Hellfire (2011)

by James Holland

  Eventually he found the Yorks Rangers, their encampment marked by two flags stuck into sand-filled oil drums, one with their own crest – a black and gold bugle with a York white rose on a dark-green background – and the other bearing the jerboa of the 7th Armoured Division.

  A sentry snapped to attention. ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Evening, Hopkins,’ Tanner replied. ‘Where’s A Company?’

  ‘Just there, sir,’ said Hopkins, pointing to his right.

  Tanner nodded and strode towards the collection of tents and vehicles. There were several carriers and more than a dozen stripped-down Bedford 15-hundredweights parked between the rows of tents. Wafts of cooking drifted on the breeze, which had lessened now. Here and there, lines of washed uniforms had been strung up between tents or vehicles. He heard laughter and felt a pang inside – of dread, of yearning. This was where he belonged – all the sights and smells were so familiar, yet he felt somehow apart from it. He was still convalescing, not back among the men. Maybe I never will be again.

  ‘How did you do that?’ he heard a man exclaim indignantly, followed by laughter.

  ‘I can read you like a book,’ came a familiar voice – not a Yorkshire accent, but Cockney. Tanner smiled. ‘It’s just brilliant. Every time I’m feeling short, a quick hand with Browner and I’m back in the money.’ More laughter. Tanner moved round a Bedford to where the men were sitting at a makeshift table made from ammunition boxes.

  ‘Browner,’ he said, ‘you should know by now. Never take on Sykes at poker.’ The men all looked up, and Sykes’s face broke into a wide grin.

  ‘Well, look who it is – back from the dead!’

  ‘Still fleecing the men, Stan?’

  Sykes hurried over to him and pumped his hand. ‘They’re gluttons, sir, but then again, Browner’s never been a great one for subtlety. I try to pass on the benefit of my wisdom, but what can you do? Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘Fine. Getting there. Almost as good as new.’ He clapped Brown on the back. ‘How are you, Browner?’

  ‘Bloody annoyed, sir. I’ve just lost six bob.’ He stood up too. ‘Are you back now, then, sir?’

  ‘Er, no, not yet,’ said Tanner. His stomach churned. ‘No, I’ve got to see the colonel. Is the captain around?’

  ‘In his tent, I think. I’ll take you.’

  Tanner clipped Brown lightly on the back of his head, then followed Sykes past more tents and vehicles. One truck had its bonnet up, a man tinkering with the engine. A little way off, some others were playing a makeshift game of football in a clearing. Tanner recognized most, but there were new faces too. Bloody hell. It’s only been a month.

  ‘So, how are you really, Jack?’ said Sykes, using Tanner’s Christian name, now that they were away from the others. ‘You gave us a bloody scare, I can tell you. I really thought you were a croaker.’

  ‘Nah – they won’t get me. You should know that by now, Stan. And I’m fine – really. Arm’s a bit stiff still, back’s a bit sore, and I’ve got a few more choice scars, but otherwise …’

  ‘So you reckon you’ll be back soon?’

  Tanner stopped by a parked-up carrier. He felt for his cigarettes, then tapped out two and passed one to Sykes.

  ‘What?’ said Sykes, alarm on his face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m worried. I’ve had this summons to see Old Man Vigar and I’ve got it into my head that he’s going to send me home.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not. A lot of the old hands are being sent back. I’ve been with the battalion a long time. I reckon they’re going to make me an instructor or something.’

  ‘Jesus, of all the things to worry about,’ said Sykes, scratching his head. ‘Listen, you’re getting your knockers in a twist about nothing. The battalion needs men like you. Honest, Jack – you should see some of the new boys they’ve sent over. Vigar’s not going to want to pass up the kind of experience you and I’ve got.’

  Tanner drummed his fingers on the carrier. ‘Maybe. Anyway, I’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘Come on, then, let’s find the skipper.’

  Peploe was in his tent, beamed cheerily at Tanner and abandoned the letter he was writing. ‘Right, Jack, let’s go and see the Old Man.’

  Sykes left them and they headed back towards the battalion ‘gate’.

