The Boy's Tale Part I The shelter was filled with smoke. It was not the kind of smoke that would rise after the bombs struck nearby buildings, but thick opulent fumes from dozens of cigarettes and cigars. Some of the people inside were lying on bunks, others sat on wooden crates surrounding an improvised table. Its surface, made out of an old rusty barrel, was littered with cards, bottles and tin cups, scattered in what seemed like chaos to a casual observer. One of the men dealt the cards. There was the thunder of the bombs in the distance. Not close, but still from time to time, they could feel the dust from the ceiling crumble onto their heads and backs. A chunk of loosened rock fell into the dealer’s cup. He gulped down the rest of his drink and spat the rock onto the floor. “Your turn, Boy.” Boy was what they called him, though he was by no means the youngest among them. The Independent Carpathian Rifle Brigade had already existed for a few months when he decided to join in Haifa, though they had never experienced front line combat. Those boys, for that’s what most of them were, many not even in their 20s, were building fortifications, guarding prisoners and securing rail lines. They often joked how they were not soldiers but merely caretakers. In the autumn of his enlistment they were scheduled to go to Greece, but before everything was planned and organised, it had fallen into enemy hands, so they continued with their previous duties. It wasn’t until January that they were crammed on a ship and brought here as a part of the last convoy. The Brigade ended up on the western side of the Tobruk fortifications – in the middle of a long siege.
The city was... “What are you brooding over, hmm?” asked Jurek, trying to casually steal a glance at Boy’s cards. “Over my move. Why, you got something against that?” he replied. Zenon, the radio operator, leaned forward, his face emerging from the cloud of smoke. “Boy, war is a place where you need to think quick. You’re a Rat after all. When you need to hide, you hide, and when you need to shoot, you shoot. And if you need to save someone...”—he looked at him fiercely—“…you’d better not be late.
“Figures!” grunted sergeant Załuski after a moment of grave silence. “You return home to hear you mother say: ‘Son, I’m so proud and happy. You have returned home safe and victorious!’ And you will answer: ‘Beloved mother, only safe. I’ve been brooding so long over my next move that my comrades have won the war without me’.” Boy felt a sudden comfort in the laughter that came after that exchange. They were laughing at him. What of it? He may not
have been here long, but he had already learned that each honest laugh that you can enjoy was worth more than gold, especially if you didn’t know what was going to hit you the next second. Feeling the moment, he played swiftly, without thinking. And then once more, one round after the other. The ecstasy soon left him, once he noticed that he had lost all of his money, cigarettes and food rations for the next two days. It became even worse. The game was drawing to a close and he would have no chance of redeeming his losses. He sat with his head in his hands, staring at the last drops of murky moonshine at the bottom of the bottle. His comrades were slowly making their way back and he was suddenly overcome by a dreadful apathy, as though it were not just money and cigarettes that had been lost in this war. Boy suddenly felt a powerful blow to his back which almost knocked him off the crate he was sitting on. A bomb? No, that was impossible. The raid had ended long ago. And it seemed he was still in one piece. When he lifted his head he saw the face of his sergeant above him. “Don’t get so down, Boy” said the sergeant, handing him a cigarette. “Everyone has one lucky night sooner or later. You just can’t let it slip away.” Załuski dropped on his bunk and instantly fell asleep. Boy figured he should follow the lead and decided to do the same.
