Derek Robinson - A Good Clean Fight

Lester got out and began freeing the front wheels. “Some skid, eh?” he said. “Handbrake special. One of Capone’s men taught me.”

“I don’t care if I never see Benghazi.” Malplacket lay face up on the front seats and breathed through his mouth. “Benghazi is not worth a tenth of that frightful experience. Not a tenth of a tenth.”

“It’s just a bloody nose. It’s nothing.”

“Indeed? Bring your nose here and I’ll show you how painful nothing can be.”

“Listen, don’t get mad at me, fella. You were the guy who was driving like a maniac. I was the one who saved our skins.”

“Tosh,” Malplacket said heavily. “Total transatlantic tosh.”

“I like that. I can use that. As we diced with death on our way into the Forbidden City, Malplacket, showing typical English phlegm, dismissed the risks as tosh. Reader’s Digest is gonna love that.”

“Never mind English phlegm. It’s gore I’m losing.”

“Oh boy. Gore. I got to get this stuff down before I forget it.”

It was a long time before Malplacket’s nose stopped bleeding and he was able to stand. “I can’t possibly drive,” he said. “My head feels like a pumpkin.”

“This is war, Hans. Ve must all sacrifice ourselfs for ze Muzzerland. It’s your job to drive. I’m a captain, you’re only a lousy leutnant. Sieg Heil!”

Malplacket stared at his silhouette. “Lester: have you been taking benzedrine, or something?”

“ Nein, nein, mein Wagenfuhrer. Look, we gonna stand around and talk all night, or what?”

Malplacket drove. The Fiat seemed undamaged. The moon was up, and he could see much more of the road now. The flow of traffic carried him smoothly along. More and more, the countryside was dotted with small white farmhouses, homes of Italian colonists. After twenty minutes the traffic began to slow. Ahead they could see a modern triumphal gateway, a tall concrete arch in the massive Fascist style. Lights flickered beneath it where troops were operating a checkpoint.

“This is the beginning and the end,” Malplacket said. “They will take us out and shoot us.” His nose itched. He held his breath and shut his eyes, but that did no good. He sneezed violently. Blood gushed from his nostrils again. “Hell and damnation,” he said thickly.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Lester told him. “You’re just a lousy leutnant, remember?”

The traffic moved. The station-wagon inched forward. An Italian corporal came over and asked a question. Lester ignored him and Malplacket was looking at the floor. The corporal asked it again. Lester suddenly roused himself, in a blazing rage. “Who the fuck you think you are, asshole?” he rasped. The raw violence in his voice took the soldier aback. He said something that sounded apologetic. Lester turned sideways, grabbed Malplacket’s face with one hand and thrust it toward the Italian. “Get a load of this gore!” he shouted. Blood trickled over his splayed fingers, and Malplacket saw the man wince. “Deutschland über Alles” Lester snarled. “Ain’t that a fact?” He released Malplacket and aimed a bloody finger forward. “Move it!” The barrier went up. They drove through.

Half an hour’s driving left them hopelessly baffled.

At night, Benghazi was like any other well-fought-over town. The blackout combined with bomb damage to make driving difficult. If you didn’t know exactly where to go, you ended up going in long, confused circles. The second time they drove past the cathedral, Lester said, “Hold it. This is getting us nowhere.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I told you: wherever the action is. See if you can find the harbor. That should be good for a few laughs.”

Malplacket tried, but the streets wandered hither and yon, and ten minutes later the Fiat was back at the cathedral. “Shit,” Lester said. “No disrespect, God… Look, let’s at least find a bar.”

“Certainly. What does a Benghazi bar look like?”

“Just drive. Pick a new route. Anywhere at all. I’ll look.”

Eventually Lester found a place that might have been a bar. A large and furious fight was taking place outside it. Malplacket slowed long enough to see feld polizei whacking skulls and kicking ribs, and then he accelerated away. Neither of them spoke.

The street they were on merged with a wider road of gleaming white concrete. Malplacket made good speed. The suburbs slipped behind them; now the countryside was largely farmland. “So much for Benghazi,” Malplacket said. He pulled over and stopped.

“What’s so special about this bit?” Lester asked.

“There’s a roadblock ahead.” A red light glowed, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It was hard to be sure. Malplacket rested his head against the side window and closed his eyes. “Furthermore, I am quite, quite exhausted.”

“I’m not sleeping here! No sir.” Lester pointed at the dim, square shape of a house. “Get us up there. Must be a drive or a track or something.”

There was a drive. When Malplacket stopped at the top, Lester whacked the horn. “Me, sleep in a car? I’m a captain in the goddamn Waffen SS, for Christ’s sake! Watch me use my powers of requisition.”

They found the front door and he beat on it with the butt of his pistol until an upper window opened. “Afrika Korps” he snapped. “Rommel Panzer Luftwaffe Blitzkrieg Gezundheit , so get your ass down here fast.”

She was middle-aged, Italian and alone. Lester saluted, clicking his heels. She did not seem frightened or even surprised, and she immediately set about cooking a meal for them.

“See, it’s all in your tone of voice,” Lester said. “People expect to be kicked around. Just shout, and half the world jumps. You want to know why? Because half the world feels guilty for being alive, that’s why.”

Malplacket watched Lester drum his fingers on the arm of his chair. His cap rested on one knee. One boot was propped on the toe of the other. He was more like an officer of the Third Reich than the real thing. Malplacket looked away.

They ate spaghetti. “You got to be a wop to cook this stuff right,” Lester said. “My wife, the way she served it up, it tasted like string.”

“That’s exactly what it means. Spaghetti is Italian for string.”

“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.