P40 Bedouin Dreams

I did care enough to hit the sand and I try to dig a hole!

The multiple panicked screams told me where it landed, but then the bell ringing "THUMP" silenced those and took a portion of my hearing with it. Crawling on my elbows, too shaken to try standing up again, I moved to where the Commander's body was draped across the girl and rolled him to the side. Grabbing up his dropped belt, I pulled out the new looking Walter P38 and shot a man, I had already shot once, this time killing him. I leaned back against the dead Commander's side and looked over at the girl as I glanced around for targets.

Her beautiful face was covered with the German's blood, a veil of dark crimson to replace the one he had torn away, but those dark eyes shown bright as diamonds.

All around me there were various types of screams, anger, fear pain, terror. And not only from human throats. The camels of the camp growled, bellowed and ran away into the desert. Goats were scattered in all directions as well, running merry cap through everything, knocking a few people from their feet. Suddenly there were even more screams.

Angry ones!

From the back of the trucks, released by their women, came the desert men. Some simply grabbed a German, and dragged him to the ground, where several men would join in stomping and kicking the Fritz to death. Others grabbed dropped Karabiner 98k or Sturmgewehr 44 rifles and emptied an entire clip into a single man. When their acquired gun was emptied they used the gun butts.

A soft hand touched my arm.

Looking into the eyes of my personal angel I smiled and closed my eyes, hoping that this time I would not wake unless I was in heaven. But they would not stay closed. Far too many pills were tearing their way through my veins for that. So I opened them and, staying within this hellish dream. Soon I was clinging to my angel as my body shook beyond my control.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

"How many bloody times will I repeat this moment?" I asked myself, as I awoke to see the face of that ancient old man.

He was, as before, looking at my face intently. He smiled seeing me awake. He went to laugh, but placed a hand on a bloody bandage on his scrawny chest and coughed instead. Two of his men moved to help him from next to me to his couch, where he reclined till he caught his breath. Then he began to speak.

To me this time.

Long and varied were the sounds he made. His eyes never leaving my face, though he smiled often. A smile that told me he understood I didn't know what he was saying, but that he felt the need to say his peace none-the-less. He spoke, and then he went silent. When he clapped his hands twice I closed my eyes, expecting the knife, maybe even welcoming it. There was movement next to me ...

Then a soft hand took mine.

I looked up into the gaze of my angel. Her dark eyes were soft above her thin veil. I could see the hint of a smile through it, but those eyes carried its full message. The old man said one word.

"Zawjah?" he gestured to her.

I looked back to her and she took my hand, pointed to herself and then to me.

"Follow you? Zawjah ... follow?" I asked. She nodded, and I nodded back. Looking over at the old man I saw him smile. He made a "get up" gesture with his hands then settled back on his couch. One of his men brought him his tiny cup of that terribly strong coffee.

Helped by her to my unsteady feet, I let her guide me out of the big tent and across the camp. All around me I saw signs that numerous hands had been busy in the time I had been out of it. Already several of the German lorries were missing, and the ones that weren't were half stripped. The Hanomags half-track was still where it had been parked but the back of it was a mess of twisted metal edges and shattered bodies. My grenade had to have landed right in the middle of the tight packed men in the back and, from the grizzly looks of it, other grenades may have gone off as well.

The tent she led me to was small, two poles and a draped canvas. The floor was covered in cloths; there were dark cushions in the back and against the sides. She helped me to lie down on those cushions before she hurried away. When she returned, minutes later, she brought a covered dish and a brightly decorated clay vessel. Oh, how simple is life when food and water-as warm as a bath, is seen as a miracle?

With a hidden smile she showed me how to eat her food, "ta'amiya" she called it. A mixture of beans, or something. Fried and brought to the mouth with a folded piece of bread. I could have devoured all she brought and twice more, but I stopped after a bite and insisted she eat as well. She shook her head but then paused. Gave a small nod and reached up by her ear. When her veil unhooked and her face was revealed to me I was caught, mesmerized all over again.

She took a single bite, hesitant, almost afraid she was doing something wrong, but at my smile she smiled back.

"Dennis," I said pointing at my chest, realizing I had no idea what to call her. I gestured towards her. "You?"

