A Battle Is Fought to Be Won

by Francis Clifford

  ‘And behind us?’

  ‘There was no time to find out.’

  Something wailed in the forest like a banshee. The fire-flies switched casually on and off. Gilling looked right, but the overgrown slopes where the Karens lay hidden prevented him from seeing the hill-side’s true crest. Thought required an enormous effort, but the dangers were obvious enough. He could picture the patrol’s wary, crouching tread; sense the evil of them. Fear had been a simple thing once, no matter how terrible. So had the shame of showing it. But under Nay Dun’s unflagging watch both had progressively lost their shape since Rance was killed. What burrowed into him now was hydra-headed — imagination and despair, personal isolation and pain, failure and weariness, all gnawing at the flimsy shreds of his will along with dread itself. And there was no weapon to fight them with except hatred. He had nothing else left.

  The subedar was saying: ‘If they find the path it will be too late.’

  The authority in his tone raked the smouldering fires of Gilling’s antagonism. His left eye was twitching again. Stubbornly, despite his mounting concern, he thought: Don’t tell me what to do

  ‘In daylight,’ Nay Dun continued, head close to his, ‘we might deny the path for a time — but not if they come in strength before then. And they will if they know it is there.’

  The logic was undeniable. Daylight was the company’s last ally, yet there was something like a two and a half hour wait until dawn.

  Gilling’s whisper had grown harsh. ‘Cut them off, then. Ambush them.’

  ‘Thakin?’

  ‘Stop them getting back to report ... Take a section, subedar. Keep to the path both ways, in and out.’ Nay Dun was already slithering away. ‘I’ll see that everyone’s warned.’

  Get yourself killed, a part of his mind said.

  He sent Saw Tun Shwe to inform the others, then climbed up to the village. It was easy enough to find. A dozen or so deserted huts stood on a sloping tongue of bare hill-side under the wooded crest. Nay Dun had gone through by the time he got there. Moonlight invested the tatty thatch with a false splendour. He moved across the worn spaces between the stilt-legged huts until he reached the point where the clearing funnelled away into the trees. Bitterness possessed him as he confirmed the subedar’s tactical diagnosis-bitterness against those responsible for siting the demolition charges with such blatant lack of skill.

  Aloud, clenching his hands, he groaned: ‘You bloody, bloody fools.’

  He remained on the edge of the clearing, sweating from the exertion of the climb, light-headed from lack of food. Below, left, the motionless ocean of hills dipped and tossed all the way to the star-decked wheel of the horizon. Behind, the village had the loneliness of an empty morgue. Saw Tun Shwe joined him after a while and Gilling sent him back with instructions to bring up one of the Brengun crews to cover the path. When they came, panting under the weight of the heavy weapon, he positioned them between the piles of the southernmost hut, among chips of firewood and stale pig-droppings, and settled down to wait for them.

  His watch showed three thirty-five. A pulse seemed to be beating directly behind his eyes and the moonlight throbbed in unison. A rat scuttled across the bamboo floor above their heads, the sudden sound emphasizing the silence: the Bren-gunner muttered something to his companion. Gilling didn’t catch what was said, but once again he wondered what went on in the minds and hearts of these small, impassive men. Surely they realized the futility of what they were doing? — the hopeless inadequacy of it all? ... They were still a mystery to him, as alien now as during his first day with them on the clay parade-ground at the barracks. They had marched and fought and suffered together but they were still strangers. Death was their ultimate common denominator, yet even in that they were segregated. He was reminded of this when an orderly touched his arm.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The men who have died, thakin —’

  ‘What about them?’ Nerves made him curt.

  Saw Tun Shwe pointed to another part of the clearing and Gilling saw the tall bamboo tables raised against the sky on which food and drink were offered to placate the spirit gods.

  ‘If there is time,’ his orderly said, ‘it would be good to bring them here.’

