Dave Dawson in Libya

by Robert Sidney Bowen

As Dave spoke he shot a keen glance at the expression on the corporal's face. What he saw caused his heart to leap with hope. The man obviously understood English, for a triumphant light leaped into his eyes, and he smiled broadly.

"Yes, you have been captured," he said in English that was heavy with Teutonic accent. "Put your hands up. I will take your automatics. Careful, now! One move and I will shoot."

"Take them, and get it over with!" Freddy said in a hoarse voice. "All we want is water and food. Where are we, anyway?"

The corporal took a cautious step or two forward, then snatched their automatics from them. He looked at Freddy and grinned.

"Where are you?" he sneered. "What does it matter? You are my prisoners. Now get moving. Herr Colonel is anxious to meet you."

As though he considered that quite a joke, the German laughed loudly and showed a set of very bad teeth. Then, motioning his squad of soldiers to form about the two boys, he started back toward the camp. Still continuing to act exhausted and all in, Freddy and Dave staggered forward, faltering with every step, and reaching out to one another for support to stop from pitching down onto the sand. All the time, though, they shot glances at the desert camp through slitted eyelids. Dave counted some sixty vehicles in all, and as he looked at them his admiration for Nazi camouflage technique went up another point. Every truck, every tank, and every armored car was daubed with paint in such a way as to make it exactly the shades of the desert. Even two or three tents that were still standing looked more like the desert than the desert itself.

To all that, however, Dave gave but a passing look. What caught and held his attention was the actual equipment. It all was right up to the minute stuff. None of it was the shabby, slipshod equipment used by Mussolini's forces in Northern Africa. It was all made-in-Germany stuff, light, fast, highly mobile, and of high fire power. In short, it was instantly obvious to Dave that this was a strong and completely equipped attacking force of the Nazi army in Africa. It was no mere scouting patrol. And there was one other item that impressed him at once, too. It was all Nazi. He did not see a single Italian uniform as the corporal marched them past groups of curious-eyed German soldiers toward one of the tents on the far side of the camp. It was as plain as the nose on his face that these Germans were out for business, serious business. For that reason probably, they had no Italian troops along with them who might break and flee for their lives at the sound of the first shot, or the first smell of gunpowder in their noses.

Presently the corporal brought them to a halt in front of a desert tent. It was the square type with slightly slanting roof and sides. The front flap was lifted up and fastened to poles stuck in the sand to serve as a sort of porch. But in the event of a sand storm, it could be lowered at once and made fast so that those inside were completely protected. Three portable tables had been placed side by side, and in back of them sat two German officers. One was a colonel. His head was the shape and size of a watermelon that was terribly sunburned. His eyes were little more than slits cut in the flesh on either side of his lumpy nose. His mouth was thin-lipped and much too wide. And on the upper lip was a little patch of black that was supposed to be like the little pen wiper mustache worn by his lord and master, Adolf Hitler.

The other officer was a major, and his appearance was the direct opposite of his colonel's. He was thin as a rail, and tanned the color of old leather. From the jaw to the forehead was three times as long as from ear to ear was wide. His nose made Dave think of a letter opener. His eyes were like green marbles, and his pointed chin could very well have served as one end of a pick-axe.

The corporal smacked his heels together and almost threw his arm out of joint saluting.