The Letter Bearer

by Robert Allison

  ‘Could we siphon the petrol?’

  The lance corporal unlatches one of the outer stowage lockers to pull out a small selection of food tins. ‘What’s the point? Truck’s done. Can’t be more than half a day’s travel left in her.’

  The rider studies the tank with fascination. Something in its angles and parabolae, its elevations and projections. He shifts his gaze to the deep tear in the hull. The shock of impact, that paralysing moment of terror. Who having survived such a trial could forget it?

  He feels a nudge against his ankle and sees that Coates has stirred at the commotion. The spit hawker takes up the grease pencil to scrawl on his board, and the rider drags aside the canvas to allow him more light.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ the rider promises.

  Brinkhurst appears in the triangle of opened canvas. He takes a moment to read Coates’ message. ‘We’ll be stopping here for a bit. Get a brew on, grab some kip. Push on in the morning.’ And to Coates: ‘We’re making good progress, don’t worry.’ He beckons for Mawdsley to dismount and join him.

  The rider looks at the nervous Lucchi and makes the motion of lifting a mug to his lips. The Italian smiles and helps the rider shuffle Coates to the tailgate, both men helping him slide from the bed. The Canadian barely has time to orient himself before all are drawn to the spectacle of a distant skyburst to the north-east, a canopy of incandescence briefly hanging. A second flare shoots upward, prompting a short expletive from Brinkhurst. He looks to Swann, still gazing in the direction of the signals. ‘How far do you reckon?’

  ‘Five, six miles maybe.’

  ‘Probably moving north. Best to let them pull some ground on us.’

  With a burst of will, Coates breaks from the rider’s grip and topples against the truck’s tailgate, the writing plate already lifted to his chest.

  And then . . .

  Brinkhurst steps forward. ‘All right, now come on, Coates. Think straight. We don’t even know who it is out there.’

  The rider catches Coates as he slumps again, the tin falling from his grip. ‘We could just take him part of the way? Turn him loose?’

  Brinkhurst nods impatiently. ‘And what do you think happens when they find him? If they find him.’

  Coates makes a wild flailing motion, knocking a tube from his throat, and Mawdsley hurries to attend to him. The spit hawker makes a series of groans, each punctuated by a bubbling stop. Wails of frustration? Speech? Brinkhurst gives a sad shake of his head. ‘Hardly doing himself any good . . .’

  The rider and Lucchi guide Coates away, the Italian fetching a bedroll so that they can prop him against the barrier of stone. The rider pulls up the collar of the Canadian’s greatcoat but notices he’s no longer shivering, despite the cold. He delves into the pockets of the coat to find the familiar pack of cards. Pinochle? Gin rummy? Two-player whist? The spit hawker regards him briefly as if to say, Thank you, but no.

  The rider looks back to the truck, where Swann has already lit a petrol burner on which to boil water, Brinkhurst doling out hard-tack biscuits between them. The familiar sordid council. He returns his attention to Coates, who is reaching into a shirt pocket. The Canadian lifts out his crumpled wedding photograph and puts it into the rider’s hand, then fumbles for his writing board and grease pencil.

  The rider nods. He’s not sure what to do with the photograph but takes it nonetheless, Coates afterwards closing his eyes to settle back against the rock. The rider murmurs a parting reassurance then rises to walk over to the deserters, who appear surprised at his intrusion, their conversation withering in his presence.

  ‘Can I talk to you in private?’ he says to Brinkhurst.

  ‘If you must.’ The ex-captain makes a gesture of apology to the others. He leads the rider away, drawing them both to a stop once they are beyond earshot. ‘I’m afraid I shan’t change my mind about Coates.’

  ‘I think I should leave.’

  Brinkhurst sips at his tea. ‘You do?’

  ‘I’m a burden to you.’

  ‘Yes, you are. How will you travel, have you thought?’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘You’ll walk. In your condition. And how far do you think you’d get? Where would you go?’

  ‘I’ll head east, towards British lines.’

  ‘Or German. You could be stuck in a camp for years. If they don’t shoot you on the spot, that is.’

