9 comments/ 6501 views/ 11 favorites P40 Bedouin Dreams By: MSTarot This story was written to be the birthday gift of a friend and fellow writer, AMoveableBeast. He asked his friends to challenge themselves. Well, this is my best attempt to do that. I do hope you enjoy this story. Happy birthday, Beast. ***** "Come on, girl. Come on. No, no, no. Oh, damn it all!" Fighting the dead stick, I kept trying to get the damn engine to restart despite knowing it was a lost cause. I had been on fumes and prayers for the last fifteen minutes and the fumes had run out. And while I was praying as hard as ever, the nose of this battered Kittyhawk was growing heavier and heavier. "Come on. Crank. Just once more old girl give me a little more." With a shake of my head, I tried one last time then gave it up and took the heavy stick in both hands. With nothing but momentum on my side this flying brick was headed to the ground and it was taking me with it. Right into the middle of the Great Western Desert of Egypt. I considered jumping but I dismissed that thought as quickly. I was already too low for my chute to fully deploy. My chances were better riding the plane down, and trying to keep its nose up till the last second. Of course by the time I was making that decision my chances were running out as fast. The weight of that big damn American made Allison engine was dragging the nose down towards that giant sandbox I would soon be skimming my wheels over. Fighting the powerless controls, I was all but standing on the flaps to slow the plane and not stall it at the same time. I kept an eye over the slow rotating prop, looking for anything softer than the sand covered rock I was rapidly closing on. Not that I had much choice, I had enough air speed to maybe make one simple correction and then I would be landing with all the finesse of a collapsing windmill. "Oh well, never crashed a plane before. Always something new in the RAF," I muttered through clenched teeth as I felt my wheels touching the jagged rocks. For a half-second I saw the ends of the propeller blades curl up as they touched the rocks! Then it was flying past me and there was nothing but noise, pain, and a terrible darkness. And heat. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** I knew hours had gone by. There were stars overhead, brilliant seas of millions of lights that sparkled through the glass canopy over my head. "I'm alive?" Not accepting that fact, I sat still for a few minutes more till I had to come to the conclusion I was in fact still breathing. I was also in pain, from too many places for this to be any afterlife other than Hell, and I was a not sure a single night in Malta with a prostitute was enough to get me sent there. With unsteady hands, I reached for the canopy crank and slid the glass back from above me. For as far as I could see there was nothing but moonlit desert. Sand and rock. Endless miles of sand and rock. Nope, I was in Hell after all. "Oh, I'm so buggered." Climbing out I stumbled, and would have fallen had the wings not been sitting flat on the desert floor. When I stepped off onto the rocks and took a good look at the plane I wanted to spit, but didn't have the moisture in my mouth from it. The propeller, curled up like a kid's pinwheel, was sitting half buried in the sand maybe twenty feet away. I shook my head at all the ragged metal hanging below the cowling. "Humpty Dumpty, I think you're completely broken. Ya dumb fucking egg ya." Massaging my knee, I limped over to where a larger rock was and had a seat. Leaning my head back, I looked at that river of stars going from one side of the sky to the other and began to laugh. Laughter that threatened to turn to tears. Leaning my head between my knees I gripped my aching temples. "Oh, Dennis, my lad. You really did her up right proper this time, didn't ya?" Reaching into my pocket, I took out a tin hip flash I bought off a yank for a pack of fags. Twisting the top, I took a sip of the strong rum as I slid my arse off the rock and sat my bum in the sand. Leaning back against the rock, I could still feel the daytime heat baking its way out of this bit of desert. Patting my vest pocket, I took out the small metal tube and dumped a couple of the white pills into my hand. Officer's rules and medical quackery aside, I knew that taking "Bennies" with rum was probably not the best idea but it was all I had on hand. "And what's the worst that can happen? I kick off?" I began to laugh again at that. I kept laughing till the pills kicked in; I kept laughing till my cheeks were wet. Oh, how I laughed. I laughed like a baby. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ~Heat~ So simple a word. Four little letters, but they don't give this blistering, brain-cooking force enough justice. But then no better words were needed to explain the full power of the sun applied to this spot of hell. ~Heat~ "OH, dear God. Please," I begged, but what I begged for I had no idea. Thoughts had long given way to the simple animalistic desire to not be in the sun. My parachute draped over the plane was giving me a hint of shade but it was still hotter than any summer of my life within that shade. Death maybe? A quick one. Not to be slowly cooked to death under this merciless sun. Could that be what I was begging for? For mercy? There was no mercy here, not in this place, not for me. I gave the radio at my feet a kick. Useless thing! I had tried so hard. For hours I tried. Lifting those damn-all heavy batteries out of the plane. Dragging this worthless collection of wires and tubes out as well, then hooking everything up with shaking hands. I had taken too many of my pep pills trying to get this done and now it wasn't even going to work. And I was shaking like a leaf in March wind, unable to even pass out and sleep in this oven. ~Heat~ "Mercy, please Lord." ** ** ** ** *** ** ** I awoke to a sinking sun on the horizon. Blinking, I removed my hands from the stick and looked around me. Why? What? I climbed my way out the cockpit and hung from the side of the glass canopy looking back into the vacated pilot seat. I wished I could have laughed, as I figured out