The rider rolls onto his side, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. His first thought being that he might again be attacked. (Or perhaps attended by Mawdsley?) But no one comes to him, leaving him outstretched on the stone, breathless and spent, a thing of no further value.
16
The rider is made to bury Lucchi. The duty a pressing one, the body likely to fester in such corruptive heat. Brinkhurst picks out a plot on the eastern end of the escarpment where the ground is not too solid, and the rider is left to it, the Italian’s body untouched except for the removal of his wristwatch and his boots (Swann fortuitously sharing his shoe size). It’s a punishing job for a man of such limited reserves, and it takes him over an hour to excavate to a depth of only several inches. He’ll have to stop when it becomes dark and resume again in early morning, those few hours of night giving the opportunity to reflect on his penance. He had expected to be accosted after the murder, perhaps set before some improvised tribunal. But no one had made any accusation, no one even remonstrating with him, summary justice already delivered as a yellow and purple bruise over his left cheek and a blackened eye. He had saved all of their lives, and they knew it. A single sacrifice for the greater good, the pragmatism of it beyond question.
For the umpteenth time he loses his grip on the spade and slumps alongside Lucchi’s body, obliged once more to consider what manner of man might commit such an act. A coward, some might claim, acting only in craven self-interest. But then had he not also spared their POW? From the terrors of a mob, from awful suffocation at the end of a noose? Had he been able to pick for himself, the Italian would surely have chosen the same. Been grateful for it, even. In the end he had at least taken a path, when indecision might have been the greater crime.
When he has dug a little deeper he receives a surprise visit from Mawdsley, who comes to sit on a nearby section of wall. The archdeacon content for a while to observe as the rider scoops spadefuls of stones and clay.
‘So you’re leaving, I gather.’
The rider pauses to lay his weight upon the spade. ‘You’re going to tell me I won’t make it?’
‘I think you’ve proved rather a difficult sort to predict.’
The rider returns to his labour.
‘Though one might reasonably expect,’ continues the archdeacon, ‘that a fellow would want to make the best explanation he can for himself. After such an odd adventure, after all. I mean, why not? Why not come out of all this and be the hero?’
‘I don’t want any attention.’
‘Of course not. But all the same, the opportunity . . .’
‘To do what?’
‘To clean up one’s story, so to speak. Perhaps even to report any who weren’t so upstanding or dutiful into the bargain.’
The rider spares him a quick glare. ‘I’m not going to report you. I never met you.’
Mawdsley gives a sardonic smile. ‘True in a way, I suppose.’ He leans his head back and closes his eyes. ‘This is the only tolerable time of day in this place, don’t you find? When everything is losing its heat. About the only time one can ever think clearly.’
‘There’s something else you wanted to say?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ The MO points to the unfinished grave. ‘I should think you’ll want another few feet in depth there. Don’t want the poor sod sprouting after you’ve gone, do we.’
The next day Nice Chap makes a return visit to the camp, bringing news. It happens while the rider is concluding his burial duties for Lucchi, and he is left to speculate on the excitement from a distance as the deserters huddle in conference. Finally it is Brinkhurst who comes to him with an announcement, the ex-captain allowing a short silence as he watches the rider shovel dirt into the pit, each measure further obscuring the Italian’s body.
‘I’m telling you this as a necessity rather than a courtesy,’ he begins, ‘since you’ve shown yourself no more deserving of consideration than any common blackguard. Some of Nice Chap’s cronies have reported new arrivals down near the coast. A bunch of Ities in a truck. Half a dozen, at least. Seems like they might be making a camp down there. Nice Chap thinks they’re on the trot.’ He pauses as if to give the irony its due weight. ‘Based on what we’ve been told, that could very well be the case. No sense in such a small unit being sent here. So they’ve either become separated and got lost, or he’s right. Either way, they’re a risk.’
He stops again as the rider finishes his task and steps back from the grave, allowing the opportunity to offer a token valediction. If only because the Italian had travelled the road with them for so long. But he eschews the moment, resuming his briefing with a short cough. ‘Of course, Swann is all for making a recce. And on this occasion, I’m inclined to agree. We need to know what this lot are about. How many, what their intentions are. It’s a fair old trek, but Nice Chap says he can guide us.
‘Anyway. We may need whatever strength in number we can muster. So you’ll be coming with us. Probably be hard going for you, but there it is. You’ll just have to give it your best.’
He briefly accords Lucchi’s grave a pall-bearer’s respect then carries himself away, hands folded at his back. Leaving the rider stirred by the prospect of open country, of a territory beyond the fiefdom of his captors. He’ll have few better opportunities than this to press his ambitions. An outcast fixing his course to the coastal graph, tracing the lip of land until reaching some port of embarkation. The possibilities are tantalising.
