The tank motors on across the flat, the land marked here and there by weals in the crust above which turbulent air musters. The ground otherwise so insistently regular that the same expanse seems to repeat itself over and again, nature having lost its will to miscellany. The magnetic compass is no longer working, Brinkhurst announces, suggesting that they are driving across a vast sheet of iron. The sun compass likewise useless, thanks to a meridian sun. So they must try to travel directly forward to be sure of their course, each man hoping that the air might remain clear, aware that if a sandstorm were to come upon them now they would surely be lost, doomed to roam the multiplying sameness until reduced to a conglomerate of rust and bones.
They emerge at last from the baking sea onto more varied terrain, the ground now interrupted by roots of stone which sporadically wind upward into inverted pots and basins, each grooved as though turned on a wheel. The appearance of a more knowable land encourages a better humour in all, and even Swann allows himself the mischief of now and then yanking on the brakes, dislodging Brinkhurst from his turret perch and threatening to fling each man from the deck like loads from a ballista. Each time the irate ex-captain fumbling with the intercom to issue such unorthodox commands as, ‘Steady on there, Swann’, and ‘A little more finesse, if you please, Swann’.
After several more miles they encounter the site of a Muslim shrine, a cube of white stone topped by a sagging clay dome. And an old cemetery set out beside it, each of the grave markers collapsed into rubble. At first they look at the building with some wariness, thinking it perhaps the den for another marooned assailant. But it appears to be empty, not even any sign of a nearby settlement to populate the graves, leading them finally to view it with the same dull curiosity as any other desert wonder as the tank rumbles past.
The rider looks back to the shrine as they open a distance upon it, the shape of it now fluid in the haze. If he gazes long enough he can pick out stained-glass windows, stone buttresses, oaken doors. A country church perhaps, its grounds thronged with wedding guests, the crowd parting to make way for her as she passes. Her oil-sodden work clothes put away now in favour of gown and veil, her arm entwined with that of her new husband, immaculate in his dress uniform. Except that if he looks more keenly he can see that he shares no similarity of feature with the groom. A younger fellow than himself, more fresh-faced and darker-haired. Second Lieutenant James Tuck, no doubt, arrived to ruin his most delicate of designs. What spite!
He looks and looks again, the entire scene tumbling into dust. Fool, to presume certainty in so nascent a universe, all acts of creation probationary. An anecdote passed between friends haphazardly built upon, a wish fulfilled by proxy. All these stories and names ventured into, turned now to traps.
He leans wearily against the deck as they continue on their assumed northerly bearing, the ground becoming a greater test with each mile covered, scrub-spotted hummocks swelling like cankers through the surface, deep gullies running between them. Sometimes the channels are wide enough to navigate through, other times the tank cresting and diving like a liner on a bow wave as it fords the divides. Brinkhurst does his best to guide Swann over the crossings but occasionally the incline will give way, or they will misjudge a distance, causing the Grant to skew violently left or right, its passengers grappling for some handhold to stop themselves skidding from the deck. They really must take care, cautions Brinkhurst. Continue like this and they might throw a track, become beached on some stubborn atoll, installing themselves as a monument to imprudence. Too near the prize to be defeated now.
All are relieved when the undulations lead finally onto a craquelured tabletop of stone, allowing the tank more reliably to bridge the faults. Some of the breaches widening as they push on, others splaying into a delta of tributaries. The same anatomy, broods the rider, as a dead lung, inert air collecting in each filamental path. How much farther? It’s becoming harder for him to stay awake, more difficult to find focus. The midday heat absorbed and radiated by the tank’s steel plate, the smells of burning grease and exhaust fumes overpowering. Only the vehicle’s jarring and shuddering preventing him from succumbing to his drowsiness and slipping into the rising clouds.