what had happen. I had gone out of my head and tried to fly the plane out of here. Yeah, I wished I could laugh... But there was no laughter left in me. "Tomorrow I will die here," I thought. That I had made it through this one day was testament to the healthy life I've always lead. But nothing, nothing short of a bathtub of water was going to save me for one more day, and I didn't even have a few drops. Looking out at that dark sky meeting that even darker land, I wanted to weep at the beautiful cool feeling of the night as it settled around me. I knew that soon the air would feel cold to me. Dreadfully cold. I shook my head, no tears coming, no moisture left in my cooked flesh for them to be dragged from. Taking a few small items I might need, but likely would not, I headed off towards the rising moon. That burnt-orange orb was huge as it cleared the edge of the sky. If I had to choose the spot where my bones would lay forever, next to this miserable, misbegotten plane was not where I would have them. I would have them rest on the Mountains of Moon. If I walked fast enough, I might get to it before it rose too high into the sky. So off into the desert night I walked, chasing the moon. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** When I was a child my mother would spend the mornings baking bread. It would come from the oven so very, very hot. Loaves of toasted golden heaven, that I had to sit and watch get cold because she would always tell me I would burn my hand. I wanted a piece of it when it was steaming, the butter would have melted in moments, and then soak it into a rich deliciousness. It would have been perfect that way but she always made me wait. No longer! No longer will I wait for the bread to cool. I'll show mother! I'll get the bread hot. I'll climb into the oven and eat it before she takes it out. It will be perfect. The oven is so hot, but the bread will be so good. "Mother? Mother, no! I want the bread hot mother. Please. Mother please I want it hot ... MOTHER, HOT! PLEASE MOTHER ... SO HOT!" ** ** ** ** ** ** ** Goats? My great uncle had goats on his farm down near Southampton. The smell of them was forever driven into my memories from summers spent there. Those befouled smelly Billy goats. Sickening beasts, smelling of musky urine from them pissing on their own beards, I hated them as a child. Oh, how heavy that smell would be when the summers turned hot. I turned my face from that foul smell then screamed as I was struck hard in my ribs by horns! Again and again I flinched from those hard impacts as the goat butted me over and over. I tried to call out to my ... I tried to call out ... I tried to call ... I tried ... ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** There was a wet cloth on my lips. A few drops of water dripping into the back of my throat. I wanted to drink the Nile River dry and I received tiny drops. But oh, those few drops were a blessing I would have wept for, if I had the tears to weep. I was so thirsty. "How can I be thirsty if I'm dead?" I thought. "If I'm thirsty I must be alive, yes?" I opened my eyes to find that I was in fact in Heaven. I must be, for an angel was looking down on me. Her eyes were dark, her face was dark but aglow in the soft light of an oil lamp. Her clothes were...dark. Looking around her all I could see were colors. Reds, blues, brilliant shades of yellow, green and gold. So varied the colors everywhere but she, this divine being was ... dark? A fallen angel? More moisture at my lips. I sucked at the cloth she held to my mouth, trying to pull even a single drop more from it for my parched throat. Then the angel was singing! A simple song, repeating often, with not a word I understood, but a sweet song none the less, and from her lips it was an aria deserving of highest praise. I wanted to do that but I could not speak. Too tired to speak. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** I awoke to a shoe nudging my side. Not gently. Looking up startled, from the blanket on the carpeted floor where I lay, I saw two things. I was under a tent, and I was being kicked by a fierce looking man, so ancient his skin looked like leather. He spoke to me then, but I did not understand him. The words flowed out of him in tones both singsong and guttural, a mish-mash that hit my ears like birdsong and a dying dog's final whimpers. "Do you speak English? British?" I finally managed to ask, the sound of my voice terrible even to my ears. He grinned at me, a smile all but devoid of teeth, and shook his head. Laughing he moved to a nearby cushioned pad and sat down. I saw then that I was in fact surrounded by several men. All of them had the same look as the first, if far less aged and weathered. I tried to sit up, but had not the strength. As weak as a babe, I lay there on their floor while these men, desert tribesmen I guessed, spoke. Not to me, I was not spoken to again, but about me I was sure. I smelled something that was not goat or man then. A dark, half-burnt smell. I watched a fully covered woman appear and place a steaming pot on the floor before the old man. He nodded and she vanished as quickly as she had appeared, leaving behind her nothing but a soft smell of ... of ... I could not place the scent. Unable to move, I watched out of necessity, as the leathery man lifted the pot and poured himself a small cupful. He then grinned his toothless smile and passed it to the man to his right, with a small bow. The pot soon vanished from my sight but I'm sure it was making the circle of desert men. Coffee? Then I smelled tobacco. Then food! Around me a half-dozen voices spoke that same singsong, guttural language. Some laughed, some shouted, some spoke quickly, some slow. Only the old man sat silent. He watched me. He watched and sipped from his small cup. Filling it again when the porcelain pot returned back to him. He watched and sipped, and listened and sipped. Then he spoke and all others went silent. His words were delivered in a tone that, even not knowing what he was saying, I knew. It was a tone that any commander would give a testicle to be able to pull off. Pure authority. The Prime