The expedition is scheduled to begin in under an hour, light rations distributed alongside a weapons pack for each man. Fortunately the heat is less intense today, making the burden of kitbags and weapons less taxing. The rider is given several magazine pouches and a bag of charges but no fireable weapon, barred as he is on grounds of irresponsibility and fickleness from any means of defence. The Senussi look on with a patient detachment, Nice Chap having gathered about him a retinue of three bodyguards for the journey, each taking turns at a long smoking pipe passed ceremonially between them. Each man without discernible expression, notes the rider, as though their faces had been abraded through hardship to a blank physiognomy, leaving one to infer a character from what spare features remain. It might fall to one of these stoic fellows to provide assistance, should he fall behind. Or perhaps – more likely – simply to leave him, the penalties for compassion no doubt already learnt.
When the party sets off, Nice Chap takes his place at the head, attended at close quarters by a steel-helmeted Swann, while the rider brings up the rear. They form a narrow troop as they trek upward to cross the plateau at a diagonal, then file down a gently sloped incline onto a single-lane metalled road. Swann looks up with some annoyance as they pass beneath the shade of overhanging pines, ruing no doubt the punishments of his own route when he might have chosen this less taxing one.
The road delivers them at length onto a broad and open hillside tufted with vetch and thin-bladed grass, any profusion of forest wiped from below this high watermark. For the deserters there is some chariness at being so exposed, while the Senussi press on without pause, seemingly unconcerned to be hares in a hawk’s eye as they lead the patrol down towards more level ground. There is a stiffer breeze now, rushes of ocean current washing against the higher inclines, and the rider finds it invigorating, a reminder that they have passed beyond the margins of the desert into a realm of more animate airs.
They move onto a long secant of red earth, overturned here and there to make small allotments for the growing of vegetables. And from here they can see some scattered evidence of civilisation; a few clay blocks for houses, some fenced pastureland, a corral for two tethered goats. They are joined from nowhere by two young Senussi boys, who follow with curiosity until, emboldened, they run to the front of the group and push noisily ahead, waving gaily coloured scarves as if to herald some carnival. Brinkhurst, unenthused at the company, moves forward to express his concern to Nice Chap, who listens carefully and then does precisely nothing, leaving the ch
astened ex-captain to settle back in line, his ineffectuality recorded with a doleful stare from Swann.
As they proceed onto a grid of parched arable land the youngsters drop away, instructed at last by Nice Chap that their adventure is over. The rider is already toiling behind and struggling to keep the pace, his lassitude more than matched by that of Nice Chap, who suddenly announces the need for rest. He waits beneath the shelter of a camelthorn tree while one of his lieutenants unfurls a reed mat for him, then seats himself to chew absently on a piece of bread, gazing into some imagined abyss while the deserters look on, long-faced and irritable. Brinkhurst tries to elicit from him an estimate of how many more miles they must travel but the old man seems vague on it, moving his palms apart and then together again, as though the precise figure might be in flux.
After a twenty-minute break the group pushes on, Nice Chap restored to something of his former vigour. Over a stonier and more undulate base now, slabs of bedrock rearing as if to draw back from an encroaching ocean. Veering westward, they tack to the course of a wadi, the base of its channel thick with tall shrub and sedge, and cover another mile or so towards the coast before halting again beneath a clutch of sheltering cork oaks. Nice Chap summons Brinkhurst forward for an impromptu briefing and scores out a small map in the sand, indicating the Italians’ position.
‘Not much further now,’ relays the ex-captain, after several fruitless minutes at his binoculars. ‘Sounds like they’ve driven their transport into the mouth of a wadi and camped a little way beyond it. Too much cover to see anything yet, but we should make contact shortly. So try and keep any noise down. They might have lookouts.’
The rider watches as the three deserters ready their weapons, Brinkhurst breaking his Enfield’s breech to do a dry-fire while Swann ensures a smooth feed on the Thompson’s box magazine before refitting it and pulling back the bolt. Mawdsley dispenses Mills bombs from a haversack to both, the MO catching the rider’s eye as he chambers a round in his rifle, his fingers in fine oscillation.
‘Let’s try not to stir anything up that we can’t deal with,’ reminds Brinkhurst. ‘This is just about sizing things up for now.’ He looks pointedly to Swann, who glowers but holds his tongue.
They move on, the deserters taking up positions abreast of the column and tracking the banks of the wadi until it begins to deepen and widen, allowing them to find better cover nearer its foliaged bed. A little farther on, Nice Chap signals that his journey is concluded, and, along with his bodyguards, turns back. The rider watches him go, impressed by the Senussis’ wiliness in dealing with the Italian threat. Set one faