A Good Clean Fight (70 page)

“So what?”

Malplacket carefully placed his fork on his plate. He wiped his mouth, and dislodged some flakes of blackened blood. They fell on the table. He brushed them onto the floor with his hand. “Since you are absolutely determined to find fault with everything and everyone,” he said, “I suggest we abandon conversation for the present.”

Lester stared while he chewed his pasta. He washed it down with wine. “You know your trouble?” he said. “You give up too easily, that's your trouble. My old man—”

Far away, a siren growled and climbed and wound itself up to a high wail. The Italian woman stopped washing a pot and crossed herself.

“Action!” Lester said. “This I gotta see.” He crammed spaghetti into his mouth, found his cap and the car keys, and hurried out.

A dozen searchlights were fumbling and groping for the incoming bombers. Lester stood by the Fiat and tried to pinpoint the rumble of engines, but the noise was too high and too vague. Soon the harsh bark of flak batteries overwhelmed it. He backed the car down to the road and drove toward the center of town.

The first stick of bombs marched across the harbor area. The explosions cracked the blackness with their brilliance and the thunderclaps followed almost as an afterthought. Lester realized that he was looking down on
Benghazi; this was as good a view as he was going to get. He pulled over and began making notes.

The searchlights found a bomber. It was so high that all he could see was a glowing speck trapped in the cone. Then he saw bursts of flak in the beams; they resembled little smuts of soot. He recorded that. When the bomber began to burn it left a tail of flame, similar to a comet. It did not dive straight down: it fell in a long spiral, patiently tracked by the searchlights. When it crashed, the violence was so great that he felt it through his feet. Bombs still on board, he thought. Either that, or they hit the gasworks.

He counted eighty-four bomb-bursts. The flak tailed off, the searchlights quit, the sky was empty. Benghazi was quiet again, except for the distant, tinny clang of ambulances and the tireless barking of every dog in town. They should be used to the bombing by now, Lester thought. He made a note of it. Dogs were always good copy.

*   *   *

Next morning Malplacket woke up to the life-giving aroma of coffee. He had slept well, his nose had healed, and nobody was trying to kill him. Despite himself, he began to feel cheerful. Perhaps this mad act of derring-do would turn out for the best after all. And by eleven-fifteen that morning, when he was photographing Lester walking past a building festooned with large Nazi flags, he felt as happy as a boy on his first bicycle.

While he and Lester had shaved and showered and breakfasted, the Italian woman had sponged and pressed their uniforms. She was touchingly grateful when Lester gave her some paper money, so he added another couple of notes.

“Where on earth did you get all that?” Malplacket asked him.

“I looted those bodies in the desert. Some of it's a bit bloodstained. She didn't seem to mind that, did she?” He bowed from the waist and kissed her hand.

They drove into Benghazi and hid the Fiat inside a villa that looked as if, long ago, it had been shelled or bombed. The roof had gone and one end-wall was missing. Bushes had invaded the rooms; they filled the gaps that had once been windows with foliage and blossom.

Lester took the distributor cap. “Lotta shady characters about this sorta town,” he said.

They walked down the street. Malplacket noticed that Lester had acquired something of a strut; also, he kept his left thumb hooked inside his belt. Coming the opposite way were three German soldiers; they stopped talking as they approached, and saluted. Lester's salute hit the peak of his cap and flew outward as if on springs. Malplacket saw a soldier smirk.

When they were out of earshot, he said: “Don't salute like that, old chap. It's not done.”

“That's how they do it in the movies.”

“Forget Hollywood. You gave the impression that you were trying to swat a rather dull wasp. Come with me.” They went into an alley, where some Arab children were playing. “Bring your hand the long way up, and let it fall the short way down. Like this.” He demonstrated. “It's a mere acknowledgment, you see. Not physical training.” Lester practiced. So did the Arab children. “Casual, huh?” he said.

“Of course. You are an officer.” They went back into the street. “And try not to goose-step, old chap,” Malplacket said. The children were following them, saluting hard. He turned and stamped. They fled.

That was the turning point for Malplacket. Suddenly he felt in command. “From what little I saw last night,” he said, “the custom here is that officers who are out for a stroll walk arm-in-arm.”

Reluctantly, Lester linked arms. “Where I come from, this means we're as good as married.”

