“Hang on I think I can see something,” he shouted up.
The men at the top stopped his descent.
“What is it?”
“Can’t be sure but it stinks.”
Johnny gagged at the smell. He fought hard not to throw up.
“Lower me down slowly, slowly, slowly, you just dipped my head in the water.”
Johnny reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He struck one, the sudden intense light blinding him. He couldn’t see much and as the match burned out the flame touched his finger and the pain caused him to drop it.
“Lower me a bit more.”
They inched him down further. Then his outstretched fingers went through the putrefying flesh.
“Jesus!” Johnny shouted. He held his hand up to his face, the smell was nauseating.
Then he vomited.
“Pull me up. Pull me up!” he screamed.
As soon as his feet reached the top they pulled him out. He had vomit all over his face and shirt.
“What happened?”
“There are two dead Germans down there.”
“Germans?”
“Yes Germans. They’ve been down there a while too old un.”
Alf looked at the mess on his shirt.
“I couldn’t help it. The smell made me sick.”
Some of the others were chuckling at him.
“I don’t know what you lot are laughing at you were the ones drinking the water!”
“Hey Alf,” came a voice from over by the well.
Some of Alf’s men had managed to drag one of the dead Germans out with a hook.
“Lousy, rotten, filthy German bastards!” Wilf was livid. Some of the others had to restrain him.
“Oh come on,” Alf said “it’s the oldest trick in the book, poison the water, deny the enemy the smallest of luxuries.”
“It’s still disgusting,” Wilf said shaking off the hands that held him, calm now, “throwing their dead down the well.”
Alf cupped a hand over his nose as he stood near the corpse.
“I don’t think he died of natural causes,” Jack said pointing to a gaping wound at the throat.
“Murdered,” Alf said quietly. He turned to Wilf “Better go get the Captain.”
One of the local inhabitants was passing around nearby trying to sell goods. Most of the soldiers were too tired to bother with him and waved a hand at him in dismissal. He took their refusals good naturedly. He knew that most of the soldiers passing through Matmata had no money but it was worth a try. Sometimes soldiers were happy to trade if they had no money. He had once gained a set of erotic photographs from a French sergeant. They were of a top French cabaret star. He had sold them to a German Leutnant for ten times the amount he had paid.
Rogers arrived and Alf quickly explained the discovery.
Johnny came over. Being the youngest he still wasn’t used to war. To the sight of dead men. He looked at the gash in the dead Germans throat.
“Murdered! By who? Who murdered him?” he asked clearly distraught at the sight.
Alf took the situation in in a moment.
“Johnny keep back!”
Larder continued to stare. His mouth working though no words came. Suddenly his Sten was in his hands and it was pointing at the Berber who upon seeing it aimed at him shrieked and covering his head with his hands was cowering in the dust. He was babbling in a mixture of Arabic, English and French.
“For God’s sake Johnny what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s him! Them!” he said “All of them! They’re murderers….”
“Nonsense man,“ Rogers shouted “Put the gun down.”
“No! It’s them! We’ve got to stop them. They’ll kill us all.”
Alf moved between the Berber and Larder.
“Johnny. Listen to me. LOOK AT ME!”
Larder looked up into Alf’s eyes.
“He has killed no-one. Look at him he has one hand. He’s not capable of killing anyone.”
Larders finger had pulled the trigger almost to its zenith. Alf knew other fingers were ready on triggers too.
“Private Larder I’m ordering you to put that gun down, “ Rogers said.
The words weren’t sinking in. Larder was staring at the end of the barrel of the gun he was holding.
Without warning Alf suddenly rushed him, his left hand swiping the Sten’s barrel towards the ground, his right bunched into a fist smacking Larder in the mouth, knocking him onto his backside. He sat there sobbing.
Alf kicked the Sten out of his reach then extended a hand and hauled the eighteen year old to his feet.
“Go and get some rest,” Rogers turned to his men “that goes for the rest of you. Everybody just calm down.”
Alf spoke to Johnny, friends again.
“I’m sorry I hit you but you gave me no choice. If you want to survive this war you must learn to accept things like that,” he said pointing at the dead German, “The sooner you do it’ll be the better for you.”
Larder saluted and walked away with a thin trickle of blood seeping from a cut lip.
“Keep an eye on him,” Rogers said.
Everyone watched him go. No one laughed at him this time.
Alf put his hand out to the Berber. He stared at the hand for a moment, glanced at Larders disappearing back then jumped to his feet and began shouting his strange mixture of languages of before. He was clearly complaining at Larders behaviour and the way he had been treated. Alf put a finger to his lips to hush him. The Berber was livid and was clearly asking for justice.
Alf slowly took out a pack of cigarettes and there were a few inside. He shook the carton under the Berbers nose. The mans beady little eyes focused on the exposed cigarette butts. Quickly he took two out, put one behind his ear and stuck the other one in his mouth. Alf struck his lighter and the Berber leaned forward and lit his cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The tobacco better quality than he was used to. He took the cigarette from his lips and then smiled at Alf appreciatively. Alf closed the carton and offered it. It was accepted and instantly disappeared amongst the motley rags the man was wearing.
Alf now began speaking to him reassuringly in French.
Burroughs came back.
“I’ve told Johnny to rest sir, “ he said to Rogers.
“He’s a good lad sir,” Alf said.
“I know sergeant.”
“I wouldn’t want this to go against him.”
“It won’t. I won’t mention it to the C.O if no-one else does.”
Alf concentrated on the Berber, his French acceptable. Like most soldiers he had picked up a mixture of sentences in many languages.
Wilf had a bottle of Turkish beer in his hand and the Berber soon scrounged it from him.
Rogers soon became frustrated at not being able to follow the mans ranting but Alf had a calmness that others could draw upon.
He began translating what the Berber was saying. Stopping him every so often to ask him for a different word, a clearer word.
“He says that these two Germans came wandering in to the town one day. They weren’t armed.”
“Deserters Alf?”
“I would think so.”
The Berber continued, not understanding a word of the English.
“They looked hungry so my wife and I offered them food. They were very grateful but refused our home for shelter. They slept in the disused German depot over there. They stayed close by for the first couple of days and never wandered far out of sight of the town. They tried to get that old truck started.”
Alf saw it for the first time. It was German and half covered by an old dusty tarpaulin.