A Battle Is Fought to Be Won

by Francis Clifford

  The accumulation of shock and relief was only now beginning to take effect. Nausea fluttered through his exhaustion and his teeth chattered. He glanced up at the Karens on the bank above him and heard himself say: ‘It’s all clear. Come on down.’

  The rifle was still slung from his shoulder and Saw Tun Shwe took it from him. ‘We were lucky, thakin.’

  Chest heaving, Gilling spat. ‘Let’s hope the others were, too.’

  They started along the road. It was over two miles to the rendezvous and Gilling fretted, wondering how many had managed to find their way to safety. He dared not be too optimistic: nor could he fool himself about the future. They’d been reprieved: no more. Even if everyone got back the inevitable was merely delayed. They’d never hold the road now.

  They saw nobody, ahead or behind, and he thought: We’re the only ones. The rest have had it ... Then, leadenly: It should never have happened. Never ...

  He limped on, sinking into wretchedness. His leg was on fire and his mind seemed filled with grey mud. Near the third milestone someone moved in the shadows.

  ‘Halt!’

  Gilling had been expecting the challenge but even so his heart skipped a beat. He swayed to a standstill and licked his lips.

  ‘Friend.’ He repeated it. ‘Friend.’

  A stocky figure stepped into the starlight, cradling an automatic. It was Nay Dun.

  ‘Advance, friend, and be recognized.’

  Infuriated by the subedar’s slavish adherence to the book, Gilling flared: ‘Cut that out, subedar. This isn’t the parade ground.’ But as he went forward the feeling grew in him that he was approaching his superior, coming in disgrace to account for the failure of the responsibility with which he had been charged.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He said: ‘How many have got here?’

  ‘Fourteen, so far.’

  ‘Fourteen?’ He echoed it in wonder. It seemed impossible.

  Nay Dun pecked a nod. ‘Three are still unaccounted for.’

  ‘More, surely? Six or sev —’

  ‘Three, thakin. The others are known to have been killed.’ Some names were rattled off, Jemadar Saw Bwe’s among them.

  ‘Saw Bwe?’

  ‘Yes. In the town, outside the Bioscope Hall.’

  Gilling swallowed. ‘That’s definite, is it?’

  ‘Yes, thakin.’ The subedar’s voice was as emotionless as a stock-taker’s. He paused briefly. ‘I left one wounded man in the cutting as instructed — Rifleman Aung Win.’

  ‘He was dead.’ Gilling said woodenly. ‘Saw Tun Shwe’s got his rifle.’

  He looked anxiously along the road but saw no one; heard nothing. The pain in his leg was spreading into his groin and a muscle was jumping in his back as if it had taken on an independent existence.

  ‘They were all over us.’ He spoke as though some sort of explanation were expected of him. ‘Everywhere — without warning. We hadn’t a chance.’ In the shadows on either side of the road he picked out the recumbent forms of the wounded. ‘What’s our strength amount to?’

  ‘Fighting strength, twenty-five. Eleven wounded. Mules and cooks.’

  Wearily, Gilling juggled with the figures. They were better than his wildest hope but they gave no satisfaction. The sense of doom had burrowed deep into his spirit.

  ‘And three missing — is that it?’

  ‘Two, thakin.’

  ‘You said three.’

  ‘I was counting Aung Win.’

  Gilling wheeled, glaring. ‘Did you suppose I’d left him?’

  Nay Dun said nothing. A firefly pulsed on and off.

  ‘Did you, subedar? Is that what you were thinking?’

  ‘No, thakin.’

  Trembling, Gilling willed Nay Dun to turn his head. A long time seemed to pass. The night creaked around them. Then, softly, vehemently, between clenched teeth, he said in English: ‘You’re a damned liar.’

  He turned away, filled with a murderous rage. Bastard, he fumed. You bastard ... Without reason he limped along the road until he found himself with the mules, then retraced his steps. The wounded lay in the dark places under the bank and he saw the whites of their eyes as some of them watched him pass; heard a groan. Despair slowly blunted the savage hurt and the feeling of hopelessness prickled through. He went back to Nay Dun; addressed him grudgingly.

