Tomb of the Lost

PART

THREE





CHAPTER FOURTEEN



TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA , NOVEMBER 1942



Alfred Dennis cursed again as the Bedford lorry he was driving struck another pothole. It jumped, shuddered and jarred as it bounced along over the rough desert road. He swerved around another deep pothole and took evasive action to avoid the next. The Bedford slewed around and got dangerously close to leaving the road but he held it. In the passenger seat his long time friend Wilfred Burroughs held on to his gun and the map. Twice he had been on the floor because of the condition of the road.

“What a bloody shit road Alf,” he called out before going into a coughing fit from the dust that was all around them. Even with the windows closed it still found its way into the cab.

“Worst road I’ve ever driven.”

Wilfie looked out at the vast desert ahead of and around them. hills to either side, the mountains always on the horizon. This was a desolate barren expanse of sand covering most of North Africa. Its name?

The Sahara desert.

“What the hell did the Germans want with this anyway?”

“Beats me,” Alfred replied “perhaps that maniac in Berlin sent them to capture it. Now Rommel’s here to claim it. Sand, sand and more bloody sand.”

“Rommel,” Wilfie said “Well he hasn’t met Monty yet. Monty will smash him. Monty or Alex.”

“I certainly hope so,” Alf said avoiding another rut in the road. They were soldiers of the Royal Engineers, part of the greater eighth army under the command of General Sir Bernard Montgomery. They were the desert rats. Rommel the desert fox.

Alfred and his men were on their way to Matmata to move minefields laid by the axis powers. Part of the road had been extensively damaged by the fighting and they would make what repairs they could to that also.

Unsure as to whether the road was mined a column of Valentine tanks had ventured into the desert in heavy rain on either side of the road and had got stuck, bogged down. The tanks too heavy for the sand that turned to mud like a thick soup.

Alfred and his men in seven Bedford’s, twelve men in each truck, were to get the Valentines out if possible. Driving the lead truck Alfred crested a rise and the first view of Matmata lay before them. The ruins dominating the skyline. He sped past the first few scattered houses either side of the road and quickly arrived in a clearing in the centre of the small village. He brought the Bedford to a halt, the following vehicles fanning out to either side.

Alfred swung his cab door open and jumped down to the road as Captain Bill Rogers came strutting up. Bill Rogers was in charge of Alf’s group. Together he and Alf removed a pin each from the tailboard of Alf’s truck and lowered it. Rogers banged his hand on the side of the truck.

“Everybody out lads. Stretch your legs. We’ll rest here for an hour. Find yourselves some shade.”

Men gratefully jumped down onto the dusty road. Hours travelling in the backs of the trucks was far from comfortable. Many made jokes to their colleagues. Lots of shoulder slaps and ribs playfully punched. All were relieved to be out for a short while. The threat of enemy fighter planes strafing a canvas backed lorry that offered no protection a constant threat.

Many wandered off to relieve themselves before making their way back to the trucks. One of them eighteen year old Johnny Larder came excitedly up to Alfred.

“Hey ‘old un’ come and take a look at this.”

“I’ll give you old un,” Alf said grabbing Johnny playfully around the neck and pinning his head down by his ribs and knocking him on the skull with his knuckles.

“Cheeky sod,” Alf laughed. He was twenty five. He had been in the war since its start and at his age was the oldest and considered the wisest among them. Rogers was thirty. The men all trusted Alf over their Captain and they all believed that if they followed him they each had a chance of making it out of this mans war alive. Sergeant Alfred Dennis had turned down promotion twice.

He now let go of Johnny and the youth dashed forward a few paces. Alf caught him and they stood side by side and peered down. The ground was hollowed out like a basin. Alf guessed it was at least two hundred paces across and at least fifty paces deep. An entrance tunnel was cut down a gentle slope. They could see steps that had been cut out of the rock that led up to doors made crudely of wood. Rock cut dwellings for a simple people.

Home to the Matmata Berbers legend said that the warlike Berbers hid in their pit-homes to escape their enemies but the truth was they had found it easier to dig into the soft rock than to build with it. The whole area was clean and tidy. Swept meticulously by the women who lived there.

