The Desert Wind Blows [Tristan Green]

[♠ Aaron Mitchell]

North Africa, Spring 1941

It seemed like a simple enough mission from the get-go. A platoon sized recon patrol, headed by Second Lieutenant Mitchell, the second-in-command being his trusted First Platoon Sergeant Toye, an Italian immigrant who was now struggling slightly to fight his ex-brethren in the desert sands. He had one advantage, though, speaking fluent Italian he could translate in any situation, and in his old Company had managed to evade capture by donning an Italian Uniform and walking straight through the lines with a comrade, pretending to be part of a scout-sniper uniform.

The Lieutenant wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he looked over the edge of a large sand dune, the rest of the platoon at the bottom taking some shade from it, and half-enjoying a small wind, although it was blasting harsh grains of sand in to their faces and clothes. At least they knew the enemy didn’t have it any better. There were two squads, each in the standard formation. Eight men, one being a Corporal, one a Lance-Corporal, but being a recon patrol estimated to be out in the desert for a fortnight, instead of the standard one Bren, one radio each, in both squads were a pair of Bren gunners, a sniper, a trained radioman and a sapper. This left only one regular rifleman in each, but that was fine. These men were some of the best in the Division, and they needed to be. Each squad also had a jeep to carry supplies, and there was also Mitchell’s command jeep, for himself, the Sergeant, the platoon medic and another radioman. These were British variants of the American jeep, and instead of the .30 Browning machine gun, they all had a .303 Vickers. The final and most deadly part of the outfit was a Staghound armoured car, which gave them a large, but so far unnecessary base of fire. Still, Mitchell hoped that they would have chance to use it yet.

Sergeant Toye looked up to him, a questioning look on his face. Mitchell held up two fingers, then pointed at his sleeve to where rank insignias would be if he was an NCO, and swiped his hand across. He nodded, and quickly moved over to a pair of privates, one a Bren Gunner, one a regular rifleman. Mitchell let himself slide down the bank slightly, so there was no chance he would be spotted, and took a draught from his canteen as he rested his Thompson on his chest. He replaced the stopper on the canteen, and hung it from his belt, and picked a pair of grains of sand off of his weapon and waited for the two guys to get up to him.

Over the edge of the dune, a German squad sat. He didn’t know why they were there, or what they were doing. The fact was, they had radio, and they were too close for comfort. At the moment, though, they were all facing the road, which usually meant a convoy was coming. This could cause massive damage to the enemy, so this was exactly what they were after.

[♠ Pvt. Tristan Green]

Tristan was relaxing for what felt like the first time in years. He was exhausted, weather-beaten, the victim of heat he had never even imagined but his smile never wavered. He was happy, genuinely happy. Ever since he was a little boy, he had dreamed of being a warrior in the same vein as the old Celtic hero, Arthur. Modern warfare, with its unbridled slaughter of innocents, and bodies strewn across the plains, couldn't have been more different from the quests of chivalric knights and sobbing damsels, but Tristan didn't care. He was a soldier.

The heat had cooled down somewhat since the boys had first set off, and most of the men were grateful for it. Tristan had been amazed that such heat actually existed. He had spent most of his life in Cornwall, trained in the Welsh mountains and spent the last couple of months in the far north of England. Given these experiences, the idea that someone could be both warm and dry had never so much as crossed his mind. It had come as a rather earth-shattering revelation. However, given the choice, he reckoned he'd choose the dismal drizzle of Cornwall over the humidity of Northern Africa any day of the week. There were no Germans in Cornwall. No Germans with guns.

"You alright, Fisher?" asked Private Dekker, the lone Australian of the company. The nickname "Fisher" had stuck a long time ago. Against Tristan's wishes, of course. "You looked like you dozed off, there. We've gotta keep on our toes if we want to get outta here alive. Can't have anyone dozing off halfway through a firefight, can we?"

"No," Tristan grinned, taking a modest swig before handing the water back to the NCO. He counted every man in the company as a good friend of his. This wasn't in itself a reflection on the friendliness of his companions, more the fact that Tristan found it physically difficult to think badly of anyone. His good-naturedness knew few bounds. While others based their good-will on race, nationality, age, experience, rank – even gender – Tristan diviced the world into people who were trying to kill him and those who were not. Even then, it was touch and go.

“Good man,” grinned Dekker, before suddenly rising to his feet. Tristan cocked an eyebrow before too noticing that his commanding officer had joined them. He snapped to attention, rather more clumsily than his comrade had done. The two sat back down again, both feeling slightly awkward in the Second Lieutenant’s presence. “Permission to speak, sir,” said Tristan, his voice ever so slightly hoarse. “I was just wondering, sir…when are we attacking?”

[♠ Aaron Mitchell]

Mitchell nodded at the two Privates as they approached. Dekker and Green, young, but allegedly experienced a Corporal Brown had insisted they come along. He could only flinch as they stood to attention, and he quickly slapped their helmets. "Are you two brain dead? Standing to attention is as good as saluting, for all you know there could be a sniper looking at us. Follow me, we're about to attack their outpost."

He pulled his Thompson in to a lazy firing position, letting it drop down towards the ground and, bent-double, made his way to the top of the hill, before looking down at the Germans. He signalled for the Privates not to talk, just observe, before sliding back down the dune and tugging at there legs. "We're eliminating them. We can't let the enemy make a fuss and radio back, which is why only three three of us will be involved. Eight against three, not the best odds, so this is what will happen. Dekker, stay up here with your Bren. I want you to provide a base of fire. Once we begin, mow them down, if there are any runners, riddle them. Green, follow me."

Whilst Dekker set up his Bren, the two other soldiers began walking around the dune, speakingin low voices. "Right, we need to take as many out as possible. I need you to get between them and the radio, try and take out the operator silently. Once you have him down, give me a thumbs-up, and I'll try an take down as many of the others as possible. We're lucky, they are pretty much all at the road, by the two MGs. When we get there, you'll see a tent, somebody may be in there, so keep an eye on it. Make sure though, that nothing gets damaged. When the convoy comes past, it's vital they think this checkpoint is untouched, otherwise they'll just run around."

He stopped talking as they reached the edge, and peered around. They were so far unspotted, and he half-pulled back the cocking handle on his Thompson, checking that a .45 round was in the chamber. It was, and he let it slide forward on it's own steam, before shouldering it, crouching down on the sand - thankful for his trousers - and aimed towards the German base. "Go," he muttered.