Minister spoke that way. The King. The Yank's President ... well, a few of them. And here he was, this old goat herder in a dusty tent in the middle of Hell's loo, and he had it. In spades. What he said caused a hush. Then a rustle of cloth, and I was being held to the floor, turned over onto my belly by hard hands. Panting in the dust, I moaned when my head was yanked back by my forehead. My eyes were wide as I looked at that ancient weathered face, and felt something far sharper than a razor at my neck. I felt the edge cut skin! He calmly sipped his coffee. When his eyes lifted to meet the gaze of the men that held me I knew I was dead. A noise outside caught his attention then. A distant sound I noticed then as well, a heavy unmuffled engine, tank tracks? Then more motor sounds joined the first, a convoy of trucks? With a tank? Coming closer. The men around me scattered and I was dropped into the dust, forgotten. Outside I could hear camels groaning, goats bleating, young and old desert people calling out to one another and that heavy rumble of the tank tread and those motors growling, getting steadily closer. Too weak to stand, I crawled to a wooden chest and pulled myself up onto it enough to see. "A Hanomags? Oh, dear fucking Christ, what fucking next?" Watching the German halftrack plowing a dust trail across the hard-pack desert, with a small column of Mercedes-Benz L3000 trucks hard on its treads, I held my hand to the bloody cut at my throat. Part of me was glad to see Fritz. I was alive because of them showing up, but my chances were not greater with them than with these desert rats. The desert men were simply going to kill me, and I felt I was already on borrowed hours, but the Germans? I think I would rather my throat had been cut or that I had died in the desert than to be in their hands. Not that it looked like I was going to have much choice which, that old desert man would turn me over to them as soon as those trucks stop. Having no desire to see this silly, predictable play go on, I turned around and slid back to the floor, my back against the wooden trunk. My hand fell to my hip trying to find my rum flask and in shock I looked down. I still have my Enfield pistol! Pulling it from the canvas, RAF blue blancoed, web belt's holster, I opened it to see that it was still loaded. "What are these sand rats using for brains? I could have ... I could have ..." I swallowed remembering where I had been minutes before. "I could have done nothing, but lie here in my own blood, gasping for a breath I would never get." Even now, I was too tired to hold the gun. I let it lay in my lap as I sat listening to the vehicles stop, and shouted orders in German. More shouts. Then a few screams. Children first, then women. Looking over my shoulder I saw men being rounded up. Their head scarves were being pulled off, they were shoved towards the waiting trucks while women and children ran after fathers and brothers, crying. I snarled seeing one little boy hit in the face with a rifle butt. I looked away. Nothing I could do, right? One man, with no more than six shots and a handful of loose rounds? There was a single voice then. That voice of authority I knew too well. The old man. I heard him trying to use incredibly guttural Italian, then a word or two in English. Then he spoke even a few in German. But they were not words he knew the meaning of. Stupid, out of context, or meaningless words to try and speak with, but he was trying none-the-less to talk to the Fritz commander. Trying to stop what was happening. At a nod from the Commander a rifle was pointed at him and the old man dropped. Sliding back to the floor, I sat there unsure of what I felt. That old fool was no friend of mine. Hell, he had been ready to watch his men slit my throat like a spring hog. But even knowing that, seeing him shot down like he was nothing, burned me. I moved my hand to the still weeping cut at my neck and when I did my hand brushed the little bottle in my pocket. My "Bennies...?" I pulled out the little metal bottle. "Oh, Dennis, what are you thinking?" I asked myself when I poured five of them into my palm. I chewed the bitter pills to mush and crawled my way to the abandoned pot and washed them down with the still warm coffee. "Damn! That's five kinds of shite!" I muttered every obscenity I could remember, in three languages, as I tried to keep down the thick sludge these desert men were drinking. Shivering, I wanted to retch horribly but fought that urge and tried to hold onto the tent post till I crawled to my knees. Then to my feet. Gun fire. I staggered to the open side of the tent and looked out at the shambles of the desert camp. The Fritzs were shooting the camels. For the sport of it, it seemed. I could see that the Axis soldiers had loaded all the men, at gun point, into the backs of the trucks and were now themselves climbing back into the half-track Hanomags. My gaze went to the crumpled pool of cloth that was the old man. I saw, by her dark clothes, the girl that had tended me was on her knees next to him. Holding his hand, crying. Even as I watched, she turned it loose and rose to her feet. In her hand was a knife she had taken from the desert man's belt. She ran at the German commander's back, screeching a cry in her own language! That scream, and the soldier next to him calling out, alerted him so he turned in plenty of time. He gave an amused chuckle, grinned, and with ease blocked her. But then he had a wild cat on his hands. She clawed at him, kicked, bit, screamed. He fought her off all the while laughing. Other women of the camp moved forward as well, but other older women stopped them. Held them in tight arms, or made them take over holding crying children. A woman, nearly as ancient as the old man, moved with halting steps to his side and dropped to her knees next to that crumpled huddle of cloth and boney body. She looked behind her, said something to the others in her language, and took back up his hand. The Commander had laughingly ordered the girl caught, and with a sneer from a bloody lip he snatched her veil from her face. He spit blood in her face, and then he laughed. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the split lip and nodded to the men holding her. The desert girl's screams changed tone from rage to humiliated fear as they began to pull at her clothes, tearing at them. Laughing at her struggles, they pushed her towards the rocky, sand-covered ground. From the nearby trucks the lorry drivers walked over to watch the fun. When they had her stripped to their satisfaction, one moved forward only to be moved to the side by the Commander's hand on his arm. The German officer took off his field hat, handed it to the man he had displaced with a smile, and went to work removing his black leather belt and holster. His troops laughed and cheered him on. So intent were they on looking at what was going on that not a one saw me, a walking dead man trying to die all over again, leave the tent. Not a one saw me walk, shaking like a leaf from the drugs, into the back ranks of them. And none but one, saw me take the potato masher grenade from the belt of a Fritz too busy watching to noticed someone bump him. That one was the German Commander. And he had a bloody round hole in the middle of his forehead before he could say anything! Simply pointing and pulling the trigger, I emptied my Enfield in mere moments. Then I grabbed up a fallen Maschinenpistole 40 Burp gun, off a man I had shot in the back before he even knew I was there. I hit the ground in front of the half-track and shot at anything standing up around me! When the MP40 clicked empty, I grabbed the potato masher I had dropped next to me. Arming the head, unscrewing the cap at the base, I pulled the cord and tossed it uncaring where it landed over my shoulder. P40 Bedouin Dreams I did care enough to hit the sand and I try to dig a hole! The multiple panicked screams told me where it landed, but then the bell ringing "THUMP" silenced those and took a portion of my hearing with it. Crawling on my elbows, too shaken to try standing up again, I moved to where the Commander's body was draped across the girl and rolled him to the side. Grabbing up his dropped belt, I pulled out the new looking Walter P38 and shot a man, I had already shot once, this time killing him. I leaned back against the dead Commander's side and looked over at the girl as I glanced around for targets. Her beautiful face was covered with the German's blood, a veil of dark crimson to replace the one he had torn away, but those dark eyes shown bright as diamonds. All around me there were various types of screams, anger, fear pain, terror. And not only from human throats. The camels of the camp growled, bellowed and ran away into the desert. Goats were scattered in all directions as well, running merry cap through everything, knocking a few people from their feet. Suddenly there were even more screams. Angry ones! From the back of the trucks, released by their women, came the desert men. Some simply grabbed a German, and dragged him to the ground, where several men would join in stomping and kicking the Fritz to death. Others grabbed dropped Karabiner 98k or Sturmgewehr 44 rifles and emptied an entire clip into a single man. When their acquired gun was emptied they used the gun butts. A soft hand touched my arm. Looking into the eyes of my personal angel I smiled and closed my eyes, hoping that this time I would not wake unless I was in heaven. But they would not stay closed. Far too many pills were tearing their way through my veins for that. So I opened them and, staying within this hellish dream. Soon I was clinging to my angel as my body shook beyond my control. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** "How many bloody times will I repeat this moment?" I asked myself, as I awoke to see the face of that ancient old man. He was, as before, looking at my face intently. He smiled seeing me awake. He went to laugh, but placed a hand on a bloody bandage on his scrawny chest and coughed instead. Two of his men moved to help him from next to me to his couch, where he reclined till he caught his breath. Then he began to speak. To me this time. Long and varied were the sounds he made. His eyes never leaving my face, though he smiled often. A smile that told me he understood I didn't know what he was saying, but that he felt the need to say his peace none-the-less. He spoke, and then he went silent. When he clapped his hands twice I closed my eyes, expecting the knife, maybe even welcoming it. There was movement next to me ... Then a soft hand took mine. I looked up into the gaze of my angel. Her dark eyes were soft above her thin veil. I could see the hint of a smile through it, but those eyes carried its full message. The old man said one word. "Zawjah?" he gestured to her. I looked back to her and she took my hand, pointed to herself and then to me. "Follow you? Zawjah ... follow?" I asked. She nodded, and I nodded back. Looking over at the old man I saw him smile. He made a "get up" gesture with his hands then settled back on his couch. One of his men brought him his tiny cup of that terribly strong coffee. Helped by her to my unsteady feet, I let her guide me out of the big tent and across the camp. All around me I saw signs that numerous hands had been busy in the time I had been out of it. Already several of the German lorries were missing, and the ones that weren't were half stripped. The Hanomags half-track was still where it had been parked but the back of it was a mess of twisted metal edges and shattered bodies. My grenade had to have landed right in the middle of the tight packed men in the back and, from the grizzly looks of it, other grenades may have gone off as well. The tent she led me to was small, two poles and a draped canvas. The floor was covered in cloths; there were dark cushions in the back and against the sides. She helped me to lie down on those cushions before she hurried away. When she returned, minutes later, she brought a covered dish and a brightly decorated clay vessel. Oh, how simple is life when food and water-as warm as a bath, is seen as a miracle? With a hidden smile she showed me how to eat her food, "ta'amiya" she called it. A mixture of beans, or