A Good Clean Fight

by Derek Robinson

  “Slight exaggeration,” Bletchley murmured.

  “Takoradi is a bitch, sir.”

  “Of course it is. But it’s the only way we can get fighters to Egypt, short of sending them around the Cape and that takes forever. The Takoradi route is working wonders, Fanny, but it needs more pilots and I’ve got the job of finding them.”

  “Don’t look at my squadron, sir. We’re fighter pilots.”

  Bletchley read his tea-leaves again. “From what I hear, not everybody is totally convinced of that.”

  “Things will change, sir. You watch.”

  “Oh, I shall,” Bletchley said. “Believe me, I shall watch very closely.”

  Barton flew back to his airfield, thinking hard all the way, and sought out his intelligence officer. Schofield was about thirty, a hardworking young architect until the war came along. He was a good listener. Barton said nothing of the risk to his own job, but he spelled out the Takoradi threat. It was essential, he said, that the squadron rapidly made itself indispensable.

  Schofield sharpened a pencil. All his pencils were as sharp as needles. “You know the form, Fanny,” he said. “This is one of those long pauses in the fighting while we all get our breath back. Our army’s not strong enough to attack. Rommel’s not ready yet, either. So he’s not about to risk his lovely Messerschmitts in the sky. Why should he? He needs them for his next battle. I’d do the same if I were Rommel.”

  “Wing reckons the other squadrons are making kills.”

  Schofield shrugged. “They prang the odd bomber, now and then.”

  “I’d give a crate of Scotch for the odd bomber, now and then.”

  “You can’t shoot them down if they won’t take off.”

  Barton took one of Schofield’s pencils and tested it on a fingertip. It was very sharp indeed. He pricked his skin, jerked his hand and snapped the point. “Sorry,” he said. Schofield took it from him and began re-sharpening it. “Looks like a dead end,” Barton said. He sucked his finger.

  “Well,” Schofield said, “unless you know a way to get the enemy off his backside, you’re somewhat stymied, aren’t you?”

  Barton went away and brooded over it. Next day he called on the wing commander again. “I know how I can give my boys a crack at the 109s, sir,” he said, “but I need your okay.”

  The wing commander looked and waited.

  “It involves doing a bit of strafing,” Barton said. “Rather like Ray Collishaw. Wasn’t he AOC Western Desert when Italy came into the war? May 1940?”

  “June,” the wing commander said.

  “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but didn’t the Italian Air Force have him hopelessly outnumbered? Five to one? Six to one? Something ridiculous like that. And Collie simply ignored the odds. The RAF went on the attack and never stopped.”

  “He used to say ‘We’ll fox ’em,’” the wing commander said. “Collie was a great one for foxing the enemy.”

  “And didn’t it work? The poor bloody Italian infantry never knew where they were going to be bombed next! Collie used to look at the map and say, ‘We’ve just attacked here and here, so they’ll expect us to hit there and there next, but we won’t do that, we’ll hit this, that and the other instead.’ And the Eye-ties got so twitchy they screamed for their air force to come and protect them.”

  “Standing patrols,” the wing commander said.

  “Exactly. Dawn-to-dusk umbrella over the troops. A wicked waste of good fighters and it wore them out like ninepins.”

  “I don’t think ninepins wear out, do they?” the wing commander said. “Still, the Italians certainly gave themselves big servicing problems. They ended up with more kites in the hangars than in the air.”

  “Collie foxed ’em,” Barton said brightly. “So can I.”

  “What with? The Tomahawk’s not a bomber.”

  “But we can ground-attack the buggers, sir. We can strafe them every ten minutes. Strafe ’em from asshole to breakfast! They won’t like that! They’ll scream for fighter cover. Standing patrols of 109s! Then at last my chaps can have a decent scrap.”

  The wing commander thought that if Barton grew any more enthusiastic, smoke would come out of his ears. “I’ll put it up to Group,” he said. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  * * *

  Group disliked the idea.

  “Barton’s bored, is that it?” the group captain said. “Tough titty. We’re not here to amuse Barton and his boys.” The group captain was suffering from dhobi itch, a form of athlete’s foot in the crotch that prickled maddeningly. He could barely restrain himself from scratching.

