by Bill Walker
“Jawohl. Aus.”
The radio fell silent and he pulled one of the headphone cans off one ear, leaving the other covered.
“What was that frequency?” Thorley asked.
“27.135 megacycles.”
“Make a note of that one and keep scanning.”
“You heard something. What did they say?”
Thorley shook his head. “Routine. One of the Panzers identified themselves and the base commander ordered them to proceed to a point they’re calling Viktor.”
“So, what does it mean?”
“I don’t bloody know. I was afraid of this.”
Brady looked puzzled, prompting Thorley to explain.
“The Germans use radio codes, phonetic words that stand for actual German words. Just as we use, ‘Abel, Baker, Charley,’ they use the German equivalent. They also use them as vectors on a map, point Viktor, or ‘V,’ being one of them. And every branch of the Wehrmacht uses a different code. Unless I have access to a German map, I can’t tell you where Point Viktor is.”
Thorley watched the tanks forming ranks for traveling.
Brady shook his head, exasperated. “Bloody Christ. All this work and they’re speaking gibberish. What about what you just heard?”
“Like I said, routine. There was no reason for the code, except for their destination. That could mean any place.”
“Like Tobruk.”
“Yes, like Tobruk,” Thorley echoed, his mood turning dark. He readjusted the headphones. “Let’s keep going.”
They caught another snippet of conversations between two tanks and like he feared, it was almost entirely in code, something about “Sago” and “Kurfürst” and “Indianer.” The words themselves, though formal German vocabulary, he knew were being used to mean something entirely different here and now.
The first column of tanks began moving out of the depression. There was more coded chatter intermixed with some joking between the Panzer crews. Thorley turned to Brady. “What’s your frequency?
“27.225.”
“Go back to 27.135.”
Brady nodded and turned the dial. At first there was nothing. And then Brady must have nudged the dial one way or the other because his headphones suddenly filled with laughter and then a question.
“Dort sollen die Frauen gutaussehen. Aus?”
The reply came in a guttural Bavarian accent. “Ja, sehr gut. Du wirst Jamila kennen lernen. Sie besizt das beste wirtshaus in Alamein. Ich war dort bevor dem Krieg. Sie wird sich freuen, uns zusehen. Aus.”
“Oh, ja. Das ist ausgezeichnet.”
Thorley was riveted. Someone in one of those tanks had mentioned El Alamein, as if they planned on being there sometime soon. Either this meant Rommel was planning his own offensive and these lovesick tankers had just given away the objective, or it was all idle chatter, wishful thinking on the part of two war weary men. One thing was for sure, he needed to hear more, something of a more military nature. No one had mentioned anything about General Auchinleck’s offensive. Thorley returned to the conversation between the two tankers, eager to hear more. By this time, however, the talk had degenerated into bathroom humor that was soon ended when an officer cut in on them and demanded they stop jabbering.
Thorley ripped off the phones and began writing on a tiny notepad. Brady watched, his tense expression giving away his eagerness to learn what Thorley had heard. Thorley resisted the urge to smile, enjoying his newfound power over the impetuous Irishman.
“You’re about ready to burst, aren’t you?” Thorley asked, allowing himself to smile.
Brady looked annoyed. “Bloody right. Now spill it. What did you hear?”
“Basically this. Two men were discussing the merits of Egyptian women and one of them promised to introduce him to the tart that runs his favorite bar in El Alamein.”
“It’s not much to go on, Mikey.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Did they say anything about Crusader?”
Thorley shook his head wearily. “Not yet, so I suggest we keep listening. The tanks will all be gone in a little while, maybe someone else will let slip with something.”
“Fine by me,” Brady said, staring after the departing tanks.
Thorley replaced the headphones and listened as Brady ran through the spectrum between 26 and 28 megacycles. They caught a few more conversations, mostly in that blasted code. He transcribed what he could, hoping that something would jog his mind later, but without knowing what the clear German words were, it would be a guessing game at best.
