Libya 1911.

Zach Neal

Aleisha’s firm right hip was warm in Giulio’s hand, as she kneaded his leg just above the knee.

Overhead, the fans turned, barely stirring the air. Every door and window in the place was open.

Insects and moths circled endlessly around the lighting fixtures.

The girls didn’t drink much but the men were pretty sauced. Here was a kind of peace and serenity, cool after the long hot day where the sweat just flowed and your shirt stuck to you and the underwear was even worse.

The air was blue with smoke and the hour was late. The music was alien and unfamiliar and the atmosphere bizarre. It was a repressive culture, even more so than home, and yet the girls were mostly naked and very accessible. Back home, women were presumed to be angels, here they were property and capable of anything. They were not exactly up on a pedestal, sold into servitude as they were.

He was far from home and they did things differently around here. Perhaps things would change under more enlightened rule. These women were whores and the more respectable, matrons and virgins alike, were veiled and sequestered well away from profane eyes. You had to bear it in mind.

Giulio had to fly tomorrow, which meant that if anything was going to happen they’d better get on with it. Jesus, it was only about ten lire. It was the sort of thing you didn’t put in a letter home to your little (or at least younger) brother. Which your mother and sister would undoubtedly read as well.

According to letters from home, Emilio had grown an inch since he’d seen him last.

It was the dance of the Seven Veils. The girl front and centre was a bit skinny for his liking. 

Aleisha was as comfortable as an old couch, something he had read once and always remembered. He remembered her from before, when it seemed she was the only one in this whole Godforsaken place with a shred of kindness, or perhaps it was merely weakness.

He wasn’t particularly horny, and the Turks were getting pretty good at shooting at low-flying aeroplanes. The music droned on and on, interminably. At one time he had found it fascinating.

As it was, it was merely different.

Giulio leaned over towards Cacciatore.

“I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.” With that, he rose, taking Aleisha by the hand, leading her towards the cramped and dingy rooms at the back where the ladies, (and the Italian officers were nothing if not gentlemen), plied their trade.

For tomorrow, we may die.

We have to have our priorities.

Even then, he found it hard to get the aeroplane out of his head. Now that was true love.

The motor had sputtered once or twice that morning and he was wondering what it could possibly be.

***

The chill of the night was wearing off. The shimmering orange ball that was the sun had just topped the horizon.

“I’ve checked every little thing. There’s nothing wrong with the motor.” Crespo, his mechanic, shrugged. “Maybe the fuel.”

They had strained and filtered it three times, and yet it was a constant concern.

“Very well.” The Taube had only let him down once before, and he’d been able to safely set her down in territory controlled by the Army.

A few words tapped out in Morse, a few hours of waiting, and Crespo and the boys had gotten her going again. Giulio had climbed aboard and flown her the last few kilometres. 

Today he could do without such complications.

Generally speaking, the Mercedes inline four-cylinder was one of the most reliable power-plants available. Perhaps he’d merely imagined it, but the engine had stumbled, ever so briefly, the previous afternoon. The heat of the day was considerable, and it was possible that the fuel had gotten a little too warm and begun to boil off in the lines. There was such a thing as vapour lock, although the Taube was not known for it.

The conditions in Libya were completely different from Italy, and certainly Germany, and native design faults would make themselves known. The mechanics were always fiddling around with the motors, speaking their own arcane language. While he understood much of it, there were times when his eyes glazed over.

Giulio took off his coat, and someone took it away. He snapped his flying helmet tight and, with his goggles on his forehead, used a small step-ladder. One had to step carefully or risk putting one’s feet right through the thin fabric of the fuselage. No tie today, and the top buttons of his tunic were undone. To hell with tradition.

He made sure the ignition was off. Giulio opened up the fuel cock. He stuck his head over the side.

“Okay.”

Crespo, with his assistant standing by, rotated the propeller through two turns and stopped. 

With fuel in the cylinders, the feel was completely different.

He looked up at Giulio.

“Ready.”

He turned the switch on.