  ‘It’s my risk.’

  ‘Actually it’s our risk. That you might get caught, that you might start blabbing your mouth off. This isn’t some garden party you can politely retire from.’

  ‘I wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘Because you’re trained not to, is that it? The man who won’t break? Because forgive me, but you don’t strike me as that kind of fellow at all.’

  The rider shivers, suddenly exhausted.

  Brinkhurst looks towards the truck and lowers his voice. ‘Look, I’m sorry you were given that job with the water. It wouldn’t have been my choice, you know that. It’s Swann. If we didn’t need him so much . . .’

  The rider nods. The ex-captain as cozener again.

  ‘But what’s important is for us to stick together. At least for now. I might not like it any better than you, but it’s the practical thing to do. You can see that, surely?’ He flings the rest of the tea from the mug and watches it drain. ‘So why don’t you just hang in there with us for the time being? Once we’re in the Green Mountain you can decide for yourself. That’s reasonable, don’t you think?’ He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. ‘So I gather you must be feeling a little better then. More yourself?’

  The rider looks away. Give him nothing.

  ‘Well, there you are then.’ Brinkhurst lights a cigarette and discards the match. ‘Just try to think clearly. That’s all. Try and consider the bigger picture. You can do that, can’t you?’ He gives the rider an amiable clap on the shoulder and walks back to the others, hand cupped over the burning tip.

  Returned to his station, the rider tries unsuccessfully for sleep, his attention shifting every now and then to the nearby Coates, who must remain upright, a backwash of vomit and other humours of decay still threatening. Sometimes he will list precariously, as though discreetly assassinated, causing the rider to flush with panic and then indecision. The greater mercy perhaps being to allow him to drown. But then the spit hawker will right himself, the instinct of balance uncannily restored, lifting the weight of responsibility.

  After each of these alarms the rider is left further unsettled, his gaze turning to a ceiling of starpoints, among which he is able to spy from time to time a dark nebula of gravel and shale. And across it a legion of armoured vehicles attended by fitters, engineers and welders, the brilliance from their blowtorches describing a spare galaxy. If he closes his eyes he finds himself able to travel closer still to see crewmen gathered to their vehicles, each fellow huddled in a greatcoat or blanket to a petrol-burning stove. BIG SIS they have daubed on their tank. Or MISS MISERY or TIMBUKTU OR BUST or DEVIL MAY CARE. These spirited christenings at odds with the uncertainty behind their eyes or the tremor at their knuckles, each of them alert to those dread rumours that burn like slow fuses between them.

  But then teams of mechanics will erect tarpaulin bowers to mask any clues of light, and the entire assembly will be eclipsed beneath a mezzanine of hide, leaving the rider excluded. The veil at length pulled clear to reveal a surface scored with directionless trackmarks and debossed with a frenzy of bootprints, as though all present might at once have been released by gravity and swept off.

  No way for him to follow, even if he wanted.

  At first light he finds Coates barely breathing, the uncovered part of his face pale as bone. He elects not to disturb him, deciding instead to refill the canteens, and makes his way over to the truck to find Brinkhurst and Swann beneath the shelter of a bivouac, both men poring over a map.

  ‘Change of plan?’

  Brinkhurst looks up at him. ‘Swann has some exper
ience driving Yank Honeys onto rail cars. He says this one is quite similar . . .’

  ‘It’s called a Grant,’ says the rider. ‘After the General.’

  The ex-captain frowns.

  ‘I remember the name. That’s all.’

  Brinkhurst glances to the lance corporal before continuing. ‘Swann checked the gauges this morning. There’s enough fuel left to get us another fifty miles or so. The batteries are low but they’ll charge on the move.’

  ‘What about the truck?’

  ‘Forget the truck,’ grumbles Swann. ‘Couple of shot tyres, an oil leak and a rad that’s pissin’ out coolant.’

  Brinkhurst says, ‘We’ll switch everything we can to the tank once we know we can get it started. You feel up to giving a hand?’

  ‘I was bringing Coates some water.’

  ‘Mawdsley can see to that. Just leave the canteens.’

