Libya, 1911 Read online

  Killed by a man who couldn’t shoot.

  It was likely enough, on some consideration.

  With plenty of fuel and his target right there, Giulio opened up the throttle and clawed for a bit of height. He was flying directly over the centre of town and headed for the other side where he saw columns of yellow-grey dust rising from the road. He tried to estimate numbers, but it was never going to be an accurate count. There were lines, or more accurately, clumps of colorful tents, men running to and fro, and all kinds of animals staked out or corralled in yards enclosed by stone and wire and brush.

  He was at fifteen hundred metres. Their bullets could barely reach him, and so far it was just that one hit. The engine still ran smoothly, delivering good power, and he turned back, fumbling one of the bomba from the bag on the floor beside his feet. With the heavy thing in his lap, he wrapped his knees around the stick. He held off for a moment.

  His hands were slippery with sweat. With a steady stream of curses he pulled off his gloves, using his teeth, one at a time. Time was a-wasting. Sticky and tight as the fingers were, it was extremely frustrating. The gloves went on the floor, under the seat. He found the first of the fuses. The biggest danger was that he really wasn’t paying attention to the aircraft and there was always the danger of stalling and spinning…

  The wind noise dropping off was his first hint, and the motor sounded different, harsher, as she began to hang on the propeller. The hardest thing about flying with the knees was putting the stick forward a few centimetres. He took the stick with his left hand, put the nose down, and the speed crept up again.

  What would he tell the Captain? The forces below might be four or five thousand. There were nowhere near the twenty thousand reported by panicked patrols and native scouts, who tended to exaggerate everything they saw—

  There were some trucks and motor-cars, but thousands of camels down below…a few hundred tents.

  The native scouts were being paid for information after all, and naturally they aimed to please, and imbue their reports with some importance, in the hopes of getting a raise or something…their mental arithmetic oddly skewed. They were also probably working for both sides, but as long as everyone knew it, they were tolerated as long as they remained tolerable…the usual native bullshit. Spreading the gold around more than anything.

  “Shit.” The point of the bomb had brushed up against the upper frame member.

  He was really sweating now.

  If he wasn’t careful, the thing would go off in his hand.

  The detonators were a million times more sensitive than the bombs, which were stable as all hell.

  The parts were kept separately for just that reason, only being fused at point of use as the manual said.

  Finally he had it screwed all the way in. Conscious of two kilograms of high-explosive sitting right on top of his precious manly-bits, Giulio turned carefully, coordinating the warping of the wings with the rudder and elevator.

  Throttling back, he put the nose down. He was, as far as he knew, about to make history.

  It was all part of the allure of the military life.

  ***

  In order to have any hope of accuracy, they had decided three hundred metres or less would be the ideal height to drop the bombs. This was unfortunately well within range of the excellent Gewehr 1888 and other small arms the Turks and their allies were mostly using. Giulio realized that coming head-on, the target that he was, was a lot easier to hit—all the buggers had to do was line him up and squeeze off a shot. There were five rounds in every clip expended. The target would only get bigger the closer it came, and he began to jink from side to side as the numbers on the altimeter wound down. Engine revs were going up as she unloaded, and he pulled back on the throttle, the bomb still in his lap.

  There was a concentration of tents, and what looked like stores, all lined up in some kind of equipment dump. He saw wells and watering holes, troughs for the animals. There was a building and he steadied her up at the last minute. There were smacks and slaps against the airframe as the rounds punched through. His testicles were trying to retract themselves and he was keeping his head down. There was essentially nowhere to hide. He grabbed the bomb in his lap and chucked her over the side, as soon as she was gone, kicking hard right rudder. He pulled the plane around so he could watch the results and evade ground-fire.

  There was an explosion down below, right in the middle of a cluster of tents although it didn’t look like he’d actually hit one. As soon as he saw it, he reversed his turn, still going lower but also faster…

  Something cut the air within inches of his head. Giulio put the throttle wide open. Keeping the nose down ever so slightly, he leveled the wings, passing over the last fringes of the camp and out of range of most of the guns below. He pulled out another bomb, found the detonator and screwed it in, clawing for altitude and watching airspeed. A glance at the fuel gauge showed it still above the halfway mark. The engine temperature was maybe a little higher than he would have liked.

  This was the time to throttle back.

  He took her up to fifteen hundred metres, flying well overhead. He had plenty of time—assuming nothing went wrong. The air might be slightly cooler up here. When he was ready, he corkscrewed down in a hard left turn. He tossed the infernal device over the side and then made a sharp right turn, flicking back hard left towards the nearest piece of empty desert. He actually heard that one burst, unlike the first. He was flying the length of the camp, down low, much faster from their perspective and hopefully much harder to hit. Men were running towards him from every direction, trying to get closer.

  Putting the stick in the right place he grabbed it with his knees. He pulled out one more bomb. The plane drifted, but nothing excessive. The fuse just flew in, nice and loose on the threads, and when it hit bottom he threw it over the side without hesitation. To hell with it, this was madness. Once more down to two hundred-fifty or three hundred metres, he just kept going, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet at any second. Checking the wings, he saw a hole here and there, a half a dozen or so. One of them was a few centimetres to the right of the cockpit, an elongated slashing tear in wood and fabric.