It took her a moment then she looked down, blushed and looked back up at me. "Rabi'ah."

"Rabi'ah?" I asked to be sure. She nodded and I smiled. "You are beautiful, Rabi'ah. Thank you." I gestured to the food and water. "Thank you."

"G ... ank you?" she asked.

"Tha ... ank. Thank you." I nodded and took another bite.

She tried again, terribly.

Smiling together, unable to understand one another but talking all the same, Rabi'ah and I shared this simple meal.

I kept looking past her, seeing all the activity going on, but she seemed in no hurry. I quickly gleaned that the camp was being broken down; huge bundles were being loaded on camels. The last of the drivable lorry trucks were gone, vanished into the desert to some place I could not guess at. When we had finished the food, two of her people brought an empty pack similar to the ones already loaded and placed it next to the opening of this small tent. They both grinned at me, made quick bows and left. She of course could not explain their grins to me, and merely shook her head.

And when half-dozen women, all in veils and head scarves, swarmed the tent I did what any man would do. I moved out of their way. Two more of the desert men appeared, took charge of me, and led me to the growing line of loaded camels. They handed me a small bag and with hand gestures instructed me to open it. Inside was clothing similar to what they were wearing. One of them tugged at my stained, sweat-reeking, bloody flight suit shaking his head. For modesty's sake, I kept the camels between me and the women as I quickly changed into these clothes. They itched was the first thing I noticed, and they had about them a smell of another man, but they were not uncomfortable.

One of the pair a long checkered scarf and wrapped my head up like his, all the while talking in sing-song grunts to me. Confused, I shrugged and they both laughed, merrily. A determination to learn at least some of this desert rat speech grew within me then.

He, the ancient camp master, appeared then. Riding high on the back of a camel draped with bright colors, in the multi-cloths that hung braided from its saddle, the beast was magnificent. A phrase I never would have thought to apply to a camel. The woman I had seen at his side hours before, when I thought him shot dead, held him in his saddle.

Her wrinkled face, behind a heavy old-fashion looking veil, was as lined as his but not as scrunched in pain. She was looking me over with an oddly possessive scrutiny. I however, for some reason, felt strangely comforted when she gave me an approving nod.

The old man pointed behind him, with the long stick he held, then at me. "Zawjah, Rabi'ah."

Walking up, holding the reins of a packed camel came Rabi'ah. Her customary dark clothes now highlighted with a bright red veil and a wrap of blue gold. I smiled at her, and her eyes smiled back at me. She turned, said something sharp and tugged the reins. The camel knelt to its knees, then lower down till it was on its belly. At her gesture I realized what I had to do.

With some trepidation I climbed onto my first camel.

** ** ** ** ** ** **

Long were the hours of that night, the River of Stars moved above us as we traveled in a nigh endless line of beasts across desert that never seemed to change. With Rabi'ah seated before me, guiding this tall, rocking beast to follow the stub tail of the one in front of it, I often found myself slipping into sleep. I would snap awake at times thinking I was flying my plane, traveling on a ship, or in a hammock swinging under a tree. When that happened she would look back at me, touch my leg next to her own and say a word or two. Soft, gentle words that would lull me back to sleep.

Then we were there, where ever there was. A place of moon lit desert, no different than where we had been except there were no dead Germans. The camel lowered himself in a way that threatened my displacement. I gladly climbed off his humped back only to find my legs too sore to support me. I heard a giggle from behind Rabi'ah's veil as I walked broad-legged a few feet away and leaned on a rock for support.

All around me orders were given, packs were taken off of grumbling beasts, and then the children were there, with their herds of goats getting in the way of everything. Somehow, in the middle of this madness, a camp formed. And done in a time a parade ground sergeant would have approved of. I saw two men lift the older man from his saddle and carry him into his tent; clearly the wound was taking far more of a toll than the old geezer was showing. But then at his age, to have been shot in the chest with a German rifle, and then ride through the whole night on camel back, he had to be made of boiled leather.

Rabi'ah was there, taking me by the hand, leading me as she seemed to do so often. I saw that someone had set up her little tent, away from the others like before. I noticed that the furnishings inside were more elaborate now than they had been, but I was too tired to pay that much mind.