  Swann grabs a can of paraffin and a folded shirt from the Fordson’s cargo bed. He tears up the shirt and hands several pieces to the rider as he leads him to the tank. He hoists himself through the side hatch and proceeds to open the driver’s view port and roof hatch while the rider takes a moment to reappraise the vehicle, nervous at the prospect of recollection. He slides his hands across the curve of the transmission cover, the solid plate of the glacis, finding at once a familiarity in their Braille of rivets. Such things perhaps residing as a deeper awareness, an innateness of self. The body learning what the mind refuses?

  ‘Couple in here and another two in the turret,’ calls Swann. ‘We’ll get these two out first. Grab ahold when I drag ’em over to you. Stop if I shout.’

  The rider hears him grunting and cursing inside the crew compartment. Finally the lance corporal hauls the first pair of shoulders to the hatch, the man’s neck capped by an ugly twist of bone and scalp. The rider looks away as he pulls, the hips and thighs sliding out like a landed fish. He waits for the next body and drags it clear, Swann afterwards reappearing at the hatch, cheek smeared with blood. He clambers out and wipes his hands. ‘Goin’ to drag the other two out from the top. You can finish up in here. Sticks and pedals need a wipe-down, same for the breech.’ He climbs to the tank’s upper deck, where he begins heaving at the bodies folded into the turret.

  The rider squeezes gingerly into the side hatch, a paraffin-soaked rag in his hand. He manoeuvres himself forward to sit in the driver’s seat then turns to look at the main gun’s breech, its recoil guard, its elevation and traverse wheels. This view that ought to be scored somehow into the back of his skull. Yet still nothing to elicit the reawakening he had expected. Not even the collection of scents – cordite, baked rubber, urine, scorched lead paint – stirring any recall.

  Disappointed, he gives the control levers and instrument panel a quick wipe-down and climbs from the tank, Swann meanwhile hauling the bodies of the crewmen over to a dumping spot beneath the wave of rock. No one caring to argue for a more careful burial, the sand in any case recognised as the final agent of interment. The lance corporal swabs his face and hands with paraffin and re-enters the crew compartment, his efforts at the controls rewarded with a dull shudder from the motor. He disembarks again and proceeds to the rear of the tank, where he unclips a starter tool from its deck mounts. He cranks the engine a dozen times then returns to the driver’s seat, the tank again rumbling briefly before choking. After a moment he emerges from the cabin, pulls down his mask and wipes the sweat from his eyes. ‘Piece of shit won’t start.’

  He ponders a moment and then strides over to Brinkhurst, now occupied with the business of stocktaking. ‘She won’t fire off the batteries. Plugs could be fouled, I’ll give ’em a look. There’s a Homelite on board, so maybe I can juice up the batteries from that. Once she gets going we’ll need to push off, make best use of the fuel.’

  ‘How sure are you that it’ll start?’

  ‘I’ll get her running, all right. Just get everythin’ ready for the switch.’

  He returns to the tank’s engine bay, toolkit in hand, the rider watching as he unscrews and removes several spark plugs, wiping each clean of oil before replacing them.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ he asks.

  The lance corporal rises to his knees, faintly surprised, his chin and brow black with oil. ‘We need to try the generator. You could keep an eye on the gauges.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  Swann leads him back to the crew compartment, both men climbing inside one after the other. The lance corporal squeezes himself close to the hull-mounted generator and uses a screwdriver to prise off the circular magneto shield. He winds the pull cord onto the rim of the starter plate and gives it a sharp tug to fire up the generator’s motor, then pushes the battery button on the control box. He indicates for the rider to seat himself in the driver’s position and bends over his shoulder to point to the ammeter and voltmeter gauges. ‘Let me know when those needles budge.’ He moves to leave the compartment then pauses. ‘You should probably know. We won’t be takin’ Coates. Poor bastard’s done.’ He hauls himself back out of the hatch and into daylight.

