Libya, 1911

by Zach Neal

  Alice’s eyebrows lifted in humour. One had to get to know Digby-Jones a little before his true sensitivity became apparent.

  “Ah—ha. Anywhere but Ain Zara.” Giulio turned to see that insouciant grin.

  “I reckon we can do that. I sense a story, Mrs. Saunders.”

  “Indeed we do, Mister Digby-Jones. Indeed we do.”

  A story. A story indeed.

  Giulio dabbed and patted and the pad of folded wet cotton quickly turned into a crimson stain, with a distinct smell of its own. There was a fair bit of castor oil on there as well, and in fact his entire face had begun to sting much like fire.

  Digby-Jones cautiously got the vehicle rolling before turning the wheels to climb up and out of their winding little hollow.

  As soon as the main path came in sight, he swung the jouncing car onto it and shifted up.

  Ramming the throttle to it, he kept her at high revs, sawing at the wheel in the soft bits to keep her straight, and they traveled along in a motion that was not unlike being in a small boat.

  ***

  The road hardened and the car sped up, their escort dropping further and further behind. Digby-Jones turned to their passenger, holding on for dear life as they lurched and swayed along a series of irregular but mostly parallel ruts.

  “I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Digby-Jones, Saturday Post, London. And this is Mrs. Alice Saunders, of the New York Evening Review. So what’s your assessment?’

  “Ah. My name is Giulio Gavroti, I’m a lieutenant in the Regio Escercito, that’s the Royal Army. My assessment? It is some time before we can expect an attack from this route, but it’s probably only a matter of time.”

  It almost seemed inevitable, although his information might be interpreted in different ways. Assuredly, he had seen no signs of a retreat, and in fact the enemy was building up his strength for something.

  Seemingly immobilized and digging into their coastal cities and garrisons, the Italians were showing all the signs of becoming bogged down due to their own inertia. Any trained soldier could see the dangers that this invited.

  ***

  “I must say, this is very civilized of you.” Digby-Jones raised a glass to their new-found friend.

  “It is the least I could do.” Giulio would have to be a little careful, military officers making unauthorized statements might find themselves in hot water, and very, very quickly if they weren’t smart.

  Giulio was buying them all dinner before heading back to the Regio’s informal little aerodrome. They knew him here, and he had not only run up tab, but more importantly, paid it off with handsome gratuities all around.

  There was loud talk from the doorway. An Arab man broke free of the steely grip of the Maitre’d, perhaps a fat silver coin had been exchanged. Otherwise he was a bit shabbily-dressed for the venue.

  “Ah, Abdullah.” Digby-Jones was in an expansive mood.

  For one thing, they were both on an expense account, and they had finally found a story—any story would do sometimes. The folks back home would be interested in this fine young man, bringing civilization and European culture to this part of the world in some newfangled Pax Italiano. He figured he could get a pretty good feature story out of it and Mrs. Saunders was already planning a serial if only she could get the Wops to agree to it.

  Giulio toyed with one of the local dishes, a highly-spiced dish of soaked grain, with indeterminate bits of meat, green vegetables and something sweet and chewy that might have been chopped dates. It was almost impossible to cook anything in Libya without olive oil and this particular entrée may have even done in the traditional sand oven. He’d never had goat before coming over here. It wasn’t bad, merely different. It washed down well with whatever, red or white, that was strong enough. He preferred it roasted on open coals rather than boiled, but then that depended on who was cooking it.

  With a belly full of wine and his ass safely behind the city’s defensive perimeter, he was in the mood to talk.

  As for the reporters, they were all over him like a dirty shirt.

  “We’ll try and get back there tomorrow and see about the Taube.” It occurred to him that they might want pictures, and there would be a strong military escort if he had anything to say about it—Ain Zara was not even twenty kilometres away and they would be distinctly pissed-off over there.

  “I’ll show you the bullet-holes.”

  Digby-Jones nodded sagely, sipping a malt whiskey as Alice’s pen flew across the page.

  She looked up.

  “Weren’t you frightened?”

  “Of course, who wouldn’t be—”

  “So, how imminent is their attack?” Digby-Jones steered them back to the point.

  Gavrotti took a moment to consider, no fool by anybody’s standards. He could see the value in some good press. He also had his own masters to consider.

  ***

  “Hey! Where in the hell have you been?” Crespo was indignant at Gavroti’s arrival.

  Seeing a strange man and woman in the dusty little foreign car was one thing, seeing Giulio get out and stagger by the open gate was informative as all hell. To see a small party of Tuaregs, setting up camp on the other side of the road was a bit troubling, although he could see the sense in having any escort anywhere you went in this country.

  Antonio came running up, cap in his hands.

  “Giulio! Giulio. We thought you were dead! Captain Piazza has been frantic. He’s been trying to get the army to send out search parties, but they say it’s too dangerous—”

  “I’m sorry. I would like you good people to meet Mrs. Alice Saunders, ah, New-York Something-Something, that’s a newspaper, and Mister Ernest Digby-Jones, of a prominent London publication. Which I have forgotten the name of.”

