A Battle Is Fought to Be Won

by Francis Clifford

  A few isolated stars began to gleam. Soon after seven a runner summoned Gilling to headquarters and he left Nay Dun in charge during his absence. After the open it seemed as black as pitch under the trees, but the dim glow of a shielded hurricane-lamp guided him through to the pagoda. Major Gray, the second-in-command, greeted him as he entered the compact aura of light.

  ‘Ah, Tony.’ He looked desperately tired. ‘The CO.’s at Brigade and I’ve just had word that we’re to patrol the road north of here in strength throughout the night in an effort to put a stop to these blocks being set up.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘Mike Abbott’s company is taking the first stint — until O-two hundred hours. Then he hands over to Richardson, who’ll continue until first light. Is that clear?’

  Gilling nodded.

  ‘Make sure your chaps know about it. You’re astride the road and we don’t want any mix-ups.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gray ran both hands over the freckled, bird’s-egg dome of his head. ‘Except that Abbott will be moving off in about a quarter of an hour’s time.’

  Gilling saluted and turned about. He picked his way through a litter of huddled forms and emerged into the indeterminate starlight. Gray had been almost curt in his weariness and no one else had been present, yet he was as loath to leave and return to the battalion’s perimeter as before. The nagging feeling of solitude increased the further he left the pagoda behind. Try as he might he could not shake it off and he found himself wishing the night away with every step that he took; praying that tomorrow’s dawn would not be like the last.

  All men were shadows now and Nay Dun had been neutralized along with the rest. But there was no escape from himself, and what he had despised and vainly grappled with since morning thrived now that darkness had come.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A pale slice of moon drifted into the sky soon after ten, helping the stars to silver the plain. In their scattered weapon-pits the men slept in rotation, a couple of hours at a stretch. It was easy to sleep. For days past there had been little enough of it, and now it took them the moment they were relieved, sometimes before they even changed position, so that many remained sprawled beside their weapons, cheeks nestling their rifle-butts, closed eyes apparently sighted along the barrels of their automatics.

  Gilling followed the normal practice of sharing the duty watch with his platoon commanders and senior N.C.O.s. He slept until midnight, when a havildar woke him, and the firm touch on his arm brought him suddenly to consciousness. Heavy-eyed, he clipped his webbing together and rose stiffly to his feet. The plain was beautiful in the starlight, though not for him. Far off, a jackal cried and the sound was lonely, weird, setting his nerves immediately on edge.

  ‘Anything to report?’ His voice was thick.

  ‘Nothing, thakin.’

  The havildar limped away to his platoon and Gilling started on his round. The jackal cried again, hinting at stealth and evil. He crossed to the road and toured the sections which faced north. There was no sign of Abbott’s patrols but it was a comfort to know that they were somewhere beyond the thin strands of low wire. A rifleman he spoke to reported having seen one of them during the last hour.

  Silence lay over the plain like a dead thing and nothing moved under the glittering pulse of the sky. Gilling circled the weapon-pits to the east and west of the road, peering into the vague distances; straining his ears for something other than a jackal’s cry and the slow rasp of his own boots in the stubble. It was almost impossible not to suspect that beyond the limits of his vision, the night was alive with Japanese.

  Near by, a Karen stifled a cough; another shifted the cramped angle of his legs. With some of them Gilling exchanged whispered question and answer; with some merely a nod. He knew them all by name; their individual qualities and defects. But he had no idea of what went on in the private recesses of their minds and he wondered now to what extent their imaginations made them suffer; whether they, too, endured a continuing sense of horror and apprehension. Even the slowest-witted couldn’t have failed to appreciate that the odds were already overwhelmingly weighted against them. And surely the manner of Rance’s death hadn’t left them absolutely unmoved? True, only a generation or two separated them from the old tribal barbarities, and in moments of stress the imposed veneer sometimes wore very thin. Yet, even so, he had expected more than one brief, dismissive comment about Rance and had thought that nightfall would perhaps bring them to a pitch of overt nervousness. But there had been no apparent change in them. They remained as stolid as before — a day older, only; a day wearier. In his heart he knew that he couldn’t have hoped for better troops to command, but he also knew that only by an immense effort of will would he ever match their almost bovine calm. And he found himself wishing that their disciplined facade would show some signs of frailty which might help him towards recovery of his own dwindling self-respect.

