A Battle Is Fought to Be Won

by Francis Clifford

  Church looked at him levelly. ‘To be honest, Tony, I’d have said it called for at least two companies. But Division won’t wear it. They don’t want to dissipate their strength more than the absolute minimum. The elastic’s at full stretch already, as you know. The road’s prepared for demolition and they consider the country’s rugged enough for a small force to do what’s necessary.’ He waited a moment. ‘You’ve knowledge of the road, haven’t you? I seem to remember your telling me —’

  ‘I’ve driven along it.’ It was a reluctant admission. ‘I spent a leave at Bandaung once.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Church drew a slip of paper from the pocket of his map-case. ‘Here’s the demolition plan — a bridge at the eleventh mile; the road mined at two other places. That’ll stop them using transport, though I dare say they’ll have a stab at pushing some through to start with.’

  Gilling’s mind was in a whirl. ‘Do I get any mortars?’ He spoke in uncertainty. ‘Extra Brens?’

  ‘I can’t spare them, Tony. What with you gone and Rance’s Kachins down to half strength we’ll need everything we’ve got ourselves. We’re on a shoe-string as it is. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I see.’ He bit his lower lip, trying to instil some sense into his thinking. ‘When do I start?’

  ‘That’s up to you. But if I were in your place I’d get moving just as soon as I’d drawn supplies. You’ll want to get established behind that bridge before dark, and even cross-country it’s all of twenty miles.’

  ‘No transport, sir? Not even to the junction?’

  ‘Sorry again. You’re in for a long trek, I’m afraid.’ Church’s eyes crinkled sympathetically. ‘Assuming you choose to go to ground at the bridge it’ll mean that you’ll be roughly on a line with us at first light tomorrow. Thereafter you must phase your withdrawal as best you can, remembering, of course, that we’ll be pulling back in nightly stages of about ten miles.’

  ‘And I rejoin the battalion at Gyobin on the fourth morning?’

  ‘That’s it. The all-important thing is to deny the Japs free use of the road until it doesn’t matter any more. You’ll be the best judge of ways and means — that’s why I’m not giving you any detailed orders. It’ll be your show entirely.’

  Gilling took a long look at the map on the table; pulled out his own and marked the covering talc with a few swift pencil-strokes. Bandaung was about halfway along the bow of the D. Once the northward curve was made the two roads were roughly parallel with one another and some twelve miles apart. In between were low hills, scrub and the beginnings of jungle. Bandaung itself was over a thousand feet above the plain — fourteen hundred, the map said — and for a second or two his memory offered a view of it, like a coloured postcard, for inspection. He pictured the road, too — unmetalled, twisting, irregular — and recalled how sequestered it was; how much a world apart.

  Church stroked his wiry hair. ‘Any points you want to raise, Tony?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of doubtful starters — one with a badly blistered foot and another with a septic arm. Both riflemen.’

  ‘Count them out. You don’t want passengers. Anything else?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything at the moment.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll come over and see you before you shove off. When d’you think that’ll be. An hour?’

  ‘An hour should do it, sir.’ He saw from his watch that it was ten past nine.

  ‘Righto.’

  ‘All the best, Tony,’ Crawford said. ‘Give ’em hell.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Gilling saluted, dejection spreading through him as he turned and walked away. There had scarcely been time for him to grasp the true extent of his responsibility. But from the moment he guessed where Church’s disclosures were leading, one thought had been uppermost in his mind; one person.

  He was going back into the jungle with Nay Dun.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The day’s first phalanx of bombers thundered across the sky soon after ten, almost drowning their voices.

  ‘All set?’

  ‘Just about, sir.’

  Church squinted skywards. ‘That’s where they score. They can do what they damn well like from up there.’ Exposed to the sun, his cheeks were sunken; his eyes raw-rimmed. For some reason Gilling suspected that he was thinking about his wife and the evacuation centres in the far north. ‘If only we could match them in the air I’d still say that we could lick them.’ He looked old again; old yet defiant.