He is restored to alertness by Lucchi, who turns from his outboard seat to call out, his finger pointed northward to several sprites of dust tracking in a straight line above the surface. And beyond it, at farther range, a tall ridge spanning the horizon, like some fabled city wall of antiquity. Brinkhurst lifts his binoculars then calls over the intercom for Swann to halt the tank while he consults his maps. That’s it, he declares, the Akhdar range. The end of the desert! It seems barely conceivable that such overwhelming immensity might have its limits, each man moved almost to euphoria at the prospect of it. But there’s an obstacle, warns Brinkhurst. This is the first of two roads they must cross, both of them metalled highways – approximately five miles apart – which function as the main arteries for military resupply. There’s some traffic on the first, several soft-skinned vehicles heading east. Almost certainly enemy, he qualifies, to judge by their direction. They’ll need to wait a little, make sure the vehicles aren’t part of some convoy.
For most, the stoppage comes as a welcome break, each man taking the opportunity to disembark and stretch his legs, both the rider and Lucchi beating dust from their hair and clothing. The Italian thinks to lift the chicken cage from the stifling crew compartment and place it in the only area of shade beneath the belly of the tank. He begins to slide under the hull to join them when he is apprehended by Swann, the lance corporal shirtless and sheened with sweat, a strip of cloth tied as a headband. He unlatches one of the stowage bins to retrieve a grease can and rag. ‘Clean the wheels,’ he orders. ‘Then grease them. Like this. See?’ He wipes one of the bogie wheels and then applies grease from the can’s applicator nozzle before planting both can and rag against Lucchi’s chest. ‘All of them. Don’t miss any.’
Lucchi stands in bewilderment, a trail of dried spittle parting the sand on his chin. ‘Molto stanco,’ he whispers. So tired . . .
Swann’s threat of a cuff makes him cower. ‘Just fucken do it.’
The rider exchanges glances with Brinkhurst, who quickly returns to his map. It’s a necessary job, after all. Swann uncorks his canteen and spreads a little water over his lips before taking a short swig. He notices the rider’s gaze upon him and spits a wad of saliva, then proceeds to the front of the tank, his eye on the distant road.
The archdeacon comes to stand nearby, watching as Lucchi struggles with his task. He pulls a matchbox from his shorts pocket and shakes from it a small pill. ‘Best to keep out of it,’ he says. ‘Believe me.’ He slips one of the pills into his mouth.
The rider holds him in a stare. ‘You said my lungs couldn’t heal. A matter of weeks, you said.’
‘I said it was hard to predict. You’re doing well. Better than expected. Be glad of it.’
‘And now?’
‘We might hope for more. Some recall, perhaps.’ He waits, as though for confirmation. ‘Then you’ll have to decide what you want to tell us.’
The rider hesitates. ‘You’re suggesting I have something to hide?’
‘Beyond the fact of you being here with us? Not necessarily.’
Discomfited, the rider points to his shin. ‘I wanted to ask you about this mark on my leg. It looks like a burn. But not a recent one.’
The archdeacon smiles, the starfishes of broiled skin crumpling. ‘That’s the thing about burns. They never heal. The skin simply hardens. Nothing helps.’
‘If I could remember the cause of it . . .’
‘It’s a frustration, I’m sure. But you’ll arrive at some explanation. You’ll keep us apprised?’
He signals his leaving with a quick nod and turns to walk back towards Brinkhurst. Just as expected of him: those beneficent palms empty, nothing but the usual sham. And perhaps inevitably so in this realm of cheats and fantasists, where a man might become victim even to his own mistrut
hs. An invented sweetheart, an assumed lieutenancy, the thrill of confabulation obscuring rationality. A more exacting approach is required.
He collects his postbag from the tank and takes himself to the front of the Grant, its transmission cover providing a thin rectangle of shade. He pulls out the envelopes and sifts through them, the names now beginning to assume a greater familiarity. The beginnings of recollection? Or simply the consequence of repetition?
Perhaps this time he should look more closely to those men carrying no duties of leadership. The instinct for command surely ingrained as a second nature, not so easily slid away with a shelf of grey matter. What officer after all would submit so readily to such shirkers and apostates as these? Better to look for himself among the ordinary, to presume anonymity.
One must be grateful at least . . .
Writes Trooper Oxburgh,
. . . for that comradeship with one’s fellows, which has made even the hardest things easier. Despite all we have been through, not a one of us here has been lonely, every hope and fear shared. Sometimes I wonder if we are not all the same man, separated only by manner and habit. Would it offend against Christian thought, do you think, to suppose such a thing?