The tanks took longer to evacuate the area than they had anticipated, and Brady had to change the battery. They scanned the frequencies one last time and Thorley caught the tail end of another conversation. The word Alamein was mentioned again. That clinched it for him. Rommel was up to something, and had no idea that Auchinleck was about to mount a major offensive. The information they had would be invaluable, and from what he knew of El Alamein, it was the perfect ground for a confrontation, the advantage going to those who would be ready and waiting.
After the last tank had disappeared over the next rise and all possibility of surveillance had ceased, they packed up the radio and moved out. The sun fell toward the horizon and a cooling breeze had sprung up when they made their way back toward the spot where the rest of the patrol had encamped. Thorley shivered and made an effort to pick up the pace. He had no desire to be caught out in this godforsaken place after nightfall.
Winded and feeling the cold, they reached the camp under the light of the full moon. Fitzhugh and the others greeted them like long lost brothers and feted them with hot lamb stew and a fresh bottle of Scotch someone had brought along contrary to regulations.
After he and Brady had eaten, Fitzhugh asked them what had happened. Thorley told him what he’d heard, and Fitzhugh listened intently.
“I think you’re onto something, Major,” he said when Thorley had finished recounting their mission. “General Auchinleck will be pleased. Good work.”
The whisky hit them all hard and everyone turned in soon after. The next morning the trucks retraced their route to Siwa. They arrived back at Rest House a little after dawn the next day. Michael was called upon to debrief for Prendergast, who seemed a little less than enthusiastic at his findings. By now, Thorley knew that Prendergast’s lack of emotion was not a reflection either on him or his information, simply a part of the man. But Thorley knew he’d scored a coup by the twinkle in the man’s eyes when he shook his hand.
“I spoke with General Auchinleck this morning,” Prendergast said. “He wants you in Cairo day after tomorrow to brief him personally on your mission. You and Brady will leave on the outgoing supply truck. You also have three day’s leave, by the way. Good show, Thorley.”
After his debriefing with Prendergast, Thorley took a much-needed bath and changed into a fresh uniform, taking time to shave off the four days growth that stubbled his chin. He’d noticed some gray hairs in his beard and for some reason it bothered him. It was as if the war and his recent experiences were taking an inevitable toll—the theft of his youth, his innocence long since gone.
Outside Rest House, Thorley found Brady waiting for him next to the idling supply truck, which ran back and forth from Cairo every other day to bring petrol and travel rations for the patrols. Usually, the drivers would then take outgoing mail or passengers bound for Cairo.
Brady clapped him on the shoulders. “When you and me hit the big “C,” boyo, we’re going to have us a grand old time. You just leave it to Corwin.” He winked and climbed up on the back of the truck and Thorley joined him. The driver, a nervous sort, glanced at his watch and shook his head. “One more minute and you blokes would have been left behind, General or no General.” He then climbed into the cab, started the engine, threw it into gear and they were off.
Unlike their journey to Siwa, the return to Cairo seemed far shorter. Thorley reasoned that the supply truck drivers knew the best and fastest routes, and knew wher
e to avoid the sinkholes and other pitfalls so common in the desert. They reached Cairo and the hospitality of Shepheard’s by nightfall. Brady made several phone calls. When he got off, he clapped his hands and laughed.
“I just got the poop. There’s a little spot on the other side of town where the girls are easy, and the liquor is cheap. What do you say, we paint this town a new color?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on that one. I’ve got to see Auchinleck at 0700, and I’d rather not be nursing a hangover. “
“Come on, Mikey. We’re in Cairo, for Christ’s sake. You’ve just been given three days to put the war and the dirt behind you. Besides, I’ll not have me friend mopin’ about on his night of glory.”
“What glory, we just listened to the radio.”
“It was a lot more than that, and you know it. I’m standin’ you drinks, boyo, and the least you can do is come along, drink up and enjoy yourself. If you’re not wantin’ female companionship, that’s okay by me.”
Thorley sighed. There was no getting out of this one. “All right, boyo,” he said, putting on a fake Irish accent that made Brady wince. “Let’s be going then.”