*** I’m sitting in a trench. It’s night. Close by I hear two troopers talking about girls they had met in Haifa. They are talking in a calm quiet manner, indifferent to the fact that both come from different parts of the country, one being nineteen and a student of philosophy, and the other a thirty year old miner. They find one common language in a foreign land, under foreign stars. I leave them alone and take a walk to stretch my aching knees and back. The nights round these parts can get really cold. I stop a few metres away and lean on the walls of the trench. Under the spell of the full moon I can clearly see the field before me, each hill and rock bathed in gentle moonlight. I wonder if there is anyone on the other side looking at me at this very moment. I move my head when a sudden reflection catches my attention just a few metres away. A sudden impulse overcomes me and I move out of the trench and start crawling, my gaze fixed on the light before me. I move closer and clutch a small metal object in my hand. I raise myself to a crouch and start to turn around. The explosion almost bursts my ear drums. I feel earth and dust hit my back. Stones rattle against my helmet. I look back only to see a pillar of dust and smoke rising up from the exact spot I was standing in just a few seconds ago. I feel my head spinning and fall on the ground. My God, they’re shooting at us. They’re shooting! Explosions rise up all around. They are shooting at ME!! I’m lying with my face in the sand, my breathing shallow and short. Can’t move. Maybe they won’t see me. Maybe they will miss me. Maybe all those things falling from the dark sky will... “Medic!!!” I think it’s the sergeant. I need to stand and move. I can still hear them shooting. What if...? You’re a Rat. If you need to save someone... I stop thinking and rise to my feet. I make a run for it, to where I’m needed. I drop into a crater right next to the sergeant. In the moonlight I can see a patch of blackness spreading slowly on his shoulder. I notice I am still clutching the object in my hand and slip it into a breast pocket. I slip off my backpack. I tear the uniform, flashlight in hand, inspect the wound, dress the injury. Seems harmless, we’ll see by the morning. The sergeant lets out a series of grunts, but nothing more. I believe I can hear the cracking of his teeth. “It’s going to be alright.” My voice is shaking. “It’s nothing seri...” “Medic!!!” I’m running again.
“What are you scribbling, Boy?” A shadow fell over his note pad. He could see Jurek Ingielewicz standing over him with that grin of his. Once he put on that smile, with his big nose and ears he looked like some kind of fairytale woodland creature. Apart from Boy he was the only one to survive the night unharmed. “I need to account for the events of the night, before I forget.” “Write it down then, but only the things that are worth remembering.” He went towards the field hospital, in his hand a bottle full of moonshine.
***
The camo net spread over the small courtyard secured some shade. The soldiers could hear moans and noises reaching them from the nearby field hospital, mingled with sounds from the docks or a vehicle passing by the nearby street. They rested. Those fortunate enough to have left the hospital sat or lay with their white bandages and gleaming smiles painted on their faces. Someone brought out a pack of cards. “A game, gentlemen?” Boy tried to rise to his feet, but after a second he fell back on the mattress. He didn’t have anything to play with anyway. It seemed the sergeant sitting next to him noticed his dilemma. He looked at Boy and handed him a pack of cigarettes. “Here you go, doc. A token for the mortars. Enjoy the game.” Suddenly Boy remembered his night-time discovery. A gold-plated watch. British made and pretty, though somewhat worn. Someone had engraved initials on its back: A.W. The previous owner must have lost it when the leather strap gave way to the strains of war and ripped. Seemed to be worth quite a lot, but then again it already did save Boy’s life. Maybe now it can bring some luck to someone else? “Thank you sergeant, I think there is something I can bet in the end.” He strode over to the table to take his place. “Look gents, seems Boy here doesn’t know when to call it quits,” replied Zenon with a wide grin. He was an honest, decent man though his features may have suggested otherwise. Regardless of his attitude he always looked as though he was ready to give you a beating or trick you out of your last shirt. Or both at the same time.
“Would you like someone responsible for saving your arse to be a quitter, then?” Boy replied laying the watch on the table. “Stop brooding and deal the cards.” He could hear the sergeant laughing behind his back. He felt peculiarly cheerful. He had nothing to lose besides the watch, and he was prepared for the loss anyway. He picked up his cards with a smile. Victory. And then another, and so on. The players changed and Boy kept winning all they were willing to risk. Every time he threw the watch into the pot it came back to him and it never came alone. His cards did not matter that day. After a couple of hours there was nobody wanting to play anymore. Boy restocked his backpack with everything he needed. The rest was stuffed into a sizable canvas bag. He weighed it in his hand. Heavy, he thought. Food, cigarettes, chocolate, coffee, some meds, a pocket knife and some knick-knacks of questionable value. He should be fine for about a month if he was careful. He’d had his ‘lucky night’. He was rich. “Thank you gentleman. Was a real pleasure.”
