun, westward. Once clear of the Sea he would turn north and run for home: simple.