D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

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.