  He paused beside the road before resuming his cautious tour, pushing the insistent vision of Rance from his mind’s-eye. He tried to think of anything except the recent past and the immediate future. With a kind of desperation he told himself that others in the battalion were under greater mental pressure. Church and Grey were married and neither knew for sure whether their wives had been safely evacuated. Crawford’s brother was believed killed in Malaya. Many of the Karen’s villages were in enemy hands ... But the reflection did him no good, for he argued that it was an advantage for anxiety and distress to involve a man beyond the limits of the wire which hemmed him in. Anger was needed — a slow-burning hatred — and anxiety over what had happened elsewhere, to one’s own flesh and blood, helped grind it into the spirit. He lacked this additional source of strength. Burma’s towns and villages made no nostalgic claim on him. There was no wife; no brother. His only near relative was his father, and Sussex was as remote as Timbuktu. He was involved only to the extent that he was personally inside the wire and there was nothing except his own resolve with which to surmount the dread and despair that had lodged themselves in him. He lacked even Abbott’s quiet vindictive rage at the loss of a close friend. All he felt was an appalled dismay; a fearful sickness which was stripping him of his armour.

  He thought of Abbott for a while, knowing better why he envied him, then continued his circling vigil. Time passed, marked by the moon’s climb and the slow tilt of the constellations. The silence held, but his nerves remained as taut as a wound spring. The lull wouldn’t last for ever. The Japanese would strike when they were ready — choosing the moment, the place. The initiative was theirs and his only surprise was that their next move was being so long delayed.

  An owl flew over and it was quiet enough for Gilling to hear the soft beat of its wings. He checked with his watch and found that his stint was almost finished. Nay Dun was next on duty and he walked carefully across to the subedar’s platoon area. For a long moment, before bending down, he studied the chunky frame of his deputy. As if for the first time he noted the square jaw, the squashed nose, the hairless skin, the close-cropped skull, the bare, tattooed knees, the muscular calves. Even in sleep the man looked a soldier, a professional, and his expression was as alien and enigmatic as ever.

  He woke before Gilling’s hand touched his arm. Thakin?’

  ‘Two o’clock, subedar. O-two hundred.’

  The instinctive tension left Nay Dun’s body. He rose, unblinking, and knocked the crown of his hat into shape before putting it on. Standing, he came up to Gilling’s shoulder.

  Gilling said: ‘Everything’s quiet. There hasn’t been a sound.’

  They were close to the road, within a few paces of the advanced weapon-pits. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the nearest rifleman grunted and turned his head warningly in their direction. Looking beyond him, Gilling saw the ghostly shapes of moving men. The sight caught him unawares. They were less than a hundred yards away, close-grouped, coming towards them. Alarm gripped him. He threw himself down,
dragging at his whistle-cord. An infinitesimal instant later he realized his mistake, but it was too late to disguise his action. He was already on hands and knees, crouching at Nay Dun’s feet. A cold feeling swept through him, followed by a burning sense of embarrassment. Time seemed to run to a halt. He knew exactly what the subedar was going to say, but waiting for it to be said was a long-drawn agony of shame.

  ‘It is Captain Abbott’s company, thakin — Captain Abbott’s company coming back.’

  In the darkness Gilling reviled himself.

  *

  He managed one hour’s fitful sleep before the firing started. It came from the south, in snatches, like hail driving against glass. For a few seconds there was nothing to be seen. In the initial bewilderment of sudden wakefulness it was impossible to tell how close it was; where exactly the attack was developing. Then the first star-shells burst in the distance and floated like tiny acetylene lamps above the forward brigades.