  A half-kilometre from the southern boundary of the area, there were still scattered clumps of men and horses. Some of them were literally still chasing him on horse and camel-back, trying to get close enough for a shot as he went by. He came around, gave them the one-finger salute, and headed for his next target.

  The bombs were an interesting afterthought. What they really needed was hard information and for that, the Taube was ideal.

  If only someone had thought to provide them with a camera. As for an actual observer, he preferred to fly without the dead-weight of an untrained man.

  ***

  Having found his first target, right on course and schedule, it seemed to be taking an awfully long time to get to Ain Zara.

  The wind must be wrong. It sure as hell wasn’t the light breeze he’d been counting on. Finding one little oasis in this hilly, scrubby country was another thing. Looking around, he picked up a road on his right side. There were people moving along it on camels, long lines of men walking and leading trains of pack-animals. He saw no vehicles or large bodies of troops. With no obvious military target down below, it didn’t seem quite right to bomb them. Almost any trade in the region not under the control of the Army and civilian authorities might be presumed enemy, but the local people had to eat, they had to make a living, after all. Without direct orders, he had little interest in killing or disruption for its own sake, but it was still information worth bringing back.

  With luck, this would be the correct path. It was really more of a braided set of sinuous trails, where the wind and the sand made travellers deviate, trying to follow ruts and the beaten footpaths between the clumps of brush.

  A darker, greener mass lay just ahead, a few minutes late but that had to be it. The green of brackish water showed through tall palms. There were a few sma
ll buildings and more tents strewn everywhere. There were a lot of people down there, but nothing like the scene at Tajoura. He pulled out his last bomb, letting the bag go at arm’s length, hoping that it wouldn’t catch and foul on the tail-planes.

  He screwed in the fuse. There were already men running out at the sound of his motor, and every damned one of them seemed to have a rifle.

  They were all firing and he turned into an oblique approach. Hopefully they were no better than their brethren. Nothing hit the plane before he chucked the bomb over the side, gratified to see it land a few metres away from one of the larger houses down there. Rather than tempt fate by maneuvering right overhead, he put the nose down and held her straight and steady as speed built.

  Hopefully that would be the mayor or the commanding officer’s house.

  There really wasn’t much to see, and they all appeared to be auxiliaries rather than Turkish regulars. Anywhere between five hundred and a thousand, with plenty of animals but not much heavy equipment.

  Making another wide, sweeping turn, he circled around the oasis and then settled the compass on a course for home. It must be fairly accurate, he’d found both places and pretty much right where he expected them to be. There was well over a third of a tank of fuel left. The only real problem was accounting for drift in the crosswinds that he was almost certain were there. Expect the unexpected when it came to the weather. Up ahead, the clouds were thicker, darker and lower. His instincts seemed pretty good.

  Pulling the map out from under his aching leg, and with the sun back on his cheek, he tried to figure on the best course, and estimate just how long he must sit there.

  That was always the thing. When flying your bladder was often pretty full and more than anything, Giulio was looking forward to a really good shit. He did have a canteen, and gratefully sucked down a few sips of water.

  If necessary, he would piss his pants and live with any comments made by the boys.

  ***

  Ernest Digby-Jones stared open-mouthed as the hawk-like shape cruised overhead in the great blue bowl of the sky.

  The engine sputtered for the second time, and he and Mrs. Saunders waved at the dull black profile of the man inside it.

  “Break camp. Get those tents down.”

  Their escort, starting up from the breakfast fire, tossed aside the dregs of their coffee-cups and bolted for their tents as the aircraft put its right wing down and began steadily losing altitude.

  The wings leveled but it was still descending.

  “Damn. That’s amazing.” Digby-Jones, journalistic instincts aroused, sensed a story, perhaps even more romantic than jezzailchis and Kipling’s Soldiers Three.

  Alice, hand shading her eyes from the glare of the sky, tried to watch where the plane was going. They were down in a bowl, surrounded by dunes, and the thing went out of sight over a peak to their northeast.

  “Sounds like he’s in trouble.”

  Digby-Jones reached into the car. Pulling the choke, turning on the ignition, he set the spark. He ran around to the front end and stepped smartly on the crank. The Model T sputtered into life. He got in and began fiddling with the controls, listening intently. It seemed okay.

  “Coming, my dear?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Alice Saunders, her trusty stenographic pad in her hot little hand, lifted her skirts and climbed in. “Got your camera, I hope.”

  “Always, my dear—always.”

  He looked at the gauges and paused as Abdullah came up beside the driver’s side of the car.

  “Orders, Mister Digby-Jones?”

  “Ah, yes, thank you. Please gather everything up and follow along behind us. The gentleman in the aeroplane would appear to be in trouble.”

