TITLE: The War Magician
AUTHOR: David Fisher
PUBLISHER: Weidenfeld & Nicolson
COPYRIGHT: ©2004
ISBN: 0 297 84635 3
ABEB Version: 3.0
Created: 2006/5/3 @ 22:16


An mdf Scan & Proofread.



                       The War Magician
                    The man who conjured victory in the desert


                              David Fisher

This book is dedicated to
    Richard Curtis
    Bob and Catherine Carlen Forgione
    Joyce Heiberger
    Paul Heller
    Rosemary Rogers
for their support while I wandered in my own desert.

The outbreak of the 1939 war, foretelling inevitable misery to everyone,
meant different things to different people. To me, it involved something
very strange and rather alarming – the focusing of my whole imagination
and knowledge on the problem of how best to mobilize the world of magic
against Hitler.
                                                            Jasper Maskelyne



                              Introduction
During the sixteenth century, it is said, a stocky English farmer named John
Maskelyne served the Cheltenham district as justice of the peace. He was
called one day to preside at the trial of a stranger, a small, twisted black
man who had appeared mysteriously in the district, clad in an unusual black
silk suit. Called by the name Drummer of Tedworth, he stood accused of the
practice of black magic. The evidence given against him was such that John
Maskelyne declared him guilty of witchcraft and banished him to the
American plantations.
    Soon thereafter great misfortune befell the Maskelyne farm. Crops
inexplicably failed. Cattle became bloated and died. A barn fire destroyed
the sparse corn harvest. And at night, on the darkest eves, a little black
man was seen limping about the fields.
    Suddenly, however, the farm once more blossomed. Crops grew high and
straight in the fields. The cattle were fat with milk. During a local famine
the Maskelyne barn alone burst with corn, and soon the farmer’s pockets
clinked with gold coins.
    So the tale was told throughout the land that farmer John Maskelyne
had purchased, at the price of his mortal soul, the powers of black magic
for himself and ten generations of his descendants.
    Through the years that followed, the Maskelyne family did indeed seem
to possess extraordinary powers. The line is ripe with scientists, magicians
and men of standing. Nevil Maskelyne, of the third generation, served as
royal astronomer in the court of King George III. He was the first to
measure time to tenths of a second, to figure the weight of the earth, and
he made great discoveries about the movement of stars in the heavens.
    About Peter Maskelyne, the fifth generation, it was said he practised
alchemy. Upon his death his notebooks were burned in a public bonfire, and
the flames were supposedly many and unusual colours.
    In the eighth generation came John Nevil Maskelyne, a remarkable
inventor and the man considered to be the father of modern magic. He
created the famed Box Trick, in which two people seemingly change places
in an instant, learned to fly from the stage to a perch on a crystal
chandelier, and was able to cause full-bodied spirits to materialize from his
own body and converse. He founded the elite magicians’ organization, the
Magic Circle, and presented the first edition of Maskelyne’s Magical
Mysteries at London’s famed Egyptian Theatre. He also perfected the
standard typewriter keyboard and invented Psycho, the marvel of the
1870s, a mechanical man that played flawless whist.
    The tenth generation was Jasper Maskelyne, the war magician. To him
would fall the greatest challenge of all: to pit the powers of magic against
the most evil foe in history. And at the end of the titanic battle he would
have added the strangest and most significant page to the family legend.


                                     One
Spring 1940

Jasper Maskelyne was drinking a glass of razor blades when the war began.
It was an old trick, first made popular by his grandfather, the legendary
John Nevil Maskelyne, and often performed by his father, Nevil Maskelyne,
but it always delighted the audience. As he began withdrawing from his
mouth the six sharp blades, conveniently knotted to a cotton string like tiny
steel sheets on a clothesline, he first noticed the young army captain
moving anxiously down the centre aisle. He was careful not to stare at the
officer, lest he divert attention to him, but still managed to watch him
scanning the rows. The captain finally stopped near the front and leaned
over a handsome woman to whisper something to a colonel. By the time
Jasper had discovered the live rose sprouting from the stageboards, and
picked it, the colonel was walking briskly out of the theatre. He did not look
back.
    Jasper sniffed the scarlet flower, briefly luxuriating in its fragrance, then
tossed it into the air. Suddenly, it burst into smoke and vanished. The
audience cheered this trick, and he bowed and accepted their applause, but
even as he did he thought of the two soldiers, and realized it was peace
that had disappeared.
    Earlier that day, April 9, 1940, German shock troops had stormed into
Norway and Denmark, signalling the end of the nine-month “Bore War,” or
“Phoney War.” The long winter spent waiting for the fighting to begin was
over. Finally the Army would meet the enemy.
    War had officially been declared against Germany on September 3, 1939,
when the Nazi blitzkrieg overran Poland, but had thus far been limited to
naval battles. After an immediate flurry of excitement, restaurants,
theatres and cinemas had reopened, and life in England had continued
much as it had been. But Hitler’s invasion of Scandinavia on April 9 marked
the beginning of the land war, and a patriotic fervour gripped the nation.
Long lines formed in front of enlistment centres throughout the country.
Maskelyne dressed in his finest Harry Hall suit, put a fresh flower into his
lapel, and joined the queue at the Reserve Officers’ Enlistment Centre at
Hobart House. But while the other men were volunteering to take up
conventional weapons against the Germans, he harboured a much more
unusual and daring plan. It was his intention to mobilize the world of magic
against Hitler.
    Jasper Maskelyne had been born into the world of magic. For sixty-six
years, since watchmaker John Nevil Maskelyne had turned the murky
Egyptian Theatre in Piccadilly into “England’s Home of Mystery,” the
Maskelynes had been Europe’s first family of conjuring. The fabled John
Nevil, the “Father of Modern Magic,” had introduced the Box Trick, in which
an assistant vanished from a sealed and inspected cabinet and Eye of the
Needle, in which one person seemingly passed through a tiny hole in a
steel plate to exchange places with another who had been sealed inside a
case, as well as numerous other illusions that have become magic-show
standards. In addition, he had perfected Psycho, the whist-playing,
cigarette-smoking mechanical man that dazzled Europe, had originated the
matinée performance, had designed the accepted typewriter keyboard and
had founded the exclusive magician’s society, the Magic Circle.
    His son, Nevil Maskelyne, had carried on the family trade at the opulent
St. George’s Hall, in Regent Street in the West End. During his reign at the
top of the bill, Maskelyne’s Magical Mysteries remained one of London’s
most popular attractions, and the Continent’s most famous illusionists had
astounded audiences from the St. George’s stage. In the Great War, Nevil
Maskelyne had served England by developing a paste that protected naval
gunners’ hands from searing gun flashes, and trained magician-spies for T.
E. Lawrence in Arabia. Upon Nevil’s death in 1926, twenty-four-year-old
Jasper Maskelyne stepped into the spotlight.
    It was a role for which he had been carefully groomed. His was a
childhood spent watching reality turned topsy-turvy. He had grown up in the
workshop beneath the stage learning how to make objects materialize or
vanish, float in midair and appear to be precisely what they were not. From
his grandfather he learned that, with imagination and knowledge, fantasies
could be made to come alive. Given the proper equipment, anything was
possible.
    He was only nine when he made his stage debut, assisting the famed
magician David Devant in a royal command performance at the Palace
Theatre, and thereafter often worked backstage at St. George’s Hall. So he
was well prepared to take his place centre stage when it became his turn.
    Jasper rapidly became one of London’s most celebrated performers. He
was almost six feet four inches tall and was handsome in the most dashing
manner of the times. His hair was black and gleaming and was worn pulled
back passionately, and his brush moustache was always neatly trimmed.
His deep green eyes and furrowed dimples, set off by the manly cleft in his
chin, made him a proper rival to the swashbuckling matinée idols.
    His good looks, and the sophisticated presence that enabled him to
charm sceptical patrons into believing that a simple sleight was a feat of
great difficulty, made him a natural for the talking pictures, and he made a
series of them, starring as a detective who used magic to solve crimes.
    But when the world mobilized for war in 1939 he put show business
aside and began conceiving of means to adapt the techniques of stage
magic to the battlefield. He firmly believed, as he had been taught by his
grandfather, that with imagination and knowledge anything was possible.
    The prospect of military service thrilled him. Although his fame had
spread throughout Europe, he had spent much of his life feeling as if he
were a character cast into someone else’s play. As a Maskelyne his life had
been carefully planned for him, and he had diligently followed that plan.
The war represented a chance to finally step out of the historic shadows
cast by his grandfather and father. The Maskelyne name would have no
meaning on the battlefield. Family contacts could not deflect Nazi bullets.
The carpenters in the workshop could not create illusions for him. He would
be on his own, dependent entirely upon his own skills.
    Ironically, his fame worked against him. He had no difficulty arranging
appointments with enlistment officers, but they refused to take him
seriously. Time and again they politely explained that the Army needed
fighting boys, not thirty-eight-year-old magicians. Then, nearly always, they
casually asked how a favourite bit of magic they had seen performed at St.
George’s Hall had been accomplished.
    Jasper admitted he was too old to leap from the trenches into no man’s
land and acknowledged that he occasionally suffered from motion sickness,
but he insisted he could offer something far more valuable than cannon
fodder. “If I can stand in the focus of powerful footlights and deceive an
audience only the width of an orchestra pit away, I can certainly deceive
German observers fifteen thousand feet in the air, or miles away on land.”
    But as desperately as he fought to get a commission, so did the Army
seem determined to keep him out, as if there were some shame in allowing
a music-hall performer to partake in the serious killing business. It was
proving easier for him to levitate an entire chorus in midverse than convince
a single ranking officer that his concepts had merit. Although Maskelyne’s
qualifications included an expertise in optics and applied mechanics, and
practical skills in fields ranging from electronics to counterfeiting and
forgery, to Army recruitment officers the thought of a magician at war
conjured up images of Merlin turning young King Arthur into a bird and
Moses parting the Red Sea. A battle for the survival of England was being
fought in the skies, and brave boys lacking adequate weapons to defend
themselves were dying on the battlefields, and it did not seem a time for
magic wands or threatening spells.
    While the Nazi blitzkrieg raced through the spring of 1940, Maskelyne
laid siege to enlistment offices. He waited impatiently at the Hobart House
recruitment centre as the Low Countries fell, paced long grey corridors while
the Chamberlain government resigned in disgrace and was replaced by the
bulldog Churchill, and sat in outer offices in Whitehall through the fall of
Belgium and the disaster at Dunkirk. On June 22, the dark night of the
French surrender, he shared a last bottle of claret with Mary, his wife of
fourteen years, and said bitterly, “It’s beginning to look as though I won’t
have to go to the war after all. It seems to be coming to me.”
    In September, as more than a thousand Luftwaffe aircraft roared across
the Channel every day and Mussolini’s Italian Army in Libya marched across
the western desert toward lightly defended Egypt, Maskelyne decided to
join the Home Guard. But before he could sign up, H. Hendley Lenton, a
well-placed family friend, contacted Prime Minister Churchill. “I have had
conversations with Mr Jasper Maskelyne (‘The Maskelyne’),” he wrote, “and
he has persuaded me that there are great possibilities (he says certainties)
that some of his so-called ‘tricks’ if harnessed to greater ‘power’ or utilised
in other form would be valuable assets in the present war conditions and in
particular against aircraft.”
    The Prime Minister referred this suggestion to his personal assistant on
scientific matters, Professor Frederick Alexander Lindemann, and an
appointment was arranged.
    Maskelyne sat opposite the staid professor in a comfortable Whitehall
office and outlined his plan. Lindemann listened with fascination, but
remained sceptical. It was one thing to fool a receptive audience under
prepared conditions, he pointed out, and quite another to trick the most
sophisticated military machine in history. Eventually, their conversation
came round to specifics. “What sort of things do you propose to do?” he
asked.
    Jasper replied in an even voice. “Given a free hand, there are no limits
to the effects I can produce on the battlefield. I can create cannon where
they don’t exist and make ghost ships sail the seas. I can put an entire
army in the field if you’d like, or make aircraft invisible, even project an
image of Hitler sitting on the loo a thousand feet into the sky …”
    Lindemann’s initial reaction had been to dismiss Maskelyne’s claims as a
performer’s malarkey, but for some reason he had hesitated, and now found
himself actually imagining the impossible. Hitler on the loo? The corners of
his mouth hinted at a smile. “It does sound a bit far-fetched, you know.
How do you propose to go about doing these things?”
    “Look over there,” Jasper responded, pointing to a spot on the
whitewashed ceiling behind the professor.
    Lindemann spun around in his chair and stared at the general area
indicated by Maskelyne. There seemed to be nothing there. He leaned
forward a bit and adjusted his eyeglasses, but still did not see anything on
the ceiling. “I don’t see anything,” he said.
    “Exactly, because there’s nothing there to see. But you reacted precisely
as would anyone else. Actually, I didn’t even have to say a word. If I had
just stared at that spot, eventually you would have turned around. That’s
human nature. And stage magic, the work I do, is nothing more than a bit
of suggestion, a touch of knowledge about human nature and the rather
elementary use of scientific principles. The fulfilment of carefully planted
expectation. It’s not all that different than military camouflage, actually. I
can make the Nazis see guns where they expect to see guns and soldiers
where they believe soldiers might be. It’s quite simple, really.”
    Lindemann crossed his arms across his chest, leaned back in his chair
and stared at the magician. Well, why not? he wondered. Hitler’s outlaws
had pretty much shattered all the traditional concepts of warfare – there
was nothing to be lost by trying something new. “All right,” he finally
agreed. “Right now a hearty dose of magic might be just the tonic. I’ll make
some inquiries on your behalf.”
    After sending Maskelyne off to fill out the necessary forms, Lindemann
closed his eyes and tried to imagine the Führer on the loo. The thought
made him chuckle mischievously.
    It was growing dark by the time Jasper left Whitehall, and London was
beginning to settle in for the night. Thousands of people were retreating to
the subterranean tube stations, armed with mattresses, blankets, and
games and powdered milk for those children too young to be sent to safety
in the country. Maskelyne waited at a tram stop for a decent interval, but
the Luftwaffe raids had forced most above-ground transport to stop running
after dusk. Finally he settled for the less convenient underground, from
which he would still have a long trek home.
    He walked the last few blocks in a protective fog, finding his way by
following the white stripes that had been painted on tree trunks and curbs.
    When he reached the house on Albany Street, he paused outside,
wondering how he would tell his Mary he was finally going to the war. For
the fourteen years of their marriage they had been inseparable: they had
taken Maskelyne magic to the mining towns of Australia and the African
bush, they had played the grand opera houses of Europe, and they had
performed throughout England always together. Mary had designed the sets
and settled the bills and solved the problems, and on occasion she had
vanished from boxes and been shot out of a cannon to land in the rafters,
but mostly she had been his friend and confidante, and the thought of
leaving her was a frightening one.
    The Maskelyne house was a sturdy two-storied red-brick-and-mortar
construction, topped with a sloping gabled roof. Ivy vines that for some
reason never climbed above the first level gave the house the appearance
of having a dark beard. Viewed against the night in its blacked-out dress it
appeared dark and empty, but inside it was ablaze. A wood fire warmed the
parlour, and lights were on in the dining room and kitchen. The black velvet
curtains taken from the theatre effectively covered each window, absorbing
light rather than reflecting it or allowing it to pierce through. Jasper’s
thirteen-year-old son, Alistair, and twelve-year-old daughter, Jasmine, had
been evacuated to the safety of a reception zone, so Mary waited alone.
    When he entered she was loudly preparing dinner, banging pots and
pans, clanking the wedding silver normally reserved for special occasions,
and humming a popular melody. Evelyn Enid Mary Home-Douglas
Maskelyne, Mary, was a small woman with short black hair and a round
face, and eyes that seemed perpetually amused by some bit of private
whimsy. She turned around to greet him with a kiss, and he immediately
realized she knew. She knew in the mystical way women learn of distant
realities.
    “I’m so proud of you,” she responded when he told her the details of his
meeting.
    They tried to laugh. Sometimes a single tear would betray her fine act,
but she nonchalantly brushed away each one. “You’ll be such a dashing
officer,” she boasted. “Wait till that Hitler hears you’re in the war. That
might even be enough to send him tramping.”
   She was careful not to tell him how much she would worry about him.
She knew he would not have an easy time in the services. It was not his
age, nor his physical condition, that would cause him the most problems,
but rather his basic optimism. He was a man who chased his dreams and
worked to turn them into reality. To him a question mark was a challenge,
and his greatest joy came with the solution of a troublesome problem. The
Army would not nurture him as she had done, there would be no time to
indulge his fantasies, and no one nearby to support him when failure
seemed inevitable. Mary was terrified he would be wounded in battle, but
she worried just as much that he would lose his ability to dream.
   He was just as careful not to tell her he would worry about her every
minute of every day, and would never feel whole until they were together
once again.
   The night was given to the past, and it was warm and tender. After
dinner they sat close together on the flowered couch in the parlour,
remembering a lifetime. Mary had joined Maskelyne’s as an assistant in
1925; less than a year later they had married. “Remember the night you
were trying to make a motorbike disappear and the curtain caught fire,” she
chided, “and you were so brave, you grabbed the hose from the stagehand
and proceeded to soak everyone in the audience.”
   He countered, “And what about the night I made you vanish from that
old Chinese cabinet? You were supposed to reappear at the rear of the
theatre, but someone had locked the door in the hallway beneath the
auditorium. I can still hear you screaming for someone to open it while I
was up there trying to figure out some way to explain exactly what you
were doing.”
   Later, they disdained the bulky steel-and-wood Morrison indoor shelter
and slept on their marriage bed. The German bombers did not dare interrupt
them.
   Three days later a buff envelope was hand-delivered, ordering Jasper to
report to the Royal Engineers Camouflage Training and Development Centre
at Farnham.
   “Camouflage?” Mary asked.
   “Hiding things,” he explained.
   She nodded. “Perfect.”
   It had long been a family maxim that a Maskelyne never left, he simply
disappeared. But this was not a time for humour. Mary scoured the
neighourhood for rationed goods and cooked a Woolton pie, a mixture of
carrots, parsnips, turnips and potatoes, moistened with white sauce and
covered in pastry. “It’s delicious,” Jasper said as he forced it down.
   “It’s awful,” she corrected.
   “It is awful.”
   “Damn that Hitler,” she said, reducing the war to a domestic problem.
“They should make him eat it.”
   After dinner Jasper went upstairs to pack his kit. The old leather case
was plastered with cheery travel stickers from around the world. He packed
one suit from Hall’s, five small hard balls with which to exercise his fingers,
some shirts, socks, his toilet items and undergarments. After debating it
briefly, he decided to take his battered ukulele, then closed the bag.
   Mary had been standing in the doorway watching him. He turned and
saw her there and started to speak, but stopped midsentence. She was
wearing the white silk robe she’d worn on their wedding night. “You look
beautiful,” he said.
   “I love you, Jay.”
   He took her in his arms and first kissed her sweetly as a friend, then
warmly as his wife and companion, and finally passionately as his lover.
They made love tenderly and fiercely and both of them laughed and cried
and whispered enduring promises, and he caressed her and tried to
memorize the feel of her soft skin and the sound of her breathing and the
scent of her hair and the touch of her lips, and finally they slept, sweetly
cupped together, a most lovely way to say goodbye. Sometime in the
middle of the night he arose and neatly hung up the wrinkled white silk
robe and then, in keeping with family tradition, silently disappeared.

The village of Farnham was located in the Home County of Surrey, some
forty minutes by rail from Waterloo Station. It was a place thick with
history, and moved in the present at its own pace. During peacetime it had
served as a dormitory town for well-heeled London commuters, and
day-trippers often visited for a respite from the hectic pace of city life, but
the war had changed all that.
    Boards now covered the windows of the small shops on High Street, and
the familiar humps of Anderson shelters popped out of backyard gardens.
The stately iron picket fences had been torn down and shipped to factories
to be smelted into munitions. Each morning long lines formed in front of
the greengrocer’s. Visitors quickly passed through on their way to the safer
outlying districts. And at dusk each night, from the crumbling mullioned
windows of Farnham Castle the residents of the town could be seen
scurrying home carrying their gas masks in little brown boxes and glancing
nervously at the sky. The war had reached Farnham.
    It was to Farnham Castle that Jasper Maskelyne came to learn how to
march correctly, stand at rigid attention, salute properly, and create
illusions that might fool the greatest conquering army in history.
    The first class of the Royal Engineers Camouflage Training and
Development Centre assembled there on October 14. Thirty men exchanged
their civilian clothes for natty Austin Reed uniforms and Sam Browne chest
belts, raised their hands and swore to defend Crown and country, then
stood around sipping tea, adjusting their starched uniforms and trying to
sound as militarily astute as possible. Basically, this consisted of
punctuating every few sentences with a crisp “Damn Jerries.”
    The centre had been organized and was commanded by Lieutenant
Colonel Frederick Beddington, but the chief instructor was Major Richard
Buckley. During the Great War Buckley had served as a camouflage officer
under Solomon J. Solomon, the painter who literally wrote the book on
wartime camouflage. It was a thin book, however. Camouflage in that war
consisted primarily of stringing garnished nets over artillery pieces to hide
telltale shadows and flash burns from observers in gas bags, of stretching
large pieces of canvas between treetops so that command posts could
safely operate beneath them, and of concealing snipers inside blasted trees
and setting them out in no man’s land. But this experience was far more
than anyone else could offer, so the Army had plucked Buckley out of Eton’s
Tuck Shop and made him chief instructor.
    “You are here to learn the art of camouflage,” he boomed as he
inspected the scraggly line the first day. “Camouflage means disguising
things so the enemy doesn’t know what you’re doing, or hiding them so he
can’t see you doing it. Now, am I going too fast for anyone?”
    No one responded.
    “Splendid,” he said. “I can see we’re going to get along just fine.”
    It was ironic that Buckley was a camouflage officer, because he would
have stood out in any crowd. He was as tall as Maskelyne, and broader, and
shocks of bright ginger hair sprouted wildly from his head. His green eyes
were deepset and dominated by a single brow that rolled casually across
his forehead. This combination of flaming hair and lively green eyes against
perpetually pale skin gave him an uncanny resemblance to the Irish flag, a
fact of which he was extremely proud. But the most Irish thing about him
was his legendary temper. “I lost it once when I was a lad,” he warned the
class, “and haven’t found it yet.” And, while it was true he would on
occasion express his displeasure by hurling a telephone or a desk across
the room, he was also capable of quoting the better poets at length, or
musing late into the night about the banality of a war passed in Farnham.
    Buckley understood that camouflage was a visual art, and so he helped
Beddington recruit men from applicable fields. Some future camoufleurs he
found himself and talked into accepting commissions. Others, like
Maskelyne, were routed to him by officers who couldn’t figure out where
else they rightly belonged. The end result was a curious collection. Besides
the magician Maskelyne, the group included Victor Stiebel, a well-known
couturier, painters Blair Hughes-Stanton, Edward Seago, Frederick Gore and
Julian Trevelyan, designers Steven Sykes, James Gardner and Ashley
Havindon, sculptor John Codner, Oxford don Francis Knox, at forty-two the
oldest recruit and an animal-camouflage expert, circus manager Donald
Kingsley, zoologist Hugh Cott, art expert Fred Mayor, who decorated his
room at the castle with Rouaults and Matisses from his London gallery, and
Jack Keefer, a West End set designer. Among their other classmates were a
restorer of religious art, an electrician, two stained-glass artisans, a
magazine editor, a Punch cartoonist and a Surrealist poet.
    Teaching the King’s Regulations to this group of creative officers proved
to be a considerable challenge for Buckley. During the first weeks of the
course he unflinchingly returned some of the most unusual salutes in
military history. To his relief, no one suffered any serious injuries in
close-order marching drills, although there were a great many banged-up
limbs. He finally compromised on the Manual of Arms, telling his men, “If
you can pretend those sticks of wood on your shoulders are rifles, I can
pretend you know what you’re doing with them.”
    The course was divided into general military instruction, theory and
application of camouflage and deception, and physical training. It quickly
became obvious to Buckley that some of his students knew more about
certain aspects of camouflage than he did, so he let them teach their own
subjects. Maskelyne, for example, had spent much of his life using light and
shadow to deceive, and thus made a fine instructor.
    As naturally occurs when men are forced together for a prolonged period,
firm friendships were born at the school. Professor Frank Knox preceded
Maskelyne in the alphabet, and thus in most lines, and they spent the
waiting time getting to know each other. Their friendship was further
strengthened by Knox’s ability to play a dandy mouth organ in
accompaniment to Jasper’s efforts on the ukulele.
    In appearance, he was quite the opposite of the dapper Maskelyne, and
most resembled an unmade bed. Although he was a quite ordinary five feet
seven inches tall and pleasantly chubby, he was a man fated to live his life
between sizes. Everything he wore was too long or too short, too loose or
too tight. Bits of shirttail were always popping from his trousers, which
were always baggy; and his belt was either too long, which caused the
tongue to drift away from his body and slap his stomach as he walked, or
too tight, so that a wave of belly flowed over it. His face was round, his
cheeks were almost perfect circles, and he had carefully cultivated a
walruslike moustache, so that people often commented that he looked like
Theodore Roosevelt. When he was issued his equipment at Farnham he
made an attempt to substitute his taped-together black horn-rims for the
regulation wire-rimmed glasses, but the army glasses sat ridiculously low
on his nose, forcing him to raise his entire face skyward to see straight
ahead, so he returned to his horn-rims. Buckley did not object.
    Perhaps the only thing that ever fitted Frank Knox perfectly was his
contagious smile. Maskelyne grew very fond of the man very quickly.
    Some men are cast into lifelong supporting roles, and Frank Knox was
the pick of this type. He was a man of constant good cheer, gentle and
amiable, content with his own situation and thus able to live free of envy.
“There are few things that really make any difference in life,” he once
explained to Jasper. “Love and friendship are the most important, then
honesty and loyalty, a few pounds to get along, and time. Time is
precious.”
    “Is that all?”
    “That’s plenty.”
    “There’s got to be more than that,” Maskelyne insisted.
    “If you say so,” Knox readily agreed. Although essentially a private man,
he began to confide in Jasper as he got to know him better. He dated his
life of accommodation from the death of his wife. She had given him two
daughters before dying in the minor pneumonia outbreak of 1932. Eight
years later he still grieved. The impact of her loss had set everything else
forever in its proper place.
    The camouflage course progressed without incident into the winter,
much of it being improvised by Buckley and this first class as they moved
along. Although Jasper’s stage experience had made him an expert in the
basic camouflage techniques of colouring, shading, blending, perspective
and the use of decoys, the application of these principles to military
situations was new to him. Among the many things he had to learn was
how to “read” air reconnaissance photographs, how to fool enemy air recce
cameras and how to determine if the enemy was attempting to mislead
British surveillance. Eventually, he was able to determine the calibre of a
heavy weapon by its muzzle flash or the type and size of a vehicle by the
depth of its tyre track; he could estimate the strength of an enemy force by
the garbage left in an abandoned bivouac area or pick out a concealed unit
by distorted shadows.
    “I’m now perfectly able to hide an entire battalion in an open field,” he
said to Knox one afternoon as they huffed around the castle to fulfill
Buckley’s daily exercise requirement. “Unfortunately, with all the Nazi
bombing, we haven’t got any open fields.”
    “For that matter,” Knox pointed out, “we’ve no full battalions either.”
    Even more impressive than the fact that Buckley had turned this group
of square-peggers into camoufleurs was that he had successfully
transformed them into a facsimile military unit, capable of responding to
the elementary commands without hazard. On occasion, the class would be
trucked to the sprawling army base at Aldershot for specialized training, but
Buckley did his best to keep these field days to a minimum, fearful that
close exposure to the regular military might spoil his officers. But even
though the men were physically isolated from the Army, they could not get
away from the war.
    The news was bad. German troops occupied most of continental Europe,
and half of Hitler’s army was poised on the French beaches waiting for his
signal to launch the first invasion of Britain in nine hundred years. In the
air, Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering’s Luftwaffe was flying almost fifteen
hundred sorties every day against the heroic but outgunned RAF. By
September, German bombers had shifted their primary targets from military
bases to cities. London was being devastated, but every city suffered. On
November 14, in retaliation for minor bomb damage inflicted by the RAF on
the Munich beer hall in which Hitler had begun his 1923 putsch, five
hundred Nazi bombers attacked the small historical-industrial city of
Coventry. In ten hours, 554 people were killed and fifty thousand homes
were destroyed. A week after the raid the fires of Coventry still burned.
    In the Middle East, Mussolini, desperate to placate Hitler, had ordered
Marshal Graziani’s 300,000-man Italian Tenth Army to drive the English out
of Egypt. Il Duce coldly estimated that one thousand casualties during the
campaign would enable him to sit with the Führer at the conference table.
Only the thirty thousand British Tommies of General Archibald Wavell’s
Western Desert Force stood between Graziani and the Suez Canal, and
beyond that the oil fields of Persia. If the Italian offensive succeeded,
England would lose its primary source of gasoline.
    The small group of camouflage officers training at Farnham were anxious
to get out of their classrooms and into the field while they still might be of
some use. But the course had followed no formal schedule, so no one knew
for certain when it would officially end. “Soon,” Buckley promised, but
“soon” passed and was replaced by “shortly.” Meanwhile, postings became
the main topic of conversation.
    Jasper said he expected to be sent to Egypt. “It’s the most logical thing.
I’ve toured the Nile Basin with my show. I speak passable Arabic. They’re
desperately short of supplies there. And my father served there during the
Great War.”
    “Makes complete sense,” Knox concurred, “which is precisely why you
won’t be sent there.” On the night of December 9 the men were sitting
around the castle’s great stone fireplace, sipping mess-allotment cognac,
when the normally placid industrial designer James Gardner rushed into the
hall. “Wavell’s on the move,” he announced. “It’s on the BBC.”
    That could have only one meaning. Graziani was attacking, and the
vastly outnumbered British Army was retreating. Another Dunkirk was
shaping up. The disheartened group drifted into the wireless room just in
time to hear an astonishing report from news reader John Snagg. Wavell
was attacking. The Italians were in retreat. “The War Office announced that
General Wavell’s troops began their assault on Italian fortifications at
seven-fifteen this morning, Egyptian Standard Time. Twenty enemy vehicles
were destroyed in the initial advance and two thousand prisoners taken.
Marshal Graziani’s soldiers were apparently taken by complete surprise …”
   “Comes as a bit of a surprise to me too,” Gardner said.
   Incredibly, Wavell’s thirty thousand troops were charging headlong
across the desert, halted more often by sandstorms and uncharted soft
sand seas than by the enemy. What had begun as a limited advance had
turned into a rout. Entire towns and forts surrendered without resistance.
Tens of thousands of Italian troops were abandoning their weapons and
boots and fleeing toward the Libyan border. One British battalion
commander estimated his bag of prisoners as “five acres of officers, two
acres of other ranks.”
   Maskelyne’s Farnham class celebrated this first land victory of the war at
the local pub, the Ivy. The publican actually served rounds on the house
and the toast “To the thirty thousand” resounded through the night.
   At first Maskelyne held his own in the celebration, even strumming a few
patriotic tunes on the ukulele, but after a while he grew quiet and sombre.
   Frank Knox noticed the change immediately. They were squeezed into a
corner booth and by tucking their heads together could talk in reasonable
tones. “You certainly don’t seem too chipper.”
   “It shows?”
   “Like a peacock on a winter spruce.”
   A pensioner standing on top of the bar was claiming to have served in
the desert during the last war. Asked to describe the place, he said, “Hot.
Very hot.”
   Maskelyne shook his head. Initially the news from the desert had filled
him with joy, but during the celebration the joy had slowly drained, and left
him feeling empty. The war was passing him by. Great battles were being
fought while he was sipping cognac by the fireside. The agreeable
surroundings had lulled him into passivity, and he had lost sight of his
original intention. But as he sat in the Ivy celebrating the desert victory,
his anger was aroused. He had worked too long and too hard fighting his
way into the services to spend the war in Farnham. It was time to take
control of his own fate. “You’re right, Frank, what you said the other day,”
he said firmly. “If we don’t do something right now to make them notice us,
we’re going to end up stringing nets in Brighton for the duration.”
   Knox shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t pay too much attention to what I said,
Jay. I was just spouting off. We’re supposed to complain, you know, we’re
soldiers.”
   “But you were right, we just can’t take the chance.” Maskelyne paused,
and suddenly the solution to the problem became clear. He smiled in
anticipation. “That’s why we’re going to do something so startling at Lord
Gort’s inspection next week that they can’t possibly overlook us.”
   Frank blanched. “Us?” he mumbled weakly.

On a gothic morning in mid-December, John Standish Surtees Prendergast
Vereker, sixth Viscount Gort, or simply Lord Gort, Commander-in-Chief of
the Army, stood at the edge of a rolling field with his aides and a very
nervous Buckley. The air was crisp, and dark foreboding clouds hid the sun.
   “At your pleasure, sir,” Buckley said smartly.
   Gort nodded. To demonstrate their skills, teams of camouflage officers
had been assigned a weapon, vehicle or fortification to conceal. The
Commander-in-Chief was to walk the field and attempt to uncover their
efforts.
    Maskelyne and Knox had been given a machine-gun bunker to hide.
Jasper attacked the project with relish, as if he were creating a
show-stopping illusion for St. George’s Hall. He carefully sketched every
detail. Then, once the various pieces were fashioned and put in place, each
of them was tested and retested until there existed virtually no chance for
error. While their classmates packed it in at dusk, Jasper and Frank worked
into the freezing night on details Knox was certain no one would ever
notice. When it finally got too cold they would return to the castle, and
Maskelyne would work on the scale-model battleship that would enable him
to turn an ordinary machine gunners’ nest into a magic theatre.
    They finished the night before the inspection, and the next morning they
lay flat on their stomachs inside the cramped position as Lord Gort began
his first tour of the field. Gort immediately spotted the dummy tank
disguised as a three-ton truck, the papier-mâché twenty-five-pounder
poorly silhouetted against the bleak horizon, two snipers’ trees, and a
number of bunkers covered with garnished netting. Footprints in the soft
earth led him to four broom-armed riflemen lying under dirt-encrusted
canvas.
    Inside the bunker, Maskelyne tensed each time Gort so much as sniffed
in his direction, as if the outcome of the war depended upon the General’s
being fooled.
    Eventually, Lord Gort managed to ferret out every piece and position
except number four, the Maskelyne-Knox machine-gun nest. The General
regarded the exercise as a game, but he was a serious gamesman. “Don’t
tell me where it is,” he snapped, and began stalking through the field for
the third time.
    He failed to find the bunker. Turning to Buckley, he asked, in tiny
cloudbursts of cold breath, “All right, Major, where is it?”
    The answer came from a hump of earth no more than thirty-five feet
away. “Here we are, sir!” a muffled voice shouted. Gort squinted at the
gentle rise and began walking toward it, but stopped when he spotted a
narrow rectangular slit almost completely hidden beneath overhanging
clumps of field grass. A broomstick handle popped out. “This is a machine
gun,” the voice yelled playfully. “Bang.”
    Buckley winced.
    The machine-gun nest had been made by laying sheets of plywood over
a natural depression, then covering the plywood with dirt and grass so that
it blended into the field. Irregularly cut pieces of mirror had been placed in
front of the bunker to reflect the ground in front of it, and false tyre tracks,
supposedly made by the dummy truck that was parked nearby, passed
directly over the mound and added to the impression that it was a natural
feature of the field.
    Lord Gort nodded appreciatively. This time he’d been fooled. “Well done,
chaps,” he shouted.
    “Come in and have a look around,” Maskelyne’s deep voice invited from
within the nest. “There’s some pretty interesting sights to see in here.”
    The bunker was barely three feet high, damp and cramped. Its dirt floor
had been covered with canvas. After Maskelyne slithered out, Lord Gort and
Buckley crawled in beside Knox.
    “A bit touchy in here, eh?” the General said.
    “A bit, sir,” Knox agreed, sliding away from the viewing slit. The
temperature was below freezing, but he was sweating. He’d been in the
Army only a few months, and he was about to play a trick on the
Commander-in-Chief. He covered his eyes with a glove, not wanting to see
what was going to happen next.
    Lord Gort scanned the field with his binoculars. To his right the morning
frost still blanketed a distant valley. Directly before him the shivering
camouflage class waited to be dismissed. And on his left, the Nazi pocket
battleship Admiral Graf Spee was sailing peacefully down the Thames. “My
word,” he whispered in amazement.
    “Sir?” Buckley questioned in an alarmed voice.
    On top of the mound Jasper manipulated his scale-model battleship and
the intricate glass-and-mirror arrangement used to produce the illusion. The
setup was based on an illusion devised by John Nevil Maskelyne in which a
spirit appeared to “grow” right out of his own body. An assistant tilting
mirrors in the orchestra pit could make the spirit appear or disappear;
Jasper was doing the same thing with his model ship.
    Lord Gort lowered his field glasses and tried to blink the image out of
his mind. Obviously, the Graf Spee could not be sailing down the Thames.
That ship had been hunted down and scuttled exactly a year earlier.
Besides, the river flowed nowhere near Farnham.
    Buckley pushed in next to him. He saw the frost-covered valley and the
freezing camouflage class and, to his left, some Jersey cows grazing on
winter grass. “Sir?”
    “Who prepared this position?”
    “Lieutenants Maskelyne and Knox.”
    “Maskelyne? Maskelyne the magician?”
    Knox answered. “Yes, sir.” He no longer had any doubts they would be
stringing nets in Brighton for the duration.
    By the time Lord Gort had twisted around and wriggled outside, Jasper
had stowed his props. He stood there looking as innocent as a politician
during a campaign. “Have a nice look, sir?”
    “It was a trick, wasn’t it?”
    Jasper’s eyes twinkled. “What did you expect, sir? Magic?”
    The purpose of the demonstration was not lost on the General. Later, as
the class feasted on prime ribs and Yorkshire pudding at Farnham Castle,
he quizzed Maskelyne on the real potential of magic on the battlefield.
“That was a nice show and I shan’t soon forget it, but conditions in the
field are quite different. It’s not a stage, and the audience won’t be sitting
still.”
    “And I’m not going to be sawing women in half and making pianos
disappear,” Jasper responded. “General, I don’t intend to do hocus-pocus.
What I mean to do is apply the same principles used in stage magic to the
battlefield.”
    Lord Gort sipped a rich burgundy. “What sort of things do you propose?”
    “Almost anything can be done, but I can produce equipment where
shortages exist.”
    Knox recognized his cue. “Egypt, for instance.” Wavell’s lack of men and
equipment had forced him to halt his offensive short of enemy headquarters
in Libya. The reinforcements and supplies he had been expecting had been
diverted to Greece, and his army was left to bake in the desert.
     “Everywhere, right now,” the General replied, then pressed Maskelyne for
details.
     “It’s quite simple,” Jasper explained. “The one thing Major Buckley has
been drumming into us is that a show of force can be nearly as effective as
the actual weapons. The enemy can be made to respond precisely as you
want them to, perhaps change the direction of an advance, pause before
attacking, even waste their ammunition on worthless targets. Well, I can
create those targets. I’ve spent my entire adult life making things appear
to be precisely what they are not. You want tanks, I can give you tanks.
Guns? How many? Soldiers – just give me some paste and cardboard and
I’ll build an army for you.”
     Frank Knox coughed his way into Jasper’s attention, and the magician
paused. “I can be effective, General, if they give me a chance.”
     Gort looked at Buckley, who had watched the magician’s performance in
stunned silence. “You’ve certainly managed to instil the necessary
confidence in your people, Major.”
     “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Buckley responded.
     The Inspector General was admittedly intrigued by Maskelyne’s proposal
and promised to give it serious consideration. “But there’s no substitute for
good men and machines,” he reminded them, then added, “unless, of
course, you haven’t got any.”
     Lord Gort’s inspection passed for graduation, but there was a long
waiting list for transportation overseas, so the new camoufleurs moved to
Aldershot and began applying their skills to the greatest deception ever
attempted.
     The Army was desperately trying to convince Hitler they were ready to
meet his invasion, relying on many of the same concepts Maskelyne had
proposed to Gort. To replace the 100,000 men, 120,000 vehicles and 2,300
heavy artillery pieces lost at Dunkirk, factories throughout the English
countryside were turning out an entire dummy army. Countless cloth and
cardboard soldiers, and canvas guns that cast realistic shadows were
slipped into real formations to impress Nazi Intelligence.
     If the Germans came anyway, they would pay a bloody price. The English
countryside had been transformed into a lethal trap. The precious few real
heavy weapons had been carefully concealed behind the plywood walls of
hastily constructed “country pubs” and “thatched-roof cottages.” Sheep
grazing in meadows suitable for glider landings were in reality packages of
high explosives stuffed into sheepskins and pulled about on wires. Other
potential landing fields were mined, or hidden beneath artificial forests.
Thirty-foot-tall trees were felled and hollowed out to hold a gun post or a
tank trap or a high-explosive package, then replanted in a strategic
position. Seemingly innocent “berry patches” hid elephant traps, which were
simply large pits covered with foliage or a thin layer of dirt. In addition,
false signposts were erected to make prewar maps useless, and new,
inaccurate maps were circulated. Major roads, as indicated on these maps,
would end suddenly in overgrown woods and other roads led into bogs.
Numerous lakes were drained or covered with nets to further harass the
Nazis.
     While his classmates helped create the scenery for this show, Maskelyne
worked at his drawing board. Creating the illusions for the magic stage had
always appealed to him more than performing, and the floor of the
workshop at St. George’s Hall was usually littered with pages of his
discarded ideas. But now, instead of devising a means to run a flaming
sword through a villain in full view of the audience, he began designing war
machinery. Among these were balloons capable of carrying bombs over the
invasion fleet, and a gun, fired from shore, that would lay naval mines. He
also improved the camouflage of entrenched gun positions, pillboxes, using
reflectors just as he had done during the Farnham demonstration and
invented the “octopus mine.” This was an ordinary nautical mine, but eight
long lengths of cable had been attached to its detonator. An invasion barge
or a motorboat passing over would snare one of the cords in its propeller,
causing the mine to explode. This vastly increased the area protected by
the limited number of available mines.
     One afternoon in early January 1941, Frank Knox walked into
Maskelyne’s room and found him hard at work on the octopus mine. He
watched over his shoulder for a few minutes, then said, “That’s splendid,
Jay, it really is. You know, over the last months I’ve watched you come up
with all these ideas, and I wish … I wonder …” He shrugged. “Where do
they all come from?”
     Jasper began shading in the nautical mine. Where indeed? It was a
question he had often pondered himself. Where was the beginning of
creation? “It’s sort of a skill,” he said. “Some people are clever at figures,
others pick up languages easily. I just see things a bit differently than
other people, that’s all.” The real answer, he knew, was that there was no
answer. Creativity was a gift. Ideas were the toys of gods.
     “Used to come up with a few clever ones myself, you know. But lately I
don’t seem to get the good ones anymore.”
     Jasper glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve got to keep working at it.
Developing it and sharpening it. I’ve been doing it all my life. The family
business, you know.”
     Frank nodded. “Are you ever afraid you’ll lose it?”
     Jasper hesitated before answering, then admitted, “Every minute Frank.
And I’m frightened that if I do I won’t know how to find it again. There’s
not much I can do about it, though, is there? Trying to hold on to creativity
is like trying to draw water with a pitchfork. I just appreciate the gift, and
try not to worry about losing it.”
     “I see. Not much fun in that, is there?” Frank patted him on the
shoulder, and turned to leave. He stopped. “Oh, almost forgot the big
news. Postings are up. We’re shipping next week.”
     The magician was finally going to war.


                                    Two
The Nazi invasion did not come. Day and night throughout the winter, coast
watchers scanned the empty seas, but Hitler’s fleet remained on the French
beaches. The raw and bitter weather was greeted by the English as an old
ally, and the Channel grew mean. An invasion before spring was considered
most unlikely. For the first time in almost a year, England breathed.
    At last there was hope. The Churchill government had taken firm control
and managed to instil a sense of purpose in the nation. General Charles de
Gaulle had 35,000 trained Free French soldiers and 1,000 pilots ready to
fight. In North Africa, Wavell’s brave 30,000 commanded Egypt and the
western desert. And, although America remained officially neutral, its
recently reelected President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, declared that the United
States “must be the arsenal of democracy,” a message signalling that
substantial aid would be made available.
    So it was with some optimism that Jasper Maskelyne and Frank Knox
sailed from the Liverpool docks aboard the converted ocean liner Sumaria
on Sunday, January 19, 1941. For security, their destination was officially
“Area J,” but as they had been ordered to prepare semitropical kits, “J” was
obviously North Africa or the Far East. Most of the shipboard betting pools
favoured Egypt.
    To ensure total secrecy, all leaves had been cancelled when the postings
went up. Telephone calls were not permitted, and letters were collected to
be posted after the convoy was safely at sea. Jasper wrote this in his letter
to Mary: “As you read this I shall be at sea. Finally, I will be part of it. I
love you more than I had ever hoped to love anyone.” To his children he
wrote pages of wishes. It was a joyful letter, it included no mention of his
fears, and ended with a promise of reunion.
    The Sumaria had been built to carry seventeen hundred passengers
across the Atlantic in prewar luxury, but its days as a romantic cruise ship
were over. On this voyage six thousand troops and their equipment were
squeezed onto the decks and into the holds. Its black hull had been
camouflaged with broken patterns of khaki and ocean-blue paint. Thirty-six
Bren guns were mounted on concrete scaffolding secured to its sides. The
main-deck swimming pool now housed a 40mm antiaircraft gun, and large
canvas awnings had been stretched across the deck to shade additional
bunk space.
    There were no bands playing and no one tossed confetti as the Sumaria
slipped quietly out of the harbour in the night, past scores of seized
contraband ships, past the rusting hulks of bombed-out transports and
freighters, past the blacked-out buildings of Liverpool, and joined the
twenty-one-ship convoy to destination “J.”
    To avoid German submarine wolf packs, Royal Navy escorts led the
convoy on a route-of-opportunity. The course was set on a daily basis. The
convoy lay off the coast of Iceland for a few days, then steamed south,
anchoring so close to New York City that the men aboard could see its night
lights twinkling on the horizon, then farther south, past Buenos Aires.
    The Sumaria sailed through the weeks. To help relieve the tedium
aboard the cramped ship, a wide range of esoteric courses was offered to
the troops. Jasper taught model-boat building. Frank Knox lectured on
animals of the Middle East. Engineer Captain Peter Proud, a well-known
film-set designer, demonstrated techniques of individual camouflage.
Among many other classes offered were archaeology, music appreciation
(without music), cooking with rations, first aid, military history, French,
English literature, drawing and magazine writing.
    Mandatory calisthenics drills were conducted three times a day. Boxing
rings were set up on each deck, and the soldiers had at each other all
afternoon. Unfortunately, the wagering on the bouts caused more fights
outside the rings than took place inside.
    For entertainment, a group of strolling players was organized. These
included a violin prodigy, who would later die in the bombing of Crete, two
singers, a ventriloquist whose dummy was made in Hitler’s image, a sound
mimic, and Maskelyne. Jasper did a comedy turn as an inept magician
named Nozmo King, a none-too-subtle reminder that smoking regulations
had to be obeyed.
    After the seventh week at sea Maskelyne began producing a nightly
variety. His own contribution to the show was a makeshift version of the
Aladdin story, in which he was assisted by Frank Knox, who donned a
yellow mop wig to become a blonde temptress. By rubbing a ship’s lantern,
Jasper conjured up a turbanned djinn floating on a cloud of white smoke.
This genie offered to grant three wishes. Jasper took suggestions from his
audience and, in response to the inevitable requests, materialized Knox as
a ghostly pin-up girl, a turkey dinner and, most popular, a kettle that
supplied an endless variety of beverages upon request.
    Several original songs were written for the show by Army Captain Page.
One of these so impressed Maskelyne that he suggested it be sent to an
acquaintance of his at Feldman’s, the London music-publishing house. The
song written for this variety, “White Cliffs of Dover,” eventually became a
standard.
    No contact was made with the enemy during the zigzagging first leg of
the voyage, although one night Officer-of-the-Deck Proud ordered the New
Zealand Bofors crew to fire at an approaching aircraft. After a few seconds
of embarrassed silence, one of them softly informed him the plane was a
friendly bomber.
    The Sumaria finally made landfall in Freetown, Sierra Leone, Africa, in
early March. Although the convoy’s destination had supposedly been “most
secret,” sacks of mail were waiting on the docks for the men. They were so
happy to receive the letters and packages they did not question this
serious breach of security. Besides a stack of letters from Mary, Jasper
received an expensive box of chocolates. The return address on the package
had been smudged beyond legibility, but he assumed it was from his family
or a friend.
    Within hours of sampling the box his stomach was gripped by
excruciating cramps. At first he tried to joke about it, suggesting to Knox,
“The chocolate was probably sent to me by an enemy agent.”
    “More likely someone who saw your show,” Frank replied.
    Their joking stopped a few hours later when Maskelyne began running a
high fever. By the time the Sumaria sailed, he was slipping in and out of
consciousness. The ship’s doctor did everything he could, but Jasper’s
condition continued to deteriorate. Knox stood by his bunk applying ice
blocks to his body, but the fever wouldn’t break. During one of his lucid
periods, Jasper asked Frank to bring him a bottle of whisky. “So thirsty,” he
pleaded.
    Knox reluctantly got the bottle from the ship’s steward. Just as
Maskelyne was about to pour the first shot, the Sumaria’s captain arrived to
pay his respects. The captain was nervously clutching his white hat in his
hands and avoided looking directly at Jasper as he spoke. In a sombre voice
he thanked him for his efforts during the voyage, then did a poor job
reassuring him that the doctor predicted a rapid recovery.
    Jasper nodded at all the proper pauses, meanwhile trying to keep the
open whisky bottle hidden without spilling its contents. Even in his
half-stupor, he didn’t want to ruin the captain’s sincere farewell address by
producing a bottle of spirits.
    After the captain’s departure he downed eight shots and collapsed into a
deep sleep. When he woke up almost a full day later Knox was still sitting
by his bunk. “Fever’s broken,” Frank said casually.
    “I’ve got a splitting headache,” Jasper moaned.
    “It’s better than being dead,” Frank said.
    Jasper looked at him through bleary eyes. “That’s easy for you to say.”
Two days later he was wobbling around the deck.
    The chocolate incident was reported to the intelligence section and
promptly forgotten. Months later, in an intelligence office beneath a
brothel, Jasper would learn that his brief report had sparked a major
investigation, which led to the discovery of an Axis spy ring operating
throughout the Middle East.
    From Freetown the convoy had looped around the Falkland Islands, near
Antarctica, causing them all to shiver in their tropical weights, then north
again, by Cape Town, finally making land at Durban, South Africa. The
convoy had been at sea three months, scurrying around the world avoiding
areas in which U-boats had been spotted. Tempers aboard the transports
were razor-thin, and many of the ships began logging serious injuries
sustained in fights and, more ominously, suicides. One man aboard the
Sumaria killed himself by drinking a bottle of brass cleaner, and another
simply disappeared and was presumed lost overboard.
    The convoy darted from Durban to Madagascar, then up the Red Sea
toward the Suez Canal. There was no longer any doubt that “Area J” was
the Middle East, but the situation there had changed drastically while they
were at sea.
    To save his Italian ally from a disgraceful defeat in North Africa, Hitler
had offered military assistance to Mussolini. Unknown to the Italians, since
1936 the Nazis had been training officers for an elite desert army inside
two huge hothouses in the district of Schleswig-Holstein in the north and in
Bavaria in the south. The soldiers lived inside these buildings under desert
conditions for weeks at a time. They ate desert rations, drilled in
breath-sucking heat, slept in bone-chilling cold and trained on a
sand-covered floor. By 1940, the spine of the Afrika Korps had been
hardened.
    Mussolini had no choice but to accept the offer. The German force was
officially under the command of Italian General Garibaldi, but was in fact
led by Hitler’s favourite general, tank warfare expert Erwin Rommel. Two
months after he arrived in the desert Rommel was crashing his way into
history.
    The British convoy reached the Suez Canal just as the alcohol stores
were exhausted, and the men congratulated themselves on the accuracy of
their calculations. But hours before they were to dock in Suez, Luftwaffe
bombers were spotted nearby and the convoy turned around and fled back
down the Red Sea. It was another week before they finally dropped anchor
in Suez.
    The Sumaria had sailed into chaos. The distressing reports that had
been received at sea had not prepared anyone for the situation that
greeted them. Suez was a city in shock. Soldiers from every force of the
Commonwealth army, from all divisions, all units – tankers, cooks, clerks,
riflemen, sappers, drivers, engineers, soldiers of every rank – had crammed
into the tiny city and made camp on its pavements or wandered dazed
through its streets. The city seemed to ache from the confusion. Its aged
and limited public services could not cope with the massive influx of
Tommies; the sewage system had backed up and puddles of stagnant water
pocked the paved streets and the dirt alleys; piles of garbage lay
uncollected and most public transportation had been halted. There was not
enough food or water and almost no functioning sanitation facilities. At Port
Tewfik mountains of equipment lay untouched on the docks. Unopened
boxes of rations, medical supplies, summer uniforms, petrol cans, even
weapons and ammunition, spilled down the sides of the man-made slopes.
In the harbour countless ships, transports and freighters and small
warships as far as it was possible to see, lay drifting at anchor. Waiting.
Waiting as the soldiers waited in the streets, for orders that did not come.
    Western Desert Force, only months earlier the pride of the Empire,
Wavell’s gallant thirty thousand, was in a shambles. The chain of command
had broken down. Communications facilities were destroyed. Units were
scattered helter-skelter over the entire Nile Basin.
    “It’s another bloody Dunkirk,” Frank whispered in horror as they walked
through a crowded street, looking grotesquely out of place in their sparkling
uniforms.
    “No,” Jasper corrected in a shaken voice, “it’s Suez.”
    Presently they joined a knot of officers standing in the middle of the
road and asked what had happened.
    An Australian captain looked them over suspiciously, then took a long
drag on a malodorous Egyptian cigarette, dropped it into the gutter and
ground it dead, and said respectfully, “Rommel.”
    General Erwin Rommel had landed at Castel Benito airfield, outside
Tripoli, Libya, on February 12, 1941, to command the Sperrverband, or
blocking detachment, ordered to halt the British advance into Cyrenaica.
Two days later, Afrika Korps arrived. Throughout the afternoon and into the
floodlit night an endless stream of haughty soldiers, muzzled artillery
pieces, and desert-camouflaged twenty-five-ton panzer tanks, European
victory pennants colouring the stark scene, had paraded off their transports
through the streets of Tripoli. They were greeted by thousands of cheering
Libyans, among them British agents feverishly trying to keep count of the
mighty force.
    Rommel stood in the blistering sun all afternoon reviewing the troops.
But this show of force had actually been staged for the dozens of English
spies in the crowds. In his first brilliant deception in North Africa, Rommel
had transformed two battalions into an entire army, for as each unit
completed the parade it was trucked back to the docks and rejoined the end
of the line.
    Within hours Wavell had been informed that a mammoth German
detachment had landed in Libya. Surveillance efforts in the desert were
immediately intensified, but failed to spot any evidence of the German
force. Rommel’s army seemed to have disappeared into the desert
wastelands as suddenly as it had arrived.
    Little more than a month later, the officers and troops of the British
garrison at El Aghelia were playing a rough-and-tumble football match. The
most recent intelligence signals mentioned some minor enemy activity to
the southeast, but indicated nothing major brewing. The ball was booted
out of bounds over a small dune, and Lance Corporal Richard Duckworth ran
to retrieve it. As he began trotting back to the field he glanced over his
shoulder – and froze in horror. His mouth opened and he tried to scream a
warning – but no words came out. Lumbering through the waves of rising
heat, a vast armada of panzer tanks was bearing down on the post.
    By nightfall, the stunned football players were dead, prisoners of war, or
fleeing toward the outpost at Mersa Brega. Duckworth suffered a superficial
foot wound and was captured. As he sat under guard watching the Nazi
tank force roll into town, he received another great shock. Following close
behind the front rows of panzers were dozens of wooden tank shells
mounted on Volkswagen chassis, followed by trucks pulling sweepers to
raise dust clouds.
    A week later Mersa Brega was overrun. The British retreat began in
earnest.
    Western Desert Force was not prepared to counter Rommel’s offensive.
Intelligence Branch had been certain the Germans would not attack. Most of
Wavell’s veteran troops and their equipment had been shipped to Greece
and replaced on the front lines by wet, or newly arrived, soldiers and their
inexperienced officers. Then, early in the fighting, General O’Connor,
commander of British troops in Egypt, and General Neame, Desert Force
commander, drove into a German patrol and were captured. After that,
British resistance simply fell apart.
    “He’s got this special power, see,” the Australian captain explained.
“The Jerries call it Finger-spitzen-gefühl, it’s like a feeling in his fingers. He
knows things before they happen.”
    A New Zealand lieutenant nodded agreement. “He’s got something up
his sleeve, that’s for damn sure. If it wasn’t for the boys at Tobruk, we’d
still be runnin’.”
    Rommel’s blitzkrieg across the western desert had paused outside the
deep-water port of Tobruk in early April. Afrika Korps consumed fifteen
hundred tons of rations and water daily, and its supply lines were badly
overextended. If Tobruk was not captured, those vitals would have to be
trucked across a thousand miles of open desert, and this thin lifeline would
be extremely vulnerable. If the British broke out of Tobruk, they could
conceivably slice it in half, thus isolating most of Afrika Korps. Tobruk
became the key to Rommel’s entire campaign.
    Wavell rushed reinforcements to the beleaguered fortress. Rommel
attacked its thirty-mile perimeter on April 14 and was repulsed after heavy
fighting. Two days later he attacked again. The defensive line sagged in
numerous pockets but never snapped, and Rommel pulled back. His
wounded Afrika Korps dug in just outside the city. “He’s like a bloody
vulture, just waiting there,” the Aussie said. “Mark me, if he breaks into
Tobruk …”
    A young British captain finished the thought. “Hope you chaps can
swim.”
    As Maskelyne and Knox walked away from the group, Frank asked, “You
don’t really believe any of that stuff about special powers, do you?”
    Jasper smiled enigmatically.
    Army Command in Suez had set up temporary headquarters inside an
abandoned cannery. Jasper and Frank spent the next few days there trying
to turn up their orders, which had evidently been lost in the confusion. The
colonel to whom Lord Gort had forwarded his personal recommendation was
somewhere “on the Blue,” a localism meaning somewhere on the desert.
And with standby plans hourly being superseded by emergency plans, which
were subject to contingency plans, while everyone awaited official orders,
no officer of sufficient rank was willing to take responsibility for them. In
fact, some of the regulars found Maskelyne’s mere presence in the war zone
embarrassing. They knew that Rommel could never be outwitted by
music-hall chicanery, and they could not understand why the Army had
allowed Maskelyne to be commissioned.
    One ranker thought he might remove the blemish by posting Maskelyne
and his chum to Greece, but the day before their orders could be cut the
Greek resistance collapsed. Had the clerks been more efficient, Jasper and
Frank would have arrived there just in time to be interned. Saved, they
continued wandering about Suez.
    The sticky heat and filth and incessant flies and never-ending clatter
magnified Jasper’s frustration. Anger coiled inside him like a snake, and he
felt as though he was one careless bump or foul word away from snapping.
He had finally got close enough to the fighting to hear the artillery thunder
resounding off the desert at night, yet he was even more useless than he
had been in London. At home, at least he could have boosted morale. But
in Suez he was just another junior officer without a function, another mouth
to feed, another number to be evacuated should the rumoured withdrawal
be ordered.
    It bruised his ego. After living in the centre spot for so long, he found it
difficult to accept a place in the audience. Even during the voyage across,
his simple pantomime had earned him a celebrity of sorts. So, by the end of
the eighth day of waiting at the cannery, he had had enough. Lacking
orders, they were officially assigned nowhere; so they were free to go
anywhere. He told Knox to get his kit, and they hitched a ride to Cairo.
    The eighty-three-mile-long highway from the Red Sea to the Nile Basin
was clogged with military traffic and refugees. Egyptian peasants walked
steadily along both shoulders of the road, carrying their belongings on
hand-pulled wooden carts, or on burros, or tied in bundles balanced on their
heads. The jeep driver, a corporal in supply, explained that those on the
right were fleeing the expected German attack on Cairo, while those on the
left were Nazi sympathizers or beggars, going into the capital to claim the
houses abandoned by those on the right.
    Maskelyne sat in the rear seat staring beyond the straggling lines into
the desert. Between Suez and Cairo it appeared to be docile, drifting
casually like a summer ocean. But even on this calm spring day particles of
sand dust peppered his eyes and ears and lips, and got into his mouth and
his nose and under his clothes, and served to remind him of its raw power.
    The desert looked benign, not capable of brutal, slow murder; yet it
was, and Jasper had learned during a tour of Egypt in the early 1930s that
everything one did there was determined by the mood of the desert. He had
been told tales of men who strolled over small dunes to relieve themselves
and were never seen again, of great caravans that disappeared without a
trace, of cars that strayed a few yards off the thin ribbon roads and were
swallowed. It was said that after five days of the Khamsin, the great desert
storm, the Bedouins, the wandering tribes, forgave a man for killing a wife;
after eight days, his camel.
    Frank interrupted his reverie with a sneeze. “Hope I’m not allergic,” he
said cheerfully.
    It was quite a jolt to come out of the desert into springtime Cairo.
Green palms and almond and olive trees swayed sensuously along the
broad boulevards. Traffic was snarled for miles, and drivers of limousines
and barely chugging heaps and taxis and buses and trucks and military
vehicles of every type were playing their horns like drum sets. Street
vendors were hawking everything from fly whisks to hard drugs in
screeching voices. Dogs were yelping at the din. Every small shop and café
had a radio out front blasting Arabic music from different stations at
competing volume. The pavements were jammed by city soldiers wearing
proper uniform, and serving soldiers in parodies of that uniform, and
Egyptians in jellabas, and European businessmen in finely tailored spring
suits, and women in traditional Eastern dress or the latest Western
fashion. The intense normalcy of the city belied the fact that Rommel and
his Afrika Korps were on the march.
    By twilight Maskelyne and Knox had settled into a crumbling rooming
house off Sharia Kasr el Nil, and Jasper was standing at the window of his
room watching Cairo ease into the night. A carpet of shimmering golden
dust was settling over the day. In the distance, the minarets of the elegant
mosques stood poised like lances ready to prick the flaming sky. Between
buildings, he could see just a bit of the Nile, and the local ships,
lateen-sailed feluccas, drifting on the evening breezes. Suddenly, across
the road, an apartment burst into light. Then, to his right, another window
flared up. Directly below, streetlights flickered on. Neon signs began
flashing. Cars and trucks snapped on their headlights. The blast of lights
startled him, and it took him a moment to remember that Egypt was not
officially at war, so blackout regulations were not enforced. After eighteen
months of darkness in England, where striking a match outdoors at night
was considered a traitorous act, and three months aboard a ship that ran
black after dusk, the sight of a great capital lighting up for a normal
evening was utterly dazzling.
    In celebration, he took his pipe from his jacket pocket and lit it, boldly
allowing the match to burn until it nearly singed his fingers.
    The next morning, armed with the arrogance of righteousness, he
assaulted the complex of grand houses in the suburb of Garden City that
served as British Headquarters for the Middle East. After showing his
identification at the sentry box, he marched into Gray Pillars, the heart of
the complex, determined to force the military establishment to finally pay
attention. He had wasted too much time loitering in too many corridors,
pleading with too many cocksure officers. He had been cold-shouldered,
downtalked and diverted too long. This time he would make no gracious
retreat. He would either walk out of GHQ with an assignment or be carried
out with a court-martial.
    Gray Pillars had once been the elegant mansion of a pasha, a wealthy
Egyptian businessman, but the British Army had successfully turned it into
a drab office building. A reception desk had been set up in the foyer,
manned by a stern corporal bookended by armed red-capped military
policemen standing easy. “I’m Lieutenant Maskelyne,” Jasper said, handing
over his identification. “I’d like to see someone who knows something
about camouflage. My orders were forwarded …”
    The corporal squinched up his face as if trying to recall an elusive fact.
Then he snapped his fingers and smiled at the solution. “Maskelyne. Of
course.” He leafed through the papers on his desk until he found what he
was searching for. “Here it is,” he said holding a manila folder. “Knew I’d
seen your name somewhere. Colonel Beasley in Ops has been waiting for
you. I expect he’ll want to see you straightaway.” Handing Jasper a yellow
building pass, he pointed to the main staircase. “One up and to your right,
207-D.”
    The plump Colonel Beasley, one of a number of deputy directors of
operations, greeted Maskelyne as if he were an elderly rich cousin. “Thank
goodness you’re here,” he gushed, energetically pumping Jasper’s hand.
“We’ve been desperate for a magician.”
    Maskelyne had been primed to battle his way to an assignment, so this
unexpectedly warm reception made him wary. But Beasley’s effusive
greeting made things clear. He was expected to do his show for the troops.
He bristled. “Excuse me, Colonel,” he said coldly, “but I’m a soldier now.”
    “Yes, yes, I know that. No offence intended. But you see, Maskelyne,
right at this moment a magician is precisely what we need. Look here.”
Beasley picked up a fly swat and plodded over to a large map of the entire
Middle East propped on a table. Numerous coloured stick pins representing
combat units had chewed up its centre, and a sinuous black line, black as a
mourning ribbon, had been drawn on it, stretching east from Cairo across
the canal, through Palestine and Transjordan, into Syria, Turkey and
beyond.
    The black line, Beasley explained, was the planned route of evacuation
should a withdrawal become necessary. “As you can clearly see,” he
continued, tracing the route with his swat handle, “it goes directly through
Arab territories. That, I’m afraid, is the rub.”
    Over tea and cakes he outlined the situation. The Imam of the Whirling
Dervish tribe, an aged and revered leader, had threatened to declare a
jihad, a holy war, if one British soldier set foot on Dervish territory. This
was a serious problem. The Imam was a god to his well-armed people, and
if he was harmed in any way his fanatical followers would carry out his
declaration. But if he was not convinced to withdraw this threat, the
evacuation column would come under murderous Arab fire.
    Jasper listened carefully, but did not immediately understand how his
magic could solve the problem.
    “The Imam claims to possess true magical powers,” the colonel
continued. “So we thought perhaps you could go and see him and convince
him to be a good fellow. One magician to another, that sort of thing. Offer
him some trinkets if necessary, those people like the shiny jinglies. Well,
what do you think? Can you help us?”
    Maskelyne hesitated. The magic of the religious leaders of the Middle
East was thousands of years old. With it, they had controlled civilizations.
His puny stage tricks could not be compared with it. The Imam would hardly
be impressed by the Endless Silks when his chants could move a stone
wall. But Jasper knew he had no choice. The Army was finally giving him an
opportunity to prove his ability, and he could not turn it down. Taking a
deep breath, he replied, “I can’t promise anything …”
    After thoroughly briefing Maskelyne on the situation, Colonel Beasley
escorted him to the head of the main stairway. All around them frowning
senior officers were racing from one office to the next. “If nothing else
works,” Beasley said sombrely, “offer him gold. If the Germans are paying
him, we’ll pay more. We simply can’t risk him causing us problems right
now. Good luck.”
    Jasper snapped a salute that would have made Major Buckley proud.
    The next day, April 26, while Afrika Korps was readying another strike at
Tobruk, and GHQ was issuing instructions for destroying sensitive
documents to officers in Cairo, Maskelyne was landing in Damascus, Syria,
clutching his bag of stage props. He was wearing a civilian bush jacket and
his last pair of fine trousers from Hall’s, and he thought it particularly ironic
that his first assignment in uniform required him to be out of uniform.
    As he pushed through the crowds on the clamorous biblical street called
Straight, waiting to be contacted by a British undercover agent, a young
Syrian boy begged him for some coins. He ignored the boy and moved on,
as he had been warned was necessary and proper, and continued to search
for his contact.
    The boy followed him through the marketplace at a cautious distance.
Once they had broken free of the crowds, he approached him again, but this
time he said in clear English, “Good day, Lieutenant Maskelyne.”
    Jasper halted in his tracks and stared at the boy. He could not possibly
have been more than eight years old. “How do you know my name?” he
demanded.
    The boy looked up at him with much older eyes. “We have our
intelligence, too,” he said, then added, “I have been made to bring you.
Please come.” Without waiting for a response, he spun around and walked
away.
    Maskelyne hesitated, then followed him through a maze of narrow alleys
until, at the end of one of them, they came upon a storybook carriage
drawn by two white stallions. The boy opened its door and told him to get
in. “The Prince is expecting you,” he said.
    Jasper dutifully climbed in, and the door closed behind him. The Prince.
What prince? He had no idea what the boy was talking about, and it was
too late to ask. The coach horses started up and made a good pace through
the city. He peeped through the drawn curtains, trying to track the route,
but the carriage made numerous turns and that proved impossible. They
drove through the marketplace, past “Out of Bounds” warnings, up wide
streets, then down alleyways so narrow the Arabs had to push into
doorways to give passage.
    His fears grew with each street. He had no idea where he was being
taken or even in whose coach he was riding. It was one thing to face the
predictable dangers of battle, it was quite another to be alone among the
fanatical Dervish people. Stories of their bizarre rituals had long chilled
hearts in civilized European circles. More than one innocent person had
disappeared while in their charge. At that moment he sincerely wished he
had packed a real pistol rather than the pathetic stage prop in his sack.
    The carriage halted directly beside a set of massive arched doors set in
an otherwise solid, high stucco wall. The door was opened from outside,
and a bearded Arab urged, “Move quickly.” Jasper scrambled out of the cab
and into another world.
    The doors were bolted behind him, shutting out the hubbub of the
streets, and he found himself standing in the tranquil courtyard of a great
villa. A spreading pomegranate tree shaded one corner, and beneath it sat
an Arab playing dulcet melodies on a wooden flute. In another corner a
group of veiled women were spinning yarn. In the centre of the yard a
fountain splashed lightly into a cloverleaf-shaped lily pond, and above this
fountain was the most remarkable sculpture he had ever seen.
    Inside what appeared to be a large wooden wheel, four women sat
motionless and silent at the quarter-hour positions while the fountain
slowly drove the wheel. Jasper guessed this strange human sculpture had
some religious significance, and knew for sure he was among the Dervish.
    As he followed the bearded servant through the tiled courtyard he had
the uneasy sensation he was being observed from above, but scanning the
windows of the interior walls he saw no one. They entered a large room, lit
mostly by shafts of bright sunlight pouring through cathedral windows. At
the far end of this room an elegant throne was raised on a dais, and on it
sat a handsome white-haired old man in flowing white robes. The guide
bowed and backed out of the room.
    Maskelyne walked the length of the room on quaking legs. About six feet
from the throne he stopped and, having no idea what was proper, saluted
smartly and announced, “Lieutenant Maskelyne, His Majesty’s Royal
Engineers.”
    The old man beckoned him forward. “Leftenant Maskelyne,” he said in a
raspy voice, “I am Prince Hassan. It is a pleasure to meet you. Du you know
my name?”
    Jasper thought he heard a distant echo in his mind, but couldn’t quite
make it out. He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
    “It doesn’t matter. You see, I knew your father well.” Jasper stood there
dumbfounded while the Prince repeated a story he had first heard so many
years ago by a London fireside. “I was with Lawrence in the Turkish
campaigns.”
    During the Great War Colonel T. E. Lawrence, the famed Lawrence of
Arabia, had asked the British government to supply magicians who would
live among the wandering tribes masquerading as holy men. Nevil
Maskelyne had trained three Arabs, a Frenchman and an Englishman in the
conjuring arts. Equipped with a few simple sleights and some technological
marvels unknown in that part of the world, these men convinced the
tribesmen that they were ascetic marabouts, the strange holy men often
attributed with supernatural powers. Then they foretold the future – using
advance information conveniently provided by Lawrence. After gaining the
confidence of the desert people with their accurate predictions, they
prophesied that anyone serving the Turks would suffer the wrath of Allah.
Gradually, the Turks lost all their native support.
    Two of the magicians disappeared in the desert and were never seen
again. Their fate remained a mystery.
    When Prince Hassan finished his story, Jasper stammered a few silly
sentences. They repaired to a smoking den and lounged on pillows while a
servant prepared a nargileh, a hashish pipe. The Prince apologized for
having had Jasper “dumped off at the rear entrance,” but explained that the
Imam was in residence at the villa and three of his blackguards were at the
front gate. “The relationship between my family and the leaders of the
Dervish can be traced through many centuries,” he continued. “There is
trust between us, and respect. The Imam has agreed to meet you because
I requested it and such things are not easily refused, but he does not want
it known that he is meeting a white man, particularly an Englishman.”
    Jasper politely refused the hashish, instead lighting his own briar pipe.
“But why is he against us?”
    Hassan shrugged. “Perhaps some slight of many years ago that he has
never forgotten. His motive is not important. As you English say, the gun is
often fired without reason.”
    “Is it possible the Germans are paying him?”
    “Yes, but not with gold. He has all the wealth he will ever need. If they
are whispering in his ear, it is promises of authority when the war is
finished.”
    Maskelyne shook his head in bewilderment. “How do I deal with a man
like that?”
    Prince Hassan dragged deeply on his pipe and savoured the smoke
before replying. “The Imam is not an educated man. He will not listen to
arguments of logic, nor will he be agreeable to flattery. There is but one
thing. The Imam truly believes his magic is greater than any white man’s.
And since I learned a Maskelyne would be coming here, I have been
boasting of your abilities.” He smiled sheepishly. “I am afraid I have
infuriated him on your behalf. Somehow, you must convince him your
powers are the equal of his. Otherwise, I fear …” He shook his head, and
his voice trailed off.
    The marriage of Eastern and Western scents filled the room as Jasper
tried to figure out some means of matching Dervish magic with his own bag
of tricks. It would take a grand performance to make the Imam back down,
and he was barely prepared for a children’s show. He reluctantly began
taking his props out of the small bag and slipping them into various
pockets.
    A short time later a servant entered and announced that the Imam had
awakened and was prepared to see the visitor.
    Jasper looked to the Prince for direction. Hassan had a beneficent smile
on his face. “Be bold, Maskelyne. Don’t let him bluff you. You too know the
real secrets of magic.”
    “Right,” Jasper replied, a good deal more confidently than he felt. Then
he stood up and went off to do magic battle.
    As he followed the servant through the long corridors, he checked to
make sure he knew where his props were hidden. He might not have
anything up his sleeve, but at least he’d be able to pull something out of
his pocket.
    The walk gave him time to fortify his confidence. The Imam’s tricks
would undoubtedly be clever, but they would still be tricks. It was vital that
he remember that. Even the belief of the entire Dervish nation in the
Imam’s powers did not make them real. The Maskelyne family had spent a
considerable fortune seeking proof of true magic without uncovering the
slightest evidence that such a thing existed.
    His heart was pounding. He was about to match illusions with one of the
few men in the world ruling by dint of his magical powers. And in this
contest the Maskelyne family name could not help him. This time he would
be on his own.
    The Imam was waiting alone in a small corner room. Its whitewashed
walls were bare, and it was lit by a small hanging lamp. The Dervish leader
was a much smaller man than Jasper had expected, and much older. His
leathery face was cracked and wrinkled like a baked desert plain and
bordered by a brush of scraggly grey beard. Instead of the traditional robes
of a religious leader, he was wearing a blousy green sateen shirt and white
pantaloons, a velvet skullcap, and sandals, looking altogether like an
Eastern mystic created by Noel Coward. He was in a nasty mood when
Maskelyne arrived, and greeted him with a barrage of harsh words.
    The servant immediately bowed, and Jasper followed his lead, catching
up with him at the bottom of his dip. “Tell him I apologize for making him
wait,” he commanded. “Tell him it was not intended as a sign of
disrespect.”
    As the servant did so, Maskelyne glanced around the room, and his
practised eye noted it had been carefully prepared for this encounter. Too
many common objects had been set too casually out of position. A
dirt-filled clay planter without a plant in it was placed out of range of the
sunlight that shafted through the single window in the room. A cabinet with
no discernible purpose was pushed into a corner. A sharpened lance leaned
against a wall. An Oriental area rug, perhaps covering a trapdoor, was laid
badly off centre. Jasper thought he could just barely make out the shadow
of a transparent string running along the moulding at the base of the wall.
He had no doubt about it; the room had been salted.
    The servant translated Maskelyne’s apology, which momentarily soothed
the Imam. Then the aged leader replied, through the interpreter, “I have
heard of the many wonders you have produced, and I am honoured with
your presence.” Belying his words, however, he spat them out in distinctly
hostile tones.
    Jasper nodded. “And the greatness of your powers is known to people all
over the world,” he lied.
    The Imam grinned, exposing gaping holes between his teeth, then spoke
again. When he had finished the servant translated. “The Imam says he is
sorry a man with great powers such as yours has travelled such a long way
to see him, but there is nothing he can do to change the … the … situation.
No heathen soldier can be permitted to trespass on Dervish land. It is not
his will. It is the will of Allah.” The servant bowed again. Jasper bowed. The
Imam bowed.
    “Surely there must be some compromise,” Jasper responded when they
had finished. “Ask him if there is not some way my people can show their
appreciation for his generosity and understanding.”
    The wizened old man listened patiently, then suddenly launched into a
bitter anti-British tirade, speaking so rapidly that all the servant could do
was summarize. “He does not like the British at all,” he explained.
    “So I gather. Ask him why.”
    Ignoring the question, the Imam continued spewing threats as the
courtyard fountain splashed water. “The Imam says your problems with the
Germans and the Italians do not concern him. He says that if one English
soldier marches on sacred Arab soil he will declare a jihad.”
    Jasper began explaining that the proposed withdrawal, which probably
would never be necessary, posed no danger to the Arab people, whom the
British respected as brothers. “However,” he repeated, “my government is
prepared to show its respect–”
    The Imam suddenly ended the discussion by moving spryly to the clay
planter. Positioning himself directly in front of it, he began waving his arms
and chanting. Maskelyne watched with fascination. After a bit, the old man
stepped aside. A shrivelled but blossoming miniature orange tree had
sprouted in the pot.
    Jasper had seen the trick done before. And better. This was more an
example of how to hide a tiny tree up the sleeve of a blouse than a
demonstration of divinely inspired magic. In response, he casually took his
pipe from his pocket, snapped his fingers into flame, and lit it. If that was
the best the fakir could do, he thought, he could certainly match him.
    The Imam’s green eyes seethed with anger. Holding open his hands to
show they were empty, he placed them over his eyes. Then, very
deliberately, he pulled them away. An egg had materialized in each hand.
    He stared at the eggs as if to crack them open with the intensity of his
glare, then abruptly smacked them together. A dove sat in his cupped
hands. He tossed it into the air and it fluttered onto a ceiling beam.
    Jasper was feeling quite confident. The Imam would barely make the bill
at St. George’s Hall with these basic sleights. Then, in response to the
dove production, he pulled a multicoloured handkerchief out of his trouser
pocket. He swirled it about freely, then poked it into his clenched fist. An
instant later he opened his hand, and a butterfly of the kerchief colours
flew out the door, disappearing down the hallway.
    The Imam responded by elevating a small vase from the top of the
cabinet.
    Maskelyne produced a flow of trinkets from his mouth.
    The Imam faced the cabinet and held out a beckoning hand. Slowly, he
drew his hand to his body, and, as he did, the door creaked open as if
being pulled by a string. But no string was visible. He paused; the door
stopped moving. He clapped his hands; the door slammed shut. Jasper
assumed that the string was attached to the Imam’s sandal, or toe, and
was hidden beneath the Oriental rug.
    Jasper was enjoying this duel. The small whitewashed room made a
strange battlefield, but his body was alive with the mixture of exhilaration
and fear he’d been told a soldier feels in combat. Although the idea of
battling with sleights that both men knew were simply stage tricks, and
pretending it was real magic, might seem as ridiculous as armies warring
with water guns to sophisticated westerners, illusions identical to those
being performed in this room had enabled the Imam and his ancestors to
rule a great, superstitious people for uncounted decades.
    How would he counter the cabinet trick? The old man would not be
impressed by more handkerchiefs, no matter how deftly performed. Cards
were inadequate. The ropes too obvious. He remembered the prop pistol
tucked into his waistband. The Magic Bullet?
    The Imam was growing impatient.
    Jasper palmed a bullet as he reached into his pocket for the razor
blades. The blades might give him a chance to set up the Bullet. After
nicking his wrist until a tiny blood bubble proved the sharpness of the
razor, he opened his mouth and swallowed six of them. After downing the
last one, he rubbed his stomach in delight.
    Then he reached into his mouth and began pulling out the blades,
knotted to a length of cotton.
    The Imam grabbed one of the blades from his hand. He bit down hard on
its metal edge, then angrily threw it onto the floor.
    Jasper smiled arrogantly. “Glad you liked that one.”
    The servant dared not translate that remark.
    The Imam turned toward the Oriental rug and extended his arms. He
began raising his hands, and the carpet, rigid as a board, lifted off the
floor. Jasper looked for the ceiling wires but couldn’t see them. He started
moving backward in apparent captivation.
    The Imam lifted the rug to waist level.
    Jasper was impressed. Although this levitation and perhaps the cabinet
were undoubtedly the work of a hidden assistant, it was an extremely
effective illusion. He continued backing up until he felt the plaster wall
against his back.
    The Imam held the carpet at chest level with his fixed gaze.
    Jasper began carving a tiny hole in the wall with one of the razor blades,
catching the specks of plaster in his palm. When the hole was deep
enough, he pressed the bullet into it. If the bullet didn’t fall out, he knew
he would be able to top the flying carpet.
    The Imam lowered the Oriental rug onto the floor.
    Maskelyne nodded appreciatively. Then he reached under his shirt and
pulled out the prop pistol.
    The Imam misunderstood, and begun backing away fearfully.
    “No, no, it’s all right,” Jasper said, but the old man didn’t seem to
understand. His eyes began to bulge as he stared at the gun. Just as the
Imam opened his mouth to shout for his guards, Maskelyne wisely turned
the barrel of the gun on himself.
    The Dervish leader relaxed, but maintained his distance and watched
cautiously.
    Maskelyne took six blank cartridges from his bush-jacket pocket and
loaded the gun. Then he raised his open left hand, held the gun in his right
hand about eight inches from the centre of his palm, took a deep breath,
closed his eyes, grimaced, and fired.
    The translator fell onto his knees and began praying.
    Jasper held out his left hand for inspection. Apart from a nasty red welt
in the centre of his palm, there seemed to be no damage. The bullet
appeared to have passed right through it. The Imam moved toward the
wall, but Maskelyne beat him to the spot and made an exaggerated show of
prying the planted bullet out of the plaster. Holding it out to the Imam for
inspection, he said, “A souvenir of my performance, perhaps?”
    The Imam slapped his hand, sending the bullet skittering across the
floor. His face contorted in rage and he began muttering in a guttural tone.
    Jasper realized he’d gone too far.
    The Imam pointed at him and screamed shrilly.
    The petrified servant translated in a trembling voice. “The Imam … the
great Imam says you are an impostor. You must go now, taking … taking
with you his anger. But before you go, the Imam will show you real magic …
so you will never forget him.”
    Maskelyne gritted his teeth. He’d bungled the assignment. His blasted
ego had messed up the mission.
    The Imam picked up the long steel lance and held it above his head.
Then he closed his eyes and began an almost hypnotic, monotonic chant.
    When he finished, he opened his eyes and glared at Maskelyne. Without
taking his eyes off the frustrated magician, he lowered the lance and turned
it, placing its sharpened spike against his stomach. Then his gaze
softened, as if in pity for the white man’s innocence.
    In that instant, his intention became horrifyingly clear.
    Suddenly, he roared savagely and ran at the wall.
    “No!” Jasper screamed, and dived to stop him.
    The spear butt rammed into the wall, driving the spike deep into the old
man’s fragile body. He groaned and was skewered on the lance as it ripped
through his stomach. The point of the spike tore through the back of his
sateen shirt.
   Jasper was paralysed, his hands frozen in midair.
   The servant fell to his knees, crying.
   Maskelyne was shaken. Now he believed the legends. Years earlier he
had heard a fiendish tale: that male children born to high priests were
ceremoniously pierced through their bodies, but carefully so that the organs
were not disturbed, the way European women had their ear lobes pierced.
Those children who survived had a scarred channel through which they could
twist sharp objects. He had dismissed the barbaric tale then, but in front of
him stood living proof that it was true.
   It was not magic in the traditional sense, but it was a far greater feat
than anything he had ever seen. None of his stage tricks could compare
with it.
   The servant translated through worshipful sobs. “Here is magic no white
man can perform, the Imam says. He says that even as this spear has
pierced his body, so will your armies be struck through if they dare – if they
touch Arab land.” He paused for a quick prayer for deliverance. “The Imam
wants you to withdraw the lance.”
   Jasper tried to hide his discouragement. He’d been beaten. If the retreat
was ordered, British blood would flow into the sands. All he could do was
hope to get away safely and pray the defenders of Tobruk held Rommel in
place. He grabbed hold of the shaft and pulled hard. The spear moved
sluggishly. He twisted it and yanked it and it moved another few inches.
   The Imam was sweating and grunting, but seemed to be in no pain.
   An inch at a time, as if it were being dragged out of a blubbery vice, the
spear wrenched free. Finally, the last foot of it glided smoothly out of the
old man’s body.
   Jasper hefted it uncomfortably and examined it. Odd, he thought, not a
speck of blood on it. He glanced at the Imam’s torn shirt. No bloodstains
there either. Suddenly, his memory began to itch. There was something …
something he’d once heard about. Another story told by his grandfather.
The details were sketchy, but he remembered bits of it. A
turn-of-the-century music-hall performer claiming to be a desert marabout
had achieved some success with a similar illusion in the outer cities, but
had been exposed us a fraud in London. Something about a leather belt.
   The Imam held his hand over his wound and triumphantly lectured
Maskeleyne.
   Jasper obediently held out the spear to the Dervish leader and, as the
old man accepted it, he casually brushed the Imam’s side.
   The old man jumped back as if he had been touched by the hand of the
devil.
   It was too late. Jasper had felt something much too firm to be flesh. It
was the music-hall trick. It had been performed to perfection, and, given
the setup, it was entirely believable, but it was nothing more than an old
variety turn. After all his years on the stage, after countless performances,
he’d fallen for it. He bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from laughing
out loud at his foolishness.
   The Imam rattled on.
   Maskelyne ignored the chatter, trying to decide what to do next. He
couldn’t do better than the spear bit, not with the props on hand, but he
knew that there was much more to a good act than the illusion. There was
the bluff.
    Turning to the servant, he ordered, “Tell the Imam I am not impressed
by his silly tricks.”
    The servant’s mouth fell open. “I cannot,” he pleaded. “Please …”
    “Tell him. Tell him or I will tell the Prince you have disobeyed me.”
    The terrified man stared at the floor as he translated Maskelyne’s insult.
When he finished he cringed, as if expecting to be struck down by the wrath
of the great wizard.
    The Imam’s eyes boiled with hatred and he hurled curses at Maskelyne.
    Maskelyne folded his arms defiantly and stood his ground. Then he
loudly commanded, “Tell him I know he is wearing a leather channel around
his waist. Tell him I know the lance will bend around this belt.”
    The servant was only a few words into this explanation when the Imam
stopped him. Like winter mellowing into spring, then summer, his glare
softened into a stare, then a gaze. He replied in a voice soft and
respectful.
    The astonished interpreter stuttered through the Imam’s surrender. “He
says … he says you are a man of great magic” Jasper nodded appreciatively.
“He says you have passed his test. That … that you too belong to a higher
circle …”
    Jasper knew he had him. The old scallywag couldn’t risk being exposed
as a fraud to his people. If they discovered that his powers were based
upon chicanery …
    “… between great men there must be a bond of friendship …”
    Jasper laid down his terms. “I know the Imam will welcome my
countrymen, who respect him as I do, to his lands, and provide food and
water to them if necessary.”
    The Imam knew he had no choice. The two magicians clasped hands and
pledged eternal friendship, though neither dared take his eyes off the
other.
    Jasper turned and walked triumphantly out of the room. He was elated,
his mission accomplished. Halfway down the corridor he bent down and
retrieved his mechanical butterfly.
    That night the delighted Prince Hassan made Jasper tell the story in its
entirety three times. Hassan ignored the hard-working dancing girls and
laughed harder at each retelling. “I am afraid my poor interpreter will never
recover,” he said, and the image of that sombre man on his knees in fright
made him laugh until tears flowed.
    Jasper slept safely under the watch of Prince Hassan’s guard that night.
    He departed the following morning through the rear gate. As he walked
through the courtyard with Hassan, he asked about the religious
significance of the wooden ring over the fountain.
    The Prince looked at him quizzically. Then he understood. “Oh, I see,
the mysterious Dervish practices. Well, my friend, I don’t believe in that
mumbo-jumbo any more than you do. The ring is an experiment of mine.
I’m convinced that if I can figure out the proper balance of weights in
relationship to the energy generated by the fountain waters, I can produce
a perpetual-motion machine. Thus far, unfortunately …”
    Jasper was driven back to the reality of war in the story-book carriage.
                                  Three
Maskelyne’s debut as a war magician came just in time. At 6:30 p.m.
Egyptian Standard Time, April 30, just as the defenders of Tobruk were
climbing out of the concealed dugouts in which they had sweltered through
the day, Afrika Korps suddenly launched its most ferocious attack. Behind
waves of screeching Stuka dive-bombers and a massive artillery barrage,
panzer tanks smashed a hole three miles wide and two miles deep through
the southwest perimeter. Only the heroic resistance of the troops
commanded by Australian Major General Leslie “Ming the Merciless”
Morshead prevented Rommel from capturing the city that night.
    In Cairo, Gray Pillars prepared for the evacuation of Egypt. Hundreds of
transport vehicles moved to staging areas. Rations were distributed. Water
cans were filled and sealed. All dependants and female personnel were
ordered to pack their belongings and prepare to leave. On May 2, British
agents in Syria reported that the Imam of the Dervish had withdrawn his
threat and offered cooperation. With the escape corridor finally cleared,
there was nothing more to do but await the outcome of the fighting at
Tobruk. The retreat would begin with its surrender.
    In anticipation of the forthcoming battle for the Nile Basin, prices
crashed on the local stock exchange and skyrocketed in food markets.
Europeans sold their automobiles for whatever cash they were offered.
Shopkeepers scribbled signs in German, but kept them temporarily hidden
beneath their counters. And at secret meetings of the anti-British Free
Officers movement inside the Egyptian Army, young officers Gamal Nasser
and Anwar el-Sadat prepared to welcome the Germans.
    The battle for the vital deep-water port of Tobruk raged through five
days and nights. By May 4, both armies had been badly worn down; Afrika
Korps had suffered one thousand casualties and was unable to break out of
its salient, while Morshead’s counterattacking troops were too weak to
dislodge them. Finally, Rommel was ordered by his superiors to dig in, and
the British launched the “Tobruk Ferry,” a nightly supply run from Alexandria
harbour employing swift Royal Navy and Australian destroyers. The siege of
Tobruk had begun.
    For the first time, Rommel had been stopped. His growing legend had
been tarnished. The immediate threat to the Nile Delta was alleviated.
Europeans were forced to buy back their cars at inflated prices, the stock
market began rising, shopkeepers put away their German signs for
safekeeping, and officers of Western Desert Force felt secure making plans
to attend the horseraces or cricket matches on fashionable Gezira Island.
Once again, it was war as usual.
    Sniffing Rommel’s blood scent, Prime Minister Churchill urged General
Wavell to attack him before Afrika Korps could be reinforced. Wavell
hesitated, knowing that his own denuded army would not be capable of
mounting an offensive until a naval convoy carrying two hundred tanks that
was en route from England arrived and these Matilda tanks were fitted for
desert warfare. But to mollify Churchill he agreed to Operation Brevity, a
limited drive designed to secure a desert staging area from which a major
attack could be launched in the future.
    There was certainly no place for a magician in this offensive. Colonel
Beasley had been extremely pleased with the success of Jasper Maskelyne’s
mission to Damascus, although privately unhappy at the conjuror’s refusal
to reveal how various illusions had been done. Although Beasley had
become enchanted by the potential of war magic, he realized that most
regular military types would find the concept absurd. So, rather than
fighting a futile battle against tradition, he obtained Maskelyne permission
to form his own unit by suggesting it would be a sure means of removing
the commissioned magician from normal army channels. In return, Jasper
agreed to produce a number of variety shows, in which he would star, for
British troops in Egypt.
    Officially, the unit was designated a “Camouflage Experimental Section”
and placed under the command of Major Geoffrey Barkas, head of
camouflage in the Middle East. Unofficially, Maskelyne would be free to try
to create some of the incredible illusions he had so often proposed.
    During the first week of May, Jasper and Frank Knox set up in a field
tent in the Cairo suburb of Abbassia. It was distant enough from Gray
Pillars as to be almost nonexistent. Knox uncovered the roots of the gossip
grapevine that twined throughout the Basin and put onto it the word that
the magician Jasper Maskelyne was forming a unit unlike anything in
existence in the Army. To make it enticing, the professor hinted there
would be no desert fighting, no scheduled formations, no inspections,
proper mess facilities, and no Regular Army officers muddling about.
Personally, he intended to make much of this true.
    Maskelyne was hoping to attract men who had not allowed army
standardization to squeeze initiative and creativity out of their minds.
Respect for discipline, therefore, was not among the prerequisites. The
people he wanted would not have to know how to march or salute, as long
as they had ideas and were willing to work.
    On the appointed day seventy-two of the Army’s motliest soldiers
showed up to volunteer. Some came out of curiosity, but many more came
out of necessity: they simply did not fit in where they were currently
assigned. Among these men were a motion picture daredevil, a perfumer,
an optician, a test cricketer, a comic-book illustrator, two politicians, and a
sergeant who claimed to have the ability to read minds. Knox politely
dismissed the sergeant, saying, “Then I won’t have to explain why we can’t
use you.” One corporal thought he was on line for the latrine.
    After all the applicants had been interviewed, five of them were invited
to transfer into the Experimental Section. Jasper had decided to keep the
original group small enough to be easily manageable, knowing he could
quickly expand when it became necessary.
    Maskelyne’s first recruit was Private Michael Hill, a streetwise
infantryman who had described his civilian occupation as “doing anything
that needed being done what somebody was willing to pay for.” Hill was
twenty years old and handsome in a roughneck way. He was about five feet
seven inches tall and compact, as if a load of steel nails had been stuffed
into a sack and sculpted into manly proportions. His features were sharp,
but managed to complement each other, and his greenish blue eyes were
nicely set off by sandy-coloured hair much longer than regulation length.
    “What does that mean, exactly?” Frank Knox had asked him.
    Hill drew a thoughtful breath. He enjoyed sparring with officers. “Well,
sir,” he boasted, “what that means, exactly, is that on certain occasions I
borrowed things. Permanent like. A pair of shoes, a bicycle. I was a man of
opportunity. Anyways, that’s what got me into this mess here. They gimme
a choice of this or the workhouse.”
    The young soldier spoke with a dash and swagger that delighted
Maskelyne. Life would never settle comfortably on his shoulders, Jasper
knew, but he would make the good fight for it, and the bout would be a
long and grand one and there would never be a verdict. Although the brash
trooper made Knox uncomfortable from the start, the section would need
someone tenacious enough to get the job done without regard for proper
forms and procedure, and Hill certainly appeared to be a lad who would not
be stopped by rules or regulations.
    Hill explained that he had arrived in Egypt in early April but was still in a
holding company. The unit to which he had been scheduled to report had
been smashed up during Rommel’s drive and had not yet reorganized.
“Funny thing about that,” he said. “I’m here, but the company I’m s’posed
to be with ain’t. First time I ever heard of an army desertin’ a soldier.”
    Knox had sighed deeply when Maskelyne put the cocksure Private Hill on
the list. Some men have a way of squeezing trouble out of the most
beautiful day, and he had the depressing feeling this soldier was one of
them.
    Twenty-eight-year-old carpenter Theodore Albert “Nails” Graham was
serving as a wrench hand at a tank repair depot when he heard the “syb,”
or rumour, about Maskelyne’s unit. He hurried right over to Abbassia.
Graham hated working on the “Iron Coffins,” protesting, “I’m a maker, not a
fixer.” Like Jasper, Graham was the third generation to work at the family
trade and was extremely proud of his craft. “Working with wood is just as
much an art as painting or stained glass,” he explained. “I work with my
hands and mind, same as they do. Only difference is that the things I make
you can use.”
    Nails was a burly man, about five feet ten inches tall, with flat, plain
features and a short, no-nonsense haircut. Although his shoulders looked
broad enough to carry much of Wavell’s army, it was his hands that most
impressed Maskelyne. They were huge, and calloused, but oddly enough
tapered into long slender fingers. Unexpectedly delicate fingers. His were
the hands of a workingman and the fingers of a craftsman. Knox thought he
looked, appropriately enough, like a reliable tool.
    Jasper knew Nails would be a vital addition to the section. It was one
thing to make grandiose plans and conjure up incredible weapons; it was
quite another to turn drawings into finished products. Graham would be in
charge of production.
    The plans from which Graham’s people would work would be done by
bespectacled William Robson, a pacifist artist whose cartoons had often
appeared in Punch before the war. Maskelyne knew the
twenty-nine-year-old artist’s work and was attracted by his ability to quickly
turn rough sketches into clear renderings.
    Bill Robson was tall, over six feet, and so very thin that when he walked
the various parts of his body seemed to be operating independently, and
only vaguely moving in the same direction. Added to that was the fact that
his eyesight was very poor, and although he wore corrective lenses thick as
porthole glass, he still walked with his head craned forward as if he were
trying to spot objects in front of him before crashing into them. Still he
always seemed in danger of stumbling over whatever was in his path.
    During the interview Knox had asked him how, as a pacifist, he had
managed to find himself in the middle of the most savage land battle of
the war. Robson replied in a voice so soft that Jasper had to ask him to
speak up. “I didn’t want to be here,” he explained, “and I don’t want to hurt
anybody. But I want to be a German subject even less.” That was the only
time his beliefs were questioned.
    The only fine artist in the original group was Lance Corporal Philip
Townsend, a painter who worked mostly in oils in civilian life. “I know all
there is to know about colour,” he said confidently. “I know pigment, I know
mixing and I know hard work.” He wanted to transfer into the unit he told
them, “because my major’s a topflight ass. All he knows is scrub floors and
kill Germans. You want to kill a Nazi with a mop, he’s the bloke to see.
Can’t take much more of him. So you take me in here and leave me alone
to do my work and we’ll get along just fine and I’ll do a bang-up job for
you.”
    Townsend had the essence of the brooding artist about him. His dark,
handsome Mediterranean features so totally lacked any hint of warmth that
they just as easily might have been sculpted out of Roman marble.
Maskelyne wondered aloud how well he worked with other men. “Quietly,”
he replied. “I just want to be left alone to do my work. I’m not here by
choice and I’m not here to make pals.” Although Jasper was reluctant to
enlist the sullen artist, Townsend was the only applicant with a thorough
knowledge of paints and perspective and would therefore be extremely
useful. When his sketchbook confirmed his talent it was decided to take a
chance with him. “He’ll ease up after a while,” Jasper predicted hopefully.
    Knox doubted it. “That’s the only chap I’ve ever met who has to make an
appointment with his face to smile.”
    Sergeant Jack Fuller was one of the few regular soldiers to apply for a
place. Fuller had enlisted on his twenty-first birthday and served nineteen
years, the last seven in the Middle East. After spending most of his career
regretting that he had missed out on the Great War, he found himself
trapped in a supply room for this one. His dedication to rules and
procedure, as well as his military driver’s licence, made him invaluable to
his commanding officer, who refused to forward his request for a transfer to
a combat unit. When Fuller heard that Maskelyne had connections at GHQ,
he dressed in a uniform so thickly starched that he walked with an audible
shush, and reported for an interview.
    Although Fuller would be as out of place in the motley section as a
whale on the desert, Jasper realized that his knowledge of Cairo, the local
dialects and military procedure would be extremely helpful and agreed to
initiate a transfer request. “We’d like to have you join us if we can work it
out,” he said, extending his hand in congratulations.
    Fuller stood at rigid attention, snapped his shoulders back until his
shoulder blades nearly touched, and saluted smartly. “Suh!” he shouted.
    Somewhat sheepishly, Jasper returned his salute. After Sergeant Fuller
completed a perfect about-turn and marched out of the tent, Knox asked
unhappily, “How could you let the Army into our unit?”
    As soon as Colonel Beasley’s office had processed their paperwork, the
five recruits moved into the Abbassia encampment and prepared to begin
work. The first thing they discovered was that there was nothing for them
to do. Every request for supplies or assistance had to be made through
normal channels at GHQ – and there was no slot in that channel for a unit
that created magic tricks. In another place at another time some junior
officer might have been willing to entrust a minor job to Maskelyne, but
with the German juggernaut only one battle away from the Basin, the
thought of a magician accomplishing anything worthwhile seemed even
more improbable than it had in sedate Farnham.
    Once again Maskelyne attacked Gray Pillars. As before, his fame worked
against him. No one would take him seriously. Those few officers who
agreed to see him usually asked him to perform a simple sleight for their
amusement.
    It was a difficult time for the new members of the Camouflage Section.
While units all around them were eagerly preparing for Operation Brevity,
they passed the boiling days sitting in front of the field tent talking and
tanning, and keeping careful record of the number of flies killed. “No
probables,” Hill had declared at the outset of the contest. “We only count
bodies.”
    Frank Knox made a sound of disgust.
    “It’s us or them, Frank,” the private said seriously.
    Jasper did his best to mollify his men. “I know you’re all anxious to get
to work,” he said. “Believe me, so am I. But we’re brand new and it’ll take
some time to spread the word that we’re here. We just have to be patient
for a bit.”
    “Remember,” Knox added in support, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
    “Leastwise,” quipped Robson, “not if Marshal Graziani had anything to
do with it.”
    The men spent the time getting to know one another, learning about
their backgrounds, testing each other’s sense of humour, comparing
experiences, and a rough sort of camaraderie was established. They weren’t
doing anything at all, but they weren’t doing it together. The wiry Hill
emerged as the prankster of the unit, while Nails Graham became its
serious foreman. Contrary to Bill Robson’s fragile appearance, he proved to
be a willing participant in whatever mischief Hill proposed, and at times he
was actually the instigator. Fuller, serving as unit quartermaster, found
himself fighting a losing battle trying to maintain a semblance of Regular
Army discipline within the group. Only the painter Townsend kept to
himself, making it quite clear that he didn’t care what the others thought of
him.
    Although their conversations covered the range of men’s subjects, most
eventually came round to the war and women. None of them were really
enthusiastic about Churchill as military commander, but agreed it was their
patriotic duty to support him. On the subject of women, however, there was
no such easy accord. “A man needs a loyal woman standing right behind
him,” Fuller declared firmly one afternoon. “It’s natural.”
    “Right,” Hill cracked, “bringing him his supper on a tray. I’ll tell you,
given the choice between a woman and a motorcar, I’ll take the motorcar
every time.”
    “You don’t really mean that?” Graham challenged.
    “I do,” Hill replied, “I do. Way I see it, a good motorcar takes you where
you want to go, while a woman tells you where you want to go.”
    After the pleasant laughter had faded, Robson complained, “Talking to
Hill is like talking to a blank wall, only sometimes you get the feeling the
wall could at least talk back.”
    “Don’t get me wrong, I love women,” Hill corrected, then added in a
lecherous voice, “as many of ’em as I can, every chance I get.”
    Townsend however chose to remain aloof. If it was possible to be part
of a seven-man group yet still be alone, he was. Occasionally, he would
volunteer a slip of information about himself. He was married to a
dark-haired girl and they had a baby boy. Once he passed around a cracked
photograph of this wife and child. It was his most pleasant moment. The
woman was attractive. She was holding the boy in her arms and standing in
front of white-fenced cottage. Neither of them was smiling. The woman
looked as though posing for this photograph was a burdensome chore. Knox
looked at the photograph when it was passed around and properly admired
it, but he knew this was not the memory a man should carry with him at
war.
    On May 10, while Maskelyne was at Gray Pillars pleading for an
assignment for the Camouflage Section, and his men were bantering the
day away, one of the most bizarre events of the war took place. Rudolf
Hess, deputy leader of the Nazi Party and second in the line of succession
to Hitler, took off from Augsburg airport in Germany and flew a specially
equipped Messerschmitt 110 across the North Sea to Petersfield, near
Glasgow, Scotland, purportedly to try to arrange a peace treaty between
England and Germany. Captured after parachuting safely from his failing
plane, he claimed that his name was Alfred Horn, but soon admitted his
true identity.
    At first Churchill refused to believe that the pilot was actually the Nazi
Party’s deputy leader, telling aides as he walked to a motion picture
screening room, “Even if it is Hess, I’m going to watch the Marx Brothers.”
Even after the Reichsführer’s identity had been confirmed, the Prime
Minister did not seriously consider his peace proposal. Hess was interned as
a prisoner of war.
    Hitler’s response to the strange episode was to order the Gestapo to
arrest most of Germany’s astrologers and occultists and prohibit all forms of
fortunetelling.
    In the days following the announcement of Hess’s capture everyone in
Egypt tried to guess the motive for his actions. Hitler’s response clearly
indicated that the flight had some basis in astrology, which caused people
to wonder about the relationship between the Nazis and the occult.
Maskelyne was suddenly barraged with questions, as officers easily made
the giant leap from stage magic to the supernatural and assumed he was
an expert on both subjects. Jasper was in fact well versed in the occult and
the supernatural, as both his grandfather and father had spent fortunes
debunking myths, but he knew very little of the importance of mysticism to
the Nazis. In reality, no one did.
    Ever since Hitler’s meteoric rise to power behind the symbolic swastika
there had been speculation about the importance of magic and the occult in
his National Socialist movement. There could be no question that the Nazi
Party had its roots in the quasi-occult, secret Thule Society, an
anti-Semitic, anti-Communist movement, or that many members of the
party hierarchy believed in the mystic arts. It is also absolutely certain that
Hitler had considerable knowledge of black and white magic and occultism,
but whether he actually believed in these powers or simply used them to
manipulate others has never been satisfactorily established.
    Hitler believed in the use of overwhelming force to achieve his aims, and
the magician Jasper Maskelyne had no counterpart in the Nazi ranks. But
after the German Army stormed into Austria in 1938, the Führer spent
several hours alone in a room with the Spear of Destiny, the lance
supposedly used by the German soldier Longinus to pierce Christ’s side and
end his suffering on the cross. He was obviously aware of the legend that
the man who controlled the spear would rule the destiny of the world, and
he had it secretly removed from the Hofburg Palace and placed in a vault
beneath the streets of Nuremberg.
    Before the war, British Intelligence had reported that the Führer
employed five astrologers and never made an important decision without
consulting this group. In an attempt to infiltrate this circle, the War Office
commissioned Ludwig von Wohl, a well-known German astrologer who had
emigrated to London in 1935. Captain von Wohl was asked to predict what
advice these advisers would give Hitler. In the darkest days of 1940 he
accurately forecast that the Germans would not invade England, pointing
out that other astrologers would see the stars positioned against such an
undertaking. Later in the war he edited a bogus astrological magazine that
contained subtle propaganda, but German Intelligence easily uncovered this
fraud.
    Although little is known about Hitler’s astrologers, the existence of this
group is not surprising. Belief in magic and the supernatural has long been
part of German history. In the sixteenth century the three hundred
autonomous states of the Holy Roman Empire tortured and burned more
than 100,000 people for the practice of witchcraft. Among the methods of
torture used was the “prayer stool,” a rectangular bench studded with
sharpened nails. The prisoner was forced to kneel on this until he confessed
his crime. Once one was accused, resistance was futile. A Bamberg city
official wrote to his daughter that he had confessed at the advice of his
sympathetic jailer, who pleaded, “Invent something, for you cannot endure
the torture you will be put to … One torture will follow another until you say
you are a witch.”
    At the end of the First World War almost every type of occult
practitioner could be found working successfully somewhere in Germany.
The defeated German people were willing to look almost anywhere for an
answer to their social and economic problems. Hypnosis, clairvoyance, tarot
reading, palmistry, fortunetelling and particularly astrology all flourished,
and the best-known mediums and readers were able to fill large concert
halls for their demonstrations. Telepathic acts swept the nation, and huge
advertisements promising miraculous feats decorated the walls of every
major city.
    There was also widespread belief in such esoteric phenomena as animal
magnetism, the I Ching, voodoo and alchemy. General Erich Ludendorff,
commander of the German armies in the Great War, attempted to
manufacture gold from base metal. Another high-ranking general claimed to
have discovered a death ray capable of destroying aircraft and tanks. A
steamship line fired a corporate officer on the advice of a graphologist who
noted certain dangerous traits in his handwriting. A road between Hamburg
and Bremen was scrupulously avoided because certain “mysterious rays”
supposedly emanated from Milestone 113. A magus who claimed to be able
to summon forth the spirit of the dead Chancellor Otto von Bismarck, and
who healed the sick by the application of white cheese, managed to attract
enough followers to found a city.
    In Hanover, a butcher named Fritz Haarman was convicted of vampiric
acts. After biting young people to death, he had sold their flesh in his shop.
And, in a small village outside Mannheim, a farmer beat his wife to death
after a local sorcerer accused her of bewitching the family cattle.
    Adolf Hitler took full advantage of the willingness of the German people
to believe in the supernatural when creating the National Socialist
movement. The Nazi Party symbol, the swastika, had been used by many
civilizations as everything from a good-luck charm to a fertility sign. The
red, white and black party colours were those of the priestly vestments of
the occult-based Manichaean religion. The “SS” worn by the party’s elite
soldiers was styled from the mythical Runic alphabet. Nazi
concentration-camp officers wore the devil’s skull-and-crossbones insignia.
    This symbolism only reflected the beliefs of top party officials. Heinrich
Himmler, Reichsführer of the dreaded SS and the second most powerful man
in Nazi Germany, believed he was the reincarnation of tenth-century
German King Heinrich I, the Fowler, with whom he communicated in his
sleep. In 1937 he had the monarch’s bones excavated and reinterred in a
crypt at Quedlinburg Cathedral after a holy procession. Each year on July 2,
the date of the King’s death, he held a midnight ritual in the crypt.
    Himmler also believed in visualization. During the trial of General
Werner von Fritsch on trumped-up charges of homosexuality, he gathered
twelve SS officers in a room next to the interrogation room in which the
General was being questioned and ordered them to try to exert an influence
over von Fritsch to tell the truth about his actions. To give credence to his
own convictions, he established the Ahnenerbe (Ancestral Research) branch
of the SS to investigate occult theories of the origins of Aryanism, and
eventually supported an expedition to Tibet to search for the fossilized
remains of giants.
    Rudolf Hess was an even more fervent believer in the occult than
Himmler. Hess based all his important decisions on advice given to him by
soothsayers and astrologers, which led Hitler to conclude that his flight to
Scotland had been suggested by one of these fortunetellers. In addition,
before he would sleep in a room he would test it with a divining rod to be
sure no subterranean waters ran beneath it; once he was certain it was
safe, he arranged magnets above and beneath his bed to draw any harmful
substances out of his body while he slept.
    Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels was also aware of the potential
powers of the occult, although he was not a believer himself. Among other
things, he had the prophecies of the French seer Nostradamus reinterpreted
to foretell German victory and published the results throughout occupied
nations.
    One of the favoured practitioners of the occult arts in Germany was Erik
Jan Hanussen, known as both the “Magician of Berlin” and the “Prophet of
the Third Reich.” Although the so-called Witchcraft Act of 1933 had
specifically prohibited “the divination of the present or the past, and all
other forms of veneration not based on natural practices or perception,
including the reading of cards, the casting of horoscopes, the explanation of
the stars and interpretation of dreams and omens,” Hanussen was allowed
to continue staging elaborate seances in his popular Palace of Occultism,
during which he faithfully forecast victory for the Nazi army. Among his
other predictions was that the Reichstag, the home of the legal
government, would be burned – an event which allowed Hitler to
consolidate his power – the night before it occurred.
    Hanussen’s Palace of Occultism was the forerunner of a very real
experiment in magic and the occult. In 1939 the individual German armed
forces set up research centres to test suggestions or inventions submitted
by civilians which might be of military value. Eventually, these institutes
began investigating the supernatural forces. The German Navy’s centre
housed representatives from most of the occult areas, including
spiritualists, mediums and sensitives, astronomers and astrologers,
pendulum practitioners, experts in the Indian pendulum theory of Tattwa,
as well as legitimate scientists. The object was to isolate the powers of
the supernatural and apply them to modern warfare, but the results were
predictably disappointing.
    With this pseudoscientific work being given official approval, the German
military command ridiculed the use of simple stage magic in warfare. Soon
after Jasper Maskelyne had arrived in Egypt, British Intelligence showed him
a copy of a Turkish newspaper that contained a rough cartoon drawing of
him dressed in ancient wizard’s robes. The caption revealed he was on the
Sumaria and named the date on which it was scheduled to arrive in Egypt,
then concluded that Hitler was the only real war magician, for he had made
the British and French armies disappear from Europe.
    The unflattering cartoon bothered Jasper much less than the fact that
the enemy had been able to track his movements. This knowledge suddenly
made the chocolates incident seem far more ominous than he had originally
believed. British agents in Ankara, Turkey, began investigating the
newspaper, trying to pinpoint the source of its information. Although the
situation made Maskelyne uneasy, he did not have time to worry about it.
On May 11, his Camouflage Experimental Section received its first
assignment.
    Ten days earlier a convoy had delivered 238 new tanks to Alexandria
harbour. “Behold,” the Bible-quoting Churchill had signalled Wavell, “now is
the day of salvation.”
    Looking over the tanks, the General doubted that. Many of them had
been damaged in transit and all of them lacked sand filters, without which
their engines would burn out after a few hours of operation in the desert. In
addition, like most of the equipment arriving in Egypt, the tanks had been
coated with forest-green camouflage. They would stand out against the
monochromatic desert like a bonfire in a blackout. “They were originally
supposed to go to Greece,” Major Geoffrey Barkas explained as he outlined
the problem to Maskelyne and Knox, “but were sent here instead when the
government fell. Unfortunately, there isn’t a pint of desert camouflage paint
in North Africa. Wavell wants us to try to whip up a batch, and I thought it
might be something your section could handle. I know it’s not much of an
assignment …”
    “How much of a batch?” Knox asked cautiously.
    Barkas hesitated, then replied in a voice much too soft for his bulk, “Ten
thousand gallons.”
    Frank laughed.
    Without the desert camouflage paint the new tanks – even when they
were mechanically sound – could not be used effectively on the desert, and
it would be weeks before an emergency paint request could be fulfilled. If
most other units hadn’t been involved in Brevity preparations, Maskelyne’s
section might not have been given the job, but no one else was available
to do it.
    Manufacturing ten thousand gallons of sand-coloured camouflage paint
tough enough to withstand the extreme temperature fluctuations peculiar
to the desert proved to be a challenging problem. As the painter Philip
Townsend carefully explained, making paint was not in itself difficult. All
that was needed was a substrate, or base, to hold fast the colour, and a
pigment to provide it. “Almost anything that hardens can be used as a
base,” he told the group. “All we really need to find is a liquid or powder
that is soluble to whatever pigment we use and is capable of withstanding
intense heat and bitter cold. Then we’ll need some colouring substance too,
some pigment, of course.”
    “So all we need is everything,” Nails Graham interpreted.
    Hill had been silent during the discussion, but the thought of making
paint, or perhaps having to paint, upset him greatly. “Bloody paintmakers,”
he finally spat out. “This is the most fouled-up outfit I’ve ever seen. I
should’ve stayed in the Army!”
    Knox reminded him that he was sort of in the Army.
    Jasper sat puffing on his pipe as he listened to Townsend’s explanation.
It was certainly an unusual assignment – precisely the type of queer work
he had expected his unit to attract. But if the section wasn’t able to
produce something as elementary as light-brown paint, it would be difficult
to convince anyone they could fulfil more exotic requests. It was a basic
equation: the future of the Camouflage Experimental Section depended on
its ability to produce ten thousand gallons of paint out of thin air.
    The seven men scoured Cairo and its environs for a suitable substrate.
Bill Robson nearly tripped over a pile of abandoned Italian cement. Hill
uncovered a cache of damp and matted sawdust. Either would serve, but
supplies of both were limited, and the search continued.
    It was Townsend who discovered the dump. A chap in his old outfit
suggested that it was the one place in Cairo where anything might be
found. Like everyone else serving in the Nile Basin the painter had been
vaguely aware of its existence, but until he hitched a ride there and saw it
for himself he never appreciated it.
    The dump was spread over acres of desert just north of the city.
Occasionally, a shifting breeze would pick up its rough scent and carry it
into Cairo proper, but other than those bothersome times few people paid it
any attention. It existed; it seemed to have always existed, since the
Great War and perhaps even earlier, and like some insatiable monster it
grew and grew.
    It was more than a dump, really. It was perhaps the largest military
junk pile in the world. Here the refuse of war was abandoned helter-skelter
in dark ragged piles. Among the mounds of scrap it was indeed possible to
find almost anything. The dump was that place where anything that
belonged nowhere truly belonged. Entire waterlogged cargoes salvaged
from sunken ships could be found in this dump, and hulks of vehicles even
Wavell’s desperate mechanics couldn’t restore, and metal piping of all
lengths and circumference, and wooden deck timbers, corrugated-tin
sheets, smashed typewriters and broken desks, thousands of bald tyres and
ruined tank treads, millions of shell casings, discarded uniforms and issue
underwear, outdated and rusted tin helmets, countless cartons of spoiled
rations, bags of plaster, broken pens and combs and women’s hair clips,
endless boxes of papers too worthless to burn, and much more.
    The dump stood as a monument to the gluttony of modern warfare. No
one knew what had been left there to rot beneath the desert sun. No
records were kept because no one had the time or the interest or the need
to know. What was here was worthless. As scrap it might have fetched a
small fortune, but none of it could support an army, or keep a tank in
operation, or help a man stay alive in the desert, or kill an enemy, so in the
very real terms of warfare it was all worthless.
    Narrow, shadowed alleys ran among the heaps, starting and ending
randomly and creating the walls of an eerie, dark maze in which it was
possible to get frighteningly lost. The only visible clue to location was the
depth of sand dust; the piles in the rear were covered with a thick shroud
of the stuff, while more recent additions to the dump sported only a thin
covering mist of sand. The area was casually patrolled, and at dusk each
day Arab scavengers moved in to climb the steel and cardboard mountains
in search of products for the street bazaar. Occasionally a pile would shift
and crush a child, or crates would collapse and someone would die under
the weight of garbage, but other than these hunters the dump was left to
decay, and within a blink of time it would disappear forever beneath
mammoth dunes.
    Under the circumstances, it was one of the most beautiful sights Jasper
Maskelyne had ever seen.
    “It goes on for acres,” Townsend said as the men stood near the front.
“Nobody even seems to know how big it is.”
    Jasper could barely restrain himself from diving in and exploring it. “Do
we need permission?”
    Hill laughed.
    Townsend shook his head. “Doesn’t look like anybody cares what goes
on around here. The gyppies seem to have free run of the place.”
    Jasper looked to Frank Knox for advice. Knox shrugged. So the entire
Royal Engineers Camouflage Experimental Section at Abbassia, seven
strong, marched into the dump and began ripping it apart. They tore open
boxes, pried the lids off crates, smashed containers, crawled through
stripped hulks and in general had a jolly good time. At first they found
nothing of any practical use to them. Robson unearthed eight large cartons
of military-issue brassieres. Fuller discovered thousands of pairs of broken
eyeglass frames. Hill uncovered a ton of waterlogged leather boot heels.
And, later, Townsend found the paint substrate.
    While rooting through the cargo raised from a torpedoed freighter, he
chanced upon rows of sealed tin drums. He split the seal on one of them
and watched curiously as a thick brown substance oozed out. He dubbed a
bit on his finger and tasted it. It had a bitter but familiar taste, and it took
him a moment to properly identify it. Worcester sauce. Thick Worcester
sauce. Rows and rows and rows of tin drums filled with slightly rancid
Worcester sauce. Hundreds of gallons of Worcester sauce. It tasted awful.
It was wonderful. He knew he had the paint base.
    Additional searching turned up tons of spoiled flour and another load of
cement. Enough of everything was carried back to Abbassia to allow
Townsend to experiment until he was able to work out the proper mix of
cement, flour and sauce. The mix would serve as the paint substrate.
Unfortunately, it was mud red in colour, making it as useless in the desert
as the original forest green. A pigment was needed to turn the paste a
proper sand colour. Two days had already gone by.
    Paintmaster Townsend threw every colouring substance he could find
into the pot, including various inks and soap powders and melted crayons.
He even tried, without success, to scald the dye out of desert camouflage
uniforms. Nothing worked. The resulting colour was too light or too dark,
failed to hold, flaked in the afternoon sun, peeled in the evening cold, or
proved insoluble in the gloppy paste. Two more days passed.
    The men were so absorbed in their search for a pigment they barely felt
the tremble in the air.
    At 5:45 a.m. on May 15, the 22nd Guards Brigade Group rolled out of its
staging area toward Halfaya Pass, a strategically important entrance to the
escarpment, a high ridge that divided the desert. Control of the western
pass was absolutely necessary if a later campaign was to be a success.
South of the 22nd Guards, 4th Royal Tank Regiment and 1st Durham light
Infantry advanced on occupied Fort Capuzzo, and along the coast elements
of 7th Armoured Division rolled toward beleaguered Tobruk.
    At 6:15 Operation Brevity commenced with a brief tank barrage. Afrika
Korps was caught completely by surprise and was unable to properly
respond. By the end of the afternoon 22nd Guards, supported by 2nd
Battalion Scots Guards and part of the 4th Royal Tanks, had captured
Halfaya Pass. Fort Capuzzo had been taken after bitter fighting. The 7th
Armoured Division was in control of the coastal flank.
    News of Brevity’s initial success blazed through the Delta. In Cairo,
soldiers gathered on every corner to trade snippets of gossip. On the
crowded deck of the great Shepheards Hotel, in the steamy barracks, in the
illegal houses, at the secret meeting of the Muslim Brotherhood, nothing
was discussed except the battle. The collapse of enemy resistance was
reminiscent of Wavell’s first drive across the desert. No one had expected
Rommel to be so easily defeated.
    Stuck out in Abbassia, Maskelyne’s men followed the battle mostly by
rumour. All of their efforts were devoted to concocting a light-brown
pigment. Compared to the fighting going on a few miles away the work
seemed trivial, but it served to keep their minds occupied and bolstered
their spirits.
    Rommel had raced to the crumbling front line the moment the fighting
began. He mistakenly concluded that Wavell intended to lift the siege
around Tobruk, and knew that Afrika Korps would be forced to withdraw to
Libya if that objective was achieved. Earlier than he thought prudent, he
committed his heavy reserves to the fighting. 7th Panzer and 5th Panzer,
dragging 88mm antiaircraft guns behind tank tenders, sped to the
threatened fronts. When Wavell’s Matilda tanks, the lumbering queens of
the battlefield, came within range, the Germans levelled their 88s and
opened fire. From as far as a mile away, the antiaircraft shells ripped
through the Matildas’ flimsy steel hulls as easily as nails being hammered
into water.
    Wavell had not anticipated such resistance to his modest offensive, and
Western Desert Force was not prepared to meet it. By the afternoon of the
sixteenth, Afrika Korps had recaptured Fort Capuzzo and stopped 7th
Armoured’s drive along the coast. Efforts were made in Cairo to show a
confident front, but the steady flow of ambulances racing in from the desert
made that difficult. From all reports it was obvious that the attack had
turned sour.
    After two days of brutal fighting, Western Desert Force still maintained
a tenuous grip on Halfaya Pass. If they could hold it, Wavell’s offensive
could be considered successful. But with Fort Capuzzo once again in
German hands and the siege troops surrounding Tobruk no longer
threatened, Rommel was able to bring his full attention to that position.
   Twenty-second Guards began making preparations to withdraw. Wavell’s
limited attack had been a total failure, and he realized that a much larger
and better-equipped force would be needed to dislodge Rommel. Even
before 22nd Guards was driven out of Halfaya Pass, GHQ was drawing up
plans for that massive offensive. Code-named Operation Battleaxe, it was
scheduled for mid-June, before the enemy would be able to replace its
Brevity losses. By that time Wavell expected to have his tanks fully
operational.

