Free A Good Clean Fight by Derek Robinson

the pilot. Paul Schramm leaned forward and pointed at the altimeter. “Lose some height,” he said. “Lose a lot of height, in fact. I’ll never see anything from up here.”
    â€œYou’ll see even less if I go into that muck.”
    â€œLet’s try, anyway.”
    The pilot turned the plane through a right angle as easily as if he were swinging on a lamppost, and leveled out, but he did not lose height.
    â€œThey’re down there somewhere,” Schramm said. “I know it. What are you afraid of?”
    â€œI don’t trust this squalid altimeter,” the pilot said.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake! It got us over the Jebel! Besides, there’s nothing near here to fly into. It’s all just desert.”
    â€œMaybe. This wreck was being pulled apart in a hangar only an hour ago. I bet they bust the altimeter. Bet they forgot to reset it.”
    â€œLooks good to me.”
    â€œAnyway, there’s desert and desert. I’ve seen dunes a hundred meters high in the Calanscio.” He meant the Sand Sea that formed the eastern side of the Jalo Gap. It did indeed look like a sea: a succession of monstrously heaving waves and swells.
    â€œWe’re nowhere near the Calanscio,” Schramm said. “We’re in the Gap, aren’t we?”
    â€œI don’t trust that squalid compass,” the pilot said. “There’s something peculiar about it.” He swung onto another leg of the search and watched the compass react. “Damned mechanics,” he muttered. “First thing they do is bust the compass.”
    Schramm lost patience. “Get down there,” he ordered. “Or I’ll have you court-martialled.”
    The pilot sighed and eased the control column forward. The haze gradually thickened until it was like flying through industrial smog, yellow-brown, quivering with dust. Visibility was so bad that it was impossible to tell where the haze ended and the desert began. The horizon wasn’t much help: just a blur where brown-yellow turned to yellow-brown. “We’re down,” the pilot grunted. “Hope you like it.”
    For ten minutes they searched and saw nothing. By then they both knew they were through the Gap and on the edge of the open desert, with the Calanscio receding to their left and Jalo Oasis falling behind to their right. Schramm realized now what a barren idea this search had been.Guessing where the enemy was didn’t necessarily mean you could do anything about it.
    â€œYou know this wreck flies on fuel, don’t you?” said the pilot.
    â€œI know.” Schramm glanced at the gauge. Low.
    â€œYou can’t trust that,” the pilot said. “First thing they do is bust the fuel gauge.”
    â€œAll right. Since we’ve got to go back, let’s stay down and look for wheel tracks.”
    â€œIs that all you want? Christ, if that’s all you want I can show you dozens of them, hundreds. It’s like an autobahn down there, next exit five hundred kilometers south, Kufra. Our Latin comrades used to have a garrison down at Kufra, you know.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThat was before the British turned up.”
    â€œI know that too.”
    â€œFirst thing the British do is bust the Italians.”
    â€œI’ve heard enough from you,” Schramm said. “Just drive the bus.”
    The plane flew north. The pilot had been right: tire tracks were everywhere. Some were obviously old, partly smoothed by the wind, but many were new. Or looked new. Schramm despaired. A month, a week, five minutes; who could tell the difference? Then the pilot nudged him. Schramm looked where the pilot was looking, away to the left. Five square blobs on wheels. “Get closer,” he said.
    The pilot circled, edging slightly inwards. The vehicles were moving very slowly.
    â€œCould be an Italian patrol,” Schramm said. “I can’t tell from