A Good Clean Fight by Derek Robinson Page B

standing next to Pocock. “Mustn’t speak ill of the dead, old chap,” he said.
    â€œYes, sir?” Sergeant Davis stopped eating a biscuit and gazed at Waterman. “Why is that, sir?” Waterman was startled. He picked his teeth with his tongue while he tried to think of an answer, and failed.
    â€œEat too many
eggs
,” Lampard said, talking to the fire, “and you feel
down in the mouth
.”
    â€œWe got it the first time, Jack,” Dunn said.
    â€œAsk me,” Pocock said, “the only safe time to speak ill of Harris is now he
is
dead.”
    â€œI thought you were his friend, corporal,” Lampard said.
    â€œHarris had no friends. He didn’t get on with people, except when it came to killing them. He was bloody good at that.”
    â€œGood, but not perfect,” Gibbon said.
    â€œKilling the enemy is an admirable pastime,” Lampard said. “I myself quite enjoy it.”
    â€œHow many d’you reckon you killed at Barce?” Waterman asked.
    â€œHard to say. I expect quite a few went up with the ammo dump. Couple of dozen?”
    Waterman nodded. He was Signals, he knew nothing about combat. “Seems reasonable. More than enough to avenge Harris, anyway.”
    Gibbon said, looking at the sky: “Can you avenge someone before he gets the chop?”
    Most of them let the question pass. It was too complexand uncomfortable; and anyway, who cared? But the idea interested Gibbon. “Premature retaliation,” he said, still studying the sky. “Vengeance in advance. By gum, there’s a lot to be said for it, Tony. It solves so many problems! Strike first and beat the rush! Draw blood now and avoid disappointment later! Revenge is sweet, so why wait until you need some? Shop early while stocks are plentiful.”
    â€œYou do blather on,” Waterman said.
    â€œI might recommend Harris for a decoration,” Lampard said.
    â€œHis feet smelt worse than any man I know,” Davis said.
    â€œPerhaps a Mentioned in Dispatches would do,” Lampard said.
    There was a soft gray tinge in the sky. Soon the sand would be touched by shades of delicate pink and green and purple and, for a few minutes, the desert would look beautiful, before everything got roasted white again. The patrol busied itself, topping up fuel tanks and emptying bladders. They wanted to reach the Tariq el ’Abd while the thermos bombs would still be casting long shadows. If they were exposed, that is.
    *   *   *
    It had not been easy to get the Storch: the plane was overdue for overhaul, the fitters actually had it in the hangar, with the engine cowlings off and the tanks drained, when Hoffmann told them to put it all together and fill it up.
    As the plane was being pushed out of the hangar, Major Jakowski’s car arrived, brakes screeching, horn blaring. Jakowski was in charge of airfield protection at Barce and he had just returned from a large meeting in Benghazi where he had been made to describe the disaster that had happened two nights ago: twenty-seven aircraft destroyed, six men dead, twelve wounded, one missing, five large vehicles burned out, also much fuel and ammunition lost,extensive damage to buildings . . . When he stood up at the meeting and heard his own voice, the list sounded dreadful. It
was
dreadful. It was like the toll of some massive air battle, without the consolation of enemy losses. Those present had then asked a lot of hard questions of Jakowski. Jakowski had few answers to give. The general who chaired the meeting had not spared him. Next time, Jakowski knew, it would be the Russian Front.
    So he had raced back to Barce, thinking hard of all the men whose backsides he would kick. Trouble was, they were nearly all up in the Jebel, searching for the British raiders. Then he saw the Storch. “I want that,” he told Hoffmann. There was a brisk argument which Jakowski lost. He lost because he had no good