Three Kings

“You’re a sight for sore eyes!” said the navigator, Monk.

“Well met, gentlemen.” O’Connor was pleased to see the men, but took in their shabby appearance and made a mental note to have a word with them later. The men were unshaven, uniforms filthy, and looked to be self-styled military vagabonds.

“We’ve been looking for you, General. Sergeant Galloway here, and these are Lance Corporals Cokes and Jewell-Signalman Simpson there in the back.”

“Signalman?” O’Connor took a long disapproving look at Hector Simpson, his beard so long that the other men had taken to calling him “JC,” Jesus Christ.

“Then you have a radio?”

“That we do, sir,” said Sergeant Galloway.

“Good then. We’ll want to get a message off to Alexandria and let them know you’ve found me.” He stopped, looking over his shoulder when he heard the sound of more vehicles approaching.

“More of your boys, Sergeant?”

“No sir, we’ve just these six jeeps, and those sound like armored cars.”

“Armored cars? That must be the Italians out of Giarabub. There were no armored cars available on our side for work out here, as you well know. It was all we could do to keep 2nd Armored running up north. I couldn’t even spare a single Wellington bomber to support Fergusson. We only had two! Well now, can we outrun them?”

Corporal Cokes was already pulling back the bolt on the machinegun mounted on the jeep, but it was going to do them little good, for other eyes had been out searching that day as well, noting the long column of dust that seemed just a little too thick where the jeeps had come up.

They were not human eyes, but the sensitive infrared sensors at the nose of Lieutenant Reeves’ scout column in the 12th Lancers. The speedy Dragons moved, with lightning speed, fanning out in a wide line abreast to envelop the contact and prevent its escape.

It was then that both O’Connor and Reeves got a real surprise, for it seemed there were British armored cars operating in the desert after all, but the like of which he had never seen. And for Reeves, it seemed that the story that odd Popski impersonator had told him about the General’s plane going down was true-impossibly true.

His column of Dragon IFVs pulled up surrounding this new group, yet when he made the P.A. announcement, stating he was British Army, he was surprised to hear cheering from the small group of vehicles they had come upon. That in itself was a bit of a shock, as the locals here had little welcome for them whenever they patrolled outside the Sultan Apache perimeter zone.

One thing led to another, and he was soon on foot, questioning the men, as he had the Russians. There was one among them that all the others deferred to, a short wiry man with grey white hair and an officer’s cap. He carried a riding crop, which he tapped incessantly at his thigh to emphasize anything he said, and he was wearing the uniform of a serving British officer. Reeves could clearly see the rank as well, a Lieutenant General!

He stared at the short energetic man in front of him amazed, because he knew the history of the desert war very well, and this man was the spitting image of General O’Connor, just as that other fellow had been the image of Popski. He passed a fleeting moment, thinking this new catch might be in league with the others, a grand theater, a re-enactment group, but why would anyone want to come out here and play at World War Two? Here? Now, with the whole world going bonkers in another very real and deadly war?

The Lieutenant started with a brisk salute, more to the rank than anything else. These men might be imposters, like the last group, but he would play out the game and see what he could learn. Yet the man’s answers made no sense, mentioning names like Wavell and Cunningham, all long dead, and making the grand claim that he was, in fact, commander of the British XIII Corps in the Western Desert!

“Just who the hell are you, Mister Reeves?” said O’Connor. “12th Royal Lancers aren’t even here in Africa as far as I know. And how in the world did you manage to trade in your old Morris CS9 for that!” He pointed at the Dragon IFV, clearly amazed.

Reeves found his interrogation had quickly backfired on him, as the sheer force of O’Connor’s will and determination seemed to carry the moment. He rode out the storm of words, waiting for this so called General’s questions to abate like he waited out the blowing sand to get this mission started. They came one after another: Where did he get that vehicle? What in bloody hell was he doing out here wearing the patch of the Desert Rats on his shoulder, when that division was back at Alexandria refitting? Did Wavell send him? Was he a new unit? How many men were in his column?… and on it went as if the fellow thought he was out here to fight the last war, his great grandfather’s war, settled long ago with the blood of another generation on these cruel desert sands. In the end he simply held up his hand as if calling for a truce.