“Ignition on, fuel on, ready to start.”

Giulio pulled down his goggles and made sure the map was secure.

Crespo stood, as was his habit, with his assistant holding his belt to pull him out of the way.

Giulio had always wondered what good that would do. It’s not like the aeroplane would lunge forward, not on idle, but an accident or two over the years and people were very aware of the dangers. A mechanic had walked into a spinning propeller just weeks previously, dying almost instantly in one of the few casualties so far among the air service. How in the hell a person could actually do that, was another question.

Must have been brain-dead.

That was the general consensus.

Crespo threw the propeller against the compression and she fired right up. This was both a relief and not a relief at one and the same time. It was always the same. Blue smoke spurted and drifted away on the light breeze, with the engine mixture rich and the choke full on. 

Checking the spark advance, she was right where she should be.

Assistant mechanic first class Antonio came up beside the cockpit as a half a dozen other hands stood in front of the wings, holding her back as Giulio watched the engine temperature.

“Here we go, sir.”

Giulio took the leather bag of four bomba, unfuzed, (safety first!), and placed them on the floor, where if he was lucky they wouldn’t interfere with his feet, the pedals or the control cables. 

Antonio handed in the fuzes, separate for safety. Wrapped in thick rags, Giulio put one in each side pocket of his battledress jacket, one in each upper pocket, and then he was pretty much ready to go.

“Ah, yes.”

Crespo had his water-bottle.

Someone was standing there with a rifle but he waved them off. He would have enough on his hands without that thing rattling around in what was already a pretty restricted cockpit. He had his pistol, which was more to prevent capture and torture rather than any serious defense against the irregular troops the Turks were mostly using.

In other words, the suicide option.

The cylinder head was up to temperature and Giulio shouted at the men, his words lost in the roar of the propeller, which wasn’t so much the engine as the big wooden paddle blades slapping aside the air.

More men came and held the plane. He revved her up, pulling the throttle back sharply. The motor was responding well in the relatively cooler air of morning. It was all in your guts, at some point. Again, he revved it up and pulled back, as he tried to stall her deliberately.

The motor sounded sweet, the vibration strong through the pedals, the stick and the seat of his pants. People’s mouths were moving but he couldn’t hear them anyways. Now she idled quietly away.

With the map and his mission foremost in mind, Giulio waved them off. When he advanced the throttle again, the wheels struggled momentarily against the soft sand. The tail came up on her own. The aircraft broke loose. They went bumping and jouncing as he kicked at the pedals, trying to keep her straight and narrow, and when he had cleared the small flight-line area, with its bare half-dozen serviceable aircraft, he turned into the wind and opened up the throttle. Within a hundred metres she broke the surly bonds of Earth, the airspeed indicator holding strong at seventy-five kilometres per hour.

They were airborne. With a little luck, he’d be back in an hour and a half and then he could have a proper breakfast.

***

Libya was an arid hell, described as lush, green and well-watered in the press back home. In their patriotic fervour for war with a more primitive society, people were presuming victory with little knowledge of actual conditions.

The population, also described in the press as anti-Ottoman, which may have been true to some extent, was even more vehemently anti-Italian. Especially since the invasion…tribesmen they might be, but the whole pastoral existence was a kind of disciplined camp life, and camp life was the one essential element of both modern and ancient warfare.

You really couldn’t go to war without moving men and materiel to temporary quarters and sustaining them in the field—hopefully someone else’s field and not your own—for extended periods of time.

It would be a learning experience.

Giulio grinned ferociously, climbing out, circling the field once, with its flagpole, its lines of tents. Even at this relatively late hour of the day, there was not a single senior officer on hand, in other words, no generals. The parking spaces in front of their one permanent building were empty, and he waved at the mechanics on the ground.

The tall, spare figure of Captain Piazza was there as well.

He was up early—he must have shit the bed.

Came to say goodbye, did you.

We have to give him credit for that.