  He gave Digby-Jones an earnest look of apology. The gentlemen inclined his head politely.

  Giulio pulled the stained and folded map from his pocket.

  “X marks the spot, my good fellow. Lady and gentleman, this is Giuseppe Crespo, my trusted mechanic, and this other scruffy imposter is Antonio, who helps out around here. Sergeant, is the general at home?”

  Crespo stood there dumbfounded and Giulio handed him the map. He stood staring down at it as the sun hung in the east a couple of fingers above the horizon. Crespo took another look at the bumps on Gavroti’s face.

  The air was stifling, the smell of alcohol strong as the male civilian got out of the car and the lady waited male assistance in dismounting from the back seat.

  “What’s going on, Gavroti?”

  “Ah, here is the man himself.”

  Captain Piazza was short, dark, wiry and extremely hirsute. Although only the backs of his hands and a small patch of skin was visible around the collar, there was enough of the curling black stuff to indicate something unusual.

  “Report, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah…” Gavroti had his doubts, with Alice and Ernest standing there, it just wouldn’t be right to send them packing.

  This was a military establishment.

  “Ah, yes, sir.”

  He turned to thank his benefactors but Piazza broke in.

  “Who are you people—thank you for your assistance, of course—”

  Giulio introduced them again as his crew stood respectfully at attention. Piazza wasn’t such a bad guy, but he didn’t have much experience in an actual war setting. None of them really did, but he had a stick up his ass sometimes and they were more likely to draw his ire. Gavroti was a fellow officer was of his own social class and disapproval was expressed more quietly and politely.

  “I see. Well, thank you again—”

  “Captain, I do have a report to make, and they have a request as well. It’s a bit unusual, so perhaps it would be better if we were to go inside and talk about it?”

  Piazza took another look at the slender, elegant Englishman and the obviously-American lady, both of them yellow journalists of one sort or another. He chewed his lip briefly.

&n
bsp; “What the hell. The least we can do is to offer them a drink.” He extended a gallant elbow, taking charge of the lady and giving the enlisted men a quick wink, to their eternal astonishment. “We’ll see what the cook says, but we might even find you a little something. What about the aeroplane, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s slightly damaged, for sure. But we should be able to recover it.”

  Piazza nodded thoughtfully, turning away and leading them to the building that served as an office and communications centre when it wasn’t merely a hang-out for men without enough to do.

  As if sensing the thought, Crespo and Antonio turned and sprinted off to the flight-line, where the others would be glad to hear the news.

  ***

  “Oh, I don’t know. That’s really a question for the general, and quite frankly even he would probably have to consult higher authority.” Piazza shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s the best answer I can give. The general should be in tomorrow…ah, perhaps you could stay with us. Mrs. Saunders can take my quarters, and perhaps one of the junior officers will oblige Mister Digby-Jones. I mean you can ask him, but General Tomasini would have some pretty obvious concerns.”

  “Of course, and naturally we understand. We’re not here to rock the boat or anything like that. But it really is an interesting story.” Digby-Jones was on the end of a sagging green fabric couch, tamping aromatic tobacco into his pipe and Piazza wondered if that was really good tobacco.

  He wondered just how much of that the man might have aboard his impressive little car. They might have something around here to trade for it—just a thought.

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you hang around for a while, and we’ll see what the general says.”

  It wasn’t detaining them if they stayed voluntarily, but they were just a little too good to be true.

  You couldn’t really come out and say it, but there was such a thing as a spy. He’d heard of their papers if not the people themselves. The names were vaguely familiar but that meant nothing. As soon as he got a chance he would send a message and inquire more deeply. Their passports, cheerfully submitted for inspection, appeared genuine. The trouble was that he wasn’t an expert, was he?

  They were unperturbed by the scrutiny. If in fact they were who they said they were, they should be professional enough to expect it, especially in a war zone—and not to kick up too big of a fuss.

  He raised his glass, an amusing little Chianti that was at least available in quantity.

  “Of course, we’d be delighted.” The civilians exchanged an unreadable glance.

  Officers and men, they were pretty much all drinking the same thing these days. The tobacco was shit, and the men had been muttering about the food, although there was little sign of mutiny yet.

  If nothing else, these people were interesting.

  Very interesting, especially Mrs. Saunders—travelling as she was, with a gentleman who was admittedly not her husband.

  Hmn.

  ***

  After an entertaining evening, with Piazza’s batman Fredo playing the accordion and Digby-Jones surprising everyone, singing la Traviata with a deep, mellow voice, for whatever reason Mrs. Saunders had latched onto Giulio. He might be a little young for her, but it occurred to him that he was probably better looking than the others…he found himself in the unusual position of blushing for the lady. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention.

  He didn’t mind so much, for her feminine scent and the feel as her hair brushed up against his cheek was distinctly arousing.

  “Er, Mrs. Saunders.”

  She clung to him, gazing up at the orange moon as it rose in the east.

  “Please, call me Alice.” Turning, her eyes were right there at his shoulder.