something. Fried and brought to the mouth with a folded piece of bread. I could have devoured all she brought and twice more, but I stopped after a bite and insisted she eat as well. She shook her head but then paused. Gave a small nod and reached up by her ear. When her veil unhooked and her face was revealed to me I was caught, mesmerized all over again. She took a single bite, hesitant, almost afraid she was doing something wrong, but at my smile she smiled back. "Dennis," I said pointing at my chest, realizing I had no idea what to call her. I gestured towards her. "You?" It took her a moment then she looked down, blushed and looked back up at me. "Rabi'ah." "Rabi'ah?" I asked to be sure. She nodded and I smiled. "You are beautiful, Rabi'ah. Thank you." I gestured to the food and water. "Thank you." "G ... ank you?" she asked. "Tha ... ank. Thank you." I nodded and took another bite. She tried again, terribly. Smiling together, unable to understand one another but talking all the same, Rabi'ah and I shared this simple meal. I kept looking past her, seeing all the activity going on, but she seemed in no hurry. I quickly gleaned that the camp was being broken down; huge bundles were being loaded on camels. The last of the drivable lorry trucks were gone, vanished into the desert to some place I could not guess at. When we had finished the food, two of her people brought an empty pack similar to the ones already loaded and placed it next to the opening of this small tent. They both grinned at me, made quick bows and left. She of course could not explain their grins to me, and merely shook her head. And when half-dozen women, all in veils and head scarves, swarmed the tent I did what any man would do. I moved out of their way. Two more of the desert men appeared, took charge of me, and led me to the growing line of loaded camels. They handed me a small bag and with hand gestures instructed me to open it. Inside was clothing similar to what they were wearing. One of them tugged at my stained, sweat-reeking, bloody flight suit shaking his head. For modesty's sake, I kept the camels between me and the women as I quickly changed into these clothes. They itched was the first thing I noticed, and they had about them a smell of another man, but they were not uncomfortable. One of the pair a long checkered scarf and wrapped my head up like his, all the while talking in sing-song grunts to me. Confused, I shrugged and they both laughed, merrily. A determination to learn at least some of this desert rat speech grew within me then. He, the ancient camp master, appeared then. Riding high on the back of a camel draped with bright colors, in the multi-cloths that hung braided from its saddle, the beast was magnificent. A phrase I never would have thought to apply to a camel. The woman I had seen at his side hours before, when I thought him shot dead, held him in his saddle. Her wrinkled face, behind a heavy old-fashion looking veil, was as lined as his but not as scrunched in pain. She was looking me over with an oddly possessive scrutiny. I however, for some reason, felt strangely comforted when she gave me an approving nod. The old man pointed behind him, with the long stick he held, then at me. "Zawjah, Rabi'ah." Walking up, holding the reins of a packed camel came Rabi'ah. Her customary dark clothes now highlighted with a bright red veil and a wrap of blue gold. I smiled at her, and her eyes smiled back at me. She turned, said something sharp and tugged the reins. The camel knelt to its knees, then lower down till it was on its belly. At her gesture I realized what I had to do. With some trepidation I climbed onto my first camel. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** Long were the hours of that night, the River of Stars moved above us as we traveled in a nigh endless line of beasts across desert that never seemed to change. With Rabi'ah seated before me, guiding this tall, rocking beast to follow the stub tail of the one in front of it, I often found myself slipping into sleep. I would snap awake at times thinking I was flying my plane, traveling on a ship, or in a hammock swinging under a tree. When that happened she would look back at me, touch my leg next to her own and say a word or two. Soft, gentle words that would lull me back to sleep. Then we were there, where ever there was. A place of moon lit desert, no different than where we had been except there were no dead Germans. The camel lowered himself in a way that threatened my displacement. I gladly climbed off his humped back only to find my legs too sore to support me. I heard a giggle from behind Rabi'ah's veil as I walked broad-legged a few feet away and leaned on a rock for support. All around me orders were given, packs were taken off of grumbling beasts, and then the children were there, with their herds of goats getting in the way of everything. Somehow, in the middle of this madness, a camp formed. And done in a time a parade ground sergeant would have approved of. I saw two men lift the older man from his saddle and carry him into his tent; clearly the wound was taking far more of a toll than the old geezer was showing. But then at his age, to have been shot in the chest with a German rifle, and then ride through the whole night on camel back, he had to be made of boiled leather. Rabi'ah was there, taking me by the hand, leading me as she seemed to do so often. I saw that someone had set up her little tent, away from the others like before. I noticed that the furnishings inside were more elaborate now than they had been, but I was too tired to pay that much mind. "Dennis?" she said tugging at my borrowed shirt. Then she gestured to the padded cushion at the back of the tent. I understood what she said next was sleep, so I made her say it slower so I could understand it. She smiled when I repeated it back and nodded. I ducked under the tent canvas, sat down, took off the too soft desert boots, the itchy shirt and with a groan lay down on the padded bed. I watched, with little interest, as she draped a light wall of cloth over the open side. Then she knelt down next to the oil lamp. Rabi'ah covered