The vehicles manoeuvred down into dead ground, the enemy disappearing from view. They came to a halt, engines idling in quiet growls. Their first tactic was to try and evade the Germans. The New Zealanders were outnumbered and likely outgunned. Better to avoid a contact with the enemy than fail their mission.

Chris kicked the back of the seat at his feet. “Foxtrot!”

The man dressed like a waiter at an upper-class restaurant turned and looked up at him.

“If we end up in a stoush and I'm knocked, get up here.”

Foxtrot's brow creased.

He rolled his eyes. “If I'm shot, stand up and get on the bloody gun!” he tapped the Lewis Gun.

Foxtrot's eyes bulged. His Adam's Apple rose and fell. Then he nodded.

Chris flicked off the safety catch.

A deep grumble competed with the vehicle's engine. The dust came closer. Mike leapt clear, sprinted up the slight rise and dived to his guts. He lay peering over the lip then slid back on his stomach, stood and ran to them.

“They're still advancing on our position. I think they saw us.” He looked at the driver. “You know what to do, Jonno.” Then turned to Chris. “Suppressing fire, we're gonna flank 'em.”

He nodded and Mike looked beyond him at the vehicle behind them. He made some hand signals and sat down, clamping the M1919, readying it to fire. Chris kicked the seat. Foxtrot lurched. “It's on. Remember what I said.”

The rumble overcame the rattle of the engine. Mike nodded at the driver and they accelerated forward. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Chris watched their sister vehicle reversing fast, tyres struggling for traction, skidding in the sand

They sped up the rise and the German scout vehicles appeared over the lip. Four of them, one behind the other. Chris stared down the metal sights and lined up the first vehicle. He aimed at the insignia of the Iron Cross painted on the door and squeezed the trigger. The Lewis Gun spoke in a loud staccato and the buttstock juddered against his shoulder. He fired in continuous, short bursts, trace rounds flicking through the air, giving him an indication of where his bullets were falling. Mike's M1919 bellowed a moment later.

They hit rough ground and his face slammed into the Lewis Gun, the weapon falling silent. Ignoring the pain that exploded through his cheek, he realigned the weapon, squeezed the trigger and watched the passenger of the closest scout vehicle slump in his seat. A streak of light flashed beside his face, followed by a whizz, crack and hiss near his head told Chris the enemy gunners had their bearings and were returning fire.

A dull juddering noise echoed from the opposite side of the small enemy convoy. The second Patrol Chevrolet streaked down the far side of the German scout vehicles, a cloud of dust chasing them. They laced the enemy's far side with bullets. The vehicle found more rough ground and Chris's feet left the floor. His chest hit the buttstock of the Lewis Gun and air exploded from his mouth. He drew in a gasping breath and concentrated on bringing his weapon to bear, ignoring the agony in his ribs.

He stared down the sight of the Lewis Gun at the German soldier driving and squeezed the trigger. The gun spoke in a long, loud burst and the driver slid sideways, his head resting on the shoulder of his dead comrade. The enemy scout vehicle slowed and drifted aimlessly into the desert, although to his credit, the gunner of the vehicle, continued to place well-aimed shots down upon Chris.

Clamping a hand onto the gun mount, he regained his balance. The driver made a sharp left turn, their sister vehicle, turning towards them, screamed past at close range and then both Chevvies came about to give chase to the slowing German scout patrol. He brought the Lewis Gun around to realign on the vehicle he'd disabled, aimed at the gunner and fired. After the second burst, the weapon fell silent with a dull clunk.

Out of ammo!

“Magazine!” he roared. Chris detached the empty magazine, dropped it behind him and stooped for a fresh one. Clipping the pan magazine into place on top of the Lewis Gun, he slammed an open palm onto it ensuring it was locked in and cocked the weapon. “Back in!” squeezing the trigger, the first burst ended the enemy gunner. He concentrated his weapon on the German patrol swinging around to face them.

Staring down the weapon's iron sights at the oncoming threat and ignoring the constant jarring of his jaw against the wooden buttstock with every bump and dip of the desert, he opened fire. Mike yelled something, but Chris ignored him. A streak of bullets snapped past Chris's face and dull, metallic thuds thundered across the vehicle's bonnet, leaving a series of jagged holes. Movement caught his eye and he glanced down. Mike was reloading his weapon. Chris returned his attention to the Lewis Gun. He squeezed the trigger. A trace round struck the desert just in front of the German vehicles and ricocheted high into the sky. The following rounds were on target and another enemy vehicle swerved away, colliding with a dead tree. The gunner sailed through the air and somersaulted across the sand, coming to rest in a messy heap, arms and legs pointing at impossible angles.

Mike's gun opened up again. The desert exploded in a fountain of sand around the leading German scout car and the vehicle became airborne, landed on its side and skidding to a halt upon the scorching sand. There was a blur of brown within the dust cloud and the only remaining enemy scout car flipped into the air and landed on its roof. Chris squatted, clutched a hand to the gun mount and held on for dear life. The Patrol Chevrolet screamed to a halt. He waited for forward movement to cease, then leapt to his feet, anger warming him. He was prepared to shout at the driver, but Jonno was screaming and pointing toward their front.

