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PHILIP HAMMIAL
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Panzer
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Thousands of seagulls on the beach
at Benghazi, so many
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that we literally can’t see
the sand. Not
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what we expected on this quest for
one of Rommel’s
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Panzers, even if only a burned-out
hulk with only
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one survivor. Could this be him,
this ancient blue-eyed
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beggar in rags? He does not look
German. Guten Tag.
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But he’s wise to our game.
He’s not about to speak
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in German or any language. Have a
look
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at that begging bowl. It’s a
tank helmet. Of course
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it’s him. Which puts me in a
very awkward position.
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Why? Because I’m living in his
flat in Berlin. Of course
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his landlady thought he was dead
& it’s been, how long?
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fifty-seven years. Fifty-seven
years, I wonder what he’d
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make of the two drag queens who
live next door, that
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hysterical laughter, that booming
Wagner? Those two,
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always trying to get me in drag -
stiletto heels, black
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nylons, silk chemise, wig - for a
night on the town. What
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would our silent beggar say to
that? Would he let us ride
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on the turret of his Panzer? -
showing some thigh, V
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for Victory as we clatter through
villages on our way
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to Benghazi, can’t see the sky
for the gulls.
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