  Gilling waited until the packed formations had gone clear before ordering the men to leave their weapon-pits. The platoons grouped loosely together and the six mules, already loaded up, were led at the trot from the depression.

  Church watched approvingly. ‘I’m bringing one of Abbott’s platoons over to do something about filling the gap you’re going to leave.’ He gave the plain a glance and shrugged. ‘All I ask is that the little bastards ignore us for one more day.’

  Nay Dun joined them; threw up a tattooed arm. ‘Ready to move, thakin.’ He might have been on a parade ground.’

  ‘Thank you, subedar.’

  Church said: ‘Well, I won’t keep you. Good luck.’

  ‘And to you, sir.’

  ‘Pay my respects to Bandaung. Betty and I spent our honeymoon there years ago and I’ve always had a soft spot for it.’ The strong lines of Church’s face weakened momentarily, revealing a glimpse of bewilderment; of bitter hurt. He hesitated. Then, as if feeling the need for self-discipline, he gave a quick, dismissive nod. ‘See you in four days’ time.’

  They headed across the paddy fields, bodies bent under the weight of weapons and equipment, uniforms rapidly darkening with sweat. The only sound was the breaking of stubble and the jingle of the mules’ harnesses. They moved in double file, spread out as if separated by a broad track. Nay Dun’s platoon showed the way and the others followed at twenty yard intervals. Three of the mules carried the platoon Brens and reserve ammunition; the rest, led by the company cooks, bore a knee-buckling load of rations for seventy-eight men.

  The battalion’s positions vanished into the plain. The pagoda receded and the trees which ringed it round became one more small island in a vast, motionless brown sea. They marched for an hour before halting for ten minutes, and a second wave of bombers passed high overhead while they rested. An hour later they rested again, smoking, sipping the tepid water in their bottles. In the brassy dome of the sky the blurred disc of the sun burned almost white, hammering out slow, silent waves of heat. A village showed up in the distance to the north of them, together with another pagoda. A flock of egrets scattered, clapping away in alarm. But for the most part they seemed to have the plain to themselves and there was something uncanny about its continued emptiness. The hills gradually came nearer, sage-green and crumpled, and the paddy fields showed signs of ending. There were stretches of parched grass and clumps of bamboo; the bed of a dried stream littered with bleached driftwood, with mango trees along its sandy bank.

  Gilling was counting on reaching the Bandaung road by three o’clock. It ran due east across the plain and they were approaching it diagonally from the south-west. At each of the hourly halts he pored over his map, familiarizing himself with the road’s behaviour after it entered the hills. It was too much to expect the Japanese to pass it by altogether. But, deep down, he fathered the hope that they would merely probe as far as the bridge. Once they found this was blown and realized that a swift, motorized thrust was impossible, there was a chance of their deciding not to press through to Bandaung and beyond — or so he told himself. He had no illusions about the way his mind worked. Since Rance’s death he had presented a false face to the world. Pride controlled him, forcing him to act, making him do what was expected of him. But fear had hollowed him out. Four days on his own were going to seem a life-time and he wasn’t sure how far he could trust himself again. Anything could happen, and with all his heart he asked that the oncoming tide would do no more than lap against them until the
company rejoined the battalion at Gyobin.

  Nay Dun had shown no reaction to the news about the Chinese. Nor had he so much as flickered an eyelid when told of their flank-guard role. As always his face had remained set, as if muscle-bound, and Gilling had noticed neither relief nor apprehension amongst the Karens as a whole. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, pain — these things they admitted. Below the surface they remained strangers; unfathomable — none more so than his second-in-command. It was a time for comradeship and close understanding, but the only secret Gilling shared with him was one which no man would willingly share with another.

  They heard the fighter-bomber coming, but no one saw it until it was almost too late. One moment it was a drone in the sky; the next it was bearing down on them, snarling out of the sun in a steep dive.

