by Bill Walker
“Remember,” he said, over and over again, “the desert will never forgive the mistakes I will. If you want to survive out there, pay attention here.”
There were other, less vital, aspects that others had learned from bitter experience: The serge battle dress uniforms issued to the British army, for instance, were wholly inadequate for wear in the desert. Soldiers had found that while it would keep them warmer at night, sand coupled with sweat would become ingrained in the fabric, causing severe chafing. And once they were out in the field for weeks at a time, any discomfort would become magnified tenfold. In addition to the uniforms, the regulation leather shoes had given way to soft suede ankle boots with rubber soles, drill trousers at night, shorts during the day. For headgear, it varied. Some liked to wear berets—different colors to signify a particular unit—and others their issue peaked caps, the last vestiges of their official uniform. For the L.R.D.G., comfort was all-important.
At the end of the week of training, Lloyd Owen called Thorley into his office. With him in the tiny cramped space was another officer. Older by at least fifteen years, with salt and pepper hair and a stiff military bearing, it was obvious to Thorley that the man had seen the horrors of war firsthand: one sleeve of his immaculate uniform lay slack and empty.
Owen waved him to a chair, the only one unoccupied. “Good of you to come, Thorley,” he said. “This is Lieutenant-Colonel Callum Renton, my superior.”
Thorley made to stand, and the older man signaled for him to remain seated. “At ease, Major, you’ve earned a rest. From what Lloyd Owen tells me, you’ve done a first-rate job of acclimating yourself.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” he said, beginning to wonder what this impromptu meeting was all about. It was as if Renton had read his mind at that moment.
“Right, I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve asked you up here, then,” he said.
He didn’t have a chance to speak before Renton continued in his clipped Oxonian accent. “Sir Basil has instructed us to fill you in on your mission....”
Thorley sat up straighter, his attention now riveted on the one-arm man.
“I thought I was being assigned to Colonel Prendergast.”
“Oh, quite right on that. However, Guy is in the midst of moving his entire base of operations to Siwa—getting a bit nasty, there, you see—and thought it best that we fill you in, as well.” He paused, and Thorley thought he would go out of his mind as he listened to the lazy squeaking of the ceiling fan overhead, the only sound to break the agony of silence. Finally, Renton cleared his throat and continued. “As you may have heard, we’re going on the offensive in just over a month. General Auchinleck is very concerned about security, and wants very much to be sure that Jerry hasn’t caught wind of our plans, or if he has, that it’s the disinformation we’ve been spreading.
“To that end, we’ve been sending out the patrols to key locations to do road watches. It’s their job to spot any and all enemy movement and to report it back via wireless.”
“So you want me to—”
Renton raised his one arm. “Hear me out. You’re much too valuable to send on a road watch, Major. We’re assigning you to one of the Guards patrols. It’s their mission to get you as close to Rommel’s Panzers as possible.
“It seems that something called ‘skip’ is being picked up from their tank radio traffic. It’s something I don’t understand, but it seems that on certain normally short-range radio frequencies, the signal bounces off the Heavyside Layer, resulting in it being picked up thousands of miles away.
“Some radio ham in America tuned in by accident and heard German. He reported it, of course, thinking it could be a spy in his hometown. But the Americans found out it was Rommel’s Panzers. They, in turn, informed London, who also tuned in. Unfortunately, because of sunspots, or some such rot, it’s so bloody filled with static that they can’t make head or tail of it enough to have one of their translators make a go of it.” Renton leaned forward then, his dark eyes blazing. “We want you right on top of the bastard. We want you to listen in on exactly what they’re saying, then we’ll know for sure if Rommel is planning any nasty surprises come November.”
“When do I leave, Colonel?”
“Tomorrow morning. First light,” Lloyd Owen said.
“You and Lieutenant Brady will be riding to Siwa with supplies on one of several new Chevrolet 30-cwts. It’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey, and you should be there two days hence. You’ll report to Guy immediately.”
