Brave Company

by Hill, David

  What could he and Sa-In do? They had no weapons. They couldn’t go back the way they’d come. With Russell’s injured shoulder, there was no way they could carry Sergeant Barnett any distance. And the enemy would be at the crest in another five minutes. They had to leave the NCO and flee. Russell reached to clutch Sa-In’s elbow. He pointed at the unconscious man, shook his head, then began to stab a finger behind them. ‘We go! We have to—’

  His words stopped. No. Uncle Trevor hadn’t run away. He knew that now. And neither could he.

  He peered over the sandbags once again. Dozens of the enemy, rifles and sub-machine guns in hands, swarming up towards them. The nearest was just over a hundred yards away. Off to both sides, UN troops were falling back, none of them close enough for him to try and signal. They’d withdraw from the battlefield, and leave it to artillery and aircraft to stop the enemy. But by the time that happened, it would be too late.

  The front line of communist soldiers was through the barbed wire and charging on. The yelling continued, but the bugles had stopped. Russell stared along the trench at the cratered ground behind it. There was nowhere to hide. The three of them would be captured or killed. There was nothing they could do.

  A voice was shouting at him. Sa-In. Shouting, and pointing at his own legs. Was the Korean boy hurt? Russell could see only the cut on his forehead, dried blood crusted across it. Sa-In pointed again, thrusting a finger at his clumsy, rubber-tyre sandals, then at Russell’s boots. ‘Off! Off! Then hide!’

  Hide? Where? How? But the other boy was hauling at the unconscious sergeant’s uninjured leg, tugging off the boot and sock, flinging them away along the trench. Sa-In’s dark eyes blazed. ‘Off! Make sir look like me. Sir and you! Take off!’

  Russell blinked, trying to understand. He crouched, started easing the sock from the Barnett’s broken leg. Don’t let him wake up, he begged. He hurled the sock away, turned to Sa-In.

  The black-haired boy was gone. Russell gaped. Sa-In was sprinting for their wrecked jeep, bent over as he ran.

  Rage rushed through Russell. The refugee was trying to escape, running away and leaving them to die. He was a coward after all.

  Then he saw that Sa-In was reaching into the jeep’s back seat, heaving at something, slinging it over his shoulder, turning and stumbling back towards the other two. The tarpaulin, the one he’d been huddling under as they drove. What was he doing?

  Next moment, Russell understood. He began pulling at his own boots, ripping the laces undone, tearing off boots, then socks. He snatched another look over the sandbags. The nearest communists were fifty yards away. He could see their faces, and the khaki caps they wore. They were cheering as well as shouting now. They must have realised that the UN forces had retreated.

  Sa-In threw himself into the trench in a shower of dirt, tarpaulin trailing behind him. ‘Quick! Hide!’ He seized Russell’s boots, tossed them over the back of the trench. Hey! went a voice in Russell’s head; that’s navy property. What’s Quartermaster Katene going to say when I tell him I’ve lost a pair of boots and socks and a blanket?

  The Korean boy whipped off his own clumsy sandals and jammed them onto the feet of the sergeant, where they lolled unmoving on the trench floor. He shoved the battledress trousers up to the man’s knees, then jerked his head at Russell. ‘You! Hide!’

  They could hear individual voices now. Some cheering, some still shouting, one laughing wildly. The enemy were only a few seconds away. There wasn’t enough time. Sa-In snatched handfuls of mud and dirt from the ground and smeared them roughly over Sergeant Barnett’s legs. ‘You! You!’ He pointed to Russell, who seized a fistful of earth and did the same to himself. The Korean boy clutched at his own face, raked his fingers across the cut on his head till fresh blood showed. Russell stared. Had he gone crazy?

  Sa-In rubbed his fingers in the blood, then wiped them roughly over Russell’s and the sergeant’s legs. He pointed at the tarpaulin. ‘Hide! Down! Hide!’

  Russell threw himself onto the cold clay of the trench floor, huddling beside the injured man. Sa-In heaved at the tarpaulin, dragging it over the two of them. The stiff edge hit Russell in the nose and the world went dark. He felt Sa-In plucking at the canvas till they were entirely covered except for their bare, filthy, blood-stained legs.