“Yes? How quaint.”

“You ditch me, my brothers break your legs.”

They sauntered through the town, merging with the crowds of servicemen. Lester counted a dozen different uniforms in a wide range of colors. He saw carabiniere, and Luftwaffe aircrew, and black soldiers, presumably recruited from the far corners of Mussolini's empire. He returned every salute as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Then they walked into a square and he saw the wreckage of a crashed fighter.

It was stacked on a recovery vehicle, with its wings folded alongside its fuselage. The RAF roundels stood out like bullseyes. “I gotta get a picture of that thing,” Lester said hungrily.

He showed Malplacket how to use his camera, and he posed, hands on hips, in front of the wreck. He was not alone. Other cameras were capturing the scene.

“That's gonna be worth a thousand bucks,” he said.

“Goodness. Money for old rope, isn't it? We should seek to enlarge your portfolio.”

Malplacket shot Lester drinking coffee at an outdoor café, surrounded by bronzed German officers. He shot him standing with his arms folded in front of an 88 mm antiaircraft gun. He shot him shading his eyes as he watched the gunners of a German navy patrol-boat detonate a British mine, creating a tower of white water. He had used up half the film when they chanced upon a building that could only have been a military headquarters. Dispatch riders came and went, and clusters of officers stood on the steps, talking. Swastika flags drooped from the upper windows and a swastika banner—long and pointed—billowed elegantly from the balcony. Machine guns on tripods flanked the door. A screen of sentries checked everyone who entered. Lester and Malplacket stopped and
studied the place from a distance. “No,” Lester said. “That's pushing our luck too hard.”

“All you need do is walk past. I'll take the picture from here. No one will notice.”

Lester laughed and turned his back on the scene. “You're getting to be crazier than me.”

Malplacket offered him the camera. “Very well. You take the picture and I'll go.”

Lester plucked at his fly and laughed again, nervous as a bridegroom. “Go to hell,” he said. He turned and walked away. His shoulders were hunched. He looked as if he might be holding his breath.

Malplacket let him cross the street and come back, and he got a nice, busy shot of him passing in front of the machine guns. He wound the film on and shot him waving away an Arab who was trying to sell fly-whisks.

“Let's beat it.” Lester was walking so fast he was almost running.

Malplacket went with him. “Is there a problem?”

“I think I should've saluted somebody back there, a general or something. Somebody shouted at me.”

Malplacket glanced behind them. Nothing had changed. A couple of German officers on the steps were laughing at whatever a third officer was saying. Lester scuttled round the first corner he reached. Malplacket hurried after him and grabbed his arm.

“Come on, let's go, let's go,” Lester urged.

“Nobody is following us. Nobody is interested in us, I assure you.” Malplacket was amused by Lester's jumpiness. “Do try to get a grip of yourself, old chap. If you persist in looking as horribly guilty as this, we shall both end up in the clink.” Lester scowled. Malplacket photographed him, scowling. “I thought you Americans were made of sterner stuff,” he said. “How you conquered the West if you went to pieces every time a Cherokee cleared his throat, I can't imagine. That sort of attitude wouldn't
have done in India. Not enough English phlegm, that's your trouble. Now if—”

“OK,” Lester said. “Enough.”

Malplacket gave him the camera. “I don't intend to be left out of your scoop,” he said. “Be sure I'm in focus.”

They returned to the street. Malplacket strolled past the military headquarters and turned. He saluted as he walked by the steps; a senior officer paused in conversation and returned the salute.
Perfect
, Malplacket thought.
And if he missed that shot I shall strangle him.
He crossed the street. Lester was not in sight.

Around the corner, twenty yards away, Lester was nodding and frowning as a pair of German naval officers spoke to him. They seemed very young and very friendly. Malplacket dashed forward. “Wilhelm!” he shouted. “Wilhelm!” They all turned. Malplacket made an urgent show of tapping his wristwatch. Lester backed away from the Germans, gesturing his helplessness. Malplacket took his arm and hurried him off.

They lost themselves in the crowd. “What on earth did they want?” Malplacket asked.

“Beats me. Maybe they thought they recognized me. I kept on coughing and shaking my head . . . Listen, I've had enough of all this. My ulcer's burning.”

“Did you take my picture?”