The pigment for the camouflage paint had been right under the noses of
Jasper Maskelyne’s men the entire time. Under their feet too. After
spending a week testing with every colouring substance he could think of,
the frustrated Townsend was ready to quit. But as he walked down a dirt
path with Jasper, discussing the problem, he stepped into a pile of the
answer. “Camel chips,” he said, reaching down and picking up one of the
dried, hard sandy-brown pats. “Of course, camel droppings.”
     Sun-dried camel dung was the perfect colour. It even turned different
shades of desert colours depending on the length of time it was exposed to
the sun. It was cheap, and plentiful. After a few attempts, Townsend
figured out how to make it soluble in Worcester sauce paste. Testing
proved that it held fast in heat and cold. Camel dung made a perfect, albeit
malodorous, desert camouflage paint pigment.
     Thus the “Dung Patrol” was born. “We stand behind every camel,”
Maskelyne joked, but in fact it was almost true. One of his men or an
Egyptian worker recruited for the harvest trailed every caravan leaving the
city. Nearby oases were cleaned daily. The streets were swept each dawn
for night leftovers. Private Hill grumbled through his duties, complaining,
“That a man of my ability should be reduced to this.” Graham fashioned a
little metal scooper for each man. Professor Knox explained that animal
faeces had been used throughout history for everything from constructing
shelters to currency.
     “If I never see another bloody camel again it’ll be too bloody soon,” Hill
grumbled late one afternoon as the men relaxed at the station.
     “Guess that means you’re breakin’ your date tonight, eh?” Robson said.
The young private’s social life had become the subject of a thousand nasty
jokes.
     “Now, now,” Graham said calmly, “we don’t have to make fun of
Michael’s ladies – I think we should let their looks speak for themselves.”
The carpenter was carving a small block of wood, and paused and looked
up. “Besides, I heard he was very good to them. Even took one of ’em to
the dog show on Gezira the other day.”
     Robson knew the joke. “She win?” he asked on cue.
     “Nah,” Graham finished, “came in second.”
     Hill heaved a sack of dried chips at him.
     The Dung Patrol not only provided raw material for the paint, it helped
the section attract valuable attention. The ludicrous sight of soldiers
waiting patiently behind camels with open burlap bags did much to boost
morale in the depressing days following Brevity. Everyone in Cairo wanted
to know what possible use a tiny camouflage unit had for thousands of
camel chips. The fact that the group was commanded by Maskelyne the
magician increased their curiosity. There was considerable and creative
speculation. When asked what his people were doing, Major Barkas simply
smiled enigmatically. Jasper knew the value of active curiosity, and so he
did his best to keep the truth secret. Eventually it leaked out, to the
delight of some and the disappointment of many others who had
entertained far more exotic possibilities.
    The Arab community watched the Dung Patrol with less amusement.
Dried camel pats had fuelled their bread ovens for thousands of years, and
the increased demand for the limited supply resulted in the creation of a
flourishing camel-chip market. Maskelyne’s people had to hustle to beat
angry Arab men and women as well as mercenary children to the suddenly
valuable droppings.
    The Worcester sauce paste and the camel pats were mixed in huge
washing tubs that had previously been utilized by a laundry unit. Once
production got under way, as much as two thousand gallons of paint was
mixed each week. The finished product was stored in petrol tins and
delivered to a transportation company, which did the actual tank
camouflage painting. After a few days of exposure to the sun, the foul
scent of the paint wore off.
    The Camouflage Experimental Section celebrated this initial success with
a boisterous party in Cairo. Jasper dusted off his ukelele and, accompanied
by Frank Knox on the harmonica, played some music-hall ditties. Hill recited
some bawdy limericks. Even Townsend joined in, singing a loud, off-key
version of the local hit “Here Comes Farouk in His Fifty-Bob Suit.”
    Many choruses into the night, Jasper toasted his men. “I want to thank
each one of you,” he offered, “for lowering your sights for me.”
    They jeered him good-naturedly.
    “This success has gained us a good deal of attention,” he continued,
“and I suspect we’ll be getting requests to perform some pretty absurd
tasks. Remember, when someone asks you if we can do a job, the answer
is yes. Don’t think about it, don’t worry about it, the answer is yes. We’ll
work out the details later. Everybody understand?”
    The answer was yes.
    Maskelyne spent most of the days of May working on the paint project,
but after sundown he gave his attention to things magic. Although he had
reluctantly agreed to produce a variety show in return for permission to
form the Camouflage Section, the thought of appearing before an audience
again excited him. He missed the limelight. He quickly discovered that his
skills were badly dulled. He had done his shows on the Sumaria and when
time allowed had been exercising with steel balls, but his hands had to be
practised back into form. The success of a magic act depends on the
dexterity of the magician, and Jasper’s hands were no longer faster than
the eyes. He spent hours standing in front of a dusky mirror, repeating the
basic sleights time and again until they once again felt natural. By the time
he put away his tools each night his fingers were aching, but gradually each
nuance came back to him, old friends showing up at a reunion of special
skills. Each was welcomed, and appreciated, and fit back into its proper
position, and eventually their individual existence was forgotten and they
blended into the smooth, splendid whole.
    Actually, the enforced layoff had been beneficial. He had been working
hard at the business of magic for fifteen years. In front of countless
patrons in numerous countries he had levitated ladies and sawed them in
half, made everything from a sparrow to an elephant disappear, conjured
ghosts, slipped in and out of impossible spaces, and even managed to cut
off his own head! Life for him had become an endless cycle of performing
and packing and performing. He had made so many tours the princes and
the pashas had become confused in his memory. At home he had to
promote the shows at St. George’s Hall, help plan the bill, audition and
engage new talent, continue to develop new illusions in the shops and
worry about the bills. What little spare time he had was spent with Mary
and their children, or working in related fields. At some point prior to the
war it had all proven too much for him. The joy he had once derived from
entertaining had been lost, and magic had become a difficult job. But
standing before a cracked mirror outside Cairo, and making promises of
wonders to his own reflection, it was different. His limbs tingled with
energy. Sometimes, when the kerchiefs popped up just right and the dice
disappeared in perfect synchronization with his nonsense patter, he felt
romanced. An old and deep and long-lost love had come back to him and
made him glow with a comfortable warmth. That the Army had forced him
to perform no longer disturbed him, for once again he was in love with
illusion.
    There was an additional problem to be solved, and for this he turned to
Michael Hill. Frank Knox had been a capable assistant aboard ship, but
something more than a chunky professor in a mop wig was needed to draw
audiences in Cairo. Jasper broke the news to Frank gently. “Your legs are
terrible,” he said.
    Setting loose Private Michael Hill on the women of Cairo was similar to
placing an unconquered European nation before Hitler. He roamed the
streets and bazaars of Cairo during the off hours for almost a week,
stopping every attractive woman he passed to offer the opportunity to be in
show business. Finally, exhausted, he settled on a winsome, dark-haired
club dancer. Save for the fact that she was missing a front tooth, she was
an extremely attractive woman. “Don’t smile,” Hill warned her as he took
her home to meet his magician.
    “Hookay,” she said, smiling.
    Jasper was finishing the design of an illusion he tentatively named “The
Mummy’s Curse” when they arrived. It was a simple variation of the
disappearing box, but he felt it gave desirable local flavour to his act. Hill
introduced the girl, and Jasper politely offered his hand. “How do you do?”
    She smiled. She said nothing.
    Hill whispered in her ear, then she said, “I am fine very much thank
you.”
    Jasper looked sceptically at the soldier. “She doesn’t speak English,
does she?”
    “I know that’s a problem,” Hill admitted, “but I’m willing to work with
her and–”
    Maskelyne was astonished. “You’ve actually brought me an assistant
who doesn’t speak English?”
    She beamed. Aware that the men were discussing her, she said, “Fine
thank you very much five buns please.”
    “I think you should get her out of here.”
    “But, sir, she’s an orphan and–”
    “Out. Now.”
    Hill’s quest ended with his discovery of Corporal Kathy Lewis, a staffer in
Brigadier Dudley Clarke’s “A-Force” deception organization. Brigadier Clarke
had created the elite Desert Rats commando group while working at
Whitehall in London, and had been brought to Egypt by Wavell to head
covert operations for the Mediterranean area. His modest A-Force office
occupied the lower floor of a two-storey building in Kasr el Nil. The top floor
had long housed one of the city’s most popular brothels, which Clarke saw
no reason to evict, although the arrangement became the subject of much
ribald humour.
    Hill encountered the prim Corporal Lewis after interviewing some of the
upstairs women, and offered her the job as soon as he heard her proper
English voice. “Sounds like spiffing fun,” she said, and agreed to audition.
    Kathy Lewis was not the type of woman who usually attracted Hill. Her
hair was good-enough blonde, but clipped too short. Her figure was trim,
but too slender. And her face was pleasant, but not nearly snazzy enough.
    Jasper took a good look and a long listen and knew he had his assistant.
“You’ve a lovely figure,” he said innocently.
    She turned prudishly pink.
    “I mean,” he stammered, “you’ll fit nicely into the boxes.”
    Kathy Lewis turned out to be a real trouper. She put in the same long
hours as the crew without complaint, rapidly learned her cues and had no
difficulty operating the apparatus. She disappeared rapidly, screamed
acceptably terror-stricken, and delivered the correct props to the proper
position. In addition, she very much reminded Maskelyne of another earnest
young woman with whom he’d worked two decades earlier. He’d married
that one and hadn’t regretted it a single day. Often, watching Kathy move
gracefully across the stage, he thought of Mary and wondered what she was
doing at that very moment. Mostly, he imagined her doing the mundane
things. Making sure his tuxedo shirt was properly starched. Seeing to the
children’s homework. Sitting down to a hot meal between performances.
Theirs was a marriage of the theatre, and when he pictured her it was not
at a formal dinner with a Persian ruler, but rather giving him a quick brush
before sending him into the spotlight. They lived for the pleasure of the
paying audience, snatching private moments for themselves.
    How had they managed to fill all those years so easily? he wondered.
They did not go to other theatres very often, rarely to sporting events and
only occasionally dined out. What things did they do? He loved the family
picnics, the nights at home after the show listening to the old gramophone
or the new radio, the birthday parties for the children. The house was
always filled with friends. Not much, really, not much for so long. Just the
normal bits and pieces that comprise the days and become a lifetime. But
together it was more than enough, and not a moment passed when he did
not miss her very much.
    The paint project had briefly focused attention on Maskelyne’s new
camouflage unit, but when the Mechanical Section took over actual
production of the stuff the Experimental Section was once again without a
job. This time, though, they would not have long to wait.
    Prime Minister Churchill was publicly pressuring Wavell to resume his
abandoned offensive with the newly outfitted Matilda tanks. But Wavell
resisted. He knew his men were not ready to fight again, and he was grimly
aware that Rommel lay waiting for him in the desert like a wounded cat.
     While Afrika Korps controlled the passes onto the escarpment there was
little chance for victory. As Maskelyne would soon be told, the outcome of
Operation Battleaxe might well be determined by his ability to transform a
tank into a truck.


                                   Four
The situation facing General Wavell in mid-May was distressingly clear: his
army was better supplied than Afrika Korps, but the enemy was entrenched
in strategically superior positions and was armed with an unknown quantity
of tank-killing 88s. Western Desert Force’s only real chance for victory was
to achieve tactical surprise, but that seemed impossible. Somehow, a
substantial number of Churchill’s “Tiger cubs” had to be deployed without
being detected by German observers. Since Rommel’s land and air spotters
had been alerted that the British might soon move again, and the barren
terrain made it relatively easy to spot any movement, this could be
accomplished only by making the tanks appear in place out of thin air.
    General Wavell’s slim hope was that Jasper Maskelyne could perform
this feat of military legerdemain. He wanted him.
    When Barkas arrived at the section with the assignment Maskelyne was
four thousand years away, sitting alone, on the dank floor of the Great
Pyramid of Cheops at Giza. His eyes were closed, his legs crossed and his
hands at ease as his mind drifted through time in search of the magic of
the high priests of ancient Egypt.
    Truthfully, he didn’t really believe the legends. Nothing he had seen
during a lifetime devoted to the conjuring arts had even remotely
suggested that the force of true magic actually existed. But still he had
come, drawn by the enigmatic pyramids to fulfil a promise he had made to
himself many years earlier.
    He had crawled through the narrow ascending passage and into the
past, arranged himself as comfortably as possible on the hard floor, and
waited. He had no expectations, being, after all, a man schooled in the
refinements of both stage magic and modern science. But there was some
vestigial part of him that stirred, that refused to submit to the realities of
science, that yearned for communication with his ancient kin, and that part
of him quivered with excitement.
    He allowed his mind unfettered freedom. His mind roamed the stone
walls, searching for some clue, some thread from which to weave the
tapestry of true magic. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Certainly
not the voices or knocks associated with bogus spirit communication. A sign
of some kind. A feeling. Perhaps a thought. If these ancient priests had the
powers they claimed, they would have the means to make themselves
known. If time could be transcended, these men, the teachers of Moses,
these were the men most able to do it.
    Outside, the afternoon sun made the air sizzle, but the temperature
inside the King’s Chamber remained an eternal sixty-eight degrees. A few
bare electric bulbs illuminated the burial room and cast angular shadows
that did not move.
    Maskelyne had hoped to leap the centuries, but the afternoon passed in
long minutes. The floor grew colder and harder. His legs ached. He listened
to the soft breeze sweeping through a hidden passage and wondered if it
carried a message, but it was only the wind. He searched the shadows and
found them hollow. Finally a shiver pinched his spine and twisted his
shoulders and a cloak of uneasiness swept over him. He knew it was time
to leave. No secrets would be revealed to him. He had been foolish to come
here, he realized that now. Who was he to believe he might serve as some
sort of historical umbilical cord? He was an interloper in time. A magician?
The men who had caused this pyramid to be built were the real magicians.
It was recorded that with their spells they could cure and destroy, pluck the
sun from the heavens and move the earth itself. Through the force of their
magic they had ruled the most advanced civilization of the ancient world.
He was an entertainer, a showman, working to delight music-hall patrons.
His illusions were invented in a workshop and made possible by
stagehands.
    Jasper returned to the war through the cramped ascending passage and
did not glance back as he drove to Abbassia.
    Major Barkas was waiting for him at the camouflage tent. “I hope your
wand is in good repair,” he cheerfully greeted him. “It seems that General
Wavell has some business for you.”
    Jasper paused, then eyed him suspiciously. “Wavell?”
    Barkas was sitting at the small round table Hill had rescued from the
dump, enjoying a cup of tea and some biscuits. “Yes, Wavell. Apparently he
was quite taken with your magic gang’s paint job. Now he’s got something
else he’d like you to look at.”
    Maskelyne joined him at the table.
    “Look here, Rommel knows we’ve got to come at him and he knows
we’ve got to do it soon. What he doesn’t know is where or when we’ll
strike. That’s our trump card. Now, we’ve learned a bit about General
Rommel in the last few months,” Barkas continued. “Rather than dividing
his armour into penny packets, small roving groups, as we do, he maintains
them in rather large assemblages. His main panzer units are kept on the
front line and a few highly mobile reserves are held in check. These
front-line units are strong enough to meet our probing attacks, and when
we go at him in force he waits until he’s sure he knows where our hardest
blow is being struck–” he slammed his fist down onto the table, rattling the
mess silver “–then he brings forward his reserves to tip the balance.”
    Jasper steadied the wobbling table.
    “What we’ve got to do is somehow prevent him from bringing up his
reserves until we’ve been able to smash through to his supply line. Once
we’ve broken through he’ll have no choice but to withdraw to protect his
supplies. Do you see?”
    Jasper nodded.
    “It’s quite simple, really. He’ll jump just as soon as he’s determined
where our main thrust is taking place, and there’s no way to hide major
armoured concentrations on the open desert. But if we could disguise our
intentions, even for a little while, we’ll gain the extra time we need.”
Barkas reached into his breast pocket and took out a folded sheet of
notebook paper. “The brigadier thought something like this might work,” he
said, handing the slip to Maskelyne.
    The page had been torn out of Wavell’s ubiquitous field notebook. On it
the brigadier had sketched the profile of a tank surmounted by a large flat
board. A second sketch showed that an aerial view of a truck had been
drawn on the board. Theoretically, at least, an observer flying overhead
would look down on this and be fooled into believing it was a common lorry.
    Maskelyne frowned. He knew that this scheme would never work. The
shadow cast by a tank in no way resembles that of a truck, and the shadow
created by a flat board looks like nothing else except a flat board. In
addition, unless the spotter aircraft was flying directly overhead the
observer would be able to see under the board.
    “Well?”
    Jasper laid the sketch on the table and tried to press the creases out of
it with his palm. Remembering his charge to his men, he replied, with as
much confidence as he could muster, “Certainly. When do you need to see
something?”
    Barkas shrugged. “Yesterday. Last week. Sorry to lay this one on you so
suddenly, but it’s got to be a slam-bang job. The attack goes off in
mid-June. If we don’t have these–” his hand searched the air for a proper
description “–these what-have-yous, covers, I suppose, to get our tanks
into position, our boys won’t have a monkey’s chance at Epsom Downs.
Rommel’s 88s’ll blast ’em to kingdom come.”
    Jasper stared at Wavell’s rough sketch. His mind began leafing through
the files of his memory in search of a comparable stage illusion.
Transforming a tank into a truck might not be any more difficult than
turning a flaming woman into a butterfly, he decided. A collapsible frame
would probably do the job. It would require some tinkering to determine
how best to make it work, but he’d done many similar things before. The
long hours he’d spent slaving in the theatre workshop would pay off
handsomely here. “I can give you something tomorrow,” he said rashly.
    Barkas was taken aback. “Splendid,” he said, “splendid. Just as soon as
your sketches have been approved Brass’ll want a setup.” He stood up to
leave. “I’m sure you’ll do the job. A great many people are counting on
you.”
    A translucent dusk had settled peacefully over Cairo while they were
meeting. They stood at the tent entrance watching as the last rays of the
sun reflected off the fine dust that drifted on the breezes and bathed the
city in a wash of royal gold. “The Egyptians claim they’ll be wealthy so long
as they have their sunsets,” Barkas said as night pushed in. “There’s a
legend about a beggar who tried to capture the gold dust in his basket.
When he had it all he was going to sell it back to the King. After collecting
it for years he finally peeked into his basket, and when he discovered it had
all escaped through the woven bottom he went insane. Even today it’s
considered terrible luck to take a picture of it, to try to capture it.” He
shook his head in amazement. “It’s beautiful, though.”
    “Magnificent.”
    Barkas stuffed his hands into the large pockets of his summer weights
and strolled toward his jeep. Jasper trailed a step behind. “You know,
Maskelyne, day is just beginning for the Tobrukers. They can’t move around
at all during the day – snipers – so the perimeter guards lay in little
depressions and bake. The flies, the heat, the crawling buggers … it’s a
terrible thing for a man to have to endure. Let’s help the General get them
out of there, shall we.” It was not a question. The major left a set of tank
blueprints with Maskelyne, cautioning him to guard them carefully, then
drove off to meet the next crisis.
    Hill was stuffing a biscuit into his mouth when Jasper returned to the
tent. “The Magic Gang, huh? I like it. Packs a wallop, if you see what I
mean.”
    Jasper’s mind was already designing the tank frame. “What?”
    “The Magic Gang. What the major called us. I was just saying I like the
way it sounds. It’s got a good ring.”
    Maskelyne considered it. The Magic Gang. Jasper Maskelyne’s Magic
Gang. It resounded like a music-hall billing, and it was accurate. A magic
gang was precisely what he had on his hands. “All right,” he decided,
“that’s it, then, the Magic Gang.” The name made him smile. “Sounds
impressive, doesn’t it?”
    After sending Private Hill into Cairo to try to turn up photographs of
various trucks, Maskelyne sat down at the wobbly table and went to work.
Both the British and the Germans had put dummy tanks into the field,
Western Desert Force using full-sized wooden monsters that required six
men and a flatbed truck to move them, while Rommel had dropped bulky
wooden shells onto Volkswagen chassis. Supposedly the Americans were
experimenting with inflatable rubber dummies. But no army had ever
attempted to disguise real tanks with anything but paint patterns and
foliage.
    Jasper began just as he would if he were creating a stage illusion: he
listed his objectives, the obstacles that had to be confronted, and the
materials available to work with. This time, rather than making a woman
appear to burst into flame and emerge as a butterfly, his objective was to
design and construct a lightweight, disposable frame that would enable a
tank to pass as a truck under close scrutiny. The problems were numerous:
enemy Intelligence would be checking shadows and silhouettes, as well as
the obvious details, so the shadows cast by the cover had to precisely
replicate those cast by real trucks, its silhouette had to be perfect, and the
tank’s tread tracks had to be wiped out. For practical purposes the frame
had to be so simple that a few men could rapidly raise it, even working
under adverse conditions, and shed it just as quickly. Sight lines had to be
maintained at all times. Finally, the material from which it would be made –
and he hadn’t determined what this would be – had to be available in the
Basin in abundant quantities.
    After reducing the large problem into as many small parts as possible,
he attacked each one. What materials were easily obtainable? How would
this truck frame open? How would it close? Would hooks or latches serve
better? How many pieces should the frame break into: two, three, four, or
even more? Should these pieces snap together or be bolted together?
Should they be reusable or disposable? As he made each decision he
incorporated it into a rough sketch, until the frame began to take shape.
Gradually, he eased his way through the thick layers of conscious thought
into that place he called “the factory of ideas,” where imagination reigned,
and from which solutions blossomed. Almost mechanically, his knowledge
and innate creativity combined to present an acceptable construction to
him.
    The apparatus for transforming a tank into a truck – the “sunshield,” as
it was dubbed – would be made by stretching the painted canvas over two
collapsible wooden frames. Each frame would cover half the tank, from front
to back. When erected, a sunshield vaguely resembled three rectangular
boxes of different heights and widths pushed together, forming a stairway
of three unequal steps. The first, somewhat squarish box represented the
truck’s front hood, the taller and thinner second box was the driver’s cab,
and the longest and highest section would pass as the covered truck bed.
    The frames would clamp onto handles bolted to the sides of the tank
and be hinged at the commander’s turret on top. When that latch was
disengaged, the two sides of the shell would fall away to either side, like a
potato sliced in half lengthwise. Although a few inches of tank tread would
be visible beneath the sunshield, they would usually be hidden by the
undulating desert terrain. “On paper,” the exhausted Maskelyne said as he
showed his sketches to the men the following morning, “it appears to work
very well.”
    “Then why don’t we just show Jerry the paper?” quipped Hill.
    Each man was assigned a suitable task. Robson converted Maskelyne’s
rough drawings into blueprints, while Townsend rendered the sunshield
locked into position over a tank, in the process of unfolding, and finally
shed and lying alongside the tank. Hill and Jack Fuller tried to mould a lump
of clay into something approximating the shape of a Matilda tank, while
Nails Graham made a working scale model of the apparatus to fit over it.
Frank Knox struggled to devise a means to replace the telltale tank treads
with truck tyre tracks. The men worked steadily through the day, their
spirits raised in the morning by the official announcement that the Nazi
superbattleship Bismarck had been torpedoed and sunk by the cruiser
Dorsetshire, then tempered later in the day by confirmation that Afrika
Korps had regained complete control of Halfaya Pass. All Brevity gains had
been wiped out.
    But as Maskelyne had promised, before the Muslim muezzins made the
call to evening prayer, Sergeant Fuller was on his way to Barkas with
blueprints, sketches and a working model of the sunshield. The concept was
quickly approved and Maskelyne was ordered to build a prototype for
demonstration to the commander of the 7th Armoured Division, Major
General Michael “Dickie” Creagh.
    While the section was waiting for this permission to proceed, Knox
solved the tread problem. Working with Colonel Meaker of the nearby
Mechanical Experimental Section, he fabricated a tank “tail” consisting of a
length of spiky chain metal that would hook onto a bracket welded to the
back of the tank. This heavy, dragging tail obliterated the characteristic
tread marks and left a facsimile tyre track in its place.
    Obtaining the necessary wood and canvas to build the sunshield
prototype was simple; getting a tank on which to fit it was far more
difficult. Preparations for Operation Battleaxe had already begun, and
Wavell had ordered every armoured vehicle with functioning guns to be sent
to the front, “even if they are holed like sieves, have no tracks, and have to
be flown forward.” Repair shops strained round the clock patching damaged
hulls and overworked engines. A number of the original wooden dummy
tanks were repainted and driven to the front on tenders. Another full day
passed before Fuller located a marginally operable Matilda tank in a repair
shed, but it was absolutely unavailable to Maskelyne.
    The captain in charge of the shop refused to listen to Jasper’s pleas. “I
wouldn’t give a damn if you was the King’s chauffeur himself, you ain’t
gettin’ your hands on this can and that’s it. I got my orders.”
    Jasper tried gentle persuasion. “We just need to borrow it for two
days–”
    “Keep your bloody paws offa my tank!”
    Back in Abbassia, he outlined the situation for the Gang. “There’s one
Matilda that’s shot up pretty badly, but still moves well enough to suit our
needs. Trouble is, we can’t pry it loose from the repair shop. Even General
Creagh’s people can’t help us on this one, they can’t buck Wavell’s
directive.” As he explained the situation he wandered about the tent,
stopping, it seemed casually enough, right behind Michael Hill. “Without
that tank we can’t demonstrate the sunshield,” he continued, laying a
fatherly hand on Hill’s shoulder, “and if we can’t demonstrate the sunshield,
we’ll be out of business.” He gazed down at Hill and asked softly, “Does
anyone have any idea how we might get hold of that tank for a few days?”
    Sergeant Fuller raised his hand. “May I suggest, sir, that we file the
proper emergency requisition forms with the Depot Transportation
Company, sir.”
    Knox caught Fuller’s attention and held an index finger vertically against
his puckered lips.
    Hill gently lifted Jasper’s hand off his shoulder. “Oh no you don’t,” the
private protested. “A jeep I could see. Even a small lorry, maybe. But a
tank is another kettle of fish entirely. You know what they do to a fellow
what lifts a tank?” He shook his head. “No, thank you, Aunt Mabel. No
indeedee.”
    The other men tightened the circle around him.
    At twelve-thirty the following night a Military Police jeep pulled up in
front of the dimly lit tank repair annexe. This shop had been converted from
a wagon garage for the emergency and contained only two damaged
Matildas. A bored corporal, his rifle slung on his shoulder, casually paraded
back and forth in front of the open garage door.
    A private hopped out of the back of the jeep, his helmet pulled down
over his eyes and the left side of his pencil-drawn moustache drooping
slightly. The corporal did not pay too much attention to the moustache at
the time, although he would recall it later under questioning.
    “Relief,” the private announced.
    The corporal did not recognize him. “You’re new.”
    Private Hill nodded. “This morning, from Crete. I figured they’d give me a
few days. They figured different. Haven’t even had time to get unpacked.”
    “How was it over there? Pretty bad?”
    “Pretty bad,” Hill agreed. “Bloody Nazi paratroops all over the place.”
    The corporal checked his watch. “You’re early, you know.”
    “Don’t know anything about that. Sergeant of the guard says get in the
jeep, I get in the jeep. He tells me get out of the jeep, I get out.” Hill
glanced at the garage. “Anything around here to watch out for?”
    The corporal snickered. “Here? We got two smashed cans inside. ’Less
somebody’s looking for scrap metal, I don’t think you got anything to worry
about.”
    “Where’s the mechanics? I thought they was workin’ all night.”
    “Out for midnight lunch. Wouldn’t ’spect ’em back too bloody soon,
either. The sergeant likes to drink his meals.”
    After a bit more discussion the corporal climbed into the back of the
jeep, next to Graham, and Robson drove him away. As soon as the guard
was out of sight, the righteous Fuller, frightened and complaining about
this incredible breach of military procedure, backed the tank transporter up
to the garage door, and the Gang went to work.
    Ten minutes passed before the exhausted guard opened his eyes and
realized that the jeep was heading in the wrong direction. He leaned
forward and tapped Robson on the shoulder. “I say,” he said, “you’re going
in the wrong direction.”
    Bill turned around enough for the guard to see he was wearing
sunglasses. “Right,” he said agreeably and continued driving. Graham laid a
friendly paw on the guard’s shoulder and pulled him back.
    By the time a squad of military policemen located the Camouflage
Experimental Section two days later, the only vehicle in the area was an
ordinary ten-ton truck parked in the distance. Maskelyne flatly denied any
knowledge of the heist. “A tank, eh?” he said in amazement. “That’s out of
my league. I can produce a rabbit for you if you’d like, or a canary in a
cage, but not a tank. That’s a bit much even for me.”
    “This one of them?” the MP asked the shaken repair-shop guard,
indicating Maskelyne.
    The corporal shook his head. “Chap I saw was much shorter, and sort of
funny-looking.”
    Frank glanced at Hill, who was fighting the urge to reply.
    “Couldn’t have been any of my men, then,” Jasper said. “Why not try the
Mechanical Engineers? They’re always playing little pranks, and quite a few
of them are funny-looking.”
    Robson bowed his head so he wouldn’t be caught chuckling.
    Jack Fuller was safely tucked away in Cairo with Graham during the MP’s
search for the tank, even though he’d been convinced to participate in the
heist, as it was feared his years of rectitude might be too strong to
overcome.
    The sunshield prototype weighed only thirty pounds. Tests using the
“borrowed” Matilda proved that it could be rapidly snapped into place by
two men, and be discarded just as quickly by releasing the hand latch.
Folded, the apparatus was only two feet six inches wide, so twenty of them
could be transported in a single three-tonner. Only one question remained:
would it look enough like a truck to fool the Germans?
    First it had to fool the generals.
    Monday morning, June 2, 1941, was tenderly warm and bright. A gentle
night rain had rinsed the Delta and left it sparkling. General Creagh,
Lieutenant Colonel Solly, commander of Middle Eastern Engineers,
Maskelyne and most of the Magic Gang, Major Barkas, and a small group of
7th Armoured Division senior officers and aides waited on a broad dune
overlooking a sand-rippled plain. Above them, a slow-flying Auster
observation craft made lazy, pendulous sweeps in preparation for the
presumably easy task of finding a tank hidden among a batch of ordinary
ten-ton trucks.
    Although Maskelyne knew that the future of his section would probably
be determined in the next few minutes, most of the 7th Armoured officers
treated the demonstration as a welcome relief after a disastrous weekend.
The day before, the cruiser Calcutta had been sunk by Junkers 88 bombers,
raising the losses in the Battle of Crete to three cruisers and six destroyers
sunk, in addition to one carrier, three battleships, six cruisers and seven
destroyers damaged. Casualty figures had not yet been released, but at
least one thousand men had been killed in the campaign and another ten
thousand were captured. So these ranking officers greeted the opportunity
to match wits with the famous magician Jasper Maskelyne as an
opportunity to escape from the cold mathematics of war.
    After a brief wait on the dune, one of the aides pointed into the
distance and shouted, “There they are.” Simultaneously, the bevy of officers
raised their field glasses and focused on a growing sand cloud.
    Maskelyne stood to the side with all the Gang members except Knox,
who had crammed into the tank to operate the sunshield. Through his
binoculars Jasper could see the big trucks lumbering closer like a colony of
ponderous ants. His mouth was as dry as the desert.
    Major Barkas, who had wisely asked no questions about the tank’s
provenance and had supplied an experienced crew to drive it, stood at
Maskelyne’s side sighting through his own glasses. “Looks pretty good so
far,” he said critically.
    One mile from the observers on the dune, the trucks broke into two
parallel lines of five vehicles each. Overhead, the Auster swooped in for a
low-level pass. Jasper tried to cover his nervousness with a forced cough.
He looked carefully at the sunshield. It was covered with a thin layer of
dust, but seemed to be sticking out of the line like a brightly coloured stop
sign. He suddenly decided the paint job had been botched. “It’s the wrong
colour,” he whispered urgently to Robson. “How could we have made it the
wrong colour?”
    “It’s fine, Jay,” the cartoonist said reassuringly. “Just relax.”
    The phalanx of trucks rumbled past the three-quarter-mile marker
without any of the 7th Armoured officers picking out the tank. The front row
of vehicles kicked up a sand spray which partially obscured the rear line. A
major from 7th Armoured complained that this was hardly sporting, but
Creagh shut him up with a testy glance. “This is not a game, Major,” he
pointed out.
    Inside the tank, Frank Knox was sweating profusely. At Jasper’s
insistence, and over his objections, the disguised Matilda had been slotted
in the centre of the front row. “The best place to hide something is in the
most obvious spot,” Maskelyne had explained. “The audience resists looking
where they think you want them to look.” Knox remained unconvinced.
    On the dune, Nails Graham was whistling a merry tune under his breath
to hide his jitters. Fuller was pacing in tight circles.
    “Second from right, back row,” a colonel shouted confidently. Like
spectators at Wimbledon, the observers swung their scopes to that truck.
    “No, that’s not it,” Colonel Solly decided. “Look at the truck on the left
end of the front row. Doesn’t it look a bit queer?”
    The Auster pilot dived low and rippled the sand. “I can’t spot the tank,”
he radioed. “Deception from here is excellent. I’m taking photos for the air
recce boys now.”
    The trucks formed a single file a few hundred yards from the observers.
The disguised tank led the parade.
    When they were within 150 yards of the high dune, in plain sight, the
pilot suddenly shouted through a storm of static, “Okay, I got it. I got it.
The fourth one in the column. It’s number four.” The officers zeroed their
glasses on that truck. Maskelyne focused on it curiously. Except for a strip
of torn canvas flapping loosely, the vehicle was virtually indistinguishable
from the others. Two colonels immediately agreed with the pilot; the rest
of the observers, including General Creagh, disagreed. The General glanced
at Maskelyne.
    Jasper shook his head.
    “Well, then,” grumbled the 7th Armoured major, “where the bloody hell
is it?”
    The trucks roared closer. When the Matilda reached the
seventy-five-yard marker Knox pushed open the heavy commander’s hatch a
few inches and grasped the sunshield latch. He turned it as if opening a
door. “Here goes,” he shouted, but couldn’t even hear himself over the
engine.
    As the officers scoured the column the lead truck suddenly split precisely
in half, as if it had been sliced down its centre by a mammoth butcher’s
knife. The two sides collapsed lazily onto the desert. Like some surrealistic
monster emerging from a wood-and-canvas cocoon, the Matilda charged
forward, its thin, deadly snout aimed directly at the dune.
    “Hey, presto,” Jasper whispered.
    The hatch flipped open, and Frank popped up like a grinning
Jack-in-the-box to deliver a rousing salute.
    General Creagh returned it. Then, turning to Jasper, he said exuberantly,
“By Jove, that’s a rabbit out of the hat all right. General Wavell is going to
be very pleased.” He pumped Jasper’s hand. “Well done, Maskelyne, well
done.”
    Hill bristled, feeling slighted. “I stole the bloody thing, you know,” he
said to Robson.
    “Yeah, but maybe we shouldn’t mention that right now,” the cartoonist
replied.
    Upon receipt of Creagh’s account of the demonstration, and an equally
enthusiastic report from Air Reconnaissance, Wavell requested that
additional sunshields be delivered to 7th Armoured for field testing. The
first half dozen arrived at Creagh’s desert headquarters in pieces, having
been shaken apart during the rough drive forward. Returning to his drawing
board, Jasper substituted three-quarter-inch metal piping for the wood
frame, and sailcloth for canvas. Nails supervised production of another six
frames, which survived the trip to 7th Armoured and successfully passed a
series of rugged tests.
    Wavell immediately ordered the Magic Gang sunshield put into mass
production. Mechanical Engineers took over actual assembly in an
abandoned warehouse but all work was done under Gang supervision. The
sunshield was classified “most secret,” as the surprise element it provided
would be lost if the Germans learned the British were planning to disguise
tanks as trucks. To ensure total secrecy, all production work was done by
enlisted personnel rather than civilian labour, and everyone participating in
the project was confined to the factory area. Egyptian nationals were not
permitted in the vicinity, and anyone caught nearby was interned. As
Maskelyne’s sunshields and Frank Knox’s track erasers came off the
assembly line, they were packed onto trucks and driven forward.
    Out on the Blue, preparations for the Battleaxe offensive were already in
progress. Each night tank groups gathered at prearranged points, or
laagers, and lined up to be fitted with sunshields. Steel handles were
welded to both sides and above both tracks, and an apparatus was tailored
to each tank. Crews were taught how to manipulate the disguise and were
required to practise discarding it until they could do so in less than
forty-five seconds.
    Once the fitting and training were completed, the sunshield was folded
and attached to the rear of the tank. Strict orders were given that it was
not to be mentioned, not even in casual conversation. Wireless and
teletype operators were forbidden to refer to it.
    While the crews were busy learning how to operate the disguises, and
stocking their tanks with sufficient food and water and a full store of
ammunition, the rest of Western Desert Force was getting ready for the
battle.
    The Royal Air Force increased the number of reconnaissance flights over
enemy-held territory, trying to piece together a picture of Rommel’s
disposition.
    Military policemen made camp on the fringe of the desert and practised
setting up thin corridors, marked by flags, through which they would direct
armour and infantry at prescribed intervals.
    Supply and transport vehicle drivers tuned their engines and changed
sand filters. Spare tyres were checked. Summer celestial maps were packed
for night navigation on the desert. Unnecessary trips were curtailed to
conserve fuel supplies. A brisk market in salvaged German water tins
sprang up, as the well-constructed jerrycans were much more desirable than
the leaky British models.
    During the second week of June infantry companies began moving out of
rear camps into forward areas. Most of the troopers wrote long letters to
relatives and left them with chaplains – to be delivered in the event of their
capture or death. Rifles were broken down and oiled daily, and cloth plugs
were kept in the barrels in a futile effort to keep out sand. Bandages were
distributed, more to prevent insect bites from becoming infected than to
serve in case of battle wounds. Three days’ hardtack and salt tablets were
issued. Ammunition belts were filled. Betting pools on the day and hour the
attack would be launched were established.
    Medics prepared their medical kits. Hospital vans and ambulances
quietly moved into position, being careful to remain out of sight of the
troops. Hospital stations in the rear stocked a full blood supply and
prepared their operating rooms.
    In the Egyptian cities normal life continued, although merchants stocked
up and every car owner filled his fuel tank and reserve cans. Rumours about
the impending attack increased, and Dudley Clarke’s A-Force agents planted
additional stories to confuse their enemy counterparts. Among the mass of
intelligence passed along to Axis agents was the actual date and objectives
of Battleaxe, in expectation it would be dismissed along with other false
information.
    The enemy was also active. In the desert, Afrika Korps feverishly
salvaged long-abandoned Italian weapons and stockpiled supplies.
Meanwhile, in an attempt to prevent the British from completing resupply
operations, the full might of the Luftwaffe was brought against Alexandria
harbour. Throughout the night of Wednesday, June 4, bomber squadrons
blasted the harbour and surrounding area. One hundred and seventy people
were killed and two hundred wounded in this raid. Two nights later the
bombers returned, killing another 230 people and seriously damaging the
harbour. The following day a mass evacuation of the area began and more
than forty thousand people were moved to safer districts.
    The men of the Camouflage Section watched enviously as other units
prepared to take an active part in Operation Battleaxe. Their own role in
the offensive had been reduced to checking finished sunshields for defects,
a task that required little time or effort and occasional trips into the desert
to supervise repairs of damaged frames or help instruct tank crews in their
use. Jasper tried to keep his men busy while he lobbied at Gray Pillars for
another assignment, but all of his contacts at headquarters were busy
doing the vast amount of paperwork needed to start a battle. His only
release from the frustration of being surrounded by the war without feeling
part of it was his magic. He immersed himself in the show and, for at least
a few hours each night, was almost able to forget about the situation. The
Gang worked with him, designing, building and painting props and sets.
Dates for the variety show had not been announced, although it was to run
at least a week.
    Saturday nights were the most difficult for him. At home, the
Saturday-night performance had always been the most exciting of the week.
Audiences came in a weekend party mood. The other acts on the bill
seemed sharper. Occasionally, there was a party to attend, but most often
he and Mary would take a leisurely stroll alone, perhaps stopping for
something light to eat or drink, but mostly just enjoying each other.
    On Saturday night, June 14, he was alone in the Cairo flat he’d rented
but rarely slept in since setting up in Abbassia. His old stickered prop trunk
had arrived by American steamer in late May, but had lain unopened as he
worked on the sunshield. The trunk was stuffed with the props for a
hundred illusions. His black cape with its handy secret pockets was neatly
folded and ready for use. The Linking Rings were there. Linked. He found
sets of wooden balls and steel balls and hollow balls, decks of cards, and
strings, and magic slates upon which “spirit” writing would mystically
appear, and hand exercisers, two coin boxes for small sleights with money,
sets of dice of different colours and sizes, more rope, scissors, straight
magnets and curved magnets and thick and thin magnets, two specially
altered opera hats, handcuffs, dozens of handkerchiefs, a rolled-up copy of
the Observer dated January 14, 1940 (although he could not remember why
that had been packed), and a stack of magic wands taped together.
    He pulled one of the wands loose and held it in his right hand. And then
tapped it lightly on the side of the trunk. And then waved it through the air,
waved it more, faster, in sweeping circles. And he closed his eyes and felt
terribly lonely.
    That same night Mike Hill was sitting in the centre of a loud drinking
group bunched into a safe corner of the Sweet Melody Club, Cairo’s most
raucous bar, telling his favourite joke: “These three Jerries were out on the
Blue in a Volks when their engine goes kaput. First one says, ‘Listen up,
lads, I’ll unhook the radiator and carry it along, then if it gets too hot we
can drink the water.’ Then the second one says, ‘I’ll take the hubcaps. That
way if it gets too hot we can hold them over our heads to make shade.’ …”
    Bill Robson tipped back his chair against the barbed-wire fencing that
had been erected to protect the band from carelessly thrown bottles and
soldiers and sipped his beer. With Hill in good form, it would be a while
before anyone else could speak. Nails Graham leaned forward to hear the
rest of the joke. This was the Army as he expected it to be, good fellows
sharing drink and a story after a day’s hard work, and he vowed to
remember the feeling of the night. Even Jack Fuller had tagged along.
Although he would never admit it, the army veteran was beginning to enjoy
being part of Maskelyne’s crazy group. At the least, the experience would
provide him with a wealth of stories to warm winter nights around the
regimental fireplace.
    They’d been joined by some cocky Desert Rats, some wounded sappers,
and a bunch of the less priggish men and women from NAAFI, the soldiers’
canteen organization.
    “… so the third one thinks a bit and says, ‘Okay, I’ll unbolt the doors and
carry them.’ The other chaps look at him like he’s daft, and the first one
asks him why he would do that. So he tells him, ‘That way, if it gets too
hot, I can roll down the windows!’”
    Everyone laughed hard, though most of them had heard the joke before.
But that was the mood of the early night.
    In the background, a lusty row was coming to a furious finish, almost
drowning out the band’s rackety version of “Over the Rainbow.” Neither
brawler was throwing anything but fists, so they were left to fight
themselves into exhaustion.
    One of the NAAFI men told some ribald stories about Egyptian King
Farouk and the claque of young British officers surrounding him. Then the
whole club joined in boisterous rounds of “Bless Them All,” and numerous
toasts were raised to the crews of Ark Royal, King George V, Rodney and
Dorsetshire, who had tracked and sunk the fearsome Bismarck. More
sombre toasts were proposed for the heroic defenders of Crete, who had
finally been overwhelmed by German paratroopers.
    Much later, the spirit of the night turned on them. Rather than their
voices growing louder and their promises bolder, as usually happened, an
uncomfortable hush took over. Large groups splintered into fragments, and
whispers of serious thoughts filled the bar. Many people drifted away by
themselves. The band finished and packed up and no one noticed. It was
one thing to battle Rommel; it was quite another to face one’s own fears.
    The scent of battle was thick in the air. It took over the night so
completely that the more men drank, the more sober they became. No
official word had been given, but everyone knew Battleaxe had finally
begun.

Jasper found the telescoping fishing pole buried under a sack of black
velvet cloth. He’d first used it to “catch” a fish in the audience during his
triumphant African tour of 1930. One night in South Africa, he remembered,
his performance of Western magic had been halted by a deluge of huge
hailstones, and a Zulu witch doctor appeared in his dressing room to accuse
him of stealing the storm. The man demanded payment and, when rejected,
cast a killing curse. Jasper had been forced to live with it. He laid the
fishing pole next to the magnets.
    As he picked up the collapsible birdcage frame he realized someone was
watching him from the doorway. He didn’t hear anyone, or see anyone, but
he absolutely knew someone was there.
    Frank Knox cleared his throat. As Jasper stood up, the professor
apologized, “I haven’t been here long. I was just …”
    “It’s all right. I was just going through some old things. Come in.”
   Knox remained motionless in the doorway, as if held in place by some
great weight. “They moved out earlier this evening,” he said. “It’s started.”
   This was usually the way news of the war came to those people in the
middle of it.


                                    Five
A crescent moon hooked into the desert sky provided just enough light to
silhouette dark shapes moving about the infantry staging area. A total
blackout was in effect as Wavell’s troops awaited orders to move out.
Occasionally, pieces of equipment banged together, or someone slapped at
an insect, or out in the darkness a pye-dog yelped, but otherwise the
desert seemed unnaturally quiet. No one slept. Soldiers sat in small groups
checking their weapons or blackening their pale skin with damp charcoal so
they might better fade into the night. They spoke in whispers and mostly
about the battle. The men who had been under fire reassured those going
into action for the first time, “If you make it through the first fifteen
minutes your chances of making it all the way go up fifty per cent.”
    Sergeants walked among their squads inspecting packs and canteens
and offering salt pills and encouragement. “See you in Tripoli,” was the
good-luck wish.
    By nature, the tankers were more fatalistic. The sunshields had been in
place over the hulls for two days as Western Desert Force moved into
position to attack. The tanks would lead the offensive at dawn, by which
time the disguises would have been discarded.
    Although no one could have known it at the time, the weeks of
top-secret preparation were all for naught. Throughout the day, German
wireless operators in communications vans on the desert had been
intercepting uncoded transmissions between British headquarters and
forward units indicating that the attack was to be launched that night.
Initially, the incredulous operators refused to believe that the British would
so carelessly signal their plans, but as the day progressed it became
increasingly clear that Western Desert Force was preparing to go into
action. Rommel ordered Afrika Korps put on full alert.
    General Wavell had postponed the attack as long as possible, but finally
submitted to Churchill’s blistering demands. Earlier that evening he had
signalled the War Office in London, “I think it is right to inform you that the
measure of success that will attend this operation is in my opinion
doubtful,” then reluctantly ordered his field officers to commence
operations.
    The objectives of Battleaxe were similar to those of Brevity. Wavell
hoped to dislodge Afrika Korps from the vital access passes to the desert
plateau, but then he planned to move forward and relieve the Tobruk
garrison. On paper his army enjoyed numerical superiority over the enemy,
but he knew this was misleading. Western Desert Force had not been given
enough time to properly outfit the newly arrived tank force for desert
conditions or to instruct their crews in the rudiments of this special kind of
warfare.
    At precisely 1:45 a.m., June 15, the silence of the desert night was
shattered by a series of high-pitched whistles. Orders to “mount up” echoed
down the line. Thousands of soldiers stood up and shook the dampness out
of their bodies, then climbed into the back of ten-ton transports for the
drive to the battlefield.
    Eleventh Indian Infantry, reinforced with a squadron of 4th Armoured
tanks, was to sweep up the coast and break through at Halfaya Pass, then
proceed toward the small port of Sollum. Fourth Armoured’s remaining tanks
were to join 4th Indian’s artillery and 22nd Guards (Motorized) to take Fort
Capuzzo, then turn right and join 11th Indian for the attack on Sollum.
Seventh Armoured was to protect the left flank by engaging enemy tanks in
the Hafid Ridge area.
    In the rugged cliffs overlooking Halfaya Pass, at Fort Capuzzo, and in
outposts surrounding Hafid Ridge, firmly emplanted German and Italian
gunners waited patiently.
    The British advance progressed smoothly through the night. Occasional
contact was made with enemy patrols, but headquarters still believed
surprise was possible.
    Just after dawn, Rommel’s 88mm antiaircraft crews hidden in the stony
ridges at Halfaya Pass watched a long column of British tanks materialize
out of an early-morning haze. Captain Wilhelm Bach, commanding these
gun positions, sternly cautioned his troops not to open fire until all the
enemy tanks were caught in the trap. “Lots of time yet,” the potbellied
former Lutheran pastor reminded them.
The tank column paused cautiously at the mouth of the pass, then rumbled
forward. The sunshield disguises had been removed before sunrise and
secured to the hulls. The drivers carefully maintained a safe distance
between tanks, and it was nearly 9 a.m. when the last Matilda entered
Halfaya Pass. At 9:15, Squadron Leader Major C. G. Miles in the lead tank
radioed to headquarters the code phrase “Pink spots,” meaning the advance
was proceeding without opposition. After finishing that transmission Miles
put down his microphone and said balefully to his driver, “Looks like we’ve
got Rommel right where we want him. Anywhere else but here.” A few
seconds later he was dead.
    Pastor Bach’s 88s opened fire at nearly point-blank range, turning the
pass into a bloody shooting gallery.
    Within minutes eleven of Miles’s dozen tanks were burning. A second
squad rushed to their aid and got hung up between a minefield and the
deadly accurate antiaircraft cannons. Indian Infantry tried to fight their way
to the gun positions, but took heavy casualties, and many soldiers were
forced to take cover behind the sunbaked rocks at the foot of the cliffs.
They lay there throughout the day in 120-degree heat, watching the horror.
A third attack was mounted and arrogantly ripped apart. The fourth attempt
to storm the German batteries failed. The fifth was ruthlessly shattered by
Bach’s murderous guns. By nightfall the pass was a giant cake bedecked
with flaming candles. A thick cloud of acrid smoke hung over the battlefield,
burning the eyes of the survivors as they walked or crawled out of the pass.
On that sunny day in June, the legend of Hellfire Pass was born.
    At Hafid Ridge, another battery of German 88s stopped Creagh’s 7th
Armoured, but 4th Armoured successfully smashed into Fort Capuzzo, then
beat off a furious counterattack while 22nd Guards dug into the hillocks.

Maskelyne’s Camouflage Section spent the day lolling around the main tent,
as if it were their connection to the battle. Working was impossible. The
men released their nervous energy walking briskly about the area, arguing
nonsense, chain-smoking and raising hopeful soft-drink toasts.
   “Nothing yet,” Fuller announced late in the afternoon after sweeping
through Cairo to collect the latest batch of rumours.
   “You think being in battle makes you a better man?” Hill asked
wondering if he was missing something important by sitting safely in the
Basin.
   Graham was carving a block of wood into a model aircraft. “If you
survive, I suppose it does,” he decided.
   Knox wasn’t sure. “Perhaps it gives you a surge of self-confidence, but
as for anything lasting …” He shook his head.
   Robson wondered about the question. “Think you’d prefer to be out there
getting shot at?”
   Hill shrugged. “Maybe.”
   Townsend looked at him dubiously, and laughed. “C’mon, Hill …” “I don’t
know. I’m just feeling sort of funny, you know. I mean, here I am, sipping
pop and watching the sun set, safe as the King at a fancy-dress ball, and
just a few miles away ten thousand Rats are eating sand for dinner. Those
that are still alive, that is.” He stared into the ground. “Doesn’t seem right,
that’s all.”
   Maskelyne was tamping some Egyptian tobacco into his pipe. “We’ve all
got our roles to play,” he said, but inside he knew exactly what Private Hill
was feeling.

By the morning of June 16 Rommel had learned from intercepted wireless
transmissions that Wavell had thrown everything he had into the first day’s
fighting, and that nearly half of Western Desert Force’s two hundred tanks
had been destroyed or had broken down. He was therefore free to play his
own hand, and he ordered his reserves into the battle. At Fort Capuzzo, the
dug-in British knocked out fifty of 4th Panzer’s eighty tanks in less than six
hours, but 5th Light broke through at Hafid Ridge and threatened to encircle
the entire attacking army. Wavell flew to the front.
    Battleaxe was in disarray. Seventh Armoured had been reduced to
twenty-five tanks. Almost all communications systems were down, and
those few messages that got through were read with delight by Rommel.
Early on the seventeenth, 4th Indian commander Major General F. W.
Messervy, unable to contact headquarters and believing his own position at
Fort Capuzzo untenable, decided to withdraw. This action enabled most of
Western Desert Force to escape Rommel’s rapidly closing pincers. Wavell
later congratulated him on this decision, but suggested he should have
waited for official permission.
    The Battleaxe disaster cost the British ninety-nine tanks, thirty-three
aircraft and over one thousand casualties. It also dealt a severe blow to
morale. The shattered Matildas were no match for the emplanted 88s, and
careless communications had robbed Western Desert Force of any chance
for surprise. As battle-weary troops piled into rear camps, and later into the
Delta cities, they spoke only of the genius Rommel. Once again, stories of
his Finger-spitzen-gefühl, his sixth sense, spread throughout Egypt. A
corporal who had taken a bullet in the shoulder during the battle for the
Capuzzo military cemetery told Townsend, “He just knew every bloody move
we made before we made it. We couldn’t even go to the loo without finding
him there to flush it.” The General Staff, fearing the consequences of
sending already demoralized troops back into battle believing the enemy
was led by an invincible commander possessing superhuman powers,
launched an intensive campaign designed to halt the deification of Erwin
Rommel. Planted stories attempted to destroy the myth of the Desert Fox
by publicizing his human frailties. Some were complete fabrications, while
others were based loosely on facts. General Rommel did suffer from
rheumatism, for example, but the extent of this malady was grossly
exaggerated to create the desired effect.
   “It is impossible to describe the awe in which the men here hold that
Rommel,” Jasper wrote in his nightly letter to Mary.

    They firmly believe he is some sort of superman, capable
    of incredible feats of magic. If anyone tries to dispute this, that
    man is risking a fight. When I hear such talk I cannot help but
    think how my grandfather would have laughed at them. “Magic,”
    that old man would say to them, “I’ll give you magic. I’ll give you
    the birth of a child or the smell of a rose or the setting of the sun,
    that’s magic. But a soldier in the field? Skill and preparation, skill
    and preparation.” As for myself, I believe he is undoubtedly a
    tactical genius, probably superior to our best generals, but the
    family has debunked too many self-aggrandizing charlatans for me
    to believe any man has real magical powers.

