The Letter Bearer

by Robert Allison

  ‘How long do you think we might stay here?’ asks the rider. A clumsiness, of course, but the Chianti’s to blame. Any sane and sober fellow being content, of course, to serve out his sentence of indulgence.

  ‘Can’t imagine why you’re keen to hurry back,’ says Mawdsley. ‘They’ll only have you up on charges.’

  ‘I was escaping,’ says the rider, not quite believing it himself.

  ‘Exactly,’ cuts in Brinkhurst. ‘Which is what we’re all doing. Alexandria is going to be another Dunkirk, you wait and see. All we did was get ahead of the game.’ He drains his mug and reaches again for the bottle. ‘Jerry will have Russia and Palestine sewn up by the end of the year. By the time the Yanks muck in, it’ll all be wrapped up. Anyone can see that.’

  Swann holds his cup out for a refill. ‘Better off stayin’ here. Be a farmer, like the wogs. Or a fisherman. Maybe run a business in Alex.’

  ‘You don’t have any family?’ the rider asks.

  Swann ignores him. Brinkhurst finishes the refills and discards the empty bottle. ‘Everybody here has family,’ he says. ‘Even Mawdsley, believe it or not.’

  The MO gets to his feet, excusing himself with the need for the toilet. The rider watches as he leaves the vicinity of the campfire. ‘How did he burn his face?’

  ‘Mawdsley, old man!’ Brinkhurst calls to the MO. ‘Our guest here would like to know how you got your burns!’

  ‘Showin’ dirty movies in camp is how,’ says Swann. ‘Got his-self all excited and set the projector on fire. Burnt the whole tent down. And near enough some other wankers with it.’

  Mawdsley makes his way back. A pervert then, as well as an addict. He takes his seat again. ‘If you must know,’ he says to the rider. ‘A flare went off in my face. You could have asked me directly.’

  Swann lights a cigarette and extinguishes the match with a masturbatory jerk.

  Mawdsley gazes at the rider. ‘And what about you? It’s about time we settled on a name for you, don’t you think? Now that it seems you’re on the mend. It must all be coming back to you by now.’

  The rider meets his gaze, unsettled. ‘Sometimes I think so.’

  ‘Well, then!’ says Brinkhurst. ‘I said you might recover a little if you came along with us. Didn’t I say that?’

  Mawdsley leans forward. ‘Come on then. Let’s have it.’

  The rider scans the circle of firelit faces, finding himself the focus of each man’s attention. ‘I think I might have been an officer. A tank commander.’

  Nobody speaks. Swann sniffs and downs the dregs from his mug.

  ‘That is, if it’s even possible. To be the same man one was before.’

  ‘It’s a conundrum,’ says Brinkhurst wanly.

  The rest sit in silence, each man waiting for the next to take up the conversation.

  Swann yawns and gets to his feet. He lights a cigarette. ‘Umpty suits you just fine.’ He shuffles from the circle, leaving a bloom of smoke hanging.

  15

  The air is thicker over the ocean today, an impenetrable haze obscuring the division between land and sea. The rider finds it peaceful to sit on an ancient city wall and look out across the borderless plains, discovering now and then that he is able to forget altogether the idea of war. And easier still with such mundane distractions: birdsong, the bleating of goats, a distant call to prayer. Or the clink of enamelled mugs and mess tins from the vicinity of the deserters’ camp. They have their routine now, these fugitive settlers, into which he has relaxed, the practice of indolence refined to an art.

  Though it seems that such sedentariness is to be no aid to a clearer mind. He had told the others he had been an officer, but withheld the name. And why? Perhaps because to assume that title would be to invite a version of himself he is not yet braced for. Ironic that he should even be obliged to the attempt when all here are committed to the process of escape, the past no more than an encumbrance to be discarded at will.

  But for himself it will not be so easy, each fragment of his story casting its own shadow, every facet reflecting some new and unconsidered aspect of himself. That matured burn to his shin, for example, which had tantalised with a host of possibilities. Any contemplation of it now attended by the spit of machine-gun rounds against steel plate, that vivid capture of sparks and splinters loosed into a turret thick with cordite.