  ‘We can’t afford to wait. Our only chance is to get behind the last demolition as soon as possible. For all we know the Japs are merely taking a breather. It’s about six miles. If the men not accounted for are still on the move they can find us there. There’s no other way for them to go.’

  Nay Dun nodded. His demeanour was completely unchanged. The flesh of his cheeks quivered as he brought his heels together.

  ‘We start now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gilling said. ‘Right away. One of your sections can cover us.’

  They went slowly, bearing the worst of the wounded on stretchers which Nay Dun had had fashioned out of baggage ropes and lopped bamboos. They followed the mules in silence, dragging their feet in the dust, and Gilling worked up and down the straggling column urging the men to keep together. Sometimes the road corkscrewed through thick forest and the darkness almost blinded them. Sometimes there was nothing between them and the stars and Gilling could see the blank look of exhaustion on the Karens’ faces as they laboured by. More than once he joined the rear-guard occasionally pausing to listen and stare in the direction of Bandaung. Gradually he came to accept the absence of pursuit and his nerves quietened. But he was utterly without any sense of deliverance. Violence was stamped heavily into his mind and he sweated coldly as he marched, reliving the pattern of their scrambling flight from the escarpment, knowing how perilously close he had come to breaking-point. In every fibre of his being he longed to be free from fear and responsibility. Deep down, under the layers of weariness and pain and shock gone stale, a part of him was crying for an end to the battle. He wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and sleep; to hide himself away and escape the insistent pressures that threatened his annihilation.

  Desperately he sought to get a grip on himself — trying to plan, to think ahead. But he was steeped in defeat and searched in vain for any gleam of hope. Tomorrow was a distant shore; the plains too remote even to contemplate. Long before dawn they would be at bay, condemned to await the next onslaught. With smarting eyes he stared at the jungle; watched the mask-like features of the Karens as they lurched past. Even the moans of the wounded seemed to express an alien kind of suffering. He felt his loneliness intensify; a little more of his will disintegrate as he recalled the isolation of the handful of gravestones on the edge of the forsaken town.

  They went on. After a while the column concertinaed to a halt, the men barging into one another like shunted wagons. Going forward to where the mules were, Gilling spoke to the naik who commanded what was left of Saw Bwe’s platoon.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ He failed to recognize that the naik was smiling.

  ‘Look, thakin.’

  He did as he was asked, peering as though he had just been roused from sleep. And to his amazement he found himself staring at a bus.

  *

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. Deep in shade the bus stood askew on the narrow ledge of road, front wheels close to the drop. It was about fifty yards away, low-slung, looking not unlike a huge buffalo. Stupefied, he continued to stare, and for the first time in days something like cautious excitement possessed him. He limped towards it, a dozen questions jamming his mind. Broken down? Out of petrol? He dared not even begin to hope that it had been abandoned as a gift, in running order. On a board across the top of the cab, crudely lettered in Burmese, he saw: the golden peacock, beneath which was: GYOBIN — BANDAUNG — THAYEMYO. Advertisements were daubed along the side nearest to him — tiger balm ... lotus beer. The cab door wouldn’t open, so he walked round to the one at the rear, noting on the way that the tyres were sound and the ramshackle vehicle reasonably level on its springs.
The clinging smell of betel-nut and sun-dried fish assailed him as he clambered inside and clanked along the bare metal floor. As far as he could tell the interior was quite empty and he could just discern slatted benches running from end to end under the square, glass-less windows.

  He lit a match when he got to the driving-seat. As it flared his eyes searched the dented fascia and almost the first thing he saw was a small brass Buddha dangling on a chain from the ignition key. Incredulously, he switched on; tried to read the petrol gauge. But the match was burning his fingers and he had to wait until he had struck another.

  Empty ... The wild optimism shrivelled and he felt a pang of dismay, as if he had been defrauded. Simultaneously, through the cab window, Saw Tun Shwe spoke to him.

  ‘Will it go, thakin?’

  ‘There’s no petrol.’ He slumped into the seat and lit a third match. There was a hole where one of the dials should have been; some broken wires. None of the others registered. On the floor to his left, amongst a litter of cheroot-stubs, he noticed the starting-handle. Without hope he picked it up and passed it out to his orderly.

