At Close Quarters

by Gerald Seymour

  This is not a war of days, weeks, even months; those responsible will be pursued to the ends of the earth. But we must have a clear address before we act, then act we will.' I appreciated what he said... You have an address, you have a name. I pray to God that you can deliver to that address."

  Major Zvi Dan ducked his head in acknowledgement.

  He walked out of the office. He felt a huge exhaustion sweeping over him.

  Holt lay in the rock cleft and slept. He was huddled tight, a foetus in the womb, his knees up and as close to his chest as the bulky shapes on his belt would allow.

  The sun was rising, close to its zenith, but he had discarded none of his clothes, nor his chukka boots. A lightweight blanket was laid over him.

  He was too tired to dream. He lay in the black abyss of sleep.

  From a short distance the fact that two men rested up in the rock cleft could not have been spotted. Neither could it have been seen from the air as this small gap in the yellowed rock was covered by a drape of olive green scrim netting. His Bergen pack was beside his shoulder, he was not allowed to sleep against it for fear that his body weight could damage the contents.

  Holt woke when Crane shook his shoulder.

  There was the moment when he did not know where he was. There were the few seconds of slow understanding. Not in his bed in the doctor's house on Exmoor, not in his bed in the London flat, not in his bed in the Moscow apartment, not in his bed in the Tel Aviv hotel. Crane's hand was relentless on his shoulder, urging him awake.

  Because they were trapped under the scrim net, the fumes of the hexamine solid fuel cubes permeated to his nostrils. The fumes told Holt where he was. The first time in the hike in the Occupied Territories that he had known the hexamine stench under the scrim netting he had nearly gagged. He heard the bubbling of the water.

  "Time for a brew up, youngster."

  He saw the two tea bags cavorting in the boiling water.

  "How long have I been out?"

  "I let you have two hours, you looked like you needed two hours."

  "I can do the same as you."

  "No chance," Crane dismissed him.

  They spoke in low whispers. Each time Crane spoke Holt had to lean towards him to understand what he said.

  Crane passed him the canteen and began to anoint himself with the mosquito cream. Holt drank fast from the scorching tea, burned the soft tissue on the inside of his mouth, gulped. While he was smearing the cream on to his skin surfaces Crane was tracking with his binoculars backwards and forwards searching over the ground below them, around them.

  "Clear?"

  "So far."

  Holt handed back the canteen. "I want to pee, where do I go?"

  "You don't just go for a walk."

  "Where?"

  "You roll on your side, you undo your flies, and you piss. Simple."

  "Then I have to sleep on it, and sit on it."

  "Then you get to learn to piss when it's dark, before we settle and before we move off. That's when you piss and that's when you crap, like I showed you . . . and wake me in an hour, and don't do anything stupid. Just do what I've told you."

  "If I've had two hours' sleep you can have two."

  "You think I'll sleep two hours knowing you're watching my back?"

  Crane was gone. Blanket over his head, curled into a ball, breathing regular, the low growl of a snore.

  God, and it was blessed uncomfortable in the cleft.

  He must have been dead tired to be able to sleep on those rocks, and a separate ache was in every inch of his side, in his shoulder and in his ribs and in his hip and in his thigh.

  Before, before he had known what it was to walk through a night and to get to a lying up position for the day, he would have thought that night was the enemy and daytime was the ally. Not any more. Night was the friend, darkness was the accomplice. At night and in darkness he could melt into the shadows, he was on his feet and able to move. Daylight was the bastard, in daylight he was trapped down into the cleft of two rocks and he couldn't stand and he couldn't walk. The cover was waist high, and if he stood or he walked then he would be seen. For a long time he looked across the few inches at Crane. Christ, wouldn't he have liked to have woken him, talked to him? Not half a chance of that.

  Just time for a few words in the moments between sleeping and sentry duty, and another few words before moving off, and another few words before lying up for duylight. It was a bastard ... and he watched the calm heave of Crane's breathing.