  “Exactly what I told him, sir,” the wing commander said.

  “There are fundamental flaws in his proposal,” said the group captain. “This isn’t 1940, Barton’s not Collishaw, and the Luftwaffe is not the Regia Aeronautica.”

  “There’s another thing, sir. Barton’s squadron is almost out of range of the enemy ground forces.”

  “That’s no problem. I can move him forward. Far forward.” The group captain wriggled his backside as hard as he dared. It did no good; if anything it aroused the dhobi itch; but sometimes you had to act whether it worked or not.

  “I’ve been strafed once or twice,” the wing commander said cautiously, “but never day-in day-out. They say it’s a bit of a bind.”

  “Do they? Then they’re farts.” The group captain got up and walked stiffly to the window. “Constant strafing is utterly demoralizing. Worse than bombing. Far worse.”

  “I suppose the Tomahawk is quite good at ground attack.”

  “Not bad. It certainly looks ugly enough, with those bloody silly shark’s teeth.” The group captain squinted at the bleached-out glare and watched a little dust-devil whirl across the sand, tottering like a drunk, until it spun out of view. “What it boils down to,” he said, “is giving Barton a free hand to make a complete bloody nuisance of himself in the hope that he scares up a few Me 109s.”

  “That’s about it, sir.”

  Group decided to sleep on it. Next day he telephoned Air Commodore Bletchley. “Look, sir,” he said, “you’ve known Squadron Leader Barton a long time. What d’you think of him?”

  “I like him. He’s a typical New Zealander. A bloodthirsty young bugger with precious few scruples. Admirable.”

  “And this plan of his?”

  “Well, it raises two simple questions. What’s the worst that can happen? And what’s the best that can happen?”

  “The second’s easy: we get a chance to thin out Rommel’s 109s now. Worst? I suppose the absolute worst is bang goes a squadron of Tomahawks.”

  “Which are obsolete.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’ve a feeling I’ve overlooked something,” the group captain said.

  “Don’t get sentimental,” Bletchley told him. “Spare me that.”

  The group captain hung up. He locked the door, took off his shorts and spread some new anti-fungoid cream all over his hectic crotch. He had no faith in the treatment. This was Africa, and Africa always won. Standing in his shirt, with his legs wide apart, he telephoned Wing and gave his decision: transfer Barton’s squadron to LG 181 immediately and tell him to begin strafing operations a.s.a.p.

  “Right, sir,” the wing commander said. “Who knows? This might solve all Barton’s problems.”

  “I expect it will. One way or another.”

  Delicately, the group captain stepped into his shorts. He winced as he pulled them on. War was tolerable, but war plus dhobi itch was beyond the call of duty.

  * * *

  Major Jakowski’s desert-brown open-top Mercedes swept across the parade ground in front of the Italian army barracks in Benghazi and stopped next to the main entrance. Captain di Marco stepped forward with six men and a sergeant. He was the wrong side of fifty, too old for combat, but he knew the desert, he spoke adequate German and therefore he had been made a liaison officer. He was tall, with gray hair turning silver and a serious, unblinking face wh
ose skin was lightly pockmarked like an unripe orange.

  Two of his men hurried to open the rear doors of the Mercedes while another two maneuvered a wheelchair into position for Major Schramm to use.

  Di Marco saluted. “Good morning, major.”

  Jakowski returned the salute with the minimum effort. It was ten a.m. and he was sweating already.

  They processed through the barracks. Soldiers stopped what they were doing and stiffened to attention until the group had passed. Finally it reached a large room, draped with Italian flags and regimental pennants. There were captured Arab swords on the walls and a dais with a twice-life-size bust of Mussolini. A laurel wreath lay around its neck. A dozen chairs upholstered in red leather surrounded a table of polished oak.

  “We’re a little early,” di Marco said. “Would you like some iced lemonade?”

  “I’d like some blood,” Jakowski said. He wandered off and looked at a photograph of cavalry.