  ‘D’you know what to do?’

  Saw Tun Shwe nodded and moved to the front of the bull-nosed bonnet; rattled the handle home. Gilling settled himself at the wheel. In neutral, the gear-shift wobbled like a metronome and the wheel had about a forty-degree play on it.

  ‘Right!’ he called, reaching for the choke.

  Saw Tun Shwe swung the handle. The engine was heavy and the bus creaked on its springs. Three times the Karen grunted and strained without result. Another man ran forward and joined him but Gilling felt no answering kick. Two or three minutes passed, and still nothing happened.

  It s no good, he thought dejectedly. I should have guessed as much. We’re wasting our time ... But something made him say: ‘Just once more.’

  With disbelief he heard the engine fire; felt the floor-boards rattle under his feet. He cried out exultantly, pressing the accelerator to the boards, producing a roar that matched his own jubilant astonishment. For more time than he realized he sat in the darkness, adjusting the engine’s running speed, feeling the wheel shudder wonderfully in his hands. It was beyond his comprehension how the bus came to be there, but it wasn’t the moment for speculation. His spirits soared. By some inexplicable freak of fate it was suddenly possible to get the wounded safely back to Gyobin. All at once he could make contact with the main forces, replenish his dwindling ammunition — be reinforced, even.

  His fatigue seemed to fade. He left the engine running and made his way out on to the road. Nay Dun was there. Eagerly, without antagonism, Gilling asked him: ‘Who’ve we got left who can drive?’

  ‘Mya Lwin, thakin.’

  ‘Get him for me.’ When the rifleman arrived, Gilling said: ‘What have you driven before?’

  ‘Three-tonners.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘A month, thakin.’

  Nay Dun explained: ‘He was once with headquarters company. Two years ago.’ It wasn’t very encouraging.

  ‘There’s no one else?’

  ‘No.’

  Gilling hesitated, stroking his beard-stubble. For a few seconds he was tempted to take the bus down to Gyobin himself. He could be there in well under the hour; back again in less than two ... It was a heady thought, but even as he toyed with it he knew he had no choice but to stay with the company. All else apart, he was the only person capable of blowing the road.

  He said to the rifleman: ‘Are you sure you can manage it?’

  ‘I think so, thakin.’

  There was no time to be lost. ‘Listen.’ He spoke slowly, simply, anxious not to confuse. ‘You’re to drive the casualties to Gyobin — understand? I’ll give you a chit to the senior officer there. Find him without delay. Don’t let anyone side-track you. I want you back at the tenth milestone before midnight. That’s the only thing you’ve got to remember — midnight. The rest will be in the chit — what you bring; who you bring. The officer will know what to do. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear, thakin.’

  Nay Dun had produced a message-pad. ‘Later,’ Gilling said. ‘I’ll turn the thing round first.’

  He didn’t trust the rifleman’s ability on so narrow a road. He pulled himself up into the back of the bus and made his way to the driving-seat. Fumbling, he got one headlamp to work. It threw a pale yellow beam over a group of Karens gathered beyond the bonnet; dimly exposed the mules and wounded in the background. Swiftly, he familiarized himself with the gear positions; found reverse and eased the hand-brake off. The bus had hardly moved before he felt it grate against the high bank behind. He crunched into bottom and edged forward, pulling the wheel round for all he was worth.

  ‘Ho! ... Ho!’ On the open side of the road Saw Tun Shwe signalled urgently.

  Gilling leaned out of the window. ‘Can’t I come any further?’

  ‘No more, thakin.’

  God, he thought. I scarcely moved it ... He climbed out of the bus again and had a look for himself. It was a tighter fit than he’d imagined. There weren’t more than six or seven feet to play with. In other circumstances he would have driven slowly towards Bandaung; found a more suitable spot in which to turn. But with things as they were he dared not. His nerves were playing him up again and he thought of the noise, the lights. At least ten minutes had elapsed since he first saw the bus and he wondered whether the Japanese had started after them.

