The Fordson and Quad draw to a stop, Swann joining Brinkhurst in the study of a partially unfolded map. Brinkhurst raises his binoculars. ‘Looks like armoured divisions. Can’t be more than a couple of days old. Christ. Whole bloody thing’s been right on our doorstep.’
Swann points out a truck nosed into the gravel. ‘One or two soft skins about. Maybe worth a look-see.’
‘Might still be recon patrols in the area,’ says Brinkhurst. ‘Safer to just push on, put some distance into it.’
The lance corporal sullenly resumes his driver’s seat, both vehicles moving off in tandem. The rider raises himself up to watch, holding onto the truck’s sideboards as it motors past dugouts and trenches, bouncing every now and then over shallow runnels scored by the vacuum of low-trajectory shells. They draw by an upended and buckled twenty-five-pounder gun, now resembling the caricature of a plough. Then past a gutted ‘Honey’ tank, the end of its gun barrel opened like a daylily, a scatter of black berets laid on the surrounding sand, their owners seemingly dropped straight as plumb bobs into the ground. Occasionally the rider will spy a corpse laid out beside the wreckage of a vehicle, the bodies either exposed to the wind or hurriedly sheeted over. Those men abandoned or forgotten, now given up to the scoria of rock and bones. Will anybody seek them out?
He ducks on hearing a sudden tearing noise, then grabs Coates’ arm and pulls him down among the cans and boxes as splinters of wood blast up from the truck’s boards, the caged chickens flapping in alarm. Brinkhurst slews the Quad to a halt, and he and Mawdsley drop from the cab to roll into the sand, the vehicle shuddering at the impact of rounds along its length. Swann drives the truck level with the Quad then opens the door and throws himself out. He scurries to the cover of its left-side front wheel, Brinkhurst and Mawdsley worming on their elbows and stomachs to join him.
The rider wipes splashes of petrol from his cheek. Should he jump down? One of the fuel cans must have been holed. The entire cargo bed could go up. He would have to leave Coates. (It might be a kindness.)
The fusillade ceases, a huddled Brinkhurst the first to make himself heard. ‘Jesus fell down! Did you hear that? Did you hear the rate of fire?’
‘Anybody see him?’ asks Swann. ‘Somebody must have.’
‘Think I saw muzzle flash,’ says Mawdsley. ‘From that armoured car. Three o’clock.’
The rider cautiously lifts his head to see the wrecked vehicle – broken but not burnt out – positioned a quarter-mile from their right flank. A base for their attacker? Brinkhurst shimmies up to the front of the truck and leans around it to peer through the binoculars. ‘Can’t see any sign of him. Where in hell is he? Underneath it?’ Another burst from the machine gun sends him skidding back behind the wheel arch, fragments of leather and canvas drifting like blossom onto his knees. When the barrage stops again he lifts himself up and slams his palm against the Fordson’s cab. ‘What’s the point, you stupid bastard? We’re not fighting any more!’ He slumps down again, wearied by his own outrage.
Swann stands on one of the truck’s rear tyres and hauls the bundled cache of weapons from the cargo bed. He unties the canvas and lifts out a rifle fitted with a scope, then moves to the front of the vehicle, where he spends a few moments practice-sighting. He concludes with a loud oath and resumes his position of cover, bemoaning the lack of a clear shot, the superior range of the weapon held against them.
And so what now? A gun battle? A prolonged siege? The prospect of either engenders a heavy gloom. What diabolical luck, protests Brinkhurst, that they should be so needlessly delayed. And by their very antithesis, no less, a fellow so intractable in his duty that he will not quit the field, no matter what. The senseless pinnacle of soldierhood.
‘We can just take the truck,’ says Mawdsley. ‘Head that way.’ He points westward. ‘The Quad will give us cover until we’re out of range.’
Brinkhurst shakes his head. He points out a long row of regularly spaced wooden markers, several of them collapsed. Mawdsley swears and drops his head. Impossible to cross a minefield at any reasonable speed.
