Burroughs got the ball and kicked it back out. Alf placed it at the halfway line. Schwann blew his whistle again.

Alf passed the ball to Larder and ran deep. Johnny chipped it over and Alf brought the ball down with his chest. One of the Germans tried to push Alf over but he side stepped, played a one two with a team mate and struck the ball. The German goalkeeper put his hand out instinctively but the well struck ball thumped past him for the equaliser. The English players patted Alf on the back as he rejoined them. Only Captain Schwann applauded of the Germans.

"Good. Very Good," he said "Make the most of it. It will be the only one you get."

"If any of your team wishes to drop out," Alf goaded the German "Now would be the time."

Schwann pointed a finger at him.

"Don't push your luck!"

Alf grinned as the ball was given back to Schwann. This time the German play was nasty. Schwann back passed but Frank Grimes intercepted and dribbled the ball towards the German goalkeeper. Alf on the right wing, Johnny on the left, both calling out "Frank! Frank!" to get Grimes attention. Grimes knew where they were though. He skillfully passed another German midfielder. He looked up momentarily to spot Larder.

The German's tackle was vicious.

Corporal Kahler took both of Grimes legs out from under him. Grimes came down heavily onto his back. He rolled about in the dust holding his left knee and howling in pain. The English players booed but the Germans laughed.

"Ah come on, " Appalled, Alf protested to Schwann "Your man didn't even try for the ball."

"I didn't see it that way," Schwann was amused.

"He could have broken his leg," Alf pointed at Kahler.

Kahler was grinning but his smile vanished when Schwann spoke to him.

"See if he's all right."

Kahler begrudgingly walked over to Grimes and offered his hand to help the Englishman up.

"Are you all right?"

Grimes swatted the outstretched hand away.

"I am trying to apologise."

English hands helped Grimes up.

"I don't need or want your help," Grimes told the German.

At six feet eight inches the massive German Kahler towered over Frank Grimes and the English players around him. The English all looked up at him in fear.

"Are you all right?" Alf called to the injured P.O.W.

Grimes was rubbing his shins from the knock. The pain had eased but they were bruised.

"We are having a free kick for that," Alf told Schwann.

"Very well, " the Captain replied. He put his whistle to his lips and blew it because of some pushing and shoving between the English players and Kahler. Alf dropped the ball at his feet and struck it with all his might. It bounced once in front of the German goalkeeper and thumped past him.

2-1.

The English cheered as Alf threw both of his hands into the air to celebrate.

"I wasn't ready," The German goalkeeper started. He was going to go for the ball but suddenly rushed out of his goal when the celebrations continued.

"I wasn't ready."

He angrily grabbed Alf by the lapels, twisting bunches of Alf's shirt in his fists. Despite Alf's recent injury he pulled the German goalkeepers hands free and pushed the man away.

"GET OFF ME!"

Schwann was blowing his whistle again.

"I wasn't ready," the goalkeeper protested to his Captain.

"The game had stopped," Schwann told Alf.

"You blew your whistle which I took as a restart to the game after Grimes was fouled."

"I blew the whistle because your team were arguing with Corporal Kahler. I blew it to get their attention."

"I took it as a whistle for the free kick to be taken. I scored. It's two, one to us."

The English players began arguing about the rules of football, finally Schwann said.

"Fine have your precious goal. If that's what it takes to beat a German team then have it."

Alf grinned.

"We will," he walked back to his cheering team mates, "That'll teach the bastards to play fair."

The German goalkeeper was furious but Schwann put up a hand to shut him up.

"Let them have it."

The goalkeeper took some persuading but finally, reluctantly, he conceded and walked behind his goalposts to retrieve the ball. Grimes was limping back into position. The goalkeeper kicked the ball back out bad temperedly. Schwann stopped the ball by placing his foot on it. He blew his whistle and kicked off again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The Fieseler Storch flew in low over the mountains. Her pilot Gottfried Kleber keeping her steady in the light head winds. The morning sky was clear. The flight so far had been pleasant and uneventful. Ahead there were rain clouds but all morning he had flown towards them and they had come no closer. The threat of a storm moving away from them faster than the small aeroplane could fly. Kleber had discovered that out here in the desert distances were difficult to estimate. What you thought was close was often miles away and what you thought was far ahead you often came upon very quickly. Sometimes in his two years flying in North Africa he saw columns of enemy vehicles but his Fieseler Storch was unarmed and he flew away to avoid their fire. The small aircraft being constructed mainly of wood and canvas giving very little protection against anything from a bullet upwards. Kleber had only ever been shot at once. This was months ago when he was escorting the great Field Marshall Erwin Rommel. Today Kleber was escorting another great man and he glanced momentarily at General Hans von Brockhorst seated next to him. The General was pleasant enough, Kleber decided again. He had requested to sit in the front with the pilot rather than on his own in the main body. The small aircrafts seating conditions cramped regardless of where one sat.

Von Brockhorst had enjoyed the flight. A chance to see the desert from the air. He took note of everything. The land, proximity of the mountains and available cover they could provide. The abundance of water and he reminded himself of how the great Sultan, the great Islamic leader Saladin had moved from one stretch of water to another with an army of two hundred thousand. Like most military commanders Von Brockhorst had studied the strategies of Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, Saladin, Napoleon. Saladin had gone on to crush the Christian armies and return Jerusalem to Islam.