  Jesus!

  Shit, shit!

  Didn’t come in!

  Everybody all right?

  We’re OK, we’re OK.

  Anybody hurt?

  The shock of impact always the same: sickening and colossal, the tank heaving on its suspension, a barrage of scalding rivets fired onto those nested inside. And always that portrait of a schoolboy face glossed with sweat and oil, headset askew: is that it? Is this the end of us?

  And then that miracle he had discovered when he had looked down at himself, his body unscathed except for a minor graze below his knee. His attention given instead to that delta of glassy skin beside it. The sensation of her fingers as real to him now as when she had first bathed the wound, laid the square of gauze across it, tied the strips of lint. So a three-inch burn to mark the day. What do you make of that?

  It’s not such an ugly scar, he had said of it.

  All the same. Luck seems quite the stranger to you.

  ‘Hope you’re not expectin’ a fucken salute.’

  The lance corporal briefly displays a mock-quizzical expression then eases his heavy frame onto the wall beside him. He holds out a folded piece of paper. ‘So I wrote somethin’.’

  The rider accepts it, perplexed at the submission.

  ‘It’s what I want to say. Near enough, anyway. But I’m shit with words, like I said. So I made a list. Just the main points. I reckon you could make a better job of it. Just make it easy to read and I’ll copy it out.’

  ‘I can’t put myself in your head.’

  Swann levers himself off the wall and pulls a cigarette packet from his shorts pocket. ‘Just write what I’ve put. But with better words.’

  ‘Who is it to be addressed to?’

  Swann lights a cigarette. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It makes a difference.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  The rider makes his resignation apparent. ‘When would you want it for?’

  ‘When you thinkin’ of leavin’?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Soon then.’

  And with this the lance corporal departs, leaving the rider to unfold the note, still taken aback at his unexpected commission.

  *

  After lunch, Swann nominates himself to mount a one-man reconnaissance of the immediate lowlands, and collects a Thompson machine gun and grenades before plotting for himself a route between the escarpments and down into the valley. Brinkhurst does his best to dissuade him but the futility of it soon becomes apparent, the lance corporal typically disinclined to receive counsel.

  Almost as soon as he has embarked on his forage, the sky begins to darken with rain clouds: a cause for elation in the open desert, but now provoking only annoyance. They have equipment set out unprotected: munitions, blankets, foodstuffs. Freshly dried uniforms still flapping in the breeze. The first few drops prompt a hasty effort to gather up the supplies and remove them to shelter, the site of choice being a grotto already in use as a provisions store, its arched entranceway faced by a series of limestone steps, its dimly lit interior large enough only for a few to be seated on a carved horseshoe-shaped bench. The rider does his best to assist, managing to collect and deposit a bedroll and the Bren gun into the cave before being obliged to sit and recover his breath while the others complete the operation. When all are retired to the shelter of the cave they sit and wait a while, no one caring to venture an opinion on how long the shower might last. Mawdsley invites better humour by reminding that at least Swann will likely be caught in the rain and drenched, the idea encouraging a thin smile from Brinkhurst. But when the rain peters out without even soaking t
he ground, the group are left to disperse in a mood of disgruntlement, Mawdsley and Lucchi abandoning the cave to resume whatever idleness had previously occupied them.

  ‘It’ll be the ruin of us eventually,’ says Brinkhurst, when the others are beyond earshot. ‘This do-as-you-please attitude from Swann. His luck will run out at some point. And then we’ll wish we hadn’t all whistled to his tune. Especially when there are men here who are better qualified.’

  And there’s the wound, thinks the rider: the captaincy of a baseborn junior. Naive of Brinkhurst to think he might so easily pull away his own nature with those mere strips of fabric. ‘You know I’m planning to leave?’ he says.

  Brinkhurst leans back, expressionless. ‘Have you decided when?’

  ‘In the next few days, probably.’

  ‘I see. And you think Swann will allow it?’

  The rider is tempted to smile. That persistent recourse to subterfuge. ‘I’ve no reason to think otherwise.’