"Dennis?" she said tugging at my borrowed shirt. Then she gestured to the padded cushion at the back of the tent. I understood what she said next was sleep, so I made her say it slower so I could understand it. She smiled when I repeated it back and nodded.

I ducked under the tent canvas, sat down, took off the too soft desert boots, the itchy shirt and with a groan lay down on the padded bed. I watched, with little interest, as she draped a light wall of cloth over the open side. Then she knelt down next to the oil lamp. Rabi'ah covered the burning wick with a small copper hood and the tent dropped into darkness. I was already half asleep when I heard rustling cloth and figured she was leaving.

Then she slid in next to me on the bed!

There are things in this world I don't understand. Too many at times.

But a woman, her body so incredibly naked, sliding into my arms in a dark place, her lips being pressed against mine ... that I can figure out. Any hesitancy, in those first few seconds, had to have come from the confusion of smells that enticed my nose when her face neared mine. There was the smell of her desert people, with their entire myriad of scents certainly, but there was also a sweeter perfumed smell that was at the same time not perfume. Perhaps it was simply her personal smell. Whatever the scent was, it permeated her skin, and when I touched her lips my mouth was flooded with that sweet flavor. Rabi'ah's hands caressed my face, pulling my head closer to her, demanding the kiss to be deeper.

It was when my hands moved down her back and I discovered that she was in fact completely bare in my arms that I had to stop this, for a second at least.

"Rabi'ah?" I placed a gentle hand to her shoulder lifting her up from me.

"Dennis?" She sat back, her whole body little more than a darker shadow to my eyes.

How do you ask a person what are they doing when you can't talk to them? When you can't speak more than two words of her language? I sat up as well, finding her hand in the darkness so there was no way she would flee me, until I understood the reason for this.

"Rabi'ah?" I touched my hand to her chest, placing it over her heart, and then lifted her hand to my own chest. "Rabi'ah ... Love ... Dennis?" I did my best to make sure it had at least the sound of a question.

"Love ...?" Her singsong voice did such wonderful thing to that simple word. Adding notes and cadences it had never held before. I heard her sigh, the frustration she felt so similar to my own that we could not speak. "Rabi'ah ... Zawjah ... Dennis. Dennis ... Zawjah...Rabi'ah!"

"Why do I suddenly think ... Zawjah ... doesn't mean follow?" I asked talking mostly to myself.

Then her hand was touching my face, fingers brushing the bristle that had formed since my last shave. How many days back was that? How many days since I took off to fly that P40 Kittyhawk to be repaired? Her hand left my face, moved back to my chest, and came to rest over my heart in the tight brown curls.

"Rabi'ah...love, Dennis. Rabi'ah, Dennis...Zawjah." Her voice carried such feeling, such passion-and a hint of worry-that I pulled her to me, feeling those wonderfully bare breasts against my chest.

"Yeah. Zawjah does not mean follow," I said into her scented hair. Her back was so silky smooth under my hands. Her long, black hair spilling over my hands in a river of softness I had to dip my hand into. She sat back and in that darkness I saw her eyes, sparkling like shining jewels, and realized she was crying. I brushed her cheek feeling the moisture, and here in this place it was such a precious thing I could not bare to see it wasted. Not on me.

I kissed her again. There in that dark tent, that smelled more than faintly of goats and camels, I let fate take me where it would. With a smile against her lips, I tumbled her onto the padded couch that was our bed. She gave a giggle then went back to kissing me, caressing me. I could feel her interest in my body, her curiosity. Her hands explored and touched and gripped. Ran lightly down my sides, my back, my shoulders and neck. That interest was of course returned tenfold by me. She was no delicate flower. No she was not a hot house bloom like so many women her age in England. There was strength of body, no doubt given by years of hard work trying to simply survive in this place, which I knew without knowing her better would be mirrored in her character.

This was a strong woman.

Deep was the kiss, and when I felt myself hardening, a slow response no doubt due to the stress of the last few days, it was with a familiar sense of trepidation that I worried. Concerned I would not last long once I was inside her. Those same stress filled days would have me, no doubt, not at my best and I did not wish to disappoint either myself or this lovely woman. Moving my hand down her belly, across a thick thatch of wiry hair, I was pleased to find her already wet and ready for me, but then shocked to feel a barrier to my fingertips.