    She wrote back to him that the newspapers in England were “full of talk
about Rommel. The way they write about him, one would think he was
leading our boys rather than the Nazis. Wouldn’t a bit of real magic be
wonderful, though? Then you could wave your wand and it would be all over
and we would be together again. Does Rommel have a wife?”
    Maskelyne had no time to argue about Rommel’s powers, however, as he
and his men were too busy trying to make an entire harbour disappear.
Major Barkas arrived at the Camouflage Section on June 18, even before the
full extent of the Battleaxe defeat was known. He was unshaven and his
eyes were swollen, making it obvious that he hadn’t had much sleep in
some time. As head of Middle Eastern camouflage, the major was
responsible for keeping a widespread, loosely structured organization
productive, and was managing to do it by personality and pluck. But the job
was taking its toll.
    Hot coffee was served, real stuff Hill had appropriated rather than the
usual ersatz mud, and Barkas stared into his mug for a long time without
speaking. Then, pushing out of his mind the memories of the past few days
with a deep sigh, he squared his shoulders and went to work. “It’s bad,” he
said forthrightly. “We took a real pasting out there. Those 88s …” He
paused and began slipping back into Battleaxe, but caught hold of the
moment. “Well, our boys got chewed up badly. We don’t have a thing that
can stand up against those guns. And Rommel …”
    Jasper nodded. He knew.
    “Your shields worked fine, much as they were used. It wasn’t them, it
was Rommel. He seemed to know everything we were going to do. Every
move. It was quite an incredible show, actually.”
    “Finger-spitzen-gefühl?”
    The major managed a feeble smile. “More likely damned good
intelligence people, and sloppy work on our part.” He paused to sip some
coffee. “Don’t worry about your shields, they’ll be useful later on, mark my
words. This isn’t the end, you know.”
    “Of course it isn’t.”
    “The problem is right now. That’s why I’m here.” In a corner of the tent
Maskelyne had erected a sand-table map, intending to use it as a miniature
desert on which he could test camouflage ideas. Barkas set down his mug
and walked over to the table. “Look here.”
    Jasper joined him.
    “We know it’ll be some time before Rommel is strong enough to move
again. He’s got his own wounds to lick, you know. If we can replenish our
people before he can get his vitals across the desert, we’ve got him. But if
he can organize a big push first, he’ll be dining at Shepheards. It’s simply
become a race for supply. The key to it all is right here,” Barkas continued,
sliding his finger through the sand to a tiny red-white-and-blue Union Jack
flying on a toothpick near the edge of the table. “Here. Alexandria harbour.”
He jabbed his finger deep into the sand. “They know how desperately we
need to keep it open. They’ve been bombing it pretty regularly; but with
the entire campaign in the balance, who knows what they’ll drop on us. Air
Defence is moving as many ack-ack guns as can be spared up there, and
the RAF’ll provide whatever additional cover they can, but we’ve got to give
it our best effort.”
    “You want us to try to camouflage it.”
    Barkas looked at him grimly. “I want your people to hide that place so
well that even Farouk in a bloody rowboat couldn’t find it.”
    Jasper playfully swirled his index finger through the sand. Alexandria
harbour was by far the largest stage on which any magician had ever
performed. During his career he’d vanished motorcycles and women and
boxes and even the occasional elephant, but an entire harbour was quite a
different matter. And he would have no false walls, trapdoors or black
velvet curtains to make it possible. The challenge thrilled him. “I think we
can give it a go.”
    Barkas smiled for the first time all morning at this show of confidence.
“Good show. Harbour Command wants you people up there straight away.
I’ve arranged transport.”
    “You knew I’d agree?”
    “I knew you couldn’t resist”
    Early the next day Jasper and the Magic Gang stood on a bluff
overlooking the sprawling harbour. Crammed into an area about the size of
a small country village were freighters and transports and patrol boats and
barges, tugs, tenders and huge cranes, flatbed trucks and container trucks,
cargo-hauling equipment and mountains of crates, storehouses, low-slung
office buildings, garages, even temporary housing for thousands of
labourers. And guarding the entrance to this bustling harbour was the giant
lighthouse on Pharos Island, the direct descendant of one of the Seven
Wonders of the Ancient World.
    Concealing an area this large and this active from the Luftwaffe seemed
like an impossible task, even given the fact that the enemy bombers had
thus far restricted their attacks to night-time.
    After a tour of the harbour, the Gang set up operations in a Nissen hut
and spent the day trading fanciful concepts. Ted Graham suggested that
large sheets of canvas be stretched over many of the ships and buildings so
they would fade into the harbour waters, as had been done with some
success in England. “We’ll change the visual pattern of the place.”
    Jasper turned him down. “Our job isn’t to camouflage parts of it.
Somehow we’re supposed to hide the whole thing.”
    Cartoonist Bill Robson, who thoroughly enjoyed meandering through the
realm of the impossible and absurd, wondered if giant mirrors could be used
to confuse enemy bombardiers.
    “They might,” Maskelyne agreed, “until they were shattered by the
concussion of the first bomb.”
    “Then we’d really be in for a streak of poor luck,” Hill pointed out.
    Although usable concepts often originated in this type of bull session,
nothing practical came out of the meeting. Dinner was served in the hut so
that the work need not be interrupted, but at 10 p.m., just as Radio
Belgrade began its popular nightly broadcast of Lale Andersen singing the
German version of “Lili Marlene,” enemy Junkers 88s and Savoia S-79
bombers roared low out of the desert. Air raid sirens screamed into the
night. Within seconds thousands of men were dashing to their posts, or
into shelters, many of them pulling on their clothes and helmets as they
scrambled to safety. Every light in the harbour was extinguished. Some of
the ships at anchor got up steam in case they had to flee the harbour. A
squadron of RAF Hurricanes, bolstered by American P-40 Tomahawks, flew
up to meet the Luftwaffe. Batteries of Bofors guns began pocking the sky
with antiaircraft fire even before the bombers were visible.
    The door to the Gang’s Nissen hut swung open and a corporal leaned in.
“This way, please, gentlemen,” he said sternly, and led them to a deep slit
trench. They could not see the harbour from this safe position, but it didn’t
matter. The planes scrapped directly over their heads, in a sky coldly lit by
a barrage of pale-yellow flares, and searchlights that etched highways of
silver light into the night. One of the Italian Savoias was hit by ack-ack,
but escaped into high covering clouds.
    Much of the thunder of the enemy bombs was smothered by the harbour
waters, but enough of them struck solid targets to make the earth shudder
thousands of yards from their point of impact.
    “Some show,” Robson yelled above the din. In the excitement his
glasses kept sliding down his nose.
    Hill shouted right back, “If you like this one, you should’ve been in
London.”
    Seen from a bomber cockpit, Alexandria harbour was an easily
distinguishable target. A pathfinder group homed in on the lighthouse
beacon, which was visible from deep in the desert, then followed the
familiar Egyptian coastline and lit the harbour with incendiary bombs.
Succeeding waves dropped their deadly loads into the brightly burning fires.
Except for the pesky British fighters and persistent AA gunners, it was a
relatively simple hit-and-run job.
    The raid lasted only twenty minutes. Two warehouses, six trucks and a
crane were destroyed. An unoccupied office building took a direct hit. Two
small boats were capsized by near-misses. A pier was badly damaged by
fire. A pile of coffins waiting to be loaded on a transport for the voyage
home was blown to bits. The fires were quickly brought under control but
would not be extinguished for many hours.
    Within the Nissen hut a coal fire had been stoked into life inside a
potbellied stove. The Gang huddled around it like a group of Newcastle
fishermen on a winter’s eve and continued trying to find a way to
camouflage the harbour. Jasper sat apart, at the only table in the room,
examining topographical survey maps supplied by Royal Engineers. It was
near midnight when he leaned back in his chair and announced, “All right,
I’ve got it.”
    “Well,” Knox said huffily, “it’s about time.”
    The men gathered around the table.
    “To begin with,” Maskelyne said, “the harbour is simply too big for us to
do anything with it. We can’t cover it up. We can’t disguise it. And we can’t
hide it. There’s only one solution left to us, isn’t there?”
    No one responded.
    “We’ve got to move it.”
    Hill smacked his forehead with his palm. “Of course,” he quipped. “Now,
why didn’t I think of that?”
    Jasper expertly squeezed every drop of curiosity out of the Gang. While
they waited for him to explain his incredible solution, he patted the large
pockets of his uniform jersey in search of a match and, when he failed to
find one, simply snapped his fingers into flame and lit his pipe. Knox had
noticed that Maskelyne played his small tricks only when feeling quite
confident.
    Once the pipe was lit he settled back into his chair, crossed his legs
comfortably, and began his explanation. “Around the turn of the century my
grandfather introduced an extremely effective levitation at the Egyptian
Theatre. In a burst of smoke, he’d appear to fly off the stage right up to
the crystal chandelier, where he’d perch and answer questions from the
audience.” He paused to savour the aromatic tobacco. “Can anyone guess
how it was done?”
    “Fairy dust?” Robson ventured.
    Frank Knox had been doing some reading on magic. “Transposition?”
    “Substitution. Under the smoke cover a wire-frame dummy was sprung
from a trapdoor and travelled up a very thin guide wire to the chandelier.
Questions were answered through a rudimentary speaker system. Because
the dummy was dressed in exactly the same suit as my grandfather, and
rose from the same place he was standing, the audience believed it was
him. I think we can adapt that principle to this situation.”
    He leaned over the survey map and tapped Alexandria harbour with his
pipe stem. “Here’s the harbour. And over here,” he continued, moving the
pipe a few inches across the map, “about a mile down the coast, is Maryût
Bay. Look how the shoreline curves. Not all that different from Alex, is it?”
    Fuller peered over his shoulder. “From eight thousand feet it might be
hard to tell them apart.”
    Graham nodded in agreement. “Particularly at night.”
    “And especially if the RAF is on their tails and the AA guns are popping
away at them,” Jasper added.
    “What about the lighthouse?” Knox asked. “That’s one bloody big can to
move.”
    “We don’t have to move anything, that’s the beauty of this plan. All
we’ve got to do is lay down a network of ground lights and structures at
Maryût resembling those at Alex. When we know Jerry’s on the way, we just
turn out the harbour lights, turn them on at Maryût Bay, and blow off some
explosives we’ve planted. The fires’ll draw them like bees to honey.” Similar
decoy targets, called Q sites, had been created by Sir John Turner of the
RAF to lure German bombers away from airfields in England. Turner’s crews
laid parallel rows of lamps a few thousand yards away from actual airstrips
to replicate runway lights. Later in the war Turner developed the much more
elaborate K sites to protect factories and larger airfields during daylight
raids, but in June 1941 nothing of the magnitude proposed by Maskelyne
had ever been considered. Unlike isolated runways, which looked alike when
viewed from the air at night, the city of Alexandria and its vast harbour
were unmistakable.
    Jack Fuller pointed that out. “And what about the next morning, then,”
he asked, “when the photo-recce people come over for a look-see?”
    “That’s the pay-off, Jack. When the audience heard my grandfather’s
voice answering their questions, they were absolutely convinced he was
really sitting up there on the chandelier. And as long as Jerry’s spotters see
some rubble around Alex, they’ll be convinced they hit the right target.
We’ll simply give them rubble. Peter Proud and his boys made it work at
Tobruk. We can do it here.”
    Philip Townsend was dubious. “Frank’s right. What about the
lighthouse?”
    “What about it? It’s nothing more than a big light at the end of a stick.
From the air it’s impossible to determine how high it is. It’s just a matter of
perspective. We can work it all out.”
    Graham had been staring at the map for some tine. “I suppose we could
rig up some wooden superstructures,” he said, but without real enthusiasm.
“And maybe throw some moonlight shadows to screw up their perspective.
At night, while they’re being shot at …” he glanced at Hill and Robson, and
shrugged. “It’s about all we’ve got.”
    Robson chuckled. “I still think we should try fairy dust.”
    By morning, the Gang had sketched a rough set of plans. They were
presented to the Harbour Defence commander, who was admittedly
disappointed at the lack of magic in the concept, but finally agreed to its
implementation. Approximately two hundred Engineer troops and labourers
were assigned to the project.
    The following day the desolate area surrounding Maryût Bay was sealed
off, and construction of the decoy harbour began. Using night
reconnaissance photographs as their blueprint, the Engineers replicated the
ground-light pattern of Alexandria harbour by staking hundreds of electric
lanterns into the sand and mud, then wiring them as if solving an elaborate
connect-the-dots puzzle. Plywood sheds of varying sizes and shapes were
raised under carpenter Graham’s direction, some of them packed with
explosive charges that would emit flash and smoke similar to that of
German aerial bombs when detonated.
    Hill worked with Royal Navy personnel, supervising the erection of a
small fleet of canvas ship superstructures. Nautical signal lamps were hung
on these dummies, and lighted wooden stakes were planted in the bay, to
create the impression that numerous craft were lying at anchor.
    Robson and Fuller created a working “lighthouse” by mounting vehicle
searchlights on a plywood slab supported by six stilt legs. An ingenious
Engineer electrician rigged these lights to a timer that switched them on
and off in order, thus making the platform appear to be rotating. Like the
real Pharos Lighthouse, “Robson’s Pole,” as it was called, would be shut
down when enemy bombers approached, but not until their pilots had ample
time to take bearings on it.
    As producer of this show, Maskelyne was involved in all aspects. He
seemed to pop up everywhere, supervising, solving problems, redesigning
props, pushing slow workers. “It’s not much different than staging a full
production at the Royale,” he said to Knox as they drove back to the real
harbour one morning. “The show’s all planned, now what we’ve got to do is
get the scenery made and raised and the performers rehearsed.”
    Knox stayed right with him, occasionally offering a bit of advice.
Maskelyne was never happier than when totally enveloped in work, the
professor realized, and wondered if it was because the magician enjoyed
the work so much or because it kept him too busy to think.
    All of the lights and detonators were connected to a master console that
Maskelyne and Knox would operate from atop Pharos Lighthouse. Although
the decoy layout was in fact much smaller than the actual harbour, great
care had been taken to maintain the same size ratios between identifiable
landmarks as existed at Alex. As long as these ratios were consistent, it
would be almost impossible for enemy pilots to notice the size difference.
    Townsend was in charge of “wrecking” the real harbour. Actual rubble
was piled up in numerous places and covered with tarpaulins, to be
unveiled for German photo intelligence. In addition, work crews
manufactured new “wreckage” to impress enemy observers. Stage-scenery
bomb craters with deep charcoal sides were painted on canvas, and similar
canvas drops were prepared to be hung from buildings to simulate damage.
Truck and jeep hulks were dragged from the scrap pile and positioned near
the dummy craters, and papier-mâché bricks and rocks were strewn on
streets and rooftops. In the harbour, splintered beams were put aboard real
ships, and three realistic wooden masts rose out of the murky waters,
artificial gravestones for nonexistent vessels.
    To complete the illusion, Jasper wanted the searchlights and antiaircraft
batteries protecting Alexandria harbour moved up to his decoy. Colonel O.
P. Rutledge, of Harbour Defence, grudgingly surrendered most of the lights,
but refused to hand over his few Bofors guns. “There’s nothing up there
except sand and muck,” he protested. “You can’t really expect me to
withdraw my gunners from Alex to protect a swamp!”
    The guns were absolutely necessary, Maskelyne insisted. “If Jerry
doesn’t receive his usual welcome, he’ll know something’s up. In the
theatre we say, give the audience what they expect and they’ll go home
satisfied. That’s what we’ve got to do here.”
    “I understand all that,” Rutledge said, “but my hands are tied.” A rather
large gap between his front teeth caused him to sizzle his sibilants, making
some words sound like incoming bombs. “This is the most important
harbour in the entire Middle East and it’s my job to protect it. If something
goes wrong with your plan … and it can happen, you know, a thousand
things can go wrong. Suppose some Egyptian caught wind of it and knew a
chap with a transmitter? Well, then, I’d be the bloody fool, wouldn’t I? I’d
be known forever as that silly clod who protected an empty beach while the
harbour was destroyed.”
    “On the other hand,” Jasper countered in a voice so soft with promise
that Rutledge had to strain to hear him, “you could be known as the hero of
Alexandria.”
    The colonel frowned. His experience and his nature railed against this
sort of risk-taking. Go by the book, he had been taught at Sandhurst, that’s
why it had been written. Follow procedure. Cover your tracks. But his other
self, his hidden adventurous self, the spunky desert rat he felt sure would
emerge if given the proper chance – that part of him found this opportunity
for derring-do hard to resist. If he let it slip by, he knew he’d face a coward
in the mirror each morning for the rest of his life. “You understand the
consequences, don’t you? If this fails, they’ll swarm all over the bloody
harbour and we won’t be able to do anything but wave fly swats at them.
And if they close up this harbour for any length of time we might just as
well invite Rommel for ’downers at Shepheards.”
    Maskelyne was fully aware of the consequences. If the German bombers
did not take his bait Alexandria harbour would be devastated and the
British supply line would be shattered. The Suez Canal and billions of
gallons of Persian oil would be within Rommel’s grasp. The decoy was much
like a pebble tossed into a still pond, for if it failed the ripples it created
would be felt around the world. “It won’t fail,” he said.
    Reluctantly, Rutledge agreed to move half his antiaircraft equipment and
personnel to Maryût Bay, and to order those crews remaining at Alex not to
fire unless directly attacked. The ack-ack guns would remain in place around
Alex until the decoy was ready to be put into service; then after dark, they
would be moved up the coast.
    That business finished, the setting of the stage continued. The Gang
worked through every night, pausing only to watch enemy bombers make
the 10 p.m. run, and napped during the day as long as the heat and the
flies permitted. By Sunday, June 22, most of the scenery was in place. The
ground lights had been laid down. Graham’s sheds were built and loaded.
Hill’s “navy” of canvas superstructures floated sluggishly but remained
above water. Townsend’s damage looked believably smashed. Robson’s
pole swayed precariously almost thirty feet above water level. In daylight,
Maryût looked like a shantytown, but Jasper was certain it would pass as
one of the world’s busiest harbours under the velvet cover of night.
    Although the Gang was safely isolated in the guarded Maryût Bay
compound, they could not escape the devastating Battleaxe reports. The
offensive had been a bloody failure. Hospitals and aid stations were ov
erwhelmed by casualties. Rumours were spreading that Rommel was
preparing for the final drive to Cairo, and once again shopkeepers dusted
off their German signs.
    To further complicate the situation, the resounding defeat suffered by
Western Desert Force, coupled with the temporarily successful
military-backed coup d’état in nearby Iraq, had aroused the hopes of
Egyptian nationalists. The Delta was shaken by anti-British demonstrations
and minor bombings, and the possibility of a full-scale revolt against King
Farouk and the battered Commonwealth army was very real.
    Prime Minister Churchill, furious at Wavell’s repeated failures against
Rommel, sacked him. “I have come to the conclusion,” he wired the fallen
hero, “that public interest will best be served by the appointment of
General Auchinleck to relieve you in command of armies of Middle East.”
    “The Prime Minister’s quite right,” Wavell replied stoically when he
received this message. “This job needs a new eye and a new hand.”
Believing his moment in history to be finished, he dutifully accepted
reassignment to Auchinleck’s relatively quiet Indian Army command.
    Jack Fuller was one of the few men working at Maryût Bay who had been
with Wavell from the beginning of the North African campaign. He was one
of Wavell’s Thirty Thousand and damned proud of it. “He got a rum deal,”
he complained bitterly. “First they take all his men and equipment and ship
it to Greece, then they expect him to fight the whole bloody German Army
with tanks that don’t work and fuzzy-cheeked platoons.” This was the only
time Maskelyne ever heard the sergeant raise his voice against the service.
    But Fuller’s anger was not given time to come to full boil. Later that
same afternoon the BBC interrupted its programming to announce that 120
German divisions, equipped with 3,200 tanks and 1,945 aircraft, had
invaded Russia. The second front had been opened. Incredibly, Hitler had
abandoned his non-aggression pact with Stalin less than two years after it
had been sealed. “The man’s insane,” Hill insisted.
    “No foolin’, Mr. Holmes,” Townsend replied sarcastically, “and whatever
gave you that idea?”
    Suddenly, the immediate future seemed brighter. The demands of the
Russian front would undoubtedly force the Nazis to relieve some of the
pressure in the Middle East. The confusing situation might even draw the
reluctant Americans into the war. Everyone at Maryût Bay had an opinion
and wanted to voice it loudly, and their loud discussions gradually eased
into work. By dark, the ground-light network at Maryût Bay was ready to be
tested. Maskelyne and Knox lugged the last of their heavy control
equipment up the winding stairs of the old lighthouse to their command
post. Although the lighthouse provided a sweeping view of both Alex
harbour and Maryût, it offered no protection from German bombers. “Try to
see the bright side of it,” Jasper suggested to Knox. “If our plan doesn’t
work, we won’t have to answer for it.”
    Frank looked at him crossly. “Our plan?”
    Soon after sundown an Auster was sent up to observe. Townsend flew
as spotter on the flight.
    In the cramped lighthouse tower, Jasper stood in front of the electric
console like a maestro tuning up his orchestra. “Ready?” he asked Knox.
    The professor looked at the complex array of buttons and levers and
shook his head in bewilderment. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said reluctantly.
“I hope you know what everything’s connected to. I’d hate to saw off the
limb I’m sitting on, if you know what I mean.”
    “Oh, it’s much simpler than it looks,” Jasper replied, then added, “I
think.” With that, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then pushed
down a long steel handle. As if a huge black blanket had suddenly been
swirled over Alexandria harbour, it disappeared into the night. A few
isolated lights twinkled aboard ships lying at anchor, but most of these
were quickly extinguished for this “blackout drill.”
    “Well, that’s all right, isn’t it?” Knox said with great relief.
    The city of Alexandria sparkled gaily in the distance, but the harbour had
ceased to exist.
    “Lights,” Jasper commanded.
    Frank worked his console. A few seconds later, just as if the entire
harbour had been picked up intact and deposited a mile down the coast,
the lights of the Maryût Bay decoy burst into the night.
    Jasper critically examined the display. “What do you think?” he asked.
     Knox paused. It looked far more realistic than he had believed possible.
“An engraved invitation,” he replied, obviously impressed.
     Townsend reported that the aerial view of the dummy was excellent.
     Satisfied with the results, they shut down their equipment and hurried
down the lighthouse stairs to safety before the arrival of the Luftwaffe
Bomb Delivery Service. Without the antiaircraft guns and searchlights in
place the decoy could not be used.
     Preparations were completed the next day. Townsend moved the
remainder of his new wreckage into place and showed the Engineer
labourers how he wanted it displayed. “While they’re bloody bombin’?” one
of them asked.
     “While they’re bombing.”
     After dark, Rutledge’s Bofors were transported to Maryût Bay. Maskelyne
and Knox once again climbed to the top of Pharos Lighthouse. Townsend
and Fuller waited near the docks with the work crew. Hill was safely
ensconced in a slit trench at Maryût, lord of the dummy navy. Nails Graham
played nursemaid to tons of carefully planted high explosives. Robson sat
next to a wireless operator at Alex harbour, ready to fill in wherever he was
needed. The Gang spent the early part of the night cursing and shivering as
the temperature dropped.
     At 9:45 P.M.Jasper began scanning the dark skies. Ten o’clock came, and
passed. The enemy bombers had not been sighted. “They’re late tonight,”
he said nervously. “That’s a bit cheeky of them.”
     “They’ll be here,” Frank said reassuringly. “They wouldn’t want to miss
the big show.”
     By 10:30 Maskelyne was pacing in tight circles around the tiny
observation tower, trying to guess why the nightly attack was late.
     Knox tried to calm him. “Just relax, Jay,” he said as he cleaned his
spotless eyeglasses for the eighth time in the last forty-five minutes,
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
     Maskelyne was biting his fingernails at eleven o’clock. “Look at me,” he
snapped. “It’s a good thing Mary can’t see me biting away at my hands.
She’d give me what for.”
     The bombers did not come that night. Maskelyne stared into the skies
till long after midnight with a mixture of disappointment and pleasure. The
performer inside him wanted the show to go on; the soldier was pleased at
the reprieve. But the unexpected break in an established pattern made him
anxious. Could the Germans have learned that some sort of trick awaited
them? If they had …
     “Maybe they think they’ve finished the job,” Frank suggested as they
climbed down the long winding staircase.
     “That’d be fine,” Jasper replied.
     They took their places again at twilight on the twenty-fourth. But this
time, just as Lale Andersen began her mournful love song, the enemy
bomber flight was spotted by a Rat patrol on the desert. The planes were
behind schedule, and approaching on a slightly altered course, but they
were coming. The report was relayed to Maskelyn in the lighthouse tower.
“They’re on the way,” he told Frank, and his body tingled with the
excitement of an opening night. He slammed down the power lever. The
harbour went dark almost instantly. “Lights!” he shouted into the wireless.
     Robson’s decoy lighthouse came ablaze. Seconds later, the rest of the
dummy harbour twinkled into life. Five antiaircraft searchlights began
sweeping the sky.
     Maskelyne and Knox waited in the darkness, barely breathing. A light
breeze whipped up some whitecaps, but the real harbour was otherwise
invisible. At that moment, Jasper couldn’t help thinking about the lifetime
of illusions that had gone wrong: he remembered the assistant who fell
asleep inside the apparatus, the locks that jammed, strings that broke, the
night he had appeared on Huey Green’s radio show, Magic on the Air, when
the box in which he had been locked failed to open and he was forced to
bang and scream for help while Green covered for him by singing made-up
verses of “Fiddle My Diddle.”
     His reverie was broken by the murderous drone of the enemy bombers.
They came in a little lower than usual, sighting on the cloud-dimmed stars.
They flew directly toward the real harbour, ignoring completely the brightly
lit dummy. As soon as they were in sight Maskelyne and Knox began
shutting down the lights at Maryût Bay, just as if Alexandria harbour were
blacking out for the raid. But the bombers remained on a true course,
toward Alex.
     In the cockpit of the point bomber, the flight leader was confused. The
rapidly dying lights of Alexandria harbour beckoned to him, but according to
his instruments they were not precisely where they were supposed to be. If
he was to believe his compass, the entire harbour had been moved.
     Jasper held his breath as the enemy bombers remained on course to the
real harbour. “They’re confused,” he shouted to Knox, more hopefully than
certain. Then, under his breath, he pleaded, “Come on, you bloody sots,
come on, take it, take it.”
     “The ack-ack, Jay,” Frank yelled. “Get ’em shooting.”
     “Fire now,” Jasper screamed into his radio. “Now. Now. Go ahead.”
Almost immediately, the antiaircraft batteries surrounding Maryût Bay
began pounding away. Still, the bombers remained on course.
     On the ground at the decoy Mike Hill was out of his slit trench waving
his cap at the bombers. “Over here, you dummies,” he was screaming.
“We’re over here!”
     The first salvo of antiaircraft fire further confused the flight leader. And
seconds later a British fighter group was spotted coming in for a scrap. He
had no more time to make a decision. Choosing to believe his eyes and
ears rather than his instruments, he grabbed hold of his control stick and
made a hard turn to starboard.
     “He’s taking it,” Frank said hesitantly. Then, louder, and with certainty,
“By gum, he’s taking it!”
     The rest of the enemy flight gracefully followed the leader into the turn.
As they did, the RAF squadron jumped them. Instantly, machine-gun tracers
began scratching the night. The bomber pilots bravely maintained their
tight formation to the target, their gunners swatting at the pesky fighters.
Suddenly a Junkers rose out of formation and peeled off, its engine
smoking, and made for the safety of the Mediterranean. The other planes
quickly filled the hole it left.
     They began dropping their loads even before they were directly over the
“harbour.” As the first bombs blasted deep, harmless craters into the sand,
Maskelyne and Knox took over. “Now, Frank,” Jasper screamed, “now!” The
professor slammed down his levers so hard he shook off his glasses. For a
long second, absolutely nothing happened. Then a series of staccato blasts
jolted Maryût Bay. Flames clawed into the air. Secondary eruptions
thundered above the battle roar.
    “Hey presto!” Jasper shouted as he gleefully played his console, but he
was drowned out by the noise.
    The second wave of Junkers and Savoias sighted on the flames.
Hundreds of real bombs peppered Maskelyne’s sandy “stage.” Another
enemy plane was hit, and this one twirled fatally into the bay.
    Townsend’s damage crews went to work as soon as the flight leader
turned right. They raced through the narrow alleys at Alexandria harbour,
pulling tarps off their rubble, spreading papier-mâché wreckage, scarring
buildings with painted dropcloths, uncovering canvas craters.
    At Maryût Bay, bonfires ignited by Graham’s explosive charges and fed
by a pyre of dry timber made an enticing target for the succeeding waves of
bombers. The raid lasted exactly thirty-three minutes.
    The dummy harbour was nearly obliterated. Almost all of the lamps were
shattered. Many of the sheds were completely destroyed, and those left
standing were damaged. One of Hill’s “battleships” fell apart, but the
remainder of his fleet survived the attack. Robson’s lighthouse escaped
unscathed.
    The moment the last wave fled into the desert, the Engineers repair
crews went to work. By morning the fires had been extinguished, sand had
been thrown over the charred wreckage, and crews were at work replacing
the destroyed scenery. Jerry would be returning that night, and the
“harbour” had to be ready for the next performance.
    Townsend’s crews had set the stage at Alex by dawn. Enemy
reconnaissance planes arrived over the real harbour as expected and took
high-altitude photographs. During this inspection, camouflage nets covered
the decoy at Maryût just in case an enemy observer glanced down the
beach and noticed unusual activity.
    The Gang piled into their Nissen hut at Alex in midmorning, exhausted
but exuberant. They began reliving the night in loud voices, but Jasper shut
them up. “So far we’ve done all right. But in the next few hours their photo
experts are going to be examining the pictures they took this morning. If
they’re not perfect …”
    The verdict would be delivered that night. A repeat attack on the decoy
would prove that the deception was successful. But if German Intelligence
detected a single false shadow in Townsend’s damage display, they would
be selecting their target much more carefully.
    The Gang tried to sleep during the day.
    The bombers were late that night, bursting out of a thin cloud cover just
after Lord Haw Haw, the supercilious traitor, had finished twitting Western
Desert Force about Operation Battleaxe, “that silly affront to the genius of
Rommel.”
    Jerry didn’t hesitate this time. The planes pounced on the decoy. They
came in lower than usual, at dangerously slow speeds to increase their
accuracy, and plastered the beach with tons of high explosives. It was the
most ferocious attack yet. Jasper and Frank added to the pyrotechnics by
blowing off Graham’s packages.
    By the time the bombers climbed back into the sheltering clouds, Maryût
Bay was a flaming wasteland pocked with massive craters. Ribbons of oil
smoke swirled thousands of feet into the sky and blacked out the moon and
the stars. Seen from the cockpit of a bomber thousands of feet into the air,
it looked very much like hell.
     Two Savoias went down.
     It took all night and most of the following day to replace the damage.
     The attackers came eight successive nights. The Engineers slaved
through the days turning out brand new damage. To Hill’s chagrin, his final
“destroyer” was sunk in the eighth raid.
     That proved to be the last attack. Unexpectedly, the enemy seemed to
lose interest in Alexandria harbour. For the next week Jasper and the Gang
scanned the night skies, but the bombers never returned. British
Intelligence did not know it at the time, but, as the rumours had predicted,
Hitler had ordered Luftwaffe groups transferred from the desert to Europe
and the Russian front.
     Alexandria harbour was saved. Although Italian submarines would make
a desperate attack a few months later, and enemy sabotage would continue
throughout the war, this was the last massive effort to shut it down.
Rommel had lost the battle of supply that week in June 1941. Eventually
millions of tons of supplies would be safely landed at Alexandria, enough to
overwhelm the Desert Fox and his Afrika Korps.
     The success of Maskelyne’s transposition concept at Alexandria harbour
proved that such decoy installations could be used on a far greater scale
than ever imagined. The principles of light, shadow and dummy structures
perfected by the Magic Gang would be used around the world to protect
strategically important targets. Using these techniques, entire dummy army
and navy bases as well as airfields were constructed in most battle
theatres and major cities, causing the Luftwaffe to waste countless tons of
bombs on beaches, meadows, lakes and pastures.
     The Maryût Bay illusion firmly established Jasper Maskelyne and his
Magic Gang as an important, and quite unique, military entity. No one could
figure precisely where the unit belonged in the table of organization; they
were more than camoufleurs but less than engineers, they had nothing to
do with supply or transportation and knew little about combat, but no
longer did anyone question the value of a magician at war. Instead, brass
hats whispered top secrets about the deeds of “Maskelyne and his queer
little group,” and took comfort that someone had finally outwitted the Fox.


                                    Six
The war in the desert slipped peacefully into the fiery summer. Out on the
Blue the brutal sun baked the men and their fighting machines and made
daytime combat almost impossible. A few minor clashes occurred, and were
unimportant, because the fate of North Africa was being decided on the
oceans. Massive supply convoys were battling submarine wolf packs in a
desperate attempt to resupply the armies. It had become clear the army
first able to sustain a major offensive would win the desert war. Ironically,
in this topsy-turvy theatre, the Battleaxe defeat gave the British an
advantage.
    Rommel’s victorious army had been reorganized as Panzer Group Africa
and was stretched in a thin line across the desert, curling around the
Tobruk blister like some venomous serpent, devouring supplies in Benghazi
and digesting them fifteen hundred miles away, almost in Cairo.
    Because the British had been beaten back to their Basin stronghold,
their supply line was short and matériel was easily distributed. Prime
Minister Churchill was determined to profit from Hitler’s Russian obsession
and ordered the newly designated Eighth Army trebled in size. The make-do
days of Wavell’s feisty Western Desert Force were over. Auchinleck
demanded strict adherence to established military procedure and instituted
rigorous desert training programmes. General Sir Alan Gordon Cunningham,
who had made his reputation by driving the Italian Army out of East Africa
in eight weeks, was made his subordinate.
    The Magic Gang’s performance at Alex harbour had helped establish the
role of camoufleurs in the western desert, and Major Richard Buckley’s
people were busy on all fronts creating illusions, to hoodwink the enemy.
Trapped inside Tobruk, Peter Proud had organized a three-hundred-man unit
and managed to convince the Luftwaffe that the besieged city’s vital
water-purification plant had been destroyed. Wreckage was painted on the
roof of the building and cracks were painted down the sides, cinder block
debris was scattered over the entire area, and phoney bomb craters were
dug. When the Junkers 88s came over the city Proud exploded smoke
bombs to simulate direct hits, and when the smoke cleared a wrecked
building was visible and reconnaissance pilots reported the plant damaged
beyond repair.
    South of Cairo, painter Stephen Sykes was constructing an entire railroad
spur, complete with dummy campsites, cookhouses, shelter trenches and a
dummy fifty-two-car train. His intention was to convince Rommel’s
Intelligence that a major British attack would be launched from this area.
Metal tracks were fashioned from squashed jerrycans, and wooden railroad
ties were made of plywood. Sykes had ingeniously compensated for a lack
of materials by constructing the entire railroad at one-third normal size.
Since there were no landmarks of known height in the area, German
Intelligence had nothing with which to make a comparison; so as long as all
the elements were in proper scale everything would look accurate when
seen from the air.
    Sykes’s locomotive was made of rush matting set on a timber frame. A
camp stove had been put inside to actually belch black smoke. One
afternoon, a fierce windstorm picked up the locomotive and sent it
skittering across the desert. His people chased it fifty miles before catching
up to it, knowing that if Rommel saw a twenty-ton locomotive bouncing
about the desert he would know something was afoot.
    Other camoufleurs were performing less glamorous tasks. One group was
painting giant murals showing an aerial view of houses, streets, even
alleys, complete with proper shadows, that were to be stretched on poles
eight feet above the ground to serve, literally, as cover for various strategic
points. Many men were assigned to units in the field and were helping
protect tanks and troops.
    Now that Maskelyne’s Camouflage Section had proven its capabilities
under fire, they were deluged by requests for assistance. Every branch
seemed to have an oddball problem that required Maskelyne’s attention.
Most of these requests were temporarily put aside, however, while the
Magic Gang supervised construction of a giant magic factory.
    Magic Valley was actually Major Barkas’s idea. The Alexandria scam had
made it obvious to him that Maskelyne’s operation would have to be
expanded. So, soon after the Gang had returned to Abbassia he took Jasper
to a bluff overlooking a long, narrow valley ringed with a garland of thick
foliage, and announced, “It’s all yours.”
     Maskelyne looked at the barren sandscape. Its length and width made it
look as if God had trowelled a single scoop out of the earth, then
abandoned the place. “What is?” he asked.
     “This valley.” The major scuffed at a small stone and watched it bound
down the steep slope, then continued. “I know it’s pretty dismal now, but it
can be turned into something quite grand if you use your imagination. This
is going to be a long campaign and there’ll be a tremendous call for your
services before we’ve won it. You’ll need first-rate facilities, and I want you
to build them here. It’s been cleared with Gray Pillars. Put in everything …”
     Jasper was stunned. Finally, a real place to work. A giant workshop. As
he gazed into the valley it began to blossom with possibilities. Factories
and warehouses and living quarters and a spate of offices sprouted in his
mind. Within a few months the desolate valley would be transformed into a
garden of illusions, in which would grow all manner of military delights.
     “.., Engineers’ll do the actual construction. They’re ready to get on with
it.”
     Barkas’s words drifted out of Jasper’s mind as he stared into the valley.
This barren valley was perhaps the greatest ovation he had ever received.
Finally, after the months spent pleading for a military commission, finally,
after all those nights of frustration, finally, after being deposited in the
desert and shunned like a diseased man, finally, finally, he was being
accepted. He took a calming breath. “It’s something, isn’t it,” he said
lightly, but continued looking straight ahead so the major would not see
the tears of relief welling in his eyes.
     His letter to Mary that night was long and happy.

    It’s named Long Valley on the maps, [he wrote] but it will be my
    magic valley. There’s nothing there at all right now, just sand and
    scrub, but when we’ve finished it’ll be the greatest magic
    workshop ever built. They’ve provided me with a generous budget,
    although Barkas asked that I use salvaged materials whenever
    possible. When I asked him what we would be building here, he
    clapped me on the shoulder and said “Why, Maskelyne, use your
    imagination.” You know how that sparks me. Oh, I so wish you
    were here with me right now.
        This will give me the opportunity to make the props they need
    to help bring this horrid fighting to an end. I can make the decoy
    guns and soldiers here, I can build the largest apparatus ever
    constructed before …

   Although parts of the letter were censored, a surprising number of
pertinent details were left untouched. “Just what you need,” Mary wrote
back to him, “another theatre to manage. I should have thought that one
such experience had been enough!” Then she pasted his letter in the
scrapbook she was keeping for him and tried to imagine what the place
looked like.
   If possible, the Gang was even more excited about this recognition of
their efforts than Jasper. “’Bout bloody time they realized we can win this
war for them if they give us the chance,” Hill said, then requested private
quarters with a view.
    “Listen to him, will you,” Graham complained, shaking his head. “Private
quarters yet. Next thing you know he’ll want a brass headboard.”
    “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Robson said. “He’s already got all the
brass he’ll ever need.”
    Hill rubbed his chin as he reconsidered his request. “Maybe I should
have them build me a room on the second level,” he decided.
    Fuller listened to the conversation, and later went off and found some of
his old mates. Together they toasted the news. Sergeant Fuller was being
taken back into the bosom of the Army.
    Frank Knox found Maskelyne working on plans in his tent. “When do we
start?”
    “Soon as we can get some plans to the Engineers. I’ll get them going on
two large shells for work space, an office and some quarters straight away.
Once that’s under way we can work on the other things we’ll need.”
    Knox looked at the rough schematic of the area Maskelyne had mapped.
It consisted of almost twenty buildings of various sizes. “It’s going to be
some project.”
    “We’ll need all the space we can get. If we’re going to be effective,
we’re going to have hundreds of people working there. We need living
quarters and mess facilities, we need supply warehouses, testing grounds
…” Maskelyne paused, and grinned broadly. “We’ve done it Frank! We’ve
done it!”
    Knox’s smile was a bit more conservative. “Let’s just say we’ve taken a
rather large step in the right direction.”
    From the very beginning there were countless problems, but maintaining
security around the valley was perhaps the most difficult one to solve. A
magician’s first priority is to protect his secrets, and the long, exposed
sides of Magic Valley would make it almost impossible to keep spying eyes
away from the shops.
    To combat this, Maskelyne designed an elaborate security system that
was installed soon after the main buildings went up.
    Raised sentry boxes were built at intervals along the crest of the valley,
and the open stretches between these posts were guarded by a
combination of modern antipersonnel weapons and the genies and spirits of
ancient fairy tales.
    Warning signs in both English and Arabic were posted at all approaches
to the area. A hundred yards beyond these signs, rows of bright-red flags
reinforced their meaning. After the signs and the flags, Magic Valley got
deadly.
    Small minefields dotted the area. Electrified wire ran between these
fields and the sentry boxes. Those areas that could not be effectively
patrolled because of heavy brush were protected by Maskelyne’s magical
devices. A trespasser might suddenly find himself caught in a maze of
mirrors, or be confronted by a frightful image gushing out of the ground. He
might stumble over a trip wire and activate a gramophone that broadcast
bloodcurdling threats, or doors that opened and closed untouched by human
hands. Under different circumstances Maskelyne would have enjoyed
inventing this whimsical security system, but this was a serious matter.
The secrets of the Valley had to be protected at all costs.
    If, somehow, these illusions did not scare the trespasser away, lethal
devices awaited. Pressure-triggered rifles and trip-wire swords and
camouflaged pits were placed throughout the area. A few Egyptian spies
were known to have reached these obstacles; none managed to survive
them.
    The remains of those who died trying to uncover the secrets of Magic
Valley were collected by Graves Registration and delivered to anyone
claiming kinship with the victim. Since a burial payment the equivalent of
ten shillings was paid in local piastres, there was never a shortage of
available relatives. And, as collaborating with spies was a crime punishable
by death, none of these protested the brutality too strongly.
    Frank Knox despised the barbarous security system and tried to
dissuade Jasper from implementing it. “If you can kill them so easily,” he
complained, “surely you can find some way to capture them.”
    Jasper disagreed. “The work we’re going to do here will save thousands
of lives. It’s classified most secret because that’s what it’s got to be. We
just can’t allow anyone to find out what we’re doing, no matter how callous
that might sound. If it takes a few dead spies to convince the rest of them
that we’re serious, that’s what the price will be.”
    Among superstitious Egyptian peasants the place became known as
“Valley of the Djinn,” the genie who shakes the earth, and no one dared
approach it without good reason.
    By mid-July the first structure was completed, a low-ceilinged wooden
office building partitioned into six small enclosed squares off a central
corridor – three on either side – and two double-sized spaces, one to serve
as a workroom and the other as a dayroom-meeting room. The Gang worked
out of these offices while Magic Valley was built around them.
    Once actual construction had begun, Maskelyne resumed working on his
variety show. It had originally been slated to open in mid-June, but that
date had been cancelled because of Battleaxe. Now, as Gray Pillars
attempted to present an appearance of normality while Auchinleck and
Cunningham supplied and trained Eighth Army, he was asked to mount his
show as soon as possible.
    The first performance of the variety was scheduled for the final weekend
in July. Receipts would be donated to the war charities after expenses were
deducted. Although a four-thousand-seat amphitheatre would eventually be
built in Cairo to house Maskelyne’s varieties, this run was booked into the
Empire Theatre on Sharia Ibrahim Pasha. A number of other entertainers,
many of them service people, completed the bill. Large orange-and-white
cardboard posters picturing Jasper in Oriental garb, smoking a pipe, waving
a large fan and looking particularly inscrutable proclaimed: “Jasper
Maskelyne, The Royal Command Magician, Presents: A Magical Melange.
Eastern and Western Magic” No advance booking was permitted.
    Jasper intended to do his first act in dapper evening clothes, then make
a quick change to the brightly coloured, flowing Chinese robe. Elaborate
costumes had been worn by performing magicians from King Arthur’s time
to the present, not just to delight the audience but because it was possible
to conceal all sorts of props beneath the great robes. In addition, makeup
and costume made substitutions much simpler; performers can easily pass
for each other when they wear identical disguises.
    He had experimented with various characterizations early in his career
before settling on the Oriental. At home, it had been a favourite of his
patrons, particularly when accompanied by properly mystical “Eastern”
magic. Although he never mentioned it to anyone except Mary, when he
donned the makeup and the costume he enjoyed the childlike thrill of
play-acting. Under that expressionless mask, with the Manchu moustache,
he was no longer the very British Jasper Maskelyne. It was a small escape,
but he thoroughly enjoyed it.
    As opening night neared, Maskelyne and his men, and his woman, tuned
the illusions and sweated to prepare the Empire Theatre stage for magic.
Overall, Jasper was pleased with the makeshift show. It could not be nearly
as elaborate as some of the command performances he had staged, but
under the circumstances it would be quite acceptable. A local club band was
hired to provide background music for the mysteries.
    Many nights after rehearsals, Jasper and Kathy Lewis and backstage
manager Frank Knox took late tea together. In this situation it was natural
that the two men would cast themselves into protective roles and, to her
delight, so they did. Kathy was only twenty years old and had already been
in the services two years. Her job in Clarke’s covert operations office
permitted her no mistakes; her evenings with Jasper and the Gang let her
be a vivacious young woman.
    Like a fussy parent, Jasper eventually became concerned she was
spending too much time working and not enough time playing. “A pretty
young girl like that should be out having fun,” he told Knox. “With all the
men in Cairo you’d think she’d at least have an occasional date.”
    “There’s time for that,” Frank said. “Besides, I think she’s carrying a
torch.”
    “For who?”
    “Our boy Hill.”
    Jasper didn’t believe it. “The way she talks about him?”
    “You silly fool,” Frank said, chuckling, and speaking as the father of two
teenaged daughters. “Obviously you don’t understand girls at all.”
    “Now, see here,” Jasper protested, “I’ve got a thirteen-year-old myself,
you know.”
    “Unfortunately, Jay, she doesn’t seem to have taught you very much.
The thing about girls is that you don’t listen to what they say. It’ll make no
sense at all to a rational man. She talks about him, that’s what counts.”
    Jasper found that difficult to accept. His daughter, Jasmine, seemed to
make perfect sense when speaking about her school chums. Of course, she
was only a child, a baby really, but still she was a girl. And Kathy Lewis
was a girl … well, perhaps she was a woman. He frowned. “You really think
Kathy has eyes for Hill?”
    “I’m sure of it.”
    “Well, that’s a problem, then. He doesn’t seem too fond of her.”
    Knox removed his eyeglasses and yanked his shirttail out of his khaki
shorts to clean them. “Don’t be too sure of that either. He’s a street boy.
Doesn’t know how to deal with someone like her. So he’s nasty.” He put his
glasses on and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “You watch those
two, Jay. I think they’ve got their quivers out, all right.”
    Maskelyne was not at all convinced. “And I think you’ve seen too many
Clark Gable pictures, Frank.”
    The variety show came as a welcome diversion to Cairo’s military
establishment, and all tickets were snapped up as soon as they went on
sale. On opening night, the Empire Theatre was packed with ranking
officers in medal-bedecked uniforms, fashionably dressed ladies in a
pleasing array of pastel summer gowns, important Egyptians, some in
traditional garb but most in business suits, and, in the back seats, enlisted
men and women in regular summer weights. Almost everyone carried a
colourful fan.
    Jasper was surprisingly nervous as he waited backstage while Joan
Wertheim, an accordionist, finished her number. He hummed a toneless
ditty and checked his apparatus again, making sure all the holders inside
his waistcoat were loaded, all the pulls securely fastened, all of the props
in the correct pockets.
    The audience had picked up the rhythm of the accordion and were
clapping in time. An enthusiastic audience, he thought happily, in a ready
mood.
    He stared down at his black shoes and placed the heel of his right foot
directly in front of the toe of his left foot, spreadeagled his arms and
moved precariously forward. Then, swinging his left heel in front of his right
toe, he began walking an imaginary tightrope. Once, he nearly lost his
balance. It was not falling that frightened him, but failing.
    Wertheim concluded her recital and received a warm send-off, and
Jasper moved into the wing, listening to his introduction. The master of
ceremonies, an ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association)
comedian, was laying it on a bit thick. “… Theatre is proud to present an
original and unique entertainment, embracing mirthful and inexplicable
wonders, amazing feats of prestidigitation and dexterity …”
    Jasper glanced across the stage at Frank Knox, who was standing with
Kathy Lewis next to the prop trunk. The professor gave him a cocky thumbs
up, which he returned, then moved into the darkest stage shadows.
    The first thing he did, from habit, was count the house. At St. George’s
Hall each head had made a difference. He’d learned to tote a gate long
before he was allowed to perform. Here, it was a useless exercise. But he
was cheered by the full house.
    Suddenly the spotlight was on him, handsomely got up in white shirt
and noble tails. He kept his head down and his frown in place as he walked
slowly to centre stage. The spotlight was big and warm and fit him
perfectly. For a few seconds he did not hear the welcoming applause; the
spotlight was a comfortable cloak isolating him from the rest of the world.
    Then the cheers broke into his consciousness and brought him back to
reality. He walked directly to his mark, and stopped. He inhaled deeply, a
suggestion of nervousness to gain the audience’s sympathy, lifted his head
and smiled his most broad and dazzling smile.
    He was at home again.
    The pit band gave him soft background music as he moved adroitly
through the opening bits. He produced endless cigarettes and snapped his
fingers into flame to light them. He drank a glass of blades and did some of
the popular handkerchief sleights, milking each trick until he felt he’d got
as much from it as the audience was willing to give.
    Kathy was visibly nervous when she first came on stage to set down a
prop table, but he settled her with a private smile and she grew more
confident as the performance continued.
    Maskelyne’s amusing sleights blossomed into small illusions. After
turning a red handkerchief white, he changed it into an egg and tossed it
into the air above the audience. At his command, “Hey presto,” it burst into
flame, startling everyone, and from the smoke emerged a white dove. The
bird gracefully circled the theatre, and finally swooped down to perch on the
magician’s outstretched arm.
    While the dove was in flight Jasper glanced at the people in the front
wicker seats. Each one was craning to see the bird, and he knew he had
complete control. He never played to the whim of the audience; instead he
established his own rhythm and made them heed that. He had planned this
act carefully and paced it well, and his audience had picked up the beat and
gone with it.
    Kathy put the dove into a sack and hung it in front of a marksman’s
target. Across the stage Jasper loaded a rifle and took aim. The music
climbed to a crescendo.
    Jasper looked out at the audience and smiled devilishly. Some patrons
shouted no; others urged him on. A few giggled nervously.
    He took aim once again, then fired. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled
the hall. A puff of smoke wisped from the rifle barrel. A large hole was
ripped in the target, but the paper bag was untouched. “Oh,” he said sadly,
lowering the rifle, “I seem to have missed. I guess I’ll have to try again.”
    He raised the rifle. Again the music climbed the heights of tension.
Again the audience pleaded and prodded. Finally he fired. The paper bag
burst into flame, instantly disintegrating into flame-tipped floating ashes.
But this time, when the smoke cleared, the target had disappeared – and in
its place hung a wooden bird cage with the white dove safely inside. It
chirped.
    The audience roared its delight. The women shook their heads from side
to side in admiration, the men nodded firmly; yes, by George, he’d fooled
them on that one.
    The night grew better. Jasper danced across the stage with confident
grace, playing, in turn, with each emotion of the audience. Early in the
evening they had given themselves to him, willingly suspending their
disbelief. What they knew to be impossible by virtue of everything they had
ever learned, they believed in. And savoured that experience just as they
would have if a sorcerer could really turn a red handkerchief into a live
dove. It was not possible and they knew it. But in the sense of the theatre,
it was real. That was the magic in Maskelyne’s performance.
    As he worked, Jasper was acutely attuned to everything taking place
around him. He listened for the minute clicks that indicated the apparatus
was prepared. He stole glances at Knox to make sure the next illusion was
ready. He steadied Kathy Lewis when her nervousness threatened to reveal
itself.
    He borrowed three gold rings from officers in the audience, including one
from Brigadier Chrystall, Cairo Area Commander, and dropped them into a
frying pan. After cracking three eggs over them, he fried them over a
burner. From the pan he produced three whole eggs, and from these eggs
three more doves, and attached to each bird was a slip of ribbon, each
ribbon securing one gold ring.
    Knox watched with delight from the wings. The performer was not at all
the man he knew so well. On stage, Maskelyne was every bit the West End
star. Dressed in his formal clothes, bathed in the spotlight, he seemed so
much more imposing than in daily life. He was perfectly handsome and
perfectly debonair; his voice was deep and melodious, lulling even. Frank
had difficulty believing this was the same man who had nervously paced
the lighthouse tower at Alexandria harbour.
    The professor peeked out at the audience from behind the curtain. A few
people were fanning themselves, but as Maskelyne moved gracefully across
the stage everyone’s eyes moved with him; when he directed their
attention elsewhere, they dutifully followed his direction. He appeared to
be working effortlessly, but Knox knew that each movement had been
painstakingly choreographed. Each foot position, hand gesture, dart of his
eyes, even the concerned furrowing of his brow, had been planned to lead,
then mislead, the audience, and had been rehearsed to perfection.
    The first act culminated with a stylized version of the popular illusion
invented by his grandfather, Eye of the Needle. Kathy was sealed inside a
miniature pyramid, its only visible opening a tiny hole at the apex, just
slightly larger than the circumference of a thin rope. “This allows her to
breathe,” Jasper explained to the absolutely silent audience. “Otherwise …”
He shook his head grimly. Then he climbed on top of the wooden pyramid,
apparently struggling to maintain his balance on its sloping sides. But as
soon as he heard the minute click from inside the box indicating Kathy was
ready, he steadied himself and nodded to assistants Hill and Graham. They
raised an Oriental foulard over the pyramid and, seconds later, lowered it.
Kathy was standing on top of the box, arms outstretched in triumph. And
when the door was opened Jasper was snuggled inside, incongruously
dressed in his flowing Chinese robe.
    Frank lowered the curtain.
    Sound mimic Tony Francis opened the second half of the variety with an
imitation of a Nazi fighter being shot out of the sky by battleship gunners.
Auburn-haired soprano Hede Shack followed with a selection of songs from
Madama Butterfly. Tommy Thomas, a Welsh baritone, sang a medley of
spirituals, but finished with a gripping rendition of the newly popular “White
Cliffs of Dover.” Then Jasper reappeared, dressed in the Chinese robe
adorned with cabalistic symbols. A finely carved stone sarcophagus was
hauled onto the stage with some difficulty to provide authentic atmosphere
for the next round of illusion.
    He opened with the Linking Rings. After allowing various high rankers in
the front to inspect the seven rings, and having them judged completely
whole, he did a lovely turn with them, putting them together and pulling
them apart, linking two, then three, finally all of them. Lieutenant General
Scott Fyfe-Whitney served as his foil. The General turned crimson at his
own inability to bang the rings together or, after Jasper had somehow
linked them, pull them apart.
    Following the rings, Kathy came on stage costumed in the full-length,
slit-thigh gown of an ancient Egyptian princess. She lay down on a Mamluk
carpet, and Jasper slowly levitated her. The audience chatted while she
floated in midair.
    Slowly, he lowered her. She awakened from her “trance” at the snap of
his fingers. The band blared victoriously.
    He moved right into the Mummy’s Case, a trick of torture. A realistic
mummy case seven feet high was opened to reveal rows of sharpened
spikes protruding from its cover. The good-natured General Whitney
returned to the stage to inspect this box. Fooled once, he searched it
thoroughly, then pronounced the spikes sharp and securely fastened, and
the case itself free of trapdoors or escape devices.
    Kathy was trembling as she stepped inside. As Jasper closed the lid she
looked at the audience with fearful, pleading eyes. Then he shut it slowly,
but firmly.
    She shrieked, but her voice died at the height of her scream. A thin red
liquid oozed from the bottom of the case.
    The diabolic smile dried on Maskelyne’s face, replaced by genuine
concern. He tore at the seals, practically ripping the case open. Hill and
Graham rushed on stage to help him. Quickly they smashed the seal and
swung open the case. A blood-red liquid dripped from the spike tips, but
the case itself was empty.
    A heartbeat later the grating sound of stone rubbing against stone
called attention to the sarcophagus. The men hurried over to it and
struggled with the massive lid. As they pushed it partially clear a delicate
hand appeared, and, seconds later, Kathy emerged safe and sound.
    Other wondrous illusions followed. As he worked, Jasper became charged
with the most special sense of happiness. It was the joy of the performer
on stage, a feeling he’d somehow lost as one show had eased into another
and then another through the years, and the years themselves had been
measured by the number of performances. It was a feeling of exhilaration
so unique that he had never been able to explain it, even to Mary. Only
others who had lived in the spotlight, who had heard the applause, who
had been loved by an audience, could understand it.
    More than a year had passed since he’d worked in front of a full house
and, though he was that much older, the audience made him ageless. He
fought the urge to smile, to laugh with happiness, as his act required
control of every emotion. But he was having a wonderful time.
    After a simple substitution, during which he did a quick change back into
his formal attire, he stepped to centre stage. “I’ve saved this for last
because it is the most dangerous,” he explained matter-of-factly. “There is
sufficient air inside a sealed sarcophagus for a man to survive
approximately three minutes. I can hold my breath for perhaps an
additional two minutes. If I haven’t emerged from the box in six minutes or
less, I ask my assistants to break me out to save my life.”
    The dubious General Whitney inspected the coffin for trapdoors and air
holes, and found none. Jasper lay down inside and it was closed. Whitney
checked the lid to ensure that it was airtight. On occasion, Maskelyne had
had real problems with this type of box trick. Besides the Huey Green
fiasco, doors had jammed or assistants had forgotten to open locks on a
number of occasions. The danger was small, but real.
    Two minutes passed. A faint banging was heard, but soon faded.
    The third and fourth minutes ticked by loudly. Some people in the
audience began murmuring. It was a trick, certainly, but tricks had been
known to go awry. And it was well known that Egyptian stone coffins were
airtight to ensure preservation.
    The fifth minute passed with no indication of life coming from the coffin.
The band played haphazardly, some of the musicians peeking above the rim
of the stage to peer at the box.
    Six minutes. Graham rushed to the sarcophagus. “Help me,” he pleaded,
waving to a group of assistants in the wings. They rushed on stage.
General Whitney strained with them, but the lid wouldn’t budge. Kathy
stood by helplessly, covering her mouth with a clenched fist. Another thirty
seconds passed and still the lid wouldn’t budge. One of the stagehands
took a step back to wipe his brow. Just before plunging back into the group
struggling to lift the lid, he glanced over his shoulder at the audience. And
winked. It was Maskelyne.
    Then he dived back to work. Those people who recognized him in the
grey jumpsuit were laughing hysterically; those who did not were trying to
figure out what could possibly be so funny at this desperate time. Finally,
the workers managed to push back the lid. Inside the coffin, in Jasper’s
place, was a child’s doll wrapped in mummy cloth.
    Maskelyne was sent off with a standing ovation and soon reappeared to
thank them all for their attendance. They cheered loudly and he bowed from
the waist.
    Then, abruptly, the applause fell off. A buzz rose from the audience and
grew into a loud roar. Seemingly growing from Jasper’s body was – Adolf
Hitler! Maskelyne glanced down at his side. Then did an admirable double
take. “I say, I certainly didn’t expect to see you here tonight!”
    The figure reached full growth and stepped away from him. Almost
everyone in the audience booed.
    “Tell me, Mr Hitler,” Jasper said after quieting them down, “why did you
start this terrible war?”
    “Hitler” answered in a voice sounding suspiciously like Bill Robson, “I
need da vork. Iffen I coulda gotten mine work as a painter I vould’ve been
happy.” He lowered his voice and admitted, “But I ain’t such a good painter
neither.”
    The audience roared its delight. More questions followed, then “Hitler”
began dissolving. Maskelyne shook his fist angrily at the fading apparition,
warning, “And don’t come back,” until it disappeared.
    Then he took the rousing cheers of the audience, and Knox brought
down the curtain.
    Everyone departed properly mystified. They gathered in groups as they
exited, remembering the illusions that most pleased them and attempting
to figure out how they had been accomplished. Jasper relaxed in his small
dressing room. In a few hours he would put on his uniform and go back to
his military work, but this was a time to be savoured. It had been a good
show. Considering that none of his assistants had ever before set foot on a
magic stage, it had been a remarkably good show. There were some rough
edges that could easily be smoothed over, but he knew his performance
had been appreciated and was aware the show would be the main talk of
Cairo the following day.
    Several people squeezed into his dressing room to offer congratulations,
among them Kathy Lewis’s boss, Brigadier Dudley Clarke. Jasper had met
the popular A-Force commander during the investigation of the mysterious
chocolates, but had not seen him since. After the crowd of well-wishers had
thinned, Clarke stepped forward and said he’d been delighted by the show,
then asked if the magician had ever considered adapting his skills to the
world of espionage.
    Maskelyne had been thinking about precisely that since the day he’d first
heard his father’s tale of T. E. Lawrence and the “magicians.” “A bit,” he
admitted.
    “You know, there’s not really much difference between what I do and
what you do,” Clarke said cheerfully. “I’ll bet if you put your mind to it
there’s all sorts of wonderful contraptions you can develop to help my
people. They can use it, you know; gathering information can be a tricky
business.”
    Maskelyne found it interesting that Brigadier Clarke avoided the word
“spy.” He agreed to consider the offer, and the two men made plans to
meet again.
    Cairo loved the magic show. The English-language daily newspaper, the
Egyptian Gazette, called it “one of the most delightful entertainments ever
seen” in the city. The reception forced him to extend its run. Three
performances a weekend were scheduled through the end of the summer,
and sold out as soon as the tickets went on sale. Although Maskelyne
grumbled about the extra work that would be required, in fact he was quite
pleased at the visibility it gave him. Not only did the publicity open doors
at GHQ for him, it enabled him to jump the long waiting lines at
Shepheards. He enjoyed being treated as a celebrity again.
    By August, Magic Valley had begun to resemble a real factory complex.
“In another few weeks,” Maskelyne told Major Barkas as he showed him the
facilities, “this place’ll be just like home.”
    “If you live in an army camp,” Knox interjected.
    Barkas was pleased at the progress of the construction programme, but
that was not the reason for his visit. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, things
have changed quite a lot since Auchinleck came over. He’s much more old
school than Wavell, forms in triplicate, everything through channels,
training courses in the desert. I must say, we had a time trying to explain
your section to him. ‘Maskelyne the magician?’ he kept repeating, ‘What is
a magician doing in the Engineers?’ The concept seemed to baffle him. And
Cunningham’s very much from the same mould. Anyway, Maskelyne, we
have a problem …”
    As Barkas continued, Jasper looked hard at him. He had weathered well.
The desert had browned him, and trimmed him, and his eyes were clear,
showing no trace of the smoky glaze so common in London. The
transformation from peacetime film producer to British Army officer had
been complete. The man radiated the strength of purpose necessary in a
commander and, had Maskelyne not known better, could have easily passed
as a longtime regular.
    It made Jasper wonder how much he himself had changed. Was he still a
civilian at war or, like Barkas, had he become a soldier? He knew his body
was trimmer than in recent memory, and military slang was now a natural
part of his language, but what about his mind, the way he thought? Had he
begun thinking as a soldier? It was not a question he could easily answer.
    “… so, in just a few months, this is going to be a handsome army.
Problem is, we may not have a few months. We assumed Rommel would
get a bit weary sitting out there waiting, but …” The war had simmered
through most of the summer of 1941, but in early August Panzer Group
Africa had begun shifting about the desert. British Intelligence plotted the
moves, but could not seem to make any sense out of them.
    “Maybe Rommel’s just trying to confuse our intelligence branch,” Knox
suggested.
    “Aren’t we ready for him?” Jasper asked.
    Barkas shrugged. “Certainly not as ready as we’ll be in two months.
We’d give him a good go, no question about that, but as far as the
outcome …” His voice drifted into the unknown.
    The three men had settled down in the new dayroom. Two windows were
yet to be installed, and a patch of sky was visible through an uncovered
portion of the roof, but otherwise it was finished. Knox brewed up.
    “How much time before he comes at us?” Jasper asked.
    “Might as well ask the fortunetellers in the bazaar. Rommel knows we’re
bulking up and he must realize we’re capable of doing it faster than he is.
He might be willing to gamble he’s better prepared right now than we are
and come at us. That’s why I’m here. We’ve got to prevent him from moving
just yet.”
    Maskelyne and Frank asked simultaneously, “How?” – then glanced at
each other in surprise.
    “I wish I knew. Cunningham is open to suggestions.”
    Jasper considered the problem. “Assuming we could get anything we
needed right now, how would we keep him from moving?”
    “Fill in the gaps in the front line,” Barkas responded instantly. “Thicken
it up with tanks and guns and perhaps an infantry battalion if you’ve got a
spare one lying about.”
    “That’s it, then, isn’t it? That’s our answer.”
    Barkas didn’t understand. “Certainly it’s an answer, but hardly the
answer. Needing them isn’t having them, is it?”
    Jasper smiled smugly. The Magic Gang was about to manufacture an
army.

Mike Hill did not like the job of making bodies. “Strikes me as sort of odd,
you know. The kind of thing that brings bad luck.”
   Robson patiently explained they weren’t bodies. “They’re just dummies,
that’s all. Like scarecrows, or like the fashion dummies in department store
windows.”
   “And there’s quite a few in the sappers, too,” Graham shouted from a
prone position on the hard dayroom floor. He had knocked his back out of
whack lifting timbers at Maryût Bay and was trying to stretch it back into
form. “You wouldn’t find me out there digging for land mines. Besides,
we’re almost finished with that part of the job.”
   “Turning ’em out faster than God, I’ll bet,” Hill grumbled.
   “Here, now, Private,” scolded Fuller, carefully stepping over Graham en
route to the kettle, “let’s watch our language, now.”
   “But I’m not saying nothing.”
   “You can say that again,” Graham said, drawing a mild chuckle.
   Robson looked up from the yellowing copy of Parade, the soldiers’
magazine he was reading. “Hey, Mike,” he teased, “what would you know
about God, anyway?”
   Hill faced him squarely. “Lots. I’ve heard all sorts of rumours.”
   Robson heaved the old magazine at him.
   Hill sidestepped it deftly, then waited for the chorus of hoots and
laughter to subside before continuing, “C’mon, I’m serious. Seeing that line
of bodies coming out of the shops gives me the willies, that’s all. It’s just
strange.”
    These “bodies” were the foundation of an entire dummy army that soon
appeared on the desert. To help convince Rommel that Eighth Army was
prepared to fight, the Gang had begun turning out dummy soldiers, artillery
pieces and tanks in large quantities. These props were placed among actual
concentrations in the field whenever possible. The plan was to secretly
replace this canvas-and-cardboard army with real soldiers as they
completed training and with equipment as soon as it arrived.
    Actually, Maskelyne had been manufacturing “men” in his workshop for
two decades. Lifelike figures were often substituted for human assistants in
difficult sword-passes, locked-cabinet and levitation illusions. With dimmed
lighting, black velvet backing and hidden microphones, these stage
dummies easily passed as magician’s assistants. But Jasper was well aware
that his audience in the desert would be much less easily deceived.
    Ordinary cardboard flats had been used in great numbers during the
post-Dunkirk panic in England, but they cast distorted shadows and would
not serve in the desert. To fool sophisticated Nazi photo interpreters, these
artificial or “Chinese” men had to cast lifelike shadows and even appear to
be moving.
    Maskelyne finally decided to make his soldiers out of cardboard, canvas
and tubing. Tubular arms and legs were twisted into various shapes to give
the impression of movement. Some of the dummies were in perpetual
midstep, others were in sitting positions, many were running, and a few,
dubbed “Hill’s boys,” were lying down with their “hands” clasped behind
their neck, as if stealing forty winks. Discarded uniforms were used when
available, and the dummies wore the usual wide variety of desert headgear.
Townsend, who was becoming an exceptional colour camoufleur, dressed
them with paint, cloth and plaster. Robson added a humorous touch by
stuffing the bellies of some of them with balled-up cloth and calling them
sergeants.
    Seen at close range, Maskelyne’s soldiers wouldn’t fool anyone. They
looked like bundles of costumed cloth and cardboard twisted into natural
positions. But when these figures were added to dense troop
concentrations and observed from thousands of feet in the air, they came
alive. Thus, forward platoons became phantom companies, and were
outfitted with the appropriate number of tents, dummy wooden rifles and
rows of tin hats that were piled up outside the tents. In many camps night
fires were lit to keep the “men” warm, although careful attention had to be
paid lest they be set on fire.
    From the very beginning of the project, Jasper intended to make
lightweight, folding artillery pieces and tanks just as he would make stage
tables or prop automobiles, by stretching painted canvas over tubular
frames.
    Prior to this point, cumbersome wooden dummy tanks had been used by
Wavell to dupe the Italians. These “tanks” were made by tacking painted
sackcloth over full-sized wooden frames. The resulting “tanks” were so
unwieldy six men and a truck were needed to move them. Four of these
dummies could be squeezed onto the bed of a five-tonner if the truck sides
were lowered. Often, because of the difficulty in moving them, after being
used once these monsters were abandoned to rot in the desert.
    From a distance beyond one thousand yards, the wooden dummy might
have passed as a real Matilda, except when it got soaked by the cold
morning dew. Then the damp sackcloth sagged and the “tank” appeared to
be melting.
    “It’s a dummy tank, all right,” Robson said derisively as the Gang
inspected one of these hulks, “named after the dummy who designed it.”
He rubbed his hand against the coarse sacking, and bits of paint flaked off.
“Look at this. Just who the devil did they expect to fool with this bonfire?”
    Jasper pried loose a rotting board from the hull. “I’m told it was actually
quite effective against the Italians.”
    Robson looked at him dubiously. “Come on.”
    “It’s true,” Maskelyne insisted. “They were afraid Wavell was going to
make them carry it.”
    While Jasper designed a totally new dummy tank, Townsend
experimented with tank camouflage patterns, carefully painting in the
shadows needed to provide a sense of depth, while Hill supervised the
collection of materials from the salvage dump. For the first time, Jack Fuller
was given an important assignment. Maskelyne knew that Rommel had
mounted his dummy tanks on Volkswagen chassis so that they could scoot
about the desert under their own power, and he wanted the Gang’s tanks to
be able to do the same. Fuller was detailed to obtain as many motorized
chassis as he could through the motor pool and, if he couldn’t get enough
there, to make arrangements to buy them on the thriving black market.
    Sergeant Fuller was the perfect man for the task. Having served in the
Basin for so long, he knew how to work through military channels and how
to bargain with the locals. Indeed, his proper bearing made him an
excellent negotiator, for he never gave away his position by showing too
much emotion.
    Maskelyne’s dummy tank was simply an elaborate stage prop. He
handmade the prototype with Graham, and they carried it out of the
workshop in five separate pieces. Each part was made of white sailcloth
stretched tautly over three-eighth-inch rods and three-quarter-inch gas
piping, and could be folded flat or snapped rigidly into shape. The massive
tank hull, the lower tread section, looked like two four-foot-high pontoons
connected by thin wire rods. A rectangular platform approximately one foot
tall was laid on top of these pontoons to serve as the turret foundation.
Maskelyne designed this platform so that it would protrude over the sides
of the hull and cast accurate shadows. An octagonal three-foot turret,
resembling a large hatbox with round gun ports scissored into it, was
mounted on this foundation, and a smaller, round turret topped the dummy.
Five wooden gun barrels, including a three-incher and a swivelling machine
gun, completed the replication.
    The Magic Gang “tank” could be hinged together in minutes and carried
by two men. Compared to Wavell’s wooden dummies that fitted four to a
five-tonner, eighteen of these “tanks” could be folded and transported in
the bed of a standard three-tonner.
    Standing unpainted in the middle of the main yard, Maskelyne’s white
sailcloth dummy looked as if it had been sculpted out of a block of snow.
But after Townsend’s paint crew had finished its detailed work, it was
almost impossible to tell the bogus tank from a real Matilda. Even the
shadows cast by the prop accurately duplicated those of a genuine tank.
    Fuller managed to scrounge twenty-six jeep and automobile hulks and a
dummy tank shell was individually fitted onto each of them. Most of these
chassis came from the motor pool, but six of them had been purchased on
the black market. “There were these two brothers and they thought they
had me over a barrel,” the sergeant said gleefully as he related his
adventures in the marketplace to the Gang, “but when I actually turned
around and walked away from them they met my price. Well, I guess we
compromised. Hardest part of all was getting them to sign the receipts.”
    Robson winced.
    “I just told them that I couldn’t make a government purchase unless I
received an authorized receipt, but I’m not sure they understood.” Fuller
laughed at the memory. “I’ll be truthful, I don’t believe they signed their
real names on the slips.”
    “The man’s having us on, isn’t he,” Robson pleaded. “Someone tell me
he’s not serious.”
    Hill shook his head. “Sorry, mate, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for
you. He’s got the receipts.”
    The cartoonist clamped both hands over his heart and collapsed onto the
floor.
    Townsend came into the dayroom just in time to catch Robson’s
dramatic reaction. “What’s with him?” he asked coolly, “Nails’s cooking
again?” On occasion Graham had made breakfast for the Gang, usually with
distasteful results.
    “Nothing so simple,” Hill explained. “It seems Fuller went into the
market and asked for receipts.”
    “Did I do something wrong?” the Sergeant asked. “There is a right way
to do these things and a wrong way, isn’t there? After all, we should
remember that we are the King’s representatives here.”
    Robson was laughing so hard he couldn’t get off the floor.
    Townsend looked at Fuller and said softly, “Sergeant Jack, I’ll wager His
bloody Majesty doesn’t even know we’re bloody here.”
    “Now, that’s not the point, is it?” In reality, Fuller never did produce
these receipts, and no one ever found out if he was, indeed, having them
on.
    In addition to the motorized chassis, some “tanks” were mounted on
rubber tyres and attached to the self-propelled dummies by a thin towline.
Although these mobile dummies could be used only in areas of “hard
going,” or firm ground, stationary frames could be set up in soft sand for
German inspection, then folded up and carried to another location.
    The artillery pieces of Maskelyne’s cardboard army, like the “tanks,” were
made of canvas, cardboard, rods, hinges and painted sailcloth, and could be
folded almost flat for easy transport. Their long “gun barrels” came out of
the salvage dump, where Hill had discovered a field of abandoned piping.
These pipes – gas pipes, drainpipes, tubing, rubber-hose sections, thin oil
lines, even sewage pipes large enough for a grown man to squeeze through
– were cut to required size and painted the correct colour. Under one
jumble of twisted and rusted metal hosing the Gang discovered countless
cardboard tubes used once to transport Bofors antiaircraft ammunition – all
neatly piled, as if just waiting for the proper suitor to come along and claim
them. Hill took one look at these long cylinders and envisioned a glorious
fireworks display on Guy Fawkes Day. “Squibs,” he shouted, meaning larger
bangers, or firecrackers, and descended on the pile.
    “Shell casings,” Maskelyne corrected officiously.
    General Cunningham was extremely pleased with the Gang’s artillery,
and the guns were added to desert batteries as quickly as they could be
pasted, stapled and glued together. But Maskelyne was not satisfied. After
observing the guns in position in the field he decided they had to fire.
    “They can’t fire,” Frank pointed out. “They’re made of cardboard.”
    If canvas tanks could move, Jasper insisted, cardboard guns could fire.
“As long as our real artillery is quiet,” he explained, “the dummies are just
fine. But once the shooting starts, Jerry’s going to realize that entire
batteries aren’t firing. If we could somehow rig them to produce accurate
muzzle flashes and smoke trails, Rommel would never be able to tell
they’re just flimsies.”
    “And if you could make a picture of a diamond sparkle we’d all be rich,”
Nails Graham tossed in.
    “The guns have got to fire,” Jasper repeated, then set to work figuring
out how to make that possible.
    The solution came from his childhood. “The guns are going to fire,” he
announced a few days later as he walked into the dayroom. “They won’t do
any damage, but they will fire.” Then he joined Knox and Graham at the
round table and told them the story of his father and the rocket.
    Nevil Maskelyne’s great passion was rockets and fire balloons. He
combined this love with his knowledge of photography and became the first
man to successfully photograph an artillery shell in flight. On the second
Sunday of every month he would go into the Kentish fields to launch a
rocket or fire balloon. Labels were attached to each balloon offering a
reward to the person who found it, and in this way flights were tracked as
far away as Germany and Denmark. At about the same time American
scientist Robert Goddard was publishing his landmark paper “A Method of
Reaching Extreme Altitudes,” Nevil Maskelyne was launching rockets four
feet long and one and a half feet wide miles into the sky.
    “My job was to pack the ground firmly at the base of the rocket,” Jasper
told the Gang. “Normally it would rise straight into the morning sky with a
furious roar and fiery tail, then curve gracefully back to earth.”
    Hill walked in bleary-eyed and poured himself a cuppa as Maskelyne
finished his story.
    “One time, though, I must not have done my job too well, because
instead of rising, the rocket whirled madly in its pit, then tore loose and,
instead of going up, sailed like a burning comet a few feet off the ground.
It finally slammed into the door of a small cottage and stuck there like a
giant flaming arrow. The owner heard this tremendous thump and opened
his door. He reeled backward, screaming to his wife, ‘Run, Love, the Devil’s
called,’ and fainted dead away.”
    Hill stood behind Knox sipping his coffee. When the friendly laughter
had died, he asked, “Is our magician telling stories again?”
    Frank glanced over his shoulder. “Well, well, look who’s here. Nice of you
to join us this morning, Private Hill. I trust you had a pleasant evening.”
    Hill answered with a salacious wink.
    “Well, then I’m surprised you’re back so early. If I was your age …”
    “You would’ve been here since last night,” Hill finished, meanwhile
leaning over to lift a sausage from Frank’s plate with his fingers. “There
are–”
    “Hey, wait a sec,” Nails interrupted. “I’d like to know what the
connection is between Jay’s father’s rockets and our guns.”
    Maskelyne explained. “The rockets blasted off in a great explosion of
smoke and flame. The higher we wanted them to fly, the more fuel we’d put
in the tank; the more fuel in the tank, the greater the blastoff would be. All
we’ve got to do is mix up a batch of rocket fuel and we’ve got our artillery
burst. We’ll have to do some experimenting, but we should be able to
duplicate any type of cannon flash.”
     After testing various mixtures, Jasper finally decided to load the dummy
shells for his cardboard guns with aluminium powder, which produced the
flash, black gunpowder for smoke and iron filings to add the necessary red
tint to the flash. The cardboard packing tubes originally used to transport
real Bofors shells were used as casings for this dummy ammunition.
     Even with the expert assistance of the ordnance section, it took days of
testing and tinkering to match accurately the muzzle flashes and smoke
trails of each of the various large guns being used on the desert, but
eventually a set of specifications was produced. Unfortunately, each dummy
shell had to be hand-packed and there was not enough measuring
equipment available in the Delta to ensure the necessary uniformity. Since
enemy intelligence would immediately detect firing irregularities, some
means had to be found to guarantee the charges would be evenly loaded.
“The wife would do it with spoons,” Fuller said, and was ignored.
     Nails Graham improvised a measuring siphon, but it proved too unwieldy
to be useful.
     “Why don’t you try the spoons?” Fuller suggested, and was again
brushed off.
     Maskelyne’s experiment with punctured mess cups failed.
     “Spoons.”
     After Robson’s counterbalance scale fell apart, the Engineers tried the
Mrs Fuller method and discovered it was simple and reliable, and that’s the
way the shells were loaded. A dummy Bofors shell consisted of four dessert
spoons of aluminium powder, two teaspoons of black powder and a pinch of
iron filings. A twenty-five-pounder required six dessert spoons of aluminium
powder, three mess-kit spoons of black powder and, again, a pinch of iron
filings. The men loading the cardboard charges wore gloves and aprons to
keep the burning powder out of their desert sores and insect bites, and
goggles to keep specks out of their eyes. Naturally, the Magic Valley hut in
which they worked became known as the Kitchen, while they were “cooks”
and the specifications their “recipes.”
     At dusk one night in late August a demonstration was held on a field at
one of General Auchinleck’s new desert training sites. Two cardboard guns
had been placed at random in a battery of six real artillery pieces. Lengths
of metal pipe had been buried in the sand directly below the wooden
barrels of the dummy guns and loaded with Magic Gang dummy
ammunition. Jasper stood with the invited officers about two thousand
yards from the firing line, trying to look as inconspicuous among them as
his folding guns looked among real five-inchers and howitzers. At
seven-thirty a spotter aircraft circled overhead, and the battery fired its
first salvo.
     Eight balls of flame ripped into the twilight, and coils of smoke twisted
lazily from each barrel as the crews rapidly reloaded. Care had been taken
to make sure the location of the dummy guns was not given away during
reloading.
     Maskelyne silently mouthed his magic words “Hey presto!” just as the
second volley exploded. The illusion was so complete none of the
assembled officers even attempted to pick out the cardboard guns.
   The third round had the brass agreeing that the dummies could not be
detected in the field. “They’re absolutely amazing,” gushed an Armoured
colonel. “Why, except for the fact that they don’t do anything, your guns
are just as good as real guns.”
   Jasper was quite relieved Hill was not there to make the same comment
about ranking officers.
   After the demonstration, the effusive colonel took him aside and
reminded him that something would have to be done about flash burns.
“You can’t fire the big guns without scorching the earth in front of them,
you know,” he said.
   Black cloth would be laid in front of the dummies to simulate scorched
earth, Maskelyne replied. When the guns were folded up the pieces of cloth
would be picked up and all traces of the battery would disappear, “just as if
someone had waved them away with a magic wand.”
   The folding guns and the dummy ammunition were put into production
and quickly joined the “men” and “tanks” of the Magic Gang army “filling the
gaps” in the front line. Although Panzer Group Africa continued shifting
about, no offensive in force was attempted.
   Major Barkas was elated by Maskelyne’s bogus army, and he frequently
stopped by Magic Valley to watch the cloth men, canvas tanks and
cardboard guns be carted off to the front. “It’s amazing, Maskelyne,” he
said one day. “It takes you two years to get into the army, and less than a
year later you’re making your own.”


                                  Seven
Maskelyne was stalking a beefy fly in his office one morning a few weeks
later, armed only with a bloodied swatter, when Major Barkas knocked
politely on the doorframe. The long-promised office doors had not yet
arrived. Jasper ended his hunt with a powerful but ineffective slap, and
watched unhappily as the desert fly disappeared into the whirling blades of
the overhead fan. “What do you think,” he asked in greeting, “more flies or
sand in the desert?”
    “Sand,” Barkas said emphatically. “The real question is, are there more
dotty officers out here than flies?”
    “Well, now,” Jasper teased as he hung up his weapon, “aren’t you the
cheerful one this morning.”
    The major settled into the easy chair. “On your behalf,” he pointed out.
“It seems you’ve finally succeeded in convincing Gray Pillars you’re some
kind of Merlin.”
    “Oh?”
    “They’d like you to have a go at hiding the Suez Canal.”
    Maskelyne assumed Barkas was kidding. “Hide it? Is that all? I was
hoping for something more difficult.”
    “Hide it. Disguise it. Turn it into a dance palace for all they care, but
they want something done to protect it from German bombers. It’s absurd,
of course, it can’t be done.” He paused, then grinned mischievously.
Maskelyne had already proved he could accomplish the seemingly
impossible. “Can it?”
    The Suez Canal was the most important link in the British supply chain.
It connected the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, cutting the maritime
distance between London and Far Eastern ports almost in half. As Barkas
pointed out – using a series of topographic maps to illustrate the problem –
its size made it extremely vulnerable. The canal was one hundred and
seven miles long, but less than seventy yards wide and only forty-two feet
deep at most points. If the Germans were able to close it, or even block it
temporarily by sinking a single ship, British convoys would be forced to
make the longer, hazardous voyage around the Cape of Good Hope, and
every Commonwealth army would suffer.
    Intelligence Branch did not believe that the Luftwaffe would
saturation-bomb the area, as had been done at Alexandria harbour,
because Rommel would desperately need the canal once Eighth Army had
been defeated. But GHQ did fear that the Germans might attempt to shut it
temporarily by sinking a ship in the narrow channel or, failing that, mining
it. To prevent this, anti-torpedo nets had been stretched just below the
surface of the water to catch anything dropped from an aircraft, and
minesweepers continually patrolled it, but the Canal Defence Force wanted
to do more to ensure its security. Having learned through the “old-boy
network” of Maskelyne’s success at Alexandria, they wanted him to make
the entire canal disappear.
    Jasper and Frank Knox flew to Suez to inspect the canal defence system
which was nothing more than a thin line of antiaircraft batteries placed at
the most vulnerable points. Looking down on the majestic waterway from
one of these raised gun positions, Maskelyne was taken by its simple
beauty. “It’s really quite lovely,” he said admiringly. “You know, Frank, the
first canal was built in this area almost twenty thousand years ago. It was
blessed by Egypt’s high priests. If you close your eyes, and let your
imagination go …”
    Knox was not impressed by this history lesson. He thought the request
was ridiculous, and suggested the Gang could better spend its time on
more practical assignments. “Do you know how an African elephant hides
from its enemies?” he responded.
    Maskelyne did not.
    “It doesn’t. It’s too bloody big. And that’s what you’ve got here, Jay, a
big, bloody elephant.”
    After finishing their inspection they sat in a Suez café drinking warm
Stella beer. It seemed as if years had passed rather than months since
their indecorous landing there in the midst of Wavell’s retreat, and the
clamouring, overcrowded city had settled back into its normal chaos. While
Maskelyne sketched in his notebook Knox remained silent through two full
drafts, then, perhaps emboldened by the heady brew, declared flatly, “We
can’t do it, Jay. You’ll have to tell them it’s a no-go.”
    Jasper disagreed. The Gang, he reminded Frank, had managed to “move”
an entire harbour. And Barkas had told him that the Germans were
camouflaging rivers near power plants by sprinkling their surface with coal
dust, thus making them all but impossible to distinguish from nearby
macadam roads.
    “Might that work here?” the professor wondered.
    “No, ’fraid not. They know precisely where the canal is. I daresay if a
motorway suddenly appeared in its place they’d be pretty certain not to
drive over it.” Even the officially neutral Americans were working on
methods to protect large targets, he continued, telling Knox about a
scheme to protect the George Washington Bridge in New York. An aerial
view of the bridge had been painted on a canvas which was to be
suspended across the Hudson River downstream, and lighted when enemy
aircraft approached. High winds had ruined the first attempt by tearing the
canvas to shreds before it could be hung. “We can do something with the
canal,” he concluded. “It’s just a matter of applying the proper principle to
the situation.”
    In the street directly in front of them an exhausted gharry horse had
collapsed onto its haunches. Its driver was kicking the animal while loudly
beseeching his favourite gods to make it get back to work. A small crowd
had gathered to shout advice. Maskelyne understood enough of the local
dialect to realize that they were mostly critical of the man’s kicking
technique. A lively debate was in progress concerning the proper method of
booting a lazy horse.
    Jasper’s examples had not convinced Knox. “I still think there are better
ways to spend your time,” he said. “The blasted thing is over a hundred
miles long. Just one small mine planted anywhere, and all our efforts would
be wasted.” He set his mug down thoughtfully. “Look here, I don’t like
being the voice of doom, but there are some projects we simply will not be
able to do. Just because some colonel wants us to make a camel fly doesn’t
mean we can do it. You’ve got to realize that, Jay, because it does us no
good at all to waste our time running fool’s errands.” The shouting in the
street was getting louder, so he had to raise his voice to hold Maskelyne’s
attention. “It’s no bloody disgrace admitting someone’s idea isn’t possible.
We’ve come here and looked the place over, and it just isn’t possible.”
    Jasper was not yet ready to admit that. “Be optimistic, Frank. There’s a
way to do almost anything. Once, you know, I actually did manage to hide
an elephant at centre stage.”
    Frank looked at him dubiously. “No. How’d you manage that?”
    “Put a horned helmet on its head and taught it to sing soprano.”
    On the pavement behind them, two Egyptians in the crowd began hurling
terrible curses at each other. One of them, in a rage, knocked the tarboosh
from the other’s head. The second man retaliated by ripping the first man’s
jellaba, and they started banging away at each other. They locked arms and
fell heavily into the street. Meanwhile, the gharry horse, having rested
sufficiently, stood up and pulled the carriage away, being careful to step
over the street fighters.