‘Soon fix that,’ growls Swann. He scrambles to his feet and edges round the bonnet of the Fordson. He hurriedly unstraps an entrenching tool from its mount on the Quad and returns with it, then beckons Lucchi to dismount from the truck’s bed. He performs a brief play of probing the sand, then holds the tool out for the Italian to take. ‘Come on then, off you fucken go.’ He gestures towards the minefield. ‘Chop-chop.’
Lucchi regards the spade with dismay.
‘Swann . . .’ begins Brinkhurst.
The lance corporal rounds on him. ‘You want to do it yourself?’
‘He’s a prisoner. There are rules.’
‘Right. Like the rule you don’t shoot down wounded men, the rule that you don’t fire on ambulance crews. So how come nobody told him the fucken rules?’ The lance corporal thrusts the spade into Lucchi’s grip, making him flinch.
Brinkhurst absolves himself with raised hands as Swann pushes Lucchi forward, the Italian advancing nervously to the fringes of the mined area to begin broggling around with the metal tip. A murderer then, thinks the rider, of the innocent and wounded. Hard to credit it of him.
Lucchi takes several steps farther, momentarily freezing as the spade brushes a rock. He rubs sweat from his eyes and looks back to Swann, already shaking his head at the tardiness of the operation. The lance corporal appears on the brink of administering some correction when another volley of fire causes everyone to crouch, Lucchi at once fleeing his duty to hurry back to the truck. He throws down the spade and looks to the rider with an expression of beseechment. Why don’t you say something?
The incensed Swann moves towards him.
‘Swann, for God’s sake.’ Brinkhurst unfurls from his crouch. ‘He’s too damned jumpy.’
The lance corporal snatches up the spade and slams it against the side of the truck, dismissing the POW with a withering stare. Brinkhurst moves to the Fordson’s tailgate, where he takes a moment to survey the intervening terrain. ‘What if one of us could get around to the side of him? Maybe keep low behind that ridge and close within rifle range? While we kept him distracted.’
Swann steps over to join him in gauging the distance, the degree of cover. ‘Distract him how?’
‘We could offer him water,’ says Mawdsley. ‘Under a flag of truce. God knows how long he’s been there. He has to be thirsty, yes?’
Brinkhurst nods. ‘Worth a try.’ And then to Swann: ‘Don’t you think?’
‘By “one of us” you mean me, right?’ grumbles the lance corporal. ‘Seein’ as no one else here can shoot worth a shit.’
But there is the question, realises the rider, of who might carry the water. Horribly aware of his own eligibility, he shrinks back in the cargo bed, knowing that there will be no dispensation here, the weakest readily expended, any instinct to charity long since extinguished.
Swann signals to him. ‘Umpty. Bring the nearest of those water cans down. Should be half empty.’
Already sickening with dread, the rider drags with him one of the jerrycans marked with a white ‘X’ as he slides to the tailgate. He hands the can to the lance corporal then clambers weakly from the truck.
‘Givin’ you the easy job,’ mutters Swann. He points over the cargo bed to the bleak tract of sand and rock separating them from their opponent. ‘All y’have to do is take this can out to just about where those small boulders are. That should give me enough time to get around to the right of him. Got it?’
The rider struggles for a voice. ‘I’m not sure I can.’ He looks to the archdeacon. A reprieve on medical grounds? The MO looks away. ‘You shouldn’t ask me,’ he says to Swann. And why? Because it’s unfair. No, not unfair, criminal. Criminal and immoral. To send a wounded man. Who would allow such a thing?
‘Just pick up the fucken can,’ says the lance corporal.
The rider looks with despair to Mawdsley and then to Brinkhurst, both remaining silent. Some
one has to do it.
Swann guides him round to the cab of the Quad, then waits until Mawdsley retrieves the white flag from the truck and hoists it on the barrel of a rifle. ‘Just keep it steady,’ he says, nudging the rider to move out. ‘And don’t try and fucken look for me. When you hear a shot, hit the dirt. Just in case.’
The rider hesitates, dizzied by fear. Hold the can up, somebody hisses. Show him you’re not armed. Even though it’s taking all his strength to remain standing. He wheezes as he lifts his arm, braced already for that nosepoint of lead to drive its way in. What will be worst, the shock or the pain? How many seconds to fully stop a heart?