Six or eight kilometres out, Giulio steadied her up at a thousand metres to evade the bulk of ground fire. He pointed her nose to the southeast. Following the roads was always problematical in Libya. Half of them were unmarked, or in the wrong place, or didn’t really look much like a road at all.

The map was folded and paper-clipped into a stiff oblong. Only the section he needed was available without major refolding, impossible anyways in the heavy buffeting of the cockpit. 

He pulled it out but it was essentially meaningless. He knew where he was going. It was either there or it wasn’t.

Tobruk, Derna and Khoms had been easily conquered, Benghazi was quite another story.

The twenty thousand troops put ashore had been deemed sufficient for the task of taking what the Ottomans called Trabluscarp—Libya, in a tongue that Giulio had found harsh and barbaric when privileged to sit in on one of their infrequent interrogations of a captured Turkish officer.

The modern army, the Regio Esercito, had been curiously unprepared for a war that everyone had seen coming. The only ones who hadn’t seen it coming were those commanders most likely to be tapped for the duty and (of course) those political types voted most likely to initiate such a useless endeavour. The press were just screaming for it, and the reading public nothing if not malleable…Giulio didn’t care either way. The politics really didn’t matter.

He had wanted to fly and had no real love of the noble savage, which he had long suspected was a contradiction in terms. Civilization was a thin-enough veneer over human passion and pretension.

He was heading out over the vast wasteland, sweat already pouring down his armpits, heading for a rumoured enemy troop concentration at Tajoura. On the way back, he would fly over the oasis at Ain Zara, another good staging point for an attack on Tripoli. So far the opposition had been fairly well organized, and this was without much support from the Sublime Porte. If nothing else, the Italians were heavily outnumbered, in a land where pretty much everyone who was anyone, all of them nobody at all, hated their new masters.

One of the more heavily populated areas, the roads lay out before him and he followed his usual route, with the dull patches of green small and forlorn in the greater desolation. The shadows of clouds lay on the land in dark patches and the unthinkable might even happen, a bit of rain later if this kept up.

Aleisha was a whore, of course, and yet she did so much for him—thinking ahead, as to what he might need, what he might like, and what he might want. She listened so much better than Marice.

The wife, back home and putting all of her petty angst, all of her bullshit, every stinking word of it, all of that bourgeois sturm und drang, into every interminable letter she ever wrote, stood out in stark contrast, and she was a lot more expensive to boot.

So someone snubbed you at the flower show. Big deal. Out here, the price of a mistake was very high.

Roberdan, (Wiki.)

Out here, this was real. It was something Marice would never understand and maybe that was the problem.

All of a sudden, one day, for no particular reason, he had suddenly hated his wife, someone he had nicely tolerated, even genuinely liked, up until this point and only so far before that. 

Not that he was making sense much lately. It was a guilty feeling, to be the only one that knew that.

All of that drink. All of that isolation, all of those people afraid to make a decision, but God help you if you were of a different mettle. They were very good at fucking things up…

When all of this was over, he would sign himself in someplace for a nice, long rest.

It occurred to Giulio that in spite of all the promise of the morning, he was having a bad day.

None of them bastards were out here this morning. The very thought helped for some reason and he brightened. The plane was good, very good. Small black dots caught his eye. There were small, spidery figures below, the forms and shadows of men and horses.

“So you don’t want to be conquered, eh?”

Ha.

He stared as tribesmen on the backs of camels unlimbered their weapons. They were probably shooting at him, the rifles, little black sticks one minute, now disappearing due to perspective and foreshortening.

The horizon shimmered in the haze of heat and what little moisture there was in the air. One must assume that the air was being torn by bullets, and yet the idiots were probably shooting at him, when they really ought to have been leading him by quite a bit.

It wasn’t much comfort, but it was at least something.

END 

(Apologies to the literary agents of this world. - ed.)

Handy Snacks for Snipers and other tips.

 Zach Neal

Here are some handy, easy-to-prepare meals and snacks for snipers, along with some other tips.

We’ll start off with the military MRE, (meal, ready to eat.)

