Page 12 of Secrets in a Sandstorm

Willoby whistles. “Better than water.”

The whistle draws fire. Willoby and I fire a half dozen bullets, but there’s no sign that any of them were effective.

“I can’t see shit.” The sand is not helping. But if we’re struggling, so are they. If we’re counting bullets, so are they. I roll onto my back, rifle on my chest. I touch the pistol on my hip.

Teddy is right by me, handing me a magazine.

I tuck it into my belt. “How many more do you have?”

“Two.”

“I want you to stay here and cover us. Then we’ll cover you.”

Teddy nods. The look of trust and admiration is heartbreaking. Does he not realize how deep the shit is? Does he really believe I can save us?

“Willoby, with me,” I call out. I can’t whisper now as the wind is snatching away my voice.

“On your call, boss.”

I bristle but don’t say anything. This isn’t a sheep station. It’s Sir or Brown. Though I would give anything to be back home for just a few moments. A few breaths of cool, damp air and the scent of eucalyptus in the morning. A kookaburra laughing, calling the rain.

When I left, I never wanted to go back.

Yet here I am, wishing for it, praying I’ll have the chance.

I signal to Willoby, and then we’re up and running before I can talk myself out of this madness. We make it to the marginal cover of the vehicle body. I check the pulse of the man on the ground even though the blood-soaked sand makes it’s clear he’s dead. No one loses that much blood and lives without a transfusion and surgery to patch the leak.

There’s nothing out here except things that want us dead.

I keep my head down as I reach in and grab the satchel and the med kit while Willoby grabs the netting, which is stowed in a bag.

Shots kick up the sand, and I hunker next to a tire. That I give them as much concern as I did the flies back home should bother me.

“Motherfucker,” Willoby shouts as he rolls over onto his belly, shooting and screaming like he’s after revenge. Blood seeps through his pants.

I beckon Teddy over; he needs to move while Willoby is providing a distraction. Teddy slides over the rocks and sprints across the sand like the wind is helping him. He’s fast on his feet.

When he slides in next to me, he’s breathing hard but unscathed.

I give him a nod. “Good lad.”

The shooting stops. The only sound is the shrieking of the wind as it whistles through the vehicle. I turn to check on Willoby.

Fuck. He’s dead. He crawled too far out to take the shot.

“This satchel cannot fall into enemy hands.” I pat the leather. We’d been the first vehicle in the convoy before the tire blew out. The others continued because we’d catch them up. The repair hadn’t taken long, a few minutes, just long enough for them to spot us, even though there’d been no reports of enemy soldiers. Long enough for the storm to spring up and interfere with the radios. If the other two vehicles had waited, we’d have all been caught. Would we have fought off the Italians, or would more have died?

Maybe they were already heading for the caves because of the storm, and it was a combination of bad luck and bad timing.

Wouldn’t be the first, and it won’t be the last.

It was fate tossing the coin and deciding who lived and who died on any given day.

Teddy gathers up the radio, canteens, and ammo.

We need the netting to burn, or we’ll freeze, and I’m not leaving the med kit. Not that it will do any of the men who bled out on the sand any good. If we stay here much longer, it won’t do us any good either. The sand will smother us.

I take a couple of breaths, then lunge for Willoby, grabbing his leg and hauling him back. I take his canteen and the netting.

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