  Gilling nodded. ‘We’ll see.’ He was keyed-up in anticipation of Nay Dun’s clash with the patrol, but the suggestion struck a spark of feeling in him. For the briefest of moments he understood. Then the understanding shaded into envy, the envy into fear and all the old desolations of loneliness. He looked once more at the spindly pagan altars. A chill shivered along his spine and his mind turned in anguish to the open spaces of the plain and the battalion and the lost comradeship of Church and Abbott and Crawford and the rest. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

  His words cued-in the first burst of firing. It came to them briskly on the night air, like a crackling of burning twigs. At first he thought it was close, just beyond the crest, but when it sounded again he knew he was mistaken. Half a mile; perhaps more ... The four of them lay under the floor of the hut, scarcely breathing, their eyes screwed a little, like men listening to a conversation on a bad line. For minutes on end, while the irregular crackling continued, none of them moved. Then, eventually, they came to realize that it was over; the silence broken and lasting. The Bren-gunner hissed air through his teeth in a nervous release of tension. They glanced at one another, shifted uneasily, licked the sweat-caked dust from their lips. There was some waiting to be lived through before they knew what had happened.

  The hands of Gilling’s watch dragged round. Three forty-five ... Three fifty ... Nothing showed on the path out of the dark cave of the forest. The moon floated a fraction higher; the pale shadows of the hut inched across the ground. Three fifty-five ... The tension was building up again. Every sound was suspect. Then the Bren-gunner stiffened; raised the butt into his shoulder and squeezed his cheek against the wood. An instant later Gilling saw what he had seen — a handful of figures issuing from the trees in single file — but it was a second or two before he identified the distinctive brims of their hats and knew them to be Karens.

  Nay Dun was in the lead — compact, arrogant with success, approaching with the bent-kneed stride of the hillman. Saw Tun Shwe exclaimed quietly: ‘The subedar, thakin.’ There was an intensity of awe and relief in his voice which Gilling had never noticed before, and jealously he asked himself what manner of soldier he was pitted against — whom battle and stress had somehow ennobled even in the eyes of men not given to adulation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The section had wiped out the patrol without loss to themselves. ‘We caught them on the road as they came past,’ Nay Dun reported. ‘They saw us at the last moment and scattered — otherwise it would have been over sooner.’

  ‘The path does join the road then?’

  ‘Three-quarters of a mile from here. We camouflaged the junction as best we could and moved the bodies.’

  Saw Tun Shwe and the Brengun crew were mingling with the other Karens, examining curiously the captured weapons and accoutrements — rifles, automatics, stick-grenades, a canvas satchel and an N.C.O’s collar-badge. The section-naik removed his hat and flopped a Japanese peaked cap on to his head. He bared his teeth in mock ferocity and the rest of them sniggered childishly, elated by their triumph.

  Nay Dun snapped at them. His authority had never seemed more marked. To Gilling he continued: ‘Even so the path will be easily found. They are bound to strike it once they start working up the hill-side — which is what they will do. They cannot hope to cross the demolition.’ He rammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Not head-on.’

  Gilling nodded agreement. He looked below to where the road was, then along the path slanting into the trees; finally, up at the crest just above the village. He sensed that Nay Dun was watching him, urging him to decide about the company’s re-deployment, but he seemed to have become stupid and couldn’t immediately think what needed to be done. (‘Call yourself a soldier, Mr. Gilling?�
� — the echo was still there.) He badly needed the reassurance of another opinion, but he was damned if he would seek Nay Dun’s. Long seconds passed while he vacillated, staring at the stunted ghost of his shadow lying at the subedar’s feet. They hadn’t much time — that he knew. Another patrol would be on its way to investigate the cause of the firing — perhaps more than a patrol — and yet he couldn’t adjust his mind to the urgent necessity of extending their front. He kept telling himself that they were down to twenty-five men; that it was too late to do anything worthwhile.

  He saw Nay Dun shift his legs impatiently and the movement accelerated his decision. Without confidence in it he said: ‘We’ll defend the village. One Bren section will cover the demolition. The remainder are to deny the path and the crest.’ He paused, ready even now to find fault with the plan, then fastened on to it once and for all. ‘I’m going to the road, subedar. Get the sections into position as soon as they come up.’

  He jarred down to road-level, ordering the men to the village as he passed. The Bren sited nearest the road he had shifted lower on to a commanding point directly in front of the demolished shelf. ‘Dig in,’ he said to the raw-eyed crew, ‘and use camouflage. It’ll be daylight before much longer.’