A lone goat wandered slowly down the slope, the bell around its neck clanking with an echo. It paused to watch the two figures above. Then it bleated and began to sniff about. The rest of the herd came wandering down the slope and bumping into each other they filled the pit. One side was shaded and they moved towards the cool shade and settled down. Their herder arrived and though he saw the two British soldiers he also took no notice of them.

British, American, German, French, Italian. It made no difference to him. His people had seen many invading armies over the Millenia. None of them had ever lasted or had a lasting impact on life for him.

“He doesn’t seem bothered by us,” Johnny said.

“Why would he? He has nothing to gain by our presence. Come on lets get back,” Alf said clapping a friendly hand across Johnny’s shoulder.

They went back to the trucks. Some of the men were sleeping, using rolled up blankets as pillows. Local people milled around trying to make a sale of various things they possessed. Four of the engineers were standing around a well. They had tied some new rope around the bucket and had so far successfully pulled up four pails of water.

“Fill some of our water barrels if you can,” Alf said “if there’s enough.”

“The bucket’s hitting something Sarge,” Jack smith said.

“Maybe the well’s empty,” Alf replied peering down it.

“Don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like it’s hitting the bottom.”

“Bring the bucket up.”

Alf began untying the bucket as soon as it was in daylight. He held the loose end of the rope as he surveyed his men.

“Johnny.”

“Sir?”

“Get up here.”

“Sir?”

Alf began passing the rope around his waist and tying a very large uncomfortable knot to his front.

“You just volunteered soldier.”

“To do what?”

“To go down there.”

“What!” Johnny backed away from the well horrified.

“Something’s blocking the well. We need water. You’re going to find out what’s blocking it.”

“I don’t want to go down there.”

He backed into Smith and Burroughs who stopped him, grabbed his arms and legs, tipped him up and carried him over to the lip of the well. The others sat around in the shade laughing.

“Mind your head,” Alf said pushing him face first. They lowered him slowly down. Alf feeding the rope across his back. It was dark in the well, light only penetrating a few feet in front of Johnny’s face. Halfway down he detected a stench. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Then the smell got worse and he covered his mouth and nose. He could feel the temperature dropping the lower he got.

“Hang on I think I can see something,” he shouted up.

The men at the top stopped his descent.

“What is it?”

“Can’t be sure but it stinks.”

Johnny gagged at the smell. He fought hard not to throw up.

“Lower me down slowly, slowly, slowly, you just dipped my head in the water.”

Johnny reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He struck one, the sudden intense light blinding him. He couldn’t see much and as the match burned out the flame touched his finger and the pain caused him to drop it.

“Lower me a bit more.”

They inched him down further. Then his outstretched fingers went through the putrefying flesh.

“Jesus!” Johnny shouted. He held his hand up to his face, the smell was nauseating.

Then he vomited.

“Pull me up. Pull me up!” he screamed.

As soon as his feet reached the top they pulled him out. He had vomit all over his face and shirt.

“What happened?”

“There are two dead Germans down there.”

“Germans?”

“Yes Germans. They’ve been down there a while too old un.”

Alf looked at the mess on his shirt.

“I couldn’t help it. The smell made me sick.”

Some of the others were chuckling at him.

“I don’t know what you lot are laughing at you were the ones drinking the water!”



“Hey Alf,” came a voice from over by the well.

Some of Alf’s men had managed to drag one of the dead Germans out with a hook.

“Lousy, rotten, filthy German bastards!” Wilf was livid. Some of the others had to restrain him.

“Oh come on,” Alf said “it’s the oldest trick in the book, poison the water, deny the enemy the smallest of luxuries.”

“It’s still disgusting,” Wilf said shaking off the hands that held him, calm now, “throwing their dead down the well.”

Alf cupped a hand over his nose as he stood near the corpse.

“I don’t think he died of natural causes,” Jack said pointing to a gaping wound at the throat.

“Murdered,” Alf said quietly. He turned to Wilf “Better go get the Captain.”

One of the local inhabitants was passing around nearby trying to sell goods. Most of the soldiers were too tired to bother with him and waved a hand at him in dismissal. He took their refusals good naturedly. He knew that most of the soldiers passing through Matmata had no money but it was worth a try. Sometimes soldiers were happy to trade if they had no money. He had once gained a set of erotic photographs from a French sergeant. They were of a top French cabaret star. He had sold them to a German Leutnant for ten times the amount he had paid.

Rogers arrived and Alf quickly explained the discovery.

