Waltzing Matilda

Episode 1

«You'll come a-waltzing Matilda, with me».
Australian Folk Song.

Benghazi, Libya, Northern Africa. February 1941.
Chiara didn't even feel pain, when she was flung out into a concrete wall of the shelter. For a second she it seemed, that everything disappeared or she fell into a deep, deafening with it's silence abyss. Everything disappeared, the gnashing of the armored tanks, the rumbling of motor vehicles and the constant shooting. The dying screams of the Italian soldiers, whose blood drenched the desert land, the crunching of their bones under heavy British tanks and the still warm flesh that had been torn apart into part, merged into one single, pulsating to the beat of Chiara's heart, roar.
The roar grew steadily, becoming louder and sharper, as if it reflected countless times from the high walls of a cathedral and from its vaulted ceilings, returning, merging and resonating until
the deafening blows of the bell struck Southern Italy as if from heaven. It seemed that God Himself called the funeral alarm.
The scarlet blood sprinkled the faces of the saints on the frescoes of the sacred grottos, distorted
in grimaces of pain and fear. Their sandy-colored clothes were covered with a layer of dust and
soot, the hair was baked with a bloody crust. Demons stepped between their bodies, spewing lead and fire, and drove the soldiers away, and the green-eyed Devil watched everything happen. Chiara could not move, but she could feel the earth vibrating beneath her, like a bell ringing through her body, drifting deep into the burning sand, acquiring a destructive force, and the earth would explode, drawing everyone into their smoldering, gray-smelling faults. And then everything will end.
She started coughing. The pain in her chest prevented her from breathing normally. The blood in her mouth felt bitter, and she felt the persistent smell of gunpowder and hot metal. Chiara, opened her inflamed eyelids, with a groan: no cathedral bells, or a long, dusty blanket of sky. Instead of Hell, she saw a prison lattice. She wheezed softly and wanted to call for help, but she didn't even hear her own voice. Nausea crept up her throat, and it felt as a rustling dust storm was raging in her ears. It seems, that she hit her head very hard, even though she didn't remember under what circumstances. Thoughts tossed difficultly in her head and painfully cut her consciousness. It's better not to think at all.
Chiara closed her eyes, hoping that she would lose consciousness again, and when she wakes up, she'll feel better. At least, thinking will not hurt so much. Under the palm of her hand was a
rough floor and it seemed to be dusty. Under the little finger and ring finger, there was a small poke, and she decided to focus on it, slowly delineating her outline, again and again.
They retreated to El Aguila, moving along the dry desert to the south. They left Benghazi, just like Sidi-Barrani, Bordia and Tobruk, they had left before. Fought like devils, like wounded lions - both Italians and Africans - but all in vain. They were strong spiritually, but technically they lagged behind even an ancient man with a stick in his hand. The British with their "Mathildas" seemed to be playing cricket on their minefields. Libya was taken prisoner in still in
Nibejva, the group of Maletti. Chiara heard that they were taken by surprise; soldiers in pajamas and with automatic weapons in their hands tried to conduct an organized fight, but were defeated. And now she - South Italy – is in the hands of the British.
Chiara felt her head ripple, and dry and malicious tears came to her eyes, her throat contracted aspasm, and she screamed from despair, hearing her own cry, as if through a thick sand of hot sand. She wanted it to be real, so that she was now somewhere in the depths of a huge sand
barhana in the Sahara, and not in this cell in... she did not even know where. In Benghazi? In El Aguila? Or even in Cairo?
Her cry reflected as a dull pain in her head and sharp one in her chest. Vargas moaned and felt
more from the vibrations in the floor than heard someone's hurried steps. The clank of iron loops on the lattice door and the creak of sand under heavy boots, and after the palm on the shoulder. Not looking and not even thinking, Chiara waved her hand with her fist clenched, trying to defend herself. Feeling that she hit someone, she opened her eyes and, turning on her back,
swung her second hand, hitting the opponent in the ear, kicking her legs under the knee. One leg of his knuckled, as if the tendons were knocked down, but he managed to stop further attempts
of Vargas to wave her hands, by grabbing her wrists. The girl was too weak to resist. Her legs were pressed to the floor, her hands were squeezed in a tight grip, and the pain in her chest caught her breath.
- "We recently pulled shrapnel out of your chest, and you can still flutter, crazy."
Chiara clenched her teeth in pain and desperation, pulling her hands, trying to reach the offender, fighting like a little yellow scorpion, who had already been pricked into a sharp stick and pressed to the ground.
-"You bloody bastard, let me go!"- She jerked up, trying to bite his hand, but did not calculate and again leaned back, screaming. The wound, apparently, reopened, impregnating the bandages and linen tunic of Italy with blood.
-"Robins, the physician, now!"- he guy shouted to someone outside, continuing to hold Vargas in place, so that she no longer harmed him, much less himself. - "Hey, calm," he said to the girl, - "because of all this fuss, your wound will heal now even longer."
-"Who are you?" – Chiara spat out, looking at the enemy, evilly. She vaguely remembered this
guy and inside Italy clearly felt that he was just like her. A country or some part of it, but certainly not an ordinary mortal man.
- "Ralph Phillip. I'm Ozz ... ahem, Australia, - the guy introduced himself. - "I thought you knew who you were fighting against."
-"Bastard," Vargas hissed, like a sandy ef, disturbed by curious naturalists, "you're a British
hanger! Stronzo! Let me go, cagna!"
Ralph sighed, realizing that an endless stream of incomprehensible swear words would have to
be heard for a very, very long time. The doctor came to the rescue immediately and began to rework the girl's wound and Australia already wanted to leave, however, the fact that Italy had time to scratch the medic, again swinging her arms, and biting her hand, made him stay.