Thorley stood, sensing the meeting had come to an end. Renton offered one last piece of advice. “I envy you, Thorley,” he said with genuine emotion. “The Long Range Desert Group is the best of the best, and you’ll be in the thick of it. Stay on your toes.”
Thorley thanked them both and then returned to his barrack room. Brady was already packing, his characteristic grin plastered on his face. “Looks like we’ll be together through thick and thin, Mikey,” he said, stuffing a pair of socks into his duffel. “Like two peas in a pod. Must be fate, eh?”
Thorley dropped onto his bunk, feeling drained all of a sudden. “Yeah, fate.”
It was funny. A few moments ago, he was itching to go, and now that the opportunity presented itself, the doubts began to flood his mind. Could he do the job? Would he survive? What he’d heard from a couple of veterans was that the biggest danger to the patrols came from the air. Otherwise, the distances were so vast out there in the trackless desert that skirmishes between patrols and the enemy were rare. This time, however, he and his patrol would be going directly to the enemy and putting his ear to their keyhole. The prospect was daunting.
Brady seemed to sense his mood. “You all right?”
“I’m fine, just feeling a bit dicey.”
Brady continued to pack his footlocker. “I’ve got a feeling, Mikey. You and me are going to come out on top of this one. You’ll see.”
After a night of restless attempts at sleep, Thorley sat up in his bunk shortly before five, his mind racing. It was all clear to him now. The sudden switch to a field assignment and the mention of Sir Basil’s name at his impromptu briefing with Lloyd Owen and Renton had clinched it. Though the mission on which they were sending him was vital, they fully expected him to become a casualty of war, and he would no longer be a threat to their precious security.
His anger growing, he climbed out of his bunk, padded across the cold stone floor, and pulled the unfinished letter out of his footlocker. Unfolding it, he quickly scanned what he’d written, then tore it to shreds. What he’d written before was no longer adequate. He reached into the desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of foolscap and began again, the soft scratching of his pen the only sound within those dark stone walls.
He wrote quickly, the words flowing directly from his heart to the page. Half an hour later, as he was struggling with the best way to end the letter, he heard Brady stirring, a soft moan escaping from the Irishman’s lips. A quick glance at the window revealed the sky had turned from a deep blue-black to dark charcoal gray. Dawn was perhaps ten minutes away. That meant the patrol would be leaving shortly thereafter. No turning back now.
Thorley grabbed for an envelope, placed the folded letter inside and sealed it. He then wrote on the front: To my Unborn Child, and sat staring at it feeling uncharacteristically weepy. Brady moaned again.
“What time is it, Mikey?”
“Almost dawn,” he replied, hiding the note under some other papers.
“I’ll never get used to this shit.”
A few minutes later, Brady stumbled from his bunk and trudged out into the hall, headed for the bathroom. Thorley used the time to open his footlocker and place the note in the space he’d prepared earlier in the day. The backing paper had come loose inside the lid and Thorley had worked more of it loose, careful not to tear it. Now, he shoved the letter as far in as he could and then used some chewing gum to fasten the paper back in place. When he was finished, he examined his work carefully from several angle
s until he was satisfied that nothing showed. Except for a minor bulge, nothing did. He only hoped that his child, his son, God willing, would be able to find it. More doubts assailed him then, making him wonder if perhaps he’d hidden it too well. But he could already hear Brady returning to the room, whistling some bawdy drinking song. By the time Brady had reentered the room, the footlocker looked as if no one had disturbed it and Thorley was busily packing his last remaining articles.
They left the room for the last time at half past six and hurried to the quad, where six 30-cwt. Chevrolet trucks stood end-to-end, engines belching exhaust into the hot, dry air. The rear beds of every vehicle were piled high with gear: explosives, ammunition, food, petrol, water, spare tires, everything they would possibly need for the journey to Siwa, and then beyond into the Libyan desert and Rommel’s tanks. Thorley had learned that a typical patrol could cover over fifteen hundred miles and last for as long as three weeks. Thorley’s patrol would be much more surgical: find Rommel’s tanks, find out their plans, and get out.