  Brinkhurst nods. ‘Don’t take his apathy for a permission. What bores him now will enrage him tomorrow. You can count on it. Anyway, I just hope you’re making the right decision. A trek like that without any back-up. No group morale to help pick your boots up.’

  As though he had benefited from one so far. ‘I want to get back home. Don’t you?’

  ‘Isn’t home wherever one feels most secure?’ Brinkhurst glances to the grotto’s entrance. ‘Anyway. Better not linger. We’ll be accused of conspiring.’ He gives a quick smile, as if the idea were ludicrous, then lifts himself from the bench and pulls his shirt straight before making his exit.

  The rider rests his back against the cool stone, relieved perhaps that the ex-captain’s kinder self had not re-emerged, an obsequious and prying Brinkhurst almost as objectionable as a peevish one. Though it seems unlikely that either might now rescue this shoddy collective from implosion, the endgame clearly commenced. And not a man among them should be surprised at it, each of them running from war while carrying the virus of it in their minds and spleens, the same malignancy persisting even in sanctuary. He looks over the equipment and supplies left on the cave floor, wondering if he will be allowed to provision himself for his journey. Likely not. Better then to avail himself surreptitiously of what he might need. Some foodstuffs, perhaps, a weapon certainly. He glances to the cave mouth then unties the bundle of weapons, sorting through them until he picks out a small leather holster, which he opens to find a German Walther PP pistol, almost genteel in its compactness. He ejects the magazine to check the number of bullets, then tucks the pistol into his shorts and replaces the empty holster. Food will be a greater problem, Brinkhurst’s careful inventory taking account of all amounts and quantities. Nevertheless, he feels secure in removing from an already opened tin a small number of oatmeal biscuits which he stows in his pocket, thinking to transfer them later to some private store. It might be possible to return for more if the theft goes unnoticed.

  When he leaves the cave, none of the others is within sight, allowing him to discreetly carry away his gains.

  By late afternoon the weather has warped again, the last clouds burning away to expose a blistering sun, each man seeking some shade to occupy, all wishing earnestly for the earlier coolness of the day.

  When Swann finally makes his return, he appears much the worse for his excursion, hauling himself back onto the escarpment bare-chested, his arms and shoulders showing a web of abrasions. Panting heavily and sodden with sweat, he throws down his equipment at the campsite and then splashes water over his face, uttering profanities at the attritions of his route. It’s on everybody’s lips of course: if he had only waited until they could have secured a guide, he might have enjoyed a less punishing trek. But then such a patient adventurer would not be Swann.

  The group gather to a circle to hear his report while Brinkhurst asks Lucchi to refill all of their canteens. No sign of any other troops, the lance corporal tells them. At least, not in the region of the immediate foothills. Only wild vegetation interspersed with some farmed plots, allotments and orchards. And neither any villages nor townships, just a scattering of clay houses and homesteads, several of them uninhabited. If they wanted they could likely commandeer such a residence without opposition, sink even deeper into cover.

  After the debrief they are left to reflect on the implications of Swann’s findings. To move into the valley would offer better concealment certainly, but then they would lose their vantage point, the ability to monitor the coastal plains easily. They’ll need to consider the idea carefully, counsels Brinkhurst. Factor all possibilities.

  The rider listens with disinterest, intrigued only by the idea of escape. Little point in becoming involved in deliberations over a new headquarters when leaving is his only intent. And at the earliest opportunity, before he becomes once more fastened into their intrigues.

  He notices that Lucchi has paused in his duty of refilling the canteens and is intent upon the plateau above. The rider follows his gaze to see that the entire overlooking ridge has become lined with figures, a band of white-robed Senussi spread out so as to encompass the vicinity of the camp. Some old, some younger, each man aiming a rifle or handgun at the deserters. All standing in silence, their long shadows tumbling over the escarpment.

  He alerts the others, who make no secret of their astonishment. That they should be caught unawares with such ease . . . No route of escape open to them, their weapons beyond reach in the grotto.

  Brinkhurst sees Swann already eyeing the discarded Thompson. ‘Swann, what the hell did you do?’

  ‘Nothin’ to do with me! Didn’t see a single one of the fuckers.’