  The Karens squirmed into position and waited for the attack to spread. They lay like fallen statues, peering rigidly into the night. For twenty minutes the firing continued spasmodically, then petered out. A solitary flare lifted and died as silence once more flooded back over the land. But it was impossible to relax. There was no telling when or where the assault might be renewed and the men remained watchfully at their posts, all chance of further sleep destroyed. A couple of ambulances lumbered through the battalion’s lines soon after four, and when they returned the shadowless light of dawn was slowly beginning to take hold.

  Gilling watched it strengthen with relief. They had been reprieved again — for the time being. He lit a cigarette and stood up, flexing the ache from his legs. The sun’s rim was inching out of the eastern hills and he could see Richardson’s company moving wearily in column of march along the road, their patrol over. He needed no reminder of the incident with Nay Dun, but his face flushed as the memory renewed its taunt. The subedar had said nothing more while they stayed together and Gilling had deliberately avoided his gaze. But he knew. He wasn’t blind. He knew, all right. Already ... And from now on his endless scrutiny would be more intense, more humiliating, than ever before.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The mules were watered and fed. The men ate; sipped their sickly-sweet tea. Saw Tun Shwe lugged a canvas bucket from the spring and Gilling squatted by the roadside, scraping a two-day growth of beard from his face. The plain seemed to expand as the sun climbed, dwarfing the division’s territory into insignificance. Dotted about the paddy fields beyond the pagoda he could see the mole-like spoil of Abbott’s weapon-pits, and in the gold-mohur trees around the pagoda itself there were occasional signs of movement. A convoy of heavy trucks, look-outs perched fore and aft, ground past from the north, spraying dust as they went. Otherwise, his own company apart, the plain and the road appeared to be utterly deserted.

  The feeling of isolation became overpowering and as soon as he had finished shaving Gilling made his way to headquarters. The first person he met was Lloyd, the signals officer.

  ‘Hallo, mon brave.’ It was Lloyd’s stock greeting, but this morning it jarred. ‘Want a mug of tea?’

  ‘I’ve had some, thanks.’

  ‘Rum do last night, wasn’t it? Cat and mouse stuff, I suppose. Practice makes perfect.’

  ‘It seems like it.’

  Lloyd’s eyes twitched behind his spectacles. ‘You’ll be glad to hear that according to the B.B.C. Overseas Service we’re in the process of stabilizing the front.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Patrol activity, casualties inflicted, attacks beaten off.’ He snorted. ‘They sounded bag-full of confidence.’

  ‘Christ,’ Gilling said.

  He walked on as far as the pagoda. Crawford and Gray were there, bending over a map spread out on the white-washed base.

  Crawford looked up. ‘I was just about to have you hauled in, Tony.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The C.O. wants you.’

  ‘What for, d’you know?’

  ‘I’d better not jump the gun, if you don’t mind. But the guts of it is that we’re pulling back.’

  ‘The division?’

  ‘The whole shooting match.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Starting at dusk.’

  Gray said: ‘Not before time, either, in my view. I thought we were in for it last night, quite honestly, but maybe they aren’t ready for us yet. With any luck they’ll kick themselves tomorrow.’

  Some green parakeets twittered among the trees’ scarlet blossoms. There was the smell of wood smoke; of sweat and dust.

  ‘The Old Man won’t be long,’ Crawford said.

  Gilling nodded and leaned against the pagoda. Twenty-four hours had passed since Rance was killed and they had seemed unending, playing in deadly fashion on his nerves. He knew that the longer the division remained static the more his fears would betray him; drain him of all ability. Crawford’s news meant an escape from a locality he had come to loathe, and the prospect of being mobile again eased the trapped feeling that had begun to obsess him. Stubbornly, his mind refused to carry him beyond the immediate sense of deliverance. Another withdrawal wouldn’t put paid to the hostile drone of aircraft or negative the build-up of the opposing ground forces. The inevitable was merely delayed; no more than that. The dry paddy fields were everywhere the same — empty and flat and indefensible. Yet, illogically, hope flickered.