the burning wick with a small copper hood and the tent dropped into darkness. I was already half asleep when I heard rustling cloth and figured she was leaving. Then she slid in next to me on the bed! There are things in this world I don't understand. Too many at times. But a woman, her body so incredibly naked, sliding into my arms in a dark place, her lips being pressed against mine ... that I can figure out. Any hesitancy, in those first few seconds, had to have come from the confusion of smells that enticed my nose when her face neared mine. There was the smell of her desert people, with their entire myriad of scents certainly, but there was also a sweeter perfumed smell that was at the same time not perfume. Perhaps it was simply her personal smell. Whatever the scent was, it permeated her skin, and when I touched her lips my mouth was flooded with that sweet flavor. Rabi'ah's hands caressed my face, pulling my head closer to her, demanding the kiss to be deeper. It was when my hands moved down her back and I discovered that she was in fact completely bare in my arms that I had to stop this, for a second at least. "Rabi'ah?" I placed a gentle hand to her shoulder lifting her up from me. "Dennis?" She sat back, her whole body little more than a darker shadow to my eyes. How do you ask a person what are they doing when you can't talk to them? When you can't speak more than two words of her language? I sat up as well, finding her hand in the darkness so there was no way she would flee me, until I understood the reason for this. "Rabi'ah?" I touched my hand to her chest, placing it over her heart, and then lifted her hand to my own chest. "Rabi'ah ... Love ... Dennis?" I did my best to make sure it had at least the sound of a question. "Love ...?" Her singsong voice did such wonderful thing to that simple word. Adding notes and cadences it had never held before. I heard her sigh, the frustration she felt so similar to my own that we could not speak. "Rabi'ah ... Zawjah ... Dennis. Dennis ... Zawjah...Rabi'ah!" "Why do I suddenly think ... Zawjah ... doesn't mean follow?" I asked talking mostly to myself. Then her hand was touching my face, fingers brushing the bristle that had formed since my last shave. How many days back was that? How many days since I took off to fly that P40 Kittyhawk to be repaired? Her hand left my face, moved back to my chest, and came to rest over my heart in the tight brown curls. "Rabi'ah...love, Dennis. Rabi'ah, Dennis...Zawjah." Her voice carried such feeling, such passion-and a hint of worry-that I pulled her to me, feeling those wonderfully bare breasts against my chest. "Yeah. Zawjah does not mean follow," I said into her scented hair. Her back was so silky smooth under my hands. Her long, black hair spilling over my hands in a river of softness I had to dip my hand into. She sat back and in that darkness I saw her eyes, sparkling like shining jewels, and realized she was crying. I brushed her cheek feeling the moisture, and here in this place it was such a precious thing I could not bare to see it wasted. Not on me. I kissed her again. There in that dark tent, that smelled more than faintly of goats and camels, I let fate take me where it would. With a smile against her lips, I tumbled her onto the padded couch that was our bed. She gave a giggle then went back to kissing me, caressing me. I could feel her interest in my body, her curiosity. Her hands explored and touched and gripped. Ran lightly down my sides, my back, my shoulders and neck. That interest was of course returned tenfold by me. She was no delicate flower. No she was not a hot house bloom like so many women her age in England. There was strength of body, no doubt given by years of hard work trying to simply survive in this place, which I knew without knowing her better would be mirrored in her character. This was a strong woman. Deep was the kiss, and when I felt myself hardening, a slow response no doubt due to the stress of the last few days, it was with a familiar sense of trepidation that I worried. Concerned I would not last long once I was inside her. Those same stress filled days would have me, no doubt, not at my best and I did not wish to disappoint either myself or this lovely woman. Moving my hand down her belly, across a thick thatch of wiry hair, I was pleased to find her already wet and ready for me, but then shocked to feel a barrier to my fingertips. I pulled back my hand but hers caught mine. She pushed my fingertips back into her, nodding her head. She said a quick flurry of words by my ear, that I of course did not understand, but by the tone I gathered she was trying to assure me of something. Of what, I was not sure. That she was a virgin? I could feel that. That it was okay for me to take her maidenhead? I was not sure by this point I could not do that. My desire for this woman had been growing by seconds to a peak I had never been to in my life. The exotic, sound, feel, smell, and the whole traumatic time of late had me hungry for life. A hunger I was realizing only now with her in my arms. Her lips were back on mine and she was urging me to get on top of her. A virgin she was but I could tell she was not naive. She knew what sex was, how it worked. I could feel her hands move between us as I settled my weight between her open thighs. When her fingers closed around the hardness of my cock I moaned and she smiled against my lips, pleased that she had pleased me. That made me feel a moment's shame that I was going to bring her pain. She moved my cock as I picked myself up more onto my hands. I looked down but under me were simply shadows. When I felt the head of me slip into wetness I took a deep breath. "Sorry." I said, hardly a whisper of apology to a woman that could not understand what I was saying. But I felt the need to say that much at least. With a push I slipped into heaven. And Rabi'ah took me into herself with only a gasp, a single whimper, and then a sound that was not pain. She pulled me down onto her, clutching me tighter to her, holding me still with her thighs gripped too tight for me to move. Not that I wanted to. Ever. It was she that