Johnny came over. Being the youngest he still wasn’t used to war. To the sight of dead men. He looked at the gash in the dead Germans throat.

“Murdered! By who? Who murdered him?” he asked clearly distraught at the sight.

Alf took the situation in in a moment.

“Johnny keep back!”

Larder continued to stare. His mouth working though no words came. Suddenly his Sten was in his hands and it was pointing at the Berber who upon seeing it aimed at him shrieked and covering his head with his hands was cowering in the dust. He was babbling in a mixture of Arabic, English and French.

“For God’s sake Johnny what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s him! Them!” he said “All of them! They’re murderers….”

“Nonsense man,“ Rogers shouted “Put the gun down.”

“No! It’s them! We’ve got to stop them. They’ll kill us all.”

Alf moved between the Berber and Larder.

“Johnny. Listen to me. LOOK AT ME!”

Larder looked up into Alf’s eyes.

“He has killed no-one. Look at him he has one hand. He’s not capable of killing anyone.”

Larders finger had pulled the trigger almost to its zenith. Alf knew other fingers were ready on triggers too.

“Private Larder I’m ordering you to put that gun down, “ Rogers said.

The words weren’t sinking in. Larder was staring at the end of the barrel of the gun he was holding.

Without warning Alf suddenly rushed him, his left hand swiping the Sten’s barrel towards the ground, his right bunched into a fist smacking Larder in the mouth, knocking him onto his backside. He sat there sobbing.

Alf kicked the Sten out of his reach then extended a hand and hauled the eighteen year old to his feet.

“Go and get some rest,” Rogers turned to his men “that goes for the rest of you. Everybody just calm down.”

Alf spoke to Johnny, friends again.

“I’m sorry I hit you but you gave me no choice. If you want to survive this war you must learn to accept things like that,” he said pointing at the dead German, “The sooner you do it’ll be the better for you.”

Larder saluted and walked away with a thin trickle of blood seeping from a cut lip.

“Keep an eye on him,” Rogers said.

Everyone watched him go. No one laughed at him this time.

Alf put his hand out to the Berber. He stared at the hand for a moment, glanced at Larders disappearing back then jumped to his feet and began shouting his strange mixture of languages of before. He was clearly complaining at Larders behaviour and the way he had been treated. Alf put a finger to his lips to hush him. The Berber was livid and was clearly asking for justice.

Alf slowly took out a pack of cigarettes and there were a few inside. He shook the carton under the Berbers nose. The mans beady little eyes focused on the exposed cigarette butts. Quickly he took two out, put one behind his ear and stuck the other one in his mouth. Alf struck his lighter and the Berber leaned forward and lit his cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The tobacco better quality than he was used to. He took the cigarette from his lips and then smiled at Alf appreciatively. Alf closed the carton and offered it. It was accepted and instantly disappeared amongst the motley rags the man was wearing.

Alf now began speaking to him reassuringly in French.

Burroughs came back.

“I’ve told Johnny to rest sir, “ he said to Rogers.

“He’s a good lad sir,” Alf said.

“I know sergeant.”

“I wouldn’t want this to go against him.”

“It won’t. I won’t mention it to the C.O if no-one else does.”

Alf concentrated on the Berber, his French acceptable. Like most soldiers he had picked up a mixture of sentences in many languages.

Wilf had a bottle of Turkish beer in his hand and the Berber soon scrounged it from him.

Rogers soon became frustrated at not being able to follow the mans ranting but Alf had a calmness that others could draw upon.

He began translating what the Berber was saying. Stopping him every so often to ask him for a different word, a clearer word.

“He says that these two Germans came wandering in to the town one day. They weren’t armed.”

“Deserters Alf?”

“I would think so.”

The Berber continued, not understanding a word of the English.

“They looked hungry so my wife and I offered them food. They were very grateful but refused our home for shelter. They slept in the disused German depot over there. They stayed close by for the first couple of days and never wandered far out of sight of the town. They tried to get that old truck started.”

Alf saw it for the first time. It was German and half covered by an old dusty tarpaulin.

“In the end they gave up.”

The Berber was laughing.

“Many have tried to start that steel beast, it won’t go, it’s been parked here without running for too long.”

The man threw his hands up into the air.

“It is the same with all machines. The sun it does them no good.”

