The Desert Rat
Chapter 15:
The six-wheel, M35 cargo truck’s engine roared, a metal beast clawing the road as it surged forward to rejoin the convoy. The entire convoy had not stopped to pick up two passengers. The last truck of the convoy had only stopped long enough for them to climb aboard. Now, the truck was moving, again.
Inside the cargo bay of the hauler, two parallel benches faced each other, separated by a narrow aisle. Gertie sat on one side, her back braced against the vibrating rail. Brigid took the opposite bench.
Shafts of light filtered through the soft canopy of the cargo bay.
For a long time neither spoke. It would be indiscreet, Gertie decided, to talk about her mission, about what she hoped to achieve.
The sun began to set, the day ending.
In the space between them something hung in the air, something that needed saying.
At once, Brigid started. She reached into her rucksack, feeling, and pulled out a book. The cover was worn, beaten with use. She held it up in the dim light filtering through the slats of the truck.
"Have you read it?" Brigid asked, shouting over the engine’s roar and the vehicle's creaking chassis.
Gertie squinted at the title: “It is The Plague, by Albert Camus. No. I’ve heard of Camus, but..." She shook her head. "Not in the mood for philosophy right now, Brigid. Mind's on the mission."
"Philosophy?" Brigid let out a short, dry laugh, like a cough. "This isn’t philosophy, Gertie. This is medicine."
She opened the book, running a finger down the page. "Camus didn’t write this as a story about rats in Oran. He wrote it as an antidote to war. A moral argument against the sickness that’s consuming Europe."
Gertie shifted, the wood of the bench growing uncomfortable.
"Sickness? You mean the Nazis."
"I mean the whole damn thing," Brigid said, her eyes locking Gertie’s; "The 'Master Race,' the paranoia, the end of civilization... the way we pretend we’re having a field day while the world burns with war fever. That’s the meaning of “The Plague.” It’s not just the Germans. It’s the idea that there’s a meaning to this madness, that if we can just reach a little higher, higher than the other, that we can surpass our human weakness."
She leaned forward, the book resting on her knees. "Camus is saying that the plague is a symbol of totalitarianism. For the way fear and obedience spread like a virus. But here’s the thing: Europe is not doomed. It’s just sick. That’s the difference."
Gertie frowned. "And if the patient does not recover?"
"Fatal means it’s over. It means we just wait for the end. Sick means there’s a cure. It means we resist death. Not with grand gestures or heroic sacrifices, but with the small, stubborn act of hanging on. Of refusing to let the sickness win." Brigid’s voice hardened. "That’s the power of moral indignation, Gertie. It’s not about being a hero. It’s about being a human being who refuses to let the sickness infect their soul."
She paused, letting the words hang in the static air. "Think about it. The lies, the poses, the threats... all symptoms of weakness, an infirmity. A game of bluff where everyone thinks they’re the superior player, while, in the end, it’s only a cry of futility. The real victory isn’t winning the war. It’s in the refusal to play."
Gertie looked down at her hands. What could she do? She thought of her mission, commitment, the meaning of honor. Was it all just a fever dream? A sickness?
Brigid closed the book with a slap. "Europe is not doomed. It’s just sick. We either cure the disease, or die like rats. The choice is ours."
The truck hit a pothole, jarring them both. Their silence returned, but it was different now, pensive. The weight was still there, but suspended. Gertie felt a foreboding, a gnawing hesitation.
She looked out the vent slits, at the dark Algerian night rushing past. The desert stretched out, away from civilization.
They rumbled on in this way through the night.