  What with a bandage across the bridge of his nose and the beginnings of a real shiner, he wondered just what she saw in him. Perhaps that didn’t matter—and it probably never had.

  Women had always mystified Giulio. They must have their own set of illusions.

  Impulsively, he put his arms around her. She seemed very vulnerable right then. Alice was also a very good actress. He wondered at what cost came independence and professional success without a man in her life. Up close, he could see that she was aging well and he felt embarrassed for her.

  Apparently she and Mister Saunders were separated. This was almost unheard-of in Italy, but apparently it was the norm back in southern California where she was from originally. Poor people abandoned their families all the time, or at least that was his impression. But of course they weren’t Catholics either. It was funny, the assumptions that one brought from home, the sort of cultural baggage one dragged along. Stepping off the veranda and into air now rapidly cooling, he put his arm around her and took her willingly out into the night.

  There was another Taube, right at the end of the short row of parked aircraft. There were low voices nearby but they were temporarily alone.

  “Take me.”

  “What?” That was pretty forward.

  He’d heard much about American women. Some of it wasn’t very complimentary, but considering the sources—old mustachioed women, clad from head to toe in black, going to morning Mass every day, it didn’t mean much. But some of it might also be true, he thought. Where Aleisha and others served the needs of the flesh, and tried her best and their best, this one sparked some deep desire that a ten lire whore could never really satisfy. At one time he had loved his wife—but this was a kind of attraction he hadn’t felt in a while.

  “I’m sorry? Pardon me?”

  She giggled, eyes shining up at his.

  She slapped him playfully on the chest.

  “No, silly, I mean take me up—take me flying. It would make a wonderful story, and of course we could relate it all to the other big changes coming to this country.”

  He stood with his arms around her.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s no place for a lady. It’s dirty, it’s noisy, and it’s very dangerous…” The plane was right there, shadowing them from view.

  But she was not so easily dissuaded.

  “I like big, loud, noisy things.”

  He bit his lip and then moved in for another kiss. She squirmed and wriggled in his arms, and he let her go after a brief but passionate response.

  Yes, he very much liked American women.

  If they were all like that, America must be really something.

  ***

  General Tomasini was engaged in making his usual perfunctory rounds. He did it once a week, regular as clockwork on a Monday morning. His little motorcade had arrived at the aerodrome right after breakfast, admittedly a grand word for a dusty space with exactly two buildings and a few tents. Confronted by certain issues, he was a naturally grumpy man trying to make the best of a bad situation presented to him by his valued and trusted subordinates.

  “Oh, Jesus, I don’t know.” She was very beautiful, and going by the clippings she had presented them, also a very famous reporter.

  Unfortunately, orphaned by the Army and with considerable autonomy as a result, the decision was pretty much his to make—if only he had the nerve to make it. The thing was, if he queried Rome, it would take forever to get a response and this was an opportunity that might not last that long. His ample jowls quivered in indecision. If nothing else, the man shaved well, thought Giulio. Quite frankly he reeked of it.

  Captain Piazza was all for it, but then he didn’t have to justify it to his superiors. In some sense he already had.

  “Please, sir?”

  The young lieutenant was suggesting that the Digby-Jones character could be taken aloft with his camera. They could have a couple of quick turns around the field, fly over the town maybe, and the young lady could write down her impressions in that lurid but highly-detailed manner of hers.

  The whole world would know what they were doing…they would sit up and take notice then.

  It all sounded good. Public opinion was divided enough back home, and diplomatically,
their invasion, not going particularly well or easy as it was, had become something of a fiasco internationally. The whole world was laughing at them, and something like this might be a bit of a diversion…some good news for a change, and showing their efforts for what they were.

  They were bringing the benefits of civilization to an illiterate society, and there were nothing but good things in the future for the indigenous population if only they would cooperate and just let it happen.

  “Ah…against my better judgement, very well. But I promise you, young man, and you, captain, that if anything goes wrong, if one hair is harmed on this delightful lady’s head, then I shall have your head.” He sat back, satisfied that he could deny all wrongdoing or responsibility in the event of a crash. “Ernest is a foreign citizen. His government would be very upset if we let anything had happen to him—it might make for some exciting reading though.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” Piazza had some ambitions of his own, although not unmindful of the attention Gavroti was getting. “We shall be extremely careful. We’ll stay over the local area. And we will stay at a safe height—”

  More than one local champion had taken pot-shots at their aircraft, and then taking off into the desert where they were essentially unreachable even in the unlikely event they could be identified.

  “Again. This is your responsibility, Captain Piazza. I wash my hands of it, but you may do what you like. And now, back to priorities. What, pray tell, is for lunch?” Folding his hands across his ample belly, he beamed at them through ridiculous little silver-rimmed glasses. He was happy to be out of the office, as much as anything else. “The other thing is, should we risk another plane? It seems to me we’re already one down.”

  They weren’t likely to get any replacements and they were expensive as well.

  Piazza’s eyes fell and they all chewed on that one for a while, and then he was right back on Mrs. Saunders.