“What the hell's that?” his comrade yelled.

He followed Jonno's finger and his focus came to rest upon a twenty-foot brown humanoid figure standing over the closest German vehicle. It presented the Long Range Desert Group with its back. Steam was escaping from the engine compartment of the scout car with a soft hiss. A thick cloth covered the beast's hips and it carried a club in one hand that appeared to be more a tree trunk.

“It's an African Cyclops,” Foxtrot leaned forward in his seat, his once pristine suit now marred with the dark hue of the merciless desert dust. “By Jove,” he breathed. “We found one!”

Chris aimed the Lewis Gun at the broad back. “What are we doin', boss?”

Mike held up a hand. “Hold fire for now.”

“Don't fire, for God's sake!” Foxtrot hissed, lifting the briefcase onto his lap.

He chuckled. “Worried we'll scare it away?”

Foxtrot glanced up at him. “You won't scare it. The thing will bloody attack and kill us all!”

Chris removed his index finger from the trigger and placed it outside the trigger guard.

The beast turned at the sound of their voices and raised its head a little. It looked to be sniffing the air. One huge, yellow eye at the centre of its forehead bored into Chris. The Cyclops's ears hanging each side of the skull looked more like those of an elephant. Large, sharp fangs protruded from the maw, overlapping both the upper and lower lips.

Foxtrot climbed from the vehicle, knelt in the shade of the vehicle and opened his briefcase.

“Whatever you're going to do,” Chris said, his eyes never leaving the giant in the near distance. “Do it now.”

The maw opened wide, long, lolling tongue appeared and the Cyclops roared, the deep, powerful rumble vibrating the ground. “Bloody hell!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the deafening bellow.

A machine gun from the sister vehicle opened up, trace rounds and bullets kicking up puffs of dust around the creature.

“Hold your fire!” Mike yelled.

The beast focused upon the second Chevvy, shrieked again and charged. It covered the distance between it and the vehicle in short order.

Mike opened fire. “Covering fire!”

He placed his finger back on the trigger and squeezed. The Lewis Gun spoke and a trace round hit the Cyclops dead between the shoulders, but it ricocheted from the tough skin and lay smouldering upon the desert.

“Bullets aren't going to harm it,” squealed Foxtrot. “You'll just anger it even more!”

The Cyclops swerved away from its intended target and came barging across the sand straight towards Chris's vehicle.

“Oh dear,” Chris muttered, lined the behemoth up and fired a burst straight at the chest of the Cyclops. It didn't even slow it down.

A loud noise rose above the machine guns, which gave the beast pause.

“Hold fire!” Mike roared.

The God-awful sound was coming from the desert floor near their vehicle. Chris shifted to peak over the edge of the Chevvy and saw Foxtrot squatting upon the sand, a gramophone before him. The screeching issued from the device. The Cyclops, head tilted in interest, approached. Its aggression long forgotten.

Foxtrot delved deeper into the briefcase and pulled his hands free. One clutching the small metal buttstock of a rifle, the other the body of the weapon. Reaching back into the depths, he retrieved the barrel, which he slotted into place with a click.

The Cyclops, towering over the Chevvy and blotting out the sun, carried with it a pungent, foul odour, which drifted over the soldiers. It grunted and growled to itself, the eye, big as a man's head stared at the gramophone.

It dropped to one knee, dropped the club and holding out one massive, elongated finger pushed the device. The gramophone tipped backwards and the Cyclops scuttled away a couple of paces. The noise wavered for a second but continued to play the grating, high-pitched noise. To Chris, the cacophony was reminiscent of some kind of animal issuing a challenge.

With slow, deliberate movements, Foxtrot placed a dart into the breach of the rifle and pushed the bolt forward locking it into place. The Cyclops stood, bellowed and charged at the gramophone. Foxtrot pulled the rifle into his shoulder and fired a shot. The dart penetrated the thick skin of the beast's neck.

The giant slapped the gramophone into the air, then scrabbled at its neck. It pulled the puny dart free, held it up for inspection and stumbled on weak legs. It dropped the dart and fell to its knees. The gramophone slammed onto the desert and went silent.

Chris rubbed his ears. “What the hell was that noise?”

Foxtrot walked to the damaged device and dismantled it. “The call of a European Cyclops. The two species are mortal enemies. I was hoping to distract it.” He shrugged. “And it worked.”

The Cyclops fell into a prone position and apart from the rhythmic movement of its chest, lay still and silent.

“So, what now?”

Foxtrot gestured at the creature. “Drag this thing aboard the vehicle and get it back to Mr. Baird.”

“What's he want with it?”

“He's building an army of creatures from all over the world.”

Chris jumped down from the Chevvy and stretched his legs. “Really? Bloody hell!”

Foxtrot smiled. “Quite.”

Soldiers from the sister vehicle approached and stood around the downed Cyclops in stunned silence.

Foxtrot squatted beside the beast and patted the mighty shoulder. “Well, I guess I'd better update the old record collection."