While Maskelyne and Knox were touring the canal fortifications, work
continued at Magic Valley. Graham was nominally in charge during their
absence, but had little to do. The factories were busy turning out soldiers,
tanks, guns and ammunition for the ghost army, and construction of the
Valley was almost complete. The men of the Magic Gang had taken full
advantage of this summer lull to explore the Nile Basin. Because the enemy
concentrated their efforts on strategic targets rather than population
centres, Cairo was considered a safe city.
    The great city was an oasis of pleasures. There existed something to
fulfil any man’s desires, be it watching Errol Flynn and Bette Davis cavort
in The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex or Roland Drew and Steffi Duna
in Hitler, Beast of Berlin, taking in a cricket match or a football game,
betting on the horses on Gezira Island, attending a symphony concert,
dining and dancing on a moonlit rooftop, touring historic Cairo and the
biblical desert, playing ping-pong, polo or golf, shooting skeet or game,
going for a camel ride, shopping in luxurious department stores or in the
alley bazaars, participating in discussion groups, studying languages or
drinking and socializing with women.
    Private Hill, in particular, was enamoured of the city. It had not taken
him long to discover that Cairo was a vineyard ripe with women: hundreds
of women, thousands of women, women of substance and breeding and
street women, beautiful women and ugly women, women of all sizes and
shapes and ages and colours and nationalities, women to bring pleasure
and women to pick pockets, women to predict the future, women to satisfy
every conceivable desire. The city was redolent with their perfumes. And,
although Hill cut a path into their numbers, and some of them made him
temporarily cheerful, none of them made him content. For the first time in
his life, Michael Hill felt terribly unfulfilled.
    Something was most certainly wrong. The fun that had once lasted
through the night now bored him early in the evening. The women seemed
less desirable, the cheap alcohol tasted cheap, and, worse, he found
himself placidly moving to the sidelines when a brawl threatened to erupt
in the clubs. There were still great moments to be savoured, memories that
would warm distant years, like the night he nearly married the danseuse du
ventre from the Kit Kat Cabaret, but these came less frequently.
    He wondered if it had to do with the presence of fluky death. In his old
days in London, there had been a few close brushes with the cold hand. At
eleven, he had watched a playmate disappear under a collapsing brick wall
and that had hurt, but briefly, and differently. And once he’d seen a local
character stabbed to death on a back street. But there seemed to be an
explanation for these deaths. His friend had gone into a condemned
building to prove his bravery; the street chap was being repaid for an
earlier slight. Here, in the desert, death was capricious. Men he drank with
at the Melody Club at night were corpses baking in the desert the next
morning. There was no sense of order to it, no means of increasing the
odds. One sergeant who survived the massacre at Hellfire Pass took a local
girl into the desert and died when they lay down on a German mine. A
Desert Rat in after a two-month trek through Jerrytown died in a traffic
accident. Death happened too often and too randomly. Survival had become
a game of chance.
    At first, Hill tried to ignore this uneasy feeling, hoping it would
disappear like one of Maskelyne’s handkerchiefs. But it persisted, and none
of the old balms, the women, the alcohol, the fists or the games, made him
feel any better. Sometimes he thought he must be losing his nerve, but he
steadfastly refused to believe that was really possible. Not him. It had to
be something else.
    Whatever its cause, it plagued him through the summer. Only when he
was totally absorbed in some Magic Gang project or, surprisingly, with
Kathy Lewis, did he feel like his good old self. And at those times, he
roared.

The proper sergeant Jack Fuller had no such troubles. He was a soldier and
his army was at war. He was content. His assignment was a difficult one for
him, but still better than spending the war in the supply room to which he
had been attached. The Magic Gang was not part of the army he had been
trained to serve. The troops arrived at work and left on their private
schedules, formations were nonexistent, the commander, Maskelyne, was
on a first-name basis with his enlisted men and wouldn’t have known how
to conduct an inspection if one had become necessary, uniforms consisted
of whatever rig-out was available and the basic military courtesy, the
salute, was an odd relic.
     Occasionally a new unit would arrive in the area and come marching
jauntily into a bivouac site, and he would stand to the side and watch
proudly as the lines paraded into camp, heads bobbing as one on each
upstep, singing cadence as they marched. He longed for just one proper
formation, just one hot day hike to test his fitness, just one good round of
standard marching tunes.
     He fought the disorder as best he could, standing tall among the Gang
like a gentleman in a Cockney whorehouse. His uniform was always in
order, even if no one cared, and he always saluted – or, if he dared not risk
the indignity of having his salute ignored or mocked, he saluted mentally at
the correct moment, imagining his right hand arching to his brow,
meanwhile fighting that inveterate urge and holding his arm tightly to his
side. He was determined to set an example, even if no one followed.
     But, to his amazement, Union Jack, as he had become known within the
Gang, found himself taking real pride in his membership in this strange
little outfit. There was an innocence about Maskelyne and his chaps that
made them endearing, even to one so firmly schooled in tradition as
himself, and made him want to protect them from the regular
establishment he knew so well. The Magic Gang was a bunch of outcasts,
even in an army filled with rogues, and there was some thrill in being an
irregular. Fuller believed that the jungle boys in the Italian campaign must
have experienced that same feeling, that surge of pride in being dismissed
by right-thinking officers and fighting past them to an important slot in the
Army.
     Just to prove to Jasper Maskelyne and the understanding Frank Knox and
the rest of them that he could be one of the boys if he so desired, he
allowed his moustache to sprout far beyond regulation length and took to
wearing a bright-red bandanna around his neck. It was all terribly
non-uniform, and uncomfortable, but it was necessary. He did remove the
scarf when he had to go into the city, however. There was such a thing as
propriety.

Squeezed between the opposites Hill and Fuller, the other men experienced
similar emotions. They fitted nowhere else, but they fitted together tightly.
Each man had carved out his own area of responsibility. Graham with his
blacksmith’s arms took charge of anything to do with wood. Robson would
push his eyeglasses high up on the bridge of his nose and make things
appear on paper as well as the head magician would on stage. Union Jack
was their connection with the Regular Army. At times the others thought
his behaviour was a bit off the mark, particularly his adherence to archaic
military regulations, but he was always good for a beer, a fiver and advice
on how to buck the system. That last, though, was always tempered with
the phrase “Not that I would do it myself, or suggest anyone else do it, but
…” And Hill … Private Michael Hill was the troublesome itch that they made
a great show of tolerating but in fact really enjoyed. He did whatever had
to be done, always with loud complaint, but somehow got his assignment
accomplished.
    Without talking about it, or consciously deciding, they found themselves
spending their free time as well as their workday together. The pride they
took in their accomplishments bound them together. They called
themselves the Gang, and enjoyed thinking of themselves as a bunch of
unruly artists fighting the rigid military establishment. In fact they had
become a well-organized unit.
    Only the brooding painter Philip Townsend remained aloof. No matter
how they tried to draw him into their tightening circle, he resisted,
preferring to go his own way without explanation. He was usually polite,
unless pressed, and did his work well, but seemed weighted with secrets
and dark possibilities. The others finally left him alone.
    He had painted furiously throughout the summer, attacking his canvas
with violent colours and hideous figures. He painted his surrealistic view of
war: soldiers without arms playing ball sports in the desert, bloody
skeletons in full dress on parade, corpses melting into the sands. Once
Frank Knox, trying to be friendly, asked him why he painted death. “I
don’t,” he replied, “I paint life the way it is.”
    Maskelyne shared the painter’s secret, but could not tell anyone else. As
unit commander it was his responsibility to read and censor all mail. It was
a job that made him feel like an intruder bumbling into other men’s lives,
but it was necessary. And while doing this job he had learned that Philip
Townsend’s wife had fallen in love with an American Army Air Force pilot
stationed in England.
    “Just now,” she had written in June, “I am afraid I am in the process of
falling in love rather badly. I feel awful about it and hesitated a lot about
telling you. It is an American pilot and he tells me he loves me. At the
moment I don’t know what to do about it. Oh, Philip, I feel so awful about
it – a bitch, in fact – and I just wouldn’t have let it happen. I’m fighting
against it, but it’s going to be rather difficult …”
    And later in the summer: “I have tried so hard to fight against these
feelings, but I must tell you I have not been able to. Perhaps if we had
been happier together it never would have happened …”
    Townsend’s letters to her rambled, sometimes forgiving, other times
vitriolic. His emotions shifted as aimlessly as the desert. In some letters
he pleaded with her to return to him, pouring out his love and offering
understanding. But just as often he wrote hateful things, things that would
hurt her.
    Invariably, as Jasper read these letters, he thought of Mary. Theirs was
an almost perfect relationship. His mind was full of warming memories. The
Sunday afternoon they rented a punt and floated the afternoon away on the
Thames. “Have you ever been happier in your whole life?” she had asked
him.
    “No, never,” he had replied, and meant it.
    He remembered their last night together. “Will you love me forever?”
she had asked.
    “More,” he’d answered. “More than forever, and even that isn’t long
enough.”
    She had smiled shyly, her cheeks had turned pink, and she told him, “I’m
so pleased.”
    Those were the thoughts a man at war should have about his wife,
Jasper knew, not the bitterness of Townsend. He avoided looking directly at
the painter when the man handed over letters to be censored, as much to
hide his own embarrassment as to protect Townsend. He made a few
dutiful attempts to discuss the situation, but was rebuffed each time.
Eventually, he asked a major in the Mechanical Section to censor the letters
for him but by that time Townsend had already engaged a solicitor to begin
divorce proceedings.

While the desert armies sweated through the summer busily arming for the
next massive thrust, the German Wehrmacht smashed deeper into Russia.
Kiev and Leningrad were under attack, and Stalin’s armies were retreating
deeper into the Soviet heartland.
    In London, Churchill was grateful for the temporary reprieve. The
American Lend-Lease programme had finally begun, but President Roosevelt
was still having difficulty in Washington with isolationists who wanted to
keep the United States out of a European war, and with militarists who
believed that even with the additional ships and guns England could not
survive, and that any arms sent there would eventually be turned against
America. The Prime Minister knew that if his dream of a grand alliance of
Britain, America and Russia was ever to be realized he needed a major
victory to convince the Americans Britain would endure. Victory over the
great General Rommel in North Africa would serve as proof that the
Commonwealth could carry its share of the burden.
    Churchill continually pressured Auchinleck to begin the promised
offensive, but the new Middle Eastern Command Commander-in-Chief
refused to attack until he was satisfied his army was properly armed and
trained. Asked by the Prime Minister when that might be, the “Auk”
promised an offensive in late autumn.
    In Egypt, Auchinleck and Eighth Army Commander Cunningham were
carefully shaping the army to their own specifications. Although
Cunningham maintained a confident appearance, in fact he was having a
difficult time. In addition to the tremendous logistical and planning
problems he had to deal with every day, his doctors had forced him to quit
smoking, and the effects of tobacco withdrawal were making him miserable.
    As Auchinleck had told Churchill, Operation Crusader was scheduled to
begin in November. Crusader was the most ambitious offensive yet
mounted in the desert. Eighth Army was to break out of its staging areas
and draw Rommel’s outnumbered armour into a decisive battle, then lift the
siege around Tobruk, reconquer Cyrenaica and, finally, proceed toward the
enemy’s headquarters in Tripoli.
    If Rommel did not attack first.

Maskelyne had returned to Magic Valley confident he could make the Suez
Canal disappear. There was really no reason it couldn’t be done. The same
optical principles that applied to stagecraft would work here – it was just a
question of providing the proper apparatus.
   The magician attacked the problem logically. What method might he use
to make a large object disappear from the stage? If possible, a trapdoor.
Traps were efficient and easily concealed from the audience. But that would
not be possible, not unless the legendary Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves
showed him the magical means to do so.
    Second, he might drop a black curtain over the object to be concealed,
and that curtain would blend into the black background. But, as Knox
pointed out, there was no curtain large enough to drop over the canal.
    He considered an arrangement of mirrors. There was a juicy story
spreading through the Delta that a Polish officer had the ability to remove
his head and cradle it in his arms. Jasper recognized this as an old and
rarely produced illusion made possible by carefully positioned reflectors. In
fact, sections of the canal could be made invisible from the air by mirrors,
but whether the entire waterway could be hidden that way was doubtful. He
worked with the concept for a few days, standing over his sand table and
moving small mirrors around, until he became convinced that the number of
mirrors needed to accomplish the feat made it impractical and, at least
under existing conditions, impossible.
    He decided he could distort the location of the canal by throwing
shadows across the ground, thus making it an extremely difficult target to
hit, but that too would require vast amounts of specialized equipment.
    At times he felt close to the answer, but as days and nights passed
without a practical solution emerging he grew discouraged. He began
working on other small projects for General Dudley Clarke to take his mind
off it, knowing that his subconscious would be churning away and might
simply present the answer to him.
    But it was his perseverance that finally paid off. With a wave of his
magic wand, in a puff of smoke and flame, he figured out how to make the
Suez Canal disappear.
    He tested his solution on Frank Knox. Seating the professor in the easy
chair rescued from the dump, he stepped behind a table and began his
demonstration. “I was looking for something overly sophisticated,” he
explained as he placed three black wooden balls and two army flashlights
on the table, “and that’s why I overlooked the obvious solution. Frank, you
know why magicians use flame and smoke on stage?”
    “Part of the show, I assume. To hide whatever they’re doing.”
    “Right. Generally those devices are used to obscure a disappearance or
an exchange taking place on the stage. But sometimes they’re used to draw
the audience’s attention to a specific area of the stage. No one can resist
turning to look at an unexpected burst of flame or a sudden puff of smoke.
And while their attention is there, you can be quite certain something else
is taking place on another part of the stage.” He held up the three balls,
two in his left hand, the third in his right hand. “I am holding three small
wooden balls,” he announced somewhat dramatically. “However, I want only
one. Watch carefully, please.” With a sudden, sweeping movement, Jasper
smacked his hands together and, so quickly that Knox almost missed it,
dropped two of the balls under the table. “Hey presto!” he sang, extending
two closed fists toward Knox. “Okay, Frank, in which hand are the little
balls?”
    Knox was slightly embarrassed at having seen the gimmick. It was not
in his nature to unmask anyone. “I’m afraid I got you this time, Jay,” he
said almost apologetically. “I saw you drop them under the table.”
    “Of course you did,” Maskelyne said triumphantly. “In order to make a
simple trick like this work I need something to divert your attention. And
that’s what I’ve been overlooking. I needed some sort of cover.” Reaching
down into the sack suspended from his belt, he retrieved the two balls.
“Now I want you to watch carefully. But first …”
    The two flashlights on the table were aimed directly at the professor.
Jasper flicked them on, forcing Knox to squint to see. “Watch carefully,
now,” he cautioned.
    Knox couldn’t see anything at all. The lights burned into his eyes,
causing his pupils to contract. He turned his head and tried to look from the
corners of his eyes. He shaded his brows. Nothing helped. A wall of bright
light separated him from Maskelyne.
    “Hey presto!” Jasper claimed, then asked Knox in which hand he was
holding the balls.
    “You know bloody well I can’t see anything,” Knox replied a bit huffily.
“Just turn those lamps off, please.”
    Maskelyne snapped them off. “Now tell me. Which hand?”
    The room was only barely visible to Knox. Chips of light danced gaily in
front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. “All
right,” he said, pushing his fingers under his glasses and trying to rub the
popping specks out of them, “you’ve obviously made your point. Now what
is it?” A full minute passed before he could make out the grin on the
magician’s face.
    “The answer was right there when we toured the canal.” Jasper picked
up one of the flashlights and snapped it on and off. “The antiaircraft lights.
Listen,” he said, striding gracefully around the table and standing over
Knox, “if we could get enough searchlights around the canal we could create
a curtain of light. If the lights were bright enough, trying to see through
that curtain to pick out the canal would be like trying to see the filament in
a lighted bulb. It just couldn’t be done.”
    As Frank’s eyes gradually readjusted to the normal light, the room and
the concept became clear. “Can we get enough lights?”
    Jasper laughed. “Of course not, we can’t get enough of anything. But we
can increase the luminosity of those that we’ve got.”
    Knox twisted the tip of his moustache as he considered the proposal.
“And it would work in daylight?”
    “It’s pretty bright in here right now, isn’t it? And you still couldn’t see.”
    The concept was so simple it was difficult for Knox to believe it would
work. But Maskelyne’s demonstration had been convincing. In theory at
least, the one-hundred-mile-long Suez Canal could be made to disappear in
an ocean of light.
    There existed in the autumn of 1941 a tremendous shortage of
high-intensity antiaircraft searchlights in North Africa. The few working
beacons that were available were constantly being shifted in anticipation of
bombing raids. A wrong guess or misinterpreted intelligence allowed the
German bombers to ride the night skies with impunity. Maskelyne knew that
only a few searchlights were available, even for the protection of the canal,
so somehow the power of each one would have to be magnified.
    The properties of light and their manipulation was a subject on which
Maskelyne was an expert. Many of the most popular tricks done at the
Egyptian Theatre and, later, at St. George’s Hall were simply sophisticated
optical illusions. Maskelyne’s thorough knowledge of light physics had
enabled him to make countless “ghosts” materialize and to dissolve and
“behead” numerous assistants, and would now make it possible for him to
hide the Suez Canal.
    Theoretically, for a man who had often made disembodied heads float
across a stage, creating a super-searchlight should have been a relatively
easy task. Tin reflectors properly arranged around the beacon would
magnify its projection, but determining the most effective reflector shape
and the precise angle at which light would bounce farthest required a great
deal of testing. It was not difficult work, just time-consuming. “I thought
I’d escaped this trial-and-error stuff when I left university,” Frank
complained after days of twisting square, rectangular, triangular, obtuse,
round, oval, diamond and various other shapes of tin around the
“searchlight” Graham had fashioned from a rubbish bin and army flashlights.
    There seemed to be an infinite number of possibilities, and over a
two-week period in September the Magic Gang came close to trying them
all. The arrangement that they finally settled upon consisted of twenty-four
fan-shaped reflectors welded to a steel band which fit snugly around the
lens.
    Eventually the Gang progressed from workshop miniatures to
experiments with a borrowed searchlight. Maskelyne’s “dazzle-light,” as it
became known, divided a single searchlight into twenty-four individual
beams, each capable of covering approximately the same area of sky as the
original, and projected each of those beams nine miles into the heavens.
During tests Jasper frequently flew with the Auster pilots to observe the
effect of the dazzle-light. Although generally pleased with the result, he
realized that the relatively static device could be greatly improved by
making the twenty-four reflectors spin rapidly, thus creating a cartwheel of
light whirling through the sky.
    He worked with an Engineer electrician to design the modification. Each
tin reflector, or “flickover,” was bolted to a rotating metal ring powered by a
small gasoline engine. Its rotating speed could easily be regulated. A
working model was fashioned and shot a whirling spray of light spokes into
the sky at dizzying speeds. Once Jasper was satisfied with the scale model,
he scheduled a formal demonstration of the actual device for Air Defence
and Air Staff. As before, he would fly in an aircraft to view the effect of the
dazzle-light from the pilot’s vantage point, while Knox would be in charge
on the ground.
    To determine the practical value of the “Spray” against aircraft capable
of flying higher and faster than the Auster, Staff provided an American-built
C-47 Dakota and a speedy Spitfire for the test. Jasper invited Professor M.
W. Sawyer of Cairo University, a well-known expert on light physics, to
come along on the flight.
    On the night of September 21, 1941, the two aircraft flew at wing tips
twelve thousand feet above the North African desert. Maskelyne was in the
Dakota with Sawyer, peering down at the ground through light cloud cover.
Above them the heavens sparkled, while far below a ribbon of small craft
showing navigation lights formed a constellation along the twisting path of
the Nile. But as the Dakota flew deeper into the desert the lights of
civilization began to recede.
    When Cairo was little more than a gem sparkling on the horizon,
Maskelyne asked the pilot to signal the searchlight crew to begin the test.
    Knox received the request and flicked the light on. “Put your goggles on,
chaps,” he reminded his crew. Huddled near a truck a few yards away, the
observers also followed his command.
    The light illuminated slowly, a speck of light on the black velvet desert.
The beam was aimed quite a bit to the left of the aircraft and was, at first,
a dull brown. But as it gained power the brown grew into orange, then
yellow, then a clear river silver, and finally white. Pure white. Twenty-four
white spikes of light cutting into the night. A few thin clouds were jabbed
and glowed a dull grey, but most of the beams stretched into the heavens
beyond the senses.
    The two pilots adjusted their course and flew toward the lights.
Maskelyne pressed against a cabin window and watched with satisfaction
as the beams climbed into the sky.
    On the ground, Frank Knox had everything running smoothly. He checked
to see that everyone on the site was wearing dark goggles and again
warned them not to look directly at the swirling beams. “Please remember
to keep your eyes down,” he directed.
    When the beams reached full illumination the spikes began rotating.
They moved sluggishly at first, casually floating in an eight-mile-wide
circle. Gradually, though, like a carnival ride gaining momentum, they
picked up speed. They began spinning rapidly. Snapping through the sky.
Whirling. They twisted into a deadly tornado of light, ripping open the sky
directly in front of the two planes.
    Maskelyne tried to watch the spinning beams as they accelerated, but
he quickly became dizzy, then nauseated. “Oh, damn!” he shouted angrily,
realizing what a terrible mistake he had made. Then the Dakota flew into
the maelstrom, and the whirling spray turned the world inside out.
    The light poured through the windows and ripped into Maskelyne’s soul.
He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but the glare sliced through his eyelids.
He covered his eyes with his hands, but that didn’t help. The light pried his
mind open, overwhelmed his senses, made rational thought impossible. He
felt as if his brain were being torn from his skull.
    The Spitfire went down seconds after the light hit. The Dakota began
sideslipping through the sky, desperately trying to escape the strobe-light
trap. Suddenly, its nose glided up smoothly, toward eternity. For a moment
it balanced playfully on its tail. Then it fell backward and began
somersaulting toward destruction.
    Even then it could not escape the madly whirling beams.
    Sawyer, the professor of light, was thrown into a steel bulkhead and
sliced open his arm. Maskelyne was yanked from his seat and hurled
against the fuselage.
    The flying lights of the planes had briefly been visible as they made
their approach, but had disappeared into the dazzle-lights. No one on the
ground realized what was happening.
    The Dakota was dying, twisting toward the desert. Its pilot fought for
every inch, but the plane was out of control.
    Maskelyne couldn’t stabilize reality. The whirling beams hit the plane
again–again–again. The ground was suddenly above him. Then to his right.
Then below. He clawed for the wireless, knowing it had to be within his
grasp, but the world had become nothing except light. It had no feel; no
sound. Just light. There was no wireless in this world.
    Knox yawned. He checked his watch and wondered what they were doing
up there. He tried to estimate the speed of the planes against the
amplitude of the beacon. Were they out of range? He wasn’t sure. It was
impossible to hear the drone of the engines above the searchlight’s
cooling-system motor. He finally decided that enough time had passed. No
need to risk attracting any stray Jerries who might be on patrol. Cupping his
hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Let’s shut it down.”
    The spinning beams slowed. The light began browning out. The Dakota
pilot fought the flashes exploding his eyes and somehow managed to read
his altimeter. The plane was six hundred feet off the floor and dropping. He
reacted instinctively, diving onto the elevators, then began praying his
plane up into safe sky. It continued plummeting for a few seconds more,
then paused, its engines complaining, then it reluctantly began to ascend.
Maskelyne breathed.
    The Spitfire was in an even more precarious position when the
searchlight was dimmed. It was flying upside down, less than four hundred
feet off the ground. Its pilot read his altitude correctly, but did not
immediately realize he was inverted. So he started climbing, down, into the
desert. At the final moment, for a reason he would never be able to
understand, nor explain, he knew he was going to die. He punched the stick
forward, raising the nose of the inverted plane, and it began climbing to
safety. Later he would joke that his Spit had an itchy back and he was just
scratching it on the sand.
    Both planes landed safely.
    Maskelyne was stunned and nauseated, his hands wouldn’t stop
trembling and his head pounded, but he suffered no serious injury.
Professor Sawyer’s wounds required some stitchwork. Air Staff Command
insisted the passengers and both pilots be checked into Number 8 General
Hospital for complete examination and observation. Jasper protested
mildly, as he felt was proper, but was actually glad for the medical
attention. He felt a bit dopey.
    As he was assisted into the van for the short drive to the hospital he
smiled wanly and said to Frank Knox, who had raced to the airfield, “It
works quite well, doesn’t it?”
    More than anything else, Knox couldn’t help being aware that
Maskelyne’s always perfectly combed hair was finally a mess. Long strands
of black hair stuck to his sweaty face and resisted his efforts to brush them
into place. For some reason, that made Frank feel good. He smiled. “Yes,
Jay, it does seem that way.”
    “We had a rough time of it in the air testing out something I’d
invented,” Jasper wrote to Mary from his hospital bed two days later.
“Perhaps you were right after all about this flying business being
dangerous.”
    “It seems that these planes are perfectly safe,” she wrote back. “I don’t
know what you’re doing to them, but I must believe it’s your own fault.
Please desist instantly. I would like you back home in one piece.”
    Eventually, a chain of twenty-one searchlights covered the Suez Canal
for its entire length. When illuminated, they created a curtain of swirling
light over more than a hundred miles of Egyptian sky. In the following
months enemy aircraft made a number of attempts to penetrate the
curtain, and failed, and the canal remained open to Allied shipping
throughout the war.
    After the “Whirling Spray” had proven its value in the desert, similar
devices were manufactured in England for use on the home front.
Maskelyne’s magic mirrors eventually became an important weapon in
Britain’s air raid defence system. Although the precise number of enemy
pilots who became disoriented when “hit” by the beam and lost control of
their aircraft has never been totalled, the Spray received credit for assisting
in numerous Heinkel and Messerschmitt kills as well as preventing
countless others from reaching their targets.
    But the incorporation of the Spray into the Canal Defence Force was only
the beginning of its service in North Africa. Toward the end of 1941, enemy
bombers began making regular attacks on the oil storage tanks holding
Eighth Army’s precious fuel reserves. The Desert Air Force made a valiant
effort to fight off the raiders, but had neither the manpower nor the
equipment to ensure complete protection. Various camouflage schemes
were tried but none of them seemed likely to fool Rommel’s air
reconnaissance experts for very long.
    Brigadier Selby, charged with protecting the oil tanks, asked the Magic
Gang to install a dazzle-light system around the depot. Maskelyne pointed
out that, unlike the ribbon-thin canal, the tanks were concentrated in a
relatively small area. One lucky bomb dropped through the curtain of light
would still be enough to wipe out much of the reserve. The only sure way to
protect the tanks, he wrote in a long memo to Selby, was to convince the
Germans they had already been destroyed.
    A variation of the Alexandria harbour deception was proposed. Using
papier-mâché, rubble, painted canvas dropcloths and oil fires, it would be
relatively simple to make the tanks look as if they had been bombed out of
service. But drawing the bombers away from them in the first place would
be considerably more complicated. Like the harbour, the tanks had to be
“moved,” but, unlike Alex, there was no open area nearby large enough to
substitute as the tank farm.
    After various experiments convinced him he couldn’t “move” them or
adequately camouflage them, Maskelyne decided to create the world’s
largest optical illusion. While still very young he had learned in his father’s
magic workshop that he could make an object look bigger or smaller, or
even “move” it to a different place, simply by changing the relationship
between it and objects of known size. This principle would enable him to
“move” the tanks by destroying the aerial perspective.
    Among other devices, air photo interpreters and bombardiers used the
shadow cast by an object to help determine its size and location. By
comparing the length of a shadow at a specific time with shadows cast by
nearby objects of known size at the same time, all sorts of vital
information about the original object could be gleaned. On the desert,
where there were few fixed objects on which to make such a comparison,
small objects could easily pass as larger things as long as each part was in
scale. This is what made Stephen Sykes’s bogus railway possible. But in
populated areas buildings, streets, minarets, even donkey carts could be
used as a basis of comparison. Maskelyne knew that by changing the
relationship between the oil tanks and the surrounding area he could make
it extremely difficult for pilots to even find the field, much less bomb it with
any accuracy at all.
    Working with Knox and Townsend, Jasper redesigned the flickovers.
New, curved tin reflectors were made to flatten searchlight beams rather
than magnify them. These lights were situated behind the tanks and aimed
at them instead of into the sky. Just as a man standing in an open doorway
with the sun directly behind him would cast an elongated shadow out of all
proportion to his size, the lights drastically altered the size and shape of
the tank shadows, thus giving aerial observers a completely false
impression of their location.
    To test these new flickovers, Maskelyne directed a dummy air raid on
the depot. Pilots tried to drop flares as close to the tanks as possible from
three different altitudes. The nearest flare landed almost half a mile away.
    The low-light flickovers and Whirling Spray, in addition to antiaircraft
gunners and the Desert Air Force, provided a powerful defence for Brigadier
Selby’s oil tanks. The persistent Luftwaffe attacked the depot for several
months. They tried various methods to break through the light camouflage,
including dropping flares of their own to eliminate misleading shadows at
the beginning of a raid. Nothing worked. Their bombs fell harmlessly in
areas surrounding the depot. After each raid, papier-mâché, rubble and
painted dropcloths were put in position and smoky oil fires were lit. By the
beginning of 1942 the Germans either were convinced they had successfully
destroyed the tank farm or could no longer absorb the losses they were
taking, because the attacks ceased. The storage tanks were left alone for
the remainder of the North African campaign, and eventually provided the
millions of gallons of fuel that powered the final desert offensive.


                                   Eight
On a golden afternoon in late September, Maskelyne and Knox were
enjoying a refreshing sundowner on Shepheard’s crowded deck when a
paunchy Egyptian business type shyly approached their table. The man was
wearing a neatly tailored white tropical suit and clutching a panama hat in
his hands. He was obviously a member of the upper rank, and Knox
guessed he was an exporter.
    “I beg all your pardons,” he said in halting English, “but you are not the
famous magician Maskelyne?”
    Jasper acknowledged that he was the magician. “And this is my good
friend Lieutenant Knox.”
    The man dipped his head politely to Frank. He asked if he might join
them for a moment and was offered a chair, but once seated he bowed his
head and was silent. Knox glanced at Jasper, who shrugged, then leaned
loser to the man and asked, “Can we help you?”
    The Egyptian stared into his lap as he spoke. “Not for me that I come to
see you. It is for my son. He is a boy very sick.”
    Maskelyne gazed into his cool drink and took a deep breath. He knew
what the man wanted.
    “I’m sorry,” Knox said compassionately.
    “I am wealthy man,” the Egyptian explained, “many business. I have
many animals too, you see.” He finally raised his head. Long strips of tears
wet his dry brown skin. “But without my son I very poor man.”
    “Of course,” Knox said, averting his eyes. It embarrassed him to see the
other man’s pain.
    The Egyptian looked directly at Maskelyne. “I pay you anything to come
to my home and fix my boy up.”
    Jasper could not bear to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he began, “but I
can’t–”
    “I have heard stories of big miracles. Many friends tell me what is
happening there behind the walls of your camp.”
    “I don’t think you understand. I would help you if I could, but–”
    “I pay you with big money. In pounds, too. I give you everything I
have,” the man begged, his voice growing louder. “Just come. This is my
son, you see.”
    Maskelyne found it difficult to breathe. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help your
son. My magic isn’t big enough.”
    Knox attempted to help. “Have you seen the English doctors?”
    The man waved away the question. “Doctors can no help. You must
come with me. Please. He is in much pain. The stories I have heard are
true. I know them to be true.” As his pleas grew louder and more urgent he
attracted the attention of people sitting nearby. The deck manager and a
tarbooshed waiter came to the table and asked the man to leave, but he
ignored them and continued beseeching Maskelyne.
    Knox stood and grasped Jasper’s arm. “Come on,” he ordered.
    Maskelyne’s legs were weak. “I’m so sorry,” he said as Knox pulled him
away. The man followed them out of the hotel, begging Maskelyne to
reconsider, offering riches. He stood in the middle of the street crying as
his last hope disappeared in a taxi.
    “It’s terribly sad,” Knox said after a few moments. “These poor people
really believe in our magic. If you stay on here after the war you can make
a tidy fortune, you know.”
    The Egyptian was screaming in Maskelyne’s mind. His cries drowned out
Knox. Jasper wanted to turn the cab around, to go back and put his arms
around the man and convince him that he was a charlatan. But he knew it
would be useless. The man’s pleas were based on thousands of years of
history. He believed, beyond reason, in the powers of magic. Maskelyne felt
utterly helpless.
    “That fakir business is bloody profitable,” Knox continued, aware that he
was probably talking to himself. “A good magic man in this region can open
up a small temple and salt away quite a sum. Not too much overhead,
either.” He hesitated briefly, and was struck by a horrifying thought. “Oh
dear, I hope young Hill doesn’t get that idea under his cap.”
    It had been spread throughout the entire Nile basin that the wizard in
the British Army could cure the desperately ill and heal the hideously
deformed. Stories of such miracles being performed inside Magic Valley and
on the theatre stage had passed easily from rumour to legend. Each
morning scores of Egyptians would gather at the Valley’s front gate in
hopes of being touched by the wizard who lived inside. Among them were
old and young, men and women, nomadic tribesmen and educated people,
Egyptians wounded by war or by nature, and always many, many children.
In high shrill voices they begged anyone going into the camp to pass slips
of paper bearing their names and addresses and ills to the wizard. As
gently as possible the military police would move them away from the gate,
pushing them off to the side, where they would spend the day. Many of
them made camp there, determined to wait until the magician came to heal
them. The long wait, they believed, was a test of their faith in his powers,
and they would not be moved.
    Understanding that it was useless trying to convince these desperate
people that his magic was less powerful than they believed, Maskelyne
began slipping in and out of the Valley through a small gate on the
northern perimeter. British Medical Corps personnel visited the Egyptian
campsite twice weekly to offer their services. Most of the faithful refused
their help, however, believing much more in magic than medicine.
    Knox cursed the whole situation as a damn shame.
    By this time Eighth Army was in the midst of a businesslike calm before
the eruption of battle. Every trooper knew his specific job and was busy
doing it, or training to do it, in preparation for Auchinleck’s Crusader
offensive. At Magic Valley, the factories were turning out sunshields,
elements of the dummy army, and dazzle-light components, while the
individual members of the Gang worked on local camouflage jobs. As
Graham wryly remarked, “Except for the food and the killing, the Army isn’t
actually such a bad place.”
    Maskelyne had started working for Brigadier Dudley Clarke’s A-Force
organization on a regular basis in August. Clarke had called him into his
office beneath the brothel one morning to report that the mystery of the
chocolates had been unravelled. The long trail had led his agents from a
newspaper in Ankara, Turkey, to a steamy café right in Cairo. One of the
young dancing girls working there had taken up with a low-ranking officer in
Personnel, and had managed to squeeze all sorts of seemingly unimportant
information out of him. The officer had been demoted and shipped back to
England to await further disciplinary action. The girl had been shot for
spying, and the ring for which she worked was smashed.
    As the brigadier coldly related this story, Jasper imagined a blindfolded
young girl being tied to a wooden post.
    “Brutal,” Clarke admitted, “but necessary.”
    Maskelyne could hear the echo of his own words.
    When the brigadier had finished relating details of the spy ring to
Jasper, he closed the folder on his desk and tossed it on top of a pile
labelled “To Be Filed,” then again suggested the magician join his group. “I
now it would be a drag on your time, but we really could use you.” A-Force,
he explained, had been asked to conduct a series of escape and evasion
lectures for soldiers and airmen. “The material is a bit dull, I’m afraid, but
it’s vital. Too few of our boys are getting back after they’ve been captured.
We’ve got to try to change that. I thought you might be able to spice up
the lectures with a few tricks or something. It’d just be one evening a
week, that’s all.”
    Maskelyne, who had lately found himself squandering too much of his
free time thinking about Mary and the children and missing them to
distraction, accepted.
    One or two evenings each week through the autumn, normally
accompanied by Knox and one other Gang member, he would be flown to a
training site or a desert laager, a night tank encampment similar to those
made by America’s Old West pioneers, and lecture from the tail of a
Fordson or Bedford lightweight truck. “I’m merely here to tell you what you
might expect if you become a prisoner of war,” he would solemnly begin.
“Under the agreements of the Geneva Convention the only information you
are required to give your captors is your name, rank and serial number.
Nothing more. However, Jerry is a clever fellow and will try many different
methods to trick additional information out of you. If you’re wounded, for
example, you may well be visited by a darling little old lady who will speak
English, who will be very sympathetic, and who will ask you seemingly
innocent questions about your hometown. Anything you tell her will go
directly to German Intelligence and may provide important information for
some Luftwaffe bomber pilot attacking your home. Also, you must assume
all of your mail will be opened and read …”
    Maskelyne’s reputation kept his audience wide awake at the beginning
of his lecture, but after a few minutes their attention would begin to drift.
Most of them had been working in the heat all day and were exhausted,
and Maskelyne, looking all pressed in a short-sleeve uniform shirt, long
desert shorts and dusty black shoes, hardly appeared capable of amusing
them out of their lethargy. So when he saw their heads begin to nod, he
would reach into his knapsack of tricks and turn an ordinary lecture into a
splendid show. “When you are put in the bag,” he yelled, holding high a
rucksack and turning it inside out to show that it was empty, “the first
thing you want to do is begin making plans to escape, or give aid to anyone
else who means to escape. Depending on your specific situation, there are
any number of methods you might try. For example,” he said, reaching into
the sack, “you might try to fly out of the camp.” With that, he withdrew a
white dove and released it to fly into the dusk. “Or you might try
tunnelling.” Again he dug into the bag, this time pulling out a rabbit. “Best
of all, you might simply become invisible,” he added, turning his back and
making the entire bag disappear. For the next ninety minutes he held
everyone’s attention, illustrating each point in his speech with a suitable
sleight. The Linking Rings became a cooperating escape team. A deck of
cards was a conspiratorial barracks. Objects small and large appeared and
vanished to the absolute delight of the tired troops. As Brigadier Clarke had
figured, Maskelyne’s magic reinforced the important aspects of the lecture,
pounding home the message in an unforgettable manner. Jasper
Maskelyne’s escape and evasion lectures became famous throughout the
Middle East and later the Far East, and large crowds of soldiers pushed in
to see him work. Before the war was over he had given variations of the
basic lecture to more than two hundred thousand officers and men in twelve
countries, travelling 135,000 miles to do so. The show proved as effective
as it was entertaining. Innumerable Tommies who got out of “the bag” to
return and fight again credited something remembered from Maskelyne’s
lecture as having played an important role in their escape. Jasper
eventually received an official commendation, and his work in this area
figured prominently in his eventual promotion to war substantive major.
    Clarke used the lecture as a means to ease Jasper into his growing spy
organization. Eventually, Maskelyne became an important member of MI9,
the section of A-Force dealing specifically with escape and evasion. From a
badly scratched wooden desk at the headquarters beneath the brothel,
Maskelyne produced some of the most ingenious spy devices ever used in
warfare.
    The techniques of the conjurer adapted particularly well to escape
devices. One of the most important lessons Jasper had learned from his
grandfather was how to make maximum use of limited space. On stage, it
was vital to be able to conceal equipment in a space so small that the
audience would never suspect that anything was there, or create “invisible”
compartments inside apparatus so that an assistant might hide there
undetected. John Nevil Maskelyne had been a master of this art. In 1875 he
had introduced the automaton Psycho to European audiences. This
mechanical marvel resembled the upper half of a human body seated on a
transparent pedestal. Psycho was not connected to any outside power
source, yet it was able to nod, give the Masonic handshake, solve difficult
equations, accomplish small sleights, spell, smoke cigarettes and play an
extraordinarily good game of whist. Two years later he was joined by the
lovely Zoe, an automaton capable of sketching profiles in an accomplished
hand, and Fanfair and Labial, mechanical musicians who, upon request,
would play any popular tune on the cornet and the euphonium. Thousands
of people carefully inspected the clockwork mechanism of these rudimentary
robots, and no one ever suspected that small men could be fitted inside the
workings in such a way as to be completely hidden.
    Jasper Maskelyne put the family secrets to work in the development of
escape kits for airmen and foot soldiers. Unlike the great escape artist
Houdini, who among his other skills was able to swallow a key and
regurgitate it when it was needed, soldiers had to be able to hide their
escape tools on their persons or inside equipment that would be carefully
inspected by the enemy.
    Faced with that problem, Jasper designed tools that could be hidden in
the most obvious places, or that didn’t have to be hidden at all. The aglets,
or, shoelace tags, of a seemingly ordinary commando boot, for example,
were actually tiny compass needles, while a map was concealed in the boot
tongue, and a file and a hacksaw were hidden beneath the side flaps. A
compass needle, two paper maps, a hacksaw blade nine inches long and a
small file could be squeezed inside a regulation sock made of loofah
sponge and lined with oil silk. The handle of a nail brush or a
shoe-polishing brush held an escape kit consisting of nail puller, file,
hacksaw, screwdriver, wire cutters, spanner, compass and two maps.
Maskelyne’s safety razor was easily turned into a capable wire cutter, and
his toothbrush cleaned teeth while concealing a map, compass and
hacksaw. Even standard sock suspenders held cutters, maps and a
compass.
    The most utilitarian device he invented for MI9 was a tooled-steel
chainsaw blade with teeth measuring three-sixteenths of an inch.
Manufactured with a chromium-plated finish, the saw could be made to look
like an ordinary identity-disc chain, a watchband, a key ring, a good-luck
charm or any other small trinket. It could be carried openly by a soldier or
an undercover agent and would cut wood or iron as efficiently as a large
hacksaw.
    Tens of thousands of British troopers were issued Maskelyne escape
tools, but there is no accurate way of measuring their importance in escape
attempts. Complete kits or individual components were used everywhere in
the world British soldiers, airmen or agents were in contact with the enemy,
and they aided in countless escapes. The chainsaw, for example, saved the
life of Sergeant Nussbacher of the famed Buffs, as well as a carriage full of
his fellow prisoners. Nussbacher was captured in occupied Hungary wearing
civilian clothes and was squeezed into an overcrowded railway car destined
for a Nazi extermination camp. But before the death train reached the camp
he was able to cut out a side panel with his chainsaw, enabling everyone in
the car to leap to freedom.
    Once a man escaped his captors, his chances of making it back to his
own lines usually depended on his courage and his compass. A compass
was a most essential escape tool, hence the most difficult to obtain.
Maskelyne solved this problem in various ways. Most Desert Air Force
crewmen carried a miniature compass screwed into the back of a brass
uniform button, while foot soldiers wore a battle-dress belt buckle that
could be broken down and converted into a compass. Magnetized needles
were concealed inside pipe stems and celluloid collar stays. Jasper’s
compass needles became so sophisticated they could pass as bamboo
slivers and be carried in a pocket without fear of detection, yet when they
were dropped into a water puddle they always pointed north-south. MI9
eventually put more than two million miniature compasses into service,
including ninety-one thousand collar stays.
    For each spy tool Maskelyne received the usual five-pound bonus from
the War Ministry.
    MI9 also put into good service some of Jasper’s more esoteric spy
devices. What appeared to be a common cigarette holder was in fact a very
powerful miniature telescope, focused by sliding the mouthpiece back and
forth. His leakproof fountain pen allowed an agent to write in a bold hand,
but also fired a single high-density tear-gas shell. His rice-paper maps were
sprayed with salad oil for protection against rain and sweat, as well as to
make them more palatable if they had to be eaten. Invisible inks had long
been employed by stage magicians and phoney spirituals to present
messages from the “departed”; with some slight chemical alterations they
were used by undercover agents all over the world.
    John Nevil Maskelyne had publicly exposed many “mental telepathists”
who communicated with their assistants by subtle, intricate codes. Jasper
put his knowledge of their methods to work to enable spy masters in Cairo
to get messages to their “puppets.” His simplest device proved to be the
most practical. Before leaving for undercover assignments in occupied
territory, agents were issued common leather belts approximately
three-quarters of an inch wide. When headquarters had to send them an
important message, a length of shop-bought string would be wrapped
lengthwise around a belt of exactly the same three-quarter-inch diameter.
The message would be plainly written on the string in dark ink. The string
would then be unravelled and used to wrap a gift box. The string appeared
to be covered with ink spots, but no one ever suspected that these spots
formed a message. Inevitably, the package would be searched, but as it
contained no contraband, it would be delivered to the agent. Upon receiving
it, the agent would wrap the string lengthwise around his three-quarter-inch
belt and simply read his instructions.
    Maskelyne loved working at MI9. For the first time the Army was actually
encouraging him to commit his wildest schemes to paper, then giving them
serious consideration. The work at Magic Valley was difficult, and
important, and required creative solutions to military problems – but in
each case he was given the problem to solve. MI9 wanted the produce of
his imagination, and he delighted in delivering it to them.
    Not all of his inventions were put into service, although he was
convinced each of them was practical. Among these was a submarine with a
detachable conning tower that would safely carry the crew of a downed sub
to the surface, an aircraft with a tow-hook device capable of clearing
razor-sharp piano wire from the invasion beaches, and a method of
communicating between ground and air by transforming ultraviolet rays into
sounds.
    Maskelyne worked at MI9 on a part-time basis for almost three years,
and during that period contributed to the success of one of the most
elaborate spy operations of the war. But only once did Clarke allow him to
work as a spy, an incident that took place just prior to Operation Crusader.
Jasper put on a grand magic show for Clarke, and it almost cost him his
life.
    October 1941 was the most profitable month yet for the spies of Cairo.
The armies were in the field preparing for a showdown battle, and the
information vendors were feverishly concocting rumours to be sold to the
highest bidder. It was possible to buy guaranteed information on any topic.
At times the deck at Shepheards resembled a busy auction house, with
spies outnumbering waiters. The most desirable secret was the exact time
and place the British offensive would begin, and every spy had an
“impeccable source” who could supply that information. Among the other
stories that were sold on the deck, and quickly became good gossip
throughout Cairo, were that Prime Minister Winston Churchill was coming to
the desert to personally launch the attack, that Russia was beaten and
secretly negotiating a separate peace, that the United States was finally
coming in, and that a dust devil had overturned Rommel’s armoured car and
he had been critically injured. According to these “reliable” sources, the
garrison at Tobruk was about to surrender – or break out; the Germans
were testing aircraft that flew without propellers, and Hitler was rounding
up every Jew in Europe for deportation.
    “Ah, they’re just flying their kites,” Fuller scoffed when Hill told him one
of the latest bits of gossip. “It’s all a bunch of tommyrot. None of that’s
going to happen. And if it does, it does. Just do your job, you’ll be all
right.”
    “That’s it for you, then,” Hill said, a bit miffed. “That’s the last bloody
time I’ll give you the news. Rommel could be eating at the Kit Kat and you
won’t hear it from me.” Then he went off to share the latest gossip with
Robson.
    MI6, Clarke’s intelligence section, actually created many of the rumours
just to keep their German counterparts thoroughly confused. The identities
of most of the spies in the city were well known to them, and the quality of
their work was generally poor, but there was one unknown source that did
concern them. A powerful transmitter broadcasting from Cairo had been
sending remarkably accurate information to Afrika Korps. The transmitter
had finally been located, but there was little A-Force could do to silence it.
    “The rub is that it seems to be hidden somewhere in Farouk’s palace,”
an exasperated Brigadier Clarke told Maskelyne. They were sitting in his
Kasr-el-Nil office, and the hollow music of a wooden finger pipe drilled
through the thin floor from the establishment above. “We can’t take any
decisive action until we’re positive it’s actually there, and the King isn’t
going to let us go mucking about the place searching for it. So you see, it’s
rather a sticky problem.”
    For the past few weeks Maskelyne had been opening Farouk’s mail for
A-Force, then reconstructing the royal seal after the contents had been
copied by intelligence agents. The letters had verified the existence of a
large Swiss bank account, but offered no real proof that the young King was
cooperating with the enemy. The existence of a transmitter in his palace
seemed to remove any doubts. “Then he is collaborating?”
    Clarke frowned. “We’re not sure actually. Abdin Palace is a large place
and the King is often …” he groped for the polite words, “… otherwise
occupied. There’s much that goes on inside that he doesn’t know dickens
about.”
    The corpulent twenty-one-year-old Farouk I had ascended the Egyptian
throne in 1936 and enjoyed a large and loyal following. Because Egypt
remained officially neutral in the war despite the massive British presence
in the country, both sides attempted to win his support. The Berlin-Rome
Axis believed that he might lead an anti-British uprising, while the British
simply wanted to keep him out of their way. He had fallen in with a claque
of playboy British officers who provided him with unending delights and
thus kept him happy and busy. His collection of ties, American comic books
and pornography materials supposedly rivalled the largest of their kind
anywhere in the world.
    Because he still held the loyalty of the Egyptian people, the political
implications of accusing him of collaboration were chillingly clear.
    Egyptian nationalists were known to be well armed and waiting for the
suitable time to rise against the British. Although most of these patriotic
groups despised the monarch, they would rally to his defence. The
provocation might be enough to spark an uprising in which all Egypt would
join.
    But the transmitter had to be silenced before Operation Crusader began.
“Can’t one of your people touch on it with him?” Jasper asked, meaning one
of the young British officers who provided the King’s pleasures.
    “We could try that, but it would certainly tip our hand. It would be much
better if we knew precisely where the radio was before anything was said.
He could hardly deny it then, could he?”
    A series of sharp jolts shook the ceiling. Jasper tensed and glanced
upward, but almost instantly relaxed. “How do you stand it?”
    “What’s that?”
    “The noise from upstairs.”
    “Oh, I hardly hear it anymore. One can get used to almost anything, you
know. Anyway,” Clarke continued, returning to the subject, “we need to get
our people inside Abdin Palace so they can have a proper look around.
That’s where you can help.”
    “I get people out of cabinets, Brigadier, not into heavily guarded
palaces.”
    Clarke laughed politely, but there was little humour in his voice. “I want
you to put on a magic show inside the palace. Big as you can mount.
Costumes, big boxes, everything. The longer the better. You’ll take some of
my people in to assist you. Once they get inside, they’ll know what to do.
You and your people will be perfectly safe.”
    Jasper did not respond immediately. One night King Farouk had shown
up unexpectedly at an Empire Theatre performance, and seemed to
thoroughly enjoy the show, but this was something else entirely. “What
makes you think he’ll want a show there?”
    “His ego. His Majesty would welcome the opportunity to host a
command performance. Proceeds to charity and all that. It’s not exactly a
secret that he enjoys the spotlight. Well, you can refuse, you know. I can’t
order you to do it. But you told me once you wanted to see how the spy
business works. Here’s your opportunity.”
    Maskelyne grabbed it. As Clarke said, neither he nor any of his crew
would be in danger. The magic show was simply a cover to get A-Force
professionals into the palace. Besides, after spending so many months in a
rear support role, he didn’t dare pass up this chance to be close to the
action. “It’ll take some preparations, of course.”
    “And some rehearsals, I imagine,” the brigadier added. “We’ll need as
much time in there as we can manage. Now tell me, how many assistants
do you use?”
    “It varies, depending on the programme. I suppose we could use some
of the larger boxes for the escapes. We’d need additional men to carry
them in and shift them about backstage.” Jasper made a quick estimate. “I
could probably justify about a dozen. Five or six of them will have to be my
own people.”
    Clarke beamed like a proud father. “That’s the spirit. I’ve always
suspected you’d make a dandy spy. I’ll begin making the necessary
arrangements.”
    His Majesty King Farouk was delighted to host an evening of Maskelyne
magic and illusion at Abdin Palace. The show was scheduled for the second
week in November. A lavish banquet was to follow the performance.
    Frank Knox was the only member of the Gang to whom Maskelyne
revealed the reason behind this command performance. Everyone else was
told it was being done at the request of the Egyptian monarch.
    As soon as the royal bash was announced Cairo society began
manoeuvring for invitations. The chosen two hundred included the requisite
British and Egyptian military officers and government officials, the favoured
members of Farouk’s court, a few random sheikhs and tribal leaders, some
lovely city women to garnish the affair, the royal family, various
businessmen and those social lions with the sharpest claws. Maskelyne was
allotted ten invitations, six of which went to Clarke, and was permitted a
company of twenty-one performers and crew. Each member of his troupe
was issued a green identity card that provided access to the palace, but
they were thoroughly searched every time they entered or departed. Only
Maskelyne was allowed to pass without inspection.
    Like the fabled royal estates of Europe, seventy-year-old Abdin Palace
was actually a small community. Its operation required a permanent staff of
more than two hundred and fifty, many of them Italian immigrants who had
attempted to farm the fringes of the desert and had moved into the city
after repeated crop failures. Besides the luxurious royal quarters, the
palace contained numerous guest rooms and reception halls, fully supplied
workshops, dining halls, modern kitchens, and wings of servants’ rooms.
The royal command performance was to be presented in the Byzantine Hall,
a spacious room just off the Belgium Wing.
    The specially built stage was much too large for the production
Maskelyne planned, so curtains were hung to frame the centre portion of it.
Farouk assigned a short, chain-smoking palace clerk named Ben-Morsi to
serve as a liaison between his staff and the show people. Each time
Maskelyne requested a structural change Ben-Morsi would wipe his brow
and explain that it was impossible but that he would try to get permission,
which he always managed to do. Thus trapdoors were cut into the stage,
scrims were added, scenery was painted and seats were moved. In addition
to working with the show, Ben-Morsi was an Egyptian spy. “A very bad one,”
Clarke explained, “but in the employ of the Egyptian Special Service. He’s
ambitious, so be a bit careful what you let slip around him.”
    Once the Gang was made aware of his real profession they took every
opportunity to torment him. His foul-smelling Egyptian cigarettes gave his
presence away long before he actually appeared, and the Gang invented an
entire vocabulary of spy talk to use when he was around. “The operation
begins at oh-four-hundred tonight pass the hammer,” Nails Graham would
yell to Robson, who might reply, “And when will the camel fly?” There is no
record that any of these conversations were reported to Libya by the hidden
transmitter.
    The magic show provided perfect cover for Clarke’s undercover agents.
Magicians have traditionally taken elaborate precautions to protect their
secrets. The Great Lafayette, for example, died in a theatre fire when he
went backstage to make sure no one was taking advantage of the bedlam
to steal his illusions. Maskelyne played the role of the temperamental artist
well, announcing loudly the first day of rehearsals that absolutely no one
would be permitted near the stage without his authorization. Then he
locked the doors from inside, allowing A-Force personnel to move about the
palace without worrying that someone would notice they were missing from
the company.
    During the weeks preceding the performance Maskelyne was at the
palace almost every day, even when a run-through was not scheduled.
Some of Brigadier Clarke’s men were with him each time. The Gang quickly
realized that something queer was going on, but asked no questions.
    The agents took every opportunity to search the palace, but Farouk’s
guards were well trained and these excursions were most often curtailed.
The transmitter was not found. “Is it possible it’s not there?” Maskelyne
asked Brigadier Clarke.
    “It’s there,” Clarke stated flatly.
    Maskelyne carefully planned his show. He decided to do a basic first act
featuring sleights and small illusions, during which he would always be on
stage, then don his Oriental costume for a second act packed with cabinet
and box productions and disappearances. Thus the final act could be drawn
out to allow A-Force additional time to explore the warren of rooms. Much
depended on Kathy Lewis’s ability to prolong suspense while he was inside
the cabinets, but he was confident she could do the stage work.
    Meanwhile, out on the Blue, Auchinleck’s training schools began closing
their gates. The training phase was finished. Eighth Army was finally
prepared to fight the prolonged battle that the Auk and Cunningham
anticipated. Fuel, ammunition and rations were being shipped into staging
areas. High-ranking officers were receiving their assignments. The usual
betting pools were established. Still, Auchinleck waited. He was well aware
his soldiers could not be kept on the cutting edge too long without going
stale, but he refused to move until he was sure Eighth Army was
provisioned to drive Rommel back into Libya.
    Clarke’s men still could not find the transmitter inside the palace.
“Thought I had the bugger picked off,” one of them, a chubby spy named
Michael Reese, said during the daily afternoon debriefing in the brigadier’s
office. “Traced a wire through a wall, under the carpet, around a hall bend
and into a storage closet. Turned out to be a hidden radio set tuned to the
BBC.” He chuckled, and shook his head in disbelief. “I must say, I’m not
crackers about the programming myself, but I hardly think it deserves that
sort of treatment.”
    “Maybe he’s listening to the Parliament reports,” a second agent
suggested facetiously.
    “Or our comedians,” shouted another.
    “Same thing, isn’t it?” deadpanned the first one.
    Clarke’s spies laughed easily and often during these meetings.
Maskelyne took a spot in a corner and enjoyed a pipe of sweet tobacco and
the spy talk. He’d got to know and admire these men. Although their work
was deadly serious, they treated it as some sort of country game. Stakes
were never mentioned, as if playing for keeps was in dreadfully bad form.
Their behaviour might easily have been dismissed as adolescent bravado,
but there was no sense of lurking fear in the group. These men were clearly
enjoying themselves. They had been plucked out of normal existence and
set down in the middle of a grand adventure. They were having the best
time of their lives and were lucky enough to be aware of it. Maskelyne, who
had spent much of his life chasing family reputations and gazing into the
future for fulfillment, envied these men this time.
    None of these spies fit the romantic description created by adventure
writers. None of them was particularly dashing, there was no hint of
mystery in their eyes, they did not reek of intrigue. As a group they were
perhaps slightly older than the hotshots rummaging after Rommel in the
desert, but were otherwise very normal. Just an average group of spies.
    “Well, we’re certain it’s there,” Clarke said. A cardboard floor plan of the
palace was propped up on his desk, and each room that had been searched
was crossed off. “How about this pantry?” he asked. “Jack, it’s yours, isn’t
it?”
    Agent Jack Smyth was distinguished by the reddish beard and whiskers
that overwhelmed his thin face. “There’s nothing there. Had maybe five
minutes, just me and some cook. Told ’im I had to find some eats for the
poor starving actors. It’s just a pantry. Food’s bloody awful, too.” He
glanced over his shoulder at Maskelyne. “You owe me a spot of thanks for
eatin’ it.”
    Jasper responded with an appreciative salute.
    Clarke crossed the pantry off his board. “How about this … this
whatever. Looks like a little dressing room. Who’s got it?”
    Ike Simon, a muscular, round-faced agent, answered, “Me.” He shook his
head firmly. “Nothing.”
    It was crossed off. “And this loo?”
    Jack Smyth boomed heartily, “Spent a bloody half hour in there!” Then
he lowered his voice and confessed, “Had to, after eatin’ all them cakes.”
The transmitter was not in the loo.
    After two weeks of work half the palace still remained to be searched.
“We might as well cross off Farouk’s private wing,” Clarke decided. “There’s
no way he’d stash a radio there, and we can’t get in anyway.” Looking over
his spotted chart, the brigadier said realistically, “There’s quite a bit to be
done, and it’s going to be rough getting at it all. We’re going to have to
take full advantage of the show.” Turning to Maskelyne, he asked, “How
much time can you give us, tops?”
    Maskelyne shrugged. “How much do you need?”
    Ike Simon answered sarcastically, “November,” but then the spies began
discussing the question.
    Maskelyne did not believe they could complete the search. The numbers
were against them: too many rooms divided by too few agents, over not
enough time. He continued staring at the floor plan. A block of rooms
across a corridor from the Byzantine Hall, labelled “Shops?” had not yet
been crossed off. The entrance to this area was almost directly opposite
the backstage door. He’d passed it numerous times on his way to rehearsal.
It was usually guarded by a single man who walked the entire hall. If his
attention could be diverted for a few seconds someone could easily slip
across the corridor …
    “I suppose two hours would be the minimum,” Clarke said, breaking into
his thoughts, “but any additional time would be a great help.”
    “I can give you that,” Jasper said, “perhaps a bit more.” He paused, then
blurted out, “But I have another idea. I think I can handle the rooms behind
the stage, the shop area.”
    Clarke was taken by surprise. He glanced at the floor plan, then at
Maskelyne. “Are you serious?”
    “Absolutely.”
    The brigadier looked at the floor plan again, considering the offer. Then,
abruptly, he rejected it. “Sorry, no, we can’t have you running around like
that.”
    “But I’m in the best position to get the job done. I know more about
hiding things than anyone else in the room. And there’s a box illusion I’m
doing in the second act – I could be gone six or seven minutes without
anyone suspecting a thing. And it would free up someone else to cover
another area.”
    “C’mon, Jay,” Michael Reese said, trying to make light of the notion,
“you haven’t even been to His Majesty’s School for Spies.”
    “If the transmitter’s there I can find it.”
    “It’s too much of a risk,” Clarke said, “If you were caught …”
    Maskelyne pressed harder. “I won’t get caught and it’s really no risk at
all. Everyone in the palace will be positive I’m inside one of the boxes.”
    The brigadier knew that the magician’s suggestion made good sense.
Crusader was scheduled to begin on November 17, and GHQ wanted that
radio silenced before that date. Looking at the chunks of white space
remaining on his chart, he knew it was unlikely his men would complete the
search. Maskelyne could help. But if he slipped up and was discovered at
the job the entire ploy would be exposed. Farouk would look like a fool, and
the nationalists would have their cause around which to rally the people.
    But the transmitter had to be found. Lives depended on it. “I’m quite
reluctant to permit this,” Clarke finally said, preparing himself to be
convinced otherwise. “What do you fellows think?”
    “Ah,” Jack Smyth said, “let the man go. He can’t botch up the job any
worse than the lot of us.”
    Reese agreed with him. “We’ll give him the secret password. He’ll be all
right.”
    Reluctantly, Clarke agreed. “You’ve got six minutes,” he warned. “If you
don’t find it straight away, get out of there. The transmitter has a rather
long range, so it would be difficult to disguise. Now, I suppose you can pick
a lock?”
    Maskelyne smiled broadly. Finally, he was going to get in on the action.
He was going to play the game. “Call me Houdini,” he answered.
    He was not the only one aching to get a player’s role. Most of the Gang
felt the same way. Like all soldiers, from the moment each of them arrived
in Egypt they had talked about getting a cushy job in Cairo, something that
would allow them to live in safety and work in relative comfort. But as time
passed, and they worked at their “cush” jobs in Maskelyne’s Camouflage
Section, they began to realize they were living on the periphery of a most
important experience. For them, the palace magic show wasn’t the answer.
It kept them occupied for a while, but as Eighth Army roused for the
offensive they felt more and more left out. Union Jack Fuller knew that this
would be his last campaign and wanted a piece of it before it ended. Hill
wondered if getting involved in the thick of it might fill the void in his life.
Townsend saw it as an escape into adventure, and perhaps a means of
proving himself. Robson, a pacifist, and Knox, a realist, accepted their
situation. Nails Graham, the carpenter, simply couldn’t resist – the desert
had got into him.
    Once, when Graham was freshly arrived in Egypt, he had taken the
desert for granted. It was a big open space with a lot of sand. After serving
in Cairo for a brief period, it began to interest him. Then, as he heard the
stories, it intrigued him. And finally, inevitably, it obsessed him.
    He had seen its skirts teasing the edges of the city. He had driven its
long, flat highways and seen the mirages dancing in the distant heat
waves. He sat listening in the town bars to tales of survival. He’d even
gone so far as to read a book about it. The more he learned, the clearer it
became that he knew nothing about it.
    It was not so much its physical presence. Like everyone else, Graham
had become accustomed to coping with the fine dust that sprinkled every
aspect of life in Cairo, and the intense heat which sucked the afternoon air.
It was what the western desert did to the men who served on it that so
fascinated him. A corporal in the King’s Royal Horse Artillery summed it up
best: “The man that comes out of there is different from the fellow what
went in.”
    It was pulling at him.
    “What’s it like out there, eh?” The man speaking was a Hussar sergeant.
Graham was drinking with him at the Bloomsfield Bar a few evenings before
Maskelyne’s palace show. He and Hill and this sergeant, a burly man from
Lancaster, were two bottles into the night when he asked the question. The
sergeant repeated, then sneered, then boomed it loudly a third time. Some
of the men drinking nearby stopped their own conversations to listen to his
speech, but most ignored him. They’d been out there and had their own
answer. “I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s like sitting in the middle of a frying
pan with the lighter on underneath, surrounded by nothing but sand. Now,
the sand is burning hot and there’s always a spray of it blowing in your
eyes and your ears and up your nose and you can’t never get away from it.
Every part of your body aches, specially your feet ’cause they’ve swelled up
from the heat, but you can’t do anything about it ’cause if you take off your
boots you can’t get ’em on again and you can’t walk on the sand without
’em ’cause it’s burning.
    “Now, during the day you can’t touch any part of your tank hull ’cause
it’s so hot you burn your skin, and at night it gets so cold you get the
shivers. The flies are at you day and night, buzzin’ in your ears, nippin’ at
you, and you got to be careful when they bite you ’cause then the sand
gets under your skin and it gets infected and blisters and there isn’t too
much you can do about it except suffer.
    “Now, then, taking all that in your stride, plus the fact that there’s never
enough food and you’ve got to husband your water, the thing you want to
be wary of is the Nazi. Rommel’s always out there gunning for you. You
can’t never relax. You sail over a dune and there he is waiting for you.
They’ve got the best equipment out there.” The sergeant’s eyes had been
clear and his voice bold when he began, but as he continued he saw the
hell he was describing and his voice became low and respectful and when
he was finished he turned his back to Graham and threw down a long shot
of whisky and didn’t say very much more for a long time.
   None of the other veterans in the bar bothered him. They knew.
   Graham was beginning to understand what it was that made Maskelyne
give up his position in England and fight to get into the war. The carpenter
couldn’t properly define it, but he could feel it in his gut. Once survival
would have been sufficient, but that was no longer true. Something was
driving him to test himself against that vast measuring stick. “It’s crazy,”
Graham muttered, almost to himself.
   The Hussar sergeant looked over and chuckled maniacally.


                                   Nine
His Majesty King Farouk waited until all his guests were seated and
restless, and the court photographers were in position, before making his
entrance thirty-five minutes after the performance was scheduled to begin.
As he walked casually down the centre aisle to his hand-carved wooden
chair in the front, dressed in a finely tailored Egyptian Army officer’s
uniform, the photographers snapped away and the entire audience stood
and applauded politely.
    “Why don’t you get yourself a bloody watch,” Hill snapped
contemptuously as he watched the pageant from backstage.
    Maskelyne was pleased that the King was tardy. Every extra minute that
could be squeezed out of the night was vital. Clarke’s men had rummaged
through a spate of rooms during the afternoon dress rehearsal but had not
found the radio. Now, as Farouk made his grand entrance, MI6 agents were
swarming over the palace like bees in a flower garden.
    As had become his custom, Jasper went over to Kathy Lewis, who was
sitting on a prop trunk, and whispered to her, “Remember, no tricks!” And,
as always, she looked up at him and grinned. It was his means of helping
her relax, but also served to remind her not to change a single step that
had been rehearsed. Ad-libbing was not permitted in a Maskelyne magic
show. “Ready?”
    She nodded.
    “Nervous?”
    “A bit.”
    “Me too.” He wasn’t, really, he was too exhilarated to feel the jitters,
but he knew that his false confession buoyed his young assistant. “Try to
draw out the boxes as long as possible tonight, will you?”
    She had learned not to question his instructions. He always had a strong
reason for wanting something done a particular way. “Perhaps we can bring
someone up to inspect them,” she suggested. They hadn’t rehearsed it that
way, but had done it often in the Empire Theatre shows.
    Maskelyne thought it was a fine idea. “Let’s.” Then he was struck with
an amusing thought. His eyes twinkled in delight. “Perhaps the King would
help us.”
    “No,” she said, drawing out the word. She knew when he was teasing
her.
    “I’m serious. He’d love it. Anything to be in the spotlight.”
    Knox came up to them. “King’s seated. Two minutes.” Frank was doing
his best to hide his nervousness in good cheer. “Good show.”
    Maskelyne gave Kathy a peck on the cheek for luck and began moving to
his position in the shadows, but paused after a few steps and returned to
her side. Crouching down so he could catch her eyes, he warned, “Don’t be
alarmed if anything seems amiss during the boxes. Just keep playing.
Understand?”
    The humour was gone from his eyes. She looked at him questioningly,
but said she understood.
    “That’s my pretty lady,” he said, forcing a quick smile, then brushing her
cheek again and hurrying to his opening spot. While awaiting his musical
introduction he checked to make sure his props were in place and his crew
was ready. He was fortunate, he knew, to have the Gang with him. They
had asked no questions when the new men slipped away during rehearsals,
and never complained about picking up their work.
    Farouk had taken his time getting settled. When he was finally ready,
he nodded to an army officer standing against a side wall. The officer, in
turn, signalled two trumpeters, who blared a royal introduction to the
evening.
    The lights dimmed and Maskelyne’s regular musicians began a brief
overture.
    Kathy took her place in the left wing, next to a prop table laden with
pop-up flowers, empty wells and hidden compartments. She was to carry it
out to Maskelyne as soon as he finished his opening sleights. Wetting her
fingers, she patted down a new curl against her forehead and demurely
pressed the sides of her short-skirt costume. When she looked up, she saw
Michael Hill staring at her from the opposite wing.
    Caught, he grinned.
    She firmed her chin and turned away. Idiot, she thought.
    Maskelyne walked out of the shadows to appreciative applause and
locked his stage smile in place. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a
package of V cigarettes, the popular Indian brand, and removed one. After
snapping his fingers into flame and lighting it, he puffed out a few smoke
rings to convince the audience it was real, then pushed it into his palm,
and as he did another cigarette popped out of his ear.
    Meanwhile, in another wing of the palace, Jack Smyth slipped into a
bedroom. If the room was not quite fitted for a king, it would certainly
please a prince, and it greatly impressed the British agent. He searched it
professionally, starting behind the full-length brocade curtains, crawling
under the bed and picking through a closet. He checked for false walls and
stepped carefully over the carpet, feeling for a trapdoor latch. The agents
were convinced there were secret passages and hidden chambers in the
palace, but only one tunnel had been discovered and that led into a wine
cellar. Smyth completed his search in four minutes. Satisfied that the
transmitter was not in the room, he opened the door an inch and listened
for footsteps. Hearing none, he moved quickly into the corridor and to the
door of the adjoining room.
    Maskelyne’s show was moving along efficiently. After Kathy had set the
black-velvet-covered production table in position, he poured a goblet full of
ink and wrote a short, sweet poem for one of the overdressed women in the
front row. He then covered the goblet of ink with a handkerchief and – hey
presto! – turned it into a fishbowl of sparkling water complete with a
shimmering goldfish. Then, “because none of us should be alone,” he cast a
fishing line into the audience and “caught” a second goldfish.
    He did the silks and followed them with a variety of paper bits. After
cutting a double page from the Egyptian Gazette into long strips, he
dropped the pieces into an ordinary glass bowl and, magically, restored the
pages. He twisted these pages into a cylinder and poured into it the
contents of the goldfish bowl, including the two fish, then unrolled the
paper: it was absolutely dry, and goldfish and bowl had vanished.
    Almost everyone in the hall had seen variations of his first act done by
other magicians, but that in no way diminished their enjoyment. Maskelyne
had been taught that it is not the conjuror’s tricks that delight his
audience, but rather the presentation of them. His strong suit was his
ability to act the role of the magician, to convince his audience that he was
not merely performing simple tricks, but rather sharing strange and mystical
secrets with them, and he did this with his famed broad smile and warm,
omniscient eyes. It seemed obvious he was having a splendid time. Other
magicians may have done the tricks with better technique, but few ever
dominated a stage as he did.
    “I have in my hand a length of rope which is much too long,” he
announced, thus beginning a series of rope moves.
    On the second floor, Ike Simon was jimmying a door lock when a palace
guard turned the corner, perhaps fifteen yards away, and came directly
toward him. There was nothing the agent could do but try to bluff his way
out of the predicament. So, as the guard approached, he continued picking
at the lock. The guard marched up to him, and past him. As he walked by,
Simon inhaled the unmistakable aroma of hashish. The man had obviously
been smoking the drug on duty and was probably more afraid of being
caught than worrying about a stranger in an upstairs corridor. Simon popped
the door open and found it was a closet stocked with boxes of British
rations. He closed it up and moved along.
    King Farouk delighted in the show, reacting as would any other young
lad watching Maskelyne’s performance of wonders. Throughout the first act
he was whispering over his shoulder to one of the young British officers in
his private group, a sure indication of his interest.
    To prepare the King for his participation in the second-act boxes, Jasper
went into the audience with the Linking Rings and used him as his foil. The
King could neither separate the linked metal rings nor, after Jasper easily
did so, chain them back together. Maskelyne urged the King to try harder,
which he did, clanking them hard and, of course, unsuccessfully. Farouk
basked in the friendly laughter of his guests, continually twisting around to
show them that he too was amused by this ancient puzzle.
    Maskelyne concluded the first act with a new production that he had
named “The Djinn,” or “The Genie.” After “discovering” a rusting lantern in a
previously empty wooden crate, he rubbed its side and it began smoking.
He placed it down on stage, and Kathy Lewis seemed to materialize,
dressed as a legendary genie, from its smoking spout.
    She offered to grant him three wishes.
    He faced the audience and frowned. “Only three?” he complained. When
their laughter had subsided he asked for their advice. A wide range of
suggestions were shouted at the stage, some of them evoking more
laughter, and finally he raised his hand to quiet them. “Riches,” he
demanded of the djinn.
    “Oh, that’s an easy one,” she replied in a perky voice, then reached into
the empty box from which Maskelyne had pulled the lamp. From it she
withdrew a seemingly endless silk stocking, a veritable treasure in Cairo at
that time.
    Now thoroughly disappointed, Maskelyne requested beauty.
    Again reaching into the apparently bottomless wooden crate, she
produced a mirror which could not possibly have been hidden there, and
held it up in front of him. Maskelyne admired his own reflection from a
number of different angles, dabbed at his hair, plucked a bit at his
moustache and finally agreed, “Now she’s on the right track.” For his last
wish, he requested love.
    Lewis pulled two adorable rabbits from the crate. As Maskelyne cuddled
them, she checked her wristwatch and told him she had to go home. “My
parents don’t allow me out of the lamp in Cairo after ten o’clock,” she
explained, and appeared to dissolve back into the smoking lantern.
    Maskelyne exited to a thunderous ovation.
    Refreshments were served to the audience during intermission. The
crowd of young British officers gathered around the King and merrily
replayed his failure with the rings.
    Clarke came into Maskelyne’s dressing alcove as Jasper was changing
into his Oriental costume. The brigadier had been officially invited by Kathy
Lewis, to allay any suspicion. “Nothing yet,” he said, “but the boys are still
at it. You still want to take a crack?”
    Maskelyne pulled a flesh-coloured skullcap over his head and carefully
tucked long strands of his own dark hair under it. “Certainly.” He dabbed
some rouge on his cheeks, created shadows around his eyes with a
cosmetic pencil, and added long upraised greasepaint eyebrows. “I’ll just
have a quick look-see, that’s all.”
    “Just remember, six minutes and out.”
    “Believe me, I will.” He examined his makeup critically in the mirror,
turning, raising and lowering his head to inspect all angles. Finally
satisfied, he affixed a flowing white beard to his chin and glued a squarish
Manchu moustache under his nose, completing the transformation from
debonair entertainer to ancient Chinese scholar.
    The brigadier helped him on with his robe. “It’s a bit heavy, isn’t it?”
    “It’s necessary, unfortunately,” Maskelyne replied as he checked himself
in the standing mirror. “The magic is in my pockets.”
    They shook hands. “Good luck, then,” Clarke said.
    The second act proceeded quite well. Kathy Lewis had some difficulty
with a latch inside a cabinet during a disappearance, but Maskelyne stalled
until she fixed it, and the audience never knew there had been a problem.
Following some minor feats, he did an effective Sword Cabinet, and his
Sarcophagus was well received. Building toward the final box production, he
levitated Kathy four feet above the stage and kept her suspended four
minutes while twirling metal rings around her to show that wireworks were
not in use. Although no one in the audience knew it, this popular illusion
had been created by Maskelyne’s grandfather just before the turn of the
century. King Farouk led the rousing cheers after Kathy had been lowered
and “awakened.”
    The audience was in splendid humour for the final boxes. Stepping to
the front of the stage, Maskelyne held his palms in a prayerful position and
bowed gracefully, then announced in the high, croaking voice of an aged
wise man, “It has been a pleasure performing my humble illusions for you
this evening, but there is yet one final mystery to be presented for your
approval. The perambulations of the spirit have long fascinated my people,”
he began, and spoke briefly of thousands of years’ investigation into the
nature of the human soul. Behind him, the Gang was placing eight boxes of
varying sizes and construction in a semicircle. These boxes ranged from a
large rattan trunk to a tiny ivory-inlaid music box. “In recent months I have
made an amazing discovery,” Jasper continued, “and this allows me to
transport my human body from one place to another, which I shall do for
you tonight. But to accomplish this, I require the assistance of a truly
honest man.” Extending an inviting arm out to Farouk, he said, “I hope the
King will assist me.”
    The King could hardly resist. The audience cheered him onto the stage.
    While attention was focused on Farouk, Maskelyne glanced at Clarke.
The brigadier gave him the thumbs-up, the signal to proceed with his
search.
    By the time the King had taken his bows the stage was set. Farouk was
asked to examine every box for trapdoors, false sides or fake locks. He
inspected each one, banging and pulling at several, and stated he could
find nothing irregular. After each box was searched, chains were drawn
around it and it was padlocked. The keys were attached to a metal ring
held by Farouk.
    When the inspection was finished, Kathy produced two pairs of
handcuffs, which the King examined and judged normal. Maskelyne’s hands
were cuffed with one pair and his feet with the other. Farouk then unlocked
a medium-sized steamer trunk, having to try five keys before finding the
correct one, and Hill and Graham lifted Maskelyne and placed him inside the
trunk. From inside he could hear the chains being resecured and the padlock
snapped closed. By the time that was finished he was ready to make his
exit.
    Kathy asked the King if he was confident the box was sealed.
    Farouk agreed he was.
    In a much louder voice she asked Maskelyne if he was all right.
    He replied by banging three times against the side of the trunk.
    He was free in seconds. Although his hands were bound, his arms were
loose, so he had no difficulty reaching up and grasping the duplicate
handcuff key taped inside his beard. Holding it firmly in his teeth, he
popped open the wrist cuffs, then reached down and opened the second
pair. As he worked to free himself, he could hear Kathy’s muffled voice
explaining the difficulty in effecting human transference.
    “… spirit moves in unpredictable direction and the body has no choice
but to follow,” she said, “so it is not possible for us to know into which box
he will wish to enter …”
    Upon receiving the three-knock signal from Maskelyne, Frank Knox
opened a trapdoor in the stage directly below the trunk. Although Farouk
did not detect it, half of the trunk bottom was on camouflaged hinges and
could be opened outward by pressing a spring bolt hidden inside. Once
Knox had tapped twice on the bottom of the trunk to indicate that the trap
was open, Maskelyne pressed the bolt. Sliding out of the trunk, being
careful to snap it closed behind him, he climbed down a three-rung ladder
to a small, dimly lit space below the stage.
    Knox fastened the trapdoor after him. “You’ve got a touch over six
minutes.”
    “Right.” Maskelyne quickly removed his robe and, dressed in Engineer
shorts and t-shirt, crossed to the door. Knox could barely resist laughing,
as Jasper was quite a sight in his Engineer gear and Oriental getup, but
there was neither time nor reason to do anything about it.
    The hallway guard was peeking into the theatre through a fire door at
the far end of the corridor. Maskelyne had no trouble slipping into the
workshop area without being seen.
    On stage, Kathy concluded her long-winded explanation and asked,
loudly, if the spirit had settled. Knox was standing under a chalk spot
marked “1” and, in response to her question, banged the stage floor three
times with a broomstick. From the audience, even from the stage, the
banging seemed to emanate from a small trunk. Farouk and Lewis went
across the stage to it, and the King began fiddling with the keys.
    He unlocked the trunk, pushing the chains aside, and lifted its lid. It
was empty. Kathy’s shoulders sagged in disappointment, and she again
asked the spirit to reveal its location. Knox, having moved across the small
room to chalk mark number 2, banged the stage floor three more times.
    “Oh dear,” Kathy exclaimed, her distress almost believable, “I’m afraid
the spirit is unruly today. This will be more difficult than I imagined.” She
followed the King to the second box.
    Maskelyne eased his way into the shop area. The first room contained
woodworking tools. Lathes, presses and hand tools were lying on long work
tables, and scraps of wood littered the floor, but there was no indication of
a transmitter.
    Farouk did not find the spirit in the second box and followed Knox’s
banging to the third, an oversized leather suitcase.
    A second shop was obviously not in use, and Maskelyne quickly moved
on to the third room in the area. As soon as he opened the door he saw a
radio and, for a moment, thought he had found the transmitter. But then he
saw a second radio, and a stack of three radio cabinets, and realized he
was in the electronics shop. Numerous sets in various states of disrepair
were scattered on tables, on metal shelves and on the floor. He knew he
would have to examine each one. What better place to hide a transmitter
than a radio shop?
    Farouk did not find Maskelyne in the leather suitcase. The audience was
beginning to titter at the antics of the playful “spirit,” and the King
managed to keep a smile on his face. He trailed Kathy back across the
stage to the ivory box.
    Knox nervously checked his watch. It would be just like Maskelyne to get
back late, he thought. The man was irritatingly convinced nothing bad could
befall him. Three minutes were gone. Frank moved the ladder to spot
number 8, directly beneath the standard prop trunk in which Maskelyne was
to reappear.
    It had taken Maskelyne about a minute to conclude that the transmitter
was not among the small forest of radios. He figured he had two minutes
left, and three rooms to search.
    Farouk opened the tiny ivory chest; and it began playing tinkly music.
The King shut it off in midtune by closing it hard. Kathy noticed he was
beginning to perspire. “You’re doing brilliantly,” she whispered to him, but
she was starting to worry.
    Maskelyne went into the sewing room. Multicoloured stacks of material
and garments were piled on tables, and he poked into each one, hoping to
find the transmitter hidden beneath one of them. He did not. He estimated
he had a minute left.
    Farouk’s face was turning a light pink as he continued opening the
boxes. The audience was laughing out loud while he traipsed back and forth
across the stage. Only two boxes remained to be opened, and they were
set on opposite sides of the stage. The King whispered something to
Kathy, but she did not understand him. He began opening the seventh box.
    Maskelyne found the transmitter in the printing shop. It was hidden
behind stacked boxes of paper, and he did not spot it immediately. But he
found a wire pushed against the floor moulding and traced it. There was
nothing extraordinary about the transmitter, a microphone was plugged into
it and a pair of headsets rested on top, and he felt no great sense of relief
in locating it. As Clarke had requested, he briefly scoured around for a code
book, but did not find one. Time was running out and he left the room to
complete his illusion.
    When Farouk found the seventh box empty he marched rapidly across
the stage to the last box. He was not enjoying his role and wanted it to
end.
    Maskelyne peeked into the hallway. The guard was busy watching the
stage, and in an instant Jasper was across the corridor. Knox was holding
his coat for him and he quickly put it on and held out his hands for the
metal cuffs. The professor fumbled with the first pair but managed to snap
them closed. Maskelyne grabbed the second pair and started to climb up
the ladder to box number 8.
    “Not there,” Knox whispered, grabbing him by the shoulder. “It’s too late
for that one.” He looked up at the chalk numbers, trying to remember which
stage traps were under large boxes. “That one,” he decided, pointing to
number 5.
    King Farouk opened the eighth box, expecting to find the magician
haunched and chained inside. It was empty. He whirled around and glared
at Kathy, his look demanding an answer.
    She kept her cool magnificently. Rising on her tip toes, she looked into
the box and frowned. “Dear me,” she pondered aloud, “now what’s
happened to him?”
    The audience accepted this as part of the illusion, but Farouk did not.
His face was taut. Just as he opened his mouth to shout orders to the
palace guard, a muffled cry came from inside one of the previously
inspected boxes. “Hey,” Maskelyne was yelling, “help me out of here, help
me out of here!”
    The audience roared. Farouk, unsure, opened the box again. The
magician was curled up inside, handcuffed as he had been when placed
inside the steamer trunk. Hill, Robson, and a grinning Graham came on
stage to lift him out. The King unlocked the wrist cuffs. Although he may
have suspected foul play, he said nothing, and he took his bows alongside
Maskelyne and Kathy Lewis.
    During the King’s banquet following the performance Jasper reported his
discovery to Dudley Clarke. Soon thereafter, the brigadier made polite
excuses and departed.
    The dinner was impressive. After rounds of cocktails, freshly caught Red
Sea shrimp was served on a hand-painted platter four feet long and two
feet wide, depicting an ancient fishing fleet sailing into Alexandria harbour
at sunset. This was followed by steaming lamb kebabs and vegetable
dishes, and each course was accompanied by an ample quantity of the
proper libation.
    The night proved less than a complete triumph for the magician.
Because Farouk was in military uniform, Maskelyne addressed him as “sir.”
A sticky British colonel took him aside and suggested he refer to the King
as “Your Majesty,” a suggestion to which Jasper took exception. “Look,” he
said, feeling a bit giddy about the evening, “he’s a soldier and I’m a soldier
and I’ll call him sir.” The next day the colonel placed him on report, and an
official letter of reprimand was added to his personnel file.
    Kathy Lewis had more to drink that night than ever before in her life.
This gave her the courage to tell Michael Hill that he was often a royal
pain, but that he was also charming. Hill agreed, then replied that for
someone who walked around like she was trying to scratch her nose on the
sky, she too had some appealing qualities. They taxied to her flat together
and he kissed her sweedy before leaving.
    So ended the night of illusion.
    The following morning GHQ took action on Maskelyne’s discovery. At
dawn Abdin Palace was surrounded by Commonwealth troops in combat
gear. The portly British ambassador, Sir Miles Lampston, marched to the
main gate and demanded an audience with the palace chief of staff.
    Once inside, Lampston told the startled aide, “We have irrefutable
evidence that a radio transmitter operating on these premises is
communicating vital military information to the enemy. You have exactly
one hour to hand over this transmitter. If this is not done, I’m afraid we
shall have to take steps to silence that transmitter. Now, what are you
going to do?”
    All sorts of threats and counterthreats were swatted back and forth
throughout the morning, and a number of deadlines were set and extended,
but eventually the transmitter was produced. A contingent of New
Zealanders then entered the palace and confiscated the communications
equipment in the shops. Unquestionably, the Axis spy would soon relocate
and be transmitting again, but the radio had been silenced for the critical
period just prior to the attack.
    While the loss of this source of reliable information was a severe blow
to Rommel’s intelligence operation, it was only one of many problems
facing the newly promoted Tank General. Though victorious in battle,
Panzer Group Africa had been ensnared in the great irony of desert warfare:
the army had to resume the attack to protect its extended supply line, but
lacked sufficient supplies to sustain such an attack. Unlike the British, who
had been beaten back to their supply depots, Rommel had to have his
stores shipped across the Mediterranean to Tripoli, then driven one
thousand miles to the front. Royal Navy destroyers had won control of the
sea and turned it into a “German swimming pool,” while RAF bombers and
hellbent Long Range Desert Group commandos harassed truck convoys. In
September, Hitler ordered twenty-seven U-boats to the area to protect
supply convoys, and this helped relieve the immediate pressure, but the
Royal Navy was still sending thousands of tons of rations, equipment and
ammunition to the bottom of the Mediterranean.
    Tobruk remained the key to victory for Rommel. Like a glass of icy water
just beyond the reach of a sun-baked man, it tormented him. If he captured
the city his supplies could be landed at its deep-water port, and the threat
of a British breakout severing his lines would be eliminated. But he could
not attack the fortress until sufficiently provisioned, and he couldn’t get
those supplies until he attacked.
    The desert was forcing his hand. The sucking heat, the deprivations, the
flies and bugs and constant enemy pressure had taken a toll on his army.
Morale was low. Thousands of soldiers had been sent to the rear suffering
from dysentery and infectious jaundice. And there had been another
disastrous setback: temporary hospitals had been set up in coastal wadis,
natural desert trenches, and covered with camouflaged canvas to protect
the sick and injured from the sun and RAF bombers; the first major
rainstorm in five years sent flash floods cascading through the wadis to the
sea, drowning and injuring scores of troops and destroying thousands of
tons of equipment and rations.
    Even the fresh reinforcements who had arrived in the last few months
were becoming mentally and physically exhausted. Rommel had no choice.
At whatever cost, Tobruk had to be captured. The attack was set for
November 21.
    Meanwhile, the exasperated Winston Churchill was imploring General
Auchinleck to attack Rommel. The Prime Minister’s enemies in government
were denouncing his plodding conduct of the war, and his military advisers
were warning that Russia would soon be defeated, leaving Hitler free to
concentrate on the prized oil fields of the Middle East. The Germans had
taken a million prisoners. Martial law had been declared in Moscow, and
women and children were evacuating the city. On October 3 the Führer
boasted to his nation, “The enemy is broken and will never rise again.” For
strategic as well as political reasons, Prime Minister Churchill needed a
decisive victory in the western desert, and he needed it immediately.
    The Auk refused to be cowed. He was a professional soldier sure of his
business. Operation Crusader had been carefully planned for mid-November,
and he saw no reason to alter that schedule. At that time Eighth Army
would be fully prepared to destroy Rommel’s Panzer Group Africa.
    Jasper Maskelyne’s Camouflage Experimental Section, the Magic Gang,
had already played its part. An army of canvas and cardboard was in the
field, and the spy network in Cairo had been temporarily silenced.
Maskelyne had never told the Gang the real purpose of the show, but they
guessed correctly that it had much to do with the dramatic confrontation
outside Abdin Palace. Once that job was finished, however, they returned
to their regular tasks, and had to stand by wistfully as the rest of the army
prepared for battle. A depression thick as a London fog settled over the
men.
    Finally they could take it no longer. Hill and Graham marched into
Maskelyne’s Magic Valley office and stood directly in front of his desk.
Jasper was busy trying to sort out some of the paperwork that had
accumulated over the past few months. When he failed to look up at the
duo, perhaps knowing the purpose of their visit, Hill said loudly, “Knock,
knock.”
    Maskelyne got the point. Putting down his pencil, he leaned back in his
chair and sighed. “Sometimes I really do wish I had a door.”
    Hill collapsed into the easy chair and took off his field cap. Graham
remained standing, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “The chaps
wanted us to talk to you,” the carpenter said.
    “Right,” Hill interrupted. “See, what it is, see … it’s like …” He looked at
Graham for help. “Nails’s got something to say.”
    Graham glanced at Hill and shook his head despairingly. Then, returning
to Maskelyne, he said, “It’s a bit difficult, Jay. It’s not like the guys aren’t
happy here, they are that, and … but … what it is, is that the push is about
to begin and I was thinking–”
    “We were thinking,” corrected Hill.
    “You want a part in it,” Maskelyne said evenly.
    Hill smacked his hands together. “That’s it, you’ve got it. We just …”
    Jasper prodded him, “All the sitting around.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “It’s got to us all,” Graham said. “You know, it’s difficult …” He
shrugged. “You know.”
    Maskelyne inhaled deeply, then slowly released a long stream of breath,
as if he might escape the moment on a puff of air. “I do. Believe me, Nails,
I do.” He heard the song of the desert, too, but knew there was nothing he
could do about it. He would have liked to run off with them into the great
adventure and dash about gallantly and experience the exhilaration of
putting himself on the front line. But it wasn’t possible. He was an officer
in His Majesty’s Service, charged with specific responsibilities. He didn’t like
it, but he accepted it. His time in Egypt had taught him the importance of
military structure. Suddenly, he realized that this acceptance was the
difference between the soldier and the civilian at war. His transformation,
then, was complete.
    “Jay?” Graham asked.
    Maskelyne frowned. An instant later his defences crumbled, and he
admitted to himself he wanted to be out there as much as any other man.
Maybe more than most. Neither his famous grandfather nor his famous
father had ever served under fire, and he’d lived under the protection of
their guns far too long. He wasn’t going to miss this battle. It was a right
he had earned. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Do me a favour, find Fuller
and have him bring the jeep around.”
    Hill snapped to like a trained soldier.
    Jasper watched them leave. Some transformations, he thought to
himself, were less permanent than others.
    Getting an assignment was much easier than Maskelyne had anticipated.
The Gang’s accomplishments gave him access to the top brass. By calling in
some chits, applying a bit of pressure, and pledging future wonders, the
Camouflage Experimental Section was temporarily attached to the 24th
Armoured Brigade, a Royal Engineer decoy unit composed entirely of
Bedford trucks and cardboard tanks and guns. It would be their job to
attract the attention of the enemy, and perhaps even draw his fire.
    Maskelyne offered each Magic Gang member the opportunity to come
along or bow out. Not surprisingly, everyone wanted to go. Frank Knox
leaped at the offer and immediately began hurling outlandish threats at the
Afrika Korps. Fuller was grateful for the chance to do a soldier’s job. Hill
was delighted, Graham, as usual, stolid. Robson was grateful that the
mission did not require anyone to carry arms. Jasper expected some
hesitation from Townsend, but the painter said, “I’m in,” and allowed no
further conversation.
    The Magic Gang was ordered to forward status on November 14. They
trucked to the rim of the desert to join the gathering army. Twenty-fourth
Armoured was already in position when they arrived, equipped with
thirty-five Magic Valley folding tanks (ten self-propelled), twenty-four
dummy field guns and sufficient dummy ammunition, and twelve Bedford
trucks. Its assigned strength was forty-two men, all Royal Engineer
volunteers, plus Maskelyne’s group. Twenty-fourth Armoured’s only real
weapons were some infantry rifles and officers’ sidearms, which, according
to the complaining Private Hill, “might prove handy if we get attacked by a
squad of ducks.” The unit’s mission was to proceed south along a carefully
mapped desert route, “until observed or engaged by enemy forces. When
attacked withdraw rapidly.”
    “Rapidly’s not fast enough,” Robson said, drawing a laugh.
    Most of the Bedfords were radio-equipped, and their drivers were
encouraged to chatter away in an effort to convince the enemy that a
brigade was manoeuvring in the area. An entire mock designation code had
been issued to 24th Armoured for this ploy.
    In addition Maskelyne equipped the Magic Gang’s truck to blare 78-rpm
records into the desert. Impressed by Rommel, who was known to have
mounted aircraft engines on flatbed trucks and sent them meandering
about the desert mimicking the thunder of an approaching tank force, he
bolted four loudspeakers to his Bedford and connected them to a wind-up
gramophone sitting on the front seat. A recording of tanks at full attack
was to be blasted through the speakers, thus giving the puny force the
growl of a tank brigade.
    The objective of Operation Crusader was to push Rommel clear back to
Libya. Specifically, Eighth Army was to drive directly toward Tobruk,
destroying enemy targets as they appeared. At the moment of opportunity,
the garrison inside the fortress was to smash out, squashing Panzer Group
Africa between General Cunningham’s well-equipped attackers and Tobruk’s
defenders. Once Tobruk was relieved, Eighth Army was to pursue the enemy
into Cyrenaica.
    To lock Rommel’s widely scattered divisions in their present positions as
long as possible, a series of feints was to be made at their supply lines in
the south. Twenty-fourth Armoured was assigned to make one of these
dummy attacks.
    By the evening of November 14 the Magic Gang was camped at the
assembly area. Within days the desert would be littered with busted tanks
and trucks and blackening, bloated corpses, but on this night, as the
largest tank force in history gathered for the historic attack, it was washed
spotless by a high silver moon. It was, in fact, starkly beautiful.
    The majority of Cunningham’s troops had never been under fire, and the
waiting was difficult. The men gathered in small groups around jerrycan
petrol fires for the security of comradeship, as men had always done in the
night, and passed the time with lies and dreams. Some veterans reminisced
about earlier battles, but there was little boasting, as if death might be
lurking within range and become angered. During the nights in the desert it
was difficult not to look around the fire and wonder which men might buy a
Nazi bullet in the next few days.
    The Magic Gang integrated easily into 24th Armoured, and temporary
friendships were struck. Like many first-timers, Hill spent part of the
evening sewing a makeshift green-and-red Desert Rat patch onto his
jersey. And, naturally, he quickly became an expert on the forthcoming
attack. “Tomorrow it is,” he announced, “we go tomorrow.”
    “Righto, mate,” Engineer Corporal Leslie Ferguson chided, “bukra!” –
invoking the Arabic term for a tomorrow that never arrived.
    The fifteenth passed quietly. The men spent it tuning up equipment or
exercising or drilling in squads, visiting other units, eating, playing cards, or
writing long and emotional letters. Those men with entertainment skills
employed them. Maskelyne and Knox, assisted by various Gang members,
went down the line giving the trick-filled escape lecture. A sergeant from
XXX Corps set up shop in a tent and read palms, decently guaranteeing
each customer a long and prosperous life.
    As the launching hour approached, a torrent of men and machines flowed
onto the desert. Many of Eighth Army’s tanks were wearing sunshield
disguises. A small city had been founded and settled in a few days.
Signposts had been erected, military policemen directed traffic at busy
intersections, long lines formed at the canteen wagons, and word spread
where the high-stakes poker could be played or black-market goods
purchased. It was rumoured that a team of prostitutes was working out of a
rented van, but this bint-mobile always seemed to be one more unit away
from the soldiers searching for it.
    Jack Fuller had provisioned the Gang’s truck with tinned sausages, milk,
fruit, tea and other treats, so dinners were pleasant. Afterward, Maskelyne
strummed familiar songs on his ukulele and many troops joined in with
enthusiasm.
    As the fires died on the night of the fifteenth, Hill confided to anyone
who would listen, “Tomorrow for certain. I got the word from a South
African who’s got his cousin working on the inside. It’s tomorrow.”
    The force was intact on the sixteenth. At muster parade Prime Minister
Churchill’s charge to the troops was read aloud:

        I have it in command from the King to express to all ranks of
    the army and RAF in the western desert, and to the Mediterranean
    Fleet, His Majesty’s confidence that they will do their duty with
    exemplary devotion to the supremely important battle which lies
    before them. For the first time British and Empire troops will meet
    the Germans with an ample equipment in modern weapons of all
    kinds. The battle itself will affect the whole course of the war.
    Now is the time to strike the hardest blow yet struck for final
    victory, home and freedom. The Desert Army may add a page to
    history which will rank with Blenheim and Waterloo. The eyes of
    all nations are upon you. All our hearts are with you. May God
    uphold the right!

   Standing there listening to the Prime Minister’s stirring words, as the
sun’s sweetest rays threw the shadows of one hundred thousand soldiers
onto the desert plain, it was indeed possible to feel part of history. Even in
the morning heat, Maskelyne felt the chill of destiny straighten his spine.
During the next few days he would be writing his own part; it was a role
that neither his grandfather nor his father had played before him. It was
only a bit player’s role, but it would be his alone. Finally, in the midst of
war, he had found a certain peace.
    After the parade had been dismissed, Hill reminded everyone, “I told you
it was kick-off today, didn’t I tell you that?”
    In the afternoon a single German spotter flew nearby and the men
scurried to their trucks, but otherwise the day passed slowly and without
incident.
    Crusader had to begin soon. The tanks and trucks were fuelled and their
ammunition racks stuffed. The troops were near bursting with nervous
energy, but they were sweaty and dirty and sleep was impossible and they
could not maintain their edge much longer. Small incidents that would have
been overlooked a day earlier now provoked loud arguments and fistfights.
Rumours about a further delay whipped through the desert and added to
the anxiety. Even the usually placid Knox was sitting on thorns. “When?” he
demanded of Maskelyne. “What the dickens are the fools waiting for?”
    “Divine inspiration,” Jasper ventured.
    Knox shook his head in disbelief. “Bloody Churchill.”
    Hill took a long stroll at dusk and returned with a preposterous tale
about a commando raid on Rommel’s villa at German headquarters in Beda
Littoria. The details were sketchy, but apparently the Desert Fox had
escaped without injury. Weeks later the rumour would be confirmed. The
raiders’ commander, Lieutenant Colonel Keyes, was killed in the first burst
of fire, and twenty-seven of his twenty-nine men were captured. Although
they were wearing civilian clothes, Rommel ordered them treated as regular
prisoners of war and awarded Keyes a military funeral with full honours. No
one was surprised at this behaviour.
    Hill also returned with the definitive word: “Tomorrow. The orders are
cut. One of the boys in the Twenty-second saw ’em. This time it’s for real.”
    But Eighth Army sweated in the desert all day the seventeenth of
November. The officers were becoming concerned that their baking troops
had already lost their enthusiasm for the fight, and pressed HQ to give
them the go. The Army of the Nile was wilting on the desert.
    At 2000 hours that night, orders were issued to prepare to advance. “I
told you so,” Hill boasted once more. Desert kits were rolled up and tied
onto tank hulls or suspended from the sides of armoured cars and trucks for
added protection from bullets, and the men climbed aboard. In a violent
thunderstorm the army sloshed forward to the start line.
    Finally, at 0600 hours November 18, the overcast sky was tinted by a
rosy red flare, then a green one, then a second red. A solitary military
policeman stood in front of the army and, like a racetrack starter, blew his
whistle and dropped his right arm. Other MPs down the line picked up the
signal and echoed it, but their whistles were drowned out by a swelling
cheer that arose from the troops, a cheer that got so loud it could be heard
above the rumble of the thousand engines. The British Eighth Army was
coming to life. Seventh Armoured began moving out to fight. Operation
Crusader was under way.
                                    Ten
Like a legion of serpents awakening from a long sleep, Eighth Army
emerged from beneath camouflage netting and uncoiled gracefully into the
desert. Operation Crusader was launched by sections. Twenty-fourth
Armoured was not scheduled to pull out until 0830 hours, so the men sat by
their vehicles watching the wave of tanks and trucks and Bren-gun carriers
and armoured cars sweep across the morning plain. It was an awesome
sight. Maskelyne glowed with pride and tried to see everything and store it
in his memory. The Empire was on the move.
    Graham counted thirty-two new American Stuart tanks – nicknamed
“Honeys” by their British crews – before the line was broken by a yellow
Rolls-Royce armoured car, one of a handful of relics from the Great War still
active in the desert. “How many tanks do you think there are in all?” he
asked Knox.
    The desert seemed spotted with them. The professor shook his head.
“Enough, I should hope.”
    The 24th got under way as scheduled. They followed the desert track for
ten miles, then broke off and turned south. Within minutes all that was
visible of the main force was a giant dust cloud rising into the grey sky, and
even that settled onto the horizon after a while. The cardboard brigade was
alone. After spending months in the crowds and clamour of Cairo, and days
camped with the Army, everyone in the Gang found the sudden isolation
unnerving.
    In the afternoon a dust cloud raced toward them, and the column
paused until its source could be determined, but it was simply a dust devil,
and it swirled past in the distance as if late for an important engagement.
    The men tried to hide their nervousness with small talk. “You know what
Churchill said when they told him that Italy was in on Germany’s side?”
Graham asked no one in particular. “He said, ‘Why, it’s only fair. We had
them the last time.’” Everyone laughed a bit too hard.
    The 24th maintained radio silence throughout the day, waiting for
confirmation that the enemy had been engaged. The code word did not
come. Crusader’s initial phase was a complete success. The camouflage
effort, particularly the sunshields, and improved communications security
had paid off. Panzer Group Africa had been caught by surprise. Eighth Army
moved unimpeded toward Tobruk.
    At 1500 hours, as scheduled, 24th Armoured stopped for the night and
made its first camp. The Magic Gang’s cardboard tanks were snapped
together and set up in laager position surrounding the trucks. Bedrolls were
spread out for the two hundred mythical crewmen of the canvas tank force,
and at dusk dozens of fires were lit to keep those nonexistent men warm.
As Robson rubbed his hands by one of the fires he pointed out that they
made the 24th sleeping targets. Knox reminded him that that was their job.
    “Like the decoys in a duck hunt,” Graham explained.
    The professor chuckled. “More like the ducks, I should think. They’ll be
shooting at us.”
    After the cooking fires had been extinguished and the night watch
posted, Maskelyne strolled through the bivouac checking his men. Fuller
was just turning in, stiff from the bumpy ride across the camel scrub, but
terribly excited. He had waited a career to make it into the field and was
savouring every moment. Knox and Graham were sitting against a Bedford
bumper, staring at the million stars of the night, speculating on the first
day’s progress. The professor’s knee was cranky, and Nails’s right eye had
been scratched by sand dust, but neither man complained. Maskelyne
chewed on the tip of his unlit pipe and spoke softly of mundane matters,
then moved along.
    As he walked among the men he heard whispers drifting on the night
breezes, and a pye-dog was crooning in the dark, but otherwise the only
sound was the crunch of his boots against the hard sand.
    Hill wasn’t ready to sleep and wanted to talk, and asked Maskelyne
numerous questions about his stage career. He listened in childlike silence
as Jasper described the night of his first appearance on stage, at a
command performance in the Palace Theatre decorated with one million
roses, then told him the story of the titled Russian who offered him a
fortune to make his wife really disappear. Hill belly-laughed with innocent
pleasure. These two men had nothing in common but this time and place,
the war had made them friends and they would remain friends as long as
they served together. Eventually, the young soldier asked Maskelyne his
honest opinion of Kathy Lewis, and Jasper replied, “I think she’s splendid.”
    “You think she’s a looker?”
    “If I didn’t I’d be about the only man in Cairo who thought that.”
    That interested Hill. “Really?”
    “Absolutely. Why? What do you think about her?”
    “I like her all right, I guess. Nothing big.” Hill paused and thought about
that, then repeated, “Nothing big.”
    Before Hill could ask any more questions about Kathy, Maskelyne patted
him on the shoulder and moved away, leaving him the gift of a pretty young
girl to dream about.
    Townsend was sitting alone by a smouldering fire, nonchalantly flipping
pebbles into the ashes, lost in a memory.
    “Okay if I sit?”
    Townsend didn’t look up. “Pull up some sand.”
    Maskelyne settled down, drawing his legs into his chest and wrapping
his long muscular arms around them. The sand was still radiating the heat
of the day, and the night biters hadn’t yet appeared in any numbers. The
two men sat in uneasy silence for a few moments, staring into the embers,
then Maskelyne blurted out, “I’m terrified of fire, you know.”
    The painter did not realize the enormity of that admission. “Didn’t your
mum ever tell you it keeps the heart beating?”
    “No,” Jasper said softly, “never heard that one.” He scooped up a fistful
of warm pebbles and began flicking them off his forefinger into the
darkness. Why had he made that sudden confession to Townsend, a man
he barely knew? he wondered. Perhaps, Jasper thought, by opening himself
up to Townsend the painter might, in turn, reveal himself. But more likely,
he simply needed to get it out and believed Townsend was a guardian of
dark secrets.
    Townsend was paying almost no attention to him. He was staring into
the past, trying to remember how his wife had looked on their wedding day.
He could visualize her dress, white with a lace neck and ruffled belt line, he
could even hear her laughing, but, hard as he tried, he could not picture her
face.
    Maskelyne slapped a fly off his arm. The bugs were coming out of their
sand burrows. “You all right?” he asked.
    “Oh, just chipper,” Townsend said bitterly, then corrected himself,
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
    Maskelyne made an attempt at light conversation, but the painter did
not pick up his end, making Jasper feel like an intruder. “Well,” he said
finally, standing and stretching, “try to get some sleep. It may be a long
trek tomorrow.”
    Townsend looked up at him. The corners of his mouth began curling into
a half-smile, but he caught himself. “Thanks for trying,” he said. “You’re a
good sort.”
    Maskelyne returned to his bedroll with a sprightly step.
    Twenty-fourth Armoured broke camp before dawn. The trucks continued
south, leaving a trail of litter in hopes it would be discovered by the enemy,
stopping every few hours as scheduled to set up a tank display.
Surveillance aircraft in the sector reported no sign of Jerry. The lack of
contact was making everyone testy. “Okay, Jay,” Knox teased the magician,
trying to relieve the tension, “what’d you do with them?”
    Late in the morning news was passed down from the lead truck: Eighth
Army was proceeding toward Tobruk without encountering serious
opposition. It was as if the desert had opened up and swallowed Rommel’s
army. The men of 24th Armoured scoured the horizon as they would watch a
dangling butcher’s knife. The absence of Rommel was somehow more
frightening than his presence. Innocent landscapes became fearsome forms.
Natural shadows veiled all sorts of threats. The silence grew louder and
louder.
    In fact, Panzer Group Africa was not hiding at all. The enemy had simply
been taken by complete surprise. Rommel was so confident Auchinleck
would not make his break until early December that he had flown to Rome
to celebrate his fiftieth birthday with his wife, then dallied in Athens before
returning.
    His usually efficient intelligence section informed him the desert was
quiet. The scraps of news received from Cairo were confusing and
contradictory. Raging thunderstorms had turned Luftwaffe airfields into
swamps and kept most planes grounded, and those few spotters who
managed to get off the ground reported no unusual enemy activity.
    Rommel was greeted with sketchy reports of British movement upon his
return to Libya on the morning of November 18. Some armoured cars had
been reported moving toward Tobruk, and scattered radio transmissions had
been intercepted in the south, but he dismissed this as nothing more than
a reconnaissance in force. He took no action to counter this threat, instead
concentrating his efforts on his own forthcoming offensive against Tobruk.
    The fighting finally began on November 19. Twenty-second Armoured
Brigade ran smack into the Italian Ariete Division and began slugging it
out. Southeast of this battle, General Alec Gatehouse’s 4th Armoured
Brigade was attacked by 21st Panzer and took a beating. But Seventh
Armoured met only light opposition and got to within ten miles of Tobruk
before camping for the night. And 6th Royal Tank overran the important
airfield at Sidi Rezegh, destroying nineteen planes on the ground by running
over their tails.
    The isolated 24th Armoured (cardboard) got news of the actions late in
the day. “It’s on,” Maskelyne reported to the Gang. “The Twenty-second’s
been hit.” But around them the desert remained empty and threatening.
    Crusader’s initial encounters were inconclusive. Twenty-second lost forty
tanks, some of them dropping out with mechanical problems, while the
Italians lost twenty-four. Fourth Armoured had been battered, losing sixty
tanks in the fighting.
    That night Rommel finally realized this was the beginning of Auchinleck’s
major push, perhaps convinced by the 9 p.m. BBC Home News which
reported, “Eighth Army with a force of seventy-five thousand men
excellently armed and equipped have started a general offensive in the
western desert with the aim of destroying the German-Italian forces in
Africa.” Rommel began drawing his panzers into a cohesive force. He was
still hampered by incomplete intelligence, however, and was not able to
determine precisely where the heart of the attacking force lay.
    Auchinleck was also confused by the disposition of forces, signalling
Churchill, “It seems the enemy was surprised and unaware of the
imminence and weight of our blow. Indications … are that he is not trying
to withdraw from the area Bardia/Sollum. Until we know the area reached
by our armoured troops today it is not possible to read battle further at the
moment. I myself am happy about the situation.”
    The 24th spent the day chugging around the desert with loudspeakers
blaring and mobilized dummy tanks in attack formation, but did not make
contact with the enemy. After the initial wave of excitement over the battle
news had subsided, Maskelyne found himself watching the canvas tanks
bouncing over the desert and feeling terribly depressed. The whole ploy
suddenly seemed ridiculous. The greatest armies in history were smashing
armour only a few hundred miles away, and he was stuck in the middle of a
military sideshow. He felt the aching despair of the performer working in
front of an empty house.
    He set his jaw and stared straight ahead, and said nothing for a long
time.
    Once it became obvious that Rommel appreciated the magnitude of the
offensive, everyone expected that the unarmed decoy units in the south
would be quickly recalled. But HQ, hoping to confuse Jerry a bit longer,
ordered them to “proceed to your objective,” meaning they should continue
raising dust in the area.
    The 24th set out its dummy bedrolls for the second night without
making contact. Fuller cooked for the Gang. After cutting an empty German
gasoline can in half, he filled the bottom half with sand, sprinkled gasoline
on it and ignited it. Then he filled the upper half with water and placed it
over the fire. This scalding removed the gasoline taste so that the top
could be used as a pot. Dinner consisted of desert stew, a mixture of bully
beef (Argentine corned beef), onions, potatoes, a can of soup, some
vegetables and a topping of Worcester sauce. Hill made a bucket of drink:
gin, lime juice and water.
    Maskelyne shared a ration-crate table with Knox. The desert was getting
blowy, so they hunched over their cans as they ate, unsuccessfully trying to
keep the sand out of their meals. After eating in silence for a bit, Knox
suggested pleasantly that the stew wasn’t unusually dreadful.
    After biting down on a piece of sandy meat, Maskelyne gave up chewing
and gulped down tiny tasteless portions. “It’s decent,” he said.
     The professor looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “You’re not the
only one feeling it, you know.”
     Maskelyne feigned ignorance. “What’s that?”
     “You know exactly what I mean. This whole outing. Canvas tanks.
Cardboard guns. It’s an impressive collection of nothing, isn’t it? The real
fighting’s so close we can feel the bloody desert rumbling and we’re here
playing with toys.”
     Jasper forced a feeble smile. “Depressing, isn’t it?”
     “Damn right it is.” Knox sighed. “I’m the chap who’s supposed to
appreciate the value of a decoy better than anyone else. Perhaps I do. But,
crikey, it certainly isn’t much fun playing the part.”
     An evening peace had settled over the camp. Groups of soldiers had
gathered around small fires. A corporal was vainly attempting to tune a
crackling wireless, but otherwise it was a quiet time. “You think they feel
it, too?” Jasper wondered.
     “Every one of them. What makes you think you’re so special? They feel
just as forgotten, just as left out. Hill wasn’t the only one wanting a taste
of it, remember.”
     “That’s true.” Maskelyne lifted his canteen to the professor. “Better
days.”
     Knox bumped it with his own. “Better days.”
     By the morning of November 20 Rommel realized that the most
immediate threat to his position was the possibility that Tobruk would be
relieved, enabling the British to resupply on the march. To counter this, he
began massing his army in the area.
     The feints made at his supply lines in the south had been marginally
effective. Panzer Group Africa seemed briefly confused by the simulated
army, but recovered rapidly and prepared for the battle at Tobruk.
     Twenty-fourth Armoured knew none of these strategic details, however,
and spent the twentieth roaming the desert searching for the enemy. “Just
like Jerry,” Graham grumbled, “only showin’ up when he’s not invited.”
     “Maybe he’s got his own magician,” Robson suggested, “and he’s made
the whole army invisible.”
     First contact was made during morning tea break. The column had
paused to refuel and brew up when an Arab was spotted watching them
from the crest of a dune about ninety yards away. The Arab held the reins
of a restless camel and appeared to be alone. He did nothing except stand
firm and watch the camp.
     Hill stared back at him for a while, then decided to take some action.
Cautioning Graham and Fuller to “watch this one,” he planted one of the
Gang’s dummy shell charges in the sand, then he lit the fuse. Aside from
his two companions, no one was aware of his joke.
     The shell blasted a spout of sand six feet into the air.
     The camp exploded into action. Mess tins went flying, tea was splashed
over everything, helmets were slapped on as the men scattered like
Scotsmen at the scent of a bill. They dived under trucks and buried their
heads in the sand as they waited for more incoming artillery fire.
     The Arab fought to hold the stampeding camel, somehow managing to
swing onto its back, and fled at a gallop.
    Nothing happened. At first Hill thought the pandemonium was
hysterically funny, but his laughter stopped when he realized he was
responsible for it. After the frenzy had settled, he mustered enough
courage to shout into the sticky morning heat, “Sorry about that one, lads,
I’m afraid it was a mistake.”
    No one budged.
    Hill walked into the centre of the camp. “I just blew off a dummy,” he
yelled, turning around so everyone could hear him. “I was just trying to
scare that Arab.”
    The men crawled slowly out of their hiding spots. One Engineer private,
wearing a layer of white sand on his face, screamed, “You bloody crackpot!”
and charged at him, but he was restrained by two others. Once the shock
had worn off, and the moment of anger had passed, some of the soldiers
began laughing at the absurdity of the situation, and eventually everyone
joined in.
    They attacked Private Hill. They grabbed him, turned him upside down
and stripped off his uniform, then gave him a good sand bath. By the time
they set him free he was so chock-a-block with sand a week of showers
wouldn’t wash it all away. Even Maskelyne and Knox joined in, throwing
handfuls of sand as Hill received his due. To Mike Hill’s credit, he played his
part well, fighting hard enough, but not overdoing it, and laughing
good-naturedly at his punishment. By the time 24th Armoured struck camp
the tension had evaporated.
    At 1430 hours they were ordered to return to Cairo. They folded up their
tanks and began the long drive home. Only upon their return did they learn
that the Crusader offensive was in trouble.
    General Auchinleck’s gamble that his drive on Tobruk would lure
Rommel’s armour piecemeal into the fray had failed. Instead, the panzer
units maintained their integrity and forced Eighth Army to abandon its
timetable. Both sides lost communications vans in the early fighting and
were out of direct contact with rear headquarters. Officers in the field were
forced to improvise without adequate knowledge of enemy deployment.
Victory would depend on leadership, fortitude and good fortune.
    The breakout from Tobruk began at dawn on the twenty-first, earlier
than originally scheduled. Lieutenant General Scobie’s 70th Division,
expecting to find the panzer divisions encircling them destroyed or badly
damaged, met unexpectedly heavy opposition. After fierce fighting, the
70th forged a four-thousand-square-yard salient.
    While the heavy fighting was going on around Tobruk, the major
armoured battle of the offensive developed near the airfield at Sidi Rezegh.
As troops from both armies blindly manoeuvred for position, an incredible
five-layer military sandwich, thirty miles thick, was being formed. The
Tobruk garrison, backed against the Mediterranean, was the bottom layer. A
joint German-Italian force, the second layer, was spread the length of the
perimeter. In the middle of this disposition, 7th Armoured was
simultaneously attacking the German-Italian force to its north while
attempting to beat back General Crüwell’s panzers in the south. Crüwell, in
turn, was being attacked from his rear by 4th Armoured and 22nd Armoured.
    The fighting raged through November 22 and was at times so bitter that
the desert battlefield was completely obscured by smoke from cannon and
burning tanks. During the afternoon 4th Armoured rushed to support the
22nd, but was forced to stand by helplessly because it could not distinguish
the combatants.
    That night, 15th Panzer, searching for elements of 21st Panzer,
accidentally ran smack into 4th Armoured preparing to laager. 15th Panzer
turned on its headlights and charged into the camp, inflicting such
extensive damage that the 4th was incapable of returning to the battle the
following day.
    An unusually heavy morning mist hung over the desert the next day.
Sunday, November 23, was the German remembrance day, Totensonntag,
the Day of the Dead. As the mist lifted, 15th Panzer pounced upon the
lightly defended transport and supply of 5th South African Infantry. 5th
Panzer raced to join the slaughter, and by dusk 5th South African had
ceased to exist. Three thousand four hundred of its 5,700 troops had been
killed, wounded or captured, and all of its equipment was lost.
    Reports of this disaster shattered General Cunningham’s already
weakened resolve, and he began considering a full-scale retreat to save
Eighth Army. Auchinleck flew to the front for an emergency meeting.
    The Auk remained confident. Although his army had taken severe losses,
he knew that Rommel had also received a nasty beating in the prolonged
battle. And while fresh British tanks were already en route to the front, he
was certain Rommel could not be resupplied. Responding to Cunningham’s
request for direction, he ordered boldly, “You will continue to attack the
enemy relentlessly, using all your resources even to the last tank.”
    Twenty-fourth Armoured (cardboard) reached Cairo in mid-afternoon.
Some of the Engineers had infected insect bites and open pus sores, one
corporal was painfully sunburned and another had wrenched his back
digging a truck out of soft sand, but otherwise the unit was unscathed. The
column drove out of the desert into the normal afternoon traffic jam and
had to inch its way through the city. Knox decided this was a stroke of luck.
“It’ll be dark before we get back to the Valley,” he explained, “and no one
will be there to see us sneak in.”
    The Gang actually arrived at Magic Valley just before sundown. A mob of
poor and sick Egyptians crowded around the front gate and wailed for help,
but the usually sympathetic Fuller gunned the engine and roared past them
at an unsafe speed.
    A bedsheet had been hung over the entrance to the dayroom, and on it
someone had painted in bright red letters, “Welcome Home, Fighting 24th!”
The Gang piled off the truck silently and walked under it. Hill, fifth in line,
reached up and ripped it down.
    Some of the civilian factory workers watched the dispirited group unload.
As the welcoming message fluttered to the ground, one of them said, “Poor
chaps. Must have seen a rough time out there.”
    Maskelyne told the men to report back after they had rested. “We’ve got
things to get done around here,” he said as vigorously as he could manage,
but even he couldn’t figure out exactly what work there was to be done.
The men drifted off to their quarters for a good sleep.
    They awoke the next day to terrible news. With his usual flair for the
unexpected, Rommel was leading his last ninety tanks on a wild dash for
the wire, the Egyptian border. Once he’d got behind Auchinleck’s armour, he
meant to wreck British communications and supply lines, then attack the
unprotected infantry. This brazen charge through British lines had caused
panic among support units. Rear-echelon supply and administration
companies abandoned their positions without waiting for orders, creating
total chaos. Communications broke down and headquarters had lost control
of the army. Units were fleeing in every direction. Stories were spreading
that German troops wearing British uniforms had infiltrated Eighth Army’s
ranks. By the end of the day the situation was so hopelessly confused that
XIII Corps briefly battled its own friendly forces. A British military
policeman at a desert crossroads found himself directing German traffic.
Late in the afternoon 7th Armoured was drawing supplies at the south end
of a depot while enemy troops were replenishing at the northern end.
    The commanders were just as mixed up as their troops. General
Cunningham was almost captured while visiting 30th Corps, and his plane
was shelled as it took off. Rommel’s staff car broke down and he hitched a
ride with General Crüwell in a captured British armoured car. The driver got
lost and drove into a British camp, where the generals quietly spent the
night.
    In Cairo, British command tried to maintain a calm front. Maskelyne was
invited to golf at Gezira, but refused. The polo matches took place as
scheduled.
    By the twenty-fifth, Rommel’s powerful force had blitzed fifteen miles
into Egypt. The despondent Cunningham was ready to abandon Crusader
and prepare to defend the Nile Basin.
    The Auk remained steadfast, refusing to be bullied by this audacious
rush at his rear lines. Rommel, he told his staff, “is trying to lash out in all
directions to distract us from our object, which is to destroy him utterly. We
will not be distracted and he will be destroyed … He is making a desperate
effort, but he will not get very far. That column of tanks simply cannot get
supplies. I am sure of this.”
    Auchinleck was absolutely right. On November 26 the panzers had to
retire to Bardia for refuelling and supply. Moreover, Rommel’s absence from
his rear headquarters while leading this heroic charge had caused severe
command problems, and the rest of his army was bogged down on the
desert.
    Auk resolved his own leadership problems the moment Rommel began
withdrawing, replacing Cunningham with his little-known deputy chief of
staff, Major General Neil M. Ritchie. Cunningham entered a Cairo hospital
suffering from mental and physical exhaustion. At forty-four, Ritchie was
the youngest general in the British Army, but he had not commanded troops
in more than twenty years. In fact Auchinleck was personally taking charge
of Crusader. But even before these staff changes had been made the
German counterattack had stalled, and the availability of supply was
beginning to tip the battle in favour of Eighth Army.
    During the night of November 26, while Rommel’s armour was refuelling,
the New Zealand Division of XIII Corps burst out of Tobruk and linked up
with Eighth Army elements on the El-Duda heights. Thirteenth Corps
commander General Godwin-Austen signalled news of the successful
breakout to Auchinleck: “Corridor to Tobruk free and secured. Tobruk not
half as relieved as I am.”
    But control of the western desert remained in doubt into December.
Although outnumbered almost four to one in tanks, Rommel invested his
limited resources brilliantly and was able to combat the much larger force
on even terms. “What difference does it make if you have two tanks to my
one,” he lectured a captured British officer, “when you spread them out and
let me smash them in detail.”
    On December 1 his battered army was able to reimpose its siege lines
around Tobruk.
    Gray Pillars finally had an old-fashioned war to fight. Until Crusader, the
war in the desert had been an irksome series of titanic battles followed by
long periods of reinforcement and resupply. Top brass had had a difficult
time finding the pulse of the campaign. But now Jerry was standing tough
and appeared ready to fight to a conclusion. Here, at last, was a battle
with which an officer conversant in history could be comfortable.
    The residents of Cairo got used to the idea that Crusader would continue
for a while and began weaving it into their daily lives. It became habit to
listen to the overnight war news each morning before going to the office,
and to pause regularly during the day to catch the hourly reports. The stock
exchange stabilized. Restaurant prices rose slightly, but there was no
shortage of prime beef or alcohol, and the run on the food markets halted.
The autumn social season was resumed.
    Most Europeans kept their suitcases packed, but took them away from
the front door and stored them in closets.
    Maskelyne once again found himself seeking a project for the Gang, but
those ranking officers in the city were occupied with Crusader, and thus not
available to him. The Valley workshops continued producing dummy
equipment, but most of it was left to weather in the yard. With the pipeline
from Britain flowing with freshly trained soldiers, new guns and tanks, the
dummies would no longer be needed. The day of the ghost army seemed to
have passed.
    “We did a good job,” Knox declared. “They didn’t even know we were
coming.”
    Hill, chuckled bitterly. “Hell Professor, they didn’t even know we were
there.”
    “I meant the sunshields, Michael,” Frank corrected softly. In fact the
Magic Gang had contributed substantially to the success of Crusader. Their
sunshields had helped hide the existence of a massive armoured force from
Rommel’s observers, allowing Eighth Army to achieve total surprise, while
decoy artillery pieces and soldiers had swelled British lines. Somehow,
though, none of this made the men of Maskelyne’s Magic Gang feel any
more a part of the action.
    Adding to the Gang’s difficulty in readjusting to normal city life was the
lack of a routine to which they could return. As Knox had promised when
recruiting them, the Camouflage Experimental Section had always been
without formal structure. They had worked long days and nights when there
was work to be done and rested and played when it was finished. But with
two great armoured forces slugging it out around Tobruk, there were no
projects that required their unique abilities. No generals or admirals
stopped by just to see what they were cooking up. Time hung over Magic
Valley like a midsummer heat wave, and allowed the men to wallow in their
depression.
    The next few weeks were the most difficult Maskelyne spent in the
desert. In his own mind, he had achieved his original goal: he had proved
that the techniques of stage magic could be adapted to warfare. But he felt
he had really accomplished nothing. He had failed in his desperate effort to
step out of the family shadows. Rather than making his own name
important, he felt doomed to be remembered as a bizarre footnote to
history: a magician playing at war. In the end, only the guns made a
difference.
    To boost his own spirits, and those of his men, he organized
Sunday-afternoon drinks at the Valley. Among the invited guests were the
best-liked Engineers, Kathy Lewis, Geoffrey Barkas, Dudley Clarke, a few
men from the Mechanical Section who had stayed behind when that unit
moved forward, and some lady friends of the Gang. Camoufleurs Jack Keefer
and Donald Kingsley, graduates of Buckley’s school at Farnham, came down
from Alex, and Tony Ayerton, just back from constructing an entire dummy
airfield in the desert, showed up with a number of his people. There were,
in all, about thirty-five people at the party. Only Phil Townsend did not
show, which surprised no one, and he was not missed.
    Although it had been planned as a spirit-lifter, it turned into a
celebration. Before dawn that morning, Rommel, unable to properly support
his troops at Tobruk, had begun a staged withdrawal to El Gazala. The
eight-month siege was finally over. A prime objective of Crusader had been
achieved.
    The gramophone music was loud, the ladies were lovely, the alcohol was
plentiful. For this afternoon, at least, everyone was carefree. Fuller, it was
discovered, could hold his brew, and engaged in a memorable chugging
match with one of Ayerton’s boys. Knox revealed a heretofore unsuspected
talent for wild-bird calls. Even cartoonist Bill Robson, properly loosened up,
told some risqué stories when his turn came round. Everyone danced madly.
    Townsend arrived when the party was nearly over. When he did appear,
ashen-faced, he quickly downed two shots and stood in a corner watching
the dancers with glassy eyes. Knox spotted him standing alone and brought
a mug of stout to him.
    The artist did not take the brew. “Yanks are in,” he said in a stunned
voice.
    “What?” Frank shouted. It was impossible to hear him above the noise.
    In precisely the same soft tone, Townsend repeated, “Yanks are in.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “America,” Townsend said a bit louder, but evenly. “They’re in the war.”
    A group standing nearby overheard him and immediately gave him their
full attention. “What’s that?” one of them asked.
    “The Japs bombed the American fleet in Hawaii this morning. They’re
going to invade. Roosevelt’s making it official tomorrow, but they’re in.”
    The news jolted the room like a Joe Louis punch. The gramophone plug
was pulled and Jo Stafford groaned to a halt. Everyone gathered around
Townsend and pumped him for details, but he had nothing to tell them
beyond those few facts. Someone switched on a radio in time to catch the
end of the brief bulletin that would be repeated throughout the night.
Heavy damage was mentioned.
    The room was momentarily silent as the startling news was digested,
then a growing buzz burst into bedlam. With the United States in the war,
the Germans would really be up against it. The men shook hands and
pounded each other on the back, as if they had personally delivered
America into the war. Toasts were raised to Roosevelt and Churchill and
even Stalin, whose Russian armies had taken advantage of savage winter
weather to halt the German blitzkrieg. There was speculation about a
European front being opened within a few months. The Nazis would fall to
the combined armies of the US and the Commonwealth, just as the Kaiser
had. The Yanks were coming back!
    The celebration roared into the night, and later, as the revellers slept it
off, visions of soldiers and tanks marched in their dreams. Only days later
was the severity of the Japanese attack completely understood. The
America entering the war was a lion without claws. Its Navy had been
shattered at Pearl Harbor. Its Army was shockingly unprepared. Its Army Air
Forces were nearly obsolete. But the Empire was no longer going it alone,
and that was enough to inspire renewed confidence.
    Reams of paper were frantically pushed during the following week as
officers rushed around at top sweat, and Cairo seemed even more chaotic
than usual as everyone waited expectantly for some demonstration of
mighty America’s entrance into the war, but aside from a protest march
organized by the Muslim Brotherhood, nothing out of the ordinary occurred.
The beginning of the week had been hectic for the precious few Americans
in the city, as there weren’t enough of them to satisfy all the locals who
wanted to show their gratitude by entertaining a Yank. They were feted and
toasted and able to savour all of Cairo’s delights without forking over a red
cent. But by Friday the excitement over the United States’s entry into the
war gave way to widespread resentment. Where had America been when
the going was really tough? Wasn’t it typical of them to join in after the
battle was nearly won! By the end of the week the Americans in town were
paying top price for a drink, dinner or a woman, and everyone was again
focusing on the desert war. The Yanks might be coming, but it wasn’t worth
holding up the battle for them.
    Eighth Army resumed the Crusader offensive on December 15. Ritchie
sent his main force directly into Rommel’s strong defensive line, at the
same time dispatching an armoured brigade to circle his southern flank and
cut off Panzer Group Africa’s escape route. Grudgingly, the Germans
retreated, extracting a bloody price from the British for every foot of
worthless desert sand.
    Auchinleck’s persistence had resulted in victory. Three hundred enemy
tanks had been destroyed, 33,000 prisoners were taken, Tobruk was
relieved, and Rommel had been driven back to the place from which he’d
begun the fight nearly a year earlier. Eighth Army had suffered substantial
losses, but replacements for men and equipment were readily available. For
the first time since Rommel’s arrival in North Africa, the British controlled
the desert. The next stage of Crusader would be the final destruction of the
enemy.
    But for Maskelyne and the Magic Gang the battle, perhaps the war, was
over. Like supply clerks and WAAFs and over-age officers, they were forced
to follow the battle in newspapers and on the radio.
    “It was a grand show, wasn’t it?” Knox said as he sat with Maskelyne in
Jasper’s office, trying to pull him out of the doldrums. Their conversation
eased into the recent past, and they recalled with great delight the good
times they had shared: the look of astonishment on Lord Gort’s face when
he discovered Maskelyne’s broomstick aimed at his belly, Mike Hill’s
adolescent exuberance when the Luftwaffe bombers veered toward the
Maryût Bay decoy, Barkas’s embarrassment during the legendary Dung
Patrol collections. Knox reminded Maskelyne of the day Townsend got lost
in the salvage-dump maze, and Jasper remembered that glorious rainy
afternoon when Fuller and Graham, demonstrating for the brass that the
dummy tank could easily be hefted by two men, lifted it and uncovered a
naked warrant officer entwined with an equally bare WAAF.
   Eventually, they came round to the future, and their laughter faded. “If
we can just hold it together a while longer something’ll come up for us,”
Maskelyne said fervently. “I know it.”
   Knox didn’t agree at all, feeling that the Army, just like the African
elephant, now had too much firepower to bother with deception. But he
indulged Maskelyne, because he believed that was the job of a friend, and
they huddled together as they had long ago in Farnham and tried to cook
up a plan.
   As events soon proved, Professor Knox was wrong. The Magic Gang’s
show was about to begin a long encore. In November, German submarines
had sunk the aircraft carrier Ark Royal and the battleship Barham. On
December 10, Japanese planes sank the battleship Prince of Wales and the
cruiser Repulse. Admiral Andrew Cunningham’s Mediterranean Fleet was still
reeling from these losses on December 19 when Force K from Malta ran into
a minefield while pursuing an Italian convoy. The cruiser Neptune and the
destroyer Kandahar went to the bottom, and the cruisers Aurora and
Penelope were heavily damaged. That same night three Italian chariots,
midget submarines, slipped through the boom defences of Alexandria
harbour behind a destroyer. Once inside, six frogmen attached timed
explosives to the hull of the battleship Queen Elizabeth and the tanker
Sagona and planted another time bomb in the seabed beneath the
battleship Valiant. Three hours later the harbour erupted. Sagona was
destroyed. Queen Elizabeth and Valiant settled on the shallow bottom,
although most of their decks remained above sea level. Both battleships
would be out of service for months.
   Only eight weeks earlier the Royal Navy had controlled the
Mediterranean, attacking German and Italian convoys with impunity,
depriving Rommel of desperately needed supplies. Suddenly, the situation
was reversed. The battered British fleet was no longer capable of
maintaining its stranglehold or providing security for convoys. Desperately
needed supplies for Panzer Group Africa began getting through to Libya.
The Luftwaffe renewed its attacks on Malta, Britain’s most important naval
base in the Mediterranean and a keystone of Auchinleck’s defence.
   Admiral Cunningham needed a new navy. The Magic Gang was back in
business.


                                 Eleven
Christmas 1941 was a depressing day. The sun shone as brightly as a
queen’s diamond, and Cairo smelled sweetly of blossoming flowers; all the
fine hotels served scrumptious holiday dinners and there were endless
parties. The celebrating Europeans smiled their teeth and laughed till their
stomachs ached and shared sincere toasts and, most of all, yearned to be
back home in the winter cold, stoking a crackling fire, hanging balls on
sappy trees, slaving over a sinkful of dirty dishes, and warmed by familiar
voices.
    The Gang shared a special dinner at the Valley consisting of “Grapefruit
à la Volturno” and “Dindon roti au Salerno,” with “Spuds au Termoil,” “Petits
pois au Shepheards,” “Saucissons au Foggia” and “Sauce sans origin.” This
was accompanied by “Christmas pudding a la workhouse.” Hill decided it
was “the best Christmas dinner I’ve had this year.”
   After the meal Maskelyne and Knox led a Christmas singalong. Holiday
cigars were lit, a solemn prayer for deliverance of the men in battle was
offered, and, quickly, the room emptied.
   Maskelyne went over to Communications and tried to put through a
patch-call to Mary, but it proved impossible. Earlier in the day he’d written
her a long letter, a letter full of memories of past Christmases, and told her
how much he loved her and missed her.

    This is a difficult day for all of us here [he wrote], and I hope it
    ends quickly. If I could spin the earth on its axis to speed up the
    hours, I would do so. I miss you always, but today the pain is
    more severe.
        Shepheards has put a large tree on the deck and hung crepe on
    it, and Christmas music is piped outside into the sun. The gyppies
    seem to enjoy it, but most Englishmen are depressed by it all.
        This is not much like other Xmases we’ve shared, is it? Well, I
    trust good St. Nicholas was generous with everyone. Please tell
    the children I miss them and love them.

    He’d mailed out a lovely silk robe and various toys in late November, but
had little hope his package had arrived.
    Jasper knew she would make the day as busy and noisy as possible. If
he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he could smell the roasting turkey.
He also knew that much of her day would be spent thinking of him.
    The new assignment was the best present anyone in the Gang received
that Christmas. There was revived spirit in Maskelyne’s voice as he laid it
out the next day. “Both Queen Elizabeth and Valiant were flooded, but they
remained on even keel and much of the damage has been concealed. Jerry
knows they’re wounded, but not how badly. Soon as he realizes they’re
going to be out of commission for a bit he’s going to scrape up every supply
ship he can find and shoot it down the pipe to Rommel. Before that
happens, Admiral Cunningham wants us to give Rommel something to think
about. What he had in mind, actually–” he paused, and held the silence
long enough to promote suspense “–was a fleet of submarines.”
    Graham sighed aloud. “Had me worried there for a sec. I really thought
he was going to ask for something difficult.”
    With most of the warships of Britain’s Mediterranean Fleet damaged or
needed elsewhere, Admiral Andrew Browne Cunningham was forced to rely
on his submarines to close the German supply route to Libya. Luftwaffe
reconnaissance made this difficult by counting the subs in their pens every
two hours, thus enabling Rommel’s Intelligence to track every arrival or
departure. This information substantially decreased the efficiency of the
submarine fleet. Cunningham intended to counter this by substituting
dummy submarines for real ships when they sailed, thus enabling his subs
to slip away from port undetected. Impressed by the Magic Gang’s dummy
tanks, he requested full-size, buoyant cardboard submarines that could be
folded up, loaded onto five-tonners and set up somewhere else within
hours.
    The Gang began the assignment with a significant handicap: none of
them had ever seen a real submarine. “Actually I did see one once,” Fuller
confessed, “in Southampton about ten years ago. But it was at night.”
    Cunningham’s staff provided them with top-secret blueprints – and
armed guards to protect the plans. According to these layouts, each dummy
submarine would have to be 258 feet from bow to stern and rise
twenty-seven feet from the waterline to the tip of the conning tower. It
would have to be equipped with a deck gun, anchors, chains, railings and
all proper markings.
    “Plus the periscope,” Hill loudly reminded everyone. “I’ve never seen a
submarine without a periscope.”
    “You’ve never seen a submarine,” Knox reminded him.
    While Auchinleck’s Eighth Army relentlessly pursued Rommel across the
desert, once again dangerously extending its own supply line, the Magic
Gang went to work on the seemingly impossible task. “Dummy subs aren’t
all that different from dummy tanks,” Maskelyne insisted, “just bigger. The
construction techniques are basically the same. We’ll get some wooden
rods, make a frame, stretch some canvas – all we need to begin is
something large enough to serve as a foundation for the upper works.”
    “How about a real submarine?” Robson suggested.
    The Gang began searching the Nile Basin for something large, useless
and available. By this time, each of them had become accustomed to
delving into unusual places in search of obscure objects. They were used to
asking ridiculous questions without being able to provide sensible answers
for people who wondered what they were up to. And they were used to
seeing Arabs pointing at their foreheads and making small circles, the
universal expression of insanity. “Remember,” Maskelyne said after the first
day ended without results, “it doesn’t have to float. We can rig some
barrels under it.”
    Later, Knox reminded him that they had no barrels. Barrels were added
to the shopping list.
    On the third day Graham was offered a hundred pounds of camel dung
by an Egyptian entrepreneur who remembered the Gang’s earlier quest. But
nothing that would serve as a foundation for the submarine deck and
conning tower was found.
    Two more days passed. Those objects that were available to the Gang
weren’t large enough, and those few things large enough weren’t available.
Scraps of metal were in demand in real tank and aircraft repair shops. Auto
hulks were already being used for dummy tank chassis. Even the twisted
frames of smashed aircraft were being cannibalized by the miracle-working
mechanics of the Desert Air Force. Burned-out tank hulls were available, but
they weighed tons. “It would be like putting a lump of lead in your tea,”
Graham pointed out. “All our dummy submarines would do is sink.”
    Fuller finally discovered the solution rotting in a scrapyard. “I was on the
tram trying to think about the problem,” he explained with as much
enthusiasm as anyone had ever seen him show, “but the bloody train was
making such a racket it was impossible to think about anything at all. Then
we went screeching around that dreadful corner at Bab el Luq and the
wheels sounded as if they were screaming at me. Railway cars would do
nicely.”
    Maskelyne agreed railway cars would serve, but reminded the painter
that every tram in Cairo was already being overused. “The Egyptians never
replace them and we can’t simply lift a few of them.” He hesitated, and
turned to look at Mike Hill. “Can we?” Before the private could reply Jasper
shook his mind clear of such thoughts and answered his own question, “No,
of course we can’t.”
    “Actually, that’s not a problem,” Fuller said, smiling broadly. “There’s a
whole bloody yard of rusting sleeper cars near the station. Seems they were
built for the Trans-Arabian Railway, and by the time they got here Lawrence
had blown the railway to bits. They’re of absolutely no use at all to anyone
but us.”
    There were eighteen sleeping cars in all. As Fuller said, they had been
ordered from England at the turn of the century to run on the 883 miles of
track that linked the Ottoman Empire of Sultan Abdul-Hamid II. The line
had been completed in 1908 and served primarily to carry Muslems to the
holy city of Mecca. After ten years of successful operation, the Great War
began. T. E. Lawrence and his Arab bands regularly attacked the
single-track line and blasted it out of business. The sleepers had been
manufactured to fit its narrow-gauge tracks and could not be used
elsewhere. Although homeless Arabs occasionally camped inside, the cars
sat forgotten in a railway graveyard between wars. Fuller was absolutely
right. They were unserviceable as railway cars, but they would make fine
submarines. So the rusting remains of a sultan’s dream became the
foundation of the Magic Gang’s fleet.
    Admiral Cunningham’s office purchased the lot of them, supposedly for
scrap metal, and had one of them carted to Magic Valley by a tank recovery
unit. The rusting sleeper sat ludicrously on the baked sand in a corner of
the yard while the Gang planned its transformation. Once, two decades and
a war earlier, the car had been sleek and lovely, a symbol of the new
technology that promised to tame the desert. Instead, its expensive sliding
windows and marvellous ceiling fans, its metal doors and covered seats had
been brutally ripped out, and it was left a giant shell to be cracked open by
that desert. The last remnants of its past, the serifs of some skilfully
painted Arabic letters, remained barely visible under layers of decay.
    “It looks so forlorn sitting there,” Knox said sadly.
    Robson tried to imagine the car in its original splendour. “Just think
what it must have looked like to some superstitious tribesman out on the
Blue, coming out of nowhere, belching black smoke. Must have been
somethin’.”
    Hill placed it nicely in perspective. “About the same as seeing a
three-humped camel loping through Trafalgar Square, I s’pose.”
    After discussing various concepts with Graham and some of the men
from the Mechanical Section, Maskelyne decided to build a wooden frame
around the railroad car and anchor the necessary hinged beams to this
frame. The frame was designed to be lifted off the floating sleeper, folded
flat and shipped to the next harbour, there to be unfolded and slipped over
an identical car. Beams and tubing would be nailed and welded to the
frame and painted sailcloth stretched over it. “The entire contraption could
be folded up in a few minutes,” Maskelyne claimed as he showed the Gang
his rough sketches and estimated specs for the submarine dummy. “The
sides extend out like the wings of a moth and can be pulled out into
position or pushed back against the frame for easy transport. The conning
tower is nothing more than sailcloth stretched over an arrangement of
flexible rods and seven wooden rings of decreasing circumference. It’s
raised into position by pulleys and locked in place with pegs. The rings’ll
make a framework for the canvas, but they can also be compressed inside
each other and lie almost flat. We can use painted sailcloth for the deck
gun and ropes for the chains. A cardboard anchor ought to be enough to
impress Jerry. Now, who’s got questions?”
    Fuller asked the only one that mattered. “Will it float?”
    Maskelyne shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”
    Graham made a scale model from the plans and a few days later the
Gang crowded around a water tank that had been set up in the dayroom as
he prepared to launch it. The railway-car model had been fashioned out of a
shell casing. “Remember,” the carpenter cautioned, “it doesn’t have to
move at all. It just has to stay afloat.” He placed it delicately on the water
and it rode high for a few seconds, then began quivering. Suddenly, it
turned turtle. It floated upside down for a few more seconds, then slipped
gracefully to the bottom of the tank.
    “Seems a bit top-heavy,” Knox observed.
    Maskelyne returned to his drawing table. Admiral Cunningham,
meanwhile, was pressing the Gang for the dummy submarines. German
Intelligence was successfully tracking his small submarine fleet, making it
extremely dangerous for them to leave port. The Axis Mediterranean supply
line to Tripoli had been reestablished, and Rommel was again receiving
war matériel. On January 5, a large Italian convoy carrying fifty-four tanks
and tons of gasoline got through. Once more, the balance of power in the
desert had shifted. Panzer Group Africa had been pushed within range of its
supply depots, while Eighth Army’s lines now stretched across Cyrenaica.
Auchinleck’s troops had not been able to deliver the knockout blow he had
envisioned, and the wounded Desert Fox, with his new tanks, was more
dangerous than ever.
    By January 16 the Gang had solved the flotation problems, at least in
the tank, and built a prototype for inspection and testing. As Admiral
Cunningham and his staff stood in the Valley yard watching, the contraption
was placed over the railroad car. When it was firmly in position, Fuller and
Graham pulled out the side wings. Then Hill and Knox began yanking on the
pulley ropes, and, like a flag being run up a staff, the conning tower rose
into place. Maskelyne clasped his hands behind his back and crossed his
fingers as the bulky sticks and painted canvas were transformed into a
full-size replica of a British submarine in a matter of minutes. “Hey presto,”
he whispered.
    Cunningham turned to him. “That’s quite a show, Maskelyne,” he said
coolly, but quite obviously pleased. “I assume it will float?”
    Maskelyne avoided a direct answer. “I hope so as much as you do, sir.”
    The dummy was transported to a heavily guarded beach on the Red Sea
south of Suez for launching. The Gang travelled to the site under strict
orders to maintain absolute secrecy about the canvas boat. “No one must
know about it,” Cunningham personally told them, “and I mean no one.”
    The launch was scheduled for January 19. It turned out to be a
propitious day. That afternoon Eighth Army finally captured Halfaya Pass.
    At twilight, the Gang set up the dummy. From the waterline to the tip of
its wooden periscope, the sailcloth, tape, rope and rod submarine looked
quite realistic, observed from a respectable distance, of course. But below
its waterline it appeared to be suffering from a case of monstrous
barnacles. Black oil drums, filled with sand to provide buoyancy, had been
roped together and secured to the front and back of the sleeping car, while
large rocks had been hung from the keel to add stability.
    Hill had brought along a bottle of respectable Italian wine for the
launching ceremony. The dummy had been named H.M.S. Hopeful, primarily
because the Gang hoped it would stay afloat. As custodian of the wine, Hill
nominated himself to christen the ship. In a loud, and proud, voice, he
said, “I dub this …” He hesitated, unable to find an accurate description.
    “Boat,” Robson urged.
    Hill shrugged. “Okay. I dub this boat His Majesty’s ship, sort of, Hopeful,
and all of us are really hopeful that it serves us very well.” Not daring to
strike the dummy with the bottle, he instead pulled out the cork with his
teeth and splashed a bit on the canvas, then took a long swig before
passing it down the line.
    Aided by a Royal Navy motorboat, the Hopeful was pulled and pushed
and cursed down a greased slipway into the calm sea. The Gang stood
watching on the beach as it glided into the shallows, a team of nervous
fathers sending their virginal daughter into the world. The Hopeful pitched
forward and threatened to plough straight under, but righted itself. Then,
as everyone held his breath, it began tottering sideways and leaned heavily
to starboard, but again righted itself and rode somewhat precariously on
the Red Sea.
    “Look at that, will you,” Graham said, “the son of a bint actually floats.”
    “Easy,” cautioned Knox. “Give the lady some time to get settled.”
    A slight breeze rippled the canvas deck and it shivered slightly, but held.
“We’ll have to tack it down,” Maskelyne said critically, as if debating the
length of her skirt hem. The wake created by the motorboat rolled toward
the dummy, and under it, before crawling up the beach and fading into the
sand. The Hopeful rocked gently and complained in woody squeaks, but
steadied.
    Maskelyne radioed the launch to move a bit farther from the shore, and
the dummy was tugged into deeper water. Its silhouette against the pastel
sky nicely matched that of a real ship of the line. “She’s grand,” Fuller
decided. Maskelyne had already satisfied himself the dummy would pass
German inspection. Townsend’s paint crews had done a splendid job.
    Reluctantly, the Gang abandoned her to the night. “She’ll be just fine,”
Knox assured everyone as they boarded their three-tonner, but the men
recognized this as Frank’s usual optimistic chatter.
    They were back on the beach at first light. The Hopeful was riding a few
feet lower in the water and the oil barrel rafts, which were barely breaking
the surface the night before, could no longer be seen. The sailcloth
submarine appeared to be playing confidently on the light swells, rising and
falling with them, pulling at her sea anchor.
    “I told you,” a greatly relieved Frank Knox exclaimed. “I told you she’d
be fine.”
    The Gang took off their shirts and boots and spent the morning sunning
on the beach, awaiting the arrival of an inspection team from Admiral
Cunningham’s office. “This is the life,” Graham said, “the Mediterranean sun
beating down on us, the beach …”
    “And not a bloody girl within a hundred miles worth lookin’ at,” Hill
sighed.
    Shortly after ten a dispatch rider from the Ismailia area commander
came roaring up to the security barricades well off the beach with
most-urgent orders for Maskelyne to report to local headquarters
immediately. “I guess the commander wants to see her for himself,” he
guessed as he buttoned his shirt and quickly brushed his gleaming black
hair into place.
    He did not. He wanted to know exactly what it was that Maskelyne had
in the water.
    Jasper stood before him with a carefully rehearsed look of astonishment
on his face. Cunningham had made it expressly clear that the existence of
the Hopeful was not to be disclosed to anyone. The entire
submarine-warfare programme depended on secrecy. “I’ve got nothing in
the water,” he lied.
    “You have,” the General retorted. “I must know what it is.”
    “No, sir. Nothing at all.”
    “We’re on the same side, you know. You can tell me.”
    “I know that, sir, but believe me, I’ve got nothing there.”
    The commander frowned. Then, in a firm voice, he warned, “Don’t stand
there lying to me, Maskelyne. This is not one of your Piccadilly magic
shows. I assure you, if you are not telling me the truth, I will take full
punitive measures. Now I will ask you once again, have you got a
submarine in the water?”
    “I have no submarine.”
    The General nodded, and told Maskelyne to sit down. “Look here,” he
continued in a conciliatory tone, “I’m sorry to be so tough, but I’ve been
getting reports from the RAF that an unidentified submarine has been
spotted off the beach south of Suez. The Navy says they have no ships in
the area. So I thought your presence here might have something to do with
it. I had to make sure it didn’t before I took any action.” He reached across
the desk and picked up the telephone. As he cranked it, he added,
“Wouldn’t want to go blasting one of our ships, you see.”
    Maskelyne sat tight-lipped. Orders from an admiral, he knew, were
serious orders.
    The General spoke into the phone. “Signal Air Command, please. That’s
a good fellow.” While waiting, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and
said to Maskelyne, “Must be an intruder, then, although I can’t figure out
what he’s doing in these waters. Battery trouble, perhaps. We’ll take care
of him quick enough. I’ve got a squadron bombing up and two destroyers
racing down to cut off its escape.”
    If the General was bluffing, Maskelyne thought, he was a fine player.
Suddenly he found himself facing the dilemma he created for his theatrical
audiences: he didn’t really believe the General, but his disbelief was not
strong enough to offset his fear of the consequences if he was wrong.
    “Archie? Malcolm here. So sorry, but I can’t get a reading on that
submarine. It’s not one of ours, it seems, so you’d best go ahead–”
    “It is mine, General,” Maskelyne said clearly.
    The commander looked at him. “Hold on a bit, Archie, would you?” He
laid the phone on the desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “I think we’d better contact Admiral Cunningham’s office.”
    The mess was quickly straightened out and the bombing mission
scrubbed. Later that afternoon the area commander received a note from
Cunningham reading: “REGRET MISUNDERSTANDING BUT MASKELYNE IN
YOUR AREA AND OTHER TRANSFORMATIONS WILL BE TAKING PLACE.”
    Although the maiden voyage of the Hopeful was an unqualified success,
Knox discovered a serious flaw before it was put into service. “She doesn’t
leave any tracks,” he said after comparing a set of aerial photographs of
the dummy with recce photos of real submarines in their slips.
    “It’s a boat,” Nails replied. “Boats don’t leave tracks.”
    “Evidently they do when they’re docked.” While lying at anchor, Knox
explained, a submarine creates a mild wake in the form of two thin white
trails which flow around its hull and beyond the stern. The Hopeful left no
such signature. The professor solved the problem after a day’s
experimentation by suspending four forty-four-gallon drums of whitewash
from the bow. A thumbnail hole was punched into each of them, and the
seeping whitewash duplicated the wake. Its flow was controlled by the tide.
    After the Hopeful had passed Cunningham’s inspection, Magic Valley
workshops went to work producing the rest of the canvas fleet. The
258-foot-long dummies were first used at the naval base in Beirut,
Lebanon, and later in other ports throughout the war, to substitute for real
submarines when they sailed, or to convince the enemy that Allied subs
were operating in an area where in fact there were none. There is no record
that the enemy ever caught on to the ploy, and the dummies were
repeatedly attacked in their slips. The original sailcloth sub, the Hopeful,
was blown into splinters seven months after launching.
    But long before Maskelyne’s submarine had passed inspection, Rommel
was ready to turn on his pursuers. To bait his trap, he torched dozens of
buildings in the city of Mersa Brega and scuttled numerous supply ships in
the harbour. Allied Intelligence duly reported that Panzer Group Africa was
destroying its strongholds and supplies, presumably in preparation for a
withdrawal from Libya.
    This was precisely what Rommel wanted them to believe. The
“strongholds” burned for the benefit of British agents in the city were
actually abandoned houses, the ships useless hulks. Rather than retreating,
Panzer Group Africa was going to attack. The Germans advanced in the
night and spent the days sweltering beneath camouflage netting. On
Wednesday, January 21, Rommel launched his counterattack.
    Eighth Army was stunned. The cities of Agedabia and Beda Fomm fell on
the twenty-second. Benghazi was captured on the twenty-ninth, complete
with stores including thirteen hundred trucks and tons of petrol. Within
another week the British had been thrown back into the western desert,
and were running short of supplies. Once again, Rommel had outwitted his
opponent.
    Auchinleck considered sacking Ritchie, but finally decided against it. By
February 6, Rommel had progressed as far as his supply lines could safely
be extended. Having finally learned the reality of desert warfare, he dug in
until his army could be properly replenished. This last stroke of Crusader
left the enemy armies facing each other across the Gazala Line, Eighth
Army’s sixty-mile-long chain of strongholds linked by dense minefields.
These strongholds, called “boxes” or “keeps,” were each roughly two square
miles in area, and were provisioned to withstand a week-long siege without
requiring assistance. Approximately five hundred British tanks patrolled the
sections between the six boxes, ready to blunt any attempt to manoeuvre
through the minefields, or to race to support any box under attack. Each of
these “islands of resistance” was ringed by minefields, barbed wire, slit
trenches and machine-gun pillboxes. Auchinleck was depending on the
supposedly impregnable Gazala Line to stop Rommel, for if he broke
through, the Nile Basin and the oil of the Middle East would be within his
grasp.
    General Rommel was content to let his battle wounds heal. He intended
to summer on the Nile.
    Maskelyne and Knox, meanwhile, were on their way to Malta. Air Officer
Commander-in-Chief, Middle East, Air Marshal Arthur Tedder, knew of the
marvels the Magic Gang had produced for the Army and the Navy, and
wanted them to reach into their bag of tricks to aid the Royal Air Force. He
was hoping they might hide an entire island.
    From the beginning of the desert war Malta’s three airfields and deep
natural harbour had serviced the aircraft, ships and submarines that had
devastated Rommel’s supply convoys. In November 1941, for example,
Malta-based attackers sank nearly three of every four ships bound for Libya.
German command realized that the survival of its African army depended
upon the destruction of this blockade. To accomplish this, Malta would have
to be obliterated.
    Late in 1941, as Axis wolf packs hunted British warships on the high
seas, the Luftwaffe and Regia Aeronautica began one of the most intensive
bombing campaigns in history. Tens of thousands of tons of bombs rained
on the tiny island weekly. Valletta, the capital city, was attacked eight
times a day. The airfields and harbours were blasted into pitted ruins. The
Maltese people were forced to live in caves and bomb shelters. Casualties
mounted. Food and ammunition were scarce, and every British attempt to
resupply the island was crushed. Malta resisted heroically, but the bombers
came in waves, day after day, week after week.
    The few underequipped and undermanned RAF fighter squadrons on the
island were somehow managing to stay in business, but Tedder hoped
Maskelyne and the Gang might figure some means of relieving the
incredible pressure on them. He suggested that the appearance of new
fighter aircraft on the island might at least cause the enemy to waste their
bombs on useless targets, and perhaps make them wary about daylight
raids. “It’s not much,” he admitted, “but we haven’t got much. Anything you
can do would be most appreciated.”
    The RAF Wellington ferrying Maskelyne and Knox to Malta touched down
softly and bounced to a halt, its pilot deftly managing to avoid the worst of
the bomb craters that pocked the dirt runway. Three-man shovel crews were
swarming all over the field, trying to fill in the deepest holes with rock and
dirt. The Wellington taxied to a spot next to a shattered tree trunk, and a
ground crew was pulling camouflage nets over the plane even before its
props stopped spinning. Two trucks and a jeep pulled up alongside and
soldiers began rapidly unloading the precious supplies from the fuselage.
Maskelyne and Knox were raced off the field in the jeep. “No time to dally
now,” their driver, a cheerful Irish corporal, said pleasantly. “Never know
when they’ll decide to visit, eh what.”
    After the months Maskelyne and Knox had spent in the tidy white cities
of Egypt, the brief drive through Valletta staggered their senses. The full
might of the enemy’s air power had been brought against it. Entire districts
had been bombed into barren fields of broken rock, glass and masonry.
Rows of buildings were crushed as completely as eggs bludgeoned with a
sledgehammer. Everywhere in the city civilian crews were building mounds
of rubble, mounds identical to those Maskelyne had left behind in London
when he sailed into the war.
    The western desert was particularly well suited for warfare – there were
no structures to be fought over, no civilians to be hurt. Just acres of brush
and sand and the equipment of two sophisticated armies. Soldiers died and
weapons were destroyed. There was a certain justice to that. But here, in
Malta, the innocent suffered most.
    A perpetual grey haze hung over the city, fed by wispy funnels of smoke
rising from charred houses. Dying fires could be tasted in the air.
    Children were playing in the rubble while adults picked through the
remains of their homes or stores, occasionally emerging with some
bright-coloured article of clothing or an unbroken piece of furniture. The
Irish driver pointed out the remains of the Royal Opera House, now more of
a quarry, the miraculously untouched Phoenician temple ruins, and the
tunnels and bomb shelters that had been cut into the soft limestone.
    The Royal Air Force had gone underground, setting up operations in a
deep shelter. Maskelyne and Knox were greeted warmly, served tea and
crumpets, briefed, and dispatched on a tour of the island. Pilot Officer
Robert Simon accompanied them.
    Simon was one of the brassy young fighter pilots the RAF was finally
beginning to turn out in decent numbers. In peacetime, he might have been
just finishing at university or beginning a trade; instead he had become a
high-flying gunfighter. “Missed the big one,” he said casually as they drove
down a rutted street, meaning the Battle of Britain, “but since I’ve been
here I’ve got me four kills and a prob. The prob was a Stuka. We all saw it
go into a spin, but it was night.”
    Maskelyne studied him as he rattled on. He was small and slender,
cockpit-sized, and his face was pleasant enough, although traces of an
adolescent complexion problem were visible beneath a mild tan and the
peach-fuzz beginnings of a beard.
    Simon kept up a continuous line of chatter, changing subjects at no
apparent crossroads. “In Holland,” he told his older charges, “the Dutch go
round giving the Nazi salute and saying, ‘Heil, Rembrandt. Heil,
Rembrandt.’ And when a Jerry asks what they’re doing, they say, ‘We’ve got
a great painter, too!’”
    The few planes Jasper spotted on or near runways were covered with
canvas, or camouflage netting, or parked beneath wooden boards painted
to resemble farm equipment when seen from the air. “Gotta keep some of
’em clear,” the young pilot volunteered, “so that we can get ’em up quick
when Jerry comes visiting.”
    The remainder of the Maltese air wing was carefully hidden. Aircraft were
concealed in barns, tunnels, under piles of potatoes, onions and tomatoes
or phoney mounds of rubble. Some were even hidden on small meadows,
covered with grass carpets. “Dirty, but effective,” Simon explained.
    “How many in all?” Knox asked.
    “Usually between seventy and a hundred serviceable. Mainly Hurricanes,
but we’ve got some Spits and a batch of the Navy’s Swordfish. Supposedly
there’s a flight of Spits coming in this month, but there’s always a flight
supposedly comin’ in.”
    “And what’s Jerry got?” Jasper wondered.
    Simon laughed. “A whole bloody circus, that’s all. Junkers, Heinkels,
more Stukas than Stalin’s got Commies, Messerschmitt nines and tens,
probably even some wind-up bombers we don’t even know about yet.”
    While they were bouncing about the island the air raid sirens began
whining and a flight of enemy bombers and fighters attacked Grand
Harbour. Even from their safe position miles away, Maskelyne and Knox
could hear the hideous, screeching wail that ripped through the bomb
thunder. “That’s the Stukas, the dive-bombers,” Simon screamed over the
din. “They’ve put sirens on the engines to frighten people on the ground.”
    Knox watched them dive behind the hilly horizon. “It works,” he yelled
back.
    That raid lasted twenty minutes, but less than an hour later the sirens
cried again and another flight of bombers appeared. This time their target
was the city of Sliema. Both Maskelyne and Knox watched in awe as the
planes flew overhead in tight formation, but Simon barely noted their
presence. When the professor remarked about this, Simon said impassively,
“Oh, you get quite used to them. It’s almost like they’ve taken a flat here.”
    After completing the inspection tour, Jasper and Frank went to their
underground quarters and began drawing up a camouflage plan. From the
outset it was obvious that few options were available to them. Unlike
Alexandria harbour or the Suez Canal, Malta could not be moved or hidden
or made invisible. It was a ninety-square-mile target in the middle of an
ocean. Nothing short of real magic would serve in this case, and Maskelyne
did not have the skills to produce such wonders.
    They devised a practical two-part plan using camouflage techniques
perfected during the war. Their plan wouldn’t prevent the Germans from
attacking and would not protect the Maltese from their bombs, but it might
make the raids less effective, and that was the purpose of this mission.
    As they sat in their shelter discussing the situation, both of them
stripped to their waists and khaki shorts, sweat pouring down their chests,
Maskelyne never felt farther away from the world of magic. This was a
standard camouflage job.
    Early the following morning they met with a group of air officers and
civilian defence leaders in the command shelter. Like the board of directors
of a shabby corporation, they sat around a wobbly table made by lying a
plywood sheet over three wooden horses.
    “There’s nothing we can do to keep the bombers away,” Maskelyne
began, “so our objective should be to make them expend their ammunition
in the least effective way. Lieutenant Knox and I can help you do that. We
can show you how to provide worthless targets and we can help you protect
your runways. That’s not much, I know–”
    An RAF officer interrupted, and drew a good laugh, by suggesting,
“Throw in a few squares of chocolate and you’ve got a deal.”
    The two parts of the camouflage plan presented by Maskelyne and Knox
were as different as night and day: deception would be used at night,
decoys during the day.
    The deception plan was based on the Maryût Bay ploy. Dummy airstrips
would be lighted at night to draw enemy bombers away from the real fields.
“They’ve added an interesting twist back home,” Knox said after outlining
the basic procedure. “Aircraft landing lights are mounted on jeeps and run
up and down between the dummy runway lights to simulate air traffic.
Evidently it’s quite effective, though I shouldn’t want to be driving that
jeep!”
    An air raid warden objected to the plan. “We’re only sixty miles from
Sicily. When we sneeze, they catch our germs. They’d know about dummy
airfields in an hour.”
    “Turn the information about on them,” Maskelyne replied. “Once they
know for certain you’re using dummy fields, set your lights and bomb fires
next to your real runways. That’ll send ’em to the dummies straight away.”
    “Look here,” Knox emphasized, “we’re not magicians. We’re just–” The
men in the bunker burst into laughter at that gaffe, causing the professor’s
fleshy cheeks to turn red with embarrassment. “At least I’m not a
magician,” he corrected. When the laughter had faded he continued. “Point
is, you’ve got to keep Jerry confused. Let him see whatever it is he expects
to see. That’s the game.”
    Making the deception pay off by providing damage for German inspection
during daylight hours would be burdensome, but not difficult. The only thing
Malta had in abundance was rubble. In England, Maskelyne told the group,
camouflage expert Colonel John F. Turner had protected RAF runways by
hauling tons of debris to the site the enemy believed it had bombed.
Shattered rock and masonry were scattered all over the landing strips, and
the skeletons of wrecked airplanes were put on display for German
cameras. In addition, lightweight plaster-of-Paris “bomb craters” were
constructed (“The world’s first portable holes,” Knox called them), and
Turner’s artists painted craters on pieces of canvas that were pegged to the
tarmac. “Two versions. One for sunny days and the other for overcast days.”
    The props and scenery had to be shifted throughout the day to
correspond with the movement of the sun, Maskelyne reminded them, so
that the painted shadows would be accurate.
    An enemy bomber squadron attacked the waterfront during the meeting,
but Maskelyne and Knox took their lead from the defence committee and
pretended to ignore the raiders. Only once, when a large device exploded
nearby and made the oil lamps shiver, did they exchange nervous glances.
    Professor Knox shifted easily into a discussion of the various decoy
aircraft that could be employed during daylight hours. Canvas flats were the
easiest to construct and would pass high-altitude visual inspection as long
as they cast accurate shadows, he began, then told them about Peter
Proud’s celebrated scam at Tobruk. Finding himself with few guns but
numerous gun-pit camouflage nets, Proud had suspended canvas guns
beneath the nets. German artillery spotters, as well as the Luftwaffe, saw
the shadows beneath the nets and assumed they shielded real guns, and
wasted a tremendous amount of precious ammunition blasting them.
“There’s no reason a similar ploy wouldn’t work here,” Knox concluded.
    Then Maskelyne took over. “The aircraft flats will not pass camera
inspection,” he pointed out, “but you’ve still got to give as much care to
camouflaging them as you would to hiding real fighters. Remember, we’re
simply trying to confuse Jerry as to what is real and what is illusion.”
    “And once he picks out the dummies, and he will,” Knox chimed in,
“that’s the time to turn it about on him. Intersperse canvas flats among
your real planes. You must keep them confused.”
    During the initial inspection tour Maskelyne had realized it would require
dummies far more sophisticated than were currently being built on Malta to
convince German Intelligence that the island’s RAF wing had been
reinforced. To fool the enemy’s cameras the dummies would not only have
to cast accurate shadows, their “wings” and “fuselage” would have to
reflect sunlight and their cockpit instrumentation would have to be visible
beneath the camouflage netting. “In other words,” the RAF officer joked
after listening to the magician’s pessimistic report, “what we need are
some real planes we can use as dummies.”
    The only possible alternative, Jasper replied, was to utilize damaged or
destroyed metal equipment. “So long as the nets are stretched as they
would be if concealing an aircraft, any reflective metal or glass could be
placed beneath them. We can use parts of planes, motorcars, even trams –
almost anything will serve.” Later, in private, he admitted to Knox he had
no real expectations suitable decoys could be built on the island.
    Construction of the individual pieces for the master plan began
immediately. During the next few days the two camoufleurs helped design
equipment and supervised construction of the prototypes. Everyone on
Malta, foot soldiers, cooks, pilots, civilians, contributed to the work. The
plaster-of-Paris “holes” looked as deep as any stage props Maskelyne had
ever worked with. Work on the canvas runway craters progressed at a
steady pace. The aircraft flats were quite passable, although their canvas
wings had to be propped up with sticks. A few metal decoys were thrown
together, looking more like something made by a madman with a Meccano
set than an aircraft, but it was the best that could be done under existing
conditions.
    It was a hectic few days, during which work was constantly being
interrupted by enemy bombers, but Maskelyne and Knox learned to accept
these raids as bothersome intrusions rather than inhuman violations. By
the end of the fifth day the props were in place. There was nothing more for
them to do on Malta.
    The C-47 Dakota that would ferry them back to Heliopolis sneaked in at
dusk overloaded with tons of supplies. A flock of soldiers swarmed over it,
and managed to unload the plane and juice it up in less than two hours.
Maskelyne spent this time glancing from his watch to the pasty sky. Oddly,
it was the absence of German bombers that made him nervous.
    Most of Malta’s defence committee was on hand to see them off. “Now
that you’ve provided us with an air force incapable of flight,” the air raid
warden said cheerfully, “perhaps you might find some way of getting a few
thousand tons of supplies through the blockade.” Everyone chuckled at this
friendly tease.
    Minutes later the Dakota bounced and rattled into the air. The long
flight back to Cairo gave Maskelyne time to reflect on the past few days.
Everything possible had been done, but it amounted to little more than a
bucket of sand in the desert. Three hundred thousand people were packed
onto the small island without enough food or medicine, without even
adequate means to protect themselves. Jasper snuggled into his seat and
drew a blanket up to his neck. It was cold enough in the back of the plane
for him to see each breath. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but
specks of thought raced through his mind, each of them just beyond the
grasp of his consciousness. Some magician, he thought bitterly. People
were being blown to bits under an endless shower of bombs, and he
showed them how to make artificial holes. He remembered the children who
had watched him with deepset sad eyes, and knew more than ever that
there was no such force as magic, only tricks, and fools to play them on.
    Jasper had always prided himself on being a compassionate man, and at
home he had always been careful to contribute the proper amount of time
and money to the charities, but as he flew away from the horrors of Malta
he found himself examining his motives. He admitted to himself that he
made those contributions because he was expected to do so; it was the
right thing to do and he always tried to do the right thing. Somehow,
though, he had managed to keep a safe distance from the pain of the
maimed and the needy. Even in Cairo, at Shepheards when he had been
beseeched by that wealthy Arab businessman, he had felt as much
embarrassment as empathy.
    Malta had shocked and humbled him. It had opened him up in a way
that nothing before had ever touched him. The visit had changed him
forever, he realized that even before the Dakota set down at Heliopolis. He
just didn’t quite know how.
    Life in Cairo became difficult for him. The city was too lush; its grand
hotels and elegant restaurants made a mockery of the struggle of the
Maltese people. Numerous times each day he’d pause, wherever he was,
whatever he was doing, and try to imagine what was taking place on Malta
at the exact moment. Inevitably, he concluded that the Luftwaffe was
blasting it.
    The day after Jasper’s return to the Valley, Hill had charged into the
mess hall waving two buff envelopes. “Some chaps really must’ve been
tight,” he said, “’cause they’ve went and made you and Frank captains.”
    Maskelyne didn’t react. He took the orders from Hill and read them. He
had been appointed temporary captain and promoted officially to war
substantive lieutenant. Carefully folding his promotion papers into precise
thirds, he slipped them back into the buff envelope and walked out of the
mess.
    “What’s chewin’ at him?” Hill asked Knox.
    The professor watched him leave. “The usual, I suppose. Man’s
inhumanity to man. The bombings. The war.”
    Private Hill sat down to finish Jasper’s meal. “He’ll get over it,” he said
confidently.
    Maskelyne missed Mary desperately. She shared his deepest feelings,
and by so doing relieved him of some of the burden. Frank Knox was a
reliable sounding board and a good friend, but Jasper realized there was a
vast distance between male bonding and the intimacy of a man and woman
in love, and the measure of that distance was his loneliness. At night he’d
lie in bed with his eyes open and conjure images of her; he would bring her,
smiling shyly at some small compliment, into his room, and he would hear
her voice, and the room would be full of her presence. And he would be
calm, with her in his mind, until some sharp sound thrust him into the
reality of Cairo, and then the emptiness would return.
    Numerous requests for Magic Gang assistance had piled up on his desk
during work on the submarine fleet and his mission to Malta. With Crusader
done, commanders were already preparing for the next round. An infantry
brigadier wondered if the Camouflage Section could suggest a way to
disguise the slit trenches that stood out on the desert like inkblots on
white paper. A transport major requested suggestions for hiding tons of
gasoline in the desert. Air Marshal Tedder wanted to drop supplies from an
aircraft without using a parachute. NAAFI asked him to perform at a charity
gala. The armoured corps needed a mobile mine-clearing device. Admiral
Cunningham was so delighted with his dummy submarine fleet that he
wanted a 720-foot-long battleship to replace those in dry dock.
    Maskelyne turned over many of the requests to newly constituted
camouflage units in the Nile Delta. In the year since his unruly arrival at
Suez, camouflage had become an important branch of the service.
High-ranking officers had seen tons of bombs falling onto empty beaches at
Alexandria, and Luftwaffe planes blindly groping for the canal, they saw his
dummy army in the field and knew that he had secured a safe escape route
to the east. Because of Maskelyne’s work, as well as Peter Proud at Tobruk
and Tony Ayerton and the rest of Buckley’s boys, camouflage was now
taken seriously. The problem now was that there was too much work for too
few people.
    Jasper had no choice but to concentrate on the most pressing requests.
He decided that the Gang would build Cunningham’s battleship.
    “A battleship?” Hill repeated incredulously after Maskelyne had revealed
the Gang’s next job. He turned to Graham, sitting at his shoulder, and
laughed. “You hear that? Now they want us to build a bloody battleship.”
    Nails smirked. “So?”
    Hill rolled his eyes back in his head. “If I’m the only sane one here,
we’re all in big trouble.”
    British Intelligence was reporting that the dummy submarines were
forcing enemy shipping to operate with unusual caution, particularly
Mussolini’s Mediterranean war fleet. Now Admiral Cunningham’s office
wanted to compound the ploy by adding a new battleship to the area. “Any
questions?” Maskelyne asked as he passed out photographs of the
720-foot-long, 34,000-ton Royal Navy battleship H.M.S. Nelson.
    “Me,” Robson said, staring intently at the picture he held in two hands.
“They only want one of these, right?”