-"Arthur told me that you are crazy, but I did not think, on this rate," Ralph said a little later, settling himself on the floor out of the yellowish white sandstone just like the walls of the prison,
leaning back on empty boxes, and fingering the rosary on their wrists. On his nose, there was a plaster, although, perhaps, it was glued before Vargas hit Australia in the nose. The girl herself was lying, resting on the gray-green greatcoat of one of the Italian soldiers. At least, it was definitely part of their continental uniforms. Italy decided not to think, where the owner of the greatcoat is, so as not to go completely mad with despair. A tight gauze bandage, like a corset, which more caused discomfort than relief, squeezed her chest. Chiara absolutely did not care how long her wound would heal, it would be even better if she would be torn in half. She raised her hand to her chest and put it on her wound. Here, under a thick layer of bandages and thin skin, the hearts of her dear soldiers were beating in the cage of ribs: afraid, disappointed, desperate and tired. Just like her.
- "And you? You're Chiara Vargas?" - Ralph looked at the girl, but nothing but received nothinh but, "Vattene" in return. – "We met once at a conference in Paris, but you were so enthusiastic
about the dispute with Alfred that I'm not surprised that you do not remember me. Arthur then told me about you. Of course, not only that you are a crazy hysterical lady. In my opinion, it's pretty rude to say so about a beautiful girl. "- Australia fell silent and smiled broadly, feeling his face start to bake, as if he spent the whole day under the scorching African sun without his hat- akrab.
Ralph looked at Italy again, seeing that now she, pre-standing on her elbow, was looking directly
at him. The girl had an unreadable facial expression, a mixture of alien for ever-optimistic Australia contempt, mistrust and even, perhaps, a little pity. Perhaps self-pity, because, she was in a prison cell with filthy stains on her face, tangled like a roll of hair and dirty bloodstained
form, she only caused such a feeling. Perhaps pity for their soldiers who have not seen their country for many years, forced to fight in this desolate, ruthless sun, the desert first for the colonies in Libya and Ethiopia, and now running away, leaving everything behind their backs. And perhaps, pity for this boy, who is still too young and youthfully cheerful and even naive, like an Australian Mowgli who emerged from the jungle, but already fought in two wars at the behest of a British scum, and met a part of the countries not at the reception at dinner, and on the battlefield.
- "What do you need?"- Chiara's voice was still uncertain, but her head was not spinning anymore, and the roar cleared a little, but not quite.
-"I ..." Australia started in surprise, but Vargas interrupted him:
-"If this is a plan of Englands', then let him roll into the very last circle of Hell, or come personally, so that I can scratch out his insolent eyes."
Ralph felt his knee begin to ache again when Italy cried out her threats. He himself did not want to remain without his eyes.
-"Arthur will only arrive the day after tomorrow," Australia thoughtfully scratched the plaster on his nose. - "Well, that's if your desire to scratch his eyes will still be in power."
-"Then what the hell are you doing, idiot?" - Italy turned on her side, facing the interlocutor. The
wound was aching, but there was no acute pain. Perhaps she really should do less sudden movements.
-"I wanted to get to know the one that made Arthur nervous for the last few months." Australia
smiled again, quite friendly. -"He's already pouring whiskey into his cup instead of tea."
- "Nervous?"- Chiara seemed unhappy.- "I'd prefer that he shoot himself with grief."
-"I do not think he's capable of that," Phillip shrugged, rising to his feet. He approached the
lattice. "Especially now. I saw him in a more depressed state. He is more furious right now." -"Good to know."
Australia exhaled heavily. Behind the walls of the prison stood thirty-five degree heat, here, in
the room, was a bit cooler, although no less stuffy. British and Australian soldiers settled in an uncertain shadow, cast off by the walls of houses, and absorbed local fruits, bought right there in
the city market. The time was drawing to noon and the hard, dazzling sun at the zenith seemed like a kind of magnifying glass, which was directed at small ants to burn them. It was amazing
how the machinery did not melt in such a heat. And even the Mediterranean breeze from the sea did not save.
-"I do not see any of my soldiers. Moreover, I'm not in the camp, but in some prison."-Italy's
voice became deaf, and she barely pronounced the last question. -"Did you shoot them?" -"What? No, of course not" - Ralph did not even think to deceive her, somehow putting pressure
on her mental state. -"They are in a prisoner-of-war camp near the city. And Arthur ordered you to be locked here. This is the temporary prison of Benghazi. I absolutely do not understand why it is built, - Australia thoughtfully put his hand into the hair at the back of his head.-" - There are not many amenities in it. By the way, one of your generals is here too."
-"General Bergonzoli?"
-"Most likely," Phillip shrugged. – "He introduced himself as "Go to hell, Brita!" Which, incidentally, is doubly offending."
- "Say Thank you, that he didn't call you britannico porco cane," although it was rude, but still,
Chiara was joking. She did not look at him with contempt anymore. Her eyes were tired, and she just wanted to sleep.
Australia took a meditative look, probably trying to understand what the girl said, but only
understood the "britannico", which again was not very encouraging. He wanted to state this, but the messenger interrupted him sharply.
-"Mr. Phillip," he said to Ralph, putting the edge of his hand to the cap. -"Sir, General O'Connor calls to himself."
-"Yes, wait a sec." Australia nodded and looked at Chiara. Her eyes were closed and she seemed
to be sleeping, laying one hand under her head. Ralph took his hat that was hanging back and put it on. The sun is already at its zenith; soon there should be lunch.
When Vargas woke up, Australia was gone, behind the latticed window the twilight light was gathering, and near her "bed" was a tray with dinner: a soldier's ration and some fresh fruit.