They drove into Benghazi and hid the Fiat inside a villa that looked as if, long ago, it had been shelled or bombed. The roof had gone and one end-wall was missing. Bushes had invaded the rooms; they filled the gaps that had once been windows with foliage and blossom.
Lester took the distributor cap. “Lotta shady characters about this sorta town,” he said.
They walked down the street. Malplacket noticed that Lester had acquired something of a strut; also, he kept his left thumb hooked inside his belt. Coming the opposite way were three German soldiers; they stopped talking as they approached, and saluted. Lester’s salute hit the peak of his cap and flew outward as if on springs. Malplacket saw a soldier smirk.
When they were out of earshot, he said: “Don’t salute like that, old chap. It’s not done.”
“That’s how they do it in the movies.”
“Forget Hollywood. You gave the impression that you were trying to swat a rather dull wasp. Come with me.” They went into an alley, where some Arab children were playing. “Bring your hand the long way up, and let it fall the short way down. Like this.” He demonstrated. “It’s a mere acknowledgment, you see. Not physical training.” Lester practiced. So did the Arab children. “Casual, huh?” he said.
“Of course. You are an officer.” They went back into the street. “And try not to goose-step, old chap,” Malplacket said. The children were following them, saluting hard. He turned and stamped. They fled.
That was the turning point for Malplacket. Suddenly he felt in command. “From what little I saw last night,” he said, “the custom here is that officers who are out for a stroll walk arm-in-arm.”
Reluctantly, Lester linked arms. “Where I come from, this means we’re as good as married.”
“Yes? How quaint.”
“You ditch me, my brothers break your legs.”
They sauntered through the town, merging with the crowds of servicemen. Lester counted a dozen different uniforms in a wide range of colors. He saw carabiniere, and Luftwaffe aircrew, and black soldiers, presumably recruited from the far corners of Mussolini’s empire. He returned every salute as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Then they walked into a square and he saw the wreckage of a crashed fighter.
It was stacked on a recovery vehicle, with its wings folded alongside its fuselage. The RAF roundels stood out like bullseyes. “I gotta get a picture of that thing,” Lester said hungrily.
He showed Malplacket how to use his camera, and he posed, hands on hips, in front of the wreck. He was not alone. Other cameras were capturing the scene.
“That’s gonna be worth a thousand bucks,” he said.
“Goodness. Money for old rope, isn’t it? We should seek to enlarge your portfolio.”
Malplacket shot Lester drinking coffee at an outdoor café, surrounded by bronzed German officers. He shot him standing with his arms folded in front of an 88 mm antiaircraft gun. He shot him shading his eyes as he watched the gunners of a German navy patrol-boat detonate a British mine, creating a tower of white water. He had used up half the film when they chanced upon a building that could only have been a military headquarters. Dispatch riders came and went, and clusters of officers stood on the steps, talking. Swastika flags drooped from the upper windows and a swastika banner—long and pointed—billowed elegantly from the balcony. Machine guns on tripods flanked the door. A screen of sentries checked everyone who entered. Lester and Malplacket stopped and studied the place from a distance. “No,” Lester said. “That’s pushing our luck too hard.”
“All you need do is walk past. I’ll take the picture from here. No one will notice.”
Lester laughed and turned his back on the scene. “You’re getting to be crazier than me.”
Malplacket offered him the camera. “Very well. You take the picture and I’ll go.”
Lester plucked at his fly and laughed again, nervous as a bridegroom. “Go to hell,” he said. He turned and walked away. His shoulders were hunched. He looked as if he might be holding his breath.
Malplacket let him cross the street and come back, and he got a nice, busy shot of him passing in front of the machine guns. He wound the film on and shot him waving away an Arab who was trying to sell fly-whisks.
“Let’s beat it.” Lester was walking so fast he was almost running.
Malplacket went with him. “Is there a problem?”
“I think I should’ve saluted somebody back there, a general or something. Somebody shouted at me.”
Malplacket glanced behind them. Nothing had changed. A couple of German officers on the steps were laughing at whatever a third officer was saying. Lester scuttled round the first corner he reached. Malplacket hurried after him and grabbed his arm.
“Come on, let’s go, let’s go,” Lester urged.
“Nobody is following us. Nobody is interested in us, I assure you.” Malplacket was amused by Lester’s jumpiness. “Do try to get a grip of yourself, old chap. If you persist in looking as horribly guilty as this, we shall both end up in the clink.” Lester scowled. Malplacket photographed him, scowling. “I thought you Americans were made of sterner stuff,” he said. “How you conquered the West if you went to pieces every time a Cherokee cleared his throat, I can’t imagine. That sort of attitude wouldn’t have done in India. Not enough English phlegm, that’s your trouble. Now if—”
“OK,” Lester said. “Enough.”
Malplacket gave him the camera. “I don’t intend to be left out of your scoop,” he said. “Be sure I’m in focus.”
They returned to the street. Malplacket strolled past the military headquarters and turned. He saluted as he walked by the steps; a senior officer paused in conversation and returned the salute. Perfect, Malplacket thought. And if he missed that shot I shall strangle him. He crossed the street. Lester was not in sight.
Around the corner, twenty yards away, Lester was nodding and frowning as a pair of German naval officers spoke to him. They seemed very young and very friendly. Malplacket dashed forward. “Wilhelm!” he shouted. “Wilhelm!” They all turned. Malplacket made an urgent show of tapping his wristwatch. Lester backed away from the Germans, gesturing his helplessness. Malplacket took his arm and hurried him off.
They lost themselves in the crowd. “What on earth did they want?” Malplacket asked.
“Beats me. Maybe they thought they recognized me. I kept on coughing and shaking my head… Listen, I’ve had enough of all this. My ulcer’s burning.”
“Did you take my picture?”
“Yeah, yeah, I took your lousy picture.” Lester’s voice had become weak and thin, and it kept on breaking up. “Let’s get back to the goddamn car.”
It was a long walk and by now the day was very hot. Twice, Lester had to stop and rest. When they reached the ruined villa, and the Fiat was still there, he let out a long sigh of relief.
“I suggest a siesta,” Malplacket said. It sounded peculiar. They laughed.
“Feel free, friend. Suggest a siesta to Lestah.” That sounded utterly absurd. Lester laughed until his stomach muscles hurt, and he had to lean against the car. “I got news,” he said when he stopped gasping for breath. “There’s a guy upstairs.”
Malplacket thought it was a joke until Lester took out his pistol. He moved alongside Lester and looked up. Half the ceiling had collapsed when the roof caved in. Upstairs, in the tangle of broken beams and planks, just visible at the fringe of destruction, was an army boot with some bare leg attached.
“Whoever he is, he’s not doing us any harm,” Malplacket said. He felt slightly sick: too much tension, too much heat. “Why don’t we just leave him alone?”