D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

machine gun that fired .303 caliber bullets at the rate of 450 rounds per minute. Primarily produced for use with tanks, the LRDG found it extremely useful on their patrols, especially for road watches.

Thorley kept his eyes on the Macchis as they each did a split-S and came around facing the patrols head on.

They were making a strafing run!

“Get that bloody gun cocked!” Thorley screamed.

He heard Wilson curse and then the sound of the bolt pulling back and slamming home. Ahead and behind him, Thorley heard others pulling out their guns, but his was the only one battle-ready.

The Macchis began firing from half a mile out, their 12.7mm Breda SAFAT machine guns blazing. He saw the muzzle flashes before he heard them, and the bullets striking the desert floor, kicking up plumes of sand in straight parallel lines that raced toward them.

“Fire!” Thorley shouted.

Wilson wasted no time. The Vickers chattered, and he pivoted the gun as the Macchis blurred by.

“Jesus C—Christ!” Wilson stammered, eyes wide with terror.

The Macchis rolled and came on again, Bredas roaring. The guns from the other three trucks joined Wilson’s and Thorley saw a smattering of hits in the engine cowling of one of the planes, bits of debris flying off. Black smoke streamed out, and the plane nosed to the ground, exploding into the sand in a large orange-black fireball. The pilot never had a chance.

Sobered, Thorley watched the other plane make a pass without firing. Someone from one of the other trucks yelled out: “Go on, you yellow Eyetie bastard, turn tail like you all do!”

It was almost as if the pilot had heard. Instead of going off the way he’d come, he turned for one last pass. He came in lower this time, as if daring them to hit him with their Vickers.

Suddenly, Thorley realized Wilson wasn’t firing, he turned, ready to scold the man and froze. Wilson sat back, his hands still on the trigger, a neat half-inch hole drilled through his forehead. Behind him the canvas tarpaulin was spattered with gore. The worst of it wasn’t the blood and the brains, it was the tiny smile of surprise frozen on his face. Screaming, Thorley tore Wilson’s hands from the gun and began firing, following the Macchi as it flew by. It was a lot like the skeet and trap shooting he’d done as a young boy with his father in the Midlands. One just had to lead the bird and let him fly to meet the projectile. Instead of waiting for it to make another strafing run, he waited for the plane to pass by. Aiming just ahead of the nose, he squeezed off the last of the magazine. He watched, amazed, as the .303 slugs tore into the side of the Macchi, raking down the fuselage in an almost perfect line. For a moment it seemed that it would have no effect, and then in a bright flash the plane disintegrated. Hundreds of pieces plummeted to the ground.

The men cheered.

Wilson had been a good man, and now he’d spend eternity in a lonely grave far from his family and friends. It was all too bloody much. Thorley reloaded the Vickers and stowed it away. He then set about wrapping Wilson’s body in the tarp stained with his blood.

“You all right there, Thorley?”

He looked up and saw it was Fitzhugh, a look of solemn concern on his face.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Right. I’ll send someone to help you with Wilson. We’ll stay here tonight. I don’t think we need worry about the Eyeties any longer.”

He walked away, his head bowed.

At sunset, the men gathered and buried Wilson, his beret lying atop the shallow mound. They stood around it in a semicircle and Fitzhugh pulled out a tiny dog-eared Bible and read one of the Psalms in a voice heavy with emotion.

Next came dinner, though no one felt much like eating. It was Fitzhugh who brought up what no one wanted to voice.

“Right. With Wilson done in, there doesn’t seem to be much point in going to Hatiet el Etla.” The flames from the fire reflected in his brown eyes, making him look demonic. “We’ve no one to operate the radio. We’ll get a good night’s rest, and in the morning, we’ll head back to Siwa.”

“Excuse me, sir, but how about letting me take a crack at it?”

It was Brady who’d spoken. Thorley thought he looked uncommonly grave. Then again, what was there to be jocular about?

Fitzhugh frowned and stared back at Brady with an intensity that would have made most men look away. Brady met his gaze head on. “You have radio experience?” Fitzhugh asked. The tone of his voice belied his suspicions.

“I’ve enough to get Mikey and me there and back with what we came for, and not make this whole patrol and Wilson’s life a bloody waste, if that’s what you be gettin’ at.”

Fitzhugh’s jaw clenched and Thorley could tell the older man was angered by Brady’s brash remarks. But he couldn’t help admiring his friend’s audacity. He also noticed the others were nodding in agreement.

“Has anybody checked the radio for damage?” Fitzhugh asked.

That prompted two of the men to run off and retrieve the radio and bring it back to the fire. He motioned for the two men to hand it to Brady.

“Let’s see what you can do with it.” Fitzhugh said, his gaze level.

To his credit, Brady studied the panel for a moment and then reached for the “on” switch. A jeweled red light went on as did a light behind the frequency dial. A moment later the hiss of white noise could be heard through the built-in speaker. He then twisted the dial until a stream of Italian issued