  Brinkhurst looks again to the watching Senussi. ‘All right, well, nobody do anything. Let’s just find out what this is all about.’ He steps forward and cups his hands. ‘Can we help you with something?’

  ‘Maybe it’s Lucky they want,’ hisses Mawdsley. ‘Come back to finish the job.’

  Brinkhurst silences him with a wave. Still no reply from the Senussi, prompting him to try again. ‘Is Nice Chap with you? May we speak with Nice Chap?’

  One of their ambushers stands forward to point with his rifle towards the roadway, where the old man is already making his way down, quite unhurried.

  Brinkhurst lets out a long breath. ‘Thank God. Soon get this business straightened out now.’ He waits until the old Arab reaches the upper tier of the escarpment and advances in greeting, a conversation of sign and gesture quickly striking up between them.

  Mawdsley clicks his tongue as he sees the old man point towards Lucchi. ‘What did I say? They won’t let it go. I knew they wouldn’t.’

  Swann glances at the anxious Lucchi, who in turn looks to the rider. They’ll protect him, won’t they? Surely?

  Brinkhurst breaks from Nice Chap and heads back to the group while the old man begins to make his way up the road, the matter evidently beyond further diplomacy. When the ex-captain returns, he stands with hands on hips, his head bowed. ‘Well, they’ve no problem with us staying here. None at all.’

  ‘Meaning?’ says Swann.

  Brinkhurst nods towards Lucchi. ‘They want to take him with them.’

  ‘Why?’ demands Swann. ‘What for?’

  ‘You can guess. The Ities have been butchering these people for a generation.’

  ‘Did you agree?’ asks the rider.

  Brinkhurst cuts him a hostile stare. ‘I wasn’t given the impression that it was open to negotiation.’

  Mawdsley lifts his shoulders. ‘So that’s it then. What else can we do?’

  Brinkhurst looks towards the waiting Senussi, several becoming restless. He blinks into the sun and clears a run of sweat from his temple. ‘Look, it doesn’t sit well with me to give a man up like this. But he isn’t one of us, after all. Swann, what do you say?’

  The lance corporal looks towards Lucchi, then spits. ‘Can’t do it.’

  Brinkhurst glances up to the sky, as though to borrow a saint’s patience. ‘Swann, for
God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Bunch of ragheads tellin’ us what to do. No way. No dice.’

  ‘For Lucky?’

  ‘’S not for him,’ says the lance corporal, again looking to the machine gun.

  ‘Swann, be reasonable. You can’t do anything. They’ll cut us down before you even get a shot off.’

  The rider looks again to the Senussi, his vision swimming. The air almost too thick to breathe. At least a dozen guns on the ridge. No time even to find cover. He meets Lucchi’s gaze once more, the Italian doe-eyed with fear.

  Swann takes a step towards the Thompson, prompting a falsetto screech from one of the Senussi, his cry attended by a chatter of hastily drawn rifle bolts from the ridge. Brinkhurst lifts a hand, the tremor in his fingers clear to see.

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’

  The crack of gunfire causes the deserters to cower, the report of a single shot causing confusion to travel the ranks of the Senussi as each man looks to his fellow for direction. After a moment’s stillness, Brinkhurst lifts his hands from his head, his attention going immediately to Lucchi’s prone body, a thin smoke rising from the stoved flesh and bone that had been his face. Mawdsley and Swann equally rooted in shock.

  For the rider, the moment seems almost unreal. The Walther still smoking in his outstretched hand. His memory of the POW’s easy grin overwritten by that single, pitiless instant.

  It takes a further interval of quiet for the tension to slacken, the Senussi at last beginning to lower their weapons. The rider dropping the Walther to his side as the deserters look to him with appalled disbelief. When finally there is movement again it comes from Swann, who lunges forward to deliver a blow of such violence that the rider is sent sprawling, the pistol knocked from his grip. The lance corporal picks the dropped Walther up from the grass and ascends the steps to the wellspring, where he fires a further half-dozen shots into Lucchi’s body before hurling the pistol up towards the Senussi, the gun clattering uselessly away against the rock.