  He lay still, trying to breathe as little as possible. He jerked as Sa-In began to wail, voice rising and sobbing. What was – of course: the boy was pretending to be grief-stricken over the bodies of his family. It would never work; they’d be found for sure.

  His heart thudded. He made his legs – his freezing-cold legs, he realised – flop like dead ones. The shouting and cheering was almost on top of them. Any second now, a hand would seize the tarpaulin, and—

  Sa-In wailed on, louder and higher. Then a single voice spoke. A panting, breathless voice, angry and suspicious, right beside them. Russell didn’t understand a word, but he knew what it meant. The enemy were here.

  Twenty

  Russell fought to keep his breathing silent. He willed his legs to loll lifelessly. The new voice snarled more words. Sa-In replied, began wailing once more.

  The sound of a blow. Russell heard it above the cheering and yelling from all around. Sa-In made a choking noise; his wailing dropped to a whimper, but kept on. The enemy soldier had struck the boy with his gun or something.

  Another thud. Another gasp and choking from Sa-In. Then Russell felt someone land in the trench, right beside them. The voice spoke once more, even closer. The communist soldier was about to lift the tarpaulin and discover who really lay there.

  Russell’s eyes bulged with fear. What could he do? He’d yell and jump up, as loud and fast as he could; hope it startled the soldier just enough for Sa-In to grab him or something. No, that was hopeless. They were all going to be captured or killed.

  Instead, a boot kicked his left leg, just above the ankle. The pain was so sharp, the shock so great, that his whole body went limp and his leg lolled sideways.

  Next to him, Sergeant Barnett whimpered faintly. If the man began to move, they were lost.

  A different voice called from a few yards away. A voice shouting an order: Russell knew it was, in spite of the unfamiliar words. He heard a third blow and the grunt from Sa-In. Then the sound of feet scrabbling out of the trench. The enemy soldier was gone.

  The bugles were blaring again. More yelling rose all around. Shells had begun crashing down once more: the UN ships and artillery, beginning a fresh bombardment now that their troops had withdrawn.

  He couldn’t see. The tarpaulin was dark and stifling. He twitched as he heard an English word; realised it was Sa-In. The boy was wailing again, loud and unstopping. Every few seconds, in the middle of the moaning, he went, ‘Hide … Hide’. Once again, Russell made his legs flop. His bare feet were so cold, he could scarcely feel them, but the one the soldier had kicked pulsed with pain. Was he going to get frostbite? He clenched his teeth. His uncle had endured terrible things; now he had to try and do the same.

  The artillery sergeant made another noise, louder this time. His head moved, then he lay still as before. If … If he wakes up and won’t stay quiet, I’ll punch him and knock him out again, Russell decided. In the thick of the din of battle, and in spite of the fear that kept surging through him, he suddenly wanted to giggle. Here he was at war, and the only person he might end up attacking was someone from his own side.

  More shouting began around them. Korean or Chinese? He couldn’t tell. He knew so little about the people he’d come to fight. Orders were still being yelled; he recognised the tone of voice he’d so often heard on Taupo.

  What were the communists doing? Russell tried to think, to remember some of the things he’d learned in his basic training. If enemy positions were captured, troops had to prepare straight away for a counter-attack. They’d have to set up their weapons, aiming over the rear wall of the trench, ready to fire if the enemy came charging back at them. The North Koreans, the Chinese, whoever they were
, would be rushing to do that.

  He cringed as more explosions shook the ground nearby. The UN fire was building up again. He wanted to hiss to Sa-In to take shelter, to huddle down beside them, but he had no way of knowing if the enemy would hear. Half-blind under the tarpaulin, he was totally helpless. Above them, the Korean boy still whimpered and moaned.

  Another noise from Sergeant Barnett. Another movement. Then the wounded man drew in a shuddering breath and began to fumble at the tarpaulin with one arm. Sa-In’s voice rose through his wailing, ‘Hide, sir … Hide.’

  Russell slid a hand over the man’s mouth. ‘Listen. Sergeant Barnett. Listen.’ He spoke right into the NCO’s ear, low and urgent. ‘It’s Russell … Russell from Taupo. Keep still. Don’t move. You hear?’

