128 | John W. Warner IV Jerry nurse who spoke perfect English was with them. God-dammit man, remember? The heavily-bearded captainand in fact they all had beards of varying lengthwatched the burial detail in a blur, the cutting wind rising in ferocity. He raised his voice. Spies, eh? A black sergeant, a dead Maori lance corporal, and a British WAAF officer.. .1-1-1 tend to think not, Whitehead. Whitehead yelled above the wind for all to hear. Fine, but I lodge a formal protest…sir. Gut feeling.Their story is rubbish, Peter, come on! It doesnt meet the bill. Our mates ^o«^ it, what if it was a damned trap? I asked her if she could speak German, she said yer. Its obvious. Jerrys always up to something queer out here. Rommels dirty little tricks and fast maneuvers, sand traps and mirages, phantom Panzers and armored cars in great numbers, fuel, ammo, and water cans buried inside endless mine fields that butcher our lads by the bloody thousands. Even us Road Watchers. One minute in Tobruk, another down here. I say we shoot them. Hearing his impassioned speech, the highly-experienced and understandably paranoid LRDG men slowly turned their cocked weapons on Bea and Gwafa. At this, Peter grew concerned, the loss of their comrades bitter. Very well. Miss Thruxton, over here if you please, he waved. Theres a good girl. He rubbed his watering eyes, his vision obscured at best in the wind, so he closed them, sheltering his face with his cap. Too exhausted, wind-chaffed, and disheartened to be concerned, Bea lazily saluted. Sirs. How may I be of Peter strained. What? Speak up. I cant hear y Pitching down his shovel, Gwafa quickly put himself between Bea and the pointed machinegun, his eyes fierce. Nonl We just attacked the enemy and lost a friend, and all for you! Fucking kill me first, you bastards. The feisty, twitchy Brit in the lorry let go a burst of automatic fire at Gwafas feet, causing a dust cloud that blew away in a second. Kill us and be done with it? Bloody madmen, thought Bea. Hold your fire, damn you! screamed Peter. Reeking of battle fatigue, Whitehead pressed his revolver to Gwafas dust- caked perspiring forehead and cocked the hammer. Back off, Sergeant darkie, or Ill split you in half, nigger-boy, he growled with guttural angst, his red eyes flushed with revenge and bloodlust.