But it’s becoming hard to think through it, every thread lost to the scorching updraft. He tries again.
Trooper Jack Warren:
. . . but I know you will understand, my darling, when I say that I have longed for those rare times when I could be alone. We are all deep in each other’s business here, with few secrets between us, and there have been no more treasured moments for me than those spent in the quiet hold of a ship, or in the emptiness of our leaguered tank, when I could make my escape back to you.
It’s too hot, too dry. He drops the letter to shimmy beneath the tank, relieved to have darkness across his face, grateful for cooler air. And a more miraculous escape still if he closes his eyes: to a chamber hollowed from stone and shin-deep in water, a bolus of light at his feet, pale spinnakers coasting the walls. The hall of some ancient aquifer, aeons of rainwater drained through the limestone. They’re waiting for him, calling him from above, man after man peering through the sinkhole to look for him in the shadows. Each face indistinguishable from the next. Time to move on! Ready to go! Give me a moment, he hears himself call. Wishing at the same time that a moment might be an hour, and that hour a day and that day a month, so that his absence might at last be given up to mystery, allowing him to emerge unnoticed, superfluous to the engine of war.
Give me a moment. Did he say the words, or just think them?
A boot strikes hard against his ankle, fetching him from his shelter. Fuck’s sake, Umpty.
Not much time, elaborates Brinkhurst. The road appears clear, their opportunity arrived. They need to take their chance.
Swann snatches the greasing tool back from Lucchi and hurriedly stows it before climbing back through the side hatch, the others still clambering back into position as the engine fires. Within minutes the tank is again mobile, Lucchi and the rider resuming their positions on deck, the former with the chicken cage in his arms. Like some rustic chased cruelly from his patch, thinks the rider, hugging close the dearest of his possessions.
They push as hard as they dare over the several miles to the road, Swann urging the tank to its best speed, a tall bloom of dust lifting about them as they bounce towards their destination. No highway that civilisation would recognise, but a more rudimentary construct, sand shuffled over its entire breadth, its surface cracked and blistered by the weight of armoured vehicles, and cratered here and there by explosive impact. A marvel nonetheless against these trackless outlands.
Their final approach appears at first to have been timed well, the road clear in both directions. Then the rider sees a distant funnel of dust, from something small and fast-moving. A jeep perhaps, or lightweight truck. He squints harder and turns to alert Brinkhurst, but the ex-captain has already seen it, the binoculars tight against his face.
‘Bloody straggler,’ he says grimly. ‘Looks like an armoured car.’
What to do? Halt, or make the crossing? The Grant doubtless already sighted. If they continue on the car might give chase, opening fire on the tank’s hindquarters, on the engine compartment, the fuel tanks. Brinkhurst gives the command to halt, the Grant lurching to a stop some fifty yards shy of the road’s raised verges. He ducks down and yells for Mawdsley to man the turret gun, the MO just as quickly pointing out that he has no idea how to operate it. But of course, why would he? No drills, no training, no thought of anything except to put themselves as far as possible from harm’s way. Swann shouts his intention to take his place, but Brinkhurst is quick to gainsay. The lance corporal needs to stay where he is, they may need to drive out of this. And then it’s all too late anyway, the armoured car slowing along the highway until it comes to a stop at right angles to them, the flak cannon of its open-top turret aimed squarely at the rider and livestock-burdened Lucchi.
‘Steady,’ murmurs Brinkhurst, slipping into the cupola. ‘Steady now . . .’
The rider notices the barrel of the Grant’s turret machine gun jolt and then lower. What to do? Jump down? Or might that initiate battle? Lucchi looks to him with frightened eyes, as though he might offer some direction. Swann’s growl audible from the gunner’s hatch. ‘Come on then, you bastards. What’s it to be?’
The grilles over the armoured car’s turret flip open, provoking a further wave of alarm. A stocky fellow in service cap and white scarf emerging, his shirt open to the waist. He raises his hands before jumping from the car, then walks towards the Grant until no more than twenty feet distant, at which point he stops and points towards the caged chickens.
‘Wie viel kosten die Hühner?’