  Saw Tun Shwe followed him. He limped back to the rear, another decision arrived at. The mules stood lop-eared in the navy-blue darkness and the cooks, presumably roused by the firing, squatted close by. They got up sheepishly as Gilling approached. The only sound was a delirious mumbling from one of the wounded — that, and the scratching irritation of the night which. Gilling had practically ceased to hear.

  To the senior cook he said tersely: ‘How many are dead?’

  ‘Four, thakin.’

  He had forgotten whether that was more than at the end of the march, but he was concerned only with the living. Four from eleven meant seven ... He found himself a patch of moonlight and, leaning against the high bank, fumbled notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket. In swift, shaky capitals he wrote:

  TO O-C GYOBIN

  FROM O-C ‘A’ COY 2ND FRONTIER RIFLES

  TIME 0410 HRS

  MESSAGE BEGINS.

  IMPOSSIBLE TO HOLD ROAD BANDAUNG-GYOBIN FOR MORE THAN FEW HOURS. COMPANY DOWN TO PLATOON STRENGTH. PRESENT ENEMY STRENGTH ESTIMATED AT LEAST TWO COMPANIES WITH PROBABILITY OF MOTORIZED REINFORCEMENTS. BANDAUNG ALREADY OCCUPIED. ESCARPMENT DEMOLITIONS PLUS DESTRUCTION OF ROAD AT TENTH (10TH) MILESTONE WILL PROBABLY PREVENT MOTORIZED ADVANCE FOR SOME TIME YET. AM COVERING TENTH MILESTONE AND NEIGHBOURING VILLAGE BUT EXPECT COMPANY WILL BE OVERRUN BY NEXT ATTACK. I SAY AGAIN YOU MUST ASSUME ROAD TO GYOBIN OPEN TO ENEMY INFANTRY BY THE TIME YOU RECEIVE THIS.

  MESSAGE ENDS.

  He couldn’t remember the date or what day it was. The paper was damp with sweat and, in places, had taken the pencil badly. He traced the more doubtful words over heavily, then read the message through. He had written in haste, as sensibly as his mind would allow, and only as he signed his name did he feel the chill of doom. Time and again he had somehow warded off the thought of final disaster. Since they were driven from the escarpment there had been no hope worth clinging to and he had existed from hour to hour, from minute to minute, blinding himself to where they were all leading. But now, as if someone else had written the truth, a yawning emptiness seemed to pierce the core of his exhaustion — a dull, cold vacuum such as a man might feel when the stays of execution had at last run out.

  He stared at the lined sheet of paper for a long time before tearing it from the book and folding it in half. The senior cook responded to his gesture and came closer. Weaponless, without webbing, he looked like a dishevelled scoutmaster.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Gilling began. He tapped the paper. ‘This is a message to the senior British officer in Gyobin. At all costs you’re to see that it’s delivered.’

  The cook frowned, unaccustomed to such responsibility. Patiently, Gilling recounted what he must do, stressing the urgency, the vital need for the note not to miscarry. Some of the phrases he used kept reminding him of the debacle of the bus and the bitter fact that hope had existed recently — just for a while.

  ‘Have you got all that?’

  ‘Yes, thakin.’

  ‘Repeat what you’ve been told.’

  The cook plucked nervously at some hairs poking through a mole on his chin. He spoke parrot-fashion, with some hesitation. Gilling was taking his reliability on trust, but he had made up his mind that only the noncombatants could be spared.

  ‘It’s fifteen miles to Gyobin.’ He made allowances for the man’s condition. ‘See that you get there by no later than eleven hundred hours. Have you got a watch?’

  ‘Yes, thakin.’

  ‘Very well, then.’ They checked the time together. ‘Get started at once.’

  The cook hesitated. ‘What do I do when I have delivered the message?’

  ‘Wait in Gyobin.’

  ‘For you, thakin?’

  ‘No.’ Gilling shook his head. ‘Wait for Colonel Church and the battalion.’

  He watched the man gather up his haversack and, apparently oblivious of his good fortune, trudge away. The delirious rifleman babbled an unwitting farewell and Gilling pushed himself off the bank, stepping carefully between the wounded. He had a duty towards them; owed them something. There was lead in his heart and yet, inexplicably, he felt more in control of himself than for a considerable time. He called Saw Tun Shwe and the remaining cooks together; moved clear of the animals and dumped loads. Of the seven casualties who still lived he doubted if more than half would survive the journey to Gyobin, but he was determined to give them the chance to escape. The long-drawn agony of what he proposed for them was better than the only alternative.

