rough fabric.
The soldier jotted down Mickey’s name from his ID and glared at the Egyptian. “Who’s the camel jockey?”
“He’s my interpreter,” Mickey answered. “The official translator for the Detroit Free Press and, as you can see, we are both injured.”
“Listen, mate. I don’t care which press you’re from. If ’e doesn’t ’ave any papers ’e can’t enter a bloody restricted area.”
“ Maalesh , it’s okay,” Sidi urged. “We go to the hotel and get my papers.”
“The hell with that,” Mickey retorted. “This man needs medical care and I’m taking him to the hospital.” He slammed the pedal to the floor and sped off.
Sidi laughed at Mickey’s brazenness as he looked back at the sentry, who was running after the car in a huff. “You are brave, habibi. I hope your paper is paying you a lot of money for all the risks you are taking.”
Mickey didn’t say anything, but he was not actually on the payroll. He was a stringer, writing stories and selling them to any publication that would buy them. His letter from the Detroit Free Press designating him as one of their official stringers was baloney, but he needed it to obtain press credentials in Egypt. Gunther Hoff, his mentor and former political science professor at the University of Michigan, had pulled strings to get it for him.
The field hospital consisted of a large compound of khaki tents. Mickey pulled up next to an ambulance where two men were unloading a bandaged soldier and putting him on a stretcher. Areceiving nurse was instructing the medics where to take him after noting the serial number on the ID tag that hung from his neck.
“Just a few steps,” Mickey said as he draped Sidi’s right arm around his shoulder and lifted him from the Jeep.
“I’m sorry, but this is a military hospital,” the nurse said as she strode briskly up to them, all business. “We don’t treat civilians.”
“This man needs attention,” Mickey began to say.
“Is that an American accent I hear?” a woman asked.
Mickey turned to find the driver of the ambulance stepping out of her seat and coming toward them. She was all of five feet tall and in her midtwenties. She wore a red scarf around her neck, which offset the severity of her khaki uniform.
It was Mickey’s first encounter with one of the infamous lady drivers of the Ambulance Corps. His college buddy, Hugh Charlesworth, who had convinced him to join him in Cairo in the first place, had waxed on about these women in his letters, assuring him that they were as bold in the bedroom as they were in the field.
“I know you!” she said to Mickey, recognition crossing her face as she reached him. “You’re that American pressman. I saw your pretty face in the photo listing of foreign correspondents. There are not too many Americans.” She spoke the King’s English, every letter perfectly enunciated. “What is the trouble?” she asked Sidi before Mickey could reply.
“I think my foot is broken, and I have a pain here.” Sidi indicated his lower abdomen.
“I’ll be happy to take him in my lorry,” she told Mickey. “I’m headed to Mamoun. It’s only two hours away. I can drop him off at the general area hospital. I’m sure they can help him there.”
Mickey brightened. He looked expectantly at Sidi, who shrugged, his lower lip still turned downward. “That would be fantastic,” Mickey said.
“Brilliant. I’m Sally Harper.” She gave Mickey the once-over asshe offered her hand. She radiated a cool sophistication that was only slightly undercut by the dimples in her cheeks.
“Mickey Connolly,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t shake.” He showed his banged-up hands.
“Better put some peroxide on those and bandage them up,” she advised, as she delicately inspected them and blew at some of the sand that had settled into the cuts.
“That’s all right,” Mickey replied, pulling away. “Only a few scratches. Just take care of my buddy here.”
They
The soldier jotted down Mickey’s name from his ID and glared at the Egyptian. “Who’s the camel jockey?”
“He’s my interpreter,” Mickey answered. “The official translator for the Detroit Free Press and, as you can see, we are both injured.”
“Listen, mate. I don’t care which press you’re from. If ’e doesn’t ’ave any papers ’e can’t enter a bloody restricted area.”
“ Maalesh , it’s okay,” Sidi urged. “We go to the hotel and get my papers.”
“The hell with that,” Mickey retorted. “This man needs medical care and I’m taking him to the hospital.” He slammed the pedal to the floor and sped off.
Sidi laughed at Mickey’s brazenness as he looked back at the sentry, who was running after the car in a huff. “You are brave, habibi. I hope your paper is paying you a lot of money for all the risks you are taking.”
Mickey didn’t say anything, but he was not actually on the payroll. He was a stringer, writing stories and selling them to any publication that would buy them. His letter from the Detroit Free Press designating him as one of their official stringers was baloney, but he needed it to obtain press credentials in Egypt. Gunther Hoff, his mentor and former political science professor at the University of Michigan, had pulled strings to get it for him.
The field hospital consisted of a large compound of khaki tents. Mickey pulled up next to an ambulance where two men were unloading a bandaged soldier and putting him on a stretcher. Areceiving nurse was instructing the medics where to take him after noting the serial number on the ID tag that hung from his neck.
“Just a few steps,” Mickey said as he draped Sidi’s right arm around his shoulder and lifted him from the Jeep.
“I’m sorry, but this is a military hospital,” the nurse said as she strode briskly up to them, all business. “We don’t treat civilians.”
“This man needs attention,” Mickey began to say.
“Is that an American accent I hear?” a woman asked.
Mickey turned to find the driver of the ambulance stepping out of her seat and coming toward them. She was all of five feet tall and in her midtwenties. She wore a red scarf around her neck, which offset the severity of her khaki uniform.
It was Mickey’s first encounter with one of the infamous lady drivers of the Ambulance Corps. His college buddy, Hugh Charlesworth, who had convinced him to join him in Cairo in the first place, had waxed on about these women in his letters, assuring him that they were as bold in the bedroom as they were in the field.
“I know you!” she said to Mickey, recognition crossing her face as she reached him. “You’re that American pressman. I saw your pretty face in the photo listing of foreign correspondents. There are not too many Americans.” She spoke the King’s English, every letter perfectly enunciated. “What is the trouble?” she asked Sidi before Mickey could reply.
“I think my foot is broken, and I have a pain here.” Sidi indicated his lower abdomen.
“I’ll be happy to take him in my lorry,” she told Mickey. “I’m headed to Mamoun. It’s only two hours away. I can drop him off at the general area hospital. I’m sure they can help him there.”
Mickey brightened. He looked expectantly at Sidi, who shrugged, his lower lip still turned downward. “That would be fantastic,” Mickey said.
“Brilliant. I’m Sally Harper.” She gave Mickey the once-over asshe offered her hand. She radiated a cool sophistication that was only slightly undercut by the dimples in her cheeks.
“Mickey Connolly,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t shake.” He showed his banged-up hands.
“Better put some peroxide on those and bandage them up,” she advised, as she delicately inspected them and blew at some of the sand that had settled into the cuts.
“That’s all right,” Mickey replied, pulling away. “Only a few scratches. Just take care of my buddy here.”
They
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