Von Brockhorst felt excitement as he tried to imagine what it was like.

*Which side would I have fought on?' he asked himself.

*Why the side of victory of course' he answered.

*But who really won during the crusades?'

Kleber banked the small plane for a minute and then levelled out. They were now heading into the sun. The mountains taking on a red glow at their tips from the warm rays of sunlight, looking brown where they were shaded.

"It's beautiful isn't it," Von Brockhorst spoke for only the second time in the journey.

"It is General. It truly is," Kleber answered "Almost as beautiful as the Fatherland," he added using Germany's nickname.

Von Brockhorst gazed down at the rolling hills and the plains. He could visualise great armies on horseback and foot crossing the open stretches to face each other in battle.

The Fieseler Storch was catching up to a flock of geese as they were heading further south and Kleber closed on their v-formation. He eased up on the throttle so that the Storch was almost at its minimum rpm and they enjoyed a wonderful close up of the migrating birds without alarming them.

"I've seen Geese at over six thousand feet General but I don't like taking her too high because it makes it so cold inside the cockpit and it's uncomfortable for passengers. They are remarkable birds though and can fly much higher. How high though nobody truly knows."

Von Brockhorst looked up at their underbellies. Lots of thoughts running through his head.

'I wonder how they cope with the cold. It must be the layer of goose fat they carry. The tasty fat that went into pate and was used to roast meats that fed Germany's highborn and wealthy families. I wonder how they navigate and know exactly where they are and which direction to travel in. Have modern air forces copied them for their formation flying. And why do they fly in a V and how do they choose which one is their leader.'

He began smiling to himself at all the possibilities.

"Yes they truly are magnificent creatures," he said to Kleber "Thank you for showing me them."

"My pleasure sir. I sometimes wish I could be just like them."

Von Brockhorst could understand why.

"To be free Corporal? To go wherever you wanted? To follow any direction you choose?"

"To let the wind take me wherever sir," Kleber added, enjoying the game.

"You must find yourself up here alone sometimes."

"Yes sir."

"What is that like?"

"To me? Paradise sir. Sometimes my missions mean I get to fly by myself at night with just the stars above me and a full moon. It is the most beautiful thing on earth General."

Von Brockhorst thought about his life as a soldier, as a tank commander. The smell of petrol, oil, burning, dust, dirt, filth, the stench of decay.

"Yes you are most fortunate Corporal Kleber."

Later in the morning Kleber spotted a squadron of fighters and he pointed them out to his passenger.

"Can you get us closer?"

"I'll get us as close as I can but from this distance I can't tell who they are."

Von Brockhorst wasn't at all afraid. Flying fascinated him and he was very glad that he'd asked to sit up in the cockpit. Kleber was afraid. Not for himself but for his Important passenger.

'What a great coup for the allies if they could shoot down and kill the third in command of the German forces North Africa.'

Kleber knew he could never forgive himself. As long as he was in the aeroplane Von Brockhorst was his responsibility.

Kleber approached the fighters carefully from behind and below. They could easily outrun his plane even with the weapons they carried but they were cruising. He got within a quarter of a mile of them and then cursed his luck. They were British!

Von Brockhorst had also seen the roundels on their under wings. They continued on their way seemingly unaware of the intruder. Kleber's heart was pounding. If any of the British pilots looked into their rear view mirrors they would surely see him. Von Brockhorst was impressed.

"Get me a bit closer."

"Sir?"

"I want to see them closer."

"But Generala."

"That's an order."

Kleber said a silent prayer and opened up the throttle. He kept low and closed in on the Spitfires hoping that their Rolls Royce engines would drown out the sound of his smaller engine labouring as it gathered altitude. Kleber closed to within three hundred yards, his adrenalin flowing. He felt a cold sweat at the base of his neck. He glanced across at Von Brockhorst. The man had nerves of steel it seemed. Kleber guessed that was what separated officers from men.

Von Brockhorst was just looking from plane to plane.

"Thank you Kleber that's close enough. I've seen all I need to see."

Kleber closed the throttle down and the British planes began to pull away when suddenly two more Spitfires drew up either side of the Fieseler Storch. Kleber looked from one side of his plane to the next. The two British pilots were flanking them. Von Brockhorst was watching them with interest. The pilot on his side waved and Von Brockhorst put his hand up to wave back.

"I'm guessing if we just act normally they might not suspect anything."

Kleber hoped the General was right. Personally he couldn't see how the British pilots had failed to notice that a German aeroplane was in their midst.

'Thank goodness Von Brockhorst isn't wearing his hat.'

"What are you going to do Kleber?"

Kleber was racking his brain as to what exactly to do. Then a thought struck him.

"I'm going to signal to the one my side that we are burning up too much fuel and that I'm going to drop to one thousand feet to conserve as much as possible."

"Will they believe it?"

"I hope so."

Kleber got the attention of the pilot on his side. With hand signals he explained what he was going to do and then repeated it. The English pilot gave him the thumbs up.