  ‘Are you all right, Jack?’ Peploe asked. ‘Seem a bit quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir,’ mumbled Tanner.

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  They walked on in silence, Tanner feeling more and more like a condemned man. At Battalion Headquarters, a guard snapped to attention.

  ‘At ease,’ said Peploe. ‘Is the colonel there?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the guard. ‘He’s in his tent.’

  Battalion HQ was made up of a large rectangular tent, which was effectively the Rangers’ command post and operations room, a mess tent for the officers, and a third, which was the commander’s own. They were laid out along three sides of a square, facing each other.

  The entrance flap to the colonel’s tent was hooked up and they could see him inside, sitting behind the trestle table that was his desk.

  ‘Peploe, Tanner!’ he called. ‘Come on in.’

  Tanner ducked his head and followed Peploe. The tent was split in two, divided by a canvas wall. Out of view was the colonel’s camp bed and canvas wash-stand, while in the main part there was his ‘office’ – a desk, field telephone, and a number of folding canvas chairs.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ beamed Vigar, standing up and shaking Tanner’s hand. ‘How the devil are you?’

  ‘Mending nicely, thank you, sir. Nearly as good as new.’

  ‘Good, good, glad to hear it.’ He walked over to a second trestle table on which stood a couple of bottles and a few thick glass tumblers. ‘Drink?’

  Tanner looked at Peploe, who nodded, then said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The colonel was in his early forties, his wavy brown hair thinning, but with a clean-shaven, youthful face. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them both a shot of Scotch. ‘Glasses a bit chipped, I’m afraid.’

  Tanner felt his heart sink further. An NCO sharing a drink with the Officer Commanding. Just spit it out and get it over and done with.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Vigar, raising his glass, ‘here’s how.’ He took a sip, then held out his hand towards the chairs. ‘Do sit down.’ He sat behind his desk, beamed again, then said, ‘Well, it’s jolly good to see you looking so fit and well, Tanner. Sounded like a nasty wound, but we should have known better than to think an old warhorse like yourself would be down for long, eh, Peploe?’

  ‘He’s made of stern stuff, sir, for sure.’

  Tanner smiled weakly. Get on with it.

  ‘Anyway, the fact of the matter is, Tanner,’ said Vigar, shifting in his chair, ‘that we’ve had a few changes since you’ve been away.’

  Tanner tensed. His heart thumped.

  ‘We lost a few, as you know,’ Vigar continued, ‘and some new chaps have come in. We’ve had to shift a few people around – you know how it is.’

  Come on, come on. Tanner stared at him, waiting for the axe-blow he knew was now just moments away.

  ‘In A Company there have been a number of changes, haven’t there, Peploe?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Peploe.

  ‘You’ve been wounded for starters. Sykes has been filling your boots and, I have to say, been doing a damn good job of it, hasn’t he, Peploe?’

  ‘Very fine,’ agreed Peploe.

  ‘And we’ve had to put Captain McDonald across to D Company, which has left us with a bit of a hole. That’s where you come in, Tanner.’

  Tanner swallowed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vigar. Tanner watched the colonel’s left hand as it reached to the wooden in-tray on the desk and picked up a large buff envelope. ‘You’ve been an exceptional soldier, Tanner, and an exceptional part of the 2nd Battalion. You’ve always exceeded expectations a
nd all that has been asked of you. Good God, man, your record speaks for itself.’ He was now tapping the envelope on the desk. ‘Times are changing, you know, Tanner. The army needs always to move forward.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve something here for you.’ He extended his arm, holding out the envelope.

  Tanner took it and swallowed again. He glanced at Peploe. Then, with fumbling fingers, he opened the seal and pulled out a single piece of paper.

  ‘Well, go on, man,’ said Vigar. ‘Read it.’

  Tanner looked down.