  “Sir, I will send some riders—”

  “Hmn. Thank you. Good idea.” Digby-Jones patted the tall figure in traditional robes on the shoulder.

  Abdullah turned and beckoned, speaking in their high-pitched dialect. Several dropped what they were doing to get their rifles and horses.

  He put his hands together and bowed from the waist.

  “It shall be done, Mister Digby-Jones.”

  “Thank you, Abdullah. And we are off.” Digby-Jones revved her up, popped the lever and then the wheels spun in the sand before the car jerked into motion.

  “See you soon, Madame.”

  Alice smiled sweetly.

  “Sure hope so, Buddy.”

  Abdullah had a smile that lit up the world, especially where Mrs. Saunders was concerned.

  ***

  The terrain down below was up and down like a whore’s pants on payday, and the shadow of the Taube followed along it, a more reliable guide altitude than any instrument. The motor ran fine for a minute and a half, buying him a little time, and he clawed for altitude. Looking around, there was really only one prospect.

  The engine conked out finally, the heavy wooden propeller coming to a halt in front of him.

  It was very quiet, the wind becoming more obtrusive as he pushed the stick forward. There was no real fear. It was almost like he had time on his hands. With its fourteen-metre wingspan the plane seemed to glide forever, and with sufficient airspeed, there wasn’t much fear of a stall.

  He was only going to get one shot at it. The airspeed hovered just above the red line as the last dune fell away under him.

  Oh, shit, here we go now…

  This might be rough, as shrubs and dry, dead branches tugged at the undercarriage.

  “Ah, fuck!” She was down but still going, and then the nose snagged and the tail was coming up.

  Something hit him in the face.

  “Ugh.” He’d cracked his nose on the cockpit coaming, and there were jagged cracks in his goggles.

  Flinging them off, he searched around in the forward section of the cockpit. He would need the map, and the water was essential, one reason he took it with him but so rarely drank it before home was in sight…

  “Fuck.”

  By his reckoning, there were a good twenty-five or thirty kilometres of desert between him and any sort of friendly welcome.

  Trying not to get caught up in the bracing and control cables, he slid carefully down the wing and dropped to the sand.

  Compass. He would need a compass—how he’d never thought of it until now was a mystery, but next time he would bring one. He climbed up the wing again, map and water bottle resting on the sand. The one in the plane was set up high in the dashboard. Without tools, he’d have to wrench it out. He was just looking for some other thing he could break out of the plane to serve as some kind of pry-bar, when it sunk in that there were engine noises, and they were coming from somewhere not too far away.

  Again he dropped off the plane. There was someone just on the other side of the dunes…

  Pulling out his pistol, he shoved the map in his pocket and took the water-bottle in his left hand.

  With his guts churning and his heart pounding at the unaccustomed exertion, Giulio ran across the flats and began climbing the side of the dune nearest to where the noise was coming from. The sand was soft and deadly, sucking away at his energy, but as he got to the top of what had to be a seventy-degree slope, he dropped to his knees and crawled as quickly and as cautiously as he could. Taking his leather helmet off, for the dark would stand out too clearly against the light of the sky, he raised his head and had a look.

  Scene Two

  “Are we stuck, Mister Digby-Jones?”

  It was a good question, but he didn’t think so. He’d sort of lost track, but that plane, if it had indeed come down, must be very close at hand.

  One of their Tuaregs, rising up on his mount, shouted in excitement, and Digby-Jones followed the man’s pointing arm.

  If only he knew what they were saying, but just at that moment, a tall, dark figure rose from the plume of wind-driven sand coming off a dune to his right.

  “Hello!” Holding onto the top of the windshield, he rose to his full height and waved in what h
e thought was a friendly manner. “Hello! Are you all right, sir?”

  Without saying anything, the fellow, resigned to whatever fate was in store for him, got up and started down the slope towards the vehicle and horses.

  ***

  “Bongiorno.” Giulio was unaware perhaps of the wild and disheveled sight he made.

  With blood still oozing from a split in the lip and a cut across the bridge of his nose, Alice had her hand over her mouth. The natives were restless, muttering amongst themselves. Interpreting their nervousness correctly, Digby-Jones gestured to the back seat. His Italian was not very good but he made the attempt.

  “Possiamo offrire un passaggio? Can we offer you a ride? We seem to be going the same way, my friend.”

  “Yes, well, thank you very much. I’m afraid my machina isn’t going to take me much further.” Giulio spoke fairly cultured English with a deep resonant voice. “So, you’re English, I presume.”

  His face lit up as Alice Saunders got out and clambered into the rear. The guides had their rifles pointed at the sky as one turned and raced back off up the trail where they had come from.

  The Italian lieutenant got in, putting his water bottle on the floor. Unconscious almost, his hand strayed as he made sure he had the map in his pocket. Alice tapped him on the shoulder. Pointing to the mirror on the top of the windscreen, she handed him a plain white cotton handkerchief after dipping water on it from the neck of one of their bottles.

  “Ah, yes, thank you.” He really was a mess, wasn’t he.

  “Anywhere in particular you would like to go?”