He looks to the rider and Lucchi, both of them dumbfounded. Brinkhurst raises himself cautiously from the cupola, just as incredulous. ‘No sale,’ he calls back, sweeping his hands back and forth. ‘You can’t buy.’
The German makes a sour face. ‘Na gut, haben Sie Eier?’ He sketches an oval shape in the air. ‘Können Sie uns Eier verkaufen?’
Brinkhurst leans down into the turret to hiss, ‘Mawdsley, how many bloody eggs do we have?’ He straightens himself again. ‘Three. Drei. You can have three eggs. No charge!’
The German waits patiently while Mawdsley is despatched with the eggs, then inspects them carefully on receipt. Satisfied, he nods towards Brinkhurst then takes a further moment to study the lines of the Grant. ‘Amerikanisch?’ he asks Mawdsley.
The MO says yes, prompting a shake of the head from the German before he turns and trudges back to the armoured car. He glances one more time at the tank before closing the turret grilles, the vehicle then pulling sedately away, gaining distance until it is no more than an accent in the haze.
The deserters remain momentarily in position, no one willing to make any comment on the episode. Only when they are quite certain that they will now be unimpeded do they resume their travel, the tank rolling over the flat causeway and down onto a series of low ridges before motoring away across the sand field beyond.
12
Shit! says Swann. Shit, shit and a thousand times shit! An offence perhaps to his wrangler’s pride that he is unable to explain the Grant’s sudden stoppage. Could it be the batteries? The fuel? The gauges show plenty. Then what?
Who knows. Simply some twist of fortune for which there is no explanation and for which he certainly can’t be held accountable. The worst of it is that they’re so close now, perhaps only five or six miles from safety. Bloody galling, admits Brinkhurst, but there it is. At least the last of the roads is behind them, only empty ground ahead. All the same, there’s no sense in making camp here in this wide-open sand field, a prize to any half-blinkered spotter. They can walk the remainder. It won’t kill them.
The ex-captain takes the lack of argument as his signal to initiate the disembarkation, assigning Mawdsley, Lucchi and the rider to remove from the tank whatever they might carry in the way of supplies
. They’ll need to take what food they can pack into kitbags, fill their water bottles, gather any spare clothing and bedding and divide the weapons cache, each man bearing whatever weight of arms he can shoulder. There are the chickens too, Lucchi standing over the cage in enquiry. ‘Che cosa facciamo?’
‘The meat will stay fresh for a few hours,’ suggests Mawdsley.
Brinkhurst looks to Lucchi and makes a chopping action with his palm. The Italian stares at him and then shakes his head. He lifts the cage and bounces it in his arms to show that the weight is bearable.
‘You can’t carry it, you silly bastard. It’s too far. Big long way. Capisci?’ Brinkhurst looks to Swann, now leaning against the stalled Grant, water bottle in his hand. ‘Swann, tell him.’
The lance corporal takes a swig from the canteen and watches as Lucchi collects a piece of frayed webbing from a pile of clothing and weaves it around the frame of the chicken cage. The POW pulls the ends of the webbing over his shoulders and hoists the cage onto his back.
Swann shrugs. ‘Up to him.’
‘But it’s pointless. There are better things for him to carry.’
‘Right. Like your tinker’s stash? Is that it?’
‘Those are things we can use for barter. Come on, that’s how we do this. We deal, we exchange, we buy our way through. You’ve seen it! Look, it’s not my fault the bloody tank stopped. What do you want me to do?’
‘Do what you want. It’s your stuff.’
Brinkhurst glares at him and then breaks from the stand-off, jaw muscle vainly at work. He looks to Mawdsley and then to the rider. Then, red-faced, he drags his case of baggage onto the dry soil and opens it. So which is it to be? A bottle of Chianti or a gilded clock? A ceremonial dagger or an Italian medal? Flustered by the others’ impatience, he wraps any items vulnerable to damage in fabrics before stuffing the final complement of booty into a KD haversack. He clears his forehead with his shirtsleeve and pulls the haversack onto his back, then falls in line as Swann leads the group off, Bren gun over his shoulder, the Grant left as a stripped-down curio, plain for any to see.
The Letter Bearer Page 9