  The shrill blasts of Gilling’s whistle were lost in the aircraft’s screaming crescendo. There was no cover; nowhere to hide. The company scattered, running in all directions. The mules reared, restrained by frantic, stumbling men. A shadow flicked hugely across the ground as Gilling went prone. Looking up he was in time to see the bombs on their way down. He bared his teeth, cringing. A split second later, at two separate points some fifty yards apart, spreading fans of earth erupted with a violent, concussive roar. The ground lurched under him and he felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach.

  The aircraft levelled off, banking at about two hundred feet, turning to make another run. The air was full of drifting dust and there was a high-pitched ringing in Gilling’s ears.

  ‘Open up when it comes back!’

  He barely heard his own voice. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw one of the cooks being dragged by a terrified mule. The red circle on the aircraft’s wings were clearly visible as it banked. He recognized the snub-nosed silhouette. It was a Zero, and he knew from past experience that there would be no more bombs.

  ‘Aim off!’ he was shouting. ‘Remember to aim off!’

  All they could do was use their rifles and light automatics. There wasn’t time to set up the Brens. The aircraft was head-on now, pointing their way. For a few moments it seemed immobile, pinned to the sky.

  Then, swiftly, it began to grow in size and the din of its engine swelled, becoming fierce, demented. Dashes of flame winked at them from the leading edges of the wings and small fountains of soil sprinted darkly along the ground.

  ‘Now!’ Gilling bawled. ‘Now!’

  The Zero swept over them, blinking the sun. The Karens fired hopefully but in a matter of seconds it was out of range, going into another tight turn. In a moment of heightened awareness Gilling saw that the panicky mule had broken free and was careering away, shedding its load. The rest were still on their feet. All around him he heard the thud of magazines being slapped home; of rifle-bolts being worked. A few men were scrambling to new positions, separating themselves from their fellows, rolling on to their backs in readiness for the Zero’s next run.

  It levelled off and came at them again, low, growing huge, frightening, its wings jazzing pin-points of fire. Patches of earth ripped up; spat lightning tufts of dust. The shuddering whine hurled itself at them individually, deafening, paralysing the muscles. Then, with noise like a thunder-clap the Zero crashed overhead and was past them, shrieking into the distance. This time it didn’t bank, but kept on, leaving them. Its guns chattered once more, far off, as if from habit. Then it was gone, as suddenly as it had come.

  Gilling waited a while before moving. His ears were still ringing and he found that his arms shook when he pushed himself up. Everywhere the ground was littered with bodies. For one awful moment he thought they were all dead, but they soon began to stir, cautiously, each man in apparent distrust of the silence and his own survival. He cupped his hands and ordered the platoon commanders to make an immediate casualty check. He couldn’t believe they had escaped completely unscathed. The mules hadn’t suffered, though he noticed that. And he could see for himself that the men nearest him were unharmed.

  He cupped his hands again. ‘Get that mule caught and loaded up — quickly!’

  He kept one eye on the sky. There was nothing to be seen, but so long as they remained in the open he would never feel safe. He couldn’t wait for the platoon reports to reach him, but hurried from one group to another. To his astonished relief the news was the same in each case — no casualties. It seemed too good to be true. At the very least he’d expected to be burdened with some wounded, but the fact remained that no one had been touched — not even in the sections closest to where the bombs had fallen.

  Incredulously, he willed the luck to last. As soon as the loose mule was under control he started the company moving; stepped up the pace. The road was still all of an hour away. There was cover in plenty where the forest overflowed off the base of the hills on to the edges of the plain, but it was too far to their right to make the diversion worth while. In any case there was a sparse growth of trees less than a mile ahead which Gilling reckoned would offer reasonable insurance against a repeat attack.

  They marched on, more watchful now; more widely dispersed. Reaction provoked thirst and the sun added to it, salting their lips with streams of sweat. Fifteen minutes brought the lead section to the beginning of the trees. They were few and far between, and a small herd of scraggy, hump-backed cattle stood listlessly in such shade as was offered. Nay Dun’s platoon had already gone past and Gilling would have followed suit but for Saw Tun Shwe’s exclamation.

