"They looked hungry so my wife and I offered them food. They were very grateful but refused our home for shelter. They slept in the disused German depot over there. They stayed close by for the first couple of days and never wandered far out of sight of the town. They tried to get that old truck started."

Alf saw it for the first time. It was German and half covered by an old dusty tarpaulin.

"In the end they gave up."

The Berber was laughing.

"Many have tried to start that steel beast, it won't go, it's been parked here without running for too long."

The man threw his hands up into the air.

"It is the same with all machines. The sun it does them no good."

"It doesn't look like it could run," Rogers observed.

Alf concentrated on the Arab again.

"Then on the third day some other men came here, men like you, they were in open vehicles," Alf nodded to the Captain "Jeeps?"

"They spoke English he thinks, it wasn't German, their uniforms were the colour of sand, they had writing on their upper arms."

The Berber got down on his knees and traced his finger in the dusty road.

"S.A.S."

The two soldiers looked at each other.

"Long range desert group."

Alf nodded again.

"These men spent the morning here searching buildings and the old supply dump. Then in the afternoon the two Germans were discovered. They were brought out at gunpoint with their hands on top of their heads. Their leader interrogated them. He was kind to them, offering water and little food he could. Then they tried to surrender to him but he refused. They pleaded and when he tried to leave they stopped him. He shook them off and repeated his order. Then one of his men began arguing with him and the Germans then showed him photographs of their families. The leader pulled out his gun and threatened them with it, repeated the order and the man who had argued saluted him and led them into the desert at gunpoint. The others of this group just sat around like you are doing. Then there were four shots that cut through the silence. Later the Englishman came back alone. He sat away from the others and they avoided him."

Rogers and Alf were equally appalled at the thought of murdering two unarmed men who had tried to surrender.

"They had families Sir."

"I know but if they tried to surrender to the L.R.D.G it's not surprising that they were refused. The Long Range Desert Group barely carries enough supplies for themselves let alone feed two deserters."

Alf knew Rogers was right but he was still appalled.

"They could have just left them here."

Ask him more.

"If they were shot out in the desert how did they get down the well. Did the others put them down there? Or did your people? Did you put them down there?"

The Berber was shaking his hands in front of his face.

"Later the English left and much later these two came wandering back into the town."

"He didn't follow up the order," Alf said.

"Clearly not."

"I don't know much about the Long Range Desert Group."

"I know even less," Rogers confirmed, "I know that they were set up for covert operations. They have been active in Europe, most notably in France. Out here I think they spy on the enemy, supply lines, locating fuel and ammo depots, that sort of thing. They probably knew about the depot here or they may just be a patrol passing through. Their patrols can sometimes span over five hundred miles Alf."

Alfred concentrated on the Arab again.

"So how did they end up down there?"

"The following day another patrol came through. These were Germans. They stopped as you did. The ones in front were sitting on those three wheeled machines."

"Motorcycle sidecars," Rogers said.

"The two Germans came out to greet them. They were wearing the same uniforms monsieur. The other vehicles came into the town now, lorries like yours. Two special people carrying vehicles, not like cars, but not like jeeps."

Alf questioned him for a clearer word.

"He says the Germans used many types of vehicles. There was one car, an expensive one, it had flags on its front."

"Sounds like a staff car Alf."

"The men who got out of this car were leaders. One was wearing a similar uniform to the motor cycle riders, grey. The other was different."

He again got down and drew in the dust.

"Alf that looks like a skull."

The two engineers stared down at the drawn symbol.

"It does look like a skull."

Alf looked at his Captain.

"S.S."

Rogers nodded.

"What the hell are they doing out here?"

Alf didn't have time to ponder the question because his man was talking again.

"Another man got out of the car. A white man."

"A white man?" Rogers asked.

"A white man," Alf said "A white man doesn't make sense. Ah! He was dressed in white, white hat, white shoes, white trousers, jacket, and shirt. Even his tie was white. He had small round spectacles. His skin was very pale and pink where it was exposed to the sun. He constantly dabbed at his face with a handkerchief even though it's not even hot now."

The Berber laughed again revealing his few teeth.

"Wait until it gets really hot," he said before tipping the bottle back and finishing the last of the beer.

Alf pulled the top off another one and offered it.

"The well, how did they get down the well?"

"I was coming to that," the man replied in his mix of languages, "The man in white talked to them for a few minutes then he said something to the skull leader. The white man got back into the car. He could no longer be seen because of the car's dark windows. The two Germans were pleading now, more than they had with the others. Suddenly they were seized by the ones wearing the skulls. They were held still and their throats were cut. Then they carried them to the well and threw them in."

"They murdered them?" Alf asked "Do you understand why?"

The Berber shook his head, shouting mainly in Arabic. Most of what he said Alf didn't understand. He didn't bother to get the man to repeat any of it. The Berber went over to the half full crate of beer and picking it up he swung it up onto his shoulder, the British moving out of his way.

"What he's told us doesn't make sense Captain. Do you think he's telling the truth? Wouldn't they normally shoot deserters?"

"Who knows. Deserters, the L.R.D.G, the SS, civilians in white, two dead men not shot for desertion but murdered in front of witnesses," Rogers glanced at his watch "Well I wouldn't worry about it, it shouldn't affect our role here, they are probably long gone. Come on we need to get some rest. We have a job to do."

Johnny Larder was alone. He had found somewhere quiet to sit and collect his thoughts. The first thing he had done after leaving Alf and the Captain was to find some water and wash his face and rinse his shirt and vest. They were now drying on the bonnet of one of the jeeps. He sat down in the warm sun with his back to a front wheel of a Bedford truck. From his trouser pocket he pulled out a letter from his sweetheart Margaret Harris. They had met in the most unlikely of circumstances.

Johnny and two of his friends had been drinking in his village pub 'The Black Dog'. They were celebrating the fact that they had just enlisted in the army and were proudly wearing their brand new uniforms. They had downed a few pints each and were approaching the merry stage.

It was a good night in the pub. Johnny and his mates were at a corner table. They were excited and trying to get the attention of the landlords daughter Rosemary Clayton. Her parents Jack and Betty had run the pub for the last ten years. She unknowingly had given them a flash of stockinged calf when she had bent over to wash a table with a wet cloth. Her father had noticed too.

"You can put your eyes back in all of you," he said smiling.

The other customers in the pub were mostly farmers, farm workers, game wardens. Many of them stood in groups talking about their work, crop rotation, livestock, the war for them seemed like it was a million miles away.

Suddenly all conversation stopped.

Three American GI's had walked in.

One of them was black, the other two white. One of them approached the bar and stood there swaying slightly. It was obvious from the start that they'd been drinking.

"A pint of your strongest beer," the American at the bar ordered. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall with muscles that bulged every time he moved. He downed the pint Jack had placed in front of him in one gulp, its nutty taste having no effect.

"That was your strongest?" he questioned "It's weak," he said wiping his sleeve across his mouth "Weak like your men. Another!" he ordered.

Jack refilled the glass and wiped the bar before placing the second pint of ale in front of the American. The American saw him smirking.

"Did I say something funny?"

Jack had thought he had understood the joke but now his smile vanished.

"No sir just your remark amused me."

Jack had clearly misinterpreted the remark. The war was well documented in the cinema each week. The British soldiers were in the thick of the action every single day of their lives. The Americans so far had done little by comparison.

The conversation in the pub began to increase again now. The big GI downed his second pint. He ordered another and one each for his friends.

Jack was concerned. The strong beer would probably kick in soon and the American was already the worse for wear.

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

The American smirked and looked around the saloon. He saw Johnny and his friends laughing as they shared a joke at their table.

"I'll tell you what I have had enough of," the GI said "And that's having to leave my country to come here to save your nancy boys from trouble while all they do is sit in their pretty uniforms with bits of grass stuck between their teeth.

"All right," Jack said taking the beer back "That's enough. You don't come in here in your flashy uniforms upsetting my regulars. Get out!"

"Make us."

Sixty eight year old George Tompkins had heard enough. He got up from his chair by the window and approached the American from behind. The other two Americans made room for him. They shared a sneer with each other.

George reached forward and tapped the Colossus in front of him. George had seen war. In World war one he had been a blacksmith and had spent the years shoeing horses at the front line. He had survived history's bloodiest war.

"Uhh!" The American turned round at the fingers tapping his shoulder. He looked George up and down with a smirk. He laughed when he saw the holes in George's jacket and the mud on his boots.

"Well what do we have here?"

"Hey loud mouth yank. While you're over here with your cowboy hats and your spurs our boys are over in Africa fighting a mans war. More man than you'll ever be."

The American picked up the beer Jack had moved and poured it over George's head. Many of the locals rushed forward to defend the old mans honour but Jack shouted at them to stop.

"I've called the police," he said, the telephone receiver still clutched in his hand. The truth was the local policeman lived six miles away and only had a bicycle for transport. Even if he left straight away it would still take him an hour to get there.

"All right," the American said thinking through the scenario of being arrested and facing the American military police.

"OK. We're leaving. Jeez you guys just can't take a joke."

"Not when our boys are dying for the likes of you," George responded.

The three Americans disappeared through the door. Some of the locals got up to pat George on the back. The big American came back through the door. Instantly there was a ring of locals surrounding him. There was no way he was coming back in. He threw a handful of blades of grass at George's face.

"Here don't forget to put these between your teeth."

No one saw who threw the first punch but the fight was vicious. The big American went down with six men on top of him. He soon threw them off though and getting to his feet he was throwing punches in all directions. The other two Americans were now in the fight and Johnny and his friends took them on.

Sometime during the fight Johnny Larder had a beer bottle smashed over his head. He slumped unconscious to the floor. Jack was trying to get order. Now his furniture was getting broken. He'd seen enough. He went out to the back and returned moments later with his shotgun and jammed both barrels under the big American's ribs. This brought the fighting to an abrupt stop. The American looked down under his armpit.

"Hey! Hey! Take it easy. We were just having some fun."

"Now the fun is over. There has not been a murder in this village for a very long time but I'll happily start with you."

He drew the shotgun back and levelled it into the GI's face.

The American tried a brave laugh.