  First job of the day. Crane's bible. Holt laid out the six magazines for the Armalite which were carried between them. Only five were loaded. Holt's job was to change the thirty rounds of ammunition from one magazine to another, so that each time he carried out the manoeuvre a different magazine would be left empty.

  Crane's bible said that magazines left full led to the weakening of the spring. Crane's text said that most firing failures were in fact magazine failures. The first time in the Occupied Territories it had taken Holt close to an hour to reload the 150 rounds; now he was going at twice that pace.

  Second job of the day. Clean with dry cloth and graphite grease the outside surfaces of the Armalite and the Model PM. Crane's text said that cleaning oil should never be used because it would leave a smoke signature of burned off oil in the firing heat. He checked that the condoms were tightly fastened over the barrels of the two weapons.

  He was painfully hungry. Might have sold his mother for a bar of chocolate, well, pawned her for sure. Crane's bible said no sweets to suck, because when you sucked sweets you also bit them, and when you bit them you made such a noise in your head that you knocked out your hearing, no boiled sweets. He had had a biscuit and a piece of cream cheese before going to sleep.

  They would have their main meal at the end of the afternoon, Crane had said. The old goat had said it would be a proper bloody feast. Crane had said that it was a good thing to be hungry, that hunger bred alertness.

  He heard them a long way off. He thought he could hear the aircraft from a hell of a long way off because he was so hungry.

  Through the squares of the scrim net he thought he could see the silver shapes leading the run of the vapour trails, flying south to north. It was strangely dis-concerting to him to know that Israeli aircraft were overhead, flying free, while young Holt was down on his backside in the cleft in the rock. He watched the trails until they were gone from sight.

  He had the binoculars. He looked down on the village of Yohmor. He could see the men moving listlessly between the houses and the coffee shop in the centre of the village. He could see children scampering down to the Litani river to swim and dive. Between the rock cleft and the river he could see a lad herding sheep, tough little blighters and sure-footed, scrambling towards a small plateau where water must be held, or where there must be a spring, because there was green on the handkerchief of level ground.

  Beyond Yohmor, higher up the far valley, was the winding road. It was the dirt cloud that he noticed first, and then the rumble of the engines travelled across the valley to him. Six tank transporters, each loaded, and a couple of lorries and a couple of jeeps. Through the glasses he studied the tanks. With the glasses he could see the unit markings on the turrets. He had never seen tanks before, not the 6o-ton main battle tank jobs. He saw the long lean barrels of the tanks. Holt seemed to crush himself down against the rock base of the cleft.

  Over the battlefield had flown two pairs of multi million pound strike aircraft, across the battlefield were being hauled six tank monsters. They were the bloody currency of the battlefield. Holt wasn't. Holt was just ordinary. Holt didn't even know how to fire a damned Armalite . . . Crane slept. Holt hadn't known anyone who could sleep as easily as Crane before. Right, the man kicked, and he stirred. Right, the man snored. But he slept.

  Crane coughed, guttural. He turned from his side to Ins back and then shook himself, coughed again. Holt would speak to him about that. Crane moved onto his other side. Have to speak to
the prophet Crane about making so much noise coughing. Holt would enjoy that.

  He'd enjoy it, because he could pull a suitably aggrieved lace and say in all seriousness that Crane's coughing was putting the mission in jeopardy . . .

  So still.

  Holt not moving. Holt grabbing to halt his breathing.

  Not daring to move, not daring to breathe.

  Crane's heel had moved the stones.

  Holt watched the snake emerge from its disturbed hole.

  Crane had been lying on the stones, and hidden under the stones had been the snake.

  Holt had a knife in his belt, he had the binoculars in his hand.

  Crane's body rolled.

  If Crane sagged again on to his back then he would lie on the snake.

  Holt had had all the books when he was a kid. Holt knew his snakes. There were snakes on Exmoor, kids always knew about snakes.