Boy turned and went into the bright sunlight heading towards the quarters of his regiment. After a few dozen paces he turned into a side alley between two buildings, passed a heap of debris and took another few paces when something suddenly hit him. He turned towards the debris and saw a local huddled under a ragged blanket staring at him with empty eyes, in his hands an empty clay bowl. At first Boy couldn’t make out his features, but the more he looked the more the man became the only real element of the whole surroundings. Boy stood before him for a while and finally led by an unknown impulse moved over and laid the sack in front of the stranger. “Take it,” he said. “If you’re frugal, it may last you a month. Or maybe more.” The beggar didn’t understand the words. How could he, since Boy spoke Polish? Finally he understood the gesture. On his worn out face formed an expression of utter gratitude mingled with disbelief. He rushed to his feet only to fall to his knees before his benefactor to thank him in broken English. “Its ok, don’t worry. It’s nothing really.” Boy stepped back and watched the man gaze into the sack. After a while he raised his head and, praising Allah, he cradled his precious new possessions like a new-born child and headed down the street.
Boy started following him, as it was on his way anyhow. After some time he kept it up even though he had already missed the turn to his quarters. There was a sudden urge to learn more about the beggar, to see what he would do with the offering. Boy tried to maintain a safe distance and keep his pace quiet in order not to frighten the man. If he were to turn his head he would see Boy, but he did no such thing. He only quickened his pace as if the devil himself was on his heels. Suddenly he disappeared into a passageway and Boy could not make out his steps any longer. He followed the man into a small courtyard filled with nothing but dust, dirt and some rusty equipment. The man was nowhere in sight. Boy looked around. Two gaping holes, remnants of what used to be doors, loomed in the broken walls. One of them was filled with debris, the other barricaded shut with an old, rusty barrel and some wooden boards. On the other wall hung a decrepit piece of carpet covered in a thick layer of dust, making it almost indistinguishable from the surrounding walls. Pondering the reasoning behind hanging a piece of carpet on a wall, Boy moved closer and then he saw a fresh footprint in the dust. He lifted the fabric and moved down a narrow, winding staircase. A pungent smell hit his nostrils as he was descending further into the darkness. After a further few steps the stairs turned and Boy could make out a subtle light gleaming against the dark walls. He turned to look around the corner. Then he saw them – sitting, kneeling and lying in quite a spacious cellar, so many of them that not a single scrap of floor was visible. The old, the young and the feeble. He took a closer look and the origin of the odour suddenly
became clear. Not only were there too many of them for such an enclosed space, but many of them were malnourished, sick or wounded. They rose and turned towards the one sitting in their midst, their feeble hands outstretched and their hunger-filled, gleaming eyes fixed on the canvas bag. The beggar slowly took out object after object and handed them to some chosen person amongst the crowd. They accepted Boy’s gambling fortunes as though they were a gift heaven sent. That’s when Boy understood he needed more of it. And he knew exactly where to get it.
