Libya, 1911

Author:Zach Neal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: satire, action adventure, aviation history, 1911, libya, war and military, zach neal

***

“I must say, this is very civilized of you.” Digby-Jones raised a glass to their new-found friend.

“It is the least I could do.” Giulio would have to be a little careful, military officers making unauthorized statements might find themselves in hot water, and very, very quickly if they weren’t smart.

Giulio was buying them all dinner before heading back to the Regio’s informal little aerodrome. They knew him here, and he had not only run up tab, but more importantly, paid it off with handsome gratuities all around.

There was loud talk from the doorway. An Arab man broke free of the steely grip of the Maitre’d, perhaps a fat silver coin had been exchanged. Otherwise he was a bit shabbily-dressed for the venue.

“Ah, Abdullah.” Digby-Jones was in an expansive mood.

For one thing, they were both on an expense account, and they had finally found a story—any story would do sometimes. The folks back home would be interested in this fine young man, bringing civilization and European culture to this part of the world in some newfangled Pax Italiano. He figured he could get a pretty good feature story out of it and Mrs. Saunders was already planning a serial if only she could get the Wops to agree to it.

Giulio toyed with one of the local dishes, a highly-spiced dish of soaked grain, with indeterminate bits of meat, green vegetables and something sweet and chewy that might have been chopped dates. It was almost impossible to cook anything in Libya without olive oil and this particular entrée may have even done in the traditional sand oven. He’d never had goat before coming over here. It wasn’t bad, merely different. It washed down well with whatever, red or white, that was strong enough. He preferred it roasted on open coals rather than boiled, but then that depended on who was cooking it.

With a belly full of wine and his ass safely behind the city’s defensive perimeter, he was in the mood to talk.

As for the reporters, they were all over him like a dirty shirt.

“We’ll try and get back there tomorrow and see about the Taube.” It occurred to him that they might want pictures, and there would be a strong military escort if he had anything to say about it—Ain Zara was not even twenty kilometres away and they would be distinctly pissed-off over there.

“I’ll show you the bullet-holes.”

Digby-Jones nodded sagely, sipping a malt whiskey as Alice’s pen flew across the page.

She looked up.

“Weren’t you frightened?”

“Of course, who wouldn’t be—”

“So, how imminent is their attack?” Digby-Jones steered them back to the point.

Gavrotti took a moment to consider, no fool by anybody’s standards. He could see the value in some good press. He also had his own masters to consider.

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