I pulled back my hand but hers caught mine. She pushed my fingertips back into her, nodding her head. She said a quick flurry of words by my ear, that I of course did not understand, but by the tone I gathered she was trying to assure me of something. Of what, I was not sure. That she was a virgin? I could feel that. That it was okay for me to take her maidenhead? I was not sure by this point I could not do that. My desire for this woman had been growing by seconds to a peak I had never been to in my life. The exotic, sound, feel, smell, and the whole traumatic time of late had me hungry for life.

A hunger I was realizing only now with her in my arms.

Her lips were back on mine and she was urging me to get on top of her. A virgin she was but I could tell she was not naive. She knew what sex was, how it worked. I could feel her hands move between us as I settled my weight between her open thighs. When her fingers closed around the hardness of my cock I moaned and she smiled against my lips, pleased that she had pleased me. That made me feel a moment's shame that I was going to bring her pain.

She moved my cock as I picked myself up more onto my hands. I looked down but under me were simply shadows. When I felt the head of me slip into wetness I took a deep breath. "Sorry." I said, hardly a whisper of apology to a woman that could not understand what I was saying. But I felt the need to say that much at least.

With a push I slipped into heaven.

And Rabi'ah took me into herself with only a gasp, a single whimper, and then a sound that was not pain. She pulled me down onto her, clutching me tighter to her, holding me still with her thighs gripped too tight for me to move. Not that I wanted to.

Ever.

It was she that finally urged me on. Rabi'ah said something in my ear with a whisper of sound then removed that pressure of thigh and, with a hand gripping my hip, pulled me deeper. I felt my body drop into a rhythm as old as life, and she moved under me, matching it. Her hands gripping me tightly to her, letting me know that any pain I was causing was welcome. Why? Even as my body took its pleasure my mind had to wonder what this moment meant to her. I knew so little of her, and I wanted to know everything. I knew that this was no gift given to a stranger. Gratitude for what I had done this moment was not. What did that word mean, Zawjah?

Rabi'ah gave a moan from under me which pulled my mind from such thoughts. Such cares. They were meaningless; I had a woman to make love to and she was clearly beginning to enjoy what I was doing. Her hands were growing tighter on me, pulling harder at me. Silently begging in the only language we could share that I go faster, push deeper. I met those urgings and went even further. I welcomed the deeper moans, those gasps for pleasure that hinted at small levels of pain. My own body was feeding me those as well, testimonies to the fact that I was in no way healed from the damages that the crash had given.

I'm sure if I had a mirror I would see that I was a terribly battered and bruised man.

The feared limited duration I had so worried over did not appear. Instead my body took up this pleasant task with an eager willingness to feel something wonderful. I moved on her, our bodies now both slick with sweat, pushing with my toes at the padded cushion we lay upon. Her legs, long and supple, curled up around my hips clutching me tighter to her still. I felt joined to her, a bridging of cultures, races and lands made by this simplest of human bindings.

Joined?

That word suddenly ran wild in my head as I felt her fingertips rake the back of shoulders with her nails. Could that be what Zawjah meant? Could I be joined to this woman, married by some strange desert law? Was this now my wife in their eyes? Then, as she moaned under me, I wondered if I would mind that. There had never been any woman in my life that I desired in the way I desired to know Rabi'ah. Given that I hardly knew her at all, that should have been surprising ... but it wasn't.

The closer and closer my body came to that wished for end the more I began to understand. I was now two men. Dennis, the RAF pilot, yes ... I was still him. But I was also this woman's lover, her husband if I was right. What did that mean for me? More what did it mean for her? If I reported back to my unit, my commander, what would happen to her?

"Oh, Rabi'ah." I moaned her name. It was a sound as sweet as water to a man lost in this place.

Could I take her back with me? Back home to England? To Cardiff? What would she do there, be there? She would be like a flower taken from its normal soil and replanted in a different land. Some flourished but most did not. Most needed hothouses to keep them alive and she was far too strong, willful to ever be in such a cage. I had no desire to even wish to see her in such. Her magic, her beauty would be smothered in such a life as a woman of England lived.