A motorcycle collapsed onto its haunches, its wheels crumpled like bottle caps. He has no memory of it... [ ]... A man with dark moons for eyes crouches over him. Black lenses stitched into a wrap of hide. His peaked cap displays the insignia of a pale blue eagle over tricolor cockade.
Deutsches Afrikakorps
'Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me? Nice motorcycle, Tommy. Matchless Three-fifty cc. Overhead valve. Teledraulic fork. Good for the bumps.'
He hoists the sand goggles onto his forehead.
'I know British motorcycles. Norton side valve. Velocette. BSA. I rode an Empire Star with side car. Very reliable. Almost as good as German. But our Zundapp has Sperrdifferential. Hydraulische brakes. It's the future. I said to my older brother to have my BSA but he bought a Benelli instead. Can you believe it? A Benelli. I said to him, don't buy this Italian shit. They make nothing to last. Just like the mine you rode over. Rusted detonator wires, you see. The smallest touch and boom! Italienischer Schrott. Your Matchless is kaput, Tommy.'
That is one of my concerns, actually. The story appears to be about his dismounted adventures. I have it on order from the library. I'll report back when I'm finished.