The Boy’s Tale Part II A sharp strip of moonlight painted the irregular silhouette of a large building clearly against the surrounding darkness of the night. Once it had been one of the city’s main office buildings. Now its spacious, reinforced basement contained the storage and administrational facilities of the Brigade. Spotlights were sweeping the night sky, in search of enemy aircraft. There was the occasional roar of engines in the air, and the distant rumbling of ships being reloaded and made ready in the harbour. Along the wall, two watchmen met and hurriedly exchanged a password and the information that everything was in order, before turning away and proceeding in opposite directions. With the sound of their footsteps fading in the distance, two gleaming eyes appeared in the shadow and a dark figure of a man emerged from the shallow niche in the wall. It had taken Boy an hour to get to this point and another fifteen minutes to find the right moment. Now he took a few fast steps toward the nearest window. Using his bayonet he levered up the shutter’s latch, opened the shutter and pulled himself up onto the windowsill. Leaning on his elbow he started to search for a way through the window with his other hand. Luckily, one of the window panes was broken. Boy put his hand through, felt the hook, lifted it and then opened the window. Holding onto the frame, he lifted himself up and quietly slipped inside. He closed the shutters only to hear voices approaching outside. He crouched by the window completely still, hearing his heartbeat pounding in his ears. An eternity seemed to pass before he dared to move towards a door he had seen upon entering the room. It was not locked. It led to a small room with another door. A faint light protruded from underneath it revealing two bunks occupied by two sleeping figures. They lay motionless and their regular breathing told him they were out cold. He left the door ajar and, with extreme caution, started slowly walking between the bunks. One step away from reaching for the door handle, one of the sleeping souls stirred. “Benek?” Boy heard a sleepy voice. He could feel drops of cold sweat running down his spine. “What’s going on?” “Nothing” he whispered, trying to hide the tone of his voice. “Need to take a leak”. The man turned his face to the wall again. Boy opened the door and went out into a lamp-lit corridor. He didn’t have much time now. He wiped off the camouflage paint he had applied to his face previously and rushed toward the intersection. One quick look around and he ran down the staircase. Now he needed only a few more seconds to reach the next intersection then he would find himself in a short corridor ending in a gate made out of steel bars and closed with a latch. It was recently installed there to prevent any unauthorised personnel from entering the storage area. On the left side of the corridor there was a small utility closet with a ventilation shaft near the floor, leading to the storage room, and just about big enough for Boy to squeeze through, if he was lucky. Boy entered the closet and was about to start removing the grating, when he heard footsteps. He leaned closely against the wall by the closet door and held his breath. He could hear the gate opening, and then he saw the quartermaster leaving the store. In that fraction of a second Boy had made a choice. When the quartermaster disappeared around the corner, he jumped out from the closet and with one huge leap crossed the distance to the gate, driving his hand between the latch and the frame of the closing door. The gate was heavy and he could barely contain the cry of pain. He slowly opened the door and walked inside. Boy knew the exact layout of the storage space and all the goods inside. He took out a canvas bag from his backpack and swiftly filled it with all the necessary medicine and bandages. He then moved to the food section and started stuffing his backpack. When it was full, he secured the straps, put the load on his back and seized the bag. He turned to head for the door only to find the quartermaster in the doorway with his gun pointed directly at him. Boy froze, terrified, his bag falling from his numb hand. They stood motionless for a few excruciating seconds before the quartermaster finally started lowering his weapon. “It’s unbelievable” he said, shaking his head. “You’re stealing from your own Brigade, your fellow countrymen. During the siege. You will be court martialled for this! You know, what it means, right?” “Sir, if I may…” “You may shut up.” “Yes, sir.” “I’ve noticed you’ve been up to something. You’ve started coming here more often, finding any possible excuse, looking around. I decided to wait. I don’t get much sleep lately anyway, so… here we are. Now, before we leave
here, tell me: why did you do it? You don’t need stuff to lose in a card game. You’re not going hungry. What for then?” “I…” Boy considered lying, but realised it was not going to change anything. “There are people there, civilians. Sick, wounded, hiding in the basement. Like… like rats. I wanted… for them…” Boy fell silent. The quartermaster scrutinised him looking for the signs of deception. Finally he sat down on the crate and lowered his head a little. After a while he looked up at Boy. “Sit down. I want to tell you something.” Boy sank to the floor and leaned against the crate, suddenly devoid of all strength.