                                 Twelve
After the requisite griping was finished, the Magic Gang set about building
a 720-foot-long battleship. The days of wondering if such an incredible
request could be fulfilled had ended long ago. They had become
professionals in the world of military make-believe, and derived great
satisfaction from the knowledge that their small group could create war
machines that no other army in military history had even imagined.
   They were confident that all that stood between them and the
battleship were many long days and nights, innumerable cusses and bitter
jokes, blisters and aches, a touch of luck, and something on which to pin
the entire bloody superstructure. And, in fact, at the beginning it did seem
that would be true – it was only toward the end that this became the Magic
Gang’s most unusual experience.
   Jasper welcomed the arduous assignment. By focusing his complete
attention on this project he was able to temporarily put aside the
depression he had carried back from Malta. He began by dividing up the
work. Phil Townsend would help him with the rough sketches and
blueprints. Bill Robson was to secure some battleship-grey paint. Nails
Graham and Union Jack Fuller were to gather construction materials,
primarily lumber and metal. Mike Hill was responsible for finding big guns.
“We’ll need nine sixteen-inchers, a dozen six-inchers and some ack-ack,”
Maskelyne explained, sounding as if he were equipping an actual
dreadnought. But he shattered that impression by concluding, “Start by
checking the dump for drainpipes. There should be something there.”
    Frank Knox served as liaison to Admiral Cunningham’s office. At
Maskelyne’s request, the Navy agreed to help the Gang find something
afloat that would be large enough and stable enough to serve as a platform
on which to build the superstructure. The battleship dummy would be
almost four times the length of the submarines, and would ride
considerably higher out of the water, so Jasper decided the best thing to do
was disguise a real ship. Finding that craft was the difficult part.
    While the rest of the Gang were making their own preparations, Frank
was shown just about every scrap of junk floating in North African waters.
Out of a wretched lot, he finally selected an aged cruiser that was decaying
on a salt lake in the Suez. The rusting hulk, its painted name long since
flaked into history, had been launched before the turn of the century and
refurbished for coastal patrol duty during the Great War. After being
decommissioned, it had been retired to a Scottish loch until Dunkirk, when
the desperate situation forced the Royal Navy to return such relics to
service. Unable to sail under its own steam, it was towed to the Suez Canal
and used as a flak ship. The efficient Royal Navy captain escorting Knox
tried to make this boat seem more impressive than it actually was, pointing
out, “It’s still floating, you’ll notice. It certainly was well made.”
    Compared to the other wrecks and shells Knox had been shown, this
vessel did have distinct advantages. “It’s about the only thing large enough
to support a sizeable platform,” the professor told Jasper, “and as many as
a dozen men might be able to stand on deck at the same time without its
turning turtle, assuming of course that they’re properly positioned.”
    Even before Jasper saw the hulk, he was dubious. “It’s forty years old,
Frank,” he complained.
    “So are we, nearly,” Knox reminded him.
    First sight did nothing to alleviate Jasper’s fears. The cruiser was over
five hundred feet long, but barely seventy-five feet wide. It had three
outdated smokestacks and two masts, the rear mast sporting a crow’s nest.
Its naval guns had been removed decades earlier, and the wooden planking
that had been bolted over the resulting holes in the deck had rotted
through, leaving gaping cavities both fore and aft. Previous renovations had
made the ship so top-heavy it wobbled in a slight breeze.
    The Gang stepped aboard as gingerly as a corps de ballet cavorting on a
bed of nails. “Everybody stay calm,” Hill implored nervously. “Nobody make
no fast moves.”
    “Fast moves, hell,” Graham responded. “Nobody best breathe too
deeply.”
    “It’s not all that bad,” Knox declared in his most professional voice. “If
we’re just a bit careful not to overload one side, if we avoid the holes in
the deck, if we don’t put any heavy machinery on board, and if each of us
stops eating and loses two stone I shouldn’t think we’d have too much
difficulty.”
    Jasper did his best to reassure everyone, reminding them, “We can all
swim.”
    The conversion of the dilapidated cruiser into a modern ship of the line
began with a tape-measure assault. The Gang recorded the length and
width of every nook and cranny above deck. Good sense prevented anyone
from going below.
    Maskelyne and Graham then built a scale model of the ship. All the
modifications were first fitted to the model, and tested in the dayroom
water tank. The masts of this model were removed, and scaffolding,
represented by sticks, was added to the top. Everything put above the
waterline was counterbalanced by submerged oil-drum floats and pontoons.
Every outrigging, or boom, attached to the port side was matched by a
similar boom starboard. Additional extensions were fitted over the bow and
stern, lengthening the scale model two feet, and thus the real dummy two
hundred feet. The battleship would have to carry four “catapult-launched
aircraft,” which Jasper figured could be faked with the same type of painted
canvas flats used on Malta. “Jerry’ll be looking down at them,” he told his
artists Townsend and Robson, “so as long as they cast the correct shadows
we don’t have to be concerned with depth.” Hill’s salvage-pipe gun muzzles
would be balanced on board during their installation.
    The finished model had all sorts of sticks and gizmos rising high off its
deck and protruding out over the gunwales at various angles. It looked
more like the skeleton of a wooden building designed by a deranged
architect than the foundation of a ship, but Jasper was confident that once
painted canvas had been stretched over the frame it would be able to pass
as a battleship. The model had outgrown the water tank and had to be
tested in the Suez lake in which the actual transformation would take
place. Although minor adjustments had to be made, it managed to stay
afloat.
    Then crews trucked in from Magic Valley began converting the aging
cruiser into a modern warship. A precise schedule was followed to ensure
that there would never be too many men on board at one time, and much of
the painting, cutting and fabrication was done ashore. The dummy
battleship rapidly began to take shape.
    The men laboured around the clock in six-hour shifts. By devoting
himself to the project, Jasper successfully pushed most thoughts of Malta
out of his mind. There was an occasional odd moment, though, when he
could not help thinking about the bombers. Whenever it got too bad, and
feelings of inadequacy threatened to overwhelm him, he’d sit and write out
his frustrations in a long letter to Mary. Sometimes he mailed these letters,
sometimes he did not, but simply writing them enabled him to regain
control.
    Phil Townsend worked closely with him on the sketches. At first, their
conversations were brief and professional, but gradually they moved to
subjects of common interest. Townsend felt himself beginning to trust
Maskelyne. To his own amazement, he began exposing some of the beasts
living deep inside his mind. Late one evening as he sketched, while Jasper
tried to paste a tiny shaft to the model, he casually said, “Guess you know
the wife and me are splittin’ up. From my letters and all. I mean, I know
you have to read them.”
    Jasper sidestepped the question, explaining that he’d been trading
letters to be censored with the head of a mess outfit, “and now I can tell
you twenty or more ways to prepare bully beef.”
    Townsend kept his head buried in his drawing as he spoke. “Well, we
are. Seems she’s taken up with some Yank flyer.”
    Jasper held the thin stick in place while the paste dried. He understood
he was being shown a man’s soul. “Sorry,” he said evenly. “I know it’s
hard.”
    “Very,” the artist agreed, and chuckled morbidly. “Very.” But suddenly,
having finally heard his own voice say the dreadful words, he felt strangely
relieved.
    As Maskelyne blew gently on the paste to accelerate the drying process,
he thought of Mary. In this thought she was dressed in white linen and
smiling, and her black hair was flowing in a breeze. She was looking into
the distance for something. He smiled to himself. Just thinking about her
temporarily filled that gaping hole in his heart.
    The sham battleship was completed in mid-February. Maskelyne named
it H.M.S. Houdin, for the illustrious conjuror Robert-Houdin, but the dummy
was a great disappointment to him. It was the requisite length and carried
the correct armament, including four aircraft, but its massive flying bridge
was decidedly off centre, sheets of canvas bulwarking constantly ripped
loose and flapped in light breezes, it rode much too high in the water for a
34,000-ton vessel, and numerous other minor defects betrayed the illusion.
Only from a great distance and in poor light or bad weather could it
possibly be taken for a real battleship, and even in those conditions that
was still doubtful.
    “Sorry about this,” Admiral Cunningham said after returning from an
aerial inspection of the dummy. “I’m afraid it was a bit much to ask you to
pull a battleship out of that hat of yours.” The Admiral was sitting with
Jasper and Frank at a spindly-legged table set up in the square of shade
created by propping up the rear canvas flap of a three-ton truck. H.M.S.
Houdin bobbed at anchor on the calm lake waters a few thousand yards
over Maskelyne’s shoulder. “Your boys are to be congratulated for a superior
effort, but we can’t risk using it. Best take it down before Jerry spots it and
gets onto the severity of our situation.”
    Knox suggested they have a go at bringing it up to snuff. “Give us
another week or so. There’s nothing that can’t be corrected. The men’ve
worked dreadfully hard.”
    Cunningham was steadfast. “It’s more than a few touch-ups. It just
doesn’t have the right feel to it, you see.”
    Knox didn’t. Mistakes can be corrected. He looked at the Admiral blankly.
    A naval person would have understood immediately, Cunningham
realized, but it was difficult explaining his meaning to a land type. “It just
doesn’t have the soul of a fighting ship.”
    This the professor understood. Part of that mysticism of men of the sea.
    Maskelyne had listened to Cunningham announce his decision and
agreed with it, the transformation was not effective, but he was reluctant
to allow the Gang’s hard work to go for naught. He knew there had to be
some way to make a profit from the job. The Houdin couldn’t pass as a
battleship, of course. Jerry would examine it thoroughly and discover the
errors and –
    In the flash of a thought, he had the answer. The sucker switch. “Pardon
me, Admiral,” he said, “but perhaps I have a solution.”
    “Yes?”
    “I think so. Seems we’ve been trying to convince the Germans that our
cruiser is actually a battleship, when in fact we should be trying
desperately to convince them that that’s precisely what it’s not!”
    “That it’s not a battleship, you mean?” Cunningham asked, perplexed.
    “Right.”
    “Well,” the Admiral replied, “that shouldn’t be too difficult, eh?”
Truthfully he had no idea what Maskelyne was blustering about.
    Jasper’s entire body became animated as he began explaining his plan
to save the Houdin. “You see, the burden’s on us to make sure every bloody
knot and anchor is a bang-on duplicate for the real thing. Suppose, though,
just suppose we had a real battleship. Considering that Jerry just sent two
of the best to the bottom, we’d be doing everything possible to protect it,
wouldn’t we? We’d be hiding it, or camouflaging it or,” he paused here, and
suggested softly, “or disguising it.”
    Cunningham furrowed his brow, indicating thought, and confusion. “I
suppose,” he said uncertainly.
    “Obviously, we won’t be successful. You see?”
    “No” the Admiral admitted, “I don’t.”
    “Let me explain, then. Magicians often use a stage technique known as
the sucker effect, or sucker bait. The object is to allow the audience to
reach its own conclusion from evidence it detects by observation. Let your
audience believe they’ve caught you in an error and you’ve got them right
where you want them. If, for example, I told you a box was empty you
might not believe me, but if I tipped the box accidentally and gave you a
peek inside and you saw it was empty, then you’d believe it. In fact, you’d
be certain you knew much more than I intended you to know.”
    Cunningham was listening intently, his shoulders hunched slightly
forward, his elbows resting firmly on the shaky table, hands clasped in front
of him, forming a fortress with his thick arms around a cup of dead-cold
coffee.
    “My grandfather’s partner was the great magician David Devant,” Jasper
began. “Among many other illusions, Devant used to make a livestock
vanish. It made no difference what sort of animal was used, it might just
as easily have been a pig as a pigeon, but the illusion was most commonly
performed with a rabbit.”
    Admiral Cunningham tried, but was unable to find the connection
between making a pig disappear and turning a floating woodpile into a
battleship.
    “After producing the rabbit, he’d carefully place it in a plain box sitting
on what appeared to be an ordinary table. Then, piece by piece, he would
take the box apart. The top, then each of its sides in turn, was handed to
an assistant or discarded on the floor behind the table, proving that the
box was empty and the rabbit had been successfully vanished. The table
was the only piece of apparatus remaining on the stage.
    “However,” Jasper continued, “the audience could still see what
appeared to be a tuft of white fur sticking out of the top of this table.
Devant used to make a wonderful show of attempting to conceal it with the
last box side. Some other magicians doing a similar bit might step in front
of it and feign embarrassment. There are any number of techniques used to
achieve the same effect, but the object is to appear to be trying to hide the
tuft of fur while actually bringing the attention of the audience right to it.
By attempting to hide it, the magician is in fact convincing the audience
that they’ve discovered the trickery. Eventually, the audience will call the
magician on this mistake, sometimes led by a confederate planted in the
rear seats, and after the magician has done everything possible to ignore
their cries he will reach down and pluck the object from the table. Devant
used to pull out a marshmallow, but a handkerchief or anything similar can
easily be used. Finally, after holding up the object for the audience to see,
he folded up the table to prove the animal was not hidden inside. See what
I’m getting at?”
    Cunningham sighed. “I think so. Yes, I think so.” Waving his index finger
through the air to underline his thoughts, he carefully summarized the
proposal. “If we want Jerry to think this … uh, thing is a battleship, we
have to convince him that we actually want him to believe it’s something
else.”
    “There, now you’ve got it,” Jasper said.
    “Where’s the rabbit?” Knox demanded.
    Jasper glanced at him. “Why, in the table, of course.”
    In the distance, the disguised cruiser drifted in a mild breeze.
    Maskelyne continued. “We’ve got to let the Germans reach their own
conclusions. If we take obvious pains to camouflage our boat, but do a bad
job of it, their intelligence people will be quite happy to discover a real
battleship beneath all our canvas and papier-mâché. At that size there’s
really nothing else it could be. All the mistakes we’ve made will work for us
then. They’ll assume we made them intentionally to cover up the real ship.”
    Cunningham was so delighted in the audacious plan he immediately
agreed to implement it. After the beating his Royal Navy had absorbed
during the past few months it would be quite satisfying to give the Nazi
buggers a cardboard comeuppance. “What shall we disguise our battleship
as?” he asked.
    Jasper delivered his punchline smoothly. “Perhaps a rusted cruiser?”
    The Gang went directly to work doing a good job of bad camouflage.
Blue-painted canvas “lids” or “flats” were stretched between the masts and
booms in what would normally be an attempt to make the ship blend into
the water, as the chameleon changes colour to fade into its background. In
this case, however, the blue was purposefully painted too green and the
“lids” were cut perfectly square, rather than being cut irregularly, which
would enable them to fade into water. Observed from the air, these would
stand out like pink squares on a chessboard. In addition, the “bulwarks”
were loosened so they would billow in a breeze, a cardboard smokestack
was intentionally watered into sogginess, a dismal effort was made to
disguise the dummy prow of the dummy dreadnought, and oil-barrel floats
were positioned only inches below the surface. By the time the Gang had
finished the sophisticatedly crude job, it was virtually impossible to
determine exactly what lay beneath the network of false beams, cardboard
stacks and canvas lids. Only its great length and girth, and its barely
visible big gun drainpipes, hinted it was a battleship.
    “She’s a fine tribute to her name,” Jasper proudly pronounced as the
Gang stood on the lake bank taking a final look at her before returning to
Abbassia.
    Hill frowned. “One thing’s for sure. There ain’t another one like her
anywhere in the world.”
    “She’ll certainly keep their intelligence people fascinated for some time,”
Robson decided.
    “Ours too,” Knox added, “ours too.”
    The Houdin had to be towed into place after dark, very slowly, and in
calm waters, lest it be shaken apart by a small wave. Unlike the dummy
harbour or the cardboard weapons, it would take some time, if ever, to
determine its success. The Admiralty firmly believed that the Germans and
the Italians would take advantage of the lack of a British warship in the
area to drastically increase the size and flow of their supply convoys. But
there was no hard proof of this. The success of the decoy might be
measured by a change in the number of escort vessels shepherding the
convoys, or an alteration of route, but it would be difficult to directly credit
these modifications to the presence of the Houdin.
    Admiral Cunningham decided to stick the thing out in the water where it
would be seen, and take his chances with it. He was confident it would, at
worst, confuse the enemy. “It certainly has me confused,” he admitted to
the Gang.
    A German reconnaissance plane spotted it at anchor off Suez. The
twin-engine craft made a sweeping turn and dived in low for a closer look. A
few hours later two more spotters arrived. Onshore ack-ack batteries
popped away at them to keep them some distance from the ship, but the
planes got close enough to snap some fascinating photographs. At night,
the Houdin was towed to a different area.
    After returning to Magic Valley, Maskelyne waited patiently for reports
on the maiden voyage of the cardboard man-of-war. If the Germans took
the sucker bait, as he suspected they would, the Gang could justifiably
claim another impossible assignment successfully completed. But if the
attempted fraud was discovered … He smiled confidently at that thought. If
it was discovered he still had one more twist up his sleeve. The skilful
magician always held the final ace.
    Requests for Magic Gang assistance continued to pile up. Dudley Clarke
needed some tools for his A-Force operatives. More sunshields were
requested. Intelligence expected him to suggest some clever means of
safely positioning a forward observer on the desert. The major in transport
was still pressing him for some way to hide thousands of gallons of
gasoline on the Blue. Admiral Cunningham wanted yet another addition to
his growing dummy navy – a disappearing speedboat. Even the courageous
Desert Air Force had an assignment for him.
    During a high-stakes rummy game, an aide to Admiral Cunningham
casually mentioned Maskelyne’s “magic navy” to an air force officer, who
discussed it while attending a cricket match at Gezira with a flight officer
working for Air Marshal Tedder, who told Tedder, who was intrigued and
contacted Cunningham, who was delighted and put him onto Geoffrey
Barkas, who casually requested that Maskelyne drop by Royal Air Force Staff
in Cairo.
    Air Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Middle East, Air Marshal Sir Arthur
Tedder simply wanted Jasper to figure out how the Air Force could drop
supply containers thousands of feet without a parachute, “due to the
current shortage of same,” so that their contents would not be dashed to
pieces upon impact. Although Tedder’s aide explained that this would be
used to supply ammunition to partisans fighting in occupied countries,
Maskelyne realized that the same method could be adapted to get food and
medicine to the besieged Maltese people. This became his priority project.
    On a pleasantly cool afternoon in late February, Jasper was standing on
a chair in his office dropping eggs sheathed in various wrappers onto a
canvas sheet when Phil Townsend walked in. About a dozen eggs had been
smashed, creating a rather dicey pale-yellow viscous pool in the centre of
the canvas.
     The painter looked at the mess and grimaced. “That’s just about the
sorriest mess I’ve ever seen.”
     “Research,” Maskelyne responded, “research. I’ve got to work out a way
to keep these eggs from cracking.”
     Townsend suggested tentatively, “Have you thought about not dropping
them?”
     Jasper snickered. “It’s for Tedder’s people. They want to drop supplies
without parachutes.” He held an egg wrapped in thick layers of cotton
between his thumb and forefinger.
     Townsend averted his eyes from the pool. “Nails said you wanted to see
me.”
     The egg dropped like a thousand-pounder, plopping onto the canvas.
Within seconds a gooey liquid seeped through the cotton. “That won’t do,”
Jasper said, frowning, and stepped down. As he wiped his hand, he told
Townsend that the infantry had requested bulletproof forward observation
posts. “I was thinking about dummying up sand dunes, or perhaps we can
do something with hollowed palm trunks. See what you can come up with,
will you? There’s no hurry on it, sometime tomorrow would be just fine.”
Hands dried, he took another egg from a sack and began crisscrossing
strips of cotton around it.
     “How about some sort of suspension system?” the artist suggested.
     Jasper considered that. “With a hard outer casing, you mean?”
     “That’s it. Let the container absorb the shock.”
     “Hmmmp. Might work. Let’s see.”
     As Maskelyne searched the room for a box in which to encase the egg,
Townsend poured himself a cuppa. His friendly attitude was new and
welcome. For some unexplained reason, the artist had lost his chip. He had
even begun hanging around with the Gang. Although his initial efforts at
fitting in were as awkward as a circus strongman trying to walk the high
wire, the boys overlooked his mistakes. “Here, what’s this?” he asked,
holding up a ration box.
     “Sure,” Jasper said. While Maskelyne banded the egg with long strips of
tape, and stuck the ends of the tape to the inner sides of the box, then
began swaddling the outside of the box in layers of cotton, they talked
amiably. As always, the war was their primary concern. Even considering
Rommel’s last foray, Operation Crusader had to be considered a success.
Eighth Army had finally regained its fighting spirit. The Fox’s Afrika Korps
had been soundly thrashed. The war in the desert was not over, the end
was not even on the horizon, but no longer was there a question of the
Empire’s ability to smash the best of the Führer’s army. With the United
States finally in, and the Soviets having stopped the Nazis in Russia, Hitler
was suddenly on the defensive.
     When the box was completely covered with cotton, Jasper climbed back
onto his chair and dropped it to the canvas. It landed on a corner and
nipped over once, like a tossed die. Townsend picked it up and opened it.
The egg had cracked, but had not broken. “Let’s try it again,” Jasper said,
“but this time let’s crisscross the tape, make them suspension strings, so
they’ll be a sort of support netting.”
    Once they were at work again, their conversation shifted to the second
most popular topic. “I’m telling you, these girls were really smashing,”
Townsend boasted, relating the details of a night in Cairo with an Engineer
chap. “One of them, one of them – I’ve never seen anything like her. I
mean she had … she was …” Deeming mere words insufficient to describe
her, he moved his hands in two softly curved, seductive, flowing lines.
    Maskelyne got the idea. He believed the woman actually existed and
was perhaps as lovely as the artist remembered, but he also knew
Townsend didn’t believe it. The boasting protected his ego as surely as the
suspenders had saved the egg. Jasper saw nothing wrong with it, either.
    But the subject couldn’t be ignored. Now that Townsend was capable of
talking about it, he needed to talk about it. Jasper prodded him gently,
asking if he had received any communication from his wife.
    Townsend spat in disgust. “Her? Naw, not that I’m likely to, either. The
solicitors are on the case. When I think back on it, I mean the whole thing,
I can’t believe what a bloody fool I’ve been. Even if this hadn’t happened,
except for the little baby, and I swear I’m not goin’ to let that child be hurt
by this – but other than our baby there was no reason we should’ve stayed
together. It’s not like things were goin’ so good with us at the end, I’ve got
to be honest about that. We did have our problems. We were pretty young
when we got married and I’ve changed a lot, I’m not the same man I was
then and …”
    Jasper listened, nodded when it was appropriate, and offered an
agreeable word when it seemed called for. Having devoted his life to the
production of illusions, he saw no need to destroy those of another man.
    Additional cross straps held another egg loosely in place, as if it were
lazing in a tiny hammock, and when the box was dropped on the canvas the
egg remained intact. “Now all we have to do,” Jasper said, “is substitute a
thousand rounds of ammunition for one egg and we’ve got it made.”
    They were just finishing a cleanup when Knox came in with a newspaper
folded under his arm. “There’s the hero himself,” he said smartly.
    Jasper glanced at Townsend, who was looking right back at him. They
both looked at Knox.
    “You,” the professor said, indicating Maskelyne. “Guess you haven’t seen
this then?” He waved the newspaper. “Seems like you’ve received some
attention.”
    Puzzled by Frank’s teasing, Jasper took the paper from him. It was a
week-old French-language edition of Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung, a German
newspaper.
    “Page three.”
    Jasper turned to that page. It was devoted to news of Rommel’s desert
campaign and included a large photograph of a smouldering Matilda.
Rapidly scanning the article, he was absolutely shocked to find his own
name sharing a sentence with Adolf Hitler. “What’s this all about?”
    Knox took a slip of paper from his breast pocket. “One of Clarke’s chaps
shot the paper down to me. Thought you might be amused. This,” he said,
flapping the slip of paper, “is the official British Army translation.” Pushing
his glasses high up onto the bridge of his nose, holding the slip at eye
level, he harrumphed for attention, then began reading, pronouncing each
word distinctly. “‘The British have realised their situation is desperate and
have employed a famous magician, Jasper Maskelyne, to try to scare off the
Afrika Korps!’” He looked up from the translation. “How ’bout that?”
    “What’s all this Hitler stuff?” Townsend asked, pointing to the next
paragraph in the Illustrierte.
    “Calm down, I’m coming to that. See, it says that the Führer was
complimenting Rommel on his brilliant counterattack. ‘Indeed, the Führer
told Tank General Rommel, the German Army does not need a Maskelyne to
make the British Army disappear.’” Frank peered over the translation to
Jasper. “It seems our Mr Hitler has been talking about you behind your
back.”
    Townsend curtsied in jest. “And all this time I didn’t know I was working
with such an important person.”
    Jasper did not know whether to be pleased, embarrassed, amused or
annoyed. “Well,” he finally decided, “I suppose I’ve been insulted by nicer
people.”
    Thanks mainly to the boasting Mike Hill, word of Hitler’s comment
spread quickly throughout the community of British officers in Cairo, and
during the next few days Maskelyne received substantial ragging about it.
Although most rankers thought it was humorous and made good-natured
remarks, a few were actually jealous of this attention and said so bitterly.
Maskelyne came to regard the whole thing as a rather awkward joke and
accepted the jibes of his mates without rancour. “It seems some of the
chaps feel I must be a friend of his,” he wrote to Mary, enclosing the
translation. “Now, that’s certainly a case of guilt without association!”
    Mike Hill enjoyed the stir, telling everyone, “If you think that was an
insult, wait till you hear what Maskelyne has to say about Hitler.”
    Neither Barkas nor Clarke found the article amusing. “They obviously
know you’re not here doing stage tricks,” Barkas grumbled. “They’ll be
watching you from now on, and that’s going to make your work more
difficult.”
    Clarke was quite distressed. “I’m afraid this makes you a prime target.
It’s impossible to predict what the Brotherhood madmen might do to try to
please their Führer. I’d suggest keeping a less visible profile for a bit.”
    “We’re all targets, aren’t we?” Jasper replied. “That’s the job of a
soldier.” Besides, he was working too hard to spend time worrying about
sinister Arabs plotting devious acts. Magic Valley was as frenetic as the
Egyptian Theatre had been in its halcyon days. But instead of actors,
managers, agents, press men, female would-be assistants, mechanics and
bookkeepers, the camp was practically overrun with camoufleurs,
carpenters, painters, electricians, weavers, mechanics, machinists,
draftsmen, clerks and assembly-line workers, all rushing about furiously on
some mission. Jasper’s days swirled with activity as he tried to give parts
of it to as many people as possible. The busier he was, the less time he
had to be lonely, or to think about the suffering Maltese people. There were
old projects to be completed, new projects to be initiated, future projects
to be contemplated; in addition, he had to make time in the evenings to
exercise his fingers, and Clarke had asked him to give his popular
escape-and-evasion field lecture to newly arrived troops. Only at the end of
the night did he relax, when he sat alone and wrote his thoughts to Mary.
    To his own chagrin, he had not been able to deliver to the Air Force a
supply container that could be dropped from an aircraft without a
parachute. The first test of the suspension device he had worked up with
Townsend took place on March 1, 1942, on the desert.
    Maskelyne shaded his eyes as a lone Wellington circled once, then
dropped the prototype supply container from an altitude of five hundred
feet. The crate, a wooden packing case almost five feet wide and four feet
deep, was swathed in a thick layer of cotton waste. Inside, ten sealed
plaster trays, each containing fifty rounds of .38, .45, .303 or antitank
ammunition, five hundred rounds in all, were loosely suspended by canvas
strips and further cushioned by additional cotton.
    The crate fell straight down the first hundred feet, then slowly began
rolling end over end. It slammed into the ground. An instant later, it
exploded.
    No one said a word until the fountain of debris had settled, then Bill
Robson observed, “Well, that’s not very good.”
    “Perhaps a few alterations are necessary,” Jasper admitted, and turned
away from the new crater in the desert.
    As usual, Hill managed to put the test into perspective. “Hey,” he
suggested, “we can use it to dig instant foxholes.”
    Fortunately, other projects fared better. The Royal Navy reported H.M.S.
Houdin was doing a yeomanly job in the Mediterranean. The Axis had not
increased the frequency of its convoys to Tripoli, and at least two Italian
warships had altered course, apparently to avoid making contact with the
British “battleship.” The ship itself was holding together as well as
possible, but its permanent two-man crew had encountered some problems
figuring out where pieces fit when they popped loose. Graham and Fuller
were dispatched twice to supervise repairs.
    Phil Townsend, assisted by Bill Robson, had drawn up several clever
proposals for concealing forward observation posts. Foremost among these
were the dummy sand dune and the metal tree. The dune, based on the
stage-magic principle that the most obvious thing is usually overlooked,
was actually a sand-coloured humped shell, spacious enough to seat one
man, that could be placed in the open and covered with sand so that it was
nearly indistinguishable from the normal desert drifts. The tin palm tree
was designed for use in the lush oases that served as important landmarks
and staging areas. Similar to those used during the Great War, it was lined
with bulletproof steel and housed one observer equipped with telescope
system and radio transmitter.
    The original tin tree was fashioned in the workshop in a few hours and,
after some touching up, looked natural enough to make its occupant hope
that no one decided to use its branches for a night fire. Unfortunately, its
spyholes were visible at close range. After some experimentation, it was
discovered that a gauze covering painted the same colour as the rest of the
trunk made the holes nearly invisible. Knox, the professor of animal
camouflage, reminded workshop labourers to hand-cut each observation
hole in an irregular shape, since perfect geometric forms rarely occur
naturally.
    After a series of tests the observation dunes and trees were put into
mass production at the Valley, and by the end of March the Long Range
Desert Group, the Desert Rats, were planting them on the Blue.
    Soon after the first dunes were put into service, Maskelyne suggested to
the transport major that larger artificial sand dunes could be used to hide
large caches of fuel and ammunition on the open desert. During the next
few months large “dunes,” in actuality mountains of supplies, appeared
overnight at strategic points along the main tracks. These dumps, hidden in
plain view, would prove vital when the final battle for North Africa began.
    Throughout the spring of 1942, Axis forces in Europe and Asia pushed
sluggishly forward against stubborn Allied resistance. In the Atlantic,
U-boats continued to take a heavy toll of merchant marine and warships. In
the Pacific, Japanese armies began occupying those islands left isolated
after the stunning success of the attack on the American fleet at Pearl
Harbor. General Douglas MacArthur left the Philippines by submarine and,
upon arriving in Australia, vowed he would return to the islands. For weeks
afterward no one in Cairo left a room without first declaring they, too,
would return.
    The Allied armies were fighting for time, knowing that reinforcements –
and supplies – would begin arriving as soon as the great American
industrial machine got into full production.
    In North Africa the Germans continued blasting Britain’s Mediterranean
supply line while reinforcing Rommel’s Panzer Group Africa. The stalemate
at the Gazala Line was broken only by occasional probes into enemy
encampments, and by the persistent hit-and-run attacks made by the
bearded Desert Rats. Auchinleck was satisfied to let Rommel rust in the
desert while he refit his own army for an early-summer offensive.
    At Magic Valley work progressed on various projects. The devastating
Luftwaffe attacks on Malta spurred Maskelyne to devote much of his time to
perfecting the unbreakable supply canisters. After the failure of the
prototype, he realized it was necessary to slow the rate of descent, which
seemed difficult to do without adding some sort of parachute apparatus.
After conferring with a number of engineers, he attached long canvas
streamers to the case to act as a drag, thus reducing the falling speed.
    The small group reassembled on the desert’s edge for a second test.
Once again, the Wellington swept in at five hundred feet, circled once and
dropped an ammunition crate. The big box wobbled from side to side as it
fell, until the streamers caught the wind and held it nearly upright. With its
long tails shivering in the airstream, the container very much resembled a
dead octopus dropping from the sky.
    The crate slammed into the desert, sending up a splash of dirt and
sand. Then, as everyone waited tensely, nothing happened. Maskelyne’s
shoulders sagged in relief. “So far, so good,” he said tentatively as he
climbed into his jeep.
    The crate had cracked, but remained intact. When Graham opened it,
though, the Gang found that most of the shells had become stuck to the
soft plaster trays into which the ammunition had been pressed for
protection. Almost every round would have to be cleaned before it could be
used. Obviously, this could not be done on any battlefield. “At least half
the problem is solved,” Graham said philosophically after they had returned
to the Valley. “We got ’em down. Now all we have to do is find a way to
pack ’em.”
    The solution to this problem was quite simple. Jasper decided that the
ammunition trays should be moulded out of nonadhesive papier-mâché
rather than plaster. The entire Gang spent a gossipy afternoon sitting
around the dayroom, like a women’s knitting circle, cutting useless
requisition forms into scraps, then tossing them into a vat of smelly
billposter’s paste made from water and condemned flour. The ammunition
was pressed into the trays while the papier-mâché was still wet, thus
providing adequate protection, while allowing each round to be easily
removed once the trays had dried and hardened.
    The third test was a complete success, and after Tedder’s people
conducted additional tests, the RAF requested as many crates as could be
produced at Magic Valley. Nails Graham set up an assembly line in a
sunshield shop, but had difficulty figuring out how to shred the hundreds of
pounds of paper that would be needed for the trays. Cutting it by hand
would take much too long. So, after considering several alternatives, and
eliminating each of them, he concluded he had to steal a motorbike.
    It was an accepted aspect of life in Cairo that nothing, absolutely
nothing, could be left unattended without serious risk. Things that could
not possibly have value to anyone except their owner disappeared in an
instant. Lights were taken from guarded hallways, ratty shoes vanished
from closets, half-chewed pencils were lifted from desks, there was even a
brisk black market in automobile hubcaps in the bazaar. Therefore, the
Hussar corporal-clerk was not at all surprised that his chained bike was
stolen from its secure place directly in front of Gray Pillars.
    Hill made the actual pinch, although Robson provided the necessary
diversion by posing as an American reporter for Stars and Stripes and
interviewing the guard about life in the Middle East.
    Graham converted the Harley-Davidson bike into a factory machine by
mounting it upside down on anchored bricks and replacing the rear tyre with
a rubber belt that was connected to the chaff-cutter drive-wheel. Outdated
maps provided most of the pulp. The improvised system was capable of
turning out almost fifteen pounds of scrap per hour.
    At Mike Hill’s suggestion, different-coloured canvas streamers were used
to indicate the contents of the various crates. Red was ammunition, green
tools, white meant rations, and so on.
    Maskelyne celebrated the successful completion of the project with an
expensive lunch with Frank in the city, a full pouch of imported tobacco, and
an afternoon passed strumming his ukulele and allowing his mind some
play. The free afternoon was the luxury.
    His fingers plucked out sad tunes. The following morning, as soon as he
could clear the paperwork relating to the crates off his drawing table, he
would begin another job. Admiral Cunningham would get his speedboat that
could change shape in mid-ocean. After that … After that … After that, he
knew, there would be another job to do, a dozen more jobs to do, and
eventually all of them would get done, and he wasn’t sure any of them
would really make any difference.
    During his performing days he had become accustomed to the period of
melancholy that quite often followed hard on success, but he had believed
he put those blue times behind him when he packed up his wand. To his
dismay, he realized he hadn’t. The old, familiar symptoms had returned. His
stomach was churning, his shoulders felt terribly weighted, his eyes were
exhausted, and he felt all used up. The very appearance of these
symptoms, aside from the bothersome physical effects, was greatly
disturbing. There was no reason for this attack. He was doing the work he
had so wanted to do. He had achieved the celebrity that he admittedly
needed. The Gang was firmly established and busier than any unit of its
size in the entire Eighth Army. But something was causing this anxiety.
Something.
    “Perhaps you’re just lonely,” Knox suggested during their fine lunch.
“You’ve been away for some time now and …”
    Of course he was lonely. Everyone at war was lonely. He knew that. But
he had carried that ache for a long time and recognized it as a familiar
enemy. This was something different. “No,” he mused, “no …”
    The professor wondered if he had become bored by the lack of real
action.
    He was too busy to be bored, Jasper replied. Besides, each new request
presented a unique challenge. The work was vital. It had to be done.
“They’re depending on us,” he insisted, but the more he protested the more
he began to believe that Frank was right. The work no longer sparked him.
But why? he wondered.
    The answer came to him that night as he sat in the audience at a
touring ENSA Variety. Each of the performers was terribly sincere and
energetic, but the show itself was flat. It was failing, Jasper recognized, as
he attempted to stifle a yawn, because it had opened and progressed at
the same level, leaving the audience with nothing to anticipate.
    Anticipation, he had learned in his life backstage, was the secret
ingredient in every successful show. It was the elixir that brought the
audience into the theatre and kept its interest alive. As he had been told
by his grandfather, no one goes to the circus to see the lion tamer live.
    Knox was right, he was bored. Bored by the fact that all he had to look
forward to was doing variations of what he had already accomplished. He
had been stuffing corks into a leaking dam. The dummy men would confuse
the Germans. The Houdin would slow the Italians. The dummy tanks and
planes and trucks, the containers, the harbour, the spy devices – all of
them had practical use. But all of these separate pieces, put together,
added up to a lot of separate pieces. There was no theme to his
performance. His illusions were all good ones in their own right, but, as
every magician is taught, the great act builds to a grand finale. His
performance, he knew, had no finale.
    He knew it had to be something big, something that would make a
difference. Something bigger and better than anything ever performed on
the stage of war. The excitement created by this realization almost made
him leave his theatre seat and rush to his table to begin working, but a
young crooner was giving his best on stage and Maskelyne was much too
polite to disrupt his performance.
    Besides, Frank Knox was fast asleep in the next seat.
    On that same evening, while Jasper and Frank watched the show,
Michael Hill and Kathy Lewis registered at the Royal Arms on Sharia el
Gumhuriya as Private and Mrs Moore. They rode up the pulley-operated lift
to the third floor in absolute silence, neither risking a look at the other.
Their small room, overlooking Azbakiya Park, was tidy and clean. Besides
the brass-frame bed, which was covered with a bright flower-print spread, it
contained two high-backed wooden chairs and an imitation-Victorian
chiffonier. Two towels were neady folded on the bed. A framed print of the
Mosque of Mohammed Ali was hanging on one of the beige-papered walls.
The WC was at the near end of the hallway.
    Although it had been less than an hour since the muezzin’s final
summons to prayer had marked the sunset, and the evening was balmy,
Kathy was chilled. She went to the window to close the shutters.
    Hill tipped the porter who had followed them up carrying their empty
suitcase, then locked the door. “Well,” he said, turning to face her, “here
we are.”
    She stood at the window, her back to him. “Yes,” she agreed weakly.
    Michael went to her and grasped her arms, then gently kissed the back
of her neck.
    She broke away from him and went to the mirror. “Look at me,” she
wailed, starting to fuss with her hair. “I look a mess.”
    “You look fine.”
    “No, I don’t,” she insisted. “My hair looks awful and my makeup is
smeared and I … I …” She paused in midsentence, her hands fell to her
sides, and she gazed down at the floor. Then she said softly, “I imagine …
you’ve been with a lot of girls, haven’t you?”
    “Some,” he admitted.
    She looked at him over her shoulder with wide-open, innocent eyes. “I’m
very nervous, you know.”
    “Of course you are.” He started to move toward her.
    “No,” she said, stopping him with an open hand. “I mean, just give me a
bit, please.” She moved away from the mirror, closer to the bed, but caught
herself and abruptly turned again, finally sitting down on one of the
high-backed chairs. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap,
and found it absolutely impossible to look at him.
    “If you’d rather not,” he offered.
    “I didn’t say that,” she snapped. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s what you
wanted.” She stared at her black shoes. Never before had she realized what
large, ugly feet she had.
    Michael began protesting that he didn’t want to force her into anything,
that he respected her, that, in fact, he actually thought she had suggested
the hotel room.
    Kathy didn’t hear him. Her mind was running faster than a spring river.
Who was this man? Why had she agreed to come with him? Oh, what was
she going to do?
    He stood on the other side of the bed, afraid to go to her. He was
suddenly very aware of his hands. He didn’t know what to do with them, so
he clasped them behind his back, out of sight. “Listen to me, Kathy,” he
said.
    She closed her eyes. Say the right thing, Michael, she prayed, please say
the right thing.
    “I want you to know that I think you’re very, very special. To me, I
mean. I just … I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret …”
    She opened her eyes and glared at him. “Look here, Michael Hill. I’m not
a child and don’t you dare treat me like one. I know what I’m doing here.”
    “No, I didn’t mean anything,” he apologized. “I’m sorry, don’t get me
wrong. But I mean … what I mean is, you’re special to me, see. You’re the
most special girl I’ve ever known. Ever in my whole life. But I don’t know
what’s going to happen when this bloody war’s over, about me, about my
life, so if it’s marriage you’re thinking about–”
    “Marriage! Who said the first thing about marriage!” She was so angry
she had to grab the seat with both hands to keep herself in the chair. “I
never said a word about marriage. Not a word!”
    Hill had not the slightest idea what to do. “Well, I just thought. You
know, the kind of girl you are. And this …” He indicated the bed with his
hand. “You know, I just thought, that’s all.”
    Marriage? It was all so confusing. “Marry you?” she sneered. Then she
forced a laugh. “I wouldn’t marry you for all the tea in China.” Finally she
relaxed her grip and stood up. “In fact,” she continued, straightening her
skirt, “I don’t even know what I’m doing here with you. This is a mistake, a
horrible mistake.” Gathering up her purse and light jacket, she walked
around the bed, being careful not to actually touch it, and went to the door.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she announced stiffly, “but this – this isn’t right. I don’t
understand this at all.” Then she left, leaving the door open behind her.
    He followed her out of the room. Grasping the doorknob in his hand, he
took a final look at the unwrinkled flower-print spread. He was smirking.
Quite a lady, this one, he thought with some relief, quite a lady. Then he
shut the door.
    They rode down in the lift silently, neither daring to look at the other.
As they passed the front desk Michael laid down the key. “I think that’ll be
all,” he said devilishly, and winked.
    The concierge winked back. “I hope you enjoyed your stay, Mr and Mrs
Moore,” he said in broken English, but by the time he reached that surname
they were out the door.


                                  Thirteen
The Royal Navy urgently needed a bit of legerdemain that would enable
small, swift craft to operate safely in the enemy-controlled Mediterranean.
“These boats have got to be so well disguised they’ll be able to pass close
scrutiny from curious U-boat commanders,” explained Captain D. F. Gregory,
an experienced naval camouflage man injured on a night run near Cyprus
and sent to assist the Magic Gang while his leg recuperated, “and they’ve
got to be able to rapidly shed that disguise should a fight break out.”
These boats, Gregory continued, would be used primarily to transport
undercover agents and vital cargoes across the ocean, “plus whatever other
errands the office chaps might think up.”
    Maskelyne knew that this assignment was not the grand illusion that
would “make the difference,” but until that one presented itself, or until he
could create it, he would continue to do these little bits. This one was
tricky, though. Having suffered through the difficulties of the Houdin, he
realized from the outset that he could not rely on painted flats to disguise
the boats, not if he expected these boats to make speed. All modifications
would have to be made to the basic structure, and would have to be made
in such a way as not to slow the boat at all. After inspecting the various
types of craft available, Jasper and Gregory settled on the RAF’s
streamlined Miami rescue launch. This sleek, torpedo-shaped boat had a
low forward cabin topped by a communications mast, and a long, narrow
rear deck. Its overall length was approximately one hundred feet, much of it
open deck space.
    Photographs of the boat were taken from above by surveillance aircraft
and from all angles at sea level, sixty pictures in all, and tacked to the
walls of Maskelyne’s office. But even after thoroughly studying the
photographs Jasper couldn’t decide how he would disguise the boat. “What
do we want it to look like?” he asked Gregory.
    The tall, lean captain shrugged. “Anything but what it is, I suppose.”
    They began by listing the various craft that might sail the wartime
Mediterranean with impunity. Safest among these, they decided, would be a
millionaire’s yacht flying a neutral flag, preferably that of a rich sheikhdom,
and a filthy working caique. Jasper had Townsend do rough sketches of both
boats, using proportions similar to the RAF speedboat, and when they were
completed he laid those designs over the basic Miami hull.
    Gregory pinned the roughs to the wall, then stepped back alongside
Townsend, Jasper and Frank, critically examining them. “What do you think?
Which one?”
    Jasper bit down on the stem of his cold pipe and looked from one to the
other, back and forth. “Both,” he finally decided. “We can do both.” Picking
up a drawing pencil, he moved forward and began altering Townsend’s
sketches. “Some of the additions we’ve got to make can serve for both a
yacht and a scow. This funnel, for example,” he said, using his pipe to point
out a stubby funnel on the yacht’s rear deck. “We can easily convert that.
And if we add a second mast here …”
    Once Jasper started, everyone had an idea or two to add, and by the
time they had worn holes in the sketch paper with their erasures and
additions they were convinced this multiple conversion was theoretically
possible.
    “Well, that takes care of the easy part,” Captain Gregory said. “Now
we’ve got to concentrate on the real problem.”
    “What?” Townsend asked, as if he hadn’t heard the captain correctly. “I
thought the real problem was making the boat look like something else.”
    Gregory shook his head. “Look at this,” he said, tracing the smudged
line of the hull from stern to prow with his index finger. “Any salt worth his
stripes’ll recognize this silhouette straight away. Unless we can do
something to alter this shape, it really doesn’t matter what we do to the
superstructure. It would be like lying a flat board on top of a bull and trying
to pass it off as a table.”
    “We jolly well can’t reshape the hull,” Townsend snapped.
    Jasper studied the sketches. “And the thing has to make speed,” he
added thoughtfully, “so we can’t attach anything to it.”
    “The sea would tear it right off as soon as it got under way,” Gregory
agreed.
    Knox stared silently at the drawings, combing his memory for a naturally
occurring parallel to the problem. Many animals and insects have the ability
to change their exterior appearance. Gradually, he began to invest the craft
with animate characteristics, transforming it in his mind into a fleet animal
bounding over the waves in desperate flight from some unseen predator. He
began to see its sharp, gritted teeth and its ears cocked as it raced for
survival. Then he said cautiously, “I believe I may have a solution.”
    The three other men turned toward him in unison.
    He continued staring at the drawing as he spoke, still visualizing a
terrorized animal. “In nature,” he began, sounding as though he were
reciting by rote, “there are any number of dimorphic animals and insects,
meaning they are able to display two quite distinct forms. The peacock
butterfly, for example, Vanessa io, usually shows the remarkably beautiful
wings for which it is named. However, when this butterfly senses danger, it
is able to fold its wings so that it resembles an ordinary leaf, and thus
fools its enemies. Incidentally, there are also a number of trimorphic
animals, but I’m sure you gentlemen understand the principle.”
    Like respectful students, they murmured agreement.
    “Now,” he continued, lapsing into his droll professorial tone, “how do
these remarkable creatures accomplish this feat?” He did not wait for an
answer. “They do so by taking advantage of the visual limitations of their
natural enemies. They change their colours!
    “Watch me,” he commanded, picking out the red, yellow and green
crayons from Townsend’s sketch box and springing forward to the drawings
on the wall. “I’m sorry I don’t have my proper illustrations to show you all
of this, but it seems to me it would be possible to alter the lines of the hull
through adaptive colouring. Technically, it’s a variation of Thayer’s Principle.
I don’t suppose any of you can explain that to me?” He glanced over his
shoulder at the three silent figures, then chuckled to himself. “No, of course
you couldn’t.”
    Maskelyne glanced at Townsend, who shook his head in amazement at
the professor’s performance, and grinned.
    “Thayer states, basically, that graded tints of colour will make it very
difficult for the human eye to follow the borders of the lightest shades. So,
I should think if we paint the hull in gradually decreasing intensities of one
colour, its borders will be extremely difficult to discern. Something like this
might work very well, I should think,” he concluded, stepping back to
admire his handiwork. The centre section of the hull was a very dark green,
which gradually lightened and seemed to fade into a lime which, in turn,
washed into an even lighter yellow. The professor’s shading was very
uneven, but it illustrated his point: even from a few feet away it was
difficult to determine the yellow borders. “I imagine we can do much better
in shades of grey or blue, which’ll fade into the water, but I’m quite certain
we can make the hull appear to be just about any shape we want it to be.”
    “From a distance, you mean,” Captain Gregory corrected.
    “From a distance,” Knox agreed.
    Gregory was intrigued by the concept. He was quite familiar with the
normal use of colour for camouflage purposes, but this was something new
and exciting. He suggested Frank begin his experiments with omega grey,
the bluish grey colour of the Antarctic petrel, a seabird. “During the last
war,” he explained, “the American Navy tested every conceivable colour for
its value in camouflage. Their researchers found that the petrel became
virtually indistinguishable from the ocean when flying above it. By
duplicating the optical properties of the bird, they produced the colour
omega grey. They’ve used it since.”
    Knox was agreeable.
    “Hold on, now,” Townsend protested, “I’m not collectin’ any more camel
pats, and I don’t think any of the boys …”
    Gregory looked at the artist as if he were daft, until Jasper explained.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” the captain promised. “We’ve got thousands
of gallons of the stuff. Times have changed, you know. We’re here to stay.”
    Townsend remained dubious.
    By the end of the week Graham had carved a wooden model of the
speed launch, without modifications, and Knox had begun testing various
shade patterns on it. Although it soon became apparent he was making
progress, the job was a difficult one, and, periodically, the model had to be
sanded clean so he could make a new start.
    Maskelyne worked with Gregory on the superstructure modifications.
Many small changes added up to major alterations. An ordinary life
preserver affixed to the side of the cabin, for example, could be hung on its
bright side to look like the clean, crisp gear normally found on an expensive
yacht, but in seconds it could be flipped over onto its dirty, decaying side
and look as though it had been hanging there in all weather for many years.
A rear mast was raised, and from it the yacht would fly bright signal
pennants and the caique would hang seamen’s dirty laundry. Even the
ship’s nameboard would be convertible.
    With work on the boat progressing satisfactorily and the rest of the
Gang occupied on various other projects, Jasper told Brigadier Clarke he
could resume the field-lecture series. Clarke’s office had scheduled his first
performance for Thursday, April 16.
    But on the morning of the fifteenth Barkas phoned up at the Valley to
change those plans. He wanted Maskelyne to attend a Gray Pillars
conference the following afternoon. “It’s a strategic-planning seminar and I
think it would be very valuable for you to sit in.”
    Jasper told him that he was scheduled to fly to one of Auchinleck’s
Gazala Line strongholds at 1130 hours.
    “Well, never mind that,” the colonel decided. “I’ll clear it with Clarke’s
people. We’ll stall it till next week, that’s all.”
    Although Jasper’s initial reaction was to agree to this, the many years
he had spent making sure the show went on as scheduled made him
reluctant to do so. “I’ve got a better idea. Frank Knox can handle the
lecture well enough. He’s done the show with me plenty of times and does
a fine job.”
    Barkas had no objection. “The chaps’ll be disappointed, of course.
They’re expecting to see Hitler’s favourite magician.”
    “Frank’ll win them over quick enough.”
    Professor Knox thought it was a splendid idea, and immediately began
worrying about his performance. “I’ll need to brush up on the sleights,” he
said professionally.
    “Right,” Jasper said.
    “And you’ll have to review the patter with me.”
    “Right.”
    “And then I’ve got to go through the rings too,” Frank continued, his
confidence draining just as rapidly as it had swelled.
    “That’s right.”
    Frank sighed, then suggested, “Perhaps I’d better have a run-through.”
    So, that night, the Magic Gang and a few select guests squeezed into
the dayroom to tip a few and cheer Knox through his paces. “Now,
remember,” Jasper cautioned as Frank got ready behind the white-sheet
curtain hung for the show, “this is just a rehearsal. There’ll be no heckling
from the audience.”
    “Don’t worry, folks,” Knox shouted happily from behind the sheet, “you’ll
all get your money’s worth tonight.” Everyone hooted.
    Jasper waited until they quieted down, then announced, “I am pleased
to present, for one performance only, the one, the only,
never-seen-before-on-this-or-any-other-stage Professor Knox-O the
Magnificent!”
    Frank stepped out from behind the sheet to a smattering of applause,
an ill-fitting black cape draped around his shoulders. “This lecture is for all
of you,” he said sternly, a tremble of nervousness evident in his voice. “It
is important to remember all the things you’ll see and hear this evening,
because someday very soon this information might come in handy.”
Stepping in front of Nails Graham, he asked in an appropriate stage
thunder, “And what is your name, soldier?”
    “Fish, sir,” Graham replied, “Private Cod Fish.”
    Knox persevered. Spreading six playing cards in a fan, he asked, “I
wonder if you would assist me by distributing these six playing cards at
random.” As Graham passed them out, Knox asked each recipient to write
his or her name on the face of the card. “Don’t be shy, ask for spelling help
if you need it.”
    When everyone had finished, Nails collected the cards and handed them
to Knox, who stepped back behind a production table and laid down the six
cards in full view of the audience. “The main thing you want to avoid,” he
began again, “is being put in the bag.” As he said this, he held up a canvas
rucksack and turned it inside out to show that it was empty. Then he laid it
down on the table next to the cards.
    Jasper leaned against the rear wall, enjoying his pipe, basking in Frank’s
glow.
    “… But suppose you and your mates are out on the Blue and you get
separated. The first thing you must try to do is find some sort of cover. It
can be anywhere,” Knox explained, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling
out a signed card, “behind a dune or an outcropping, in a dry wadi,” he
continued, meanwhile removing cards from both pockets of his shorts and
his sock, “and you must never forget that destroyed vehicles can provide
excellent hiding spots.” Finally, he went to Kathy Lewis and appeared to
pull the card she had signed from behind her left ear.
    The group applauded warmly even though they had seen Jasper do this
same trick numerous times.
    “Unfortunately,” Frank pointed out as he returned to his spot behind the
production table, “some of you may get taken by Rommel …” working
smoothly, he reached into the rucksack, “and put in the bag …” and
withdrew the sixth signed playing card, this one with a shameful word Hill
had written on it. Again the audience cheered, Maskelyne loudest of all.
    The professor dropped the card back into the sack. “So, you’re in the
bag. What is your first objective?” He paused to allow the tension to build.
It did not. “Escape,” he whispered, as if it had. “Escape,” he repeated a bit
more loudly. “It should be your first thought in the morning and your last
thought at night. Get out of the bag. Get back to your fellows.”
    In a high-pitched, womanly voice, Robson asked mockingly, “Could that
be possible?”
    Frank ignored him. “It can be done, and hundreds of your mates have
already done it. All it takes is a little ingenuity.” With that, he turned the
bag inside out again. The card had disappeared. Laying the bag on the
table again, he pattered on about the soldier’s oath, reminding them that it
committed each of them to try to escape if captured and, if that was not
possible, to aid his fellow soldiers in their efforts. Then he picked up the
sack again. “Sometimes, you have to put aside your own plans for those of
your mates,” he said, dipping into the bag and pulling out four aces.
    “Blimey–” Hill swooned in jest “–the man’s a regular Maskelyne.”
    Kathy elbowed him in the ribs and shut him up with a severe look.
    And Knox continued.
    Jasper revelled in the show. Frank was in his greatest glory, hard at
work pleasing other people; his face was beaming, his voice strong, his
movements sure. Here was Dr Watson finally getting the chance to solve
his own mysteries, and having a grand time at it. Jasper noted dozens of
mistakes in the performance, but these were errors so small that only a
practised eye would catch them, certainly not a desert audience, and he
knew he wouldn’t risk embarrassing Knox by mentioning them.
    “… you’ve escaped and you’re trying to locate the nearest friendly
forces,” the professor continued.
    The transformation in Frank Knox was the real magic in this act,
Maskelyne realized, and savoured it.
    The following morning Knox-O the Magnificent arrived at Heliopolis
Airport at 1100 hours, and his Dakota lifted off within minutes. Its
destination, he knew, was one of the six front-line strongholds, or “boxes,”
into which Eighth Army had gathered its forces. Besides the professor, the
passengers included five enlisted men returning from leave, an American
lieutenant, two young female nurses, two replacement officers and an RAF
pilot with a cast on his ankle. The plane also carried a hold of supplies.
    Once it was safely airborne, Knox closed his eyes and fell into a light
sleep.
    Jasper, meanwhile, reported to Gray Pillars at 0800, but the strategic
conference did not begin for another two hours. General Auchinleck chaired
the meeting. Over fifty officers of all ranks assembled in a ballroom in
which tiered benches had been built to allow full view for everyone. Jasper
was seated in a rear section.
    “You have been invited here to begin preparations for the greatest
offensive in the history of armoured warfare,” the Auk announced to the
absolutely still room. Pointing with his baton to a large situation map
mounted on the ballroom wall, he promised, “This time we are going to
drive the enemy out of the desert. We will have him outmanned and
outgunned, our men will be better supplied than ever before. We will be
physically ready and mentally ready …”
    The meeting lasted most of the day. It involved a full explanation of the
current stalemate at El Gazala, including a breakdown of supplies on hand
and supplies expected. Maskelyne had never before been privy to such vital
information, and he listened intently as the General, and then his aides,
outlined what sounded like a nearly perfect plan.
    Eighth Army had remained in position along the Gazala Line, the
sixty-mile-long chain of strongholds and minefields stretching south from
the Mediterranean through the heart of the desert. The way one general
after another described these positions, there seemed to be no way
Rommel’s Afrika Korps could smash through them to the Nile. But as Jasper
listened to them speak with such confidence he could not help thinking of
the French Maginot Line. It too had been declared impregnable. And
nothing, he had learned from that debacle, was so precarious as a general’s
certainty.
    While Maskelyne was listening to the parade of officers, Knox was
starring in his desert show. The silver Linking Rings sparkled in the
afternoon sun as he held them high for inspection. “Sometimes it will seem
as though escape is impossible …” he shouted so everyone sitting in the
semicircle around him could hear, then invited one of the most popular
officers to come forward and be his foil.
    Frank’s lecture at the El Adem box was well received, and he enjoyed a
staff lunch before boarding the plane for the return trip. Although he would
never admit it to Maskelyne, he thoroughly enjoyed his moment of
celebrity. Travelling with him back to Cairo was a sergeant who had broken
his hip in a football tumble, and three other men on emergency leave. One
of these men suggested cards as the trip began, but Knox decided to read
instead.
    Minutes into the flight the pilots received reports of a major sandstorm
brewing in the Sidi Rezegh area, and turned north, toward Tobruk, to avoid
it. Unknown to them, German Messerschmitts had recently begun operating
in that area.
    The conference at Gray Pillars was concluded with the announcement
that each officer in attendance would be expected to submit written
comments and suggestions “ASAP,” as soon as possible, but no later than
May 1. “Here’s a chance to use the old noodle,” the lecturing staff officer
reminded them. “We’re looking for innovative ideas, even daring, I might
say, but strictly within reasonable bounds.”
    They want the same old stuff, Jasper thought as he collected his notes.
That meant dummy tanks and guns, “Chinese” men and sunshields from his
section.
    “The PM’s put the cooker on,” the staff officer continued. “He wants
everything day before yesterday, so we’d appreciate it if you’d jump to it.”
    An Ops major invited Jasper to join a group heading to Shepheards for
’downers, but Maskelyne wanted to put in some time on the speedboat
project, so he headed back to Magic Valley.
    Frank Knox was laughing his way through the misadventures of Evelyn
Waugh’s mythical Fleet Street correspondent, William Boot, in Scoop, when
the German fighters pounced. They came directly out of the sun, and the
Dakota pilots did not even realize they were under attack until the first
machine-gun bullets ripped into the starboard wing. The co-pilot
immediately ordered everyone in the cabin to lie on the floor.
    Knox lay down flat, his arm draped over the injured soldier. There was
some yelling at first, and some praying, but then everyone was silent. The
pilot took evasive action, wrenching his plane straight up, grasping for
altitude, then nosing it into a hard dive. The co-pilot radioed for assistance.
    One of the Messerschmitts caught the Dakota in its dive and fired a
fusillade into its undercarriage, then began swinging around for a third
pass. But as he did, he spotted two RAF Spits at high altitude and
immediately broke off the attack. The two German raiders fled into the
desert at low level.
    The Dakota pilot quickly assessed the damage. Some rounds had
smashed into the cabin without causing injury. One of the fuel lines had
been punctured, and was trailing gasoline, but there was enough reserve in
the other engine to make Cairo. The most serious problem seemed to be
the shot-up undercarriage. The landing gear would not lower automatically
and there was some doubt it could be manually cranked into position. If the
wheels wouldn’t go down the pilot knew he’d have to pancake in, an
unpleasant situation considering that gasoline had been sprayed over the
fuselage. “Any chutes aboard?” he asked the co-pilot.
    The co-pilot chuckled bitterly at the question.
    The pilot frowned. “Didn’t think so, actually.” He decided to go for Cairo.
Heliopolis had the best emergency landing equipment of any airport within
range. The long flight would give him time to fool with the gear, perhaps
even rig something, and it would exhaust most of the volatile aviation fuel.
He knew he could land the plane; he was just scared to death it would blow
up on him during the attempt.
    Jasper had barely settled down to work on the speedboat when Jack
Fuller came roaring hellbent into the Valley. He slammed the jeep to a
spinning halt in front of Maskelyne’s office and was inside even before its
motor sputtered silent. “Come on, Jay,” he blurted, taking big gulps of
breath. “I was just in town. Some M-Es attacked Frank’s plane on the way
back.”
    Jasper froze. “No.”
    “He’s all right, everybody’s okay, but their landing gear got shot up and
they can’t get the buggers down. They’re coming in flat.”
    Mike Hill and Bill Robson had seen Fuller dash up and were wandering
over to investigate. They quickly hopped into the back of the jeep.
    “Hold on,” Fuller warned and banged down on the accelerator. He raced
through Cairo, ignoring traffic signals and Egyptian policemen. He drove
hunched over the steering wheel, his eyes fastened on the road, dodging
other vehicles like a racing driver. “Don’t worry,” he yelled, “we’ll get there
before they will.”
    Jasper sat in the front bucket seat staring straight ahead.
    Aboard the Dakota, Knox and one of the other men held the copilot’s
feet as he dangled in the cabin crawl space and tried to manually lower the
landing gear. “The struts are so mangled nothing works,” he reported when
he was pulled back in.
    The pilot remained composed. “So we’ll belly in, that’s all. Get everyone
as far away from the wings as possible. And make sure they get out of here
one-two when we stop moving.”
    Frank took a seat next to the boy with the broken hip. The lad was
sweating and shivering. “You think this is it?” he asked fearfully.
    Frank smiled and shook his head. “Hardly. Actually, I’ve been in a few
tougher scrapes myself.” Then, modestly, he regaled his fellow passengers
with the story of “his” narrow escape from the dazzle-beacon. “I thought for
sure I was a goner that time. This? This,” he said, dismissing the danger
with a casual wave of his hand, “this is nothing.”
    The Dakota was on its final approach even before he had finished his
tale.
    Jasper and his men stood on the apron searching the late-afternoon sky
for the Dakota. Fire trucks had watered down the runway and were in
position to race alongside the plane when it hit, spraying a carpet of water
in an effort to prevent sparks from igniting the gasoline. “Nothing to worry
about,” Hill said aloud. “Piece of cake, piece of cake.”
    All air traffic around Heliopolis was locked into holding patterns. Fuller
spotted the Dakota through his binoculars. “I got ’em!” he shouted,
pointing into the overcast sky. “There they are.” The word quickly spread
over the airfield, and everyone stopped work to watch the dramatic landing.
Fire sirens began screeching.
    Inside the plane, Frank told the injured soldier calmly, “Soon as we stop
moving, I’m going to pick you up. I want you to hold tightly on to me. Got
it?”
    The boy nodded.
    “Good,” Knox said, and patted him fondly on the leg. “Now, don’t worry,
we’ll be down safe in just a few minutes.” For the first time, he realized his
mouth was as parched as the summer desert.
    Jasper’s shoulders felt as if they were supporting the plane. He prayed.
    “Here’s at it!” the Dakota pilot screamed as he shut down the remaining
engine. The plane glided in as gracefully as a gull on the wind, its speed
well below one hundred knots when it touched the runway and began
skidding. Knox heard the plane screech in agony as the concrete runway
tore open its belly. He pressed his palms against his ears as hard as he
could, but he could still hear the wounded soldier’s screams.
    The Dakota careened down the runway throwing sparks as if it were a
giant Roman candle. The pilot had the flaps down, desperately trying to
stop the beast.
    In a horrified, incredulous whisper, Robson said, “She’s going to blow.”
    Flames were shooting out of the starboard engine long before the plane
finally came to a halt, and they rapidly enveloped the entire fuselage. The
firemen made a heroic effort to get close to the plane, but the intense heat
drove them back.
    “Oh, good God, no!” Jasper screamed. “No, please no!” Then he
stumbled forward three, four, five steps, and finally started running toward
the burning plane.
    “Jay! No!” Hill yelled, and took off after him.
    The two pilots managed to scramble out of the cockpit windows and
dropped safely to the ground. Inside the cabin, Frank was struggling with
the injured soldier. One of the men managed to get the rear door open. He
turned around to call to the other men.
    The plane exploded. The soldier in the doorway was spat out as if he
were a bothersome pit. He was hurled about twenty yards, a living ball of
fire, and smashed into the runway.
    Hill dived at Maskelyne’s legs, bringing him down with a flying tackle.
Jasper fought to break free, kicking his legs, screaming, “Do something!
Help them, for God’s sake …”
    “It’s too late,” Michael sobbed. “It’s too late, Jay, it’s too late.”
    The plane became a metal sun, illuminating the dark afternoon and
warming the skin of men standing as far as a thousand yards from it.
    The fire fighters could do nothing. Slowly, the Dakota’s skin was peeled
back. For a few horrid seconds it was possible to see two shadows moving
grotesquely in the flames, moving as slowly as if they were swimming in a
blazing yellow ocean. Soon, mercifully, they fell.
    “Frank!” Jasper shrieked; a single bloodcurdling cry that would haunt the
nights of everyone who heard it.
    But it was to no avail – Frank Knox was dead.
    Jasper stayed at the airport most of the night, leaving only after the
remains of the passengers had been removed from the charred hulk.
Somehow, he managed to get through the next few days. It was a dreadful
time. He felt as if God had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart.
Just rising in the morning sapped all his strength. He was always tired, no
matter how long he slept, and always cold, even in the warmest hours of
the day. He barely ate, but was never hungry. He was numb, and the world
he saw through his insensible eyes was devoid of bright colours and hope
and laughter and excitement and, too, of physical pain and fear; whatever
happened simply happened. It was the galaxy of indifference. Life
continued.
    He managed to drag himself through each day’s required motions, but
had no desires except to lose himself in long and warm sleep.
    It wasn’t possible, he told himself, Frank Knox simply could not be dead.
Soon, he’d come walking through the office door, maybe stumbling once, as
he often did …
    The Gang, friends, all offered comfort, but he rejected their efforts and
abhorred their pity, because he knew the truth: he was supposed to have
been on that plane. It was his seat, his job. Knox had died in his stead. He
felt certain that if he had been aboard the Dakota it wouldn’t have
happened. There would have been no attack, no crash, no fire; he would
have prevented it. Somehow, he would have prevented it.
    He vaguely remembered speaking at the crowded memorial service, but
could never recall exactly what he said.
    After the service he had spent a full day trying to write the terrible letter
to Frank’s daughters. There was so much he wanted to explain, but the
thoughts he put down were wrong, or confused, or inadequate. Finally he
wrote, “Your father was my best friend. He was a good man and a brave
man. He died as he had lived, trying to help someone. I will miss him
greatly. I loved him very much.”
    He wrote a longer letter to Mary pouring out his feelings. In this letter
he told her that he should have been on that plane.
    He tried to bury his grief under a mammoth work load, but found it
impossible to concentrate for any length of time. Memories of Frank Knox
would strike him, and he would suddenly be back in Farnham heaving water
balloons, or aboard the Sumaria playing a lively duet, or trailing a camel
caravan, or orchestrating the ploy at Maryût Bay … He often thought he
heard Frank’s familiar laugh and turned around fully expecting to see him
standing there with his shirt bulging from his trousers or, stranger, felt his
presence in a room. Always, with the realization that his mind was playing
dreary tricks, came renewed sadness.
    Worse than the pangs of loss and loneliness was his overwhelming
feeling of inadequacy. He desperately wanted to find some way to give
meaning to Frank’s death, but as much as he tried he was unable to think
of a single thing that would serve some purpose.
    Night after night he relived the crash at Heliopolis, trying to determine if
anything could have been done that might have made a difference. His life
became a barrel of ifs. If he had delayed the trip to the desert. If the
Dakota had flown earlier or later. If there had been no sandstorm. If the
German machine-gun bullets had been inches off line. If, if, if. If there had
been no fire … The more thought he gave to the tragedy, the more
frustrated he became. If there had been no fire … they would have survived.
It was the fire after the crash that had killed them, just as similar fires had
killed so many other men in crashes.
    Fire. Fire, the devil’s breath. Oh, how he hated and feared it. Even
during his early years in the Egyptian Theatre he would sweat and his head
would ache when a performer worked with fire. It had been excruciating for
him to watch from the wings when his grandfather did the Vanishing Moth,
an illusion in which a beautiful female assistant vanished in a burst of
flame.
    Frank Knox had survived the crash landing. He had died in the fire.
    It was this irrefutable fact that set him to work on a substance that
could have made a difference at Heliopolis, a fire-resistant cream. This
“magic” substance would be the most fitting memorial to Frank Knox; it
would save lives.
    He knew he could produce it. His father had supplied such a cream, or
paste, to the Admiralty back in 1916 to protect ships’ gunners of the Grand
Fleet from searing flashbacks. This time, he believed, it could be used in
aircraft to give crew and passengers a vital few minutes’ protection from
fire. Too often, those few minutes were the difference between life and
death.
    He told no one about this paste and asked for no help. He rushed
through his routine work in the mornings, then went to work by himself in
the afternoons. The Gang tried hard to bring him out of his depression, but
did not succeed. Within a few days he had mixed up the first batch of the
paste.
    Nails Graham strolled into Maskelyne’s office with some routine
paperwork just as Jasper was lowering his right hand into a sizzling
wastebasket fire. It took Graham’s senses a moment to register, then –
exclaiming “Jesus!” – he dropped his papers and raced across the room. He
grabbed Maskelyne’s hand and forcibly pulled it out of the flames, almost
knocking Jasper over, and singeing his own hand in the process. “What the
hell’s the matter with you?” he screamed as he picked up the hot basket in
his bare hands and hustled outside with it. “Are you nuts? Are you crazy?”
    Jasper examined his hand.
    Quickly dousing the fire with a few scoops of sand, Graham marched
back inside to confront Maskelyne. “Goddammit, Jay, I’ve had it. We’ve all
had it. I don’t know what the hell to do. We all miss Frank, but you just sit
in this office …”
    Maskelyne began peeling a hard white crust off his hand.
    “Look,” Nails pleaded in a milder tone, “Jay, please listen to me. There’s
nothing we can do about it. He’s dead. Frank’s dead. Don’t you understand
that? People get killed in wars. I know it hurts–” He paused, suddenly
aware of Maskelyne’s actions. “What’re you doing?”
    Jasper held his hand out to Graham. Bits of white paste still clung to it,
and his skin was abnormally pink, but otherwise it was fine.
    “I don’t understand. How …”
    Jasper took a deep breath and told him about the fire-resistant paste.
    “And it works?” Graham asked when he had finished.
    “You just saw me put my hand in a fire. It works,” Jasper said. Although
the first test was finished, he was still sweating and his head was
pounding. It had been a difficult moment for him, and he had made a
number of false starts before being able to put his hand into the flames. He
found the necessary courage to do so in the memory of two shadowy
figures falling inside the burning fuselage.
    Graham examined Maskelyne’s hand. It was unscathed. “It’s amazing.
Bloody damn amazing. I got burned just picking up that basket.”
    “It’s science, that’s all,” Jasper said as he searched the first-aid box for
some burn ointment for Graham’s hand. His intention, he explained, was to
test the cream by covering his entire body with it, then walk into a large
fire. After he had proved it worked, he would offer it to the services.
    When Graham told the rest of the Gang about this plan, they
desperately tried to talk him out of it. “We won’t permit it. It’s too bloody
dangerous,” Hill argued. “You’re much too valuable, with all your big ideas
and everything.”
    “Just look at you,” Bill Robson chided, “always looking to be in the
spotlight.”
    Jasper refused to pay attention to their protests. This was a small
repayment for the debt he owed Frank Knox. He would make it and he
would test it. By himself. If he failed, he would be the only one to suffer.
No one else would die in his place.
    The paste itself was similar to that used by carnival fire-eaters. It was a
mix of ordinary carbolic soap, asbestos powder or common whitening,
water, and a few minor but absolutely essential ingredients. The result was
a thick white paste that crusted under intense heat, thus providing
complete protection from fire until it vapourized, usually after three or four
minutes.
    Barkas was flabbergasted when informed that Maskelyne intended to
walk into a raging fire in street clothes. “That bloody idiot!” he roared, and
raced to Magic Valley. “The answer is no,” he snapped at the surprised
magician after storming into his office. “Absolutely not. You do not have
permission to experiment with any so-called magic paste.”
    Jasper tried to defend himself.
    Barkas raged on. “No matter what you might think, no one can walk into
a fire without an asbestos suit and survive. I’m astonished that a man with
your background could possibly believe, even for an instant–”
    “Do you want to save lives?” Jasper asked calmly.
    “Save lives, yes, not waste them on grandstanding tricks.”
    “My paste’ll save lives,” Maskelyne insisted. “It would have saved Frank
and all the rest of them.”
    Barkas finally sat down and tried to discuss the situation rationally.
“Jay, I know how you feel about Frank. He was a fine man and it’s a great
tragedy. But we can’t afford to risk you. You were there at Gray Pillars, you
know what’s shaping up. This is no time to be playing games.”
    “This isn’t a game,” Jasper replied in a controlled voice, “and there’s no
risk. You’ve seen the locals walking on burning coals and licking red-hot
pokers, haven’t you? Don’t tell me you believe in magic, Major?”
    “One thing has nothing to–”
    “Oh, of course it does. Variations of this paste have been used by
performers for hundreds of years. I’m just putting it to a new purpose,
that’s all.”
    “I’m sorry, Jay,” Barkas said firmly, “I just can’t permit it.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, too,” Jasper retorted, “but I’m going to test it with or
without your permission. Don’t you understand? This will save lives.”
    Barkas went to the dayroom and appealed to the Gang for support.
“Isn’t there anyone who could talk him out of it?”
    “Sure,” Mike Hill said smartly, “Frank Knox.”
    Up against it, Barkas finally agreed to schedule a demonstration for the
combined forces, but only on the condition that Maskelyne allow a
fire-safety officer wearing an asbestos suit to accompany him into the
inferno. “If you refuse,” he threatened, “you can spend the remainder of
your brief time in Cairo playing with fire, but no one will witness your little
demonstration.” Reluctantly, Jasper agreed to this demand.
    He worked on the paste for a week, trying to prolong its effectiveness by
adding and subtracting different elements. He tested each mix by dipping
his hand into a bucket of it, then holding his encrusted hand directly above
a wastepaper fire.
    His great fear of fire was with him always. His nerves got so sensitive
he flinched when someone unexpectedly struck a match, but he kept at it.
He knew he had no choice. This paste would save lives, he was sure of
that. He had to test it.
    Barkas had difficulty convincing the brass that this was not simply
another exhibition of Maskelyne magic. No one seriously believed Jasper
was going to walk into a real fire. It’s a trick, they scoffed. But the major,
like a carnival pitchman, raised their curiosity by striking a match and
holding it up to his cream-protected wrist in front of their very eyes.
    A few of them figured the match had to be a prop and burned their
fingertips proving it was not.
    The demonstration of Maskelyne’s fire-resistant paste was scheduled for
April 30 at Heliopolis, but Jasper planned to test it before that within the
privacy of Magic Valley.
    This rehearsal, as he called it, was to take place in a secluded corner of
the compound. Those few people in attendance were asked to keep the
nature of the test secret. “If word gets around that someone is walking in
fires without being burned,” Jasper explained, “we’ll have every religious
fanatic in North Africa banging on the front gate.”
    The night before the test he had to take pills to sleep, the first time he
had ever done so. Still, he tossed restlessly throughout the night and
awoke feeling groggy and slightly disoriented.
    The morning was bright and warm. “Perfect day for a short stroll in an
inferno,” Fuller said sarcastically during the drive to the site. Jasper dressed
in a pair of bathing trunks, a suit of hooded coveralls Kathy Lewis had
tailored from unserviceable army blankets, welder’s goggles to protect his
eyes from the brightness of the flames, a homemade mask, gloves and
boots. Gauze filters would enable him to inhale without searing his throat.
    Six wooden crates, each about five feet tall, had been arranged in a
circle. All of them were filled with wood chips and rags and doused with
gasoline. At Maskelyne’s signal, Hill would ignite them and they would
become a true ring of fire.
    Jasper avoided looking at these crates as he prepared. He tried to think
of anything except the fire, but of course could think of nothing else. Never
in his life had he been more determined; yet never had he been more
frightened.
    A large washtub was filled with the paste, and Jasper sat down and
bathed in it. The boys swabbed the coveralls, mask and boots with brushes,
being careful to cover every inch of his body with a thick coating of white
lotion. When he finally stood up, he looked much more like the legendary
Abominable Snowman than an officer of His Majesty’s Service.
    The Gang crowded around him like a boxing team giving their fighter
last-minute instructions before the big match. Hill slapped another dash of
paste on Jasper’s shin and patted it down. Robson cautioned him to get out
quick if he felt the slightest pinch of fire. Maskelyne barely heard them; his
eyes, his mind were now riveted on his opponent, the six boxes standing in
the centre of the vacant field, looking somewhat like a
children’s-play-ground Stonehenge. Abruptly, he pulled loose from the Gang
and started walking toward them, walking into his own special hell.
    About fifteen feet from the ring he paused, adjusted his goggles,
reached under his mask and scratched his nose, took a steadying breath,
and dropped his right hand.
    Hill lit his torch, some rags soaked in gasoline and wrapped around a
long stick, and approached the ring. Like a man handing a sweet to a
gorilla, he reached out as far as he could extend his arm and laid the torch
next to one of the boxes. Then he turned around, put his head down and
ran.
    With a tremendous, air-sucking whoosh! the first crate exploded into
flames. Then, in quick succession, like matchsticks in a single box, the
other five burst into blazing life. Black smoke poured out of the ring, and
the heat was so intense the spectators had to back off.
    Jasper was staggered by the first gust of fiery wind, but held his
position. Then resolutely, he began walking into the circle.
    “Cripes almighty,” Fuller murmured reverently as Maskelyne disappeared
into the fire.
    He stood in the centre of the blaze. Flames washed his body, furiously
searching his protection for the slightest chink. Again and again and again
the fire attacked him, raging at its failure to devour him. The fire roared
fearfully, roared louder than anything Maskelyne had ever heard. He turned
slowly round and round. Burning pieces of the crates floated away.
    He was tranquil. His fear had been left in some distant world. Now,
here, at the absolute heart of his terror, he was at peace. He closed his
eyes and imagined he was lying on a summer beach in Jersey. The sun was
August hot on his face, and he knew he would turn bright red in the
evening. Calmly, he counted seconds,’… ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety …
    “… one hunnred nineteen, one hunnred twenty …” At the two-minute
mark Robson looked up from his wristwatch. The fire was beginning to die
down, but Maskelyne was not visible. Besides, the cartoonist knew that
time really didn’t matter. Even if Jasper needed help, there was nothing
that could be done to help him.
    Jasper had become attuned to the fire and was acutely aware when it
lost its spirit. Its rage dissipated. Its thunder was reduced to the rush of
bedsheets snapping in a strong wind. He was having some minor difficulties
breathing, and was very warm, but was otherwise fine. After he had
counted off three minutes he walked briskly out of the fire.
    “Son of a bee,” Fuller said admiringly. The others started shouting with
joy and ran toward Maskelyne. “Don’t touch him till he cools down,” Union
Jack yelled, but no one heard him.
    Once he had cooled, and then been hosed off, the Gang practically
carried him back to the dayroom on their shoulders.
    Barkas was not informed that the paste had been tested and so was
understandably nervous and unhappy as representatives of the different
branches arrived at Heliopolis Airport the morning of April 30. The major
had made a halfhearted effort to convince Maskelyne to abandon the test,
but he knew even before he began it that Jasper would not listen to reason.
    The night before had been extremely difficult for Jasper. He sat alone in
his room strumming on his ukulele until almost eleven o’clock. He was
tired, but the moment he closed his eyes he was back in the fire and this
time it was biting at him and dragging him down, as if he were trapped in
quicksand wearing cement boots. In this nightmare he could not escape.
The successful test had done nothing to quell his lifelong fear; instead, the
experience enabled his mind to make it more realistic and terrifying.
    Just before midnight he took a leisurely stroll around the Valley. A
million stars sheltered him. Some night creatures were singing pleasantly.
Guards marched the perimeter. He walked for a long time, his hands stuffed
into the back of his shorts, nodding to the occasional passerby, thinking
mostly about the coming morning. He had no particular destination, but
found himself standing outside Frank Knox’s office-workroom for the first
time since the crash. It seemed right that he should go in.
    He snapped on the light and stood holding the door. The room was
exactly as it had been the day the professor left it. His half-empty tea mug
sat on a file cabinet, papers and pencils were strewn on his desk, the
partially painted wooden speedboat model was on his work table, and next
to it was a textbook opened to a full-colour drawing of a bird. Jasper stared
into the room for a while, then snapped off the light and turned away,
letting the door slam behind him.
    He thought about Frank Knox as he bathed in the paste at Heliopolis
Airport the following morning.
    Rather than using crates in this demonstration, Maskelyne had ordered
an entire wing and part of the fuselage of a wrecked bomber hauled to an
isolated section of the airport. The wing was propped up on heavy timber
supports, and its hastily plugged fuel tank was filled with aviation petrol.
Piles of flammable material, including straw and broken packing cases
soaked in sump oil, were scattered beneath the wing. A detonator, its fuse
stretching fully fifty yards to a protected observation post, was set in the
centre of the debris.
    The RAF rescue man jeeped in shortly after 0900, already zippered into
one of the precious few asbestos suits in North Africa. Holding his helmet
in his gloved hands, he lumbered out of the jeep and waddled over to
Jasper. “Dick von Glehn,” he announced. “Understand we’re to take a little
walk together.”
    Jasper looked up from the washtub. For this demonstration he was
wearing a standard RAF flight suit as well as his homemade mask, goggles,
boots and gloves. “Shouldn’t last too long,” he replied. “It’ll be a mite
warm, though.”
    Von Glehn tapped his helmet. “That’s why I brought my friend here.
Now, is there anything I should know about? I mean, about this paste here,
anything I should watch out for?”
    Jasper shook his head. “No, nothing. Three minutes, in and out, that’s
all. Just follow me.”
    The rescue man paused, then grinned. “You’re really gonna do this,
aren’t you?”
    Jasper looked at him evenly. “It’s necessary.”
    “Okay, then, I’ll be right on your heels. Good luck.”
    At 0930, Jasper put the gauze filters into his mouth and walked toward
the wreckage. As before, his head ached and he was nauseous. His legs
were wobbly. For a moment he thought he might heave, but did not.
Twenty feet from the wing he turned around to check von Glehn, now an
unrecognizable creature in his protective suit. Von Glehn signalled thumbs
up.
    Just behind the observation stands an ambulance and fire truck
surreptitiously rolled into place.
    Seconds later the peaceful morning was ripped apart by an explosion,
and the wreckage was turned into a blast furnace. Jasper squared his
shoulders against the powerful gust and, as if tramping in a blizzard,
trudged into the fire.
    Once inside the flames, he turned and found von Glehn only a few feet
behind. The rescue man looked at him and gave him the high sign.
    The top brass watching this display were speechless. A man had actually
walked into an inferno without the protection of an asbestos suit. The first
blast of wind had knocked off a few braided caps and they had skittered
across the field, pursued by hapless aides, but not a single ranking officer
took his eyes off the incredible sight fifty yards in front of the post.
    Jasper caught von Glehn’s attention and held up his index finger. One
minute had passed.
    The flames tore at the wreckage. Chunks of fuselage and wing dropped
onto the concrete, gradually curling up like dying spiders drawing in their
legs. With a whoop! a large section fell out of the centre of the wing,
exposing a slice of blue sky for an instant before smoke and flames filled
the hole. Instinctively, Maskelyne the performer moved over and stuck his
head through the burning wing.
    “Show-off,” Hill muttered.
    After a few seconds he stepped away. Other sections of the wing were
dropping and he didn’t want to be crowned by the debris. The paste could
withstand heat, but it could not protect him from a chunk of falling metal.
Looking over at von Glehn, he held up two fingers. Two minutes gone.
    Robson snapped photographs. The ambulance and fire-truck attendant
had moved away from their vehicles to see better.
    The soles of Jasper’s feet were getting hotter and hotter, as if he were
standing barefoot on sun-baked flagstones. He began lifting one, then the
other, in turn, in a sort of slow-motion folk dance. Finally, when his count
reached 160 seconds, nearly three minutes, he signalled von Glehn it was
time to get out.
    He marched out proudly, fully aware his paste had been proved
completely effective. They would have to use it in aircraft. As soon as he
cleared the burning wing he glanced back to make sure the rescue man was
with him. In that instant, his satisfaction turned into white horror. Von
Glehn seemed to be having difficulty fighting his way out of the fire.
Suddenly, he staggered, and nearly fell into the flames.
    Jasper whirled around and started to go to help him, but von Glehn
jerked himself upright and held up his hand to indicate he was all right.
    The fire roared like a great bear cheated out of its due.
    Maskelyne waited until von Glehn was safely away from the fire, then
walked on. He wondered if his eyes had tricked him, or if the man had
tripped on some debris. Every few steps he looked around to check him.
The rescue man’s head was lowered and he was moving sluggishly, but he
seemed to be in control.
    As soon as Jasper reached the safety of the observation stand, he
ripped off his mask and goggles, spat out the charred gauze filters and
sucked in a long breath of refreshing air. His shoulders relaxed. He took
another deep breath, and only then did he hear the shouting.
    Von Glehn was down on one knee, like a warrior being knighted. He tried
to struggle to his feet, swaying from side to side as he did, and had almost
made it when he suddenly collapsed onto the ground. Tiny flames shot out
from beneath his helmet. He was on fire inside the asbestos suit; he was
being roasted alive.
    Jasper got to him first. His gloved hands were still protected by the
paste, so he could grab the suit’s red-hot metal clips without burning
himself. He tore at the clips and zippers, frantically trying to get von Glehn
out of the suit.
    There was great confusion among the spectators as everyone raced to
see what was going on. A well-intentioned fireman, reacting naturally,
picked up the uncoiled pumper hose and began spraying Jasper and von
Glehn.
    “Wait!” Maskelyne screeched in horror, vainly trying to block the stream
of cold water with his hands, but his cry was lost in the commotion.
    Von Glehn sizzled, white smoke billowing from his suit. He writhed in
agony.
    The stunned fireman dropped the hose and it snaked along the ground,
harmlessly spewing water onto an empty field. A second fireman shut it
down.
    Jasper grappled with the protective helmet, trying to get it off so von
Glehn could breathe, but the water had warped the metal fastenings,
making them inoperable.
    The crowd of brass that had gathered around the fallen man stood by
helplessly. Jasper screamed furiously at them, “Get him out of this! Do
something, dammit, do something!” They moved back a step.
    A fireman broke through their ranks carrying a hacksaw and clippers and
deftly began cutting von Glehn out of the suit. A gush of steam hissed out
of the first cut, as if whistling out of a tea spout. Von Glehn’s screams were
muffled by his helmet. As soon as Jasper got a finger hold, he began
tearing at the suit, but one of the medics stopped him. “We can take it
from here,” he said kindly.
    Hill and Graham helped Jasper to his feet and stood by supporting him
as the fireman finally managed to free the helmet.
    The safety officer was no longer recognizable. Two marble eyes bulged
from his hideously swollen face, his blackened tongue protruded from his
mouth, his skin was scorched dark brown and covered with pussy blisters.
He was still alive, though, and making dreadful sounds.
    Graham grimaced. “Poor bastard,” he said involuntarily.
    Von Glehn was rushed to the hospital, although one of the medics
indicated with a shake of his head he didn’t give him much of a chance of
surviving.
    Jasper peeled off his encrusted flight suit and gloves, put on a dry
uniform and demanded to be taken to the hospital. Hill tried to talk him out
of it, suggesting he first return to the Valley to clean up. “There’s nothing
you can do for him, Jay. The doctors are doing everything they can.”
    Maskelyne insisted. “I’m going. It’s my fault …”
    “It’s not,” Hill replied. “It’s just an accident, nobody’s–”
    Jasper exploded. “Don’t patronize me, dammit! And don’t tell me my
responsibilities. I know what I’ve done. I know–”
    Graham, who had been holding Maskelyne’s gloves, angrily threw them
onto the tarmac. “Bloody rot! Mike’s right, Jay, it’s nobody’s fault. I don’t
know why the hell you feel that everything that happens in this war has
something to do with you, but it’s getting pretty tiring listening to you
whine.”
    Jasper glared at him. “How dare you,” he said, his voice trembling with
rage, “how dare you. Frank is dead and another man is dying because of
me, and you have the temerity to stand there–”
    “And a lot of men are going to walk out of plane wrecks because of this
paste of yours, too. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Jay, or
what, but you’re no miracle man. You set yourself up like … like I don’t
know what.”
    Fuller stepped between them. “Can it, both of you,” he commanded
forcefully.
    Maskelyne ignored him. Taking a threatening step closer, he warned,
“You listen to me, Graham. I–”
    “Shut up!” Fuller shouted at him. “That’s enough.”
    Jasper spun around and stalked away. Hill glanced at Graham, and
sighed, then chased after him.