  The sergeant grunted, struggled feebly against the hand covering his face. The tarpaulin twitched. Sa-In’s crying rose louder. Russell heard voices and hurrying feet – they seemed to be only a couple of yards away. ‘Sergeant, listen! The communists are here. Lie still. Listen!’

  Relief swelled through him as Sergeant Barnett stopped moving. ‘We’re hiding,’ he whispered. ‘There’s been an attack.’ No sound from the sergeant. ‘Open your mouth if you can hear me.’ A second passed, then he felt the jaw move. ‘We’re hiding under the tarpaulin. Sa-In is pretending we’re dead. Keep still.’

  The faintest nod from the sergeant, then a gasp of pain, quickly held back. Russell whispered once more. ‘Your leg’s hurt. Just hold on.’

  Another tiny nod. A low sigh. The sergeant’s body relaxed. Russell heard Sa-In keening, ‘Hide … good … hide.’

  On either side, voices bawled. The ground shook as more explosions came. Russell closed his eyes, fought to make his own body lie limp. There was nothing he could do. It was all up to Sa-In.

  He realised he was counting his breaths, trying to keep them low and calm. Ten … twenty … fifty. He was so cold: his legs where they stuck out from under the tarpaulin had lost almost all feeling, except for the ankle where he’d been kicked. That throbbed with pain. So did his shoulder. Sa-In kept moaning and whimpering. What was he seeing? What peril was he in?

  Feet rushed past, a few yards away. More commands were yelled. The shelling seemed to be growing, the thunder of explosions building ahead and behind.

  A new sound. Engines coming fast. Aircraft. At the same moment, Sa-In’s voice rose again. ‘Hide! Hide!’ Russell understood. He tried to press himself into the earth. Beside him, Sergeant Barnett was doing the same.

  The engine sound climbed to a scream. Something flashed overhead. Even through the tarpaulin, he could see it. He heard a whooshing sound.

  BRROOMM!

  The ground bucked. Noise hammered at him; his body jolted into the air, then thudded back into the clay. He screwed up his face to stop himself from crying out. Next to him Sergeant Barnett made a strangled sound as his injured leg bucked up and down.

  BRROOMM!

  Another explosion; another jolt through the earth. An avalanche of dirt poured down onto the tarpaulin. They were going to be buried alive.

  More planes howled in. More explosions. A flatter, more hollow sound. FLOOMPF!

  A fierce orange glow flared on one side – again he could see it through the tarpaulin. Napalm. Flaming petroleum jelly. Russell’s skin crawled as he realised. If it landed near them, they’d be burned to death.

  The enemy were shooting. Rifles barked. A few automatic weapons hammered. But that seemed to be all. They had so little against the UN forces. Just their numbers and their courage. It was true: the enemy had courage.

  BRROOMM!

  More bombs. Another glaring burst of napalm: he felt its heat through the canvas. Hold on, he urged himself. Hold on. His uncle had rushed out in the midst of a bombing attack like this, stood in front of the fire and death to try and save lives. Could he ever do a thing like that? He didn’t know.

  Sergeant Barnett lay unmoving beside him, groaning occasionally. His leg must be agony. Again the ground shook. Again the sky turned to flame.

  A different noise. A grinding, rumbling roar, distant but approaching, coming from behind the UN lines. The growl of engines steadily advancing. Gunfire as well. Tanks. Russell held his breath. The communists fired harder than ever. Voices yelled from either side.

  Sergeant Barnett was saying something. Russell turned his head to hear. ‘You all right?’ the sergeant murmured. ‘You both okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ In spite of the rising din, Russell kept his own voice low. ‘Sa-In is hiding us. Stay still.’ Another murmur came from the sergeant. Russell had to strain to hear it: ‘… brave lad.’ He didn’t know if the man meant him or Sa-In, but he knew which one of them deserved the words.

  The tanks were grinding closer. The communist small-arms fire was a wall of sound; the yelling grew louder and more desperate. Russell jerked as bugles pierced the air again. They weren’t going to charge at the tanks, were they? They’d be slaughtered, all of them. They mustn’t—

  No. Feet began pounding past the trench where they huddled. Feet heading away from the advancing armoured vehicles, back down the slope of the valley. The rifles and machine-guns still cracked, but there were fewer of them. Voices bawled more orders. Russell let out a breath as he realised. Now it was the enemy who was retreating.