  The rider remains still, watching the needles as they begin their slow dance between latency and life. So there it is, the spit hawker’s fate coldly laid out. There’ll be no rescue for him, no delivery. He must suffer the process to its end. A good man might insist on staying with him. A kind man might do that. But would it be the right thing? What if he could find no help? What if the Germans simply shot him down, as Brinkhurst had suggested? Perhaps it’s too soon to strike out on his own.

  The needles begin to judder then steadily turn, and he shouts for Swann, who quickly arrives to look over the dials. He takes the rider’s place in the driver’s seat and thumbs the fuel primer, then flicks the booster button and start switches. On the second attempt the tank’s engine starts with a bang, the entire vehicle trembling at the report before settling to a steady rhythm. ‘You beauty,’ he shouts, slapping the instrument panel. He declutches and engages reverse gear, giving the tank enough throttle for it to back slowly away from the rock face, its retreat heralded by a groan of metal. He puts it into park and abandons his seat, leaving the engine running. ‘Bloody Yanks for you,’ he shouts. ‘Better late than never.’

  Both men exit the tank, Swann urging speed in transferring their thinned-down supplies. Excused from the most arduous work, the rider sifts through the supplies and materiel that cannot now be accommodated, selecting some of the equipment to leave with Coates. A spare bedroll, an empty kitbag to use as a pillow. When the others finally gather to the Canadian for their farewell, only a few words of polite sympathy are offered, all privately relieved that he now lacks the perception to understand. Mawdsley suggests that they lay the red cross flag as a marker for his location, and the sheet is duly draped. There is the unspoken feeling that something more should be done or said, but time is pressing and precious fuel going to waste.

  Brinkhurst takes up position in the Grant’s turret while the rider and Lucchi seat themselves on its upper deck, Mawdsley squeezing into the crew compartment along with the caged chickens. Swann resumes his driver’s seat and guides the tank via a number of brake turns from their enclave and out onto open ground, the squeal and clatter of its track plates matching the din from its engine.

  For the first few minutes of their journey the rider looks back to the painted sheet, vivid now under the morning sun. There will be one final awakening for the spit hawker, he decides. One of no purpose but to show him a shifting world, his limbs effaced, the flag of his burial covered over. He might wonder at the horizon of hourglasses, at the circus of vultures. If he could speak a final word it would be his wife’s name. When he succumbs he will stay reposed as one living until the winds topple him, then go undiscovered. Scout cars will rove within a mile of him, their drivers seeing only bare country, itinerant Bedouin hearing no rumour of him. Other names will pass into the desert and be given up to conjecture before his own. He will become at length a mere artefact, the trappings o
f soldiery girded about him like paraphernalia of the old kings.

  And if he is ever found, then they will dismiss without care what remains of him, speculating only briefly on how such a fellow might have come to lose his face.

  11

  The Grant continues on to an empty expanse, all flourishes of land ceded now to a featureless divide between earth and sky. If any vessels were to appear on the horizon they might describe in their travel the circumferential arc, a sight familiar to mariners but still astonishing to land dwellers. Across the breadth of the vista, the air lifts and rolls in apparitional breakers, conjuring visions of mythic skylines, the canopies of secret waterholes. And for the rider, one illusion to supersede all others: that grand temple in which he had earlier trespassed, revealed to him now in a flourish of baking air. And why? The soul seeking redemption? The gateway to an absolution?

  Except that if he gives himself to that imagining he finds only the promise of a greater struggle, wooden gantries now leaned up into the heights of the dome, every degree of its orbit panelled with shelving, gridded with book spines. Because here, he realises, you must strive for enlightenment, you must achieve it, hauling yourself like the cathedral builders of old to the magisterial apex, to apotheosis.

  He sees that none of the others is watching, each of them mesmerised by the same infinity. No one to take notice as he begins his private escalade, the height becoming dizzying as he ascends hand over hand into a great dance of dust, motes of parchment and vellum caught in the crossbeams. A short ladder leading finally to a study room spaced with reading tables, heavy with the perfumes of ink, floor wax and old leather.

  ‘Stay sharp now,’ snaps Brinkhurst. ‘Eyes front. Keep your focus.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ mumbles the rider.