Okay, if you’re really serious about your sniping, the first thing you want to get rid of is the flameless ration heater, (FRH.) It’s just dead weight, because you’re not going to get a chance to use it anyways. You’re in a pipe or tube of underbrush, you’re under your rug, or you are literally in a culvert. You can’t move around too much. What are you going to do, cook lunch under your rifle barrel? You can’t even roll over, sit up and cook behind you. It’s just unrealistic to expect that.

The thing takes twelve minutes to heat anything. It’s a chemical reaction. If you have to move quickly, this is what we call 'a dead give-away' in the industry, just a little insider's kind of joke, but you don’t want to leave it behind, and you can’t stick it in your pocket or your pouch when it’s reacting. Leave it at home. Eat the beef teriyaki, chicken breast or vegetarian meal cold. These meals are precooked, and there is nothing in there that is going to hurt you. The peanut butter and the bread are okay, bear in mind that peanut butter has a distinctive smell. Spread it with your thumb. Lick it off, and you’re good to go. You can just squeeze the stuff out onto the bread and wrap it around. No mess. Clean up all that packaging ASAP and double-bag it. Seal it well; pretend it is your own poop and you’ll get the idea. No squishy leaks in your gear. Don't leave stuff lying on the ground when you're with me, it just pisses me off.

If Victor Charlie smells your poop, that’s one thing, if he smells peanut butter, that’s bad news for you.

Same thing goes for Achmed the Sailor’s Son. Respect your enemy. They are anything but stupid.

Smoking is bad for you, incidentally. That goes a hundred times over in our present circumstances. If you try and sneak off for a smoke, I will shoot you myself…trust me on that one. That’s why I carry the silenced .25.

(Don’t ever fuck with me on that one. You are an apprentice. Someday you get to make the rules—if you live long enough. By then (and only then) you will know how to look after your people.)

You can get rid of all excess packaging. Weight is the enemy, or one of them. This includes the cardboard on the chili and macaroni. You’ll need a sharp little pocketknife to open the stuff. I don’t chew gum, and anything that has a strong smell should be removed and disposed of.

You should have two plastic canteens. If you want to premix the juice crystals, sports drink or whatever, always keep one canteen pure, fresh water. Just so you know, you don't want to wash out my wounds with Gatorade. I promise not to wash out yours with grape flavoured Kool-Aid. Okay? Keep it full, right to the top so it doesn’t gurgle too much on the way in. You will not carry any plastic bottle with a snap-seal type of lid, unless you have already cracked the seal and then re-tightened it.

Beef jerky. Jerky is tasty but it’s also salty. This has its uses in hot and arid climates as salt is essential to the body, however the packaging crinkles and can be noisy as hell in stressful situations. Taking it out of the original packaging and putting it into something less rigid and ‘snappy’ may be helpful.

Raisins. Unlike oranges for example, they don’t have a strong smell. They’re dry, not sticky, and they make a nice chew which is good on a long day. Dried apricots and peaches are okay. Bridge mix is okay. No hard rock candy, that goes without saying.

It's kind of like saying, 'no phones.'

Right?

Right.

Tootsie rolls. They come with the MRE, again, a nice taste in a product that is dry, not sticky and makes a nice chew. It’s in there for a while, and you can think on it.

Chewy granola bars. You can take them out of the package and carry them in baggies. Too many will cause issues.

Dried fruits and vegetables are all good, as they swell up in the stomach but bear in mind they’re also going to make you shit sooner or later. Soft fruit bars.

Muttley > The meatloaf is great, the beef okay.

Cheese is good, and those moldy sort of smells aren’t so noticeable in the outdoors as there is plenty of decay and ferment in season or in certain environments; e.g. the jungle setting.

One of my favourite motifs, ladies and gentlemen.

That's a joke, soldier. I don't tell many from this point on, so laugh now while you still can.

Day one, bologna sandwiches, which are boring and insipid anywhere else, are fine and dandy. Soft white bread and a bit of mustard, and make sure you put them on the top of the load.