The “little spot” Brady mentioned was the Kit Kat Club, a splashy nightspot on the opposite side of Cairo from the hotel. Decorated in a cross between Art Deco and Egyptian motifs, it boasted a seventeen-piece band up on its own stage, and two full bars with enough exotic concoctions to melt the brains of several armies. It was packed when they walked in, smoke hanging thickly about the dimly lit room. Pools of light dotted the floor in between tables covered in crisp white linen. To Thorley it all looked like something out of a Hollywood B-movie.
Wading through the smartly dressed crowd, Brady found them an empty table near one of the bars just vacated by an amorous couple heading for the door. A young Egyptian busboy came by, scooped up all the empty glasses, replaced the linen and the table lamp, and scurried away. Thorley took his seat and let his eyes run over the crowd, already regretting his decision to come. The club was too dark, the band too loud, and the smoke made his eyes water. Moments after they’d taken their seats, a white-coated waiter came up to them and took their drink order: two scotches, neat.
When the drinks came, Thorley took a generous sip and let the fiery liquor flow down his throat, feeling it warm his stomach. It felt good. And he was beginning to think that it was just what he needed. He realized Brady was talking to him and leaned forward to hear over the band’s rendition of “Little Brown Jug.”
Brady was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and pointing toward the bar. Thorley followed his gaze and noticed two women seated at the end drinking tall glasses of what looked like champagne. Brady grinned at them and they returned the smile with toothy ones of their own.
“There’s a couple of ripe ones, eh, Mikey.” Brady’s voice was thick with desire, and Thorley felt his stomach twist as his anxiety level rose a notch.
The girls were voluptuous in the classic sense: narrow waists book-ended by large breasts and derrieres. The word “Junoesque” came to mind. Both were darkly complected with raven hair and chocolate-brown eyes that smoldered with frank invitation.
“A feast for the eyes, as well as the soul,” Brady said, raising his glass to the girls. They took it as their cue and began threading their way through the crowd toward their table. Each wore a slinky cocktail dress that clung to them, undulating with their every move.
Thorley fumed.
“I told you I didn’t want this, Corwin. I’m married, for God’s sake!”
“Just relax,” he said, a sly grin on his face that made Thorley even angrier. “No one’s twisting your arm, here. Let’s enjoy their company. Nothing has to happen. Okay?”
Thorley felt as he’d been neatly boxed into a corner: Leave and be the party poop, the bloody stick-in-the-mud, or stay and risk—what, temptation?
He sighed, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. “All right, you win. I’ll be a good boy.”
Brady clapped him on the back and smiled. “That’s the way to play it!”
When the women drew closer, Thorley saw they were both very young, probably under twenty-five. Their smiles widened when they reached the table. Both men stood.
“Ladies, may I present Major Michael Thorley, and I’m Lieutenant Corwin Brady, both of His Majesty’s Long Range Desert Group. And we are honored to meet you.”
He made a mock bow and both girls looked at each other and laughed. The taller of the two girls spoke first. “Hello, British, my name is Aziza and this is my friend, Femi.” Aziza’s accent was thick, but understandable. Femi, however just smiled and giggled. Apparently, Aziza would have to do the talking for the both of them.
They sat down and Aziza moved her chair closer to Thorley, her spicy perfume hitting him like one of the L.R.D.G’s trucks. Subtlety was obviously not this girl’s strong suit.
“What are you girls drinking?” Brady asked, his smile widening as Femi stroked his arm.
“Champagne,” Aziza purred, her eyes drilling through Thorley.
Brady waived to the waiter and rattled off the order in rapid Arabic. The waiter nodded and scurried off, returning moments later with two more flutes and an iced magnum. Brady raised his glass. “A toast. To my good friend, Michael Thorley, who has very probably saved his country single-handed!”
Thorley was embarrassed; not only because of what Brady had just said, which was patently foolish, but because the man was already drunk and drawing unwarranted attention to the both of them.