“It doesn’t look like it could run,” Rogers observed.

Alf concentrated on the Arab again.

“Then on the third day some other men came here, men like you, they were in open vehicles,” Alf nodded to the Captain “Jeeps?”

“They spoke English he thinks, it wasn’t German, their uniforms were the colour of sand, they had writing on their upper arms.”

The Berber got down on his knees and traced his finger in the dusty road.

“S.A.S.”

The two soldiers looked at each other.

“Long range desert group.”

Alf nodded again.

“These men spent the morning here searching buildings and the old supply dump. Then in the afternoon the two Germans were discovered. They were brought out at gunpoint with their hands on top of their heads. Their leader interrogated them. He was kind to them, offering water and little food he could. Then they tried to surrender to him but he refused. They pleaded and when he tried to leave they stopped him. He shook them off and repeated his order. Then one of his men began arguing with him and the Germans then showed him photographs of their families. The leader pulled out his gun and threatened them with it, repeated the order and the man who had argued saluted him and led them into the desert at gunpoint. The others of this group just sat around like you are doing. Then there were four shots that cut through the silence. Later the Englishman came back alone. He sat away from the others and they avoided him.”

Rogers and Alf were equally appalled at the thought of murdering two unarmed men who had tried to surrender.

“They had families Sir.”

“I know but if they tried to surrender to the L.R.D.G it’s not surprising that they were refused. The Long Range Desert Group barely carries enough supplies for themselves let alone feed two deserters.”

Alf knew Rogers was right but he was still appalled.

“They could have just left them here.”

Ask him more.

“If they were shot out in the desert how did they get down the well. Did the others put them down there? Or did your people? Did you put them down there?”

The Berber was shaking his hands in front of his face.

“Later the English left and much later these two came wandering back into the town.”

“He didn’t follow up the order,” Alf said.

“Clearly not.”

“I don’t know much about the Long Range Desert Group.”

“I know even less,” Rogers confirmed, “I know that they were set up for covert operations. They have been active in Europe, most notably in France. Out here I think they spy on the enemy, supply lines, locating fuel and ammo depots, that sort of thing. They probably knew about the depot here or they may just be a patrol passing through. Their patrols can sometimes span over five hundred miles Alf.”

Alfred concentrated on the Arab again.

“So how did they end up down there?”

“The following day another patrol came through. These were Germans. They stopped as you did. The ones in front were sitting on those three wheeled machines.”

“Motorcycle sidecars,” Rogers said.

“The two Germans came out to greet them. They were wearing the same uniforms monsieur. The other vehicles came into the town now, lorries like yours. Two special people carrying vehicles, not like cars, but not like jeeps.”

Alf questioned him for a clearer word.

“He says the Germans used many types of vehicles. There was one car, an expensive one, it had flags on its front.”

“Sounds like a staff car Alf.”

“The men who got out of this car were leaders. One was wearing a similar uniform to the motor cycle riders, grey. The other was different.”

He again got down and drew in the dust.

“Alf that looks like a skull.”

The two engineers stared down at the drawn symbol.

“It does look like a skull.”

Alf looked at his Captain.

“S.S.”

Rogers nodded.

“What the hell are they doing out here?”

Alf didn’t have time to ponder the question because his man was talking again.

“Another man got out of the car. A white man.”

“A white man?” Rogers asked.

“A white man,” Alf said “A white man doesn’t make sense. Ah! He was dressed in white, white hat, white shoes, white trousers, jacket, and shirt. Even his tie was white. He had small round spectacles. His skin was very pale and pink where it was exposed to the sun. He constantly dabbed at his face with a handkerchief even though it’s not even hot now.”

The Berber laughed again revealing his few teeth.

“Wait until it gets really hot,” he said before tipping the bottle back and finishing the last of the beer.

Alf pulled the top off another one and offered it.

“The well, how did they get down the well?”

“I was coming to that,” the man replied in his mix of languages, “The man in white talked to them for a few minutes then he said something to the skull leader. The white man got back into the car. He could no longer be seen because of the car’s dark windows. The two Germans were pleading now, more than they had with the others. Suddenly they were seized by the ones wearing the skulls. They were held still and their throats were cut. Then they carried them to the well and threw them in.”

“They murdered them?” Alf asked “Do you understand why?”