  Middle East Headquarters, Cairo

  2 August 1942

  Dear Colonel Vigar,

  I am happy to confirm that Warrant Officer Second Class John Tanner, DSM, MM*, should be granted a commission in His Majesty’s Army, with the promotion to acting Lieutenant, substantive Second Lieutenant. Lieutenant Tanner has an outstanding record as a soldier and I agree that he deserves this opportunity. I also agree that in light of his experience and the current circumstances in which we find ourselves, there is little to be gained from sending him to O.C.T.U. His promotion is therefore effective immediately.

  General Sir C. J. E. Auchinleck

  C-in-C Middle East

  At the end of the letter there was a hand-written line in blue ink: Please pass on my personal congratulations and wish him all the very best of luck. Tanner read it again, then looked up at Vigar.

  ‘Well, Tanner?’ He grinned. ‘How d’you fancy becoming Peploe’s second in command?’

  ‘I—’ Tanner began.

  ‘Many congratulations, Jack,’ said Peploe, offering his hand.

  Tanner shook it, then took a deep breath and exhaled heavily.

  Vigar laughed. ‘Damn it, Tanner, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

  ‘I—’ he began again.

  ‘And I know the Auk’s been given the boot,’ continued Vigar, ‘but that don’t make a scrap of difference. The C-in-C has confirmed your commission and that stands.’

  Tanner looked at the letter again. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ he muttered, then put his glass to his lips and downed the Scotch.

  ‘Well, Lieutenant Tanner?’ said Vigar. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

  Tanner shook his head. ‘I can honestly say, sir, I feel utterly dumbfounded. I’m speechless, sir.’

  Vigar laughed again, went over to the side-table, picked up the Scotch and poured another round. ‘Actually, I’ve a further piece of good news, Tanner,’ he said. ‘You and Peploe have both been awarded an MC. It came through yesterday as an MM, but I’ve since had confirmation back that it’s been changed to a cross, now that you’re commissioned. So, congratulations again. I’m always pleased when our chaps get gongs. Reflects well on the battalion.’ He raised his glass a second time. ‘Here’s to you both. Bloody well done.’ He drank the shot back in one, then smacked his lips, and said, ‘So. Any idea when you might be able to rejoin us, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I’m seeing the MO in two days’ time, sir,’ said Tanner. ‘I’ll be pressing hard.’

  ‘Well, take your time. We want you back, but we also need you fit and firing. We’re due to head back up to the line around the twentieth of this month and I think we can manage all right without you until then.’

  ‘I’d like to think I’ll be back before then, sir. I’m feeling better each day.’

  ‘Good show. One thing’s for sure – we’re on for one hell of a shooting match at some point and we’ll need you for that … Now,’ he added, ‘I’ll let you and Peploe have a chinwag, and then I’d very much like you to join the rest of the officers in the mess. That sound all right?’

  Tanner downed his drink, then stood and saluted. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s a great honour. You’ve made me a very proud man.’

  ‘Good!’ Vigar glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting on for eighteen thirty now. Shall we say nineteen hundred in the mess?’

  Outside, Peploe clapped Tanner on the back. ‘I’m thrilled, Jack, thrilled. Really. I’m bloody lucky to have you as my second-in-command – I so wanted to tell you last night.’

  ‘And I thought I was going to get the chop.’

  ‘The chop? Why on earth would you be chopped?’

  Tanner shrugged, suddenly feeling rather foolish. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been in the battalion a long time. I got it into my head that I’d be sent back home to instruct.’

  ‘No wonder you were so quiet.’ Peploe chuckled.

  ‘I was nervous as hell,’ Tanner admitted. ‘It was the longest trip out to Mena I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Honestly, Jack. That’s absurd.’

  They reached Peploe’s bell tent and, once inside, Peploe reached under his camp bed and pulled out a cardboard box. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘consider it a congratulations present from me.’

  Tanner eyed him, grinning sheepishly, then opened the lid. Inside was a new shirt, complete with shoulder tabs, two lieutenant pips on each, and an officer’s cap. Tanner picked it up and looked at the black Rangers cap-badge.

  ‘I hope it’s the right size.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Very good of you.’

  ‘My pleasure. And you don’t need to call me “sir” any more either, Jack. Oh, and I know I could have just got you the shoulder tabs, but, well – I thought you could do with a new one.’

