Owen Ben - Fighting with Popskis private army

A line of military vehicles wound its way across the Libyan Desert, bound for the Oasis of Kufra. Popski sat at the wheel of the leading jeep, his eyes on the moving shadow of the sun-compass clamped to the instrument panel in front. In the seat beside him, Bell, his gunner-driver, sat with pencil and notepad, logging their route. Ahead of them, dancing in the heat haze, fantastic shapes of sand and rock marked the ragged escarpment of the Gilf Kebir.

Popski glanced at the speedometer and shook his head.

Give me the map board, Bell.

Bell lifted the map board from his knees and apprehensively handed it to Popski. Navigation wasnt Bells strong point; he felt ill at ease.

Popski looked at the grubby log on the map board and from the grubby log to Bell.

Do you know what youre doing, Bell?

Driver Bell went red in the face.

N-not really, sir, he stammered.

Then why the hell didnt you tell me? Popski exploded. Youre here to learn. If you dont understand a thing, ask.

Bell looked sheepish.

Yes, sir, he said meekly.

Popski held up a sunburned hand and the line of vehicles halted. He wheeled his jeep and drove to the end of the column, braking level with the last jeep. I looked at him expectantly.

Yes, Popski?

Were wrong somewhere, Bob. According to the speedometer reading we should be in the gap by now. Theres no sign of it. Either the bearings wrong or Ive made a mistake somewhere. Stay here till I make a reconnaissance.

O.K., Popski.

Popski revved away in a rising cloud of dust. I called to Sergeant Waterson in the next jeep.

Brew up, Sarge. Were waiting.

Sergeant Waterson cocked a blue eye in the direction of the nearest 3-tonner and swung from his jeep.

Shay, Mohammed, he bawled to the Senussi guide perched on top of the load.

Mohammed Mustapha grinned, showing perfect white teeth.

Aywah, he answered, and slid off the truck.

Driver Davies jumped down and from the back of the 3-tonner lifted a perforated petrol tin, which he scooped half full with sand, poured petrol over it and threw in a lighted match. The contents took fire with a swoosh and Davies shielded his face from the flame.

Driver Weldon jumped from the driving seat of the other 3-tonner, poured water into a blackened tea can and stuck it on top of the fire; Sergeant Waterson reached over the tailboard and drew out a tin of condensed milk. Catch! he shouted to the group by the fire and tossed it through the air. Weldon cupped his hands and caught it neatly, like a cricketer catching a ball.

When the water boiled, Sergeant Waterson threw in a handful of tea, stirred the contents with a stick, lifted the can off the fire and tapped it with the stick to make the tea-leaves sink to the bottom; the tinny sound echoed strangely in the still desert air. Driver Weldon jabbed two holes in the top of the condensed milk tin with the spike of his jackknife and poured a thick spout of milk into the tea.

Come and get it, Waterson yelled.

We all grabbed our enamel mugs and gathered round the tea can.

Whats the form, sir? Waterson asked. Bearings wrong. Were too far north, I replied between gulps of tea. Popskis gone to look for tracks.

We stood in a group in the blistering sun, drinking tea. The desert was all about us, a silent, heat-filled waste of sand shimmering under a cloudless sky. Nothing moved but the dancing mirage; apart from ourselves there wasnt a living thing for hundreds of empty miles. We were five days out from Cairo, halted on a wrong bearing, 400 miles from Kufra; lost.

In the absence of its commander, I surveyed Popskis Private Army. It wasnt much to look at three small jeeps and two big 3-tonners, one officer (myself), a dozen men, three Senussi Arabs; a hastily recruited, raw, untrained and untried unit. Popski only had any real desert experience. The rest of us were just tyros; keenness, willingness to learn, our only assets.

I looked at the low-slung, racy jeeps with their welded array of water and petrol can brackets, their twin-mounted Vickers machine-guns, the grooved yellow sand channels clamped to the sides. I looked at the overloaded 3-ton Chevrolet trucks with their sawn-off driving cabins and the single machine-gun mounted in front. I looked at the men, at Sergeant Waterson from the Kings Dragoon Guards with his piercing blue eye staring from under the brim of the peaked New Zealanders hat shading his face from the sun; at Corporal Locke with the piratical black patch over one eye; at Driver Davies with the baggy shorts a size too big for his waist; at Driver Weldon with the scrubby beginnings of a beard on his chin; at little Jock Welsh, the fitter from R.E.M.E.; at Petrie, our navigator, a thoughtful young man who lived with the stars; at Bill Wilson, my driver, desperately keen to make good; at Mohammed Mustapha, at Abdel Salem Othman, at Yunes Yusef Abdallah, our three Senussi guides crouched over a fire some distance apart, brewing their sweet Arab tea. A motley crew.