The Berber shook his head, shouting mainly in Arabic. Most of what he said Alf didn’t understand. He didn’t bother to get the man to repeat any of it. The Berber went over to the half full crate of beer and picking it up he swung it up onto his shoulder, the British moving out of his way.

“What he’s told us doesn’t make sense Captain. Do you think he’s telling the truth? Wouldn’t they normally shoot deserters?”

“Who knows. Deserters, the L.R.D.G, the SS, civilians in white, two dead men not shot for desertion but murdered in front of witnesses,” Rogers glanced at his watch “Well I wouldn’t worry about it, it shouldn’t affect our role here, they are probably long gone. Come on we need to get some rest. We have a job to do.”



Johnny Larder was alone. He had found somewhere quiet to sit and collect his thoughts. The first thing he had done after leaving Alf and the Captain was to find some water and wash his face and rinse his shirt and vest. They were now drying on the bonnet of one of the jeeps. He sat down in the warm sun with his back to a front wheel of a Bedford truck. From his trouser pocket he pulled out a letter from his sweetheart Margaret Harris. They had met in the most unlikely of circumstances.

Johnny and two of his friends had been drinking in his village pub ’The Black Dog’. They were celebrating the fact that they had just enlisted in the army and were proudly wearing their brand new uniforms. They had downed a few pints each and were approaching the merry stage.

It was a good night in the pub. Johnny and his mates were at a corner table. They were excited and trying to get the attention of the landlords daughter Rosemary Clayton. Her parents Jack and Betty had run the pub for the last ten years. She unknowingly had given them a flash of stockinged calf when she had bent over to wash a table with a wet cloth. Her father had noticed too.

“You can put your eyes back in all of you,” he said smiling.

The other customers in the pub were mostly farmers, farm workers, game wardens. Many of them stood in groups talking about their work, crop rotation, livestock, the war for them seemed like it was a million miles away.

Suddenly all conversation stopped.

Three American GI’s had walked in.

One of them was black, the other two white. One of them approached the bar and stood there swaying slightly. It was obvious from the start that they’d been drinking.

“A pint of your strongest beer,” the American at the bar ordered. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall with muscles that bulged every time he moved. He downed the pint Jack had placed in front of him in one gulp, its nutty taste having no effect.

“That was your strongest?” he questioned “It’s weak,” he said wiping his sleeve across his mouth “Weak like your men. Another!” he ordered.

Jack refilled the glass and wiped the bar before placing the second pint of ale in front of the American. The American saw him smirking.

“Did I say something funny?”

Jack had thought he had understood the joke but now his smile vanished.

“No sir just your remark amused me.”

Jack had clearly misinterpreted the remark. The war was well documented in the cinema each week. The British soldiers were in the thick of the action every single day of their lives. The Americans so far had done little by comparison.

The conversation in the pub began to increase again now. The big GI downed his second pint. He ordered another and one each for his friends.

Jack was concerned. The strong beer would probably kick in soon and the American was already the worse for wear.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

The American smirked and looked around the saloon. He saw Johnny and his friends laughing as they shared a joke at their table.

“I’ll tell you what I have had enough of,” the GI said “And that’s having to leave my country to come here to save your nancy boys from trouble while all they do is sit in their pretty uniforms with bits of grass stuck between their teeth.

“All right,” Jack said taking the beer back “That’s enough. You don’t come in here in your flashy uniforms upsetting my regulars. Get out!”

“Make us.”

Sixty eight year old George Tompkins had heard enough. He got up from his chair by the window and approached the American from behind. The other two Americans made room for him. They shared a sneer with each other.

George reached forward and tapped the Colossus in front of him. George had seen war. In World war one he had been a blacksmith and had spent the years shoeing horses at the front line. He had survived history’s bloodiest war.

“Uhh!” The American turned round at the fingers tapping his shoulder. He looked George up and down with a smirk. He laughed when he saw the holes in George’s jacket and the mud on his boots.

“Well what do we have here?”

“Hey loud mouth yank. While you’re over here with your cowboy hats and your spurs our boys are over in Africa fighting a mans war. More man than you’ll ever be.”

The American picked up the beer Jack had moved and poured it over George’s head. Many of the locals rushed forward to defend the old mans honour but Jack shouted at them to stop.