  To the cooks he said. ‘I don’t care how you do it but you’re to get the wounded down to the plain. You’ve got five sound mules and one lame one. Between the lot of you you can manage it.’ They began to protest that it was impossible but he cut them short. ‘Some of them will be able to ride: some will have to be roped on. And one at least will have to be carried between you.’ Seeing their continued disbelief he thought angrily: God, you don’t know what I’m giving you. But he said: ‘I want you all out of here in fifteen minutes from now.’

  One of them insisted: ‘It will kill them, thakin.’

  He wanted suddenly to shout at them — to remind them of the naik and rifleman with the laced-up mouths, of Rance, of the prisoners roped together below the escarpment.

  Then the other said doggedly: ‘What about our cooking equipment?’

  ‘Leave it,’ he rasped. ‘Leave everything except waterbottles.’

  He dismissed them abruptly and turned away; walked forward again, almost begrudging them their release. Saw Tun Shwe started to come with him but he sent him back. ‘Help them,’ he said. ‘See that they hurry.’ An afterthought struck him and he extracted the handful of fibre identity discs that had accumulated in his ammunition-pouch. ‘Get them to take these — and those of the other four.’

  The line of his orderly’s mouth weakened a fraction as the implication dawned on him. He looked up at Gilling, as dutiful as ever, ‘And then, thakin?’

  ‘Carry the bodies to where you said you wanted them. You’ll find me somewhere there.’

  He made the climb slowly. His right leg was more useless than painful and he kept stumbling. But his mind had cleared. He had shed the burden of the wounded; warned Gyobin. A sense of inevitability had grown in him from the moment he put his name to the message and he was gradually coming to terms with it. By the time he reached the village he was in the grip of resignation. Weariness was slowly caving in on him again. Nay Dun pointed out the dispositions he had made and he criticized some of them, finding fault out of a need to sustain the quivering hostility which, he knew, was his only shield against, the inevitable processes of fear; the only springboard for the longed-for redemptive opportunity.

  They were as good as finished. He admitted it now; accepted it. And ached and tre
mbled.

  *

  Another patrol nosed near the demolition soon after five. The gunner covering the road withheld his fire and let them withdraw. Ten minutes later they found the path as they probed the slopes of the hill. There they clashed with an outlying Karen section. The action was brief and inconclusive. The patrol melted away, leaving two dead, and the strained vigil continued. A pre-dawn hush flooded through the forest — a strange absence of sound, uncanny in its intensity. Then the first birds began to sing and the darkness started to drain out of the lifeless air. The light gathered slowly, grey and shadowless, and on the crest and around the village Gilling and the Karens watched the crab-red dawn swell and take shape.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It wasn’t long before they heard the bombers droning through the haze above the hidden plain. Vainly they searched westwards, and as the men nearest him lifted their heads Gilling could observe what the night had done to them. And they, in turn, saw his raw, feverish eyes and hollowed, unshaven cheeks and the way his skin was stretched almost to splitting-point over the gleaming bone-contours. They had aged together; grown sick and hungry.

  The bombers unloaded and the haze seemed to quake as the muffled crump of the explosions spread over the foothills to the village and beyond. There had been a time when Gilling had welcomed these distant proofs of the division’s continued existence. They had been his one link with the hazardous plain; a paradoxical reminder of the security of numbers. It had seemed to him that, after the jungle, the open spaces could never again unleash terrors which were insupportable. In desperation he had clung to the prospect of being reunited with the battalion and finding himself part of a force increased three times over by the arrival of the Chinese. All along, Gyobin had been more to him than a goal to be reached by the fourth morning; offered more than the promise of an end to everlasting retreat and the threat of encirclement. It was a door through which he had thought he might find himself again; shake off the nightmare. But now, as he listened to the dull throb of the enemy bombers returning south, he was quite without illusions. Gyobin was still a whole day and night away and he had twenty-five men. What was happening on the plains was another war; not his. He was here, and only a miracle would bring the two of them together again.