“Yeah, yeah, I took your lousy picture.” Lester's voice had become weak and thin, and it kept on breaking up. “Let's get back to the goddamn car.”

It was a long walk and by now the day was very hot. Twice, Lester had to stop and rest. When they reached the ruined villa, and the Fiat was still there, he let out a long sigh of relief.

“I suggest a siesta,” Malplacket said. It sounded peculiar. They laughed.

“Feel free, friend. Suggest a siesta to Lestah.” That sounded utterly absurd. Lester laughed until his stomach
muscles hurt, and he had to lean against the car. “I got news,” he said when he stopped gasping for breath. “There's a guy upstairs.”

Malplacket thought it was a joke until Lester took out his pistol. He moved alongside Lester and looked up. Half the ceiling had collapsed when the roof caved in. Upstairs, in the tangle of broken beams and planks, just visible at the fringe of destruction, was an army boot with some bare leg attached.

“Whoever he is, he's not doing us any harm,” Malplacket said. He felt slightly sick: too much tension, too much heat. “Why don't we just leave him alone?”

“He's hiding. He's probably a deserter.” Lester's voice was cracking up again. “Might be dangerous. Might be armed.”

“I'm sorry, old chap, I simply can't handle another crisis before lunch. Just fix the car, quickly, so that we can go.”

“Sure.” As Lester moved forward, the boot moved back. It dislodged a dribble of stones. Lester stopped. Nobody spoke. Plaster dust sifted slowly through bars of sunlight. There was more movement above. More rubble fell.

“For Pete's sake,” Lester said miserably. The pistol hung from his fingers like a dead thing.

A man crawled to the edge and looked down at them. He was young and small and thin. All he wore was shorts and boots. He spoke in German: the words meant nothing to them.

“You never saw us, kid,” Lester said. “And we never saw you. Now crawl back into your hole.”

With one hand the young man gripped the splintered end of a beam and he swung into space. It was a fall of about eight feet and he landed badly. He was weeping with pain, but he stumbled to his feet and raised his arms in surrender. One arm would not go all the way up. It was broken or dislocated or maybe both. Lester had not seen anyone so thin and filthy since China. What made it worse
was the young man's voice. Throughout the weeping he kept chanting the same shrill German phrase, over and over again. Lester recognized the sound of the mentally ill, a noise so full of hurt that it was unbearable. Sooner or later it would be stopped by a punch in the mouth.

Lester's hands were shaking as he replaced the distributor cap. “Try the engine!” he called. The Fiat whirred and grumbled and would not start. Lester crossed himself. “You hypocritical bastard,” he whispered. The Fiat coughed and fired and roared, drowning out the German's manic gabble. Lester scrambled into the car. “What's wrong with a bit of hypocrisy, anyway?” he said.

“What?”

“Forget it. Wait!” He opened the door and threw a fistful of money. The young German expected a blow: he staggered back, tripped and fell. “Let's go!” Lester cried.

*   *   *

Malplacket drove carefully through the town. “You've got your story now, haven't you?” he said. “We can leave, can't we?” Lester nodded.

They were old Benghazi hands. Finding the way out was easy. Nobody wanted to stop them. They were waved through the roadblock under the triumphal gateway. After that, it took remarkably little time to reach the turn-off where they had parted company with Lampard's patrol. Malplacket drove into the Jebel and parked under some trees.

They ate lunch: biscuit and bully-beef. An Arab boy appeared and sold them fresh goat's milk. “It ain't Groppi's,” Lester said, “but it'll do . . . Jeez, I'm tired. We did it. I can't believe we did it.” He photographed the boy, who smiled.

“I hope you took my picture when I was saluting.”

“Yeah, sure,” Lester shrugged. “I think I did.”

“If you missed that salute I shall never forgive you. Neither will Blanchtower.”

Gibbon had drilled them in the route to the rendezvous. It was simple: they drove through the foothills of the Jebel until they picked up the main camel trail that went south. It crossed the Tariq el 'Abd at a point marked by the skeletons of three camels and the fresh grave of a German soldier. From there they set the sun compass to one hundred and eighty degrees and drove on that bearing for precisely fifty kilometers into the Sahara. They reached the rendezvous by midafternoon. It looked just like the rest of the desert, and it was just as empty.