He steps out into the open, his eyes closed. The air remaining quiet, only the breeze now and then whistling through the ruptured chassis of the Quad. He opens his eyes to the red broth of land. And in the distance the armoured car, a squat beetle, lying in wait.
Still there is no sound from the machine gun, encouraging him to take a tentative step forward. And then another, his raised arm already tiring. He can feel the soreness from his sutured chest, the pain of each insult to muscle and skin revisited. He can sense the eyes of the deserters on his back, the thought overlaying fear with anger. He could spoil the whole enterprise if he chose to. A single quick action, any precipitous move. Almost worth it, if he could muster the courage. But to become some mere refuse beneath the headstone of a water can? Like Coates, he has come too far.
He feels a stab of pain beneath his breastbone, and slowly switches the can to his other hand, lifting it higher then lower, the discomfort varying with each movement. Some vital channel perhaps opened or dammed with each manoeuvre, securing equilibrium.
He continues on, not daring to look anywhere but straight ahead. Where’s Swann, the devil take him? Has he reached his position yet? The temptation to glance to his right is furious. Perhaps a glimpse of forearm, the glint of metal passing below the barrier of the ridge. He’s at his limit now, a far greater distance than he has yet walked, or could have been expected to walk. How much farther is he supposed to go? He would put the can down now and make his way back but the German might decide he’s of no further use and put an end to him. Better to keep going, to keep carrying the water to him. Argue your usefulness.
The shot that rings out pulls him to a startled halt, fearful of the sensation of impact, the dreadful sight of his own blood. And then the realisation that he is not for now the target, that the lance corporal has made his move. Hit the dirt! He drops the can and turns for the safety of the vehicles, anticipating at any moment that vicious storm of metal to follow. The German perhaps bemused at his spasmodic flight, the gracelessness of his stumbling, yard to futile yard. Any second now . . .
When he arrives back at the Quad he is received with surprise by Mawdsley and Brinkhurst, his survival regarded as a curiosity, with only his wretched gulping to refute the supernaturalness of it. ‘Holy Christ,’ exclaims the ex-captain. ‘Swann must have got the bastard.’
But then there is the familiar rasp, like bees in a bell jar, to quell their optimism, sending each man once more plunging for cover. What the hell? Did Swann get him or not? Brinkhurst wipes grit from his forehead, glaring at the rider as though he had practised some deception in returning unscathed.
Swann arrives back shortly after, the lance corporal rising up, grit-lathered, to scuttle back into the cover of the truck. ‘Tagged him in the neck,’ he announces. ‘Three-hundred-yard shot! Goin’ to bleed to death for sure, can’t be long now.’ He looks to the rider with an expression of faint amusement. ‘’S the matter, Umpty? You didn’t trust me?’
Trust. The rider turns away. That the word should even be available to him.
The afternoon burns on without incident, the deserters’ anticipation quickly giving way to impatience. At first it’s assumed that their assailant must have succumbed, freeing them at last to move on. But what if that’s his scheme, playing dead to lure them out? How long does it take a man to drain of blood? Exactly how severe was the wound? Arterial breach, or just a flesh wound? Each impugning of the lance corporal’s marksmanship received by him as a personal slight. ‘Here’s an idea,’ he says, presenting his full height to a leery Brinkhurst. ‘Go and finish the fucken job yourself.’
The ex-captain urges calm, the need for collected thought. But it’s all too much for Swann, who slakes his impulse to action by turning his attentions instead to the vehicles. Both have been damaged by bullet impacts, the Quad having sustained punctures to all four of its low-pressure balloon tyres, several strikes to the engine block confirming its ruin. Two of the Fordson’s tyres have likewise been damaged, and the lance corporal lets air out of the remaining two to equalise the pressures, allowing the truck to be drivable for at least the time being. He investigates the stored cans of petrol to find that three have been holed, a quantity of fuel having drained into the cargo bed. He decants any salvaged petrol into the Fordson’s tank then sets out two fuel-soaked blankets and a bedroll to dry. These diversions exhausted, he takes up the scoped rifle to resume his sniper’s station, the endless clicking of the hammer on an empty chamber driving the others to distraction.