  “They raided us again, two nights ago,” Schramm said. “Not Barce. Tmimi, near Derna. Just a landing-ground, but they caused a lot of trouble. Could you make it iced tea for me?”

  The captain looked at the sergeant, the sergeant nodded at one of the soldiers, and the soldier went out. Jakowski came back. “Horses are useless in the desert,” he said.

  Time passed. The soldier returned with the iced drinks. A little later, four army officers came in and di Marco made the introductions. The senior Italian officer, a brigadier, invited everyone to be seated. Schramm’s wheelchair was eased into place beside the table.

  Jakowski had asked for this meeting. He had heard that the Italian army was making its own plans to counter the SAS raids. It made sense to coordinate his operation with theirs, whatever it was. He sat back and let the brigadier open the discussion.

  Jakowski’s knowledge of Italian went little further than restaurant menus. The brigadier had no German. After a couple of minutes, di Marco gently stopped him and began to translate.

  “The Italian High Command has examined the concept of maintaining a mobile column in the Sahara in order to intercept enemy patrols, and it has decided that this is not the most efficient way to use its resources.”

  “Why not?” Jakowski asked.

  “Because its resources are small, while the desert is big.”

  “They’ll never succeed if they never try. How can—”

  “Be quiet,” Schramm said. “Let him finish.”

  “Instead,” di Marco said, “a combined operation of the Italian air force and army is being planned. Long-range reconnaissance aircraft will search the desert all day, every day. When they find an enemy patrol, a unit of Italian paratroops will be flown immediately to that spot.”

  “They’ll be dead before they touch the ground,” Jakowski said. “Those SAS jeeps carry heavy machine guns.”

  Di Marco spoke to the brigadier, and the brigadier replied.

  “The paratroops will not be dropped within machine-gun range of the enemy patrol,” di Marco said. “They will be dropped several kilometers away.”

  “In that case they will never catch the enemy,” Jakowski said, “no matter how fast they run.”

  This time the brigadier did not wait for di Marco’s question. He rattled off a confident statement as he opened a folder and spread out some large photographs. A jeep-like vehicle was shown descending beneath a cluster of three parachutes. It landed on its wheels, the silk canopies collapsing. Men drove it away.

  “You need specially adapted aircraft to do that,” Jakowski said. “How many has he got? And how many search aircraft?”

  Di Marco came back with the information. At that moment, only one search aircraft was available but more were promised. As for aircraft to deliver vehicles by parachute: several large troop-carriers were being adapted as a matter of urgency. They would be delivered at the earliest possible opportunity.

  “That’s too late,” Jakowski said. “The threat is now. We must act now.”

  The brigadier understood his tone of voice and spoke a few crisp words. “You believe in confronting the enemy,” di Marco translated. “We believe in outwitting him.”

  There was little more to be said. After a few minutes the meeting ended.

  On the way out, Schramm said: “I know it’s not your style, but I must say their solution seemed to have a lot of merit.”

  “Too much machinery. Too many things to go wrong.”

  “Air power can be valuable,” di Marco said.

  “Look: there’s no easy way to do a difficult job. You can’t fight the battle from some remote operations room. You’ve got to get out in the desert and track down the enemy and blow his damned head off, five hundred kilometers from anywhere. It’ll take sweat and guts and sheer bloody persistence. Jumping out of airplanes is no short cut to success.”

  They passed yet another garlanded bust of Mussolini. Schramm said, “How often do you change the laurel wreaths?”

  “Once a week,” di Marco told him. “Fresh laurels are flown in from Italy every Friday, without fail.”

  “Victory through air power,” Schramm said. Jakowski gave a bleak smile. He could afford it. He knew he was right.

  * * *

  Lampard involved himself as little as possible with the administrative side of the SAS. He realized that it performed an essential job—men had to be paid, promotions approved, casualties treated, supplies organized, vehicles replaced, records kept—and he was grateful that competent, conscientious officers took care of all that dreadful boring routine stuff. For himself, Lampard wanted none of it. He wanted to return to the desert as soon as possible and start causing more havoc.