“During the Great War I was living with my mother and my little sister in Galicia. My father was with the army and we had no idea where or how he was. I was twelve. In the autumn of 1914 the Russians began their counteroffensive. We could hear the guns. There was a river of people and vehicles running through our village, as the Austro-Hungarian army were retreating.” “Is everything alright, sir?” They heard the voice coming from the entrance. “Were you talking to someone?” Judging by the tone, it was the quartermaster’s deputy. Boy couldn’t see him. He tried to be as small as possible, and stay invisible behind the crates. “Everything is alright” answered the quartermaster calmly, with a trace of sadness in his voice, hiding the gun behind his leg. “Actually, you know–” he added after the short hesitation “–I was imagining sitting next to my little son and telling him his bedtime story. I miss him a lot.” “Does it help, sir?” “Sometimes.” The quartermaster sighed. “You should go to sleep. We expect a shipment tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.” “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.” They could hear fading footsteps and the gate closing when the deputy left the storage room. The quartermaster rubbed his face. “Where was I? Ah… The Russians were getting closer, drunk on their success after the first few defeats. We had to run, but it seems it was already too late. My mother fell sick and my sister was only five years old. Our horse and wagon were confiscated by the army.” The sound of sirens came in from the outside. The night air raid had just started. After a few seconds they could hear a muffled boom and felt the slight tremor, as the first bomb fell. The quartermaster looked up for a second, but it seemed he was concerned only about his story. “When the last supply wagons were going by our house, something strange happened. One of the drivers stopped in front of our house and told us to get our most precious belongings and jump on the wagon. He waited
for us, faking some maintenance like mending the harness or fastening a loose horseshoe. He hid us in the freight and took us as far as he could. Finally we reached my father’s family and we made it through the rest of the war. I don’t remember the details, but about one thing I’m sure: we lived because of him. We survived because, without any gratification, he risked everything and took civilians into a military transport.” The quartermaster fell silent, looking as if he was reliving the past, accompanied by the falling bombs and the rattle of the anti-aircraft guns. Finally he drew a deep breath. “Sometimes we make mistakes on the freight registry” he confessed, putting his gun in the holster. “Some things get destroyed on the way”. Boy’s eyes opened wide. Was it possible…? “This conversation didn’t happen. You were not here tonight. However, if I catch you again – and make no mistake, I will catch you – you will face court-martial. Dismissed!” Boy jumped to his feet, saluted, picked up his bag and bolted for the door. “If you really want to help those people” added the quartermaster over his shoulder “find another way.” *** Coming back to my quarters during the night air raid wasn’t easy. I even got reprimanded by the sergeant for not staying in the shelter. Nothing really important happened though, and after a few hours it seemed that I didn’t have the conversation in the place I wasn’t in. No one came to me, no one asked about anything, there was no news…
Two days later I got a little time to spare. I went to the ruined part of the city, dug out my backpack and bag form the rubble where I’d hidden them before, and went to see the beggar. This time we went together to the very same basement I’d seen previously. He gave out the food from my backpack, I tended to the sick and wounded. One of the small girls could even speak a little English and translated for me, so the rest could get my advice. Or at least I hope they did. Now I’m sitting at the harbour, watching the ships of various sizes, boats scattered around - some on the water, some by the shore, cranes and trucks. I wonder what else I can do. What way there is for me to help those people? The only thing that comes to my mind now is that I should go and find some help. Someone with a better knowledge of the place, with a good ability to fix things, solve problems. And I think I may know of someone just like that.