  ‘You’re right. This is the only one I’ve got. The other never made it out of that RAP.’

  He took off his old shirt, wincing as he pulled back his sore arm, grimacing as he put on the new shirt, with its half-front buttons.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Peploe. ‘Your back.’

  ‘Looks worse than it is,’ he said.

  ‘And what about that arm? No false bravado, Jack. How bad is it really?’

  Tanner felt a flush of irritation. ‘As I said, it’s improving daily. Another week and it’ll be fine.’ He hoped it would be: in truth, the pain and stiffness had remained fairly constant the past few days. He fastened the bottom button, tucked the tail into his trousers, then put the cap on his head. The fit was perfect. He felt strangely self-conscious.

  ‘Every inch the officer,’ grinned Peploe.

  ‘Thank God I don’t have to do OCTU,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Utter waste of time for someone like you. You don’t need any training.’

  ‘Except in how to be a gentleman.’

  Peploe waved dismissively. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. I’ve hardly ever been one for decorum. You’ll be fine. Look, Jack, the world’s moving on. We British are moving on. We’ve had to. The old order is dying and, frankly, about bloody time too. Army officerhood can’t be the sole preserve of public schoolboys any more.’

  Tanner took off his cap and looked at it again, fingering the stiff band and the silk lining. Lieutenant Tanner. He chuckled. If only his father could see him now.

  He’d left the battalion at just after eight, well before the ten o’clock curfew and considerably less drunk than he might have been, had he enjoyed a piss-up with the lads. And that was the point, he thought ruefully, as he sat on the tram, going back into Cairo. His life was different now: no longer one of the men, but an officer – and an officer who did not fit the mould. In the mess tent, his new fellows had been generous in their congratulations, but their camaraderie had been different. He had felt unable to swear and rib them as he would have done with Sykes and the rest of the boys. He had worried, too, about doing and saying the right thing, his mind and body on edge all the time. It was a singular honour to be awarded a battlefield commission – with an MC too – and he was proud, thrilled and excited. And yet, and yet … He was not what was considered a gentleman, for all Peploe’s talk of social change. Most officers were from public schools, institutions that had turned out generations of officers and officials, instilling in them the necessary codes of behaviour and discipline expected of them. I’m the son of a gamekeeper. Damn it, he had barely been to school.

  The tram rumbled on. The carriage was busy but not as packed as it had been ear
lier. There was a strong smell of sweat, dust and stale tobacco. Tanner peered out: the sky was almost black, but the streets were lit with a brightness that would, he guessed, seem alien to anyone in Britain. The focus of his eyes shortened and he now saw his reflection in the glass: his officer’s cap, the pips on his shoulders. The extra pay was certainly not to be sniffed at – and, anyway, he could read and write, and he knew a damn sight more about soldiering, human nature and leadership than most of the young subalterns who arrived on the boat from England. And while it was true that he understood little of the codes of behaviour expected of an officer, he had been brought up to understand the importance of good manners; rudeness, his father had drummed into him, was inexcusable, no matter what your station in life. Tanner had taken it with him into the army and had adhered to it ever since.

  And then there was Lucie. She, the daughter of middle-class parents, was lowering her social standing by being with a man from the ranks. It hadn’t seemed important that dark, sinister night in France more than two years before. It had seemed even less important while they were holed up in the God-forsaken fort of Bir Hacheim, in the heart of the Libyan desert. Neither had it mattered while Tanner was convalescing. But it would have mattered when they began stepping out in Cairo together. The city was segregated: there were places for the ranks, and places for officers, but very few that allowed both. It had troubled him, for he had sensed that the time would come when the social gulf became too great. She had always denied it, had told him that she didn’t mind whether he was a private or a general, but he had known that it would break them eventually.

  Now, however, he could take her to Shepheard’s or the Sporting Club along with the best of them. Now he and Lucie might have a future together, after all. As the tram reached the Midan, Tanner stepped down in as good a mood as he had known for a while. God only knew what would happen in the war in the desert or what part he would play in it, but right now, the future seemed full of hope and promise.