finally urged me on. Rabi'ah said something in my ear with a whisper of sound then removed that pressure of thigh and, with a hand gripping my hip, pulled me deeper. I felt my body drop into a rhythm as old as life, and she moved under me, matching it. Her hands gripping me tightly to her, letting me know that any pain I was causing was welcome. Why? Even as my body took its pleasure my mind had to wonder what this moment meant to her. I knew so little of her, and I wanted to know everything. I knew that this was no gift given to a stranger. Gratitude for what I had done this moment was not. What did that word mean, Zawjah? Rabi'ah gave a moan from under me which pulled my mind from such thoughts. Such cares. They were meaningless; I had a woman to make love to and she was clearly beginning to enjoy what I was doing. Her hands were growing tighter on me, pulling harder at me. Silently begging in the only language we could share that I go faster, push deeper. I met those urgings and went even further. I welcomed the deeper moans, those gasps for pleasure that hinted at small levels of pain. My own body was feeding me those as well, testimonies to the fact that I was in no way healed from the damages that the crash had given. I'm sure if I had a mirror I would see that I was a terribly battered and bruised man. The feared limited duration I had so worried over did not appear. Instead my body took up this pleasant task with an eager willingness to feel something wonderful. I moved on her, our bodies now both slick with sweat, pushing with my toes at the padded cushion we lay upon. Her legs, long and supple, curled up around my hips clutching me tighter to her still. I felt joined to her, a bridging of cultures, races and lands made by this simplest of human bindings. Joined? That word suddenly ran wild in my head as I felt her fingertips rake the back of shoulders with her nails. Could that be what Zawjah meant? Could I be joined to this woman, married by some strange desert law? Was this now my wife in their eyes? Then, as she moaned under me, I wondered if I would mind that. There had never been any woman in my life that I desired in the way I desired to know Rabi'ah. Given that I hardly knew her at all, that should have been surprising ... but it wasn't. The closer and closer my body came to that wished for end the more I began to understand. I was now two men. Dennis, the RAF pilot, yes ... I was still him. But I was also this woman's lover, her husband if I was right. What did that mean for me? More what did it mean for her? If I reported back to my unit, my commander, what would happen to her? "Oh, Rabi'ah." I moaned her name. It was a sound as sweet as water to a man lost in this place. Could I take her back with me? Back home to England? To Cardiff? What would she do there, be there? She would be like a flower taken from its normal soil and replanted in a different land. Some flourished but most did not. Most needed hothouses to keep them alive and she was far too strong, willful to ever be in such a cage. I had no desire to even wish to see her in such. Her magic, her beauty would be smothered in such a life as a woman of England lived. P40 Bedouin Dreams What then? All such thoughts fled when I felt her body shake under me. In her wonderful singsong tones she began to whisper my name, a soft mantra by my ear, even as she gave deeper groans, expressions of overwhelming pleasure taking her. She shivered under me, and I knew it was not from the cool night air. I joined her in that moment of sinful release. My cock pouring into her body a tribute to the lust she arose and to the love I was feeling. Love? Was I in love? I had never been in love so I don't know for sure if what I was feeling was that. Looking back on it, I do know it was her being attacked that had driven me out to shoot the Germans. I had not cared a frick for my own life at that moment. To stop them, make them pay for hurting her, humiliating her, those had been my only thoughts. If I had even had what could have been called thoughts at that terrible moment. With great reluctance, I slipped free of her and moved to lie next to this woman of the desert. This angel of the sands. The cool of the desert night had vanished as we made love and the faint light of the coming dawn was brightening the canvas above us. I could hear the sounds of the camp, so recently arrived to this spot and set up, already moving to greet the day. Goats were being brought together to be driven away to those patches of scraggly grasses that litter the desert floor. They must feed if they were going to give the milk that was such a major part of the diet of these people. "And of me as well." I knew that there was not much chance I would reach civilization till these desert dwellers came closer to it. And they had little reason to do that, given the recent violent welcome of the German's. Lying there in the growing light, I looked at Rabi'ah and saw such a delight to the eyes in this woman. Her body, that had given me such pleasure, was magnificent. She was a sprawl next to me, her legs still slightly parted, those strong inner thighs faintly touched with red stains. I saw her body quiver and she gave a small moan. Smiling at that sign her pleasure was still continuing, I moved a hand to rest on that thick thatch of ebony hair. She arched her bottom off the cushion at my touch and moaned. I smothered her moan with my lips and she kissed me eagerly. Her passion was clearly not spent, and to my growing surprise neither was mine. Taking her hand, I placed it on that half-hardness and she looked down. She gave me a look of wonder, smiled at my laughter then nodded and started pulling me back into place on top of her. I decided to surprise her though and, when I was inside her, I rolled us both and placed her on top. Rabi'ah found herself sitting astride me and she looked confused. Resting my hands on her hips, I lifted myself up and with her weight pushing down I felt myself slip much deeper into her. With a gasp, a look of wonder crossed her beautiful face. After that I had to give her no urging. She began an undulating movement of both her hips and stomach that felt too delightful for mere words. I had only to rest there and watch this incredible woman pleasure us both with her newly awakened needs. Her hand rested in the center of my chest as she rode me faster and then faster still. When she uttered a throaty cry I heard faint laughter from outside moments later. She clapped her hand over her mouth, clearly embarrassed. I laughed and pulled her down on top of me. And with this woman-my Zawjah?