Biscuits are fine if they’re small and they crumble quietly in the mouth. Garibaldi biscuits are good when nice and fresh. It’s a bit like Fig Newtons in that too many cause issues. They are good as part of a balanced, three-to-five-day menu. Soft cookies are good if the packaging is nice and quiet. Packaging that is dull and matte-coloured, (I saw some individually wrapped chocolate-chip cookies recently in a soft red package) is better than something that’s all shiny, silver and hard to open with minimal effort. The best form of packaging is probably a good, old-fashioned, re-sealable sandwich baggy.

Slim Jims and pepperettes. These are fine although the pepperettes and Slim Jims do have garlic. They can be removed from noisy or shiny packaging and carried in baggies. They’re better than jerky in that they have some moisture in them. Any kind of shredded meat product will require a toothpick if your teeth aren’t the best.

It’s safe to say that big, red, crunchy apples are not okay. Chips, strictly a no-no, as are cheese doodles and all of that loud, squeaky, shiny-plastic-bag-type foods. That’s for cub-camp.

There are no good aluminum pop-top cans, and there is no reason to bring a regular can opener as you won’t be needing it. Glass bottles are a no-no.

Alcoholic beverages are a no-no.

Deodorant, perfume, hair-spray, mousse, shaving creams, are strictly no-no.

You will not brush your teeth for three days, maybe longer, so leave the toothpaste behind. It’s just dead weight.

You will not use a few of these personal hygiene items for twenty-four to forty-eight hours prior to leaving. 

You can brush your teeth with baking soda immediately prior to departure or use the wet brush alone. You may take the toothbrush with you.

You will not wash your clothing in any kind of soap or scented fabric softener. Just use water. In fact it’s better not to wash the clothes for months at a time. Let it air out if you do. Don’t just take it out of the drawer, all smelling of mothballs, and put it on.

Anything involving a tree may be considered a suicide mission. Not our job, thankfully.

Meal heater. Get rid of it. It's useless.

I don’t know about you, but my skin is extremely precious.

It’s even got a bounty on it in certain jurisdictions…the less said about that, the better.

If you would like to do an experiment, next time you want to open a can of beans, turn off all noises in the home; TV, radio, washer and dryer. Turn off all the lights and close all the curtains. When you’re set to do it, have the can on the hard countertop and the simple, hand-cranked opener in your hand, all ready to go.

Listen to the sounds all around you. Close your eyes and listen some more.

Now open the can. It is a sound that can’t be mistaken for anything else.

You can try another can (say corn) on a towel or a pot holder.

It still makes a lot of frickin’ noise, doesn’t it? It would be the same, even if you did it on the soft forest floor. 

And if you heard such a noise, you would know exactly what it was, wouldn’t you? Because we’ve all heard it a million times before.

Truly alien noises are just as bad.

You want to keep a low profile and blend into the background.

If it was extremely quiet out there, and someone was really paying attention, how far away do you think they could hear that can of beans being opened? You could hear it a hundred metres away and probably much farther under good hearing conditions.

Leave the matches and lighters at home.

The list goes on, ladies and gentlemen. On and on and on and on…like how to crap in a plastic bag, or pissing in a bottle, (and what to do with it afterwards*), without even hardly moving. Another good one is making sure you don’t leave a damned thing behind, and other neat stuff like that. There is such a thing as counter-sniper tactics. Sometimes they’re out there watching for you. Guys have been stepped on, and lived. 

Guys have been tripped on, and lived, ah, not to talk too much about it.

Capiche?

Keep the coffee & sugar, we drink it cold in a plastic cup.

Who knows, maybe that’ll be our little job someday, eh?

We’ll talk about that some other time.

In the meantime, get your shit together.

We’re heading out in two minutes.

END

* guys have been popped because they stood and pissed against a dry tree trunk. It really is a characteristic sign, being so high off the ground and so big. A couple of boot-prints in the soft humus underneath and Bob's your uncle.