“I’ve called the police,” he said, the telephone receiver still clutched in his hand. The truth was the local policeman lived six miles away and only had a bicycle for transport. Even if he left straight away it would still take him an hour to get there.

“All right,” the American said thinking through the scenario of being arrested and facing the American military police.

“OK. We’re leaving. Jeez you guys just can’t take a joke.”

“Not when our boys are dying for the likes of you,” George responded.

The three Americans disappeared through the door. Some of the locals got up to pat George on the back. The big American came back through the door. Instantly there was a ring of locals surrounding him. There was no way he was coming back in. He threw a handful of blades of grass at George’s face.

“Here don’t forget to put these between your teeth.”

No one saw who threw the first punch but the fight was vicious. The big American went down with six men on top of him. He soon threw them off though and getting to his feet he was throwing punches in all directions. The other two Americans were now in the fight and Johnny and his friends took them on.

Sometime during the fight Johnny Larder had a beer bottle smashed over his head. He slumped unconscious to the floor. Jack was trying to get order. Now his furniture was getting broken. He’d seen enough. He went out to the back and returned moments later with his shotgun and jammed both barrels under the big American’s ribs. This brought the fighting to an abrupt stop. The American looked down under his armpit.

“Hey! Hey! Take it easy. We were just having some fun.”

“Now the fun is over. There has not been a murder in this village for a very long time but I’ll happily start with you.”

He drew the shotgun back and levelled it into the GI’s face.

The American tried a brave laugh.

“You don’t have the balls.”

Jack drew the triggers back. It was a wonder the gun didn’t fire. No one doubted he would do it.

“You wouldn’t want to try me boy, now get out all of you.”

The three Americans begrudgingly left.

The locals watched them from the windows and door. Rosemary Clayton began straightening the furniture. Then she saw the inert form on the floor.

“Johnny!” she cried.

His two friends rushed over to him and lifted him up. He was still out cold. There was a nasty gash on his head and it was bleeding badly.

“Johnny! Johnny!” his friend Tim called.

Betty Clayton got some clean water and a towel.

“This is bad,” she said dabbing the wound “Jack call for an Ambulance.”

“It’ll take too long to arrive,” he threw his keys to Tim.

“Take my car.”

“But Jack we’ve been drinking.”

“Rosemary you can drive.”

Rosemary had had a few driving lessons but she was far from an accomplished driver.

“No dad I don’t think I could.”

“He needs to get to a doctor and quick,“ Tim pleaded with her.

“All right,” she nodded. She grabbed her coat, took the keys from Tim and fled through the door and around the back of the pub to the garage. She found the padlock on the double doors and struggled to get the key into the lock in the dark. Finally it clicked open. She pushed the doors open wide and got into the drivers seat, started the car and drove it around to the front.

Tim and Charlie loaded Johnny into the back seat of the Morris and Charlie jumped into the front passenger seat.

“Is he still unconscious?” Rosemary asked.

“Yes, quick let’s get a move on,” Tim shouted.

“Don’t forget the lights,” from Charlie.

Rosemary flicked on the lights but they were quite ineffective due to the blackout fittings on them. The light generated by them was about twenty five per cent of their full use. She took a few deep breaths to psyche herself up and pulled away roughly and stopped again almost as suddenly. Tim and Charlie felt themselves being thrown forward.

“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.

“Sorry but I can’t drive in these shoes,” she unbuckled them and gave them to Tim to hold. Now her feet clad only in stockings she stomped on the accelerator and the car kangarooed away. Rosemary was convinced this was the worst evening of her life. She battled to keep control of the car on the narrow country roads and pulled up outside Salisbury General Infirmary forty five minutes later.

By morning Johnny was in a hospital bed, his head stitched and heavily bandaged. His friends had waited with him until the Doctor had sent them home telling them to telephone in the morning to see if there was any change in his condition. They had begged to be allowed to stay. The Doctor had been firm but kind, reminding them that there was a war on and that at any time he may need the extra space available for patients. Reluctantly they had gone home. The Doctor promising that he would telephone the pub if there was any news.



In the early hours Johnny had woken up. The first thing he was aware of was intense pain in his head. It hurt to open his eyes. He was on his back in bed that much he realised. Light was coming in from a window behind him. He closed his eyes and slept some more. When he woke again there was someone else in the room with him. Johnny tried to get out of bed, his eyes only half open.