  ‘Look, thakin.’

  Gilling slowed; stepped through the moving file of the second platoon. The flanks of the nearest animal were covered with blood. Another stood on three legs, the dangling stump of the fourth gushing like a pumped tap. Those that could move lumbered away as Gilling approached, leaving six to stare, their heads lowered in terror. All were horribly mutilated and the sight turned his stomach over. The Zero’s parting burst was suddenly explained. He drew his revolver and walked up to a wheezing cow, the side of whose neck was an ugly, bubbling cave, and shot it hurriedly through the head. It took a long time to go down so he shot it again, without skill but with great mercy. He shot them all that way, sometimes once, sometimes twice, and they watched him with accusing, pain-sodden eyes as though they believed him responsible for what had happened.

  He was under the impression that the company had gone on, but when he had finished he found them waiting for him, like spectators who had witnessed some incomprehensible rite. Nay Dun was standing at about twenty paces’ distance and Gilling thought he detected impatience in his bearing. He was still distressed by the animals’ suffering and his own clumsiness and the subedar’s hard-featured indifference angered him.

  In a low voice, he snapped: ‘Who gave the order to halt?’

  ‘I did, thakin.’

  ‘Another time wait until you get it from me — understand? Now, get them started again.’

  Nay Dun nodded; wheeled. His voice rang out and the company moved on. With trembling hands Gilling slipped the revolver back into its holster. He took a last look at the stiff-legged carcasses around him, then walked away, confused in mind, knowing that what he had done was further proof of weakness and that somehow, if he were to endure, he must learn to eschew pity; harden his heart. He must find an antidote for all the things that made him vulnerable. Pride alone was insufficient.

  Somehow, he told himself, he must learn to hate.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They reached the road soon after three and rested for the customary period before turning east. The hills were fairly close now, their knuckled slopes clearly defined. A slight breeze moved over the plain like an exhalation of stale breath and the men lifted their faces towards it gratefully. They had borne up well under the throbbing heat and there were no stragglers. But there was a limit to what their stocky, overburdened frames could cope with and Gilling knew that the bridge couldn’t come too soon for even the toughest of them. The mules, too, were beginning to look as if they had had more than enough.

  The uncan
ny silence continued. They marched on under the discoloured sky, without rhythm, their feet dragging wearily in the dust which bordered the frayed edges of the road. The paddy fields were done with at last. To either side now there, were feathery thickets of bamboo and banana clearings interspersed with areas of short, bleached grass. A village rose unevenly behind some bedraggled maize, the thatched roofs glossy under the sun. It was deserted. Dark lozenges of shade patterned the ground between the bamboo-plaited houses and no one moved on the small open verandahs. The bead-curtains hung motionless in the empty doorways. Everyone had decamped — and taken their belongings with them. A scabby, hairless dog yapped at them furiously as they passed through, but otherwise there was no sign of life.

  Gilling had grown accustomed to these ghost villages. But here, fifteen or more miles behind the front, the plague-stricken effect gave him an uneasy feeling, as though the Japanese were already pressing close on their heels. Instinctively, he looked towards the southwest, but all he could see were specks in the sky where vultures wheeled above the freshly-slaughtered cattle.

  The vegetation thickened alongside the road. An overgrown stone proclaimed that it was twenty-one miles to Bandaung, which, Gilling calculated, meant that the bridge was approximately another four. The pace had slowed, but he was disinclined to step it up. His legs felt as though he had run a marathon and his feet seemed to be on fire; his boots several sizes too small. In any case there was no urgency now. He needed about an hour’s daylight after they reached the bridge and he would get that all right. All being well they would be there by five ...

  His train of thought was broken by the sudden dispersal of the leading platoon. Before he could rap out an order the rest of the company took cover, unslinging their weapons, crouching in the undergrowth. He went with them, then moved cautiously forward until he found Nay Dun.

  ‘What is it, subedar?’

  ‘A jeep, thakin.’