  However, although he wanted none of it he recognized that he must have some. On his second day back in Cairo he handed his written report on the Barce raid to Captain Kerr. One of Kerr’s jobs was to debrief the incoming patrol leaders. Lampard rather liked Kerr. He was a Scot who seemed always to be half-smiling, or on the point of doing so. You felt Kerr was glad to see you again.

  It took Kerr two minutes to read Lampard’s report and five minutes to reread it. Meanwhile Lampard sat in a corner and flicked bits of broken matchstick at the flies.

  “Twenty-seven aircraft destroyed,” Kerr said. “That’s a fine figure.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “The old man was very pleased. He’s away in the desert again, otherwise . . . And you got an Italian motor-car to boot. A great big Alfa-Romeo. Tell me more about that.”

  “What’s to tell? We found it, so we snaffled it. Better than walking home.”

  A bit of matchstick had landed on Kerr’s desk. He poked at it with his pencil, cautiously. “Keys in the dash, I suppose,” he said.

  “What? Oh no. No fear. Corporal Harris fiddled some wires. One of his civilian skills.”

  “Of course.” Kerr squeezed down hard on the end of the bit of matchstick and made it hop. “Too bad about Harris. Was there no warning sign?”

  “Well, with hindsight maybe he did look a bit knackered, but then I suppose we all looked a bit knackered.”

  “Odd that he didn’t tell anyone. Knife wound in the stomach, you’d think he’d say something.”

  Lampard shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t want to slow us down. Heart like a lion, Harris. Bags of pride.”

  “Yes.” Kerr sat back. Lampard got up and perched one buttock on a three-drawer filing cabinet and folded his arms. “Presumably Harris was on his own when he got the wound,” Kerr said.

  “Seems likely. I reckon he went hunting for Jerry sentries in the dark.”

  “Ah.” Kerr made a note.

  “You remember what Harris was like. Extremely fond of blood sports.”

  “So he was. You don’t mention any sentries here.”

  Lampard yawned and covered his mouth. “Excuse me. Cairo always feels a bit sluggish after the desert . . . Sentries. No, I don’t mention sentries because I didn’t see sentries, probably because Corporal Harris found them first, for which I am very, v
ery grateful.”

  “Ah.” Kerr scribbled. “And you’re in no doubt about the cause of death.”

  “Tony Waterman confirmed it.” Lampard rubbed a finger along his jaw. Being clean-shaven still felt strange. “No doctor. Bloody ass of a doctor fell ill at Kufra on the way out. Tony knew a bit of first aid, so I asked him to take a look.”

  “And where was the wound?”

  “Oh . . . about here.” Lampard pressed his stomach to the right of where a belt-buckle would have been. “Does it matter?”

  “It might, it might. You’re recommending a decoration, after all. They’ll want to know what killed him.”

  Outside, the endless racket of crowds and traffic and street-selling rose above Cairo in a fog of noise. Inside, a distant telephone rang and rang with the maddening persistence of an idiot child. Nearer, a man coughed.

  “Too bad about Waterman,” Kerr said.

  “Bloody Stukas,” Lampard said. “Once they find you it’s all a matter of luck. Tony was unlucky.”

  “The fortunes of war.” Kerr never lost his half-smile. Sometimes it was sad, sometimes not, but it was always there. “Tell me about the Stukas. How did they attack you?”

  “Normal way. They fell on us from a great height.” Now Lampard had found a rubber band and was playing with it like a catapult. “We got dive-bombed by the pilot and when he pulled out we got strafed by his rear gunner. Standard practice. Remember?”

  “Happy days,” Kerr said. He too had been a patrol leader until severe jaundice put him in hospital. He flicked through the pages of the report again. “Only the wireless truck was hit, I see. That was lucky, wasn’t it?”

  Lampard stretched the rubber band too far and it snapped. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know my own strength.”

  “It matters not.” Kerr reached in a drawer and tossed a small handful of bands onto his desk. “How many Stukas were there?”

  “Oh . . . several. If you can count the flies in this room while I chase you with a club, you’ve got your answer. I had other things on my mind.”

  “So Jerry hammered you pretty hard,” Kerr said. Lampard grunted. “But he only got the wireless truck,” Kerr said again.