Brady tossed his duffel bag onto the back of the lead truck, gave Thorley a hand with his footlocker, and then climbed up onto the bed, finding seats on a pile of tires wedged in next to the petrol cans. A few minutes later, all six trucks drove out the front gate and headed west. They stopped for lunch at the Fayoum Oasis, a collection of date palms surrounding a brackish watering hole. A group of Bedouin watched them cook their lamb stew with an amused curiosity.
True to his nature, Brady invited them over with a wave and soon the Bedouin were laughing as Brady told them obscene jokes using an impromptu sign language. An hour later they were back in their trucks. Shortly before nightfall they camped out within sight of the Qattara Depression, a huge canyon that stretched northward toward El Alamein. Here the desert became rockier, looking far less like the gently rolling dunes so familiar to audiences of Hollywood films. Dinner consisted of more stew.
The next morning, everyone awoke at first light and ate a quick breakfast of dried dates and tea. They waited for the patrol’s navigator, a stocky Welshman named Craddock to use the Theodolite and get their position relative to the sun. He carefully calculated their exact latitude with a slide rule and a dog-eared notebook. They were just mounting up when an Italian Macchi fighter came into view over the horizon. It made several passes, and everyone made as if everything were normal, even to the extent of waving to the plane. Thorley breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the fighter turn back toward his base in Libya without strafing them. Either the pilot believed they were friendly forces, or had not wanted to waste his ammunition.
After the Macchi disappeared, the patrol commander, Lieutenant Fitzhugh, ordered everyone to mount up and they were soon underway. Delays were few, only two of the trucks required tires changed. They managed to avoid any sinkholes, traps that could mire a vehicle for hours, or if it was severe enough, break an axle.
By nightfall they pulled into Siwa, a community of adobe buildings so tightly packed together, and so haphazardly constructed, that from a distance the town appeared to be a natural rock formation. It was only when they were within a mile of it that the hand of man became apparent.
Prendergast’s headquarters occupied a small stone building next to the airstrip, collectively known as “Rest House,” for its cool interiors and hospitable cuisine. Patrols coming in after a three-week outing could expect to find all the comfort lacking in the desert, except for women.
The six trucks pulled up to Rest House and everyone dismounted. Thorley watched Fitzhugh march into the building and a moment later another soldier came out. Short and slight, he was tanned a deep mahogany color and his face looked as if it had been run through a tannery. He wore the uniform of a sergeant, and unlike Thorley’s, it was clean and crisply pressed. He scanned the trucks and the other men milling about smoking and chatting, then began walking toward them.
“Which one of you is Major Thorley?” he said in a pronounced Manchester accent.
They didn’t waste any time, did they? Thorley mused.
“I am,” he said, raising his hand.
The sergeant saluted, a snapping movement. “Right, Colonel Prendergast wants to see you straightaway, sir!”
Thorley returned the salute and motioned for him to lead the way. The sergeant turned on his heels and walked back toward the building. Once inside, it took a moment for Thorley’s eyes to adjust to the light. The interior was Spartan to the point of austere. The room he now stood in looked to be a common room of a sort, the furniture consisting of a few rough-hewn wooden chairs and tables that looked as if they’d been designed by someone who’d never seen a proper chair. Ornamentation was minimal. A map of Egypt and Libya occupied one wall and a picture of the King hung next to it. And that was it. He’d seen some prison cells that looked cozier, but it was meticulously swept, and Thorley could smell fresh tea brewing.
“You must be Thorley,” said a deep gravelly voice.
Thorley turned and found himself face to face with Colonel Guy Prendergast.
In his early fifties, Prendergast was of medium height, with square shoulders and a straight spine. Like everyone else, his face was deeply tanned and crisscrossed by scores of lines and wrinkles, and the pencil mustache he wore was precisely trimmed. He studied Thorley with a pair of hazel eyes curiously devoid of warmth, as if he were a specimen. He’d been told that Prendergast could be a cold fish. Some said he was humorless, while others said it was because he was shy. And while no one could agree on why the man stayed aloof, all agreed he was a first-rate commander.