  ‘Subedar — go and check that the rear-guard’s got the road properly covered.’

  He returned to the wheel and went into reverse. He was sweating now. The back of the bus ground against the bank almost at once. Dust swirled. The roar of the engine seemed to be filling the forest. He rocked the bus against the bank, dragging the wheel over, then thudded into bottom and crawled forward, alternately dabbing accelerator and brake.

  ‘Ho, thakin! ... Ho!’

  The drop in front was practically sheer. He reversed away from it, struggling with the wheel, and juddered against the bank. The nose hadn’t come round by more than about five degrees and he began to despair. He headed carefully out towards the edge, braked, crashed into reverse and thudded back as far as he could go. A dozen times he did it, sweat pouring from him as he fought with the heavy wheel, pain shooting through his right leg. And at the end of it all he wasn’t even broadside across the road.

  Grimly, he paused before trying again, coughing dust. More and more he was growing agitated about the Japanese. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Nay Dun had returned and was watching him. He went into gear again. His touch was heavy and the bus lurched away from the bank faster than he’d intended. He braked hard, hand and foot, but his boot slipped off the worn cap of the pedal and hit the accelerator. All of what was left of his strength went in desperation on to the hand-brake — but too late. He saw his orderly jump clear; felt the thud as the front wheels went out into space and the underside ploughed over the verge. The back end tipped up and for one awful moment he thought the bus was going all the way into the darkness below. But the forward motion suddenly stopped. He cut the engine and the silence was filled with the gritty sound of numerous small objects slithering from one end of the floor to the other.

  In panic he struggled to the rear; dropped with a sickening jar to the road.

  ‘Ropes!’ he bawled. ‘Baggage ropes!’

  He was too startled to believe that nothing could be done. As though bereft of his senses he stared, listening to the soft dribbling of earth. Along the road behind him there was an urgent hubbub of voices; the whinnying movement of mules. Then the bus started to slide. It went slowly at first, smoothly, like a boat leaving a slipway. Insects jazzed mildly in the tilting beam of the solitary headlamp. Transfixed, Gilling watched helplessly as the vehicle gathered momentum and started crashing through the undergrowth. Seconds later it was lost to sight and there was only the diminishing noise of its hurtling descent.

  Then, abruptly, that, too, ended. A mocking quiet settl
ed over the forest. And Gilling stood alone on the empty road, beating his fists in anguish against his temples.

  Part Three

  THE VILLAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  How long he remained there he never knew. The world was about his ears. But at last, with a fury born of heartache, he ordered the company on. In dumb obedience the men formed column, lifted the wounded and continued their ragged march. Their leaden acceptance of disaster was typical, but as his dismay found coherence he couldn’t face them without shame. In all their time together there had been nothing as devastatingly cruel as this; never a period when the knowledge of personal failure was so overwhelming. And he willed upon himself the imagined indictment of the wounded, sharing with them the bleak despair that slip-second’s clumsiness had made out of hope and elation.

  Bewildered, his mind re-enacted the moment of catastrophe. Saw Tun Shwe walked at his side, loyally offering an explanation. ‘The road was all ploughed up, thakin. The driver had tried to turn himself — but could not. There were many tyre-marks in the dust before you started.’ Taking two steps to his one, the small Karen went on: ‘He must have met people moving out of Bandaung and been frightened to go on into the town. That is why the bus was there, thakin.’ But Gilling wasn’t listening. He was tortured by what he had done; with what might have been. He’d said: ‘Who’ve we got left who can drive?’ and the irony of the question taunted him, as did his careful instructions to the rifleman whose skill he’d doubted. Gyobin was as remote as before; all prospect of reinforcement utterly destroyed. Why? Because of him. The thought ran wild, like a phrase repeated in a fever. Because of him. Because of him ... They were back where they had been half an hour earlier — except that now the reality was embittered by a dream that had been brutally snatched away.

  He stayed just ahead of the rear-guard, hearing the rhythmless drag of moving feet, gazing vacantly at the swaying bulk of the column on the shadowy road. After a while, Nay Dun, who was somewhere up in front, stepped aside from the line of march and waited until he came level.