                                 Fourteen
Geoffrey Barkas’s true talent was his ability to relate individually to the
highly creative officers of his widespread Middle Eastern camouflage
organization and motivate each of them to work to his fullest capacity. In
this role he served as friend, instructor, confidant and, when necessary,
stern commander. Maskelyne, for example, might have languished in deep
depression if given the luxury of doing so. But Barkas refused to allow this,
heaping more work on him and the Gang than ever before. “So sorry,” he
apologized, “but we’re gearing up for the big push and there’s ever so much
to do. My chaps on the Blue already have their hands full, so a lot of it has
to be done in your shops.”
    Jasper welcomed the work. Never before had he felt so emotionally
crippled. Knox was dead. The rescue man, von Glehn, would live but
probably be disfigured. Even the news that Air Marshal Tedder was
recommending that the fire-resistant paste be made available to all desert
airmen did nothing to lift his spirit. During his first year in North Africa the
letters he wrote to Mary each day had given him time to think out his
problems, just as if he were sitting and talking to her, but now he found
himself hiding his feelings even from her, a circumstance he would never
have thought possible. So he responded enthusiastically to Barkas’s
demands, pleased to have the opportunity to lose himself in familiar
territory.
    It was May 1942. The largest battle yet fought in North Africa was about
to begin. It was a battle the British had to win.
    All of continental Europe except neutral Switzerland and Sweden were
under German dominance. The Nazi army in Russia had weathered the
brutal winter and was ready to start its march on Stalingrad. Japan ruled
Southeast Asia and appeared to be near victory in China. Added to all of
this, the loss of Egypt, the Suez Canal and the oil fields of Persia would be
disastrous.
    The pressure in the western desert had been building up to a great
explosion. Both sides had gorged themselves through the spring on tanks,
supplies and fresh troops. Rommel fielded an army of 90,000 men, 560
tanks and almost 500 flight-ready aircraft, and the German Navy controlled
the Mediterranean. Auchinleck countered with 100,000 soldiers, 850 tanks
and 190 planes, not enough, he believed, to mount the decisive offensive
demanded by Churchill. But the Prime Minister insisted he attack soon,
fearful of a rumoured invasion of battered Malta, concerned about the
ability of Fortress Tobruk to continue holding out, and desperately in need
of a morale-building triumph.
    Every request received by the Gang bore an “Urgent” designation.
Hundreds more sunshields and dummy tanks and dummy guns were
needed. The unbreakable supply crates were in short supply. The Canal
Defence Force wanted Whirling Spray devices. The Air Force wanted as
much fire-resistant paste as could be supplied. And the Navy was still
pressing for its convertible speed launch.
    With Graham and Hill capable of supervising workshop production with
the assistance of Royal Engineer officers, and Jack Fuller handling the
paperwork, Jasper was able to devote himself to all these projects. He
darted from one to another like a chess grand master playing simultaneous
matches. He filled his days and evenings with work so completely that
there was rarely an empty moment when an unpleasant memory might slip
through his defences. This hard-work bandage would not heal his deep
wounds, but it at least staunched his emotional bleeding.
    Some of his nights were very bad, however, and he’d lie awake until
sunrise to keep fiery nightmares away.
    The first job off his desk was the detailed plan for converting an RAF
Miami speedboat into a floating “stage” that might rapidly be transformed
from a military launch to a luxurious cabin cruiser or a native scow.
    He had attacked the problem as if he were dressing a bare stage in the
Egyptian Theatre. To turn the launch into a pleasure craft, a substantial
saloon was placed on the afterdeck, a metal funnel was set up amidships,
the deckhouse was altered, and a telescoping radio mast was planted
forward. In addition, cabin portholes were affixed to the sides, bright
pennants were hoisted, and sparkling nameboards were added to the
transom and the bow.
    But in a matter of minutes, using drop levers, traps, counterpoise
weights and slides, the sleek yacht became a filthy tub. Rubber tyres were
draped over the bow. The radio mast disappeared. The portholes
disappeared. The nameboards disappeared. The bright pennants
disappeared. The sheet-metal funnel was wound tighter and became a rear
stack from which smudge pots would belch black oil smoke. The prop
saloon, under which bags of potatoes had been hidden, was flattened as if
it were a cardboard box, and the potato sacks were piled on top of it. The
deckhouse shape was modified. A warped mast was raised on the stern,
and a torn sail and seamen’s laundry were hung from it. Portions of the
deck were oil-stained. A ripped fishing net was strung along the side, and
the life preservers were flipped onto their dirty side.
    The boat’s main armament was a Bofors gun, which was hidden in the
dummy saloon of the yacht and beneath the scow’s potato pile. In addition,
one potato sack was filled with grenades, and handguns were stowed
behind a false bulkhead below deck. The boat could not fight an extended
battle with a larger craft, but could protect itself long enough to make
speed and get away.
    Phil Townsend had assumed the task of distorting the shape of the hull
through optical shading. Jasper looked in on his work occasionally, but
these brief visits set him back for hours, so he left the supervision to
Gregory, the navy man.
    By the time Maskelyne’s plans were forwarded to Admiral Cunningham’s
office, Captain Gregory had already begun the tedious job of creating
documented identities for one dozen of these “magic” boats and their
crews. In some cases the “yachts” would assume the identity of actual
pleasure craft and carry their logbooks. Naval Intelligence registered other
fictitious pleasure boats at exclusive boating clubs and provided
Maskelyne’s crafts with meticulously forged, backdated logs that could be
verified against doctored port-of-call records.
    The work boats did not need such extensive identification and were
given dirty, incomplete logbooks in a number of different languages.
    The crews of these ships had to be able to pass as either spiffy
yachtsmen or salty fishermen in the occupied ports these boats would be
visiting. Royal Navy Intelligence Branch gave each man two carefully
authenticated identities and provided necessary documentation, including
photographs of his home village, crumpled letters from family and friends, a
baptismal certificate and other common papers. By the time their intense
training period was completed, these sailors could recite facts, figures and
vivid descriptions of two totally different lives in Greek, Turkish, Italian and
other Mediterranean languages. All of them were volunteers, some of them
veterans of earlier commando actions.
    Gregory had the prototype launch in the water by midsummer. Eventually
a score of these convertible speedboats, with their equally convertible
crews, were put into service. They sailed with impunity between British
bases and Axis-controlled ports, delivering and picking up undercover
agents and valuable cargoes, including weapons and gold, and conducting
spy operations for Allied Intelligence. Although these boats were
challenged on occasion, their crews were able to bluff their way out of each
encounter, and their disguises were never penetrated.
    But even while he was hard at work on the launch, sometime during
each day Jasper would contact the hospital for a report on von Glehn’s
condition. The man was holding his own. On May 10, he was upgraded from
the critical to the dangerously ill list.
    A few days later a rare, drenching rainstorm inundated Cairo. The city’s
ancient drainage system quickly backed up, and the streets flooded so
badly that two Australian soldiers made the front page of the Egyptian
Gazette by rowing past Shepheards in a washtub. The unexpected downpour
created a holiday atmosphere and made normal work impossible. Jasper put
on his Wellington boots and slogged his way to the hospital.
    Von Glehn’s entire body was swathed in antiseptic white bandages and
he was sedated into painless sleep. Jasper stood at his side for a bit,
feeling quite helpless, then left without saying a word or leaving a note. He
never returned.
    His guilt was the engine of hard work and he continued to drive himself
at a killing pace, as if some punishment would catch up to him if he slowed
down. Every member of the Gang tried, in his own way, to break through his
despondency, but failed.
    “Just what is it you’re trying to prove?” Mike Hill demanded one
afternoon.
    “It doesn’t matter,” Jasper replied, leaving young Hill to wonder if that
was an answer or a rejection.
    It was during this period he received some additional sorry news. He
was working over the speedboat blueprints when Graham walked into his
office. “Houdin’s kaput,” he said. “It got caught up in a nasty tide and just
fell apart.”
    Jasper did not even pause in his work. He was not surprised. Lately, it
seemed, everything he had a hand in was falling apart. “Where is it now?”
    “Beached just north of Suez. Evidently it’s got Jerry confused. He’s
overflown it a number of times to take some pictures.”
    “Too bad,” Jasper said, almost to himself, “too bad.”
    Graham excused himself and went off to find “Admiral” Hill to inform him
that the pride of his fleet was in tatters.
    After he had been left alone, Jasper typed a memo to the Admiralty
finally revealing the ace he’d been holding for just this eventuality:

    SUBJECT: A METHOD FOR LURING ENEMY SHIPS INTO CLOSE RANGE
                          THROUGH CAMOUFLAGE
    After winning the confidence of his audience, the main objective of
    the performing magician is to gain control of their perceptions – to
    make them think what he wants them to think. This may be
    accomplished through demonstration, subterfuge, and the
    necessary appreciation of human behaviour. Once this is done, the
    magician is free to manipulate those perceptions in any way
    desired. For example, if an audience is convinced a pitcher
    contains some milk, the entire white contents of that vessel will
    be perceived to be milk.
        Enemy intelligence will undoubtedly realise the flotsam on the
    beach north of Suez is the remains of a dummy ship that has been
    operating in this area, and has been spotted by aircraft on a
    number of occasions, and the information that dummy fighting
    ships are being used in this area will be communicated to all
    German and Italian naval forces operating in the Mediterranean.
    This perception can then be manipulated to our advantage.
        It is my suggestion that some fighting ships be given crude
    camouflage similar to that of the dummy battleship, the Houdin,
    to lull the enemy into a false sense of security and thus bring
    them within range of small guns. Such camouflage as is necessary
    can be designed and produced by my troops at the Camouflage
    Experimental Station in Abbassia.
    It was dated May 19 and signed “Captain Jasper Maskelyne, R.E.” It was
almost the last trick he ever devised.
    The following morning, May 20, Maskelyne and Hill drove into the desert
to test a tiny compass Jasper had developed for MI6. Hill knew that this
trip had little to do with tests. Maskelyne was having an attack of Cairo
fever and hoped he might find a cure in the freedom of the desert.
    Hill had picked up Maskelyne at his quarters in the rosy light of dawn,
hoping to be back in town before the midday sun broiled them. He was
driving the three-quarter-ton Fordson truck that was used at the Valley to
haul light equipment about. They drove east through a gaping hole in the
Wire, a two-hundred-mile-long barbed-wire fence anchored in concrete that
Italian settlers had erected before the war. Jasper hadn’t slept very well in
the night and dozed off in the truck. Hill was surprised the man could sleep
through the bumpy ride, but it didn’t bother him. He had his own problems
to think about.
    Kathy Lewis had him all mixed up. The very things that pleased her one
night angered her the next! No matter how nice he tried to be, she’d find a
beef; but no matter how determined he became to stop seeing her, she’d
lure him back. He thought he’d finally begun to figure it out, or as much of
it as a man is capable of figuring out about a woman. The fact was that she
liked him a lot, but didn’t like herself for liking him. So she took it out on
him for making her like him. That was why she was so snappish when he
was nice. She was in love with him; that was why they fought so much.
    That conclusion, he knew, made as much sense as was possible to make
out of a girl’s behaviour. She really cared. It so delighted him that he began
whistling, softly, so as not to wake Maskelyne.
    Cairo sank into the desert behind them. Hill followed recently made
tracks toward the escarpment, the vast, desolate desert plateau. Gradually,
as the sun climbed, the day turned from dawn brown to a pale, complacent
yellow. By 9 a.m. it would be white, and it would be hot.
    There were no paved roads onto the desert, so he continued following
the track and charting their course over the baked sand and brush by
landmark. They drove past the silly signposts claiming it was a thousand
miles to Piccadilly Circus and Charing Cross, past rusting trucks and jeeps
too damaged to manage the final forty miles to Cairo and not valuable
enough as scrap to be tendered in, past the neatly piled gasoline cans and
worn tyres marking the location of an abandoned laager, past three cement
grave markers of Italian settlers who died in the desert before the soldiers
came, past the skull-and-crossbones minefield markers, and, once, past a
team of Desert Rats hightailing it to town in their machine-gun-mounted
Bentley.
    Maskelyne had been awake after the first hour, but just stared into the
open desert and said little. Hill tried some conversation openers but took
the hint from Jasper’s one-word replies. Actually, he didn’t mind the quiet.
    He was enjoying the ride. The pricking sand and the flies and the heat
were bothersome, but the endless horizon gave a man a real chance to
think, and that was welcome. The desert was as still as one of Townsend’s
canvases and it was difficult to believe that this silent wasteland was the
great battlefield while peace and safety existed in glaring and raucous
Cairo.
    They stopped two hours out to stretch their legs and sip some refreshing
lime juice and water. The wind was swirling sand around, so they both tied
bandannas over their faces. It would help a bit, but the sand would still
penetrate every body cavity. It was generally agreed that it took two days
of showers to erase each day in the desert.
    “What about here?” Hill asked.
    Maskelyne was gazing at the horizon. “Hm?”
    “I said, seems like a good place to make the tests right here.”
    Jasper agreed. Taking a wooden post and a sand shovel from the rear of
the truck, he walked about twenty yards and planted the post. Then he
took readings with a number of the miniature compasses, scribbling the
results in his notebook. “Let’s drive on and try to relocate this spot, shall
we?”
    They drove another mile and stopped again. Jasper hopped out of the
cab and took bearings. He made his notations, but then turned to the right
and stared quizzically into the distance. Finally, he shook his head, as if
dismissing some inexplicable thought, and began taking a new set of
readings.
    Watching him, Hill felt the first twinge of nervousness. In that instant
all of his romantic notions about the desert disappeared and he saw it as it
was, a brutal, lifeless plain. As he climbed out of the Fordson to check the
problem with Jasper, a load of sand that had collected between the truck’s
cab and rear bed cascaded down his neck. He tried to wriggle it out of his
shirt as he walked over to Maskelyne. “Anything wrong?”
    Jasper watched Hill’s sand dance for a moment, without comment, then
waved his notebook. “I’m not sure. These readings don’t seem to gel.” If
they followed the compass bearings, he explained, they would drive north
to find the stake, when it was obviously directly behind them, west of their
current location.
    Hill took a set of readings and got the same result.
    “Let’s head back to the stake,” Jasper suggested. “We’ll try it again.”
    Hill turned around and dead-reckoned back to the stake. Once again,
Jasper took their bearings. “Strange,” he said when Hill joined him, “now
these’ve changed.”
    The private looked full circle around, but saw nothing except sand, brush
and rocks. Absolutely nothing stirred.
    “Let’s have one more go at it,” Maskelyne decided. There was no obvious
reason for the discrepancy in readings. All the compasses couldn’t be
wrong.
    They drove two miles east and took new bearings. This time they
seemed to be accurate. Instead of Maskelyne being cheered, he was
perplexed. What caused the problem? he wondered. “Let’s push on a bit. I
want to try it one more time.”
    As they went deeper into the western desert, Jasper speculated on what
might have gone wrong. The intense heat rising from the desert floor, a
swirling sandstorm creating electrical energy, some unusual magnetic event
…
    Hill barely listened to Maskelyne’s theories, instead trying to determine
their position. He wasn’t completely confident he knew where they were,
and was scanning the desert for some landmark to navigate by when he
saw it coming at them. “Shit,” he said.
    Jasper glanced past him and saw it. Just then, as if some wizard had
cursed the sun, the bright day turned black and vicious. The wind swelled,
and sand pebbles began peppering the windscreen. The air became dense
and breathing was suddenly difficult. Mike stomped the accelerator to the
floorboard, and the Fordson careered across the flats, but there was no
escape.
    A towering wall of reddish dust rolled toward them. The Khamsin.
    Like a battalion of howling witches sweeping across the desert, it hit.
The truck lurched sideways and almost tipped, but Hill held it, and turned
its rear into the wind. The gale swirled into the canvas-covered bed and
threatened to lift the truck back over front, but did not.
    “Stop here!” Jasper screamed, and Hill, sitting only inches away, could
barely hear him above the roar of the storm.
    The Khamsin. The Wind of Fifty Days. This was the great cannon in
nature’s arsenal. War stopped in its path. Planes dared not fly. Tank forces
cowered.
    It hit them full blast, and there was nothing they could do but huddle
inside the truck and try to keep sand out of their eyes and ears and wait,
and pray it would end soon. The wind was unpredictable: it could blow for a
week or die in an hour.
    Once, Jasper sat up and opened his eyes. He was stunned. The desert
had disappeared and he was trapped in a tunnel of whirling red dust. It was
as if he was surrounded by moving-picture screens, each of them showing
reddish sand racing past at light speed, while dozens of speakers broadcast
incredibly loud and threatening sounds. Sand flowed down the windscreen
like water, it rushed past the side windows, it poured through every minute
crack in the cab.
    After two hours the storm suddenly abated, then passed. The sun again
shone brilliantly, and layers of rising heat shimmered on the horizon. A few
small sandspouts twisted by in the distance, but otherwise the desert was
uncomfortably still.
    Maskelyne and Hill took turns digging the truck’s wheels out of the sand
that had piled around them, and emptying sand out of the bed, and it was
midafternoon before they were able to move. Mike gripped the steering
wheel, stared straight ahead, and finally asked the question both of them
had carefully avoided. “Which way?”
    Jasper checked his miniature compasses, but their strange variations
had made him doubt their accuracy. “East, I should think,” he declared with
as much confidence as he could muster. “Put the sun to our back.”
    “East it is, sir,” Hill said smartly. The desert had been transformed by
the storm. All vehicle tracks had been erased. Dunes had been knocked flat
and built up in other places. Rocks had been carried away. Nothing looked
familiar.
    Neither man spoke, but they shared the same fear. They were out on
the desert with inadequate provisions and did not know where they were.
But neither of them dared admit, even in their own thoughts, that they
were lost. So they drove on the edge of that fear, searching the desert for a
main track or an oasis or a landmark or even a spray of sand thrown up by
something else alive and moving. The sun was just beginning to set on the
day.
    Suddenly, Hill made a sharp cut to avoid a half-buried rock, and drove
the truck into a sand-filled wadi, or gully. Its rear left wheel sank into soft
sand and churned wildly, splashing sand and digging an even deeper hole.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Hill screamed, pounding the wheel angrily. Then he turned
off the engine and leaned back. “I’m sorry, Jay,” he said.
    “It’s my fault, Mike,” Maskelyne replied, glad to finally face up to reality.
“This is a bit of a rough spot, though, isn’t it.”
    They made a halfhearted attempt to dig out the truck, although both of
them felt that would be impossible. The Fordson sloped into the sand up to
its tailboard, its left wheel completely buried.
    They stopped working just after dark and made ready for their first night
in the desert. They rolled down the legs of their antimalarial shorts to their
ankles to keep their legs warm in the bitter cold. They rubbed Flit and flea
powder on their exposed skin to keep the night biters away. Hill collected a
few rocks still warm from the day and put them around his blanket. After a
discussion, they decided not to brew up, afraid their night fire might attract
a Jerry patrol or, more frightening, Arab bandits. They debated eating a full
meal and finally decided to split a single tin, which they washed down with
two swallows of lime juice and water. Then they lay down and failed to
sleep.
    In the full light of the morning their situation felt less desperate, and
they made a second effort to free the truck. They dug out the tyre and
shoved rocks and blankets under it to give traction, but it spat them right
out. The Fordson was stuck; they were just going to have to wait to be
rescued. “Today, you think?” Hill asked.
    “Soon,” Jasper told him.
    Hill stiffened his upper lip. “Five quid says today.”
    “Bad shot, Mike. I don’t bet against myself.”
    They got through the day quite well, keeping themselves busy doing all
those things they had been taught at desert survival school: they stayed
out of direct sunlight except for the half-hourly occasions when one of them
climbed on top of the cab and waved a blanket to attract attention. They
took stock of their supplies and proportioned them into four equal parts.
They drained the water from the truck’s radiator into a can and buried the
can in the sand so it wouldn’t evaporate, and put the gasoline and oil into
other cans so they could make fires when necessary. They scraped long
arrows in the sand pointing to the truck in case search planes flew
overhead, and prepared an oil fire that could be quickly ignited to attract
anyone driving or flying within their range. They even held their ears to the
ground to detect movement on the desert within twenty or so miles. They
sang cheerful songs to keep their spirits high and avoided excess activity
and spoke of rescue and never of fear. Jasper spent the afternoon jotting
down thoughts about the speed-launch conversion as calmly as if he were
sitting in the riverside gardens of Zamalek. It was only when the night
turned cold and they had no more small tasks to keep their minds occupied
that their bravado began to fade and reality set in.
    They split their last chocolate bar and a tin of bully beef for dinner.
“How long you think we should stay with the truck?” Hill wondered.
    The First Rule of desert survival was, Stay by your vehicle, the theory
being that it was easier to spot a car or truck from the air than one or two
men. But desert veterans felt differently, and most had set their own
limits. To abandon the vehicle made the search more difficult; but to wait
too long made a man too weak to survive a rigorous trek.
    In this case, Maskelyne knew, they had no choice. “We can’t walk out of
here,” he said. “We haven’t got the supplies to make it.” As the ranking
officer, this was his fault. He had ignored the Second Rule of survival: carry
adequate provisions. Like almost everyone else who had been living for so
long on the lip of the desert, he had simply taken it for granted. They were
unprepared for this trip. All they had in the truck were four tins of assorted
rations, a quart-plus of lime juice and water, a sidearm and one dozen
shells, some gasoline and oil, a flashlight, Flit and flea powder, a spade,
Jasper’s suspect compasses but no sextant, a pouch of tobacco, a pipe and
matches, a spare wheel, a fire extinguisher, blankets, a street map of
Cairo, and the truck.
    They settled down next to the truck. Hill clasped his hands beneath his
head and gazed into the starlit sky. One silver night cloud drifted lazily
eastward, toward the Nile, and he closed his eyes and imagined it had
steel handles and envisioned himself carried to safety. “How far do you
think we are from Cairo?”
    “’Bout a hundred miles, I should say.”
    “Long walk,” he replied, “a long bloody walk.”
    They curled up and tried to keep warm, but the chill got into their bones
and made it difficult to sleep. After a long silence, Jasper said, “There’s a
whole army and air force mucking about this place. They’ll stumble over us,
don’t worry about it.”

In fact, an entire day passed before a search began. Kathy Lewis was the
first to miss them. When Michael was more than his usual half hour late to
pick her up she went to his quarters to give him what for. Bill Robson was
just leaving for dinner when she got there, and he told her Hill hadn’t been
around all day. “He drove out on the Blue with Jay to test some new
gadgets. Actually, I thought they’d be back by now.”
    “Shouldn’t we alert someone?”
    “I don’t think so. You know Jay, once he gets his mind into something
he loses all track of time. This is probably good for him. You know, since
Frank … well, you know.”
    She nodded. “I guess you’re right. If you see him, though …”
    “Soon as they come in I’ll make him ring you up. But don’t be surprised
if they camp out there tonight.”
    When Maskelyne and Hill had not returned by high noon the next day,
Robson raised the alarm.
    Standard search and rescue procedures were immediately put into effect.
All regular patrols and units operating in the desert were alerted to look for
the missing Fordson. RAF search-and-rescue teams were informed the men
were overdue and presumed lost. Maskelyne, unfortunately, had committed
still another error by failing to tell anyone his planned route.
    Search-and-rescue maps divided the desert into quadrants, allowing for
an orderly and systematic operation. But the process was time-consuming,
and one thing that men who were lost on the desert did not have was time.
To complicate matters, preparations for the summer offensive were in full
swing and only limited equipment was available.
    The Magic Gang organized its own search. All other work ceased at the
Valley. Graham, Robson and Townsend each took responsibility for a wide
area, directing teams comprised of Magic Valley workers using equipment
supplied by Barkas. Fuller coordinated the effort from Maskelyne’s office.
Although Regular Army search-and-rescue units frowned on this type of
amateur participation, there was nothing that could be done to stop it.
   The Gang did everything possible to reassure Kathy Lewis, but she
refused to be mollified, demanding of Townsend, “The truth, what chance
do they have?”
   “A good one,” he said emphatically, but without looking directly at her.
“We’re doing everything possible. We’ve got thirty vehicles and a hundred
and fifty men out there looking for them, plus all the regular patrols. We’ve
even contacted the caravans and posted a reward for information. But it’s
going to take some time. The idiots didn’t even take a radio with them.”
   “You’re saying?”
   “I’m saying we’ll find them. As long as they stay with their truck and
conserve their resources we’ve got time, and that’s really all we need.”

The massive hunt began the morning of Maskelyne and Hill’s second full
day lost in the desert.
     By midaftemoon that day the sun had begun baking the hope out of the
two men, and that void was quickly filled with fear. The night had been a
hard one. The temperature went down near freezing, and the bugs had
crawled out of the ground and made their attacks. Most of the Flit and the
flea powder was gone and both men had been bitten and stung repeatedly.
Grains of fine sand had got under the bites and irritated the tiny sores.
Hungry flies came at them in the morning.
     Waiting was torturous, and the urge to take off across the sands, to
take their salvation into their own hands, was overwhelming. But they
resisted, understanding that it was just another illusion in the desert’s
killing repertoire.
     The oppressive heat was the worst of it. In the afternoon the desert
became a furnace. Both men sweated the moisture out of their bodies, but
it evaporated even before it could stain their shirts. Their skin dried out and
their lips chapped, then caked, and they couldn’t produce enough saliva to
keep them moist.
     They agreed to cut their remaining ration in half and limited themselves
to a single swallow of lime juice and water every few hours. Hill tried to
distil the radiator water, but it tasted metallic and gave him a bad
headache.
     To conserve energy they signalled with the blanket only once each hour.
During the torrid part of the day, when the truck became too hot to touch,
they lay in its shade and tried to sleep away reality. There was too much
time to think, and it was impossible to think about anything except rescue
and death. Both of them knew the terrible way men died on the desert,
tongues swollen out of their mouths, their minds cooked senseless, killed
by dehydration and sunstroke and, finally, loss of the will to live, and both
silently vowed it would not happen to them and prayed that was true.
     The heat made their tempers smoulder and they argued about firing
Maskelyne’s sidearm. Hill wanted to fire a shot every few hours to attract
attention, Jasper felt they should conserve their ammunition until the last
possible moment. “Dammit,” Hill said, “we’ll rot here if we don’t do
something.”
     “Dammit yourself,” Maskelyne yelled, “we’ll need every bullet we’ve got
once we’ve run out of food,” then stalked angrily away from the truck. He
knew he couldn’t blame Hill for being bitter; he’d got them into this hole
and wasn’t doing a blasted thing to get them out of it. Hill was right about
one thing, they had to do something.
    Marching back to the truck and examining their resources, he came up
with a novel idea. After filling an empty gasoline can with sand and motor
oil, he began unscrewing the two side mirrors from the truck, being careful
not to burn his hands on the hot metal.
    Hill watched him curiously. Finally he broke the strained silence. “Need
some help?”
    “No, thank you,” Jasper answered. “I can manage.”
    “Ah, cripes, Jay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
    Maskelyne stopped working to accept the apology. “That’s all right, I
know you didn’t. We’re both a bit cross. Look, I could use some help
getting these mirrors off.”
    Michael stood up and shook the sand off his clothing. “Tell you one
thing,” he said, “it’ll be a long time before I go to the beach again.”
    As soon as the mirrors had been removed Jasper lit the oil fire, and thick
black smoke streamed into the air. Then, carefully adjusting the two
mirrors, he projected a black smudge onto a linen-white cloud.
    “It’s a bloody picture show!” Hill shouted with delight.
    “More of a magic lantern, actually,” Jasper admitted proudly. “The
family’s been doing it for promotion since the turn of the century.”
    He began tilting the second mirror up and down, causing the smudge to
appear, then disappear, thus flashing a crude code onto the cloud.
    The cloud floated out of range in a quarter of an hour. By the time
another suitable puff glided close enough it was too dark to continue
signalling. Michael began to extinguish the fire.
    “Let it burn,” Jasper said.
    “But what about Jerry? And the bandits?”
    “Let it burn,” he repeated, and walked away.
    They shared half a can, a gulp of water and their fantasies for dinner.
Hill imagined himself preparing for a big supper with Kathy at one of the
better dance clubs. “I’ve decided to wear my dress uniform tonight, to
please her. She’s always asking me to wear it; don’t know why I fight her
so much about it. Anyway, she looks beautiful and we go to this place and
as we walk in I can hear the steaks sizzling over the pit and this smell hits
me …”
    Jasper saw himself with Mary on Portobello Road on a cool, sombre
Sunday afternoon. She was pulling him from stall to stall, pointing out
curios and antiques, asking his opinion of them and then stating hers
without waiting for his response. He followed her with a man’s reluctance,
dutifully agreeing when she wanted him to, standing quietly while she
dickered for a price, and finally taking out his wallet when she looked at
him with pleading eyes. Inevitably, he’d end up carrying home an armload
of things that would be put away and rarely seen again.
    As Jasper described this afternoon to Hill, he could feel the coolness of
the day and the weariness of his arms, and his warmth. “Once,” he said,
smiling as he recalled the incident, “I tripped over something, my foot I
think it was, and dropped a mantel clock we’d just bought. The bloody thing
smashed into fifty pieces. ‘That’s all right,’ she said before I could
apologize, ‘I really didn’t care for it very much anyway.’ ‘But we just bought
it,’ I said, ‘I don’t understand.’ She smiled at me in that impish way of hers
that would have excused anything silly she could have ever done, and said,
‘I know, but it was such a good price.’”
     “Women,” Hill said, shaking his head in admiration.
     Jasper raised his empty hand as if it held a toasting glass. “Women.”
But he spent the rest of that brutal day in the desert reliving an ordinary
Sunday afternoon in London.
     After they had settled down for the night, Hill strained to hear the music
of Cairo’s nightlife drifting on the desert breeze. Once, he actually thought
he heard some music, but realized it was being played by his imagination.
It seemed incredible to him that he could be so hopelessly alone and lost
less than one hundred miles from the bright, gay, vibrant city. Just before
he fell off to sleep he decided to marry Kathy when he returned.

Phil Townsend spent part of that afternoon at GHQ’s search command
centre to ensure that the Gang did not duplicate their effort. There had
been a glimmer of hope earlier in the day when an RAF pilot spotted
movement near a truck, but investigation showed it to be a nomad group
stripping a rusted hulk. “What do you think?” Townsend asked Captain
Franklin George Bruce, who headed the operation.
    Captain Bruce shrugged.
    “What I mean is,” Townsend prodded, “they couldn’t just disappear,
could they?”
    “Look here,” Bruce replied bluntly, “I’ve been at this job almost two
years and I still don’t know what to tell you. Some of them are found, some
aren’t. Some walk in from fifty miles out, some die ten miles away. Strange
things happen out there, things you just can’t explain. People vanish and
nobody ever finds hide nor hair of them. Maybe Jerry finds ’em, or the
Arabs. Maybe it’s just the desert. But don’t ask me to make any
predictions, okay? I’ve seen too much to know anything.”

The first three days in the desert had softened up Maskelyne and Hill for
the real pain, and now the desert began to kill them slowly and cruelly.
   The sun had blistered their skin and lips, and a steady rain of fine dust
and sand rubbed them raw. Their infected bites had turned an ugly red and
were full of pus. Their parched throats were swollen, and swallowing even a
drop of water was like trying to force a coin into a slot just slightly too
small. The great temperature range between day and night made them
dizzy and both of them got colds, and each tiny cough grated their throats
as if they were being rubbed with sandpaper.
   The relentless sun gave them terrible headaches in the day.
   The freezing night made them shiver and cough up blood.
   Their arms and shoulders ached from signalling the empty desert with a
blanket, an exercise they abandoned on the fourth day.
   It was impossible to get even a second’s relief from misery. Sand had
penetrated every part of their bodies and clothing. Their teeth ground on it,
their eyes burned from it, and particles of it were embedded in their feet
and their desert beards and lodged in their throats.
   Jasper’s feet had swelled, making it painful for him to move about in
boots, but he knew that if he took off the boots he would never be able to
get them back on.
    Most of the time they just lay in the shade of the truck, moving with it
as the sun shifted. A thin layer of dust had already settled over the
Fordson, and Hill figured the entire truck would be buried in a year or so.
Him and Jay too, he knew, buried forever, if they weren’t found soon. He
began wondering what other marvels lay hidden beneath the sands. Maybe
just more sand, clear through to the centre of the earth, or maybe there
was a dirt floor, or the glistening bones of a thousand lost travellers, or
maybe even an entire city. Covered up. He thought about asking Jasper
about it, but just didn’t have the energy.
    Maskelyne brushed the sand off the truck so searching aircraft would be
able to see it, and spent the rest of the fourth morning projecting spots
onto clouds. He rested during the torrid afternoon.
    For dinner, they split the last two bites of hard beef. Afterward Hill said,
“Jay, if you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, now’s the time to use them.”
    Jasper fired off a shot at dusk.
    Blowing sand, which pecked at their skin like a billion needles, forced
them to sleep in the rear of the truck that night. It was too hot and buggy
to get any real sleep, but both of them managed to catch brief snatches of
rest before the flies buzzed them awake. Just as Jasper was about to fall
into one of these naps, Hill asked in a rasping voice, “Was it worth it, Jay?”
    Maskelyne wasn’t sure he understood.
    “You didn’t have to come out here. You could’ve stayed back home.”
    Was it worth it? He reflexively ran his dry tongue over his salty lips. His
lips stung. The choice had been made so long ago he hardly remembered
there being an option. Was it worth it? What had he accomplished? “I had
no choice,” he replied in a choked whisper.
    Hill made a doubting sound.
    “It’s true. Had to do it. For myself.” He coughed, and his chest ached,
and an inferno blazed in his throat. “Don’t think like that, Mike, we’re not
done yet. They’re looking for us.”
    After a prolonged silence, Hill said decidedly, “They better hurry.”

At Magic Valley, tempers got short among the Gang. The pressure of time
slipping by without any progress being made magnified each small problem
and left everyone frustrated and cranky. An afternoon storm had grounded
the search planes and had most certainly obliterated any tracks left by the
Fordson.
    During the evening hash-over, Graham wondered aloud if they were
going about the search in the proper way. Fuller took offence and snapped,
“If you’ve got any complaints about the way I’m doing my job you’re
welcome to it. I wouldn’t mind riding around out there all day instead of
sitting here arguing with–”
    “I didn’t say I could do better. I was just wondering …”
    Robson shouted them quiet. “Let’s just keep at the job, shall we,
gentlemen?”
    Fuller had spent a futile morning at Q Branch, the supply and transport
people, pleading for more vehicles. Over a hundred additional volunteers
were ready to join the effort, but there was no way of utilizing them. Some
consideration had been given to working a second shift through the night,
in case Maskelyne and Hill were lighting signal fires, but was finally
dismissed. “We’ve already got two men lost out there,” Barkas told them.
“Let’s leave it at that.” Some Desert Rat teams took it on their own,
however, and didn’t bother coming in at night.
    Kathy Lewis confided to Graham her certainty that Michael was still
alive. “I’ve got this ability to feel things,” she explained. “I don’t talk about
it too much, but I just know certain things to be true. And I know he’s all
right. I do.”
    Nails held her in his protective arms and allowed her to cry.
    It had been a difficult time for Phil Townsend too. He hadn’t slept much
since the search started. When he wasn’t actually on the job, he was trying
to figure out what else might be done, or searching for some path that
hadn’t been followed, or trying to read Maskelyne’s mind and determine
where on the bloody burning sandbox they had been headed. It had been a
long time since he’d given himself over so completely to anything except
himself.
    At first, he’d been relieved he wasn’t in their boots. But later, as he
became absorbed in the drama of the search, he found himself identifying
with them, and wondering what they were doing and thinking, and soon
after that imagined himself in their place and wondered what he would be
doing and thinking. Inevitably, this tragedy had forced him to be dead
honest with himself, and he wasn’t rightly pleased with the reality he
confronted. In the middle of the third night he sat alone in his clean, warm
quarters and wrote a long letter to his wife. But it was really for himself. “I
have loved you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything before,” he
admitted,

    and I still love you in many ways … I know I was not an easy
    person to be with. There is this thing inside me that makes me
    distrust people. I don’t know why this is, except perhaps I don’t
    like myself too much, but I know it has made me unhappy and I
    hope to do something about it. When I come home, I’d like to see
    you. Not to patch things up, we’ve gone too far on different roads
    for that, but to try to learn more about myself. It’s selfish of me
    to ask that of you, but you know me better than anyone, and it’s
    terribly important that I learn these things.

    He started to add some chatty items but decided the letter was fine as
it was, and honest, so he signed it, with love, and sealed it.

Jasper was awakened from his restless sleep the next morning when a bug
crawled inside his mouth. He instinctively moved his arm to swat it, and a
sharp pain ripped through his shoulder. He grunted, and remembered, and
puffed the bug out of his mouth.
    He slowly climbed to his feet, each movement causing its own pain. He
knew there was no food left, but checked anyway. His stomach was just
beginning to distend from hunger.
    Leaning against the truck for support, he scanned the corrugated desert
like Robinson Crusoe surveying his island. Then he took the spade and
began scraping another long mark in the sand. The work was not difficult,
but he was weak and dehydrated and he had to rest three times before
completing it.
    Hill was awake by the time he finished. His face was sunburned crimson,
and large sores had opened on his lips. “’Ning,” he mumbled.
    “Morning,” Jasper replied. There was nothing for them to do except stay
out of direct sunlight and wait, wait for whatever happened, and pray that
it happened soon.
    Having worn them down physically, the elements now attacked their
minds. Hill began to slip in and out of delirium; one moment he would be
totally rational, telling Jasper how much he’d give to hear one more gharry
driver screaming at one more lazy camel, and a moment later he would be
speaking to his parents, or friends Jasper did not know, as if they were
sitting with them.
    Throughout the morning they dipped their bandannas in the tepid
radiator water and wiped their brows, but even that filthy water evaporated
almost immediately. Around noon, Maskelyne sprayed the fire extinguisher
into the air and both of them showered in its cooling solvent, which burned
their skin, but provided some relief.
    During one of Hill’s lucid periods he asked Jasper what he would do if he
spotted a German patrol.
    “Crawl to them on my knees,” Maskelyne said. The desert had imposed
its own perspective.
    “Right-o,” Hill said, and slipped away.
    For the first time, Jasper faced the probability that he would die on the
desert. There was still hope, there would be hope until the very last
second, but if they weren’t found in the next two days, three tops, they
would die. Lost in the desert testing a compass. How ironic, he thought,
how wasteful. He wondered what the memorial service for him would be
like, and soon imagined Mary sitting at home.
    It would be very difficult for her. She wasn’t the most independent
woman in the world; his fault, probably, and starting over again would be
impossible for her. She wouldn’t marry again, but would live out her life
doing good deeds for others.
    He despised that thought. He wished he could reach her and tell her
that life must go on, that it doesn’t end with the death of a loved one. And
as he thought about that, he realized he had allowed part of himself to die
in the burning aircraft with Frank Knox. Since Frank’s death he had
struggled indifferently through life, as if his suffering were somehow
keeping Knox alive.
    Knox. He glanced at Hill, who was mumbling something unintelligible. It
would have been the professor who was out here with him if … He caught
himself. No more ifs. Frank was dead and he was alive. That was it. He was
still alive and desperate to survive. No more ifs.
    At that moment he decided he was going to live. The desert would not
kill him so easily. Now, he thought, today, this minute, the real fight
begins. All of his defences had been stripped away one by one, except his
will to live, and now that would be tested, and he would learn of what
mettle he was made.
    Survival is what matters, he finally realized. To the desert snakes and
the flies, to Hill, even to Jerry, survival is all that matters.
    He shook Mike Hill awake and dragged him into conversation. Each word,
each breath, was agony, but he forced himself to speak and forced Hill to
answer. They tried playing word games, but Hill wasn’t much good at them,
so Jasper made him tell stories about the girls he’d known on the streets.
    Michael’s ego made him respond, and he spoke in a gravelly whisper.
The stories he told were crude, but Jasper was in too much pain even to
blush.
    When Hill finished, Maskelyne told him about the Egyptian Theatre, and
about magicians, then about anything else he could think of to hold his
mind. When they tired of stories they started singing, painfully croaking
“South of the Border,” “Run Rabbit Run,” “We’re Going to Hang Out Our
Washing on the Siegfried Line.” Anything to stay awake, anything to keep
their minds working.
    Both of them sang with their eyes shut, so Jasper thought his mind had
introduced a new torture when he heard a chipper voice ask if brew was up.
He opened his eyes a slit and the sun attacked them, but a hulking figure
moved in front of him and blocked it out. In a heavy Australian accent, the
man said, “Say what, this is hardly the way to treat a guest, you know.”
    He started sobbing, and from somewhere deep inside his body came
tears.


                                  Fifteen
Jasper opened his eyes, and shafts of sunlight stabbed them, blinding him,
but a prim nurse kindly adjusted the window louvres.
    “Something to drink?” she asked.
    The glare slowly faded. He blinked his eyes into hazy focus and began
looking around the room, trying to get his bearings.
    “You’re in Number Four General Hospital, Captain,” the nurse explained
as she served him a glass of warm water. “You had a bit too much desert,
remember?”
    “Yes …” he started to say, but his throat felt as if he had been breathing
fire. The pain shocked him into reality.
    “Take a small sip of this,” she said, holding the glass to his dry lips. As
he did so, she read his mind. “Your friend is fine. We’ve just had him under
close observation. I suspect they’ll be bringing him in here with you this
afternoon.”
    He swallowed a few droplets of water. “How long?” he croaked.
    “Well, you’ve been here almost two days. You’ll probably be with us
another week or so, just till you get your strength back. You’ve got some
nasty throat blisters and some infected sores, but it doesn’t appear you’ve
suffered any real damage.”
    An overhead fan cooled him deliriously. A vase of red roses sat on his
night table. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but sharp
pains shot through his shoulders and he relaxed back into the pillows.
    “Your friends’ve been by a few times to see you,” the nurse said as she
rearranged the flowers. “They asked me to give you a message.”
    “Um?”
    She paused, holding a rose in her right hand, and smiled. “Stay out of
the sun.”
    Hill was brought in later that afternoon, looking chipper with his desert
beard neatly trimmed, but frustrated by his doctor’s orders not to speak for
the next few days. He wrote up a storm on a clipboard. Townsend, Graham
and Fuller came to the hospital directly from work and told Jasper and Mike
how their lives had been saved. An Australian tank crew in an old Matilda
had busted a track in the morning and was taking a shortcut to catch up
with their group when they came upon the truck. They hadn’t even known
the men were missing.
    “Just bloody good luck,” Townsend said respectfully.
    “The joker in the deck,” Graham added. “There’s no figuring it. Half the
men in North Africa are looking for you, and if this tank doesn’t throw a
track …” He shook his head.
    Kathy Lewis came by every lunchtime and evening. She fussed over Mike
Hill like a mother, wiping his brow, fulfilling his whims, apologizing for
imagined mistakes, agreeing with everything he wrote down. He did not
write down a proposal of marriage, having decided that could wait until he
was feeling better.
    Jasper watched Hill slip easily back into normal life, flirting with the
nurses, writing jokes on his clipboard, fighting with the doctors, and wished
he too could pick up where he had left off. But it was not so easy for him.
There had been damage done.
    He had brushed too closely with death to dismiss it casually. When he
wasn’t sketching, or reading, or writing letters, he thought about what had
happened out on the desert and tried to separate the reality of it from the
illusion.
    He finally concluded that the difference didn’t really matter at all. Life
was all that mattered.
    He lived; Knox died. It wasn’t any more complicated than that.
Townsend called it luck. Graham said it was the joker. Jasper felt most
comfortable thinking of it as fate.
    Above all, he felt cleansed. Renewed. He would mourn his friend forever,
but he was determined to burst back into life and live the hell out of it. He
would never forget Frank Knox, but now he would put his memories on a
shelf in his mind, where he could get at them once in a while, and go on
with his own life. For Mary. For their children. But mostly for himself.
    Each day he grew stronger. He had Jack Fuller bring his magic kit to the
hospital, and as soon as he was permitted to walk, he entertained the
other patients with the minor sleights. His hands were in poor condition,
but his timing was good and his patter was warm and he derived
tremendous satisfaction from performing.
    One afternoon Richard von Glehn, the burned rescue man, hobbled into
his room. He used a cane for support, and the lower half of his face was
still bandaged, but his voice was clear and his mind was sharp. He’d had
two operations thus far, he told Jasper, and surgeons were optimistic they
could repair most of the facial damage. “They told me they could make me
look like Douglas Fairbanks if I wanted, but I told ’em nah.” He hesitated,
then punched, “I told ’em, Clark Gable or nothing.”
    Before he returned to his own wing he said, “Don’t hold any blame for
what happened that day. I was so excited I just forgot to get the suit
wetted down.” He shook his head in disgust at the memory. “You just can’t
take the basic stuff for granted, you know, you just can’t.”
    The one thing that continued to rankle Maskelyne in the hospital was
the failure of his compasses in the desert. There had to be a logical reason
why they malfunctioned, but he couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t believe it
was the sandstorm. He gave a set to an Engineer mechanic for inspection,
but in shop tests the man found nothing wrong with them. Jasper recalled
his movements on the desert a thousand times trying to work out his
mistake, but without success.
    The prim nurse unknowingly provided the answer when she placed a
metal water pitcher on the nightstand next to Maskelyne’s bed. As soon as
she put it down, the compass needles started dancing as if they had fleas.
“Of course,” Jasper said aloud in his scratchy voice, instantly remembering
the schoolboy’s rule for using a compass: never stand near a large metal
object. Like a truck, he thought.
    That was it. That had to be it. Some readings had been taken next to
the Fordson; others had been taken yards away. Just like von Glehn, he
thought, he had taken the basics for granted.
    There was only one other thing that kept his mind occupied during his
stay in Number Four General Hospital. At high tea on May 26 Rommel’s
army had attacked, a highly impudent hour to begin the final battle for
North Africa.
    The battle at the Gazala Line was a clash of military doctrines.
Auchinleck, perhaps looking into history when knights in armour died
storming castle bastions, believed the Germans would be smashed to
pieces trying to overrun the formidable boxes of his defensive line. But
Rommel had no such intention. An advocate of speed and surprise, he was
certain the British had boxed themselves in with this strategy. Eighth Army
was forced to stand firm to defend the vast supplies in these positions,
forfeiting its mobility. Thus the fight would be made when and where he
desired.
    The Gazala Line ended at the fortified box of Bir Hacheim, and south of
that stronghold was open desert. On May 26 Rommel launched Operation
Theseus, sending part of his force directly into the line to keep the British
occupied, while personally leading a force of ten thousand vehicles around
that southern flank. He was so confident that his army would be in Tobruk
in four days that he issued only limited quantities of food and water to his
men.
    Rommel’s daring plan almost worked. Afrika Korps successfully made the
turn around the Bir Hacheim horn the first night, but this flanking
manoeuvre was spotted by Desert Rat patrols, and Auchinleck rushed his
armour there in time to spoil Rommel’s surprise. The German advance was
stopped cold only ten miles behind the Gazala Line. In brutal fighting
Rommel lost a third of his panzer force. He ordered his surviving tanks to
regroup in a one-hundred-square-mile patch of open desert bounded by
Eighth Army’s boxes and deep minefields, an area Egyptian newspapers
began referring to as “The Cauldron.” Rommel’s gamble for blitzkrieg victory
had failed, and his underequipped army had taken refuge behind a screen of
British minefields.
    “If his relief column can’t break through the minefields to supply him
he’s done,” Graham said flatly. Most of the Gang gathered in Jasper’s
hospital room each night to keep Maskelyne and Hill abreast of the latest
news and rumours.
    Townsend was reading the Gazette. “Says here the Eyeties are trying to
get to him.”
    “Goodbye, Erwin,” Gregory, the navy man, said, drawing soft chuckles.
Townsend cautioned him, “Don’t be so sure. That Fox has more lives than a
whole family of cats.”
    “Well, I say throw in everything we’ve got right now,” Gregory replied.
“We’ve got him surrounded there. We can wipe him out if we move quickly.”
    “And if he breaks out?” Fuller wondered. “What stands between him and
the Nile?”
    “He won’t get out.”
    Robson laughed out loud. “Some general you’d make.”
    Jasper said very little, being content to lie back and enjoy the good
feelings of the moment. He had done his part. The desert had wrung the
Quixote out of him. The battle could be won without his contribution and he
wouldn’t feel he was a slacker or had been cheated. That dreadful gnawing
that had caused such dissatisfaction was gone, as if a hole in his stomach
had been patched. He was willing to accept his bit part in the great show
without complaint. It wasn’t necessary to present the grand illusion.
    By dusk on the twenty-ninth, Rommel’s survival was dependent upon
pluck and myth. His battle plan had been shattered. His men were out of
water, and their tanks had little fuel. Only by driving through the night and
personally navigating a supply convoy around Bir Hacheim did he put his
divisions back into minimal fighting condition. But his army was still in a
highly vulnerable condition.
    Losses had been much greater than he had anticipated. More than a
third of his tanks had been destroyed or had broken down. In addition, his
trusted subordinate, General Crüwell, had been captured, and his chief of
staff, General Gause, had been wounded. Afrika Korps was caught in a nest
of minefields and was under constant attack from British armour and
Tedder’s Desert Air Force. Rommel admitted to a captured 3rd Indian officer
that he would be forced to ask for terms if the Italians could not get a
supply convoy through the minefields. An all-out British attack, he knew,
would wipe him out.
    But Eighth Army held back.
    General Ritchie did not press his advantage. Instead of recognizing that
the Fox was at bay and striking him in his lair, he hesitated, possibly
intimidated by Rommel’s legendary resourcefulness. Wary of charging into a
trap, he refused to attack until he had overwhelming numerical superiority.
That lost opportunity turned the battle.
    On June 1, Italian sappers finally hacked through the minefields and
opened a supply line to the desperate Afrika Korps. The moment he was
resupplied, Rommel attacked, destroying the 150th Brigade box in
seventy-two hours, then turned south toward the suddenly isolated Bir
Hacheim box.
    By the time Ritchie ordered his tanks into the Cauldron it was too late.
His small groups of armour, penny-packets, were torn apart by Rommel’s
heavily concentrated tank force.
    On June 7 Jasper checked out of Number Four, a day later Hill followed.
Magic Valley had been humming all the while, but when Maskelyne got back
it had the air of a buggy factory after the invention of the motorcar. The
battle was being fought inside the Cauldron at point-blank range and there
was little need for deception.
    The Free French troops defending Bir Hacheim, under the command of
“the Old Rabbit,” Brigadier General Pierre Koenig, fought to their last bullet
and managed to hold out until June 10. Once Bir Hacheim fell, giving
Rommel a secure supply line in the south, his army turned north. One by
one the “impregnable” British boxes were overrun as Afrika Korps, now fat
with captured supplies, rolled relentlessly toward Tobruk. On June 10,
“Black Saturday,” an Eighth Army armoured convoy was ambushed by dug-in
88s outside the scrub town of El Adem. Two hundred British tanks were
destroyed. The next day a general withdrawal to the Egyptian frontier was
ordered.
    The rumour in the Delta was that GHQ was preparing to evacuate Egypt,
but no one really believed that. Tobruk would hold. Eighth Army would
regroup. There would be a successful counterattack. There was no need to
panic.
    But soldiers and civilians began making “worst case” plans. “If they do
evac,” Hill told Kathy, “I want you to go straight away. Understand?”
    “And who appointed you general?” she replied. “At least I don’t go
getting myself lost in the desert.”
    “Please,” he asked, “no lip this time. Just do what I say.”
    She did not want to be his possession, but she felt good knowing how
much he cared. “We’ll see,” she told him.
    Fortress Tobruk was considerably weaker than it had been during the
previous siege. Many of its perimeter guns had been siphoned off to
strengthen the Gazala line, its vast carpet of minefields had been reduced,
and it was being defended by 35,000 mostly untested troops led by South
African Major General H. B. Klopper. The massive German assault began on
June 20.
    One hundred and fifty Luftwaffe bombers flew 580 sorties against the
city that day. German and Italian artillery kept up a constant barrage.
Rommel’s shock troops attacked under this curtain of fire. His panzers came
right behind.
    In the afternoon, Klopper began blowing up his supply dumps to deprive
Afrika Korps of this plunder and accidentally knocked out most of his own
communications lines, thereby losing control of his troops. The battle for
Tobruk was over in one day. At 9:40 a.m. June 21, Klopper surrendered his
33,000-man garrison to Rommel. “Fortress of Tobruk has capitulated,”
Rommel announced to his troops. “All units will reassemble and prepare for
further advance.”
    On June 22 Adolf Hitler named Rommel “beloved of the nation,” and
made him, at age forty-nine, the youngest field marshal in German history.
    The road to the Nile was finally open. For the first time in the desert war
Rommel enjoyed a superiority of armour. Germany prepared to celebrate its
great victory in North Africa. The Reichsbank began printing occupation
currency. Campaign medals were struck for the gallant desert army. Songs
commemorating the liberation of Egypt were written and recorded to be
broadcast when the English surrendered.
    Prime Minister Churchill was conferring with President Roosevelt in
Washington when Rommel entered Tobruk. Calling the news “rather
disconcerting,” he nevertheless put up a bold public front. Actually, he was
badly shaken. Even Roosevelt’s agreement to ship 250 powerful new
Sherman tanks to North Africa did not ease his despair. After two years of
bitter fighting, the western desert had been lost.
    British headquarters in Cairo tried to maintain calm. But while official
agencies reported “temporary adjustments to straighten the line” and
“withdrawal of some advance units,” Radio Roma prepared Egypt for the
invasion. “The Axis does not make war on the Egyptian people,” its
announcers proclaimed. “It means merely to liberate Egypt from the
domination of the British. Don’t worry! Lay in one week’s supplies and
remain indoors. No harm will come to anyone.”
    Axis sympathizers readied a mansion on the Rue des Pyramides to serve
as Rommel’s official residence. Road signs were printed in German. Leaders
of the Muslim Brotherhood prepared to rise up against the British at the
appropriate moment.
    In the midst of all the hullabaloo Maskelyne was summoned to Gray
Pillars. Senior officers briefed him. Although Rommel was still half a desert
away, preparations had to be made for the defence of Cairo and Alexandria.
“We mean to be ready for him,” one cocky young major swaggered, but it
soon became apparent to Maskelyne that the Army was anything but ready.
Beyond changing street signs and placing “dragon’s teeth,” pyramid-shaped
metal tank obstacles, on major roads, there was no comprehensive plan for
defending the Delta cities.
    The Gang was ordered to design and produce suitable camouflage. “You
know,” explained Lieutenant Colonel Farber, an officer most renowned for
his smart polo game, “do up those things that make it difficult to move
about easily.” He grinned, exposing a space between his two front teeth.
“Let’s confuse the hell out of them.”
    Jasper gritted his teeth. The greatest juggernaut in military history was
marching toward them, and this polo-playing colonel thought it would be
good sport to confuse them. “Yes, sir,” he snapped, “do our best, sir,” and
saluted. As he drove back to Magic Valley on a motorbike he began to think
Rommel had been correct in telling a group of British prisoners they had
fought like lions but been led by donkeys.
    The Magic Gang plunged into work. Maskelyne and Townsend sketched
plans, Hill and Graham supervised the workshops, Fuller provided
transportation, Robson scraped up materials. The camouflage and
concealment plan was loosely based on the old plans for the defence of
London and other English cities after Dunkirk. Real and dummy machine-gun
pillboxes were produced. Permanently shadowed canvas “walls” that hid gun
emplacements were turned out by the score. Jasper devised a system of
mirrors that could be adjusted to make streets appear to continue or end.
“Top floors” were added to buildings to shield gunners’ nests. Townsend’s
team of artists painted long alleys on canvas flats that would be suspended
by buildings to lure German vehicles into the walls. The workshops turned
out canvas dragon’s teeth, plywood traps and dummy guns.
    And sophisticated booby traps. Real mines were disguised as camel
dung or broken car parts or common street debris, while harmless replicas
of real mines were produced in quantity to be strewn about the streets.
High explosives were packed inside dead rats as they had once been
stuffed into sheepskins. Plans were made to wire public toilets.
    “You know,” Barkas said as he inspected plans in Maskelyne’s office,
“we’re getting pretty damn good at preparing for invasions.”
    “Certainly,” Jasper replied. “Practise makes perfect.”
    Great piles of finished dummies were concealed beneath tarpaulins while
Jasper made a master blueprint for their placement in Cairo and Alex. Other
camouflage officers were drawing up similar plans in Suez and Port Said and
the rest of the cities of the Delta. Maskelyne knew that these gimmicks
wouldn’t stop the Germans, but they might give Eighth Army time to make
good its escape.
    On June 25 Auchinleck sacked Ritchie and took personal command of
Eighth Army. It had been generally believed since Wavell’s time that if it
became necessary, the British Army would make its last stand at Mersa
Matruh, a small port city midway between Tobruk and Alexandria. But the
Auk did not feel he had sufficient time to dig in there, particularly since
Rommel had feasted on Tobruk, capturing two thousand tons of fuel, five
thousand tons of provisions, vast quantities of ammunition and two
thousand vehicles. So he decided to withdraw Eighth Army to the way
station of El Alamein, a scant fifty miles west of Alex. It was there the
Army of the Nile would make its fight.
    Obviously, he did not publicly announce this plan, so it appeared to
everyone in the Basin that when Rommel drove past Matruh after a brief,
bloody battle, the army had collapsed. Thousands of civilians raced to
escape the Panzerarmee, and “The Flap,” the panicky evacuation of
Alexandria and Cairo, began.
    The first evacuees from Alex arrived in Cairo in limousines, holding the
leashes of pure-bred dogs in one hand and clutching jewel boxes in the
other, but as the panic spread others streamed into the city crammed in
buses and trucks, carrying their possessions in cloth sacks. Mostly, though,
what they brought to Cairo was hysteria.
    On July 1, “Ash Wednesday,” it snowed charred scraps of paper and
Cairo’s streets were turned white as embassies and military offices burned
confidential documents. The Royal Navy fled Alexandria harbour, steaming
to the Red Sea. The roads out of the city were choked by every type of
vehicle capable of moving under its own power. Every railway carriage was
packed and thousands rode on their roofs. Aircraft shuttled in and out of
Heliopolis carrying maximum loads to safer Middle Eastern and African
cities. Many of those who couldn’t find rides walked out with their
belongings on their backs. Even those people who had nothing to fear from
the Germans joined the lines of refugees, as if it were a lemming run.
    Cairo was in organized chaos. Policemen and traffic controllers did their
normal duties. The stock market fell, but remained open. Barclays Bank
calmly paid out nearly one million pounds to skittish depositors in a single
day. The value of a year-old car plummeted by 80 per cent, while the cost
of luggage and trunks skyrocketed. Prostitutes lowered their prices and
worked around the clock. People preparing to evacuate piled everything
they couldn’t carry with them in front of their flats and accepted whatever
cash was offered.
    Scores of American civilians descended on the United States Legation to
demand transportation, and Minister Alexander Kirk struggled to arrange for
planes and large vehicles.
    The British government put up a confident front. Ambassador Sir Miles
Lampson attended the afternoon races in Alexandria while his wife shopped
for trinkets in Cairo’s souk. At Heliopolis, the cricket matches were played
as scheduled, and there was the usual long waiting list for a starting time
at the Gezira Island golf course.
    Mussolini confidently had his favourite white charger flown to Libya so
that he might properly lead the victory parade into Cairo.
    Nightfall calmed the city like a cloth laid over a screeching bird’s cage.
Although a curfew was imposed, the best restaurants and dance clubs were
crowded. The Moselle was chilled and the strawberries were fresh. People
dressed in their finery and wined and dined and danced to the music of the
big bands at Shepheards and the Continental and all the other grand hotels
and clubs. Lord Lampson hosted a dinner party for eighty guests at the
Mohammed Ali Club and remarked, “When Rommel gets here he’ll know
where to find us.” The only intrusion into this party mood was the
occasional wail of air raid sirens and the choking white smoke of burning
secrets billowing out of embassy chimneys.
    Maskelyne and the Gang worked feverishly, finally feeling as if they were
in the war. As Jasper had joked so long ago, it had finally come to them.
    On July 2 GHQ ordered the evacuation of all dependants and female
personnel as soon as transport could be arranged. It was believed that
blondes would be perfectly safe with the Germans, so dark-haired women
were put at the front of the lines. There was, however, a run on bleach at
the chemists’ as the women soldiers fought to stay at their posts as long
as possible.
    Kathy was ordered to pack her kit and stand by. Having no idea when
she might be shipped out, she forged a curfew pass and went to Michael’s
room at the Valley to tell him what had happened. There was no one in the
Gang’s quarters. She went into the loo to wash up and instinctively bolted
the door behind her – and the bolt snapped off in the lock. She was
trapped.
    In an instant the spunky façade she’d maintained as the Germans
smashed toward Cairo dissolved, and she started screaming frantically and
pounding on the door. She yelled herself hoarse, but there was no one
nearby to hear her. By chance, Hill had decided to return to his room to
collect a clean uniform for the coming hard stretch and found her there.
    He booted out the lock and freed her, then kissed away her fears and
said he loved her. He was quite surprised how good it felt to say that and
truly mean it. They talked for a while, and kissed some more, and it got
very late, and so it seemed entirely proper she stay the night.
    Meanwhile, Eighth Army dug in at El Alamein. On June 30, Auchinleck
tried to boost morale, telling his soldiers, “The enemy is stretching to his
limit and thinks we are a broken army … He hopes to take Egypt by bluff.
Show him where he gets off.” The Auk had picked the ideal place to stand
fast. The Alamein Line was the shortest distance between two impassable
points in the entire desert. Only forty miles separated the Mediterranean
and the salt marshes and quicksand of the Qattara Depression. There were
no traversable flanks, so the German attack had to be made directly into
the passage. General Auchinleck stuck every man, gun and mine he could
muster into these forty miles. Rommel would pay in blood for every inch of
rock-studded sand he captured.
    Rather than pause to reconnoitre, thus giving Eighth Army time to firm
up, Rommel pushed his exhausted soldiers into the gap. The lack of
intelligence information proved costly as his men ran into unexpectedly
heavy concentrations. Both sides took heavy losses on July 1, but the
British line held through a long day of close combat. That night German
Supreme Command in Berlin prematurely announced, “In Egypt, German and
Italian divisions, supported by strong formations of dive bombers, have
broken through the Alamein positions.”
    The scent of total victory in Africa seduced German leaders to cancel
Operation Herkules, the invasion of Malta, and assign those strike troops to
Rommel. This gave him desperately needed reinforcements, but allowed the
RAF and the Royal Navy to begin operating from Malta again, and they
hammered Axis supply convoys.
    Rommel attacked again on July 2, but achieved no more success.
Mussolini waited impatiently at Comando Supremo headquarters in
Cyrenaica to make his triumphant march.
    On July 3 the tide of battle turned. The elite Italian Ariete Division was
trampled by 13th Corps, New Zealanders. The Desert Air Force flew an
incredible nine hundred sorties. By dusk, Rommel was reduced to twenty-six
combat-ready tanks. Realizing his charge had been blunted, he decided to
fortify his present position and resupply.
    The heroic stand of Eighth Army at El Alamein bolstered public
confidence in the Delta, and the panic subsided. Prices immediately
returned to pre-Flap levels, and restaurateurs again put away their
German-language menus. The Army’s position was still precarious, however,
and preparations for an orderly withdrawal from Egypt continued. Supplies
not immediately needed at the front were shipped east of the Suez Canal
to cover the retreat, and British agents in Damascus kept careful track of
the Imam of the Dervish to make sure he was not up to his old tricks.
    The evacuation of dependants proceeded, although female military
personnel were permitted to remain pending further developments.
Contingency headquarters facilities were set up a safe distance from the
city.
    The Gang worked steadily to turn Cairo and Alex into deadly traps for
the Axis invaders. Once the basic deceptions were in production, Jasper
began creating more esoteric devices, including soupy mists to hide big
guns, artificial quicksand pits, flat lighting to make weapons-spotting more
difficult and elaborate mirror mazes that channelled directly into ambush
positions.
    The fighting raged through early July without either side establishing an
advantage. Rommel repeatedly stabbed at the Alamein Line, probing for a
weak point through which to drive his army. He successfully concealed his
own shortage of artillery by interspersing wooden tanks and dummy 88s
among his armoured divisions.
    Eighth Army met each thrust with a counterattack as Auchinleck tried to
lure Panzerarmee Afrika into a battle of attrition which he knew he could
win.
    On July 20 Mussolini returned to Rome. Rommel’s great drive to the Nile
had been stopped. Once again, Afrika Korps would be summering in the
desert.
    By the end of July Cairo had settled into an uneasy calm. But luggage
remained packed and vehicles juiced for a quick getaway in case the Desert
Fox had one last surprise up his sleeve.
    On August 3, Prime Minister Churchill arrived in Cairo to meet with his
African and Far Eastern commanders. General Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the
Imperial General Staff, arrived a few hours after the Prime Minister. South
Africa’s Field Marshal Smuts and General Wavell from India came in later.
Auchinleck, living in the field with his troops, was the last to make an
appearance, still dressed in khaki drill and the familiar forage cap.
    The bigwigs immediately disappeared into day-long meetings, but no
announcement of their purpose was forthcoming. Speculation was that
Churchill intended to name a new Eighth Army commander, freeing
Auchinleck to concentrate on his duties as C-in-C of the entire Middle
Eastern theatre.
    Everyone had his own opinion about the reason for Churchill’s visit,
however. “He’s heard about the local bints,” Hill decided, “that’s all. Think
it’s so easy to get any, what with the whole bloody Empire watchin’ you all
the time?”
    Fuller sighed. “Michael, is sex all you think about?”
    Hill made a big show of thinking about that.
    Actually, Churchill was there to supervise an extensive shakeup of
command. He was furious that the army upon which so much care had been
lavished had performed so poorly in the field. The disaster at the Gazala
Line had sparked renewed questions about his leadership. A desert victory
was needed to restore lost confidence, and once again he pushed his
commanders to give him that triumph. “Rommel, Rommel, Rommel,” he
fumed. “What else matters but beating him?”
    General Auchinleck had a much better appreciation of the tactical
situation and knew he could field an overwhelming number of men and arms
by early autumn. He wanted to hold the line at El Alamein until then, and
argued that strategy forcefully with the Prime Minister.
    Churchill and Brooke decided that the popular leader of XIII Corps,
General William “Strafer” Gott, would assume command of Eighth Army.
Much more shocking, they announced that, effective from August 15,
General Sir Harold Alexander would replace Auchinleck at the head of Middle
Eastern Command.
    On August 5, the Prime Minister made a morale-building tour of the front
and created a stir as he plodded along in his pith helmet, wearing dark
goggles and carrying a parasol. Photographers snapped away to get full
propaganda value from this show of bravery.
    Two days later General Gott took precisely the same route Churchill had
taken on his return trip from desert headquarters. But this time two
Luftwaffe Me-109s materialized, as if they had been waiting for Gott’s
plane, and shot it down over the desert. The General scrambled out safely,
but courageously returned to assist some of the men trapped inside. He
was killed when the Germans made a second pass.
    The terrible news sent Jasper into a dizzy spin. The similarity between
this tragedy and Knox’s death was uncanny. This time, though, rather than
allowing his depression to catch hold and turn him inside out, he fought it.
He went by himself to the military cemetery and stood on the gentle rise
overlooking the trim rows of identical white crosses. Its size and symmetry
gave the cemetery a tranquil beauty, and the great number of markers
seemed to make the death of one man less significant. Once, Jasper might
have listened to the winds, hoping to be told the good reason that the men
resting here had died. But that was no longer necessary. The place calmed
him, as it had been made to do, and he paid his respects to all the souls
there and returned to the Valley.
    Churchill selected General Bernard Law Montgomery to replace Gott.
Montgomery was a bit of a mystery to the veterans of Eighth Army. He’d
been training troops in England since Dunkirk, and about all that was known
of his character was that he neither smoked nor drank, that he was a
practising evangelical churchman and a fanatic about physical fitness. Jack
Fuller thought the choice was a splendid one and recalled attending a
Montgomery lecture in London at which “No Smoking” and “No Coughing”
signs had been posted.
    Hill shuddered. “Sounds like he’s got a great sense of humour.”
    Monty immediately made his intentions known by burning a set of
withdrawal plans and announcing, “We stay here alive or we stay here
dead.” Accustomed to a spit-and-polish army, he was rather rudely
introduced to the realities of desert life. While visiting General Freyberg at
the New Zealanders’ headquarters, he commented drily, “I notice your
soldiers don’t salute.”
    “Oh, just wave to them,” Freyberg suggested. “They’ll wave back.”
    Montgomery knew that Rommel would attack as soon as he could
prepare his army, for each hour that passed allowed the British to further
entrench at El Alamein. If he blitzed soon enough he might find a weak
point in the line; if he waited too long a reinforced and resupplied Eighth
Army would crush him. It was therefore imperative he be stalled as long as
possible.
    “There are two ways to do this,” Barkas told a hastily convened meeting
of his senior camoufleurs, “truth and lies. The RAF and Desert Rat
commando teams are pecking at his supply lines. That’s the truth. The lies
are up to us.”
    He paused, and looked around the room at the men who had been
serving with him in the desert almost since the glory days of Wavell’s
triumphant march. “Gentlemen,” he said in a low voice, “they are finally
taking us seriously. It has fallen upon our shoulders to convince Rommel
that we are stronger than we actually are, to force him to hold back until
we are strong enough. Specifically, our task is to create an army in reserve,
complete to the smallest detail. We’ve been waiting a long time for this
opportunity, let’s not blow it.”
    The objective of “Operation Sentinel” was to buy time until the 51st
Division arrived in Egypt with its complement of twenty-five American-made
Sherman tanks. Military Operations described the sort of buildup that would
most impress German Intelligence, then gave the camoufleurs access to as
much labour and materials as they needed. Jasper worked closely with
Barkas’s second, Tony Ayerton, in drawing up plans.
    For the first time, the graduates of Buckley’s classes at Farnham would
have the chance to put into the field all the techniques and tricks they’d
mastered during two years in the desert. No longer would they have to
scrounge for equipment and improvise from scrap heaps. Montgomery was a
student of military history, and knew that war magic had been used
successfully even before the Greeks penetrated the walls of Troy inside the
Trojan horse. All he wanted from Barkas’s men was that they make two
motorized divisions appear on the barren sands north of Cairo.
    The phantom cities that had fooled the Germans in England and
Alexandria could not pass muster during daylight. Entire dummy bivouacs
had to be created and had to look real enough to fool Jerry’s low-level
spotter aircraft.
    Three days later a campsite large enough for two divisions was
established. Rows of field tents were staked, and smoke began rising from
cookhouses and refuse piles. Dust clouds raised by heavy construction
equipment and supply trucks obscured large sections of the encampment,
and a web of tracks crisscrossed the entire area. Day after day more tents
were set up. Brand new heavy cannon appeared, often still in transport
wrapping. Storage dumps grew rapidly. Footprints of thousands of soldiers
in the hard sand offered proof that the NAAFI canteens were doing a brisk
business. Individual campfires burned through the night. German
reconnaissance photographs showed thousands of soldiers busy at their
daily tasks, drilling, listening to lectures, even stealing winks behind a pile
of unserviceable gasoline cans.
    Only the field tents were real. The busy British soldiers were
Maskelyne’s dummies propped into every conceivable position, including
sitting in the dummy latrines. The guns and dumps and most of the trucks
were produced by Magic Valley workshops. The garbage was trucked in
every morning. The buildings were hollow frames. The tracks were made by
a few real trucks driving about the camp all day, raising dust clouds on cue
for the benefit of enemy spotters. About a hundred men actually lived in
the camp and made the footprints, stoked the fires, moved the “Chinese”
soldiers around and created some real waste. Compared to the hazards of
driving a division of cardboard tanks into combat, this was considered
country-club duty.
    The camp expanded each day as more and more “troops” and “weapons”
arrived. Then, after reaching the assigned strength of two motorized
divisions, it began to thin out as the “men” and “guns” were trucked
forward to bolster the Alamein line.
    To complete the deception, additional gun pits, dummy tanks and
“Chinese” soldiers were added to the Alamein defensive positions, carefully
integrated among existing fortifications. “How does it look?” was the
question of the day.
    “It’d fool me,” was the usual answer, “but then again, I’m only a
private.”
    The factories at Magic Valley turned out “soldiers,” “guns,” “tanks” and
even “trucks” by the truckload. To animate the “soldiers” at Alamein the
pop-up Tommy was invented. This was simply an ordinary dummy weighted
at the bottom and held in a horizontal position by a string fastened to a
spike in its helmet. When movement was desired, the string was released
and the weight dropped into a previously dug hole, causing the dummy to
pop up.
    Maskelyne and Union Jack Fuller practically lived in a jeep. On a normal
day Jasper would inspect the work being done at the Valley, arrange
transportation for the finished props, supervise installation of the dummies
at the campsite and examine procurement lists. At least once every day he
met with Barkas or Ayerton and some of the other Farnham alumni, and
somehow managed to put in some time at his drawing table. He was
usually so exhausted by nightfall that he put off writing to Mary. She would
understand. He’d finally got into the war.
    Montgomery utilized other clever ploys to deceive Rommel. In order to
slow Panzerarmee’s attack, when it did begin, he had his cartographers
create a desert map incorrectly identifying areas of impassable “soft sand”
and desirable “hard going” on the Alamein Line. The coded map was
carefully wrinkled and coffee-stained and entrusted to a British officer who
had been disgraced by his intimate association with the belly-dancing Axis
spy Hekmeth Fahmy. This officer drove gallantly into German minefields and
was killed. As British Intelligence anticipated, his map case was discovered
and sent to Rommel’s headquarters.
    Axis Intelligence took the bait. Deciding that this map was genuine,
they plotted their attack corridors based on the terrain information it
provided. The panzers would thus be driving into soft sand, becoming
inviting targets for the RAF.
    Rommel held back his army through the brutal desert heat of August.
Both armies suffered the hardships of the desert, but Monty was able to
provide his men with some relief.
    Everyone in Cairo awoke each morning certain Jerry would attack that
day. It was inconceivable that Rommel would wait until the autumn. Eighth
Army was steadily growing stronger. Rommel had to come at them. He had
to.
    Mike Hill was going through a difficult time during this period, trying to
keep his mind on his work while making a decision about Kathy Lewis. He
knew he just couldn’t let things go on too much longer; he’d either have to
pop the question or break it off. His inability to make that decision was
slowly driving him crackers.
    He spoke to Jasper about it. He didn’t think of Maskelyne as a father
figure, but he respected him more than he’d ever respected his other
friends. Maskelyne was old, and he had been married for so long, and he
had been around the whole bloody world. “So,” Hill asked bluntly one
afternoon, “what do you think, Jay? Should I marry her or what?”
    “I suppose that depends,” Jasper teased. “What’s the what?”
    Hill squirmed uncomfortably. “You know what it is. It’s … that. That’s
what what is.”
    Maskelyne thought he understood. “I don’t know, Mike. Seems to me the
two of you are old enough to make your own decisions. You love her,
right?”
    “Yeah, course. But seems like there’s more than that that’s necessary.”
    “There is, but that’s a pretty good start.”
    He finally bought a diamond ring, just in case. The stone was not very
large, but he knew she wouldn’t care about that. She wasn’t the type who
lusted after a man’s purse. If she was, she wouldn’t be with him.
    He finally decided he would surprise her with it on her birthday, August
31. He arose early that morning, still determined to take the plunge. But
just as he was climbing into the jeep to meet her at Clarke’s office, Graham
came running up to him. “I wouldn’t be going anywhere,” the carpenter told
him. “Rommel’s jumped.”
    Hill exhaled, and grinned, then laughed and laughed.
    Nails did not understand how the news of battle could make a man so
happy.
    The night before, while Hill was turning restlessly in his bunk, the steel
heart of Rommel’s African army had moved south, leaving in its place an
impressive display of wooden tanks and guns. The Field Marshal intended
to duplicate his success at El Gazala by breaking through the reportedly
weak southern tip of the Alamein Line near the Qattara Depression, then
turning north and meeting the British defences piecemeal. Once again, he
was depending on speed and surprise to compensate for his shortages of
gasoline and ammunition.
    But this time Eighth Army was waiting for him. British Intelligence had
intercepted his wireless communications and knew his plans. This time the
Fox would receive the nasty surprise.
    The routes designated “hard going” or “firm ground” on the bogus map
had been densely seeded with mines. Rommel’s armour drove right into
these fields and was trapped. Surprise had been lost even before the battle
began. Now the element of speed had been taken away from him. As soon
as Rommel’s tanks bogged down in the soft sand, waves of RAF bombers lit
the night with parachute flares, then rained tons of high explosive on the
mired columns.
    By daybreak, the attacking force had not reached its initial objective and
had already suffered unacceptably heavy losses. Dozens of tanks had been
knocked out. 21st Panzer Division commander Major General von Bismarck
had been killed by a mine, and General Nehring was badly wounded in an
air attack. Rommel abandoned his original plan and made an immediate
right hook, ordering his troops to occupy the high ground of the Alam Haifa
ridge.
    Monty was waiting for him there.
    The only safe route out of the British minefields funnelled the Axis force
into soft sand. The column was temporarily saved by a sandstorm that
grounded Desert Air Force, but when Rommel’s armour finally broke free of
the beachy terrain it drove right into Eighth Army’s next trap. Scores of
American-made Grant tanks and antitank guns had been secretly dug into
position at the Alam Haifa ridge and opened up on the Germans. Relays of
bombers and fighter aircraft relentlessly attacked.
    By the afternoon of September 2 Rommel realized that his situation was
desperate. His fuel had been exhausted slogging through the minefields
and soft sands, and the thousands of gallons of reserves he had been
promised had been sunk en route by destroyers and aircraft operating from
Malta. He began a cautious pullback, still looking for an opening, still
looking for a place to make a good fight. But Montgomery made no
mistakes.
    The first volley had made the dummy campsite obsolete. No hard
evidence was available to evaluate its impact on Rommel’s planning, but
during the unexpected, and welcome, August lull, the 51st Division had
arrived and been hurried into the Alamein gap.
    On September 1 Jasper drove with Hill and Phil Townsend to the
deserted and suddenly depressing campsite. Two days earlier the place had
seemed alive and exciting, its existence allowing the Gang to believe they
were playing an important role in the battle for North Africa. But overnight
it had become dismal and shoddy, its cardboard weapons had become
embarrassments, painful reminders to each of them that their greatest
battle had been fought against cameras.
    Looking over the silent camp, Townsend grumbled, “Right now, I feel
about as useful as a ticket for the Titanic’s second voyage.”
    “Oh, I think you’ll feel differently about that soon,” Jasper said in a
surprisingly chipper voice. “We’ve been at it awfully hard and we’re all a bit
let down. But we did a damn fine job. Damn fine. And we can be proud of
ourselves.”
    “Well, we’d better be,” Hill said disgustedly as he booted a cloth head
into the side of a plywood truck, “’cause no one else knows we’re bloody
well alive.”
    The encouraging reports from the battlefield lifted the Gang’s spirits, but
it was difficult to shake the depressing feeling of being left at home on the
night of the gala ball. Jasper refused to admit he shared those feelings,
repeatedly insisting that he was satisfied with his own contribution and
that of his Camouflage Section. He said it so often, in fact, that even he
began to believe it.
    A few times he thought about his early dreams and felt foolish. He had
been so headstrong, so confident. He was going to win the war by applying
the techniques of magic to the battlefield. He was going to part the seas
and invent Trojan horses. So naive. Back then, he hadn’t had the faintest
notion of what real war was about. He’d never seen the wounds of war up
close. Well, he’d learned the lesson. All one man can do is his part, and do
it as well as he is able.
    He was proud of the role he’d played, even if he was not able to crown
his performance with a grand illusion. That didn’t matter anymore. He
wasn’t putting on a magic show, he was at war. And in that war he wasn’t a
magician, he was a King’s soldier.
    On September 4 Rommel began withdrawing his armour behind a screen
of levelled 88mm antiaircraft guns. Montgomery resisted the strong
temptation to chase him and finish him off, an urge that had proved
disastrous to the commanders who had preceded him.
    Panzerarmee had been badly knocked about. Without gaining an inch, it
had taken four thousand casualties and lost fifty tanks. Eighth Army had
lost a third as many men and sixty-eight tanks, but Monty was only
fifty-five miles from his supply depot and could sustain such losses.
    Most importantly, Eighth Army finally had a commander who had proved
himself to be the tactical equal of Field Marshal Rommel. Panzerarmee’s
attack had proceeded precisely as he had predicted and the enemy had
fallen in turn into each of his carefully prepared snares. The Battle of Alam
Haifa, popularly becoming known as the Six-Day Race, had rejuvenated the
exhausted Eighth Army.
    The initiative now belonged to the British. For the first time in the
seesaw desert campaign that army victorious in the last battle remained in
range of its own supply areas. Within weeks Monty would be able to attack
with an overwhelming force. Rommel’s last best effort had failed.
    The coming battle would be decisive. Rommel’s army lacked the fuel to
retreat or the resources to meet Eighth Army on the open desert, so it
would fight for survival on the forty-mile-long Alamein Line. The defensive
advantages of the position that had served Monty now worked for Rommel.
Any attack would have to be made straight into German lines. The Field
Marshal had massed the remnants of his army behind a wall of 500,000
buried mines, and organized mobile strike groups. Wherever the main
thrust of the British attack took place, his tank concentrations would move
to that point. Afrika Korps was wounded, but its claws were still deadly.
    Montgomery began preparing for that offensive, code-named “Lightfoot,”
as soon as the enemy began retreating. Unhappy with the “old boys’
network” of commanders who continually questioned his directives, he
made it absolutely clear that his orders were not to be debated, simply
carried out. Those officers unable to accept this doctrine were replaced.
    Monty was also displeased with the slapdash training his soldiers had
received. Taking advantage of his favourable circumstances, and knowing
that the desert was eating at the Germans and Italians, he began
withdrawing units from the front and sending them to rear training schools.
When Lightfoot began, his army would be better equipped, trained and
disciplined than ever before.
    Churchill again pleaded for the killing blow to be struck, but Monty
refused to attack until he was absolutely ready. He warned the Prime
Minister that he would resign rather than commit an unprepared army to
battle. Churchill had to accede to the new hero’s demands. It was agreed
that the largest Allied attack of the war would be launched on October 23.
    Jasper Maskelyne did not know it, but this was his moment to take
centre stage. Montgomery was about to ask him to perform the greatest bit
of legerdemain in the history of warfare. This was to be the grand illusion.


                                  Sixteen
Everywhere in the Nile Basin preparations for Montgomery’s Lightfoot
offensive were in progress – everywhere except Magic Valley. Lacking a
specific assignment, the workshops continued turning out the sets for the
defence of the cities, although it was confidently held that they would
never be employed.
    Monty had imbued Eighth Army with a recharged fighting spirit. Units
drilled in close formation. The colourful “gypsy-dress” uniforms disappeared
and soldiers wore issue khakis – with the shirts tucked into the shorts or
trousers! Some troops even took up saluting again. There was the usual
good-natured grumbling from the ranks, and Monty was described as “in
defeat, indomitable; in victory, insufferable,” but a feeling that final victory
was at hand was in the autumn air.
    It had been so long since Maskelyne had enjoyed any free time that he
did not know what to do with it. He sketched a few ideas for Montgomery
and wandered around the Valley making a nuisance of himself. One
afternoon he played a sloppy round of golf on Gezira Island. Another time
he decided to finally visit the Cairo Museum to see the gold of King Tut, but
most of the collection had been buried in the desert for safekeeping. Those
pieces left behind did not interest him.
    He strolled slowly back to the Valley that day, browsing in the stalls,
sipping coffee at a café. The pitiful army of Egyptian peasants was still
camped outside Magic Valley’s front gates to see the wizard who lived
inside, but they’d been there so long they had lost connection to their
original purpose. Those who had been there the longest competed for
respect and power by claiming to have seen the wizard perform miracles,
and the greater their stories the more respect they received. Gradually, the
Sorcerer of the Valley had been given a supernatural form to match his
abilities, which had grown more prodigious with each competing tale. Jasper
could walk through the gates without being bothered, for these people were
waiting for a god.
    Actually, he sort of missed the attention.
    Maskelyne’s own period of inactivity ended on September 16. In the
morning a dispatch rider delivered a note from Barkas requesting he stand
by. At noon, Barkas and Tony Ayerton collected him in a Chevrolet staff car.
“Where to?” Jasper asked as they drove off.
    “A meeting,” Barkas replied.
    Instead of heading into town as Maskelyne expected, they drove west,
past the Pyramids, past the tank repair depots jammed with damaged
hulls, past Monty’s training schools and gun ranges and bivouac areas, past
the filthy Arab villages and out onto the desert.
    This was Jasper’s first trip onto the Blue since his trip with Hill, and he
sweated with fear. During the drive the men avoided speculating about the
meeting, and instead exchanged the latest Monty jokes and Shepheards
gossip. There was talk of an Allied landing in Northwest Africa, an invasion
which would squeeze Rommel like an egg in a vice.
    Three miles northwest of the Burg-el-Arab way station, hard on the
banks of the turquoise Mediterranean, Eighth Army had transformed a speck
of barren desert into a sprawling, mobile command centre. Protected by an
outer ring of tanks and heavy artillery, hundreds of office and supply trucks,
staff cars, caravans and communications vehicles had begun gathering
there in late August. Miles of telephone lines and power cables had been
strung. Tents of all sizes had been staked among the dunes.
    A military city had been born there, and as Maskelyne arrived it hummed
with the motorized activity of a confident army preparing for battle.
Dispatch riders on bikes roared through the perimeter, raising dust trails.
Officers from all the Commonwealth armies scurried about clutching
briefcases. From a nearby airstrip, Desert Air Force Spits rose into the air at
precisely timed intervals to patrol the skies, working in conjunction with
Long Range Desert Group observers out alone on the plain.
    Security was extremely tight. Barkas had to show his pass at three
different points before being permitted to park. An armed guard escorted
them to a large marquee and handed them over at the flap door to another
guard. The situation made Jasper wildly curious. Obviously something big
was on tap. But what? he wondered.
    Dudley Clarke had arrived earlier, and greeted them warmly. They took
seats and small-talked while waiting. Another dozen officers had preceded
them, and during the next hour four more straggled in. Coffee and tea were
served.
    Finally, a military policeman stepped into the tent and called them to
attention.
    Everyone stood and snapped to. An instant later General Bernard Law
Montgomery materialized out of a glare of sunlight, followed precisely one
step later by his chief of staff, General Francis de Guingand.
    “Seats.” Everyone sat. The tent was absolutely silent.
    Montgomery took off his black tanker’s beret and had a few private
words with de Guingand, then faced the small group. He was framed by a
large situation map showing two great armies facing each other across the
Alamein Line. “Here it is, gentlemen,” he began crisply. “The front line
stretches across forty miles of open desert, bounded on the north by the
sea and the south by the Qattara Depression. There are no passable flanks.
So General Rommel is aware we must charge straight into his teeth and he
will be waiting for us. It’s going to be quite a scrap, but I do not believe I
am overestimating the situation to say that the entire war will turn on what
happens here. What I am about to ask you to do is impossible. It can’t be
done; but it must be done.” He paused, and his steel-blue eyes searched
out Maskelyne. “I hope you’ve brought your magic wand with you. We’re
going to need it now.”
    Montgomery then turned the meeting over to his second. In a forthright
manner, de Guingand laid out the top-secret plan of attack. Under the full
moon of October 23, Eighth Army’s tanks were going to smash through
enemy minefields in the northern sector of the line, then fight south to cut
off Afrika Korps’ supply lines. Since the railhead and the only good road in
the entire desert ran along the northern coast, the enemy would expect the
attack to begin there. But with imagination, cunning and luck, tactical
surprise might be achieved, and that was the reason this group had been
assembled. Montgomery wanted to somehow convince Rommel’s
Intelligence that the main thrust of Eighth Army’s attack would be made at
the southern end of the Alamein Line, and that the clamour in the north
was simply a loud diversion. If this ploy was successful, Rommel would be
forced to hold back his reserve divisions until he was certain Monty was
attacking in the north, giving Eighth Army vital time to breach
Panzerarmee’s vast minefields. If complete deception could not be
accomplished, General Montgomery hoped to at least confuse the enemy
about the date and magnitude of the attack.
    “Well, there it is,” de Guingand concluded. “You must conceal one
hundred and fifty thousand men with a thousand guns and a thousand
tanks on a plain as hard and flat as a billiard table, and the Germans must
not know anything about it, although they will be watching every
movement, listening for every noise, charting every track. Every bloody wog
will be watching you and telling the Germans what you’re doing for the price
of a packet of tea. You can’t do it, of course, but you’ve bloody well got to.”
After pausing to let his impossible charge sink in, he asked for questions.
    Eight hands shot into the air, and de Guingand took the questions in
turn, but Jasper’s thoughts drifted to the heart of the problem. Simply put,
Monty was demanding the slickest bit of legerdemain in history. An entire
army in full battle-dress was to be concealed in the open palm of one hand,
while the enemy was to be made to believe it was in the other. Short of
mass mesmerism, the General was correct, it couldn’t be done.
    Then how would they do it?
    After the meeting was adjourned Jasper strolled around the area with
Barkas and Ayerton, finally settling down on the crest of a high white dune.
A few thousand yards in front of them the Mediterranean began its climb up
and over the horizon. They smoked. “Quite an assignment,” Barkas said.
    “Quite,” Jasper agreed, and wondered why General Montgomery hadn’t
requested something reasonable, like splitting the Red Sea or calling down
the plagues. His stomach was churning, but this time he knew it was not
caused by fear of failure, this time it was the excitement of opportunity.
Finally, here it was, the grand illusion! An illusion so important that it
would alter the course of the war. An illusion of far greater magnitude than
anything else ever attempted on a battlefield. An illusion much more
difficult than anything performed by his grandfather or his father. Finally, he
was being called upon to do precisely what he had set out to do three years
earlier – perform the greatest magic trick in history.
    He watched a set of gentle waves roll up the beach, then scurry back to
the safety of the ocean. Jasper Maskelyne at war. The magician Maskelyne
at war. Lives would depend on his ability. If this bit was properly presented
the legendary Rommel would be left holding the deck – or, more precisely,
holding his reserve armour in check long enough to allow a massive British
tank force to break through his minefields. But if the bit failed, if he was
not up to it, thousands of brave Englishmen and Australians and New
Zealanders and Indians would be hung up in those minefields and ripped
apart by Panzerarmee’s machine guns, mortars and artillery.
    His life in the theatre had brought him to this telling moment, and it
would take everything he had ever learned to pull it off. “It can’t be done,”
Monty said. “You can’t do it,” de Guingand said. Jasper took a deep breath
of the ocean air, and smiled his broadest and most dazzling smile. “Hey
presto!” he whispered to the breeze.
    Temporary workspace had been assigned to the camoufleurs in the
third-class waiting room of the El Alamein railway station. Ayerton went off
to scout the northern sector for natural features which might be
incorporated into the plan, while Clarke, Barkas and Maskelyne set to work.
    Each man saw the problem differently. Clarke, the civilian solicitor,
approached it as an exercise in logic. “Our intention is to make the enemy
believe that the thrust of our attack will be made at his southern defences.
To accomplish this, we’ve got to conceal troops, weapons and supplies in
the northern sector while simultaneously creating the impression that a
major buildup is taking place in the south.
    “Failing that, we’ve got to at least confuse him as to the moment of
attack.
    “The enemy will gather information from his own observations, from
interception of wireless communications and from paid informers. He’ll be
paying particular attention to the main desert tracks for any sign of
increased activity. He’ll be watching for our buildup and keeping a sharp eye
on our water sources. He knows we can’t go too far without adequate water
supplies.” He paused, and sighed, “It’s a bit of a tough one, I’m afraid.
    “We’ve got to take each of these areas into consideration, perhaps one
at a time, and then work out a unified plan of action.”
    Barkas, who had spent his civilian life between world wars making
documentary films about smaller wars around the world, saw it as a classic
problem of concealment and decoy, and gave an expert summation of the
resources available to this massive camouflage effort. Then he looked at
Jasper and said, “I expect your dummies will be quite useful in the south.
We can mount an entire decoy advance, complete with dummy tanks and
guns and what-have-yous, similar to what we’ve done before but on a much
greater scale, of course. It might not accomplish everything Monty asked
for, but it should definitely help.”
    Jasper listened intently as Clarke and Barkas laid out the problem. The
complications appeared insurmountable. Rommel’s army was waiting behind
a screen of half a million mines with machine guns, 88s, mortars, artillery
and all the other killing devices of modern warfare. His spies were privy to
every breath Eighth Army took. Yet somehow he had to be deceived. “You
can’t make a camel fly,” Frank Knox had once told Jasper. Well, of course
he could. As he had often claimed, given the proper equipment anything
was possible. “It’s a trick, is all,” he said aloud.
    “Hmm?” Barkas asked.
    “It’s a trick, that’s all. Look here, the situation absolutely begs for a
classic misdirection. What we intend to do is make something that is in one
place appear to be in another place. I’ve spent most of my life doing just
that and I know how to do it. We’ve got to present Jerry with an array of
evidence and allow him to draw his own conclusions as to what it all
means. If we show him the proper evidence, he’ll reach the conclusions we
want him to. If we simply show him a finished product he’s sure to question
it closely, but if we show him our preparations he’ll make his own decisions.
Now,” he continued, growing excited as the possibilities became clear in his
own mind, “we’re going to stage this just as we would present a theatrical
illusion. First, we’ve got to prepare our props. These props are the key to
everything that happens thereafter, and then we’ve got to put them on
display. After he’s had some time to see them, we transpose them, move
them from one hand to the other, and finally we make our presentation.”
He smiled broadly. “Spring the trap.”
    Clarke and Barkas questioned Maskelyne closely, but he was able to
sustain the analogy. “My grandfather defined magic as causing something
or somebody to pass mysteriously from one condition to another, and that’s
really all we’re doing.”
    “All right,” Clarke finally agreed, “we’ll pull this trick on Rommel.”
Working on a battered old typewriter with sticky keys, they banged out a
general plan of approach, a so-called “appreciation of the situation.” This
plan, as befitting its creators, was logical, practical and whimsical. It called
for two military forces to be put in the field, one real and deadly, the other
paste and cardboard. The enemy would be given an opportunity to become
familiar with their disposition and make his own judgment regarding their
purpose. Then, at an opportune time, under the black velvet curtain of
night, these armies would be transposed. Other principles of stage magic
were alluded to, including distraction, disguise and simulation, but the
main plan of deception was simply a misdirection performed on a gigantic
stage.
    It was night by the time they finished drafting this “appreciation.”
Barkas read it over and got quite excited. “If this works,” he boasted, “it’ll
make the Trojan horse look like a merry-go-round fixture!”
    The paper was submitted for approval the next morning. During the drive
back to Abbassia Jasper told Barkas, “If this is a go, I want an assignment
for my people.”
    Barkas chuckled. “If this is a go, Maskelyne, your people won’t even
have time to catch a nap. A plan of this magnitude requires thousands of
decoys, more than could possibly be produced at the Valley. We’ll have to
get help from Number Eighty-five Camouflage, from the Mechanics …”
    “No,” Jasper asserted, “I don’t mean that kind of work. We’ve done that
before. I mean a real assignment.”
    Barkas tried to dismiss the request. “If you mean assign your chaps to a
field unit, I’m afraid we’re quite well equipped.”
    “I’m serious about this, Major,” Jasper said coldly. “I can’t go back to
them and tell them they’re going to be stagehands this time. They’ve
worked too hard for too long not to be in on the big one.”
    The major sighed, then nodded, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
    Operation Lightfoot details were “most secret” and Jasper could discuss
them only generally with the Gang. “The success of the entire plan depends
greatly on a camouflage operation larger than anything ever done before,”
he explained, “and we’re right at the centre of it. Montgomery wants to put
an entire decoy army in the field to convince Rommel his southern points
are going to be attacked. To do this–”
    Hill cut in singing the familiar chant, “There once was a famous magician
who …”
    The other men joined in the heckling.
    “No, not this time. This time it’s our show. No one’s ever done anything
like this before. And–” Jasper started to tell them that Barkas was going to
get them a piece of the action, but caught himself. There would be no more
disappointments for his men. “That’s all for now.”
    The plan drawn up in the El Alamein railway station was approved by
Monty, with minor modifications, and code-named “Bertram.” Barkas,
Ayerton, Clarke and Maskelyne hammered out the specifics in a room at
A-Force. The first working day Jasper hung a sign on the wall as a constant
reminder. “The supreme question must be,” this stage dictum read, “what
impression will the introduction of this detail produce upon the mind of the
spectator?”
    In theory, Bertram was relatively simple. A large group of seemingly
harmless transport and supply vehicles would assemble in the north, while
the armoured force would appear to be headed south. At the last possible
moment a transposition, or switch, would be made and the attack would be
launched in the north. All they had to do was figure out how to do it.
    Like any magic show, Bertram, the most complex military deception ever
attempted, began with the preparation of the stage. In the theatre, the
apparatus had to be loaded. In the desert, long before the tanks and guns
and soldiers came onto the scene, supplies had to be laid in for them.
Lightfoot required two thousand tons of gasoline, six hundred tons of
provisions, six hundred tons of ammunition and other ordnance and four
hundred and twenty tons of Engineers’ supplies. All of this had to be moved
into position in the north without being detected by enemy observers and
had to sit there for a month without being discovered.
    Simultaneously, to imply that the attack would begin in the south, a
similar cache of dummy supplies had to be laid in there.
    The most difficult material to store secretly, particularly in the desert
heat, was gasoline. Tens of thousands of four-gallon cans had to be
stocked. This first of the countless problems the camoufleurs would face
was solved by Tony Ayerton. During his tour of the Alamein area he
discovered one hundred masonry-lined slit trenches that had been dug more
than a year earlier. By this time, he reasoned, German Intelligence would
have become used to seeing them on photographs and probably take them
for granted. Experiments with similar trenches in the rear proved that
gasoline cans could be stacked against their walls without appreciably
changing the shape of the telltale interior shadows. The “loading” of the
stage began the night of September 23, one month before the offensive
was scheduled to begin, when truckloads of gasoline cans were neatly piled
inside these forward trenches.
    In an important test the following day, British reconnaissance pilots
failed to locate this storage dump. Lightfoot was fuelled.
    On that same day, although Allied Intelligence would not learn of it for
another month, a sick and exhausted Erwin Rommel flew to Semmering in
the Austrian mountains for a desperately needed rest period, leaving
General Georg Stumme in command of Panzerarmee. Rommel left the
battlefield only after being assured by his Intelligence that the British
offensive could not possibly begin without a minimum of two days’ warning,
since the required buildup of supplies would be detected by the Luftwaffe’s
hourly air observation of the battlefield.
    Magic Valley’s workshops strained to produce the props for Monty’s
decoy army. Sunshields, dummy tanks, dummy trucks, dummy cannon,
millions of “gun flashes” and thousands of cloth “soldiers” were needed.
Civilian labourers were recruited to work in the factories and were assigned
to make specific parts, rather than complete dummies, to prevent enemy
agents from figuring out what was in progress.
    From his tiny office in the War Rooms beneath Whitehall, Prime Minister
Churchill tracked the preparations in the desert with great anticipation. This
was the offensive he had been urging on his commanders since Wavell, an
all-out attack that would smash the Nazis once and for all.
    Never had there been a better time to strike. Hitler’s European armies
were brutally slugging it out against the Russians at Stalingrad. The
Japanese were battling the Americans in the vicious South Pacific campaign.
Total victory in the desert would free elements of the North African army to
reinforce troops in India and the Far East, as well as deprive Hitler of the
vital canal supply route and the oil of the Middle East.
    In Cairo, Jasper had no time for such international reflections. For him
the battle was to be fought a few miles away, and his role would be
pivotal. He was constantly on the prowl: pushing and prodding, demanding,
cajoling, threatening, and enjoying every minute of it. “We are engaged in
preparations for the final battle,” he wrote to Mary, carefully avoiding facts
that would be censored.