  He unbuttoned the map-case from his hip and glanced over the printed plain to the north of their position. Where? he thought. He was on the point of asking Crawford when he heard Church’s voice.

  ‘Has Gilling been sent for?’

  ‘He’s here, sir,’ Crawford said.

  Gilling stood up; brought his heels together. He hadn’t noticed Church arrive. Nor, until now, had he asked himself why it was that he had been specially singled out. But there was something in the C.O.’s tone, a brisk urgency, that caused him a momentary disquiet.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ Church exclaimed, turning.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve got a job for you, Tony. Come over to the table so that I can put you properly in the picture.’

  ‘I’ll make a start, Charles,’ Gray interjected, ‘while the going’s good. D’you mind if I take your jeep? It’s the only thing for an off-the-road recce.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Gray left, determination in his short stride. There was a rickety bamboo table under the nearest tree and Church led Gilling to it. Crawford went with them.

  ‘Did Sam tell you anything?’

  ‘Only that the division’s pulling out.’

  ‘I see.’ Church dropped his hat on to the table and unfolded his own map, ironing the creases down. He paused before going on, marshalling his facts. Then he said: ‘We’re making a tactical withdrawal of about forty miles, starting tonight and completing the move four nights from now. That’ll bring us to this area’ — he pointed a tobacco-stained finger — ‘where the plain narrows to about half its present width. Division’s intention is to dig its toes in there until such time as the Chinese are firmly in position behind us.’

  ‘The Chinese?’

  ‘Three of their divisions are on their way in from the north — have been for some days.’ Church’s smile printed crow’s-feet into the corners of his eyes. ‘How’s that for good news?’

  ‘It couldn’t be better.’

  Gilling’s spirits lifted. More than once there had been speculation about the possibility of Chinese troops reinforcing the front, but even the most incorrigible optimist in the battalion had ceased to believe it would ever happen. Only a week ago Church had poured cold water on a report that they were already moving in by insisting that Brigade knew nothing of it. ‘In any case,’ he’d said, ‘I’m too old a soldier to take as gospel everything I hear.’

  And now he was saying: ‘It’ll help to level things up a bit, certainly. It’s no secret any more — least of all to the Jap. That’s why he’s switched his air attac
k these past few days ... However, I’m digressing. Let’s go back to the beginning.’ His fingers went into action again. ‘We’re here — right? Over a period of four nights we’ll leap-frog back to here — to Gyobin. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Some of the accumulated despair seemed to sweat itself out of Gilling as he stared at the map. There was cause for hope, then; some sort of chance ... But he still couldn’t rid himself of the vague sense of disquiet. Why this informal briefing — in advance of everyone else? What sort of task had Church in mind?

  ‘By dawn tomorrow,’ Church went on, ‘the division will be in position astride this river bed — the Nga Chaung, just north of the Bandaung road-junction. Gray’s off there now for a look-see.’

  The road ran through the centre of the plain, as straight as a ruled line. For a hundred miles or more there wasn’t a kink in it. The only branch thrown off was the one leading to Bandaung, and this was merely a loop, rejoining the main stem some thirty miles further on. It looked rather like the bow of an elongated D.

  ‘Just north of the Bandaung road-junction,’ Church repeated significantly. ‘Seventy-two hours later we’ll be concentrated in the Gyobin area — which is a similar distance north of where the Bandaung road runs back into the main L of C. From this time tomorrow the southern end of the Bandaung road is going to be open to the enemy. It’s absolutely vital, therefore, that we stop him from putting in a fast right hook that’ll bring him to Gyobin before we get there ourselves.’

  Gilling could guess what was coming and his heart sank.

  “It’ll be your job to see that he doesn’t.’

  Gilling heard himself say: ‘I understand.’