“Major Michael Thorley, Royal Guards, reporting, sir,” he said, saluting.
“Very good, Major,” Prendergast said, returning the salute with a casual wave of his hand. “But we don’t stand on too much ceremony out here.... Gets in the way. Won’t you sit down?”
Thorley pulled up a chair and sat down. A moment later the sergeant rolled in a tea cart, its dainty lines looking very out of place. “Tea?”
Thorley realized that his mouth was dry, parched from the last fifty miles of their journey. “I’d love some, Colonel.”
“Please, call me Guy.”
“One lump, no milk, please.”
Prendergast nodded to the sergeant, who poured the tea. It tasted surprisingly good, a piquant Darjeeling, if his memory served. The older man began to speak.
“I assume Callum briefed you on the situation?”
Michael nodded. “He told me you wanted me to listen in on Rommel’s radio traffic, try to assess their knowledge of our offensive.”
“Right.” He leaned forward, his face flushing. “We have to know if they’ve caught on to us. Crusader depends partially on surprise. If we lose that we could lose everything. I’ve got a topnotch radioman who will travel with you on patrol. He’ll be operating a special wireless. The problem is you have to be within line of sight of the tanks or you won’t pick up a thing. You see what I’m driving at?”
Thorley said nothing, taking a sip of tea as Prendergast stood and went to the large map. He pointed to an area in Libya with a thick finger. “Our last intelligence put Rommel in the area of Hatiet el Etla, just south of Tobruk. Auchinleck feels that his position gives him a good chance of retaking the city.” He returned to his chair across from Thorley, his expression grave. “Sir Basil told me how good you are. He and I go way back. You get me anything you can from that German bastard, and you may be saving thousands of lives. Rest up for tonight, you and the patrol will be leaving at first light.”
Outside Rest House, Thorley sought out Brady, finding him at a small café that was little more than a hovel with a covered terrace and some battered tables and chairs. He was sipping on something that looked cloudy, almost like watered-down milk.
“It’s something the Bedouins brew up for the infidels. I believe its fermented camel spit, or some such. Whatever it is, it packs a punch. Come, sit down, Mikey, you look parched.”
Thorley took the unoccupied chair across from him, and
a moment later a young Arab boy came up to the table, his nut-brown face creased with a cheerful smile. Brady said something to him in Arabic and the boy bowed and ran off.
“Arabic? I’m impressed,” Thorley said.
Brady shrugged it off. “Always had a penchant for languages, enough to get by, anyway.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced as he swallowed. “I’m going to have to get the recipe for this. I know a few boys back in the pub who would take to this like fish to water.”
He laughed, and Thorley smiled, imagining a bunch of swackered Irishmen swimming in a vat of Brady’s Camel Spit elixir. The Arab boy reappeared and slammed down a tall earthen mug of the same drink and stood smiling from ear to ear.
“He’s waiting for you to try it, Mikey. Better tip it back, or you might offend the local sensibilities, if you be catchin’ my drift.”
Thorley stared at the milky brew, feeling his stomach roiling. The look of it was bad enough, but its odor was far worse, reminding him of the pungent smell of a men’s locker room after a hard game of Rugger. Gritting his teeth, he raised the mug to his lips, careful to hold his breath. Then he knocked it back, feeling the lukewarm liquor burning its way down his throat like liquid phosphorus. He gagged and began coughing. The Arab boy clapped his hands and said something and ran off.
Brady chuckled and took another gulp. “The boy says that Allah blesses your name.”
“Oh, that’s bloody wonderful,” he said, still coughing. After wiping his eyes, he took another experimental sip and found that it tasted far better than it smelled, and it was somehow familiar.
“Dates?”
“Very good, Mikey,” Brady said, raising his glass. “You might just make Honorary Irishman, yet.” He winked then turned serious. “I heard we’re moving out tomorrow.”
Michael nodded. “Prendergast gave me the poop.”
“What are we going to be doing, then, besides catching flies and burning ourselves black?”