And then there were the girls.
Femi continued to become overly familiar with Brady, who lapped it all up like a thirsty dog, while Aziza’s mere existence and close proximity was enough to upset Thorley’s equilibrium.
“Corwin, likes to joke,” he said, shooting his friend a disapproving glare.
Brady drained his glass of champagne and laughed, and Femi joined in, perhaps thinking that she should. “Ahh, Mikey’s a modest one, that’s for sure. Now take me, for instance.” He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes moving from one girl to the next. “I’ll tell you I’m the best and to hell with you if you disagree. Hah!”
The girls laughed and Thorley shook his head, taking a long gulp of the champagne. It was surprisingly good, and he quickly drained the glass, then refilled it. He let Brady dominate the conversation, as he usually did, and watched him regale the girls with a series of his infamous pub stories, alternating between both English and Arabic. He soon had the women hysterically laughing. Bored and not a little sad that his big moment in the desert was already behind him, Thorley kept refilling the glass with the bubbly wine. A quick glance at the label nearly brought him up short: Dom Perignon—1932.
Not a cheap wine, to say the least. It was then he decided to throw caution to the wind along with his money. After all, hadn’t he come close to death once this week already, and hadn’t he completed the mission his superiors set out for him, and successfully at that? He bloody well deserved to at least enjoy an evening out.
Twenty minutes later, he realized he was drunk, and when the band came back from its break and began playing a fast-paced Swing tune, he impulsively asked Aziza to dance. She practically dragged him out onto the floor and began a frantic jitterbug that would have been the envy of any teenager at the Hammersmith Palais. Reticent at first, Thorley let loose and began to mimic her moves, surprised that he was able to pick them up so quickly. And then the music changed, the tempo slowing. Aziza came to him, vital and brimming with her youth, and cleaved her curvaceous body to his. Unlike Lillian’s, her body meshed effortlessly with his, like a jigsaw puzzle made of flesh.
Lillian.
All at once, like a bad omen, she intruded, her face welling up in his mind, along with a flood of guilt. But instead of backing off, instead of coming to his senses and leaving the nightclub for the safety of Shepheard’s, he began to respond to Aziza’s none-too-subtle overtures. A part of his fogged mind knew it was wrong, knew it even as
he succumbed to it. But the one image that kept him traveling down that inexorable road was that of the faceless man sitting in the back seat of that black Daimler with the C.D. plate. The man who’d held Lillian exactly as he now held this dusky jewel, the man who’d nearly stolen his wife from him.
As the mood of the music became more romantic, Aziza pressed even harder against him, her long crimson nails digging into his back; he felt himself growing hard against her. He looked down and saw that she was gazing up at him, a lost, pleading look in her dark eyes. A sweat broke out on the back of his neck and the room began to tilt. The band seemed unbearably loud; the smoke impossibly thick.
He needed to breathe.
Leaving Aziza on the dance floor, Thorley pushed through the crowd, oblivious to the angry snarls of those he elbowed past, his eyes focused on the exit. He burst through it, welcoming the cool breeze that caressed his face like a soft hand. His heart hammered against his ribs and he found that he needed to lean against the stucco wall of the nightclub or risk fainting.
It was the champagne.
He wasn’t used to drinking that much that fast. It still bubbled through his brain, making him feel surreal, otherworldly. But he had to admit, part of it was the girl. That she was attractive was obvious, but there was something else about her, something primal. And it had affected him in a way that scared him to the core.
“Are you okay, British?”
She was there, right next to him, her breath against his face—unavoidably sexual. She caressed his cheek, and a shock passed through his body, as if her fingers were electrified.
He wanted to hold her.
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to run.
Oh, God, Lillian, a man can only resist so much!
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just a little winded.” He avoided looking at her, afraid of what he might do.
“It is hard to be so far from home, yes?”
She sounded different, less predatory, and it was the note of empathy in her voice that made him turn and face her. She smiled and it made her glow with a genuine warmth he would have thought beyond her.
