Libya, 1911

By Zach Neal

Lieutenant Giulio Gavroti has just made the first bombing attack in history. The Etrich-Taube is the ultimate in modern technology. All things considered, Army and civil authorities are bringing great social progress to illiterate tribesmen. How did he end up in the arms of a mysterious, beautiful American woman? There’s something just a bit different about Mrs. Alice Saunders, alleged foreign correspondent. Zach Neal’s short story of Libya, 1911.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zach Neal
• Release date: Sep 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781927957851

Zach Neal

Zach Neal has been writing ever since he can remember. A forestry management professional, he prefers the outdoors to the office. He lives in the Halton Hills overlooking the Greater Toronto Area. He studied at the University of Toronto. Zach’s a single father of two healthy and energetic children. Zach’s boys, Aaron and Jason, mean everything to him.

Book preview

Libya 1911

Zach Neal

Copyright 2014 Zach Neal and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-927957-85-1

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral right to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.

Table of Contents

Scene One

Scene Two

Scene Three

About Zach Neal

Libya, 1911

Scene One

Aleisha’s firm right hip was warm in Giulio’s hand, as she kneaded his leg just above the knee.

Overhead, the fans turned, barely stirring the air. Every door and window in the place was open.

Insects and moths circled endlessly around the lighting fixtures.

The girls didn’t drink much but the men were pretty sauced. Here was a kind of peace and serenity, cool after the long hot day where the sweat just flowed and your shirt stuck to you and the underwear was even worse.

The air was blue with smoke and the hour was late. The music was alien and unfamiliar and the atmosphere bizarre. It was a repressive culture, even more so than home, and yet the girls were mostly naked and very accessible. Back home, women were presumed to be angels, here they were property and capable of anything. They were not exactly up on a pedestal, sold into servitude as they were.

He was far from home and they did things differently around here. Perhaps things would change under more enlightened rule. These women were whores and the more respectable, matrons and virgins alike, were veiled and sequestered well away from profane eyes. You had to bear it in mind.

Giulio had to fly tomorrow, which meant that if anything was going to happen they’d better get on with it. Jesus, it was only about ten lire. It was the sort of thing you didn’t put in a letter home to your little (or at least younger) brother. Which your mother and sister would undoubtedly read as well. According to letters from home, Emilia had grown an inch since he’d seen him last.

It was the Dance of the Seven Veils. The girl front and centre was a bit skinny for his liking.

Aleisha was as comfortable as an old couch, something he had read once and always remembered. He remembered her from before, when it seemed she was the only one in this whole Godforsaken place with a shred of kindness, or perhaps it was merely weakness.

He wasn’t particularly horny, and the Turks were getting pretty good at shooting at low-flying aeroplanes. The music droned on and on, interminably. At one time he had found it fascinating.

As it was, it was merely different.

Giulio leaned over towards Cacciatore.

I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. With that, he rose, taking Aleisha by the hand, leading her towards the cramped and dingy rooms at the back where the ladies, (and the Italian officers were nothing if not gentlemen), plied their trade.

For tomorrow, we may die.

We have to have our priorities.

Even then, he found it hard to get the aeroplane out of his head. Now that was true love.

The motor had sputtered once or twice that morning and he was wondering what it could possibly be.

***

The chill of the night was wearing off. The shimmering orange ball that was the sun had just topped the horizon.

I’ve checked every little thing. There’s nothing wrong with the motor. Crespo, his mechanic, shrugged. Maybe the fuel.

They had strained and filtered it three times, and yet it was a constant concern.

Very well. The Taube had only let him down once before, and he’d been able to safely set her down