“No!” the strong female hands were there again and they stopped him easily “You must rest.”

“I want to go. I don’t want to be here.”

“I know but you can’t go anywhere until the Doctor has seen you. He will be here soon,” the female voice said.

Johnny left hospital the following day. During his stay he had gotten to see the owner of that sweet voice.

She was a young pretty nurse with beautiful eyes and long dark curly hair tied in a bun and held by pins and her nurse’s hood. By the time he left he knew that he was in love with her. He was devastated that it was her day off when he was released. He enquired as to her name and had to ask half a dozen people before any one could tell him.

“Margaret Harris.”

No one would give him her address but he was promised by one of her friends that if he wrote to her at the hospital the letter would be forwarded to her.

Feeling on top of the world a bandaged Johnny Larder waited with his friends at the bus stop for the bus home. As soon as he got home he began writing to her. Then they had begun dating and their love grew. They often talked of the future, of children, of old age, of the things they would do, the places they would see. Then one day the news came that they had been dreading.

He was joining the eighth army as an engineer.

Their world was suddenly torn apart. They were devastated. They spent their last remaining hours trying to put off the inevitable. Margaret didn’t know why she did it, and knowing it would probably make matters worse she let him take her virginity and as she lay there as he panted in her ear she knew that this was it between them. She couldn’t carry on with him so far away from her for who knew for how long. She didn’t want to spend her days worrying about him.

He tried to see her at the hospital but the sister told him she couldn’t be spared the few minutes because there was a serious car accident case coming in. A dejected Johnny Larder left wanting to smash the hospital up.

The following day he left for North Africa.

The letter from Margaret ending their relationship arrived almost a month later.

Johnny was heart broken and every time he’d been alone he’d had tears in his eyes. He had tried to get out of the army but was refused. He had even considered suicide.

Then unexpectedly a new letter from Margaret arrived. The one he was reading now and it lifted his spirits to a new height, a plane he had never reached before in life.

She was coming to him.

To Cairo to be precise.

In this new letter she had apologised for ending their relationship and explained that she didn’t think that she could cope with them being so far apart and that she’d panicked. She had applied to nurse in the British hospital in Cairo and had been accepted.

Johnny read her words again. She had included a tiny piece of lace that she’d cut from her lingerie and had glued it inside the letter to remind him of what he was missing. He had kept this out of sight of the others because he thought they would probably make fun of him.

He couldn’t wait to see her. He would visit her in Cairo next time he got some leave.

“Let me know when you’re coming Johnny and I’ll get my leave arranged for the same time.”

Johnny hated the thought of the servicemen in the hospital looking at and touching his Margaret, his sweetheart. They laying in their crisp, clean bed sheets. Her in her crisp, clean uniform. The men laying there all day watching her bottom wiggle. She unaware of the lustful looks as she went about her work. Them all so far away from and so safe from the war.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Every day she held a man’s hand while he slipped from this life to the next. The smell of decaying flesh surrounding them. Of blood, pus, burned skin, charred flesh. Margaret knew that the stench would stay with her for the rest of her life.

How could she forget?

When grown men whimpered like babies and called for their mothers. Some just passed away, their eyes glazing over, never wanting or asking for anything. Dying thousands of miles from home in a war that wasn’t theirs.

Johnny tried to put the negative thoughts away as he re-read her words. Then he kissed the small piece of lace and folded the letter and put it away.

There were two black dots in the sky. Johnny screwed his eyes up to see them better.

They were probably birds. Two big black birds, flying to only god knows where in the endless rolling dunes of the Sahara.

‘Maybe they’ve found a corpse,’ Johnny thought.

He laughed as he saw some of his mates rugby tackle Alf to the ground. For a ball they were using a rolled up jacket tied with string.

The two dots appeared to be heading straight for them.

Johnny watched them. Then he heard the drone of the engines.

Alf spat out dust, the others pinning him down. Then as one they all looked up into the sky.