And then there is only the wait, the enduring conflict of probabilities. For a time there remains the suspicion that their gaoler is simply goading them towards carelessness. But with the passing of the afternoon into early evening, the possibility seems increasingly remote, leaving only the question of when they should chance their escape. For Swann each minute is an imposition, the lance corporal careless of risk as he ferries whatever supplies and equipment are still aboard the Quad to the truck’s dried cargo bed. The task completed, the rest are persuaded to join him in resuming their travel, each man except for Coates and the rider straining to discern over the grunts and squeals of the overladen truck any sound of a bolt being pulled back, or an ammo belt being slotted into place. Perhaps, thinks the rider, because they envisage a dying man preoccupied entirely with violence, never imagining that he might in the end reject duty and circumstance and reach instead towards home.
He continues to watch as the profile of the armoured car melts into the flatness, the horizon tipping and then levelling as the truck wallows its way from the field.
10
Beastly misfortune. To be delivered into so reprobate a family. Brinkhurst: gentleman inquisitor, bon vivant, liar. Swann: bully, sadist, god to lesser creatures. Mawdsley: curator of analgesics, inductee to that venerable register of opiate-soused, absinthe-swilling quacks. Men of such poor fibre that they find in the openness of the desert only the need to seclude themselves. That they will kill him in the end he has no doubt. Either by calculation or mischance, whichever comes the sooner. A bitter irony after they had themselves rescued him from a certain fate. And a rank injustice, when he has so far weathered every assault against him. A mine inefficiently exploded, a heart scornful of oxygen, the bullets of an aeroplane cannon drawn wayward in ballistic anomaly: certainly a more tenacious survivor than any might think possible, even when smiled upon by chance. And perhaps such good fortune might continue if he could only slip his uncaring bedfellows. But how to engineer the break, there’s the dilemma . . .
Coates disturbs him by kicking his shin, the Canadian once again fallen to a half-sleep, his crumpled form bounced and rocked by the jolting of the truck. The night has brought a biting cold, all four men in the cargo bed wrapped in blankets and coats, the canvas re-secured over the hoops to afford some extra insulation. The rider lifts a corner of the unstrapped rear flap to see a thin tunnel of dust raised in their wake, the outlying plains an unbroken shingle of ores and minerals, aglow under an alien moon. It would be quicker for them to make their way across such flatter terrain, but they are tacking instead to a course of heavier sand, where there is less risk to the deflating tyres.
The Fordson slows, and he turns to look in the direction of their travel. A quarter of a mile ahead and east of their trajectory there is a wave of pale rock prised upward, a large vehicle lodged
dark as an arrowhead into its flank. After a brief conference with Brinkhurst, Swann steers the truck in the direction of the ridge and picks up their speed again, the detail of the vehicle becoming clear as they close in. An Allied tank, the steel plate of its hull flowered inward, exposing the pale turret basket inside.
Swann stops the truck’s engine at the scene and he and Brinkhurst dismount, both men taking a moment to study the tank’s unfamiliar contours and dimensions, its multiple tiers suggesting the wall-works and ramparts of a medieval fort, its heavy main gun displaced to one side and housed in the fashion of a destroyer’s battery.
‘Brute of a thing,’ says the ex-captain. ‘Seen one of these before, Swann?’
The lance corporal shakes his head. He collects a flashlight from the truck’s cab and shines it over the ground in front of the tank, checking for the telltale prongs of a bouncing Schrapnellmine or the pancaked depression of a Teller. He angles the beam into the hull’s torn cavity, scanning for any wires or charges, then cautiously pokes his head inside. He pulls back and drags a finger across his throat. No survivors.
‘Anything we can use?’ enquires Brinkhurst.
The lance corporal performs a quick walk-round of the exterior. ‘Bolt cutter, engine crank. Spade, tow cable, track adjuster. Nothin’ much.’ He nods towards the tank’s interior. ‘She must have driven out here off the hand throttle, stalled against the rock.’ He bends to examine the right-side track, moving the palm of his hand along the heads of the pins. He inspects the drive sprocket and bogie assemblies before moving to the tank’s left side to do the same. ‘Tracks and running gear still OK.’
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