A Good Clean Fight by Derek Robinson

Author:Derek Robinson [Robinson, Derek]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2013-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

Zig Zag

Schramm snatched at the Luger, bent his knees, squinted down the barrel and fired three shots. Each shot made him blink furiously. He lowered his arm. The sergeant sidled up and detached the gun from his fingers. “Perhaps we ought to practice first with an empty weapon, sir,” he said.

“I think you hit the red flag,” Hoffmann said. “Or if you didn’t hit it, you certainly frightened it.”

Schramm looked at the Luger. “That thing doesn’t suit me,” he told the sergeant. “It feels all wrong. I need a sub-machine gun, something I can get both hands on. A Schmeisser, or something.”

“Intelligence officers don’t carry Schmeissers, Paul,” Hoffmann said.

“Well, you suggest something then. Thank you, sergeant.” They strolled away.

“You’re not a firearms man,” Hoffmann said. “A club would be more your style. Look at the way you walloped that British soldier. Pure Stone Age.”

Schramm grunted. “I told you Lampard’s patrol has left Cairo, didn’t I?”

“More than once.”

“There must be other patrols hiding in the Jebel. Or near it. I’ve applied for more troops to guard the airfields. General Schaefer’s in Tripoli, at a conference. Apparently he can’t make a decision in Tripoli, don’t ask me why.”

“A week ago you said trip-wires around the perimeter were the answer.”

“Trip-wires are good for twenty-four hours, maximum. Then they break. See that man?” Schramm pointed to an elderly Arab in a distant field. “He’s looking for a lost camel. At any given moment half the Arab population of Libya is out looking for lost camels. The camels break our trip-wires. If not camels, then goats, donkeys, sheep.”

“Have you ever thought of planting decoy aircraft? Or dummies? You could booby-trap them.”

“I’d certainly like to try. Can’t get the resources. Wood, canvas, paint, skilled men—all are scarce. I thought of towing in some wrecked 109s and cannibalizing them, but the salvage people got there first.”

“Plenty of wrecked Hurricanes in the desert.”

“I’ve tried, Benno. No transporters, no lifting gear, no spare fuel.”

They walked in silence toward the admin block. A pair of 109s drifted in over their heads, and growled and sighed toward the point of touchdown as smoothly as if they were sliding down a pair of banisters. The spindly sets of undercarriage seemed to brace themselves for the shock, and then the airplanes were taxiing, blowing back the inevitable dust-clouds.

“Why have trip-wires?” Hoffmann asked suddenly. “I mean, what’s the point?”

“To defend the airfield.”

“You don’t care about the airfield. You care about the aircraft. Why not put trip-wires around the aircraft? And place a guard in each cockpit all night.”

At once, Schramm saw the simple good sense of the idea. “Yes,” he said. “We could rig the trip-wire to a warning signal in the cockpit.”

“Twelve planes, twelve men. That’s all you need.”

“I should have thought of that,” Schramm said. “Come on. You’ve earned yourself a large drink.”

It turned out to be a very quick drink. The mess telephone rang: Hoffmann was needed in his office. But the medical officer, Max, was nursing a beer, so Schramm joined him.

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