-upon me I found a peace that had been lost since the first German bombs had fallen in England. I buried my face in her hair, breathing deep her fragrance. Marking this moment in memory forever. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** With my rifle at rest, I watched the two approaching camels. One I knew to be the mount of Abdul al-Rhasih, the Shaykh of our tribe. The old desert man called out as they rode closer and the boys I was overseeing all called out a greeting to the elder. I noticed he covertly placed his hand on the side of his chest where he had been shot three months before. I knew the wound bothered him still, but the old geezer wouldn't let his people see it. "Dennis?" He reined in his mount "Friend. Speak." He gestured to the stranger who stopped his camel a few feet from the old man, and sat looking at me with curiosity. "English!" Surprised, I looked to the stranger. "You speak English?" "Yes, I do." He said, his accent horrible but understandable none the less. "I have worked with your people many times. Learn words good." I nodded. "You pilot? Crash plane?" he asked. "Yes." "Happy, me. You dead man to your people. I bring you back alive, much reward." He grinned at me, his front teeth gold. "You follow me English man. I take you home." Reaching my hand up to my three month growth of beard, I looked to the old desert rat. He was watching this exchange closely. Since the day he had been shot I had been welcomed and yet not welcomed in his camp. I had been given tasks to do; odd jobs that needed an adult to supervise but were jobs for children. And with our broken exchanges of mixed words I had learned a few words. I was, and always would be, an outsider to him. The Bedouin have a saying I heard when I first came to these hot lands. Me against my brother. My brother and I against our cousins. And all of us against the foreigner. And I was a foreigner ... but I had saved him, his brother, and all of his cousins. "No." I looked to this stranger. "I'm already home." He looked at me and shook his head not understanding. Before he could speak I held up a hand. "Thank you, but I'm staying. With them. If you would though, please answer me a few questions?" The stranger looked at me like he had been insulted, but after a moment nodded. "Speak. I know I tell." "Ask Abdul for me ... why he gave me Rabi'ah." The old man grinned his toothless smile at the name. "He told her to be with me. Why?" There was a quick exchange of words, I caught more than a few that I knew but, like always, could do no more than guess at the conversation. "Rabi'ah was to face jalaa ... expulsion from the tribe. She touched the hand of a man not her kin, much dishonor. She lost much ird." The stranger smiled those bright gold teeth. "He offered you tainted goods, Englishman." At his laugh I wanted to shoot this man, guest of Abdul al-Rhasih or not. He must have seen it in my face because his smile vanished. He pointed to the old man. "She's his youngest son's youngest daughter. Not easy to marry her off. Then her sins took away from his Sharaf. You hero. But not Bedouin. So you have no family honor to taint, but have much honor cause you hero." The old man said something then. And the stranger looked at him odd. "What?" "He say he tried to do best for his granddaughter." The stranger shrugged as if not understanding that, but I did. I exchanged a nod with the old desert man. He grinned at me. "Anything else ... Englishman?" I could tell by the way he spit the word that he was not happy with me, probably already missing his reward, but I did not care. "Just one more thing. There is a Bedouin word I can't get explained to me. Zawjah?" "Not Bedouin! Arabic!" He snarled as if I had personally insulted him. I shifted my rifle. The captured Sturmgewehr resting on my hip closer to him now. He eyed the German rifle for a second then looked into my eyes. "It means wife, you infidel." He turned his camel and without a further word rode back the way he had come. The old desert rat looked at me, his face still holding that toothless grin. I gestured to him placed my hand on my chest then back at him. He waved me off. With a nod Abdul al-Rhasih turned the neck of his grumbling camel and followed his guest. "Wife." I smiled as I pictured my beloved Rabi'ah, my Zawjah. Looking over at the dozen young eyes spying on me, I yelled one of the few words I knew, a simple curse to get back to work. They laughed and went back to their goats. Sitting on my camel's back, I watched them at work moving the stubborn animals from one patch of parched grass to another. They called out to each other, across the sea of hairy backed beasts, yelling what I knew to be insults. With another adult they might not have said such things, fearing punishment, but with me they knew they could get away with it. For now. I had to wonder, pondering a future I never thought I would have a few months back, how welcome my own child would be among them. Rabi'ah-my Zawjah-soon, in a simple turning of six moons, would be the mother of my first born child. A fact that amazed me. I was going to be a father? Me? Doing my duty for my people, I watched the horizon till the stranger and the old man were dust and specks. That stranger could have taken me home ... but I was already there. [In 1942 Flight Sergent Dennis Copping crashed his P-40 Kittyhawk into the desert, 200 miles from the nearest civilization. Evidence suggests he did survive the crash. As of this time no remains of him have ever been found.] ***** I would like to thank Tx Tall Tales for his help editing this into some sort of coherent ramble. Thanks TTT. As always, any mistakes you see are all mine.