His name is Adam Wolsky, if I’m not mistaken. He’s Canadian. They say he knows everybody in the city. They say he could do everything for you, fix anything, contact anybody for you. That is, before he lost Fatma. She was a half-British, half-Arab translator assigned to the headquarters in Tobruk. A creature of charm and beauty, petite, lithe and dark-haired, she was the object of admiration for many soldiers. However she was interested only in one of them. And he fell madly in love with her. I’d seen them together once or twice, and in those moments I thought there was no more beautiful a couple in the entire world. Few days ago she was returning to Tobruk from her short leave on board the patrol craft. The ship became the target of the air raid and was sunk. Fatma went missing. They say Wolsky is not the same man since he learned about it. I hope I can convince him somehow to help me. The ships, the boats… There has to be something in this city I can use to help those people… *** “What brings you here?” asked a man in his early twenties, wearing the uniform of the Canadian Army. “I don’t see visitors often. Especially strangers.” He was sitting on his bunk, hunched, holding a tin cup in one hand, and a small picture in the other. He was unshaven, his messy hair falling over his forehead. This once charming man, always sweet and smiling, now looked as though someone had clipped his wings. “I’m no stranger. I’m a Rat, like yourself, a medic from the Carpathian Brigade. They call me Boy. I have a favour to ask,” replied Boy. “I don’t have time for favours,” muttered the Canadian. “Alright, a deal then,” Boy insisted. “I have something really nice. A watch.” “Not interested.” “Take a look. It’s a good piece of work, English, real gold. It only needs a new strap”. Boy held the watch in front of him, so the corporal could see it. “It’s my lucky charm. It brought me a lot of luck, saved my life even. Maybe it’s time to pass it on. And look, here, on the bezel, it has the initials engraved: ‘A.W.’ You see? Adam Wolsky, as if you ordered it yourself.” “And what am I supposed to do with it?” “You can wear it.” “I already have a pocket watch, a gift from my father.” “In that case you can give it to…” Boy bit his tongue just in time. “…to somebody. Or trade it. Come on, you don’t have to do anything yet, just listen to me. You might help somebody, save their lives. It’s way better than sitting here feeling sorry for yourself.” Suddenly Wolsky’s eyes darkened and he looked as though he wanted to punch Boy in the face. “Just listen. Please.” Boy held the watch in his outstretched hand and looked at Adam with a pleading, yet unwavering expression on his face. Corporal Wolsky put his cup down, straightened up and slicked his hair back with his hand. He looked deep into Boy’s eyes, sighed heavily, relaxed a bit and took the watch from Boy’s hand. He inspected the dial then turned it around and rubbed his thumb against the engraving. “Alright, brother Rat.” He looked at Boy again, this time with the hint of a smile. “What’s this favour of yours?”
The Boy's Tale Part III They walked in silence, trying to make as little noise as possible. That wasn’t easy; the ground was uneven, covered in rubble, and they used no light. There were twelve of them: the skipper, by the name of Munir, his two crewmen, seven sick locals, Wolsky, and Boy. The two soldiers were wearing civilian clothes, and the whole company looked a lot like smugglers. There were two reasons for their caution. Firstly, Allied Command probably wouldn’t look favourably on civilians being transported out of the city, as they might be spies. It was best they didn’t know. Secondly, Wolsky and Boy had two days of leave, but they weren’t allowed to leave the city. However, Boy insisted on going to the refugees’ hideout and tending to the sick and wounded, so they thought of the only way of going there – sneaking out of the city and coming back unnoticed. If they were caught, they would face a court-martial for attempted desertion, but if they weren’t… “Turn left now. Stay in the shadows,” whispered the skipper. “My boat is not far away”. They stuck to the side of an old warehouse, then turned down to the water. There, by the pier, the cutter was moored. Open, with only one mast, small enough to sneak through the harbour, but big enough to take them all.