Billy Mitchell loved flying. It had been his dream since childhood. Since he had been able to walk and talk he’d wanted to fly. As a child he spent all of his time making model aeroplanes. His big break had come at eighteen when he had been accepted into the rapidly forming U.S air corps. Just a year after pearl harbour he was now a veteran at twenty one.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other plane. He glanced across to it. It was his buddy Chuck Holts. They were part of a patrol that were on the look out for German convoys. This morning they had flown out over the sea looking for shipping and too small a detachment to attack marine convoys they had headed inland in a wide sweep towards Matmata. As they circled the hills they had seen the dust column near the village and had climbed to five thousand feet to avoid detection. They had kept close to the mountains for cover, banked and now descended to a thousand feet and were heading straight for the stationary convoy.

Chuck opened up his throttle, gave a “Whoo hooooo!” into his headset and zoomed in for the kill.

The two pilots could see men on the ground running to their trucks for cover. They dropped to a hundred feet and closed in.

Chuck opened fire at five hundred yards distance. It was good to get some action after weeks of finding nothing to shoot at.

Johnny saw the bullets that were coming for him. They kicked up tarmac, stones, dirt and dust as they raced past either side of him. The plane screamed over head and was soon lost by the buildings.

“Johnny take cover!” Alf was shouting.

Larder was still in the same place trying to load his gun. He cocked it just in time and sighted on the planes as they made their second run. Johnny aimed and pulled the trigger.

Click!

Nothing happened.

The sten had jammed.

He was forced to run for cover as the bullets ripped up the ground around him. Two of the men weren’t so lucky, falling to the ground with their legs shot up. Alf and Wilf Burroughs dashed out to them as once again the planes turned. They dragged the groaning wounded men to safety.

“Shit this looks bad Wilf. His legs are pretty shot up.”

“Alf I’m sure that those planes were American. P40’s I think they are called.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I thought I saw a white star under the wing.”

Time seemed to stand still. Alf was watching the two planes as they banked two miles away.

“Alf trust me they’re American.”

To Alf’s memory Burroughs had never been wrong about anything ever before.

“Alf I swear it. They’re American.”

“We must do something to stop them.”

“Like what?”

“When they come round again I’m going to try and convince them that we’re surrendering. Get me something white to use as a flag.”

“Alf no it’s too dangerous.”

Alf found a white sheet and tore a large piece off. He quickly tied two ends into knots around a spade handle. He walked out into the middle of the square. Every gun barrel ready to shoot the planes down should Alf fall. They were circling far out then turned and came straight at him. Alf stood still and watched as death approached at 300mph!

“Crazy fool, is he trying to get himself killed,” Rogers shouted as he threw himself down next to Burroughs.

“Ready boys,” Wilf shouted “shoot these bastards down if they so much as scratch him.”

At a thousand yards distance Chuck Holts levelled his wings and put his finger lightly on the machine cannon trigger. He looked into his sights and then peered above it. Some fool appeared to be in the middle of the square waving what looked to be some sort of white flag. He grinned and spoke into his headset to Billy.

“This one’s mine. Kiss your arse goodbye Jerry.”

“Holy shit! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Billy screamed “They’re British!”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

“Bank left! Bank left!” Billy yelled.

Their engines laboured as they banked steeply away.

Alf was left in the middle of the square. His heart was thumping, his breathing deep. He had faced death many times but this had been the closest yet.

The noise from the fighter planes deepened as they climbed.

“How did you know that they’re British?” Chuck called into his headset.

“H.Q. said over the transmission that we were to look out for a British group mine clearing in the area of Matmata. Didn’t you hear it?”

Chuck looked down at his radio.

“No it’s turned off.”

“You bloody idiot!”

“Shit! I hope we didn’t hurt anyone!”

“We’ll fly past slow so that they know we know. I hope you’re right. Chuck I think I saw blood in the road.”

“Aww no! Sure hope not.”

The british men all met in the centre surrounding Alf.

“It worked Alf, you did it. You saved us.”

“Somehow they knew. It could have been a decoy but they knew.”

“Here they come again,” It was Johnny Larder. He still couldn’t believe that he’d survived the first strafing run without a scratch.

This time the planes came in much slower, one of them dipped its wings at them ,

“Everybody wave at them” Alf said.

They could see the pilots wave back.

“Well done” Alf said, “yes well done you nearly f*cking killed us!”

Burrows was beside the wounded men,

“Alf?” He called.

All attention now diverted to the two wounded.

“Poor old Jack’s dead Alf!”

There was a stunned silence. Burrows closed the dead mans eyes.

Alf watched the two disappearing aircraft.

“They’ll probably never know what they did here today.”