  Saw-scaled viper, Echis carinatus. Vicious, a killer, common all over North Africa, the Middle East, across to the sub-continent.

  The snake slithered slowly over the rock at the small of Crane's back.

  God, don't let him roll. God, don't let the old goat cough.

  The snake was a little less than two feet long. It was sandy brown with pale blotches and mahogany brown markings.

  Holt saw the flicker of the snake's mouth.

  He thought Crane slept deeply. He thought that if he called to him to wake that he would start in a sudden movement. He couldn't lean across to him, couldn't hold him as he woke him, because to lean forward would mean to cover the snake with his body.

  The damn thing settled. The bloody thing stopped moving. Sunshine filtering through the scrim net. Two warm stones for the snake. Holt thought the snake's head, the snake's mouth, were four or perhaps five inches from the small of Crane's back.

  Couldn't go for his knife. To go for his knife was to twist his body, to unhook the clasp that secured the knife handle, to draw the knife out of the canvas sheath.

  Three movements before the critical movement, the strike against the neck of the snake. Couldn't use his knife.

  Crane grunted. Holt saw the muscle tighten under the light fabric of Crane's trousers. The old goat readying himself to roll, the prophet winding himself up to change position.

  The bible according to Crane. When you've got something to do, do it. When you've got to act, stop pissing about.

  Holt looked at his hand. Quite surprised him. His hand was steady. Shouldn't have been, should have been shaking. His hand was firm.

  Do it, stop pissing about.

  The snake's head was over a stone. He marked the spot in his mind. The spot was an inch from the snake's head.

  One chance for Holt. Like the one chance that Crane would have when he fired.

  His hand was a blur.

  The binoculars were a haze of movement.

  He felt the bridge of the binoculars bite against the inch thick body of the snake.

  All the power he had in him, driving against the thickness of the snake at a point an inch behind the snake's head. The body and the tail of the snake were thrashing against his arm, curling on his wrist, cold and smoothed dry. The mouth of the snake was striking against the plastic covering of the binocular lenses. He saw the spittle fluid on the plastic.

  When the movements had lessened, when the body and the tail no longer coiled his arm, he took his knife from his belt and sawed off the head of the snake at the place where it was held against the stone by the bridge of the binoculars.

  The head fell away. With his knife blade Holt urged the head down between the stones.

  He was trembling. He saw the blade flash in front of his eyes. He could not hold the blade still. His hands were beginning to shake.

  His eyes were misted.

  Holt heard the growl whisper.

  "Can I move now?"

  "You can move."

  "What was it?"

  "Saw-scaled viper."

  "I can move?"

  "You can get into a dance routine if you want to."

  Crane's head emerged from under the blanket. Steadily he looked around him. Holt saw that when Crane focused on the snake's body, sawn to a stump, that he bit at his lip.

  Holt moved the stones with the tip of his knife blade, exposed the snake's head, and the bite on Crane's lip was tighter.

  "Do you fancy a brew, youngster?"

  Holt nodded.

  "Youngster, don't let anyone ever tell you that you aren't all right."

  15

  When they had eaten, when they had wiped clean their canteens and stowed them again in their belt pouches, Crane talked.

  His voice was always a whisper, low pitched. There were times that Holt interjected his questions and in the excitement of the communication he lost control of the pitch in his chords and then Crane would silently wag a finger to show his disapproval. But the disapproval was no longer the put down. It was as if young Holt had proved himself in Crane's eyes.

  They sat back to back. With the food eaten the daytime sleeping was finished. Their heads were close, mouth to ear in close proximity. The debris of the food wrapping had been collected by Holt and put into the plastic bag reserved for rubbish. It would be dark in an hour, when it was dark they would wait a further hour to acclimatise their eyes and ears to the night, then they would move off.

  Crane faced down into the gorge, and watched the main road leading into the Beqa'a. At their next lying up position they would be overlooking the valley. Holt's attention was on the steep slopes above and to the west, looking into the sun that would soon clip the summits on the Jabal Niha and the Jabal el Barouk that were six thousand feet above sea level.

  They were for Holt moments of deep happiness.

  Mostly he listened, mostly Crane talked, whispered.

  Crane talked of sniper skills, and survival skills, and of map reading skills and of evasion skills? He took Holt through the route of the coming night march, his finger hovering over but never touching the map. He showed him the next LUP, and he showed him then the track they would follow for the third of the night marches, and where they would make the final LUP on the ground above the tent camp. He showed him by which way they would skirt the high village above the valley of Khirbet Qanafar, how they would be sandwiched between Khirbet Qanafar and the twin village of Kafraiya, he showed him where, above them on the Jabal el Barouk, was positioned the sensitive Syrian listening and radar post. He showed Holt, on the map, from where he would shoot, with the sun behind him, with the sun in the eyes of those in the camp.

  Happiness for Holt, because he had won acceptance.

  He was trusted.

  "And you want him dead, Mr Crane?"

  "Just a soldier, being paid to do what I'm told."

  "Being paid a hell of a lot."

  "A chicken shit price for what I'm doing."

  "I'm not being paid," Holt said.

  "Your problem, youngster."

  "I saw your room back at base camp, I couldn't see what you'd spend your money on."

  Crane smiled, expressionless, but there was a sharp glint in his eyes. "Too long to tell you about."

  A curtain fell in that moment, then Crane's face moved. Holt saw the flicker of regret. He thought a scalpel had nudged a root nerve.

  "Have you ever been paid before, to kill a man?"

  "Just taken my army pay."

  "Have you killed many men, Mr Crane?"

  "Youngster, I don't notch them up . . . I do what I'm paid to do, I try to be good at what I'm paid for doing."

  "Is it a few men, is it a lot of men, that you've killed?"

  "Sort of between the two, youngster."

  Holt watched him, watched the way he casually cleaned the dirt out from behind his nails, then abandoned that, began to use a toothpick in his mouth.

  "Is it different, killing a man in battlefield conditions to killing a man that you've stalked, marked out?"

  "To me, no."

  "Do you think about th
e man you're going to kill at long range? Do you wonder about him, about whether he's guilty or he's innocent?"

  "Not a lot."

  "It would worry me sick."

  "Let's hope you never have to worry yourself. Look at you, you're privileged, you're educated, you're smart, people like you don't get involved in this sort of dirt."

  "This time I have."

  " . . . most times people like you pay jerks to get these things done. Got me?"

  "But don't you feel anything?"

  "I kind of cover my feelings, that way they don't get to spit in your face."

  "What's your future, Mr Crane?"

  Again the quiet smile. "What's yours, youngster?"

  Holt was watching a bird like an eagle soar towards the summits above him. A beautiful, magnificent bird.

  He thought it must be from the family of eagles. No flap of the wings, just the drifting glide of power, freedom.

  He grinned, "I suppose we get out of here?"

  "Or I wouldn't have come. I don't buy one way tickets, I came and I aim to leave."

  "I'll go back to England, then I have to make the big decision of where the next move is. I can stay in Foreign and Commonwealth, as if nothing had ever happened, as if Jane Canning hadn't existed. Or I can quit . . . I could walk out on them, I could teach, go into business.

  Now, I don't know. Where I came from is rough, wild country. It's at peace. Nothing ever happens down there. In our village, if they knew I was in Lebanon, well, half of them wouldn't know where it was."

  "You're lucky to have options," Crane said.

  "What's your future?"

  "I'm getting old for this rubbish."

  The bird was brilliant against the fall of the sun. The light in the gorge behind him was greying. The bird was the size of the lofty buzzards that he knew from Exmoor.

  "What does an old sniper do in his retirement?"

  "Sits at the pavement cafes on Dizengoff, listens to all the talk, and has nothing to say. You can't boast about my work, my work never existed. An old sniper in retirement, youngster, is a lonely bastard."