They got in and sat down on whatever was available: barrels, crates, bales of fishing net. The crew untied the mooring ropes and pulled the vessel away from the pier with the boat-hooks. Munir started the small diesel engine. It looked like they had changed something in the compartment, because the sound was unusually quiet and muffled. The skipper took the helm and the boat started moving slowly through the peaceful waters of the bay. It was near the end of the dog watch, and there was close to no movement in the port. Distant sounds of machinery, the whistling of the wind, diesel power generator – that was all Boy could hear as they were making their way to the harbour mouth. All of a sudden, a spotlight started to slide across the surface of the dock. Despite the quiet engine someone had heard them. Or maybe it was a routine check performed by the guards? Munir swore and sharply turned the steering wheel. “What are you doing?” asked Wolsky. “It's going to be even more suspicious if they see us running!” “Hiding.” grunted Munir. “Over there.” He pointed somewhere in front of them. Boy couldn't see anything clearly in the darkness, until the light hit something really big. Huge mass of steel and wood, full of sharp angles, cables, chains, and broken glass, was gleaming rusty steel on one side and oozing utter
blackness on the other. It looked like an abstract high-contrast photograph. After a while boy could tell that it was a half-sunken transport ship, a relic of the first stage of the siege. The skipper manoeuvred the boat behind the hulking shadow. The spotlight moved again on the pier, on the water, and on the wreck. They managed to get fully covered by it just in time. “I hope they don't see our wake.” The skipper slowed the boat down to a full stop. “We need to wait”. They waited for few long minutes before the spotlight finally went down. And then they waited a few minutes more. Only then, when everything was still and quiet, did they move again. *** The weather is nice, the sea is calm, and in the light of the sunrise I can see the land not so far away. I am quite happy being able to just give in to the rhythm of the waves. Nobody else in sight, no trenches, no tanks, just open space and our little boat. That was it. The boats. There were a few cutters remaining operational in the city's harbour and providing for the besieged inhabitants. I told Wolsky about my idea of taking people out of the city to someplace safe the first time we met. I talked to him a couple of times afterwards about the details and progress. I have to admit – Wolsky had a gift for persuasion. After identifying the most important skipper in the harbour, he talked him into cooperating with us. And then, the skipper convinced every other fisherman in the city. It seems they didn't take much convincing after all – he just had to explain that the needs of their folk were bigger than the risk, and that they were brave enough to take it. From what I see from time to time shining on the skipper's wrist, Wolsky didn't use words only. There were also some other reasons for the fisherman to agree. One of them apparently has a new strap. As far as I know, they found a proper place for the settlement in a quiet cove within a reasonable sailing distance. We're going there now, bringing some supplies we managed to obtain. I also want to tend to the sick and wounded. It's risky, because we aren't supposed to leave. I hope it's going to end well for us, otherwise we are facing... *** “Damnation!” The skipper shouted. “Everybody down! Get down!” He pointed to the horizon. After a few seconds Boy could recognise two dark spots in the sky, and after a short while he started to hear something that might be the sound of engines. “Planes! You need to hide!” The skipper urged and started shouting orders in Arabic. “How?” Wolsky wasn’t sure how they were supposed to hide in the open fishing boat, but he was already helping other people to lay down flat on the boat’s bottom. “I’ll hide you,” Munir answered impatiently. “Why? Are they going to shoot us?” Boy inquired. “We don’t want the Brits to see people being transported, right?” The skipper rolled his eyes. “And if they are Germans… They usually don’t attack civilian crafts, but it’s better if they don’t get any funny ideas. Now quick, get down!” Boy went down and found himself in a puddle of stagnant sea water, between a barrel and a young man whose eyes were wide open and gleaming with fever. Somebody’s foot rested on his head. And then he couldn’t see anything, as he was covered with a fishing net, and then a layer of fish. He could barely breathe. “German!” a muffled voice came through the improvised camouflage. Boy could smell the fish. They were definitely not fresh. Despite the insulation, he could clearly hear the sound of the engines, growing louder and louder. After a painfully long time the planes, or one of them, went just above them, really low, with a mighty roar. The boat rocked. Then came the gunfire. Boy stopped breathing. He could almost feel everybody else’s fear as they waited motionless for the bullets to come hissing from above, to turn the boat into splinters with the soft sound of chipped wood, to make the passengers food for the fish. Yet nothing like that happened. After the first burst came another, and another, but nothing hit them, no one got hurt. Somebody was shooting, but not at them. “What the hell is going on?” Boy, on the verge of panic, desperately wanted to see why the German planes keep missing. He moved so he could use his hands and started to remove the fishing nets and fish from himself. After some time he could stick one arm out, then his head. He looked around.