  More boots rushed or staggered past. Men panted, shouted to one another. The tank engines had grown to a steady roar. Their guns fired, but mostly they just kept coming.

  Someone stopped. Someone right next to them. Russell felt it rather than heard it. A man spoke, harsh and challenging. Sa-In sobbed a reply. The other voice came again, low and tense. Beside him, Russell knew Sergeant Barnett was listening, too.

  The sound of metal on metal. A rifle being cocked. He’s going to fire, Russell knew. He’ll shoot through the tarpaulin, and we’ll be killed like trapped animals. Who would the bullets hit first? Him? The sergeant? Sa-In?

  The canvas above him suddenly felt suffocating. He couldn’t die like this. He tensed his body for a hopeless leap.

  Above them, Sa-In spoke once more. He sounded different, very calm, very quiet. Silence for a couple of seconds, then the enemy soldier replied. His was a young voice, too. Like Sa-In, he spoke quietly, flatly. Another second of silence, then feet moved away. Russell lay, hardly daring to believe.

  The communists were retreating fast, he could tell. They kept shooting; orders were still being yelled, but the sounds were moving back down the slope. They were heading for the trenches from which they’d poured. The tanks must have almost reached the place where he lay.

  He was counting his breaths again. He hadn’t even noticed. He ached all over; felt utterly exhausted and drained. The tarpaulin pressed down on him, stifling yet cold. He couldn’t last much longer like this.

  Then, so suddenly that he cried aloud with fear, the canvas was pulled back, and Sa-In was gazing down at them.

  Twenty-one

  Shells were exploding down the wide valley. Machine-guns and rifles hammered. The noise of approaching tanks swelled into a ground-trembling roar. Russell lay sprawled on the trench floor, eyes fixed on Sa-In above him.

  Blood dribbled from the Korean boy’s mouth. The wound on his forehead oozed fresh blood as well. Russell remembered those blows he’d heard while he huddled under the tarpaulin. Sa-In’s baggy white clothes were torn and filthy with mud. He shivered in the raw wind. But he was smiling. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said to Sergeant Barnett. Then he bowed to both of them, holding one hand to his ribs as he did so.

  The artillery sergeant started to lift himself up, then bared his teeth and fell back. Straight away, Sa-In was down beside him. ‘Sir! Your leg busted. You not moving – please!’

  The wounded man breathed out slowly. ‘Where’s – the jeep?’

  ‘It’s wrecked,’ Russell told him. ‘A shell landed near it. You got thrown out onto the ground.’

  Sa-In nodded. ‘We bring you here,’ he said.

  Sergeant Barnett’s t
eeth were still clenched against the pain. He gazed at Russell. ‘Sounds like your – your uncle would have been proud.’

  Russell said nothing. His entire body had begun shuddering. He didn’t know if it was the cold, or the relief of still being alive, but he couldn’t stop himself shaking. If he opened his mouth, his voice would shake, too.

  They all hunched as a tank roared past, just ten yards away from them, bucking across a collapsed section of trench, smashing down more walls as it ploughed on. I’m glad I’m not in the army, Russell thought suddenly. They have to do too much digging.

  Other vehicles were streaming up behind the tanks. Armoured personnel carriers. One stopped further along the trench, and troops poured from it, fanning out to the right of where Russell and the other two crouched or lay. Americans in their green-brown winter uniforms. Two of them hurried towards the little group by the tarpaulin.

  ‘Who are you guys?’ The soldier who spoke was tall, black and watchful. His gun pointed at the ground, but his finger stayed near the trigger.

  ‘Artillery,’ grunted the sergeant. ‘16 New Zealand Field Regiment.’ He stopped, his face twisted with pain.

  ‘Sergeant Barnett’s hurt,’ Russell said. ‘He’s got a broken leg.’

  The black soldier jerked his head. ‘Who’s he?’

  Russell saw that the second soldier had his gun trained on Sa-In. The man’s face twitched. They’re scared, Russell realised. They’re scared, just like I’ve been. He swallowed, nodded towards the Korean boy, and tried to speak.

  ‘He helped us. He hid us under the tarpaulin, and pretended we were his family.’ Russell paused. ‘He – he saved our lives.’