    What a wondrous show it will be. There appears to be a real need
    for my services this time, and I am extremely busy. This time the
    Germans will never know what hit them. The men seem quite
    confident; Montgomery has won their respect. You will be reading
    about our campaign in the coming months.
        Don’t fret, dearest, I will be fine.
        With all my love,
                                       JAY

    The actual setting of the stage began on September 26. In an attempt
to mislead the Germans concerning the date and sector in which the attack
would be made, soldiers from Army Troops Company 578 began extending
an existing water pipeline from the large El Imayid supply depot toward the
southern strongpoint of Samaket Gaballa. Of course, the entire pipeline
extension was an elaborate hoax.
    Common fuel cans had been cut open and flattened, then laid end to
end to simulate lengths of pipe. Each day five miles of this “piping” was
laid out on the desert while hundreds of soldiers dug trenches for it. Each
night the trenches were filled in and the same flattened cans were picked
up and laid down alongside the following day’s five-mile stretch. “If nothing
else tells them we’re going south,” Jasper explained to Fuller, “this pipeline
points it out like a bloody arrow. They can’t possibly miss it.” Even more
importantly, at the five-mile-per-day rate the pipeline couldn’t reach
Samaket Gaballa until early November, and German Intelligence would
undoubtedly assume that the offensive wouldn’t begin until it was
completed.
    In addition to the “pipe,” that was laid, three dummy pumphouses were
built along the route. They “serviced” a few real trucks which were ordered
into the area to create tracks in the sand, as well as the usual dummy
trucks.
    The stockpiling of real provisions in the vicinity of the El Alamein station
began at just about the same time. Since it was not possible to hide the
tons of preserved meat, tea, biscuits, cigarettes, flour, sugar, powdered
milk and similar items on the featureless plain, some means of disguising
them had to be found. Prolonged discussions centred around the fact that
ordinary transport were the most common vehicles found on the desert.
Concentrations of trucks were so much a part of the everyday scene that
neither side paid them much attention. Camoufleur Brian Robb suggested
that supply cases be stacked and concealed beneath camouflage so that
they resembled ordinary three-tonners under protective netting. It proved
as simple to do as it was effective.
    Additional supplies were hidden under “bivvies,” or individual soldiers’
tents, staked among those of a resident Australian unit. RAF crews
regularly took snaps of the site for inspection, and necessary modifications
were then made.
    German spotters frequently nosed around the “truck concentration,” and
once it was strafed by a lone Messerschmitt, causing an Australian trooper
to run naked through the camp shouting, “They’ve shot my biscuits, they’ve
shot my biscuits.”
    Much of the ammunition and ordnance was added to the established
supply dump at El Imayid, twenty miles behind the front line. This depot
had been in operation long enough for the Germans to have carefully
inspected it, and the new stores were dispersed among existing piles.
Although the original stacks of boxes had been left uncamouflaged, the new
supplies were draped with netting and covered with sand to hide the
buildup. Desert breezes continually swept away the sand cover, but for the
most part the six hundred tons of Lightfoot supplies were successfully
blended into the area.
    In six days and nights the provisions for the offensive were put into
place. Operation Bertram was gradually taking shape directly under the
watchful eyes of the Germans, but they seemed not to notice.
    To reinforce the impression being given by the “pipeline” that Eighth
Army would not be ready to launch its offensive until November, Monty’s
staff decided to delay the buildup of dummy supplies in the south for a few
weeks.
    Meanwhile, the full-scale display of transport vehicles in the north was
scheduled to begin the night of September 30. During the following week
four thousand real trucks drawn from reserve units and service companies,
and seven hundred dummy trucks, Magic Valley sunshields, were to be
deployed under camouflage in an eight-mile-by-five-mile rectangle
designated “Martello.” Since such an assembly of support equipment was
quite normal before a major attack, it was believed the Germans would
examine it thoroughly, then watch it for movement, but would not feel
threatened by it because it included no tanks or heavy weapons.
    Martello, in fact, was the military equivalent of the stage magician’s
production table, for at the snap of General Montgomery’s fingers seven
hundred tanks and twenty-five-pounders would emerge from this seemingly
harmless concentration of transport vehicles. It was from Martello that
Eighth Army would sally forth on October 23. If the Germans did not catch
onto this display before that night, Bertram, and therefore Lightfoot, had
an excellent chance of succeeding.
    Preparations for the delivery and assembly of the sunshield “hides”
occupied most of Jasper’s time. But on September 29, Fuller caught him
between workshops and informed him that Barkas had to see him
immediately on a matter of importance. Jasper tried to beg off, but Fuller
wouldn’t hear of it, reminding him, “He is your superior officer, you know.”
They drove toward Gray Pillars, but turned away near the river.
    “Here now,” Jasper snapped, “where are you taking me?” He was
beginning to get a bit annoyed, as this was certainly not a time for games.
Barkas knew that.
    “Special conference,” Fuller replied, finally pulling up in front of the Blue
Daze, a belly-dancing club.
    Jasper hurried into the cabaret and stopped abruptly, completely
stunned. The entire Gang was waiting there, and Gregory, and Kathy Lewis,
Barkas, some camouflage chaps from as far back as Farnham, some
Engineers and other friends he’d made in Egypt. Hill came up to him and
stuck out his hand. “Happy birthday, Jay!”
    In the rush of preparation, he’d completely forgotten his fortieth
birthday. He stammered in confusion, then blurted out at Fuller, “You crafty
old sod. You tricked me!”
    Fuller accepted the compliment. “Yes, I suppose we have. That’s jolly
good for our side.” Luncheon was served, toasts raised, and humorous gifts
presented. By midafternoon the party was over.
    As Jasper walked to Fuller’s jeep, Barkas took him aside. His gift, he
told him, was a field assignment for the Magic Gang. “Your people have had
good success with boats, so I thought something in the order of an
amphibious invasion might tickle your fancy. Nothing spectacular, mind you,
but Monty’s asked Cunningham to stage some sort of diversion behind
Jerry’s lines in the northern sector when we push off, something to attract a
bit of attention. Navy’ll provide whatever equipment you need. I realize it’s
probably not the sort of show you had in mind, you may not even draw fire,
but at least you’ll be in on the opening act. Well, what do you say?”
    “It’s a splendid present, Major.”
    “Good. Fine. Cunningham’s people’ll be in touch. They’ve got the
particulars.”
    Even Fuller’s sluggish speed couldn’t get Maskelyne back to the Valley
fast enough. “Admiral” Hill’s fleet was going to sail again.
    The next night, the thirtieth, the bluff at Martello got under way as
scheduled. Seven hundred and twenty-two sunshields were set up beneath
garnished nets, many of them balanced on empty tar barrels that would
pass as truck tyres when observed from the air.
    Eventually each of these “hides” would house a tank or a heavy weapon.
Once the dummies were in place among the real trucks, each one was given
a serial number and its position was marked on camouflage maps. Tankers
and gun crews would be issued a corresponding number and, on the night of
the big switch, the transposition, would know precisely where their
assigned shelter was located.
    The Alamein Line remained reasonably peaceful while the stage was
being “loaded,” although Monty had ordered a series of probing attacks in
the south to lend colour to the overall impression. One night Queens
Brigade of 44th Division suffered 392 casualties during an assault on the
heavily defended Munassib Depression, but it captured territory that would
have been needed as a staging point if the offensive were actually to have
been launched in the southern sector.
    German spotters were particularly active in the south, causing the
camouflage people to believe they had at least caught Jerry’s attention.
    “Brian,” the construction of the dummy supply dump in the south, began
on October 7 near a place called Bir Mseilikh, under the supervision of its
creator, Brian Robb. The stacks, which represented nine thousand tons of
supplies, were made from palm-wood bed frames, pickets, dummy railway
tracks, old fuel cans, wicker tomato cases, and a large amount of wire.
They were camouflaged by open meshed cloth, dark-green steel wool or
dark garnished nets. Over seven hundred stacks were built, although some
of the false piles of ammunition were only two-dimensional.
    To complete the phoney supply depot, dummy buildings were erected
and bivvies staked. A resident squad drove three trucks around the area all
day to create the track impressions of dozens of vehicles.
    Once Brian was completed, the stage was set. “Transport” vehicles were
in the north and “supply dumps” were in the south. Some time would be
allowed to pass before the performers – the thousand tanks and guns of
Eighth Army – took their positions on that stage, to give the audience an
opportunity to become accustomed to the scenery. Only after enemy
Intelligence had examined it thoroughly, just the way a sceptic would test
the Linking Rings, could the subtle changes essential to the success of the
performance take place.
    To keep the audience entertained in the meanwhile, Monty ordered
increased patrolling in the south, including occasional forays into
mine-strewn no man’s land, while things remained peaceful in the north.
    German Intelligence examined the set very carefully. Air reconnaissance
photographs were taken several times every day and scrutinized for the
slightest indication of movement. There was no question that the British
would take the offensive with a force much larger than Panzerarmee, but
the important questions to be answered were when and where this would
happen. Correct answers would enable the highly mobile African army to
meet the thrust of the attack with a maximum force and blunt it.
    From Rommel’s point of view, all evidence indicated that an attack
would be launched in the southern sector in early November. The stores
being massed there made any other conclusion senseless, and the pipeline
under construction could not possibly be completed until then. In any
event, German Intelligence remained confident it could provide Rommel
with at least two days’ warning prior to the attack, more than enough time
to allow him to return to the battlefield.
    The work at Magic Valley lightened only slightly when the first dummies
were put into position at Martello. Hundreds more of every type had to be
provided for the actual transposition, the switch, or “sting,” in American
gangster terminology, and arrangements had to be made to move those
currently in place to another spot on that night. It wasn’t until October 10
that Jasper learned the details of the Gang’s seaborne invasion.
    Admiral Cunningham’s office wasn’t expecting too much. The Navy would
provide three swift craft equipped with deck guns to shell the coastline
behind Jerry’s lines. “We’d like to raise a bit of a fuss,” explained the
project officer, Lieutenant David Fielding. “Just create a minor diversion to
catch their attention, then skedaddle. I’m sure you understand.”
    Jasper did; he also had much bigger plans. “As long as we’re making the
effort,” he politely suggested, “let’s do it right. Let’s convince Jerry that a
major landing is taking place.”
    Fielding pooh-poohed the suggestion, pointing out that the Navy had
neither the men nor the equipment for such a mission.
    Jasper smiled confidently. “What if I could pull it off with my men and
your three boats?”
    “By all means,” Fielding replied. Operation Knox was born.
    The final piece of battlefield scenery was put into place the night of
October 15 near the Munassib Depression in the south. Troops of 44th
Division dug gun pits and set up dummy fieldpieces, dummy limbers,
dummy trucks and “Chinese” soldiers equivalent to three regiments of field
artillery.
    Here many of the lessons learned from the ill-fated Houdin were put to
good use as desert camoufleurs made a half-baked effort to hide these
props. Torn nets were used to “cover” the dummy guns, and improperly
tacked-down bits of cardboard and cloth fluttered beneath them in the
breeze. One dummy three-tonner leaned to the side and cast an improbable
shadow. The “Chinese” soldiers were left in the same place for days at a
time, including those in the dummy latrine. These errors were obvious
enough to be detected by enemy Intelligence, but subtle enough to be
considered unintentional. Once the camoufleurs were certain Jerry had
spotted these defects they were corrected, as if Eighth Army had discovered
its own mistake.
    This was a classic double bluff. The enemy was encouraged to believe
he had discovered a weak spot in Eighth Army’s defences. At the opportune
moment he would undoubtedly utilize this vital information – only to
discover that even cardboard wasps have deadly stings.
    Operation Knox, the Gang’s naval operation behind enemy lines,
received official approval on October 16. A communications code and a
timetable were drawn up and all necessary equipment was gathered,
although Fuller had more difficulty locating the hand-cranked gramophone
than anyone had anticipated. At Maskelyne’s request, the Navy provided
three barges in addition to the speedboats.
    Everyone in the Gang was beginning to get excited about the mission,
except Hill, who grumbled, “They’re really settin’ us up for the big dump
this time.”
    The players in Maskelyne’s grand illusion – one thousand tanks, two
thousand guns and sufficient transport – came on stage on October 18.
That morning, in full view of enemy observers, Montgomery’s Armoured
Corps rolled out of its rear training sites heading for the staging areas
Murrayfield and Melting Pot. These assembly points were fifty miles, or
approximately two days’ drive, from the Alamein Line, and were situated
alongside the main tracks leading south. No effort was made to camouflage
this movement, leading Panzerarmee Intelligence to report that it was most
probably a training exercise rather than preparations for the offensive, but
these armoured concentrations were kept under surveillance from dawn to
dusk.
    Although General Stumme’s Intelligence had guaranteed a
forty-eight-hour cushion, this manoeuvre made him uneasy. After conferring
by wireless with Field Marsh Rommel, who was still recuperating from the
effects of the difficult desert campaign, he decided to split up his five
hundred combat-ready tanks. 15th Panzer and the Italian Littorio Division
remained in the north, while 21st Panzer and Ariete moved into defensive
positions on the southern front. His reserves, the 90th Light and Trieste
Divisions, were held at a swing point behind the lines.
    British infantrymen had been gradually moved forward during the brisk
nights of mid-October. Most simply melded into existing troop
concentrations, but some huddled during the days in a complex of
camouflaged trenches near the front line.
    As a fine performance of stage magic is made up of a continuous chain
of essential details leading to a single effect, so the many pieces of
Bertram were falling neatly into place. But, as had occasionally happened
to Jasper on stage, he had become so involved with the details that he
failed to appreciate the whole. Now, with the stage set and the pieces
displayed for inspection, he stepped out of his role and imagined himself
sitting beyond the footlights.
    The attention of this audience had been very carefully directed.
    On view in the north was a large but apparently harmless assembly of
support vehicles under camouflage. Although this formation of specks on
the desert was curious, the trucks had remained in place for weeks and
implied no threat. The eyes had become used to it, and the mind began
overlooking it.
    The hectic situation in the south required considerable attention. A
twenty-mile thread of water pipeline had been stitched into the desert.
Pump stations had been built and were servicing numerous vehicles every
day. Large supply caches had been laid in. Armoured-car patrols darted
about on the desert, and air squadrons crisscrossed the skies. Three
artillery regiments had taken positions on the front line – at least partially
bolstered by phoney batteries.
    In rear staging areas, sparkling in the sunlight, lay the real danger. The
guns of Montgomery’s Armoured Corps aimed south and waited for the
overture to begin.
    It was October 20. Time for the magician to seal the spiked mummy
case with his brave assistant quivering inside. Time to throw the sheet over
the distressed damsel and prepare to elevate her. Time to turn on the
buzzsaw.
    It was time to do the trick.
    Early that morning the signal went out to All Concerned Personnel that
the move forward, the transposition, would begin at dark. Maskelyne and
his men spent the day loading Magic Valley cardboard tanks onto trucks –
one dozen tanks fit snugly into a single five-tonner.
    At a meeting in the Amariya Cinema, Montgomery revealed his entire
battle plan to all Eighth Army officers above the rank of major. From that
morning on, all soldiers having knowledge of Lightfoot details were
restricted to secure areas. Troops patrolling near the Alamein Line were not
told about it in case they were captured. The battle, Monty warned, “will be
a real roughhouse,” but he was supremely confident his well-trained army
would “strike the enemy for six.”
    Minutes after the sun went down that evening the desert rumbled into
life. The Eighth Army began its transposition from south to north.
    To provide a distraction to cover the move, a skeleton crew of 10th
Armoured wireless operators pattered on at great length about a training
operation in progress. Thirteenth Corps in the south staged a series of
phoney raids, “accidentally” illuminating “Chinese” soldiers who took
considerable enemy fire in their cloth guts.
    The tank groups and their support vehicles moved out of staging areas
Murrayfield and Melting Pot and headed toward the assembly of harmless
trucks at Martello. Farther back, through the entire Basin, hundreds of spare
trucks and staff cars converged on Murrayfield and Melting Pot to replace
them.
    Maskelyne and the Gang were in the first group of trucks to arrive at
Melting Pot with loads of dummy tanks.
    As each armoured vehicle departed, one of the substitute trucks or cars
drove into its position. The tanks were replaced by Magic Valley dummies
which were camouflaged with ordinary netting. It had proved impossible to
produce enough dummy tanks for Bertram, so in some cases palm-wood bed
frames were laid on their sides and concealed beneath camouflage nets.
    Tenth Armoured thundered forward at top speed to Martello. It was a
difficult movement, because the tanks travelled with minimum lights and
had to follow precisely in the tracks made by the convoy leaders.
    Jasper proudly watched them pull out of Melting Pot in the silvery glow
of a gibbous moon, the last group equipped with tank-track erasers to
obliterate their trail. All around him two-and three-man camouflage teams
were setting up an entire armoured corps made of paste, canvas and
cardboard. As this army of Magic Valley tanks and guns came to life, he
couldn’t help thinking back to the early days at Farnham, when Buckley’s
boys had been kept away from the regular soldiers at Aldershot lest the
real army somehow be tainted by their presence.
    When each real tank or mobile gun arrived at Martello, it was taken in
charge by another camouflage team and guided into the numbered
sunshield specifically prepared for it. The dummy trucks that had been
sitting at Martello for weeks were dismantled and loaded onto service
company vehicles, then returned to Melting Pot and Murrayfield to be set up
in vacated positions.
    Once the tanks and guns were in position at Martello, their crews were
not permitted to move about during the day. Fires were prohibited and
sheets were not to be aired. The slightest flaw could give away the entire
trick.
    At Munassib, in the southern sector, a battery of real artillery replaced
the poorly camouflaged dummies.
    The transposition took two nights. By dawn on both October 21 and 22
the desert was quiet. Enemy reconnaissance aircraft making their
early-morning runs above these areas reported that 10th Armoured was still
in place fifty miles behind the Alamein line. As usual, blankets and
bedsheets were hung on the tanks to dry in the sun, and thousands of
troops brewed up over smoky campfires.
    The Germans were completely unaware that 1,500 replacement vehicles
and 1,870 tanks and three-tonners – both real and cardboard – had been
substituted for 10th Armoured at Melting Pot and Murrayfield in the south,
while the real armoured division had moved forward to the truck assembly
at Martello and was now poised just behind the northern sector of the front
line.
    General Stumme routinely wired headquarters on the twenty-first:
“Enemy situation unchanged.”
    That same day General Montgomery had quietly cancelled all leave. All
units were ordered to remain in their starting blocks. At El Alamein, foot
soldiers lay hidden in the forward slit trenches, fighting off flies, just
waiting.
    The Gang held its breath throughout the day. The waiting was far more
difficult than the work had been. “Let’s get it over with,” Hill whined. “What
the bloody hell is he waiting for? We’re in position and we’re ready to go.
Let’s go.”
    “Soon,” Townsend said, “soon.”
    “I’m telling you, he’s gonna blow the whole thing. You think you can fool
Rommel so easy?” Hill shook his head. “You can’t.”
    In the afternoon, Maskelyne and Gregory drove up to Alex to check the
speedboats. “Just one more day,” Jasper said.
    “I’m not sure I’ll last that long,” Gregory replied.
    Cairo was on edge. The Shepheards basement storeroom was jammed
with officers’ luggage, stored at the daily rate of four pennies. Soon,
everybody knew, soon.
    Luftwaffe spotter planes followed their normal flight patterns. They
noted that an antiaircraft battery had been installed near Murrayfield, but
otherwise the situation remained unchanged.
    On the evening of the twenty-second Jasper waited at Magic Valley and
watched the scarlet sunset. There was nothing more to be done. The army
was in place. The props were loaded. The Gang’s mission wouldn’t get
under way until the next afternoon. All that could be done had been done.
    He raised a glass of Italian wine to the last rays of the sun. One night
from that moment the presentation of the greatest trick in history would
begin. His trick. The grand illusion.
    If the hands of Eighth Army had been quicker than Axis eyes, the
audience would die in surprise.


                               Seventeen
On the morning of October 23 a “Personal Message from the Army
Commander,” Montgomery, was read to each Eighth Army soldier about to
go into combat:

        1. When I assumed command of Eighth Army I said the
    mandate was to destroy ROMMEL and his Army and that it would
    be done as soon as we were ready.
        2. We are ready NOW. The battle which is now about to begin
    will be one of the most decisive battles of history. It will be the
    turning point of the war. The eyes of the whole world will be on
    us, watching anxiously which way the battle will swing.
        We can give them the answer at once. “It will swing our way.”
        3. We have first class equipment; good tanks; good anti-tank
    guns; plenty of artillery and plenty of ammunition; and we are
    backed by the finest air striking force in history.
        All that is necessary is that each one of us, every officer and
    man, should enter this battle with the determination to see it
    through – to fight and to kill – and finally, to win.
        If we do this there can be only one result – together we will hit
    the enemy for “six,” right out of North Africa.
       4. The sooner we win this battle, which will be the turning
    point of this war, the sooner we shall all get back home to our
    families.
       5. Therefore, let every officer and man enter the battle with a
    stout heart, and with the determination to do his duty so long as
    he has a breath in his body.
       AND LET NO MAN SURRENDER SO LONG AS HE IS UNWOUNDED
    AND CAN FIGHT.
       Let us all pray that “the Lord Almighty in battle” will give us
    the victory.
                              B. L. Montgomery
                 Lieutenant-General, GOC-in-C, Eighth Army

    The Gang awoke at 7 a.m., just as the night chill was beginning to lift,
and brewed up. “Lorry’ll be here at 0900,” Jasper reminded them. “Any last
things, get to them now.”
    Like most other soldiers in the shadow of battle, they passed the last
hour writing just-in-case letters. These were sealed and left in a packet on
Maskelyne’s desk, to be posted only if the Gang did not return. Jasper
wrote a happy letter, barely alluding to the offensive. “Remember always,”
he concluded, “I love you all so very much.”
    The truck didn’t show until 9:30 a.m. “Great way to start an invasion,”
Hill complained, still convinced the Gang’s amphibious assault was going to
be scrubbed. They loaded six folded tanks, the gramophones and
amplifiers, and cases of dummy shell flashes in the rear and by ten o’clock
were on their way to Alexandria harbour.
    Out on the Blue, 30th Corps infantry lay nearly motionless in cramped
slit trenches. All unnecessary movement was forbidden and anything short
of warding off a scorpion was deemed unnecessary. The men tried to sleep,
but swarms of feasting bugs made that impossible. So they lay there and
boiled in the sun, watching mirages perform for them and waiting. Within
hours they would precede the largest armoured force in history through “the
Devil’s Gardens,” Rommel’s screen of half a million mines, machine guns,
mortars, antitank weapons and artillery.
    By the time the Gang got to Alex their nervousness had been
overwhelmed by excitement. They were finally going to be smack-dab in the
middle of it. After a hot meal mostly picked at they reported to the harbour
to pack their boats. Three motor-torpedo craft were fuelled and ready, and
three wooden barges floated nearby. A few hundred yards down the wharf
four large troop transports were tied up.
    “There they are,” Jasper said, nodding toward the four transports, “just
like we were promised.”
    “Where’s the rest of our gear?” Gregory asked.
    Maskelyne pointed out a heavily guarded warehouse.
    They split up into crews to unload the cardboard tanks and pack their
gear aboard the launches. Robson paused at one point and started
chuckling. “You mean this whole crazy thing is really going to come off?”
    Hill lugged an air raid siren onto a barge. “Don’t bet on it,” he said.
    At 1500 hours, eight hundred combat-ready soldiers arrived. They piled
out of their trucks and formed ranks, then were smartly marched aboard the
transports. Simultaneously, heavy-duty cranes lifted a total of thirty tanks
on board, setting them down below deck.
    This loading was witnessed by Egyptian labourers working in the yard
quite a distance away, who reported it to their contacts for transmission to
Panzerarmee Intelligence.
    Maskelyne and the Gang watched this scene contentedly from their
speedboats. The dummy invasion force was taking shape. The eight
hundred “combat soldiers” had been drawn from headquarters and
quartermaster companies and repair depots in Cairo. The “tanks” were
Magic Valley dummies. As soon as they disappeared below deck they were
dismantled and carried off the ships in pieces. Inside the guarded
warehouse they were quickly snapped together, loaded onto limbers and
again delivered to the transports.
    By four-thirty the ships were loaded and their gangways were lifted.
    Even Hill’s resolve was beginning to crumble. “It’s a good show,” he
admitted, “I’ll certainly give you that.”
    At five o’clock the four troop transports sailed out of Alexandria harbour.
Within minutes, news of this departure was on its way to Libya.
    At five-thirty Luftwaffe surveillance aircraft over the desert made their
final inspection of the day. They reported that the armoured divisions at
Melting Pot and Murrayfield were settling in for the night.
    The Gang began rechecking its equipment a bit after six o’clock. Jasper
and Hill manned the first barge; Fuller and Gregory, the second; Graham,
Townsend and Robson, the third. Gregory ran a mechanical and fuel
inspection of the small flotilla. Checking with Maskelyne, he said, “I make it
six-thirty.”
    Jasper synchronized his watch. “Eighteen-thirty hours it is.”
    A half hour later the three Royal Navy speedboats, each pulling a barge,
glided into the twilight sea.
    Just after dusk, like desert rats crawling out of their cool burrows, Eighth
Army’s infantry came to life on the Alamein Line. Thousands of soldiers
crawled out of their slit trenches and tried to jangle feeling into their
aching limbs. A hot meal, the last one they would enjoy for weeks, was
brought up from the rear. Buddies checked each other’s equipment: every
trooper carried a weapon, fifty rounds of ammunition in a bandolier, two
grenades, a pick or entrenching tool and four empty cloth bags that could
be filled with sand to provide protection, and a backpack marked with a
white Saint Andrew’s cross that would make him easier to follow in the
dark. The pack contained a ground sheet, shaving cream and a straight
razor, one day’s bully beef, biscuits and iron ration. Each man
double-checked his own water bottle.
    Some of the men hung in groups while waiting for the whistle to move
to the start line, others sat by themselves and wrote letters or had a final
word with God.
    Refrigerated blood trucks, with giant vampire bats painted on their
sides, stayed just out of sight. In the rear, doctors and medics checked
supplies for the expected rush.
    Safe in German field headquarters west of Tel el Eisa, General Stumme
and his staff prepared for dinner. It was hoped the special treat of the
night, fresh gazelle, might help them forget the distressing situation at
least temporarily.
   Only that afternoon, Intelligence had reported that the British could put
approximately 200,000 men, 1,000 tanks and 1,000 guns into the field,
nearly double the Germans’ own strength in each category. In addition,
Panzerarmee fuel reserves had been reduced to three days’ issue, the water
supply was low, and provisions were close to exhausted.
   Intelligence also noted, however, that Eighth Army would not be capable
of mounting a full-scale offensive for at least two more weeks. Stumme
was confident the supplies promised by Hitler would arrive within that
period. The fact that his troops were outnumbered did not in itself concern
him, for the men of Afrika Korps were the finest soldiers in the world. And
Rommel, their commander, who would return to the desert at the first hint
of attack, had proved himself a military genius. Victory was a matter of
supply.
   Dinner began promptly at 8 p.m. with a fresh garden salad,
complemented by a golden Moselle.
   The Mediterranean was a bit choppy and quite chilly that night, and the
three speedboats laboured under their heavy tows. Gregory reassured
Maskelyne that they would reach their destination by 1 a.m., zero hour.
   Five miles out of Alex they passed the four transports riding at anchor.
“They’ll all be home in their bunks three hours from now,” Graham
commented to Robson.
   “What’s the matter, Nails? Jealous?”
   The carpenter grinned at him. “You crackers?”
   Even Hill no longer doubted that their mission was a real one. “Watch
now,” he told Jasper ruefully, “we’re gonna get lost out here and blow the
whole show.”
   Jasper barely heard him above the din of the speedboat’s inboard
engines. The sea spray matted down his hair and droplets of salt water fell
from his moustache, and occasionally he wiped his mouth and brow dry with
the back of his wrist, but rarely had he felt more alive than at that
moment.
   He glanced at his wristwatch every few minutes. Ordinary intervals of
time suddenly took on new meaning. The second hand took an hour to
make a single circuit. Five minutes became an eternity. His heart was
thumping like a swing band’s percussion section. Once, as he sat on a crate
of dummy ammunition flashes, he caught his left foot tapping away to
some racing rhythm. He rested his hand on his knee to stop it, but a few
minutes later that independent foot was at it again.
   “Some night,” Hill shouted to him, and grinned a mile-wide grin.
   “Some night,” Jasper shouted right back.

At 7:30 p.m., near El Alamein, military policemen wearing white gloves and
red caps laid down a white-tape start line on top of nearly invisible piano
wire that had been put down days earlier to mark the path forward. The
MPs were to direct traffic into six twenty-four-foot-wide lanes. Huge
Scorpion minesweepers and courageous Engineer sappers carrying metal
detectors would lead the way, followed in strict order by water carts
sprinkling the sand to hold down the dust, the infantry, and finally the
tanks and armoured cars.
   General Montgomery spent the twilight hours walking among his troops.
Sometimes he would climb up on a tank and, with troops sprawled
informally around him, run down the strategic situation. At eight o’clock he
retired to his trailer. Alone. On the wall above his bed he had hung a
flattering photograph of his opponent, Rommel, and beneath it he taped a
quote from Shakespeare’s Henry V: “O God of battles! Steel my soldier’s
heart.”
    At precisely 8:30 Martello awakened. The tranquillity of the night desert
was shattered by the full-throated roar of a thousand engines. Tanks and
mobile guns emerged from their cocoons. Support transport assembled to
the rear. Platoons began forming up.
    General Montgomery’s army was going to work.
    At nine o’clock the soldiers of XXX Corps infantry hefted their packs,
fixed bayonets and walked up to the start line. Within moments they would
learn whether Maskelyne’s greatest illusion had been successful. Their lives
were staked on it.

Mike Hill glanced at his watch. It was 9:15 p.m. “Getting a bit nippy out
here,” he said to Maskelyne.
    Jasper’s throat was as dry as it had been on the desert. He nodded.
    At 9:30, forty-eight Wellington bombers flew over the front lines en
route to known German gun positions. British artillery gunners on the
ground were ordered to “Take post,” and did so, most of them putting on
gloves and sticking rubber plugs or cotton wads into their ears. On the start
line the troops shook hands and wished each other well and shifted about
nervously. Sergeants went down the line reminding their men, “Keep your
distance, don’t bunch up, watch out for trip wires, and, whatever happens,
keep moving forward.”
    At 2140 Egyptian Summer Time, 9:40 p.m., artillery commanders the
length of the Alamein Line gave the command, “Fire by order, five rounds
gunfire.” Then, after a breath-long pause, crisply ordered, “Troop, fire!”
    As have battles for a thousand decades, the Battle of El Alamein began
to the thunder of war drums. The heavy artillery of Eighth Army pounded
the earth with the ancient rhythm, thus making firm the connection
between the warriors of history.
    The barrage made the desert tremble beneath the feet of the infantry. It
rattled teacups sixty miles away in Alexandria. Eighth Army’s artillery fired
nine hundred shells per minute. Exactly ninety-six shells hit each known
German position.

At sea, eighty miles from the firing line, Jasper saw a slice of the horizon
turn pink, and a few seconds later heard the unmistakable staccato
thump-thump-thump-thump of twenty-five-pound shells blasting their
targets.
   He tried to imagine the scene as the thousand tanks of Eighth Army
burst free of their sunshields, grinding forward hull-down, guns spitting into
the night. “Hey presto!” he whispered, then said aloud, “Hey presto!” Then
Jasper looked at Mike Hill and shouted it as loudly as he could, “Hey
presto!”
   Hill took it up, raising his fists high over his head and shouting it with
Maskelyne, over and over and over …
The incredible artillery barrage raised a hellish cloud of smoke and swirling
dust on the desert, obscuring the battlefield. Troopers tied bandannas
under their eyes as they awaited the command to go forward.
   In a rear headquarters station, a skeleton crew of 10th Armoured
wireless operators began reading from prepared scripts, mimicking the
chatter relevant to a major tank invasion in the southern sector.
   West of Tel el Eisa, General Stumme and his staff were just finishing
dinner when the first shells crashed into their forward positions. They
looked at one another in astonishment, then absolute horror. Colonel
Büchting went to the window and watched the world disintegrating in front
of him. “It’s not possible,” he murmured in disbelief.
   Stumme’s first thought was of Rommel sitting peacefully in the Austrian
mountains. Then he sighed, took a final sip of wine, and calmly walked
across thirty yards of open desert to his command post.
   The initial shelling had torn apart his communications network, cutting
him off from his army. After informing Berlin that the British offensive was
under way, he waited calmly for brigade messengers to report so that he
could make some sense out of the situation.
   Montgomery’s artillery “walked” across the Devil’s Gardens in measured
increments, detonating scores of mines and ripping huge gaps in the
barbed-wire defences. Scores of Panzerarmee soldiers keeled over and died
without being marked, victims of concussion and shock, while numerous
others were buried alive when their forward trenches, dugouts and
observation posts collapsed.
   General Stumme waited patiently in his bunker for the barrage to
subside, quite confident the British could not break through his defences.
Every square inch of the forward line was protected by mines or gunners.

The Gang sailed toward Sidi Abd el Rahman, charged by the drums of
Lightfoot. On the second boat Gregory wondered what the infantrymen were
thinking at that very moment. “If you were out there ready to go,” he asked
Union Jack, “what do you think would be running through your mind?”
   “Remember to duck,” Fuller answered sensibly.

Scorpion minesweepers led Eighth Army into the minefields, tailed closely
by Royal Engineer sappers carrying 88,000 lamps and 120 yards of white
tape to demarcate cleared lanes. The anachronistic hand-drawn water carts
followed them.
    Directly behind the carts, rifles held at high port, bayonets sharpened,
the infantry walked into battle at a pace of fifty yards per minute. Row
after row of them, each exactly three yards behind the last, disappeared
into the cloud of churning sand like spirits fading into a dusky dream. Tracer
shells, fired just a few feet over their heads, sliced white paths into the
cloud to guide them toward their initial objectives.
    In the north, four divisions of XXX Corps infantry advanced over a
seven-mile span, while in the south XIII Corps began their diversionary
attack on Rommel’s southern defences.
    Bertram had caught Panzerarmee by surprise. By the time a defence
could be mounted, Eighth Army had already smashed into the minefields.
Even then, the German response was sporadic and disorganized. But
Stumme still had good reason to be confident – getting through the Devil’s
Gardens had proved to be much more difficult than Montgomery had
anticipated.
    Within the first hour of the attack most of the Scorpion minesweepers
had broken down or overheated and were abandoned. Five hundred sappers
using personal metal detectors took the lead, aided by Tommies who got
down on their hands and knees and probed for mines with their bayonets.
Still, numerous mines were “deloused” when soldiers stepped on them. A
250-pound emplanted aerial bomb ripped apart a thirty-man platoon.
Antipersonnel S-mines the size of ration cans caused severe damage. But
given the sizable force making the Lightfoot assault, this was an
acceptable means of clearing the Gardens.
    Reports filtering into Panzerarmee headquarters indicated that the
British were attacking over the entire forty-mile expanse of the Alamein
line. Stumme decided to keep his armour split between the northern and
southern sectors, holding his key armoured reserves in check until the
situation was clarified. But XIII Corps’ ferocious attack at Himeimet Ridge
reinforced his firm belief that the main thrust of the offensive had to be
made in the southern sector.
    Eighth Army’s murderous artillery barrage ended exactly four hours after
it had begun. Thirtieth Corps was still trying to fight through the
minefields, its once orderly march having becorne a mad scramble. It was
taking much longer to sweep the tank corridors than Montgomery had
allowed, and intense German small-arms fire began taking an incredible
toll.

When the shelling ended, the Gang was sitting off the coast approximately
twenty miles behind enemy lines, a short distance from the important
airfield at Fuka. Even before the last echoes of the barrage had faded,
Maskelyne blinked his signal lamp three times and the Magic Gang launched
its invasion.
    Smoke cannisters were lit on each barge, and the three boats echeloned
and swept past the beach, drawing a thick curtain of smoke between their
position and observers on land. After a half-mile run parallel to the shore,
the boats turned around and came back for a second pass, now safely
hidden behind a smokescreen.
    During this second pass the navy crews manning the deck guns began
lobbing shells onto the beach. On the barges the Gang cranked up the
gramophones and blasted the sounds of an amphibious landing at the few
isolated German defenders.
    These coast watchers were stunned. Thick smoke obscured their vision
but they could see incoming shells blasting craters into the beach and
multicoloured signal flares lighting the night sky, they could hear ships’
guns firing, anchor chains dropping and orders being shouted. They could
smell burning naval engine oil in the air. There could be no doubt a major
amphibious assault was being made, presumably on the airfield. They
frantically began signalling headquarters.
    On the lead barge Jasper was racing about at full pelt, igniting strings of
dummy artillery flashes, shouting phoney orders at nonexistent men,
restarting the barrage recording every two minutes, clanking a ship’s bell.
Hill was cranking the air raid siren and heaving harmless smoke grenades
toward the beach. He was as excited as a schoolboy at term’s end, bravely
cursing the enemy with each toss. “Up yours, Hitler!” he screamed, and
“Take that, you bloody Nazi bastards!”
    Fuller and Gregory on the second barge had charge of the oil pots –
which emitted an acrid smell similar enough to that of engines running at
power – and the flares that coloured the beach, as well as their own
recordings. On the third barge Graham, Townsend and Robson tossed
smoke grenades, flashed incomprehensible lamp signals, and played a
ship’s horn as well as a recording.
    The coast watchers pleaded for immediate reinforcements, describing
their situation as untenable. “An enemy landing is in progress,” they
reported, having to scream into their radio to be heard above the din.
“Repeat, a full-scale enemy landing is in progress at map coordinates …”
    Amid the incredible confusion caused by Eighth Army’s artillery barrage
and the widespread attack on the Alamein Line, such an assault on the
Fuka airport seemed credible. Stumme’s aides, who had seen the brief
communique from Alexandria harbour reporting the loading of four troop
transports, logically assumed this force was attempting the landing. After
brief deliberations, 90th Light’s reserve element was ordered to meet the
invasion, and Luftwaffe bombers and fighters were diverted from the front
lines to the beach.
    Meanwhile, the single Panzerarmee battery within range of the coast
began blindly shelling the “invasion fleet.”
    The first German shells landed a few thousand yards in front of the
boats as the Gang’s “fleet” began its third run down the beach. As a series
of harmless waterspouts erupted, Hill started screaming victoriously,
“They’re shootin’ at us! We’re in the bloody war!”
    Another artillery salvo landed off the starboard side, much closer than
the first rounds, rocking the barges and shocking Hill. “What the blazes …”
he complained, surprised and seemingly offended. “They’re really shootin’
at us!”
    The Gang made four runs down the beach in the allotted forty minutes.
A few German rounds exploded close enough to the barges to dampen their
jollity, but there were no injuries. At Maskelyne’s amplified command to
embark, they detached the barges and scrambled aboard the speedboats.
As Jasper abandoned his barge he lit a delayed fuse, and the Gang’s
getaway was highlighted by a tremendous dummy barrage that sent
German spotters ducking.
    Ninetieth Light’s reserves got to the beach and deployed to meet the
landing only minutes after the Gang’s top-speed departure. Luftwaffe
Junkers dropped tons of bombs into the smokescreen, but when it lifted –
the entire invasion force had vanished! At dawn, German pilots spotted the
three drifting barges and realized they’d been duped.
    The Gang raced the sunrise home. On board each of the speedboats
there was much handshaking and back-pounding, as well as rowdy
speculation as to the German reaction. Hill was practically delirious,
recounting each second of the assault many times over, his role in it
already assuming the colours of a lifelong legend. “I’d love to have seen
their bloody faces when they heard us out there,” he shouted. “They didn’t
know what hit ’em. Pow! Right out of the night and there we were.”
    Jasper’s joy was much more subdued. He laughed at Hill’s antics, but
spent most of the journey home in the ship’s cockpit, listening to whatever
snippets of information could be picked up concerning the progress of
Lightfoot. The Gang’s invasion had been an enjoyable sleight, Lightfoot was
the illusion. Inside, though, in his gut, he felt a great glowing warmth. Only
his maturity prevented him from dancing.
    The others reacted in predictable ways. Fuller stood in the prow of his
boat, staring straight into the night. Finally, he had made it to war. He had
served under enemy fire and never flinched. Union Jack let the sea spray
wet his face, and no one ever knew that some of the large drops of water
were tears of satisfaction.
    “We did it, by golly,” Graham repeated over and over, “we did it. Can
you believe that?” The apparent success of the mission had him
flabbergasted beyond intelligent conversation.
    Robson sat on the rear deck, watching the lightning of artillery battle
over the desert. Every once in a while, though, he laughed out loud.
    Townsend was almost as excited as Hill. His reaction was so totally out
of character as to be almost embarrassing, as it verged on a sort of
hysteria.
    When the three boats reached Alex the entire “invasion fleet” climbed
onto the dock and simply stared at one another for a few seconds. Then, to
Hill’s whoop! they fell over one another in a jumble. Even Maskelyne, who
found himself in the middle of this pile, was screaming with joy.
    A respectful decorum had been imposed by the time they got back to
Magic Valley. They had played their parts well, but the real battle was
being hard fought on the desert. They took their places around the radio in
the dayroom and waited impatiently for the victory to be declared, for this
time they would celebrate it as fighting men.
    First reports from the BBC were optimistic, but it was much too soon to
determine how successful the Bertram ploy had been. German resistance
had stiffened after the initial shock had worn off, and Panzerarmee was
counterattacking at several points. General Montgomery claimed to be
satisfied with the early progress, although 10th Armoured’s tanks had failed
to break through Rommel’s minefields the first night and had withdrawn at
daybreak to less-exposed positions.
    General Stumme had been unable to obtain sufficient information on
which to plan his defence, so sometime in the middle of the night he
decided to visit the battlefield. Accompanied by Colonel Büchting, he left
his headquarters at sunrise in an open staff car. They drove right into an
ambush. Australian machine-gunners opened up at close range, killing
Büchting in the first fusillade. Stumme stood up and desperately tried to
get out of the car. His driver, Corporal Wolf, began twisting out of the trap.
The General held on to the open door as the car careened wildly about the
desert. Finally he was thrown out and fell into the dust clutching his heart.
Unbeknownst to driver Wolf, Stumme died there of a heart attack.
    Throughout the rest of the day Panzerarmee had no commander, but
fought with the courage and tenacity that had been instilled by Rommel.
    In response to Adolf Hitler’s urgent request, the Field Marshal
immediately made plans to return to North Africa.
    When Major Barkas arrived at Magic Valley late in the morning for a
firsthand account of the “invasion,” Jasper pressed him for Lightfoot details.
“No question but that we caught Jerry with his knickers down,” Barkas
replied, “but keep your fingers crossed. It looks like he isn’t sure what we’re
going to do. Twenty-first Panzer is standing firm in the southern sector, and
it’s a good thing, too. Most of the Scorpion minesweepers broke down right
away and, no matter what Monty says, if Rommel’d caught us in his
minefields with his full strength we’d be packing our kits right now.”
    “Well, what is Montgomery saying?”
    The major frowned. “‘Everything’s fine and dandy. Push on, push on.’” He
shrugged his shoulders. “What else could he say?”
    They strolled in step around the usually bustling yard. Now, at the
height of the battle, it was quiet. None of the materials produced in Magic
Valley’s shops could help at this point. It was a duel of steel and will.
    After listening to Maskelyne describe the events of the evening, Barkas
told him there had been some excellent reports. “Intelligence intercepted
some transmissions during your attack. Seems they really believed you
were a large force. They sent part of Ninetieth Light and most of an air
squadron to find you. I’d love to have seen their Nazi faces when they
found your barges.”
    Jasper nodded at the amusing thought, but continued walking with his
hands thrust into his pockets and his head down.
    “You don’t seem very pleased.”
    “Oh, I am,” Maskelyne insisted, “I am. Just a bit fagged.”
    Barkas was sympathetic. He’d learned that the afterglow of battle is
often depression. “How do you feel?”
    “I don’t know. Surprised, mostly, I think.”
    “Oh?”
    Jasper was having a difficult time understanding his feelings, much less
describing them. “I just … It’s like … I don’t know, it’s not like I thought it
would be, that’s all.” He’d finally got into the real war, finally served under
fire. He’d passed that test. And yet he felt no differently than he had
before. The experience hadn’t relieved his self doubts or exorcised the
ghosts of his father and grandfather, it hadn’t provided that cleansing of
spirit he had hoped for. He wasn’t depressed, just terribly disappointed.
There should have been more to it. That was the big surprise.
    Barkas seemed to understand. “It’s rare, you know, you more than
anyone should know, that reality ever lives up to expectation. Even the
reality of something as magnetic as combat.”
    Jasper stared at his dust-covered shoes as they walked along. “It just
seems so anticlimactic. I don’t know what it was I expected to happen. But
something more …”
    “Sounds to me like you were out there looking to find something that
doesn’t exist. Look here, I don’t mean to sound like some snooty university
type, but perhaps the answer you’re looking for isn’t found on the
battlefield. It would seem to me the place to start looking is within
yourself.” Barkas paused to light a cigarette and gather his thoughts. “I
learned a very important lesson in the Great War. Just risking your life
won’t make it better. Actually, I discovered, you really don’t need much to
become a target. All it takes is incredibly bad luck.”
    Jasper chuckled. “I know it’s silly to feel the way I do, particularly with
the fighting on the line …”
    “Be proud of what you’ve done, Jay! Dammit, you’ve done some things
that not one man in a hundred out there on the Blue right now would’ve
done. If risking your life is the whole thing, well, you’ve done that. You
walked straight into a fire without a protective suit. Paste or no paste.”
    “But I knew it was safe,” Maskelyne protested.
    “No,” Barkas corrected, “you believed it was safe. That is a very different
thing. Now, I’m sorry you’re in a funk, but you simply weren’t trained and
shipped out here to be cannon fodder. You were given a job to do and
you’ve done it to the best of your ability. The results of our little Bertram
aren’t in yet, but at first glance it appears to have been a rousing success.
That might not mean too much to you, but it absolutely thrills me.”
    Jasper found himself nodding in agreement with each point Barkas
made. The major was right, he knew, he had contributed to the best of his
ability. Somehow, though, that knowledge did not relieve his
disappointment.
    Panzerarmee managed to hold the line throughout that entire first day,
though both sides suffered heavy casualties. Because 10th Armoured failed
to break through the minefields in the north, it was vital that Rommel’s
21st Panzer be kept in the south until a second attempt to break out of the
Devil’s Gardens could be made. To help keep them there, 4th and 8th
Hussars sped toward “January,” the southern minefield, dragging with them
two squadrons of Maskelyne’s cardboard tanks. Enemy reconnaissance
aircraft spotted them almost immediately and reported an armoured attack
under way in the south. After dark, the Hussars, led by armoured cars
broadcasting the sounds of a tank force moving forward, and revving their
own engines at high speed to aggrandize the deception, proceeded into
partially cleared corridors with the dummies.
    Twenty-first Panzer met this attack with great fury.
    In the north that night, 10th Armoured again tried to push through. This
time a Luftwaffe strafing attack turned a column of twenty-five transport
vehicles into an incredibly bright torch lighting the entire area. 15th
Panzer’s artillery sighted on the blazing trucks and battered the sector.
Twenty-seven British tanks were destroyed in an hour.
    Appalled at the rapidly mounting losses, Montgomery’s generals
appealed to him to halt the attack. At an emergency conference held at 3
a.m. on October 25, Monty pointed out that nine hundred tanks remained in
action, and threatened to replace any commander who did not push forward
aggressively.
    Maskelyne hung near the radio all day on the twenty-fifth. It was
apparent that Lightfoot was bogging down in the minefields. Although it did
not seem possible that the Germans had the resources to wage such
savage battle, somehow they had managed to meet each Eighth Army
thrust with brute force.
    Graham said he’d heard that ten thousand men had been killed or
wounded in the first two days’ fighting. “Those poor blokes are taking a
beating out there,” he said sorrowfully. “Monty just can’t keep throwing
them in the chopper like this. It’s madness.”
    “It’s just a rumour,” Jasper said. “It’s exaggerated.” Only two days had
gone by since the Gang’s return to Alex, but waiting helplessly in front of
the radio made it seem like two years. Their brief scrimmage no longer
seemed to have any direct connection to the horrific battle being fought on
the desert. Jasper felt like a relay team member who had run his leg and
now could do nothing but cheer his side on. “I’m sure it’s exaggerated,” he
reiterated.
    “Well,” Nails sighed, reflecting the same frustration that plagued
Maskelyne and the rest of the Gang, “I’d sure like to be out there doing
somethin’. This sitting around can drive a chap bonkers!”
    Late in the afternoon of the twenty-fifth, a German tank force tried to
counterattack through the “dummy artillery battery” at Munassib. The real
guns, which had lain doggo for two full days of fighting, opened up at
nearly point-blank range and devastated the attackers.
    Field Marshal Rommel returned to his desert headquarters that night to
take command of the battle, and was greeted with distressing reports. In
the northern sector XV Panzer had lost 88 of its 119 tanks and could fuel its
surviving armour only three more days. The potentially most dangerous
British gains had been made near the coast road in that sector, where 9th
Australian was almost out of the minefields and threatening to cut off
Panzerarmee’s supply lines to Libya.
    To meet this immediate threat, Rommel reluctantly brought 90th Light in
from reserve and ordered 21st Panzer to strike north. Bertram, and the
French diversionary attack, had kept these two elite units out of the heart
of the battle for two full days, thus making possible the northern gains.
    In Abbassia, the Gang spent most of their days pacing the dayroom at a
quickstep. Having had a small taste of action, they were hungry for more.
But their special talents weren’t required at this stage of battle. They had
no choice but to sit by, strumming their fingers on table tops and tapping
their feet, living for the quarter-hour battle reports, and gradually going
insane.
    Panzerarmee fought its way north during the next few days, successfully
containing Eighth Army in the minefields. At the end of five days’ close
combat, many British units had still not achieved the first day’s objective.
Montgomery refused to retrench, as his senior staff desired, instead
proposing to counter Rommel’s movement north by shifting the brunt of
Lightfoot farther south. This major attempt to break through enemy lines,
code-named “Supercharge,” was to be launched the night of November 1.
    Thirtieth Corps, led by General Freyberg’s 2nd New Zealanders, was to
smash through at a seam in Rommel’s defences, a point at which German
and Italian Forces abutted. Monty knew his opponent would resist this “real
hard blow,” as he described it, with every available gun, but he was willing
to accept the necessary large losses. Freyberg, told that some of his field
commanders were predicting fifty per cent casualties, responded tersely, “It
may well be more than that. The Army Commander has said he is prepared
to accept one hundred per cent.”
    At Magic Valley, the Gang struggled under the incredible weight of
unfilled time. Having no suitable outlet for their frustration, they started
snapping at one another. Jasper did his best to maintain the peace,
sending his men off on contrived missions as often as possible, but the
tension was thick enough to chop up and pack into boxes.
    Once again, it was the imperturbable Barkas who broke the mood. He
came racing into the Valley on the twenty-ninth full of energy. Although
Jasper guessed he hadn’t had a decent sleep in at least a week, he
presented his usual professional appearance. “I do hope you’re not too
busy,” he began facetiously.
    Jasper was chewing on the tip of his pencil. “Depends,” he replied. “The
grass around this place has grown dangerously long. It’s going to require
some serious attention.”
    “Pity,” Barkas continued, “because I’ve got a job for you.”
    Townsend was napping on the daybed. He opened one eye and said
softly, “Well, we didn’t care too much for the grass anyway.”
    In an armoured riptide, Barkas explained to the Gang, Rommel’s 21st
Panzer was flowing north while Monty’s XXX Corps went south to prepare
for Supercharge. To cover the XXX Corps movement, the General wanted to
let the enemy see as many small tank groups, “penny-packets,” in the
northern sector as possible. “He wants as many camouflage people in the
field with dummy tanks as we can muster. You people know the drill, you’ve
done it before.”
    The Gang waited expectantly for their detailed orders. Where should
they go? When were they expected? Would they be joining other outfits?
How long might they be out there? What fuel was to be provided?
    Because of the pressure of battle there would be no official orders, the
major replied. “It’s a bit slapdash,” he admitted.
    Nails was perplexed. “That’s the bit? Just go out somewhere on the
desert and set up some cardboard tanks?”
    Barkas nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s it. This isn’t a formal party. Find a
good spot and set up, let them have a good look at you, then pack it in and
do it again somewhere else down the line. Otherwise, try to stay out of the
way of the armoured chaps and remember to keep your heads down.”
    Townsend snorted contemptuously, “Some funny way to run a world war,
if you ask me.”
    A search of the workshops turned up four serviceable dummy tanks,
hardly enough to make a threatening show. The remainder had been
abandoned at Murrayfield or Melting Pot and perhaps destroyed, or picked
up by other outfits, or were still in place. “Then there’s the five up in Alex,”
Union Jack remembered.
    “If they’re still lying around,” Robson said. “Who knows what the Navy’s
done with them or where they’ve left them.”
    Hill looked at Jasper. “We could bang out a few more lickety-split.”
    Jasper shook his head. “We used everything we had for Lightfoot. I don’t
think we’ve got two yards of canvas or a pint of paint left. But,” he added,
“there’s another way to make our tanks appear.”
    Hill closed his eyes. “Here we go again.”
    “Look here, even if we had the canvas, it’d take two days for the paint
to dry. And then we could still fit seven or eight dummies in the truck with
all of us. But suppose, just suppose, we could create an entire brigade.
Suppose we could carry fifteen of them. Or maybe twenty.”
    “That’d be lovely,” Townsend responded. “And while you’re at it, would
you mind turning some of the rocks in the yard into gold nuggets?”
    “We can do it,” Jasper insisted. “We can do it just as I’d do it on stage.”
He hesitated, and glanced around the dayroom, looking at each of the men
in turn. The Gang. The men with whom he had fought his most unusual war.
His men. And then he smiled, his broad and dazzling smile, the smile that
had lit theatres around the world and charmed countless audiences. The
smile of the magician at work, unfolding wonders. The smile that had not
been seen since Frank Knox went down at Heliopolis. “We’ll do it with
mirrors, naturally.”
    “What!” Hill blurted.
    Nails looked at Mike as if he were mad. “Didn’t you hear what the man
said?” he asked. “He said we’ll do it with mirrors. Naturally.” Then he
looked at Maskelyne, and frowned. “You’d better have a bloody good one up
your sleeve this time,” he warned.


                                Eighteen
“Mirrors?” Bill Robson repeated, as if it were a foreign word.
    “Mirrors,” Phil Townsend repeated, making sure he had heard correctly.
    “Mirrors,” Jasper repeated firmly.
    Hill found the concept utterly amazing. “Sounds like a smashing idea,”
he said sarcastically, “’cept for one slight problem. We don’t have any
mirrors.”
    “Oh, that’s no problem,” Jasper replied, then added, with perfect stage
timing, “we don’t really need them.”
    “That’s it,” Hill snapped, throwing up his hands in surrender. “The man’s
crackers. Somebody take his temperature. First he says we’ll make tanks we
don’t have appear with mirrors we don’t have, then he says we don’t need
the mirrors to do it. I give up! Quits!”
    Jasper tried to explain. “Now, just wait a bit, that’s not what I–”
    Robson finally broke into hysterics, laughing so hard he had to take off
his glasses to rub the tears from his eyes. “Too bloody much,” he managed
to get out, “too bloody much. Can you imagine, can you just imagine what
people are going to say when we try to tell them what we did during the
war?” He shook his head in disbelief, then mimicked an aged veteran
speaking in stentorian tones. “First we moved Alexandria harbour and then
we hid the Suez Canal. After that we made our own navy, and then
Maskelyne walked into an inferno without wearing a safe suit, and then we
used mirrors that we didn’t have to make tanks that we didn’t have appear
…” Finally his laughter fizzled out, and he took a deep breath and sighed.
“Hookay, boss, please let us in on it. All of us would really like to know how
we’re going to pull this one off.”
    While getting the dummy tanks from the workshops, Maskelyne
explained, he had noticed a pile of rectangular plywood boards. In the paint
shop, he knew, was a large cache of bright silver paint left over from
various aircraft and nautical projects. “Put ’em together and what’ve you
got?” he asked.
    “Plywood painted silver,” Townsend answered, “but not mirrors.”
    “Not yet,” Jasper corrected, “but wait and see.”
    In unison, the Gang tramped to the shops to make mirrors. The boards
were laid out in the yard and splashed with silver paint. The paint was
spread with rags as evenly as possible. Mike Hill got on his hands and
knees and practically drowned in the silver paint, but whether he spread it
thick or thin he could not see his reflection. “I know he’s gone daft this
time,” he muttered, but continued spreading the paint.
    The job was completed in a few hours. While the boards were drying in
the afternoon sun each man went to his quarters and packed a five-day kit.
    They were on their way before dawn the following morning. Twenty-five
painted plywood boards and four folded tanks had been crammed into the
rear of a five-tonner. Jasper and Fuller rode in the cab, while the rest of the
Gang squeezed uncomfortably into the back.
    The sun rose on the devil’s sideshow. Lightfoot had turned the desert
into a black carnival. The Gang’s good humour vanished as they drove past
hundreds of smashed and burned trucks and jeeps and vans and staff cars
and armoured cars and tanks, some of them still smouldering, and some of
them still containing the charred lumps of flesh that had died inside them.
As the Gang drove closer to the front they came upon more corpses. One
soldier had been killed while eating a meal, and a swarm of flies feasted on
the ration tin that he still held in his lap. Another man had died on his
motorbike and driven into a barbed-wire fence that held him upright in his
seat. Four men sat dead in a jeep as if they were dozing. The breeze
carried an awful stench. Jasper closed the cab windows and lit his pipe to
cover the smell of death in the air.
    Six miles from the front lines they bumped into Freyberg’s 2nd New
Zealanders moving south. They had to wait ten minutes for a gap in the
convoy before they could slip through and be on their way.
    All Eighth Army seemed to be working near the battlefield. Tanks were
being loaded on limbers or receiving field repairs or being cannibalized for
parts. Canteens were serving food. The Postal Service was delivering
emergency mail. Field Security had set up interrogation posts. Lines of
troopers moved in and out of mobile hospital tents. It was as if entire
sections of Cairo’s military establishment had been picked up whole and
laid down in the desert. “About all that’s missing,” Robson noted, “is the
Turf Club. And I’ll bet if you brought that up here, you’d probably even be
able to find some colonels and generals!”
    But then, as if it were all a mirage, the Gang would drive over a ridge
and be alone in a seemingly empty desert. Only the sounds of battle were
inescapable. The desert resounded with the clatter of machine guns, the
popping of rifles, the thumpthump of a big shell landing and, incongruously,
the clanking of hammers banging metal into shape.
    During the first water break in the morning, Jasper instructed the Gang
to take the silver-painted boards out of the truck and rub them down with
sand. After complaining about doing unnecessary work in the heat, they
followed his orders. Astonishingly, as they rubbed, the plywood boards
actually began to reflect light and shadow. It was not possible to make out
any sharp details in these makeshift mirrors, no matter how hard the men
rubbed them with fine sand particles, but they did reflect vague shapes.
    “Well, I’ll be …” Graham said with delight.
    “Who are these things supposed to fool?” Hill wondered.
    “Rommel,” Robson told him. “Didn’t you know?”
    Hill chortled.
    The Gang set up its four dummy tanks when they stopped near a dry
wadi for lunch. “I suppose you’ll want the mirrors put up, too?” Fuller asked.
    “Not yet.”
    They sat in place for an hour. Some friendly traffic passed nearby, but
the only sign of the enemy was a surveillance plane that stayed at a good
distance.
    “Some show,” Hill grumbled.
    “At least we’re near the action,” Fuller reminded him.
    They finally broke down the dummy tanks and moved a few miles down
the line and slightly westward. On their drive to this position they ran into
a team from Number 85 Camouflage Company coming from that direction.
“Nothing going on back there, mates,” one of the men of Number 85 yelled
as their truck bounced past.
    This time they set up in a shallow depression between two gentle
ridges, the perfect spot for a tank group to rest, or hide. Graham stood
watch on the top of the rise. “Mirrors?” Fuller asked.
    “Not yet.”
    The Gang spent the entire day setting up the tank dummies, then
breaking them down, five times in all. Maskelyne never employed the
plywood mirrors. Around the campfire that evening, Hill wondered what they
were being saved for.
    “Beats me,” Graham answered. “I only work here. But I’m sure he
knows,” he added, nodding in Maskelyne’s direction. “Least, I hope so.”
    October 31 was a repeat of the previous day. While Lightfoot was being
fought in front of them and support troops were hard at work behind them,
the Gang roamed up and down the line putting together and then taking
apart its four cardboard tanks and beginning to feel foolish about the whole
operation. “Haven’t we done this whole bit before?” Nails suggested.
    Hill kept busy trying to outguess Maskelyne. “He’s got a special plan for
the mirrors,” he said knowingly. “He knows just what he’s gonna do with
them, but he doesn’t want us to know.”
    “Why is that?” asked Fuller.
    “’Cause it’s a secret,” Hill explained.
    From their position in the midst of the battle it was not possible to get
any feel of its progress. The entire desert seemed to exist in a state of
confused flux. No one, except the 10th Armoured tankers who rumbled
forward every night and retreated just before dawn every morning, seemed
to have any particular destination. Truck drivers just rolled from one point
to the next, picking up, dropping off, carrying wounded, bringing up water.
One truck jockey was even operating a mobile card game that had been in
progress since the day before the battle had begun.
    From the news the Gang managed to pick off the grapevine, Lightfoot
had become a stalemate. Rommel was strong enough to prevent Eighth
Army from breaking out of the Gardens, but lacked the resources to mount
an offensive of his own. As with most other western-desert campaigns, this
had become a battle of attrition.
    Both sides fought the sun and the heat. Every once in a while Jasper
would see a familiar movement on the flats, or pick an odour off the
breeze, or hear a natural sound, and he would shiver in fear, remembering
the days he had spent dying on the desert. Hill mentioned it only once,
asking him if he ever thought about it. “Sometimes,” he admitted.
    “Me too, and it gives me the willies. One good thing, though. With half
of bloody England traipsing about out here it isn’t likely we’re going to get
lost again.”
    While heading north on November 1 the Gang paused alongside a small
transport convoy evacuating wounded from the battlefield, to catch up on
the latest rumours. A group of the less seriously injured had brewed up,
and Maskelyne suddenly recognized the ranking officer among them, an
exceedingly proper major he had met at Hobart House, the reserve officers’
recruitment centre in London. The major had turned him away, pointing out
rather brusquely that the Army was a place for soldiers, not aging
magicians.
    The man’s right arm was being held rigid in a sling by wooden slats and
his head was partially bandaged, the result, Jasper learned, of having taken
one round square in the shoulder and being winged in the scalp by another.
The major remembered him immediately. “I saw one of your shows in
Cairo,” he said in a surprisingly cheerful tone. “What in the blazes are you
doing out here? I thought you’d be back there entertaining the boys.”
    “Actually,” Jasper explained, “I’ve been trying to get forward since I got
to Egypt.”
    The major was astonished. “Whatever for?”
    “To be part of it, I suppose. Do my share.”
    “You’re not serious,” the major scoffed.
    “Absolutely,” Jasper said. This once formal officer had been transformed
since their meeting in London. His beard was thick, his uniform irregular,
his entire attitude slack. All traces of the quintessential British officer had
disappeared.
    “The old spirit, eh, Maskelyne?” The major shook his head in
amusement. “I should’ve thought you were too old to believe that rubbish.”
He hoisted his strapped arm a bit. “This isn’t a medal, you know. It’s a
damn painful wound. I know, we’ve all got our jobs to do, but I’ll tell you,
Maskelyne, no matter what you think, I tried to do you a favour back at
Hobart House.” He sipped his tea and collected his thoughts. “Now tell me,
have you played your tricks on Jerry?”
    Maskelyne told him about Magic Valley. “We’ve designed most of the
dummies being used out here,” he said proudly.
    “Good for you, good for you. I’m glad one of us did some good out here.”
    Jasper still did not understand. “But you certainly seem to be in good
spirits, Major.”
    The officer smiled broadly. “And why shouldn’t I be? I’m out of it alive.”
    Later, as the Gang proceeded further north, Maskelyne repeated the
conversation to Jack Fuller. “Sounds like a queer duck, if you ask me,” the
sergeant said.
    “Perhaps,” Jasper agreed, but the meeting left him more confused than
ever. Maybe Barkas was right, maybe he was looking in the wrong place for
fulfilment.
    Late in the afternoon of November 1, like a cleansing wind sweeping
across the desert, a resilient mood took hold of Eighth Army. The malaise
of the past few days seemed to evaporate. The lines suddenly looked
straighter, the orders sounded more certain, the soldiers seemed grimly
determined. The word raced down the line: Monty’s Supercharge was to be
launched that night.
    At dusk, the Gang settled down with some squaddies from a Tank
Recovery outfit. The night started out regularly enough, and by ten o’clock
each of them had dug a shallow trench in the still-warm ground, pulled his
blanket over his shoulders, and fallen asleep to the lullaby of sporadic
gunfire.
    Four hours later Jasper was shaken awake. An incredible guttural wave
of thunder rose out of the south and swept over him and beyond him, and
became a canopy of sound over the entire desert. The sky lit up like a
flashing marquee on opening night. Supercharge had begun, and he was
right in the middle of it.
    Six miles away, near the Miteirya Ridge, the barrage stepped forward
one hundred yards every three minutes. The infantry and the armour
followed in its dust. Seventy tanks were lost in the first hour, but Monty
fielded a hundred more to replace them, and eventually this steel army
rolled over German gun positions, often crushing the gun crews to death
beneath their treads. By morning the battlefield was a junkyard of bodies
and wrecked vehicles, but the Devil’s Gardens had been breached and men
and armour were pouring through this thin corridor. After being held up for
more than a week, Britain’s Army of the Nile was slamming forward again.
    Rommel desperately tried to close the gaps, ordering any units not
directly engaged with the enemy into the sector. He knew that the Battie of
El Alamein, and the desert campaign, would be decided on this morning.
    The Gang had packed up and was ready to move by 7 a.m. With
Montgomery’s armour driving south, Jasper decided to take his dummy
tanks north.
    They had gone about nine miles up the battle line when a single truck
came racing toward them at top speed. It spun to a halt almost directly in
front of the Gang’s truck, and a soldier in cook’s whites leaped out of its
cab. “You chaps got a wireless?” he shouted.
    “Sorry,” Jasper said. “Why? What’s up?”
    The cook grunted as if punched in the stomach. “There’s a bunch of Jerry
tanks comin’ this way. They’re zigzagging through their own minefields.
They’re going to try to hit the flank.”
    Jasper grabbed hold of this opportunity and held it tightly. “How many
men’ve you got in your truck?”
    “There’s six of us, but we’re just cooks. We haven’t even got rifles with
us. We just got a little lost and came over this ridge, and bam!–” the cook
smacked his hands together “–they were comin’ right at us.”
    “All right, Sergeant,” Maskelyne ordered, “I want you and your people to
come with us. How far back d’you say they were?”
    The cook wasn’t sure. “Three, four miles maybe. But it’s slow going
through those fields. I’d say they were a good twenty minutes away,
probably more. But, look, Captain, see, we’re just cooks and–”
    “Good, we’ve got a little time.” The objective of this raiding force was
obvious. By sneaking through their own minefields, these panzers could
attack Eighth Army’s corridor from the flank. With some luck, they would be
able to inflict enough damage to clog it up with smashed armour and give
Panzerarmee time to rush reinforcements into the area. Given a few extra
hours, Rommel might be able to organize a counterattack and close the
wound in his lines.
    Hill leaned out from the rear of the truck. “What’s holdin’ up the war?”
he yelled.
    Maskelyne jogged to the back of the truck and outlined the situation,
concluding, “I think we can stall them long enough for one of the cooks to
drive back and get some help.”
    Hill glanced at the rest of the Gang “I don’t know, Jay,” he finally said,
“those are real tanks out there. They’ve got real guns. And, no matter how
real our dummy tanks look, we’ve only got four of them, and that’s not
enough to scare off Jerry if he wants to come.”
    Jasper gritted his teeth. “You were the one complaining about not being
in the war, Mike. Now here’s your chance. I say we can slow them down,
and I’m going to try it. If any of you want to ride back with the cooks, go
ahead. But make your decision right now, we haven’t got any spare time.”
    Hill looked at Robson. Robson hesitated, then waved a conceding hand.
“Ah, let’s go. I’ve heard of more ridiculous things.”
    “Like what?” Hill wondered. He couldn’t imagine anything more ridiculous
than trying to halt a panzer tank force with cardboard tanks and plywood
mirrors.
    They followed the tracks made by the cooks’ truck for a little more than
a mile, stopping at the base of a dune that rose gently to a height of
twenty-five feet. The Gang parked behind it, while one of the cooks took
their truck to find a wireless and call in air support. The other cooks helped
the Gang set up the four dummy tanks. Maskelyne climbed to the crest of
the dune and stared out at the empty desert. As he shaded his eyes from
the morning sun, he thought he saw a dust cloud in the distance, but
couldn’t be sure it was not simply his imagination willing the enemy tanks
toward him.
    He marked positions for each of the dummy tanks about thirty yards
apart. Slightly behind each placement, at an angle of about forty-five
degrees to the left and then to the right, he drew additional marks on the
ground. As soon as he finished, he ordered the men to place the tanks at
the bottom of the dune near their designated positions and lay the plywood
boards face up on the marks he had made. “When I say so,” he explained,
“we’ll push the tanks up into position. Then, one by one, we’ll get the
mirrors up. Remember, not until I give the word.”
    The cooks looked around for the mirrors.
    Jasper watched the horizon. The cloud was drifting closer.
    The Gang waited anxiously next to the tanks. Graham looked at
Townsend. “Nervous?”
    “Nah.”
    “Better tell your foot, then,” Graham joked, pointing to the painter’s
rapidly tapping left foot.
    “A little,” Townsend admitted.
    One of the cooks looked at the silver plywood boards and declared flatly,
“Those aren’t mirrors, you know.”
    The German Panzergruppe consisted of five Panzer IIIs and three of the
new Mark III Specials. The group commander stood in the cupola of the
lead tank and scanned the desert through his binoculars. The Luftwaffe
support he had been promised had not materialized, but that did not
surprise him. The Air Force was obviously very busy at Miteirya Ridge. His
tank force still enjoyed one major advantage: the element of surprise. The
British would never expect an attack from the flank. If he remained very
lucky …
    “All set, Jay,” Graham yelled to Maskelyne. “Just give us the word.”
    Jasper estimated that the enemy tanks were still more than two miles
away. When they got just a bit closer he would begin the illusion. Looking
down from the crest to Nails, he shouted back, “If they start shooting, we’ll
get out of here right quick.”
    Hill cheered.
    They waited. Occasionally, they could hear artillery shells thumping into
the desert, or an air-sucking whoomp!, indicating that another tank had
been hit somewhere down the line.
    As he lay flat on the crest of the dune, watching the cloud of armour
moving toward them, Jasper suddenly remembered lying flat inside a
cramped machine-gun nest in the fields at Farnham, holding his breath as
Lord Gort searched for his position. It seemed to have taken place such a
long time ago.
    “They’re coming!” Townsend shouted to him.
    “I got ’em.” The panzers were driving straight toward the dune line.
Jasper chuckled to himself as he remembered Frank Knox pushing his broom
handle through the slit. It was such an innocent time. He had been so
determined then. So determined and so confident, and so naive.
    The lead panzer finally picked up speed and raced out of its dust cloud.
“All right,” Jasper commanded, “let’s do it. Let’s go. Now.”
    The men lifted the dummy tanks and carried them up the gentle incline.
One by one they were placed in position, their wooden guns aimed directly
at the advancing Panzergruppe.
    Jasper took his silver lighter out of his pocket and used it to deflect the
rays of the morning sun onto the desert flats. He worked carefully with the
lighter, moving it up and down, up and down, creating bursts of sunlight
that might catch the attention of the panzer column.
    “What’s he doing now?” one of the cooks asked Graham.
    “Just checking his makeup,” Nails replied.
    The Panzergruppe commander spotted the flashes. At that distance it
was not possible to determine what was causing them, but he immediately
informed his individual tank commanders of their existence and ordered the
column to reduce speed. It was difficult enough weaving a path through the
minefield without having to wage a battle.
    Jasper waited another minute, just watching, until he just couldn’t wait
any longer. “Raise ’em,” he ordered. “Get ’em up.”
    Townsend and a cook picked up a board to Maskelyne’s right. It bounced
the sunlight toward the enemy tank column.
    Nails raised a board by himself.
    In quick succession the other boards were pushed upright, like tanks
climbing to the top of the dune.
    Hey presto! Jasper thought to himself.
    The Panzergruppe commander asked over the radio if anyone could
determine what was creating these bursts of light. But it was a perfunctory
request. He knew, he knew.
    Within moments, the boards were all in place.
    The panzer column continued moving forward.
    Hill scanned the skies, trying to wish a Desert Air Force squadron into
existence.
    Each tank commander kept his field glasses on the dune crest, but the
reflected sunlight made it impossible to make out any shapes. Desert
experience had taught these tankers that such flashes were usually caused
by vehicles, although these particular vehicles might just as easily be
harmless transport as tanks.
    The column finally halted, and sat motionless in the minefield. To
continue forward, the commander knew, made no sense. Whether these
flashes were being caused by British trucks or tanks did not matter, the
element of surprise had been lost. Trucks would have radios. And if this
was a tank force waiting for him at the end of the minefield, his small
column would be decimated.
    He peered through his glasses one final time. He thought he could
barely make out the distinctive shape of an American Grant, but was not
sure. It made no difference. “Withdraw,” he ordered, thankful that the high
morning sun had given away the British position.
    “They’re backing off,” one of the cooks yelled jubilantly. “Look at ’em,
look at ’em!”
    “I told you,” Hill shouted. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I?” The Gang hugged
one another and the cooks and danced in wide circles. The cooks thought
they were crazy, but, having just helped beat off a panzer column with
cardboard and plywood, they were in a dancing mood, too.
    Twenty minutes later, while they were packing up the dummies for the
next display, six Spits flew directly overhead in pursuit of the panzer
column. Fuller watched them fly toward the sun, then was struck by an odd
thought. “Hey, Captain,” he asked Jasper, “what would you have done if it
was overcast?”
    Maskelyne thought about that, then grinned. “A disappearing act.”
    By the end of that fateful day, Rommel’s African army had been reduced
to thirty-five German and one hundred ineffective Italian tanks.
Disregarding Hitler’s order to “stand fast, yield not a yard of room and
throw every gun and man into the battle,” the Field Marshal began
retreating. His tattered column stretched forty miles on the coast highway.
Hundreds of vehicles ran out of fuel during this withdrawal and had to be
abandoned. In the battles at El Alamein, he had lost 32,000 men, more
than 1,000 guns and 450 tanks. Only heavy rainstorms, which grounded the
British air force, prevented even greater losses. “The dead are lucky,” he
wrote to his wife. “It’s all over for them.”
    England’s newest hero, Montgomery, called it a “fine battle. Complete
and absolute victory … Boches are finished – finished!”
    Brigadier Currie of 9th Armoured, a brigade that had been in the thick of
Supercharge, had a difficult time sharing Monty’s exuberance. Asked by a
fellow officer where his regiments were, he pointed to twelve battered
tanks and replied, “There are my armoured regiments.”
    Rommel’s retreat ended the battle for the western desert although
British and American forces would pursue him through North Africa for many
months before finally bringing his army to ground.
    This time the Gang celebrated as fighting men. This time they didn’t
have to step silently to the back of the bar when the boasting began. The
story of their incredible “invasion” had quickly become a favourite tale in
Cairo. “It wasn’t much of an invasion,” Hill modestly told a group of
spellbound clerks who were paying for the drinks at the Melody. “There we
were on these three boats, but we had ’em convinced we were a full-scale
landing force. You should’ve seen ’em running around that beach. There was
this one Nazi–”
    “Actually, we didn’t really see them,” Robson interrupted. “You know, it
was dark.”
    Hill was not one to let such details ruin a good story. “See. Hear. What’s
the difference? They sure knew we were there. Half the bloody Luftwaffe
came at us and we were dashing about behind this smokescreen–”
    “Maybe not half their air force,” Fuller corrected, “and certainly not until
we’d already departed. Surprise was the key to the success of the
operation.”
   Hill frowned and shook his head. “Are you going to let me tell the story
or not?” he asked Union Jack.
   “But the details are important, Mike,” Fuller replied.
   “Well, I’ve got all the details, Sarge, but I just don’t wanna get into
specifics!”
   Jasper sat with Major Barkas across the dark room. As he tried
unsuccessfully to weave a coin through his fingers, they rehashed the
Battle of El Alamein for the many-hundredth time.
   “No question about it,” Barkas declared, “they fell for Bertram
completely. No question about it at all. Von Thoma said so himself.”
General Ritter von Thoma, one of Rommel’s top commanders, had been
captured late in the fighting. He admitted to Montgomery that Afrika Korps
had been led to believe the attack would be made in the south, opposite
Munassib, and prepared for that.
   “Then there was the report from their Intelligence, too,” Jasper reminded
Barkas. While doing so, he dropped the coin again. His fingers felt like
logs, so out of condition he doubted he’d ever be able to perform in public
again. The Panzerarmee summary to which he referred had predicted Eighth
Army would attack in the south, although suggesting that diversionary
thrusts might take place in the north.
   The Italians had also taken the bait. A captured map prepared by their
Intelligence indicated that Montgomery’s armoured divisions were staging in
the south, and noted that the assembly in the Martello area posed no
threat.
   Maskelyne raised his glass. “Bertram!”
   “Bertram,” Barkas responded. The fact that Rommel had kept a
substantial portion of his armoured force in the southern sector for the
crucial first few days of the battle was proof that he had fallen for the
greatest deception in military history.
   Jasper put down his glass and snaked the coin through his fingers,
caught it in his palm, made a fist, then turned his hand over and opened
his palm to Barkas. It was empty. “Hey presto!” he said.
   “I’m so sorry,” Barkas complained, “but that’s my coin.”
   On November 11, Prime Minister Winston Churchill addressed the House
of Commons. After paying tribute to the leaders and men of the Eighth
Army, he continued, “I must say one word about … surprise and strategy.
By a marvellous system of camouflage, complete tactical surprise was
achieved in the desert. The enemy suspected – indeed, knew – that an
attack was impending, but when and where and how it was coming was
hidden from him. The Tenth Corps, which had been seen from the air
exercising fifty miles in the rear, moved silently away in the night, leaving
an exact simulacrum of its tanks where it had been and proceeded to its
points of attack. The enemy suspected the attack was impending, but did
not know how, where or when, and above all had no idea of the scale upon
which he was to be assaulted.”
   The war magician took his bows.

On the morning of the December Sunday he was to join the Gang to
celebrate the engagement of Michael Hill and Kathy Lewis, Jasper drove to
Giza to finish some important business. As he had done once long before,
he crawled on his hands and knees down the narrow passage into the
King’s Chamber of the Great Pyramid. He was alone there, although he
could hear the electronic buzz of Eighth Army’s headquarters
communications centre at work in a nearby chamber.
    He did not sit down on the stone floor, because he did not expect to
stay there long. He would not wait impassively for the ancient magicians to
commune with him. He was there to discover once and forever if he
belonged with the great wizards of the ages, and he had realized that no
one could tell him this. He would know.
    He had performed all the illusions that had been required of him,
illusions far more astounding than those of the men who had built these
massive monuments. He had caused great armies to appear on the field of
battle and conjured up their weapons. He had launched fleets of ships and
had vanished waterways and had seemingly moved the land itself. He had
done his grand illusion.
    He stood there staring at the cold walls, thinking of his grandfather, the
illustrious John Nevil Maskelyne, and his father, Nevil Maskelyne. He had
tested himself in ways they would understand, and he had passed every
test. He knew he could stand tall with them now.
    He had learned so much in the desert. Real magic did exist in the world,
he was sure of that now. But it had nothing to do with elaborate
productions or crafty legerdemain. It was the simple wonder of love and
loss and renewal and even death. Mary had taught him that, being at his
side every moment though thousands of miles away. The Gang had taught
him that. Frank Knox had taught him that.
    Perhaps, he thought as he stood at the very centre of the kingdom of
magic, there is one real magician.
    Jasper took a deep breath of the pharaoh’s air. His shoulders relaxed,
his hands lay easily at his side, and he was comfortable. His search was
over. He knew he could stay there as long as he pleased, for he had found
what he was looking for.
    Resolved, he turned around and left. He didn’t want to be late for the
engagement of his friends. There was to be magic in the afternoon.


                                Epilogue
The successful conclusion of the western desert campaign was hardly the
end of Jasper Maskelyne’s incredible exploits during World War II. By the
time the Axis powers surrendered unconditionally he had been promoted to
the rank of major and served in sixteen countries, among them Italy, the
Balkans, India, Burma, Malaya and Canada. In Canada he established
Station M – the “M” standing for “Magic” – where he created top-secret
illusions to be used around the world. While serving at Station M he
recreated the illusion he had used in Farnham to convince Lord Gort that
the battleship Admiral Graf Spee was sailing down the Thames, this time
making American FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover believe German cruisers were
at work on Lake Ontario.
    Although his wartime work was supposedly secret, his contributions
became well known among the war planners. In Delhi, India, at a reception
soon after his arrival, Maskelyne was introduced by Lord Louis Mountbatten
to Lady Mountbatten as “Jasper Maskelyne, in charge of all the camouflage
and illusion inventions we’re using.”
    On the dark side of the battle lines, Hitler’s Gestapo added his name to
its infamous “Black List,” and placed a large bounty on his head.
    Much of his work after the western desert campaign was done for Allied
secret services and remains classified. Among the numerous devices he
invented was a means of communicating between aircraft and
ground-control stations by infrared waves and a method of making aircraft
invisible to searchlights at low altitudes. But perhaps most intriguing is a
photograph that appears in his personal wartime album, of a miniature
submarine hooked onto the bottom of the hull of a larger ship. “This is the
submarine we used to torpedo the German ship carrying the ‘heavy water’
needed for the creation of atomic weapons from Scandinavia to Germany,”
reads the handwritten caption. A large X appears at the top of the page. No
other information regarding this submarine is available.
    Maskelyne’s Magic Gang split up soon after the Battle of El Alamein, but
Magic Valley’s workshops, under Mechanical Engineer supervision, continued
supplying dummies and decoys to Allied armies until the end of the fighting
in the Middle East and Far East.
    Michael Hill was transferred to India, rising to the rank of sergeant, and
married Kathy Lewis in England in 1946. Union Jack Fuller resigned from the
Army at the cessation of hostilities, but stayed on in the Middle East in the
employ of a major exporting firm. He died there in 1965. Bill Robson
returned to England after the war and became a successful fashion
illustrator and teacher of fine arts at a London university. Philip Townsend
eventually became a director of television commercials and remarried
happily. Theodore Graham returned to his family trade, opening up a
carpentry shop in a London suburb.
    Jasper returned to Mary and his children in 1946. In those desperate
postwar years there was little interest in England in stage magic, and an
attempt to tour with Maskelyne’s Magical Mysteries failed.
    In 1948, the Maskelynes emigrated to Kenya. There, in the early 1950s,
Jasper again picked up his magic wand and worked for the National Police in
the war against the Mau Mau. During that war he managed to pull off an
illusion he had often promised, projecting an image of Mau Mau leader
Jomo Kenyatta in the sky above Mount Kenya.
    After that war ended Maskelyne managed the Kenyan National Theatre
and eventually settled on a small farm outside Nairobi.
    He maintained contact with the members of his Magic Gang for a number
of years after the war, but as wartime memories faded, this correspondence
ended.
    Jasper Maskelyne, the war magician, died in Kenya in 1973