Above them two planes started their deadly aerial dance. Boy couldn’t be sure, but one of them looked like a German Bf 109, and the other like a Spitfire. Shots had been fired already, and it seemed like a matched fight. Something was not right though. The sounds of the encounter were somewhat off. Boy pulled himself up and looked over the side of the cutter. Then the situation and the sounds became clear. There was a second Messerschmitt, the one that flew low and very close to the boat. The pilot had just finished a tight turn and started to climb to join the fray from below. The first German pilot disengaged in an attempt to escape the more agile Spitfire and build up speed. The British fighter gave up the pursuit and changed his target to the new enemy. He rolled to avoid the first machinegun burst, then turned sharply and started the circling dogfight with the Messerschmitt. After a few moments he managed to graze the German, after another turn he placed more bullets in the enemy aircraft. The Brit had the clear advantage, almost sitting on the enemy’s six, and preparing for the final blow. And the blow came. However it landed on the Spitfire. It seemed like the British pilot forgot to check the position of the second Messerschmitt. The German fighter came back fast and with one long burst from his guns, practically annihilated the elevator and rudder, and shredded the wing. In a split second the Spitfire lost control, yet the pilot somehow managed to level out and open the canopy. Then he bailed out of the plane. After a moment the dark ribbon of a parachute appeared above him. “Oh my God…” Boy turned his head and saw Wolsky, who also come up from under the nets and fish. His Canadian face was tense. “What?” “He’s too low.” With his parachute half-open, the British pilot crashed into the sea. His plane soon followed. *** “Where am I?” Boy could barely hear the soft and weak voice coming from below. He looked down and saw that the Brit had woken up. “It’s alright, sir. You’re in good hands.” He replied and crouched, so he could hear the man better.
“But…what happened? I can remember jumping out of my craft, and then…” “Do you want some water?” When the pilot nodded, Boy gave him his canteen. “You were shot down by those two Messerschmitts, remember?” “Yes, I do. I was on a scout mission. They shouldn’t even be there…” He paused and winced. “I remember jumping out of the plane, but then… Oh, it hurts…” “Well, it does, I’m sure.” Boy nodded. “You’re chute didn’t fully open, you were too low. We picked you up from the water. You were unconscious. Actually it was good, because I had to reset both your legs.” The pilot’s eyes opened wide. “What?” “Both your legs are broken and you have a concussion, but you seem fine otherwise. You should consider yourself lucky. You survived. We were at the site, and I’m a medic. You damaged one German fighter. He was trailing smoke when they went back to wherever they came from.” Anticipating the next question, Boy added. “We will take you to Tobruk soon, but now you need to sleep.” “That won’t be easy. It hurts really bad.” The pilot tried to smile, but it didn’t really work for him. “I told you I’m a medic, right? I believe I have something just for that.” *** “It’s here!” shouted Munir as he pointed to the mouth of the small cove, that they could have otherwise easily missed. When they came closer and around the rocks, in the bright morning sunlight they could see a few houses of the village on the edge of the dry river bed. It seemed that the place had been abandoned before, deteriorated significantly, and was recently repopulated without the proper repairs.
They could spot a few people taking care of some day-to-day tasks, and a few children helping them or playing, but as soon as the boat was spotted everybody went quickly inside and the village went completely quiet. “Are they going to come and meet us?” Boy asked. “They know we’re coming, right?” “Yes,” the skipper replied, “but they were instructed to be cautious whenever they see anybody. They will probably come out when we prove who we are, and bring the sick ashore.” “Alright, bring us as close as possible then,” demanded Wolsky. “We will have to…” He stopped talking and shielded his eyes with his hand. “Look, Boy.” He pointed at one of the houses. “There is somebody over there.” Boy looked closely. They were getting closer to the shore, and after some time he could see a petite woman leaning against the doorframe of one of the houses. He couldn’t see any details though, as she was standing in the shadows, but he felt that something in her posture was strangely familiar. “You think…” Adam was looking at the woman intensely. “You think… it’s possible that…?” “Dunno. You better go and find out.” Wolsky nodded, then jumped out of the boat and started walking vigorously through the shallow water. “Is this his ‘lucky night’?” Boy thought. He looked at Munir. The skipper was standing on the bow, holding the forestay. Watch on his wrist cast a bright reflex across Boy’s eyes. “What happens next?” came another silent question. Munir, as if he could hear Boy’s thoughts, turned around and grinned. The woman stepped into the sun.