A Battle Is Fought to Be Won

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A Battle Is Fought to Be Won Page 6

by Francis Clifford


  The hours stretched out, each an unfulfilled threat. A fever-bird sang, heightening the tension. At noon he waded restlessly across the stream and went forward to the observation point. Two men were there and he stayed with them for a while before retracing his steps and climbing back to his place on the defended hill-side. A fierce perpendicular light bore down upon everything and the Karens lay hidden from it under the dense foliage, cramped in their scooped-out pits, as motionless and silent as the valley itself.

  Opposite, where the road appeared, a solitary rifleman kept vigil, the last link in the chain from the observation point. Scarcely a minute went by without Gilling looking anxiously his way, but always he looked in vain. As the afternoon wore on they heard the dull beat of massed aircraft somewhere above the plain and it distracted him for a while, focusing his thoughts on the division, the battalion, on Church and Abbott and Crawford and the rest. He envied their propinquity, one with another. He could have done with one of them with him now — Abbott, preferably. With Abbott he could ease his mind again; release some of the pent-up strain. Even to have a tyro like Baxter close at hand would have been better than having no one at all. Nay Dun was no substitute. He couldn’t say to him: ‘I hope to hell they don’t wait until dark. If they do, I’m going to feel they’re round at the back of us right from the start.’ Nor could he say: ‘All this waiting’s giving me a bout of the shakes again. What in the blazes do you think they’re playing at?’ Transposed into the stilted limitations of his Burmese such admissions would be tantamount to an outright confession of fear; of unworthiness to command. They would be answered by the subedar’s hard, reptilian gaze and the gulf between them would be widened still further.

  A British officer led; set an example. During twenty-one years as a soldier it had never been otherwise ...

  Another hour passed, screwing Gilling’s nerves, but there was still no signal from the other side of the valley. He suffered on in isolation, thoughts ferreting, watching the sun’s accelerating decline. At four-thirty he had the mules taken hastily down to the stream and at five he ordered water bottles to be refilled and platoon runners to carry food to the men. The waiting had become almost intolerable and, hungry though he was, he had to force himself to eat what Saw Tun Shwe brought him.

  All day he had braced himself against the enemy’s coming. Now, little by little, his resolve began to weaken and he toyed with the idea of pulling out at dusk. The division would be on the move again soon afterwards, leap-frogging back another ten miles or so, and it was tempting to think of keeping level with them. His job was to deny free use of the road; not to defend any one particular section of it. The high banks of the stream were sufficient to prevent wheeled transport moving further towards Bandaung and they could booby-trap the bed sufficiently well to discourage the rush construction of ramps. By dawn tomorrow they could have blown the road south of the town and have the company entrenched above it ...

  The idea gathered weight, but he couldn’t free his mind to act. The very strength of the position argued in favour of their remaining where they were and, in the end, he compromised. They would go at midnight. It was almost beyond belief that nothing would happen before then, but at least he had set his nerves a time-limit. He would wait just seven hours more.

  *

  The day burned itself out and the valley seemed to contract. Stars pricked through, investing the forest with a ghostly sheen, and the night grew eerie with noise. The forward section had been relieved at dusk and the observation point withdrawn to about a hundred yards west of the stream; the rifleman opposite equipped with a torch. Seven o’clock came and went. Seven-thirty. Eight. And as Gilling peered across at the shadowy ledge of the road he began to feel that there had never been a time when he had done anything else, never a time when he hadn’t been at the mercy of his imagination.

  Bleary-eyed, he stared into the starlight, willing the remaining hours to pass. Fireflies drifted slowly beneath the forest’s broken roof, but nothing else stirred. Gradually, his lids began to droop. The ceaseless crepitation of the night became a soporific and he could feel himself being dragged down into sleep. He fought against it for as long as he could, but eventually he dozed.

  A chattering burst of sub-machine-gun fire jerked him abruptly into consciousness. The echo was still hammering along the valley as he gathered his startled wits together and scrambled to his knees. For a moment he could see nothing to warrant the firing. Then another burst came from the slope directly below him and a ragged volley of rifle-shots sounded from widely-separated points over the hill side. In the same instant he saw movement in the undergrowth on the far bank of the stream and, in the stream itself, a spreadeagled body.

  He sculled across the ground on his forearms until he found Nay Dun. The firing was growing in intensity and there were answering flashes from the other side.

  ‘What happened to the signal?’

  ‘There wasn’t one, thakin.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ They had to shout.

  ‘Sure, thakin. No signal.’

  A Very light fizzed up from the platoon facing the crossing and broke high and sodium white, illuminating the valley with a dazzling, flickering glare. When it died the night was suddenly coal black and the stars seemed to take time to reappear. The firing was almost continuous now, rattling back and forth along the facing slopes. A mortar came into action from somewhere down the road and the first shell burst in the trees within yards of where Gilling lay, deafening him, spattering him with leaves.

  Dazed, he squirmed to a better vantage point. Two things were already clear. The Japanese were without transport- — otherwise their approach would have announced itself. And the advance section had somehow been surprised and overrun.

  A ricochet sobbed past. In a moment’s near-quiet he distinctly heard the dud tennis ball sound of the mortar loosing off again and he gritted his teeth as he waited for the shell to strike. When it burst, low on the hill-side, he raised his head and stared across the star-green trough. As he did so a score or so Japanese rose from the level ground on the far bank and jumped into the bed. Long rifles chest high, equipment flapping, they sprinted forward. None got far. The Brens cut them down and only one reached the stream’s channel. For what seemed a long time he waded unscathed, firing an automatic from the hip, and Gilling could see the spent cases flicking out like sparks. Then he splashed headlong and the water bore him away.

  Another Very light soared and lit the scene. The firing died and came again, as though wind-blown. A second wave of Japanese made a concerted, simian rush upstream of the wrecked bridge but they were stopped by grenades and withering crossfire. Smoke curdled the bitter air, and the arcs of tracer were as swift and bright as shooting stars. For minutes on end the night was ragged with fierce cries and the swift thunder of explosions; the stuttering bark of small-arms. Then, as if by mutual agreement, silence filled the valley. It was so intense by contrast that the faulty thump of Gilling’s heart seemed to boom out like the beat of a loose-skinned drum.

  Hardly had he grown used to the silence than his name was called from the other bank.

  ‘Captain Gilling.’

  He stiffened, frozen in disbelief. He heard Nay Dun grunt.

  ‘Captain Gilling.’ The voice floated across the narrow valley, hoarse with appeal, and fear brushed his nerves. ‘This is Ba Tin, thakin. Naik Ba Tin.’

  Ba Tin commanded the advance section ... Oh Christ, Gilling thought, appalled.

  ‘The Japanese want you, thakin. They want to talk to you.’

  There was terror in the voice. A torch was switched on at the bend of the road and the naik was suddenly illuminated. He was all of sixty yards away but he seemed closer, projected clear of the shadowy background by the wavering torch-light, and he stood like an actor awaiting prompting.

  ‘The Japanese want to talk to you, Captain Gilling ... This is Naik Ba Tin. Rifleman Saw Pah is also with me.’

  Gilling stared at him as if mesmerized. Rance
was in his mind, and fear moved through him like a looseness of the bowels.

  ‘Captain Gilling ...’

  He shut his eyes. Time was suspended. He covered his face with his hands and listened to the naik hoarsely repeating his name. A cold sweat broke out of him and it began to seem that he wasn’t listening to Ba Tin at all but to the mouthpiece of something indescribably evil.

  All he could think was: Why weren’t you killed? Jesus Christ, why weren’t you both killed?

  His orderly crouched beside him and on a desperate impulse he leaned over and grabbed his rifle. But in the same moment, with malicious timing, the torch was extinguished. Seconds passed, then the firing started again. For a short while he was almost oblivious of it. Ba Tin’s voice haunted him, louder even than the crash of mortar shells. But soon, unnerved now, he sensed movement along either flank and within half an hour he gave the order to withdraw.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Their rendezvous was the sixteenth milestone. They took up a hastily improvised position and waited for the stragglers. Two or three joined them quite soon; another, wounded, after several minutes. The moon was coming up and Gilling knew that he dared not delay too long. Yet he continued to wait. More and more of the road became visible, bandaged in a layer of mist. Unidentified shapes became trees, rocks, bushes.

  Another minute, he thought, fretting. I’ll give them another minute ...

  The decision was no sooner made than two more figures appeared, one behind the other. They came slowly, partially dissolved in the mist. Neither was armed. Both were hatless. As they came closer he supposed them to be blinded for he could see now that they walked with stumbling uncertainty, their hands held out in front of them like feelers.

  Without thinking he jumped up and went to their aid, driven by an instinctive compassion. They were still thirty yards away, breasting through the loose swathes of mist, when recognition gave him a sharp nudge of dread. Naik Ba Tin was in the lead; Rifleman Saw Pah following. For several strides he continued to think they were blind, despite the fact that their eyes were open and straining desperately towards him. But a moment afterwards, at twenty paces, he was terrified to see that their lips were roughly sewn together with twine.

  Horror possessed him. His scalp seemed to shrivel. But he still hadn’t grasped the full hideousness of what had happened. Not yet; not completely. The stumbling men came closer, making small sobbing noises, their hands moving in supplication, their eyes dilated with shock and pain. Their cheeks bulged in an unnatural way but even so he didn’t completely understand. Then suddenly, there was nothing to hide their bodies from him any longer and all at once he saw the blood-sodden crutch of their trousers and knew, as he vomited, precisely what the Japanese had done to them.

  PART TWO

  THE TOWN

  CHAPTER ONE

  The men died within the hour, but it was longer before Gilling groped his way back across the threshold of sanity. His mind was deranged beyond the bounds of squeamishness and he performed obscenities of mercy which, even then, he knew would brand his memory throughout his lifetime.

  Early on, Nay Dun came to him and said: ‘It would be better to shoot them, thakin.’ Gilling rounded on him almost hysterically and ordered him away. He stayed at the road-side waiting for the end, and as waves of revulsion swept through him he began to think: Why not? You shot the cattle. And this is worse. A million times worse. You were about to shoot Ba Tin when they had the torch on him. So why not now? ...

  But he could not try. Try as he might he could not. His senses were sodden through and all he could do was tilt his water-bottle against the torn lips and will the men to die quickly. Outwardly he was calm, but his thoughts were in a state of raving disorder. Nothing seemed believable any longer, but he clung in confusion to the pitiless moral law. And when at last the moaning ceased he sat and shivered by the two bodies, hating himself.

  There were tears in his eyes as he got up. He didn’t give a damn whether Nay Dun saw them or not. He was beyond caring about anything for the moment. Like a sleep-walker he moved to the centre of the road, deep within himself, distressed to a degree that he had never before experienced. He didn’t belong here. He was a civilian; a bank employee. His mind screamed. He was afraid — sickeningly afraid. There was no escaping this fear; no elbowing it aside. This time it had to stay.

  *

  The road curled northwards and began to climb. The company moved along it towards Bandaung, trailing a rear-guard section. Eighteen men were missing and three wounded. Two of these could walk but one rode in agony roped to the least burdened of the mules.

  The feeling of nightmare kept pace with Gilling as he marched. They passed through an empty village where spindly bamboo tables on which food and drink were offered to the spirits stood like gibbets against the sky. An animal screeched in the forest, checking him in his stride, bristling his nerves. Everything he saw and heard was alien, barbarous, and every step he took seemed to be leading him further and further into isolation.

  For a mile or two he remained steeped in a welter of terrible imagery, but after a while a corner of his mind hazily began to free itself. Only now was he beginning to realize what a risk he had taken by remaining so long at the sixteenth milestone. If the Japanese had decided to follow through from the bridge it could have been disastrous. He flushed as the thought struck him, and he wondered suddenly if that was why Nay Dun had suggested shooting the two men. Was it merely to save time and reduce the risk of being attacked in an untenable position? He called the subedar’s expression as the last of the maimed cattle went down. Hurry, it had said. This is a needless delay ...

  Ahead, between the lurching, moon-dappled files of the leading platoon, Nay Dun moved with a purposeful roll, his short hillman’s legs untroubled by the gradients. Three times in as many days he had shown himself impervious to varying degrees of horror — first with Rance, then with the cattle, and now with his own men. On each occasion the mask-like features had remained set; the gruff voice unchanged. His mind was as emotionless as his body was iron-hard, and in that he typified the majority of the company. A few had reacted, visibly recoiling from the roadside scene — Saw Tun Shwe among them. But in the main they had been silent, seemingly neither aghast at the brutality and suffering nor imaginative enough to realize that what had happened once could happen again. It was their great strength, Gilling realized, and in Nay Dun it had reached its peak. Six months ago he had been prompt and skilful in dealing with snakebite, but Gilling could see now that it was no more than a ruthlessly practical act. He was a fanatic. ‘Shoot them,’ he had said, and it was the counsel of military expediency. Compassion didn’t come into it — nor was there any moral law. This was the jungle — a place of spirit-gods and cabalistic tattoos. He belonged here; the Japanese, too. It was as much their world as his and he could accept their bestiality. There was nothing he couldn’t bear to look upon, nothing he couldn’t endure, nothing he wouldn’t do to defy them, The make-believe was over and this was its fulfilment. And if the British officer was too weak to lead, then he would.

  All these things Gilling believed, and in his anguish he hated him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  They marched on through the glistening night climbing slowly into the amorphous wilderness of hills. For a while Gilling fell back and moved with the rear-guard, frequently turning to peer behind and listen. Even when he was satisfied that there was no immediate pursuit he continued to crane nervously over his shoulder, like someone possessed of an incurable habit.

  The road followed the contours in a snaking, corrugated incline. Sometimes it ploughed between the breasts of dark slopes: sometimes it became a narrow shelf, the open side plunging into deep, forested troughs. Scarcely a mile passed without Gilling seeing at least one likely defensive position, but he ignored them all. The road was ready for demolition on the hairpins just short of Bandaung and he had no intention of stopping until they got there. He wanted something around which he could base his
defence and a blown road was better than nothing. Their combatant strength was down to under sixty and they hadn’t the fire-power to hold anywhere at will. At the bridge the Japanese had appeared to be without transport, but they could quickly race some through from the plain if they chose and it would require no great feat of engineering to make the stream passable. His estimate was that the Japanese already outnumbered them by two to one, but the situation could change in a matter of hours. By morning they could find themselves up against a battalion; armoured cars and tanks, even.

  It was imperative to get behind the demolition, but they couldn’t expect to reach the hairpins until after daylight. It was past three o’clock and there were still about ten miles to go. The best he could hope for was to arrive around seven. The calculation injected fresh urgency into his stride and he moved up and down the double line of weary men, telling them to keep closer order. They seemed devoid of all apprehension, but instead of being grateful for their continued stolidness he found himself growing increasingly on edge.

  Fear was still loose in him, like a moth spasmodically at a flame, and the groans of the wounded rifleman on the mule seemed to echo the night’s horrific sins. And there would be others committed. Over and over his mind said it. Rance was the rule, not the exception. Somewhere, some time, there would be others — as raw and as ghastly.

 

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