Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  For two weeks they rode the desert with their masked escort and not once did they see their rescuers’ faces. They rode, talked, ate, shit and slept in their attire. In that time, Summerfield had chance to take stock of the truly gruesome arsenal of weapons they carried lashed to their saddles—spiked maces, scimitars, double-bladed daggers, silver knuckle dusters, carbines, pistols and a particularly vicious-looking arm that consisted in a series of long silver spikes that were inserted one by one on their fingers like some ghastly set of rings. It struck him as barbaric, mediaeval almost.

  At one point crossing a desert road that stretched in a straight, gravel line south to north towards the horizon, they spotted a convoy of three lorries some kilometres away—military lorries—and the leader, whom they now knew as Zoubir, had to threaten his men first with oaths, then with his riding crop to stop them bolting in pursuit. Finally, the exasperated chief managed to dampen their enthusiasm by brandishing his mace and cracking it with a loud clang across a wayside panel. It read Algers 1,000 km in one direction and, dented by the mace, Timbuktu 750 km in the other.

  WaRed didn’t make it through the Hoggar mountains. A horse gave signs of fatigue by slowing to a dawdle then stopping, refusing to go on. A camel was different, plodding on in exactly the same rhythm until it dropped from exhaustion, unable to rise again. Added to that, the sheer climb and treacherous rock of the Hoggar made her slip several times. The effort killed her. One evening, coming to a spectacular outcrop of orange rock, ragged like a huge termites’ nest, she kneeled to let Summerfield and Jeanne dismount and then quietly rolled over and died.

  But what was taken from them, gave back to them. The tribesmen, profiting from this boon, skinned the beast and drew great hunks of meat which they let cook for two hours in a hole they filled in with sand. That night, Summerfield noted that WaRed, despite her fragile name, was a tough old beast, not helped by the grit that had permeated the meat during roasting, but nonetheless delicious. As was custom, they ate everything they could, leaving nothing for the following days. It was a mixture of custom and pride, for the warriors were capable of going almost a week without food, their stomachs living off the faith that God would provide for them whenever the next occasion to eat arose.

  The magnificent and foreboding crags of the Hoggar behind them, they descended into the great depression that rose yet again to the summits of the Tibesti Plateau some three hundred kilometres to the east. More significantly, the Tibesti constituted the uppermost western corner of Chad.

  In the gorges, they met up with another raiding party—some of them wearing the desert khaki of the Méhari—travelling in the direction they had come from and Summerfield had the distinct feeling that at last things were happening, the free world was reacting, the tide was beginning to turn. Tacit greetings were offered, tea brewed and information exchanged between the two leaders and then they were off again, in two blue-black and khaki columns, shrouded and masked and forever mysterious.

  Again, two days later, they saw other troops. Grouped on a slight rise, they watched a swarm of vehicles—seven of them—crossing the plain towards the north and Libya, spewing up a billowing wake of dust and grit. Summerfield was alarmed to see them at one point change direction and head towards them at two to three miles’ distance. The leader of their group waited, his men strung out in a line and Summerfield once again unshouldered his aging Lee Enfield.

  ‘Are they theirs or ours?’ he said, glancing nervously at the impassive leader. ‘They will have machine guns.’

  ‘We will see,’ grunted the leader, raising the muzzle of his carbine. When the vehicles turned from spewing black beetles to clearly visible shapes, he pulled out a crimson flag from his saddlebag and held it high so that it fluttered in the desert wind. The vehicles slowed visibly and a same banner, of identical colour, was held aloft in the leading car. ‘Ours,’ growled the voice from behind the mask.

  The vehicles came to a halt barely five hundred yards from them and the Tuareg leader trotted out to meet them. British? French? wondered Summerfield, feeling odd to lay eyes upon white men—his own. He noted that the vehicles—several Chevrolets, oddly elegant with their curved fenders and a couple of transformed Hotchkiss painted in desert beige—were as heavily armed as the tribesmen, bristling with automatic weapons and laden with jerry cans. At one point, the leading car ground into gear and, with the masked leader riding by its side, approached the Tuareg riding party. An officer wearing a khaki cheiche and high laced boots got out and walked slowly up to them in a large, loping gait. He was very tall and his legs seemed badly adapted to the sand. He gave the tribesmen a lazy salute and focused on Summerfield and Jeanne and their foreign dress.

  ‘Sidi Zoubir informs me you are one of us?’ said the officer—a captain—in a flawless public school accent.

  ‘I’m British,’ replied Summerfield, feeling odd, ‘and this is Jeanne Lefèvre, a French citizen.’ He noticed the soldier’s pale blue eyes and burnt skin—much like his own.

  ‘Good to meet you, Summerfield,’ grinned the officer. ‘Captain Barnes—that’s B-a-r-n-E-s—of the LRDG.’ Noticing Summerfield’s incomprehension, he added: ‘Long Range Desert Group—a riff-raff bunch of marauding Frogs and Brits. We’re attached to Leclerc’s forward base.’

  ‘Are we near?’ said Summerfield, forgetting to return the protocol.

  ‘Listen, Summerfield,’ said the captain, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. ‘I can certainly hear you’re one of us, but I don’t suppose you have any papers—passport, that sort of thing? Your clothes, you see.’

  ‘Papers?’ Summerfield was dumbfounded. In the middle of a desert the size of an ocean? ‘No, sorry—they were lost when I was abducted from Marrakesh. That was—forgive me, I’ve difficulty fixing time—over two years ago, I think.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Captain Barnes stood akimbo and seemed to be pondering, producing a pipe to help him wrestle the situation. ‘Er—how can we do this? I’ve got to check, you see,’ he added, apologetically. He was silent for several moments, his forehead creased, then suddenly—and slightly out of key—he began to sing: ‘Bob-by Shaf-toe…’

  Summerfield blinked and exchanged glances with the masked Tuareg.

  ‘Bob-by Shaf-toe—’ repeated Barnes, motioning Summerfield to go on.

  ‘Went-to-sea,’ echoed Summerfield and the warrior chief let out a grunt.

  ‘Silver—’ egged on Barnes.

  ‘Buckles on his knee,’ continued Summerfield, feeling himself flushing red. ‘He’ll come back and marry me.’ Pause. ‘Bo-nn-y Bob-by Shaf….toe!’ As he finished, Barnes, his face lit up with obvious glee, energetically joined in.

  Barnes let out a congratulatory chuckle. ‘That’s all fine for me, Summerfield. Well, these chappies will take you to HQ, I’m sure,’ he said, nodding at the warrior chief. ‘You’ll have to explain your story to the intelligence boys, I’m afraid. You do understand—one can’t be too careful what with Rommel’s lot and the wops and their tricks.’

  ‘No, no of course,’ replied Summerfield, feeling lost. ‘Are we far?’

  ‘You’ll be in a hot tub of soapy water in about two days from now, I should think,’ said the captain, jauntily and added, sotto-voiced while raising an eyebrow at the silent warriors: ‘Magnificent creatures, what? Glad they’re on our side—put the wind up the devil himself.’ Summerfield nodded. Captain Barnes stepped forwards and Summerfield took his hand, firm and dry despite the heat. ‘Good luck, Summerfield—Madam,’ he added, giving Jeanne a brusque and gentlemanly nod.

  ‘You, too, Barnes,’ said Summerfield. ‘I hope we’ll meet again and—sorry if I seem…distracted. We’ve been alone for some time.’

  ‘Hmm—jolly good,’ said Barnes, a little embarrassed. He turned and headed for his command car which had already revved into life. ‘By the way,’ said Barnes, turning back as he jumped into his seat. ‘I’ve got some spare togs in the back—standard khaki desert kit. Would you like them?’

  Summerf
ield hesitated then shrugged: ‘Oh, no thanks, Barnes. I’d—I’d rather keep to these for the moment.’

  The captain gave a curious smile and glanced at his driver who raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Captain Barnes—one last thing,’ said Summerfield, hurriedly. Barnes craned his neck. ‘What if I hadn’t known how to sing Bobby Shaftoe?’

  Barnes raised his eyebrows and grinned.

  ‘Quite simple, Summerfield—I would have got out my revolver and shot you through the eyes. Spies and all that.’ Barnes laughed, offered one more lazy wave and nodded to his driver who reversed the Chevy in a wide circle, spraying up dust and stones before crunching into forward gear and accelerating off to rejoin the others. Summerfield turned to Jeanne and touched her wrist.

  ‘We’re nearly home, Jeanne. You can start getting better—really.’

  The next day saw the horsemen gather speed, eager to reach their destination and most probably their rewards. Summerfield and Jeanne rode separately, each sitting behind a warrior and preoccupied most of the time with maintaining balance as the horses alternated between a rapid trot and a canter. They watered briefly at a last well, hidden among a thick clump of date palms, and then set off again, covering another thirty miles or so before the leader gave the signal to halt for the night.

  The group bedded down in a loose circle formation, the horses tethered to rocks amassed in the centre. No fires were lit—they would go without a meal this night—to avoid the possibility of drawing friendly fire. Sentinels were posted further out, some twenty yards or so from the main group and changed every two hours.

  Summerfield and Jeanne found themselves after their day’s separation, sore and aching from the rough ride. They sat down in the obscurity, Summerfield sneaking a hunk of sugared wheat meal from his knapsack. Too hard to break, they took alternate turns, nibbling away at the cake until moist and biteable. As on the three previous nights, Jeanne once more drew close to him and lowered her head so that it came to rest on his shoulder. Summerfield still found it odd, somehow sweet and understood that despite all her suffering she was still in some ways very much a young girl. He released his arm from the press of her side and put it protectively over her. She produced a soft moan of assent. Up above, in the incredible night sky, Summerfield for once spotted a shooting star and he let out a whispered gasp of awe.

  ‘Despite everything,’ he said, softly, ‘despite my thirty-two years, a soul full of irony and a cynical mind—I can still find stars so wonderful. Funny that.’

  ‘Harry?’ he felt Jeanne’s body squeeze slightly against his. ‘I never did thank you.’ Summerfield let out an embarrassed breath. ‘I was so—so close to dying, so angry, so ashamed. I needed to hate someone—I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I hope—’ began Summerfield, when Jeanne raised herself on one elbow, craned towards him from below and gently kissed his lips. ‘Oh.’ He was silent. She was staring at him directly through the darkness and he thought he saw her eyes form a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Harry. You—you helped me get so much better. I want to live.’

  ‘That’s good,’ replied Summerfield, sensing the uselessness of his words. He smiled back, into her face and she slid down once more so that her cheek rested on his chest. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, breathing serenely, a feeling of wellbeing seeping through him. His hand inched under the matting used for blankets and found her hand. He took it and she responded, gripping his.

  ‘There is still some sort of love between us, Harry,’ she said softly. ‘It cannot be denied. But it is an impossible love—at least impossible to transpire into anything else other than that kiss and these hands that hold.’

  ‘I know,’ returned Summerfield, his throat dry. ‘I know.’

  58

  Faya Largéa was a small, untidy desert village turned into a sprawling forward base for the Free French forces operating out of Chad in support of the British forces in Libya. It had an airstrip, a fuel dump, rows and rows of tents and was defended by a line of ditches and fortifications and many intricate miles of barbed wire. There was a busy hum about the place and the presence of so many soldiers and supplies had drawn half the nomadic desert population from a two hundred mile periphery to set up makeshift markets and undertake the menial tasks that the soldiers were willing to pay for. It was into this environment that the Tuareg warrior chief led Summerfield, Jeanne Lefèvre and his small column of masked warriors, trotting proudly and rather nonchalantly through a series of checkpoints and dugouts.

  Uniformed men, both white European and black North African—Senegalese with their characteristic scarlet fez—turned their heads as they rode by and they received a salute from an RAF officer who, raising his eyes from studying a wingtip of his Hurricane, looked shocked to see them. At a third checkpoint, a hurried phone call was made over the wireless and a sergeant dispatched on a bicycle to accompany them to HQ.

  Headquarters was billeted in what Summerfield took to be a post and telegraph office—an uneven, low-lying building of patchy brown clay with barred windows, a tall, slightly lopsided pylon, webbed with antennae rising behind it some twenty yards away. The sergeant dismounted from his bicycle, leant it against a sandbag emplacement and went inside. Minutes later he re-appeared with a small, muscular officer wearing a white kepi of the Légion and his right arm strapped in a bandage. Instead of coming to them, he went immediately to the warrior chief and bowed a greeting. They seemed to know each other. Words, in the desert dialect, were exchanged. Consequently, Summerfield’s rider nudged him, a sign for him to dismount and Jeanne followed. Quite uneasily, Summerfield noticed the two guards standing watch over the entrance to the building prepare their weapons.

  The officer—a lieutenant—stepped over and in an odd, awkward motion, offered Summerfield his left hand. Summerfield shook it.

  ‘Un britannique, je crois,’ said the officer, nodding. ‘Bienvenue à Faya Largéa—welcome.’ Summerfield’s rider then leant down, proffering Summerfield’s rifle and knapsack. Spotting the Lee Enfield, the officer seemed to withdraw slightly. ‘Ah—I think I will take these. Sergeant?’ Once the rifle and bag removed, he then turned in evident curiosity to Jeanne. ‘Ah—a French demoiselle—if I am not mistaken! A sand rose!’ he added, quixotically and ushered Jeanne apart. ‘I have had reports of your sighting,’ he continued, facing them both. ‘You must understand that we have to ask certain questions concerning your identity.’ He paused, waiting for Summerfield and Jeanne to acknowledge him. ‘And very likely you will have information for us that will be of great use and interest.’ Again a pause. ‘M’moiselle,’ he said, nodding to Jeanne. ‘This time, gentlemen first. Please come with me to the mess Mlle Lefèvre. You may take refreshments while your companion is being questioned.’ And with that, the officer led Jeanne away by the wrist towards an outlying tent. The time it took for Jeanne to turn her head and exchange farewell glances, the sergeant had grasped Summerfield’s arm, motioning him to enter the building. At the threshold he halted while a guard searched him. Obviously, he must have smelt badly, for the guard confirmed his check with a grimace.

  ‘Désolé,’ said Summerfield apologetically, stepping into the cool of the building. Growing used to the dimness, he found himself facing a wall on which a giant tricolour hung, a strange looking cross adorning its middle bar.

  ‘La Croix de Lorraine,’ informed the sergeant, recognising Summerfield’s curiosity. ‘You don’t know this?’

  Summerfield shook his head and suddenly felt very old—like a capsule time had left by. ‘I have been—for some years—very far from everything.’

  ‘The sign of the Free French Forces,’ the sergeant began to explain, when another lieutenant appeared.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant. You may return to your post. I will take him through.’ The sergeant saluted, gave a curt nod of his head to Summerfield and marched off. ‘Good man,’ commented the lieutenant and Summerfield caught a whiff of pine—the young man’s eau de cologne. ‘My name is De MontSalver
t.’

  ‘Summerfield—Harry Summerfield. British citizen.’

  ‘That we shall see, Mr Summerfield,’ smiled the lieutenant. ‘You will be questioned by both French and British officers—I hope you understand the necessity.’

  ‘It was explained to me, yes,’ said Summerfield. ‘May I perhaps wash first?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the lieutenant, cocking his head. ‘My superiors are very busy people at present. We cannot keep them waiting—this way, please.’

  A slight pressure on Summerfield’s shoulder towards a door. The lieutenant knocked.

  ‘Enter,’ came a muffled, efficient-sounding voice.

  The door opened and Summerfield stepped in. He immediately froze, his eyes unable to connect to his brain. Before him, uniformed, slightly greying, sitting in a foldable chair behind a campaign desk, was Jean Bassouin—with as much a look of complete incredulity on his face as Summerfield.

  That evening, Bassouin invited Summerfield and Jeanne to dine with him. Sitting opposite the genial man, it was strange to think of Bassouin as a soldier. His uniform—that of a colonel—was ill-fitting and hung loosely about his middle-aged spread more like a gardening jacket than anything else. Summerfield noticed the receding hair and greying temples of his host and found himself shaking his head in an involuntary gesture of amazement. He still couldn’t totally believe that they had been reunited.

  ‘Father said you’d been arrested,’ said Jeanne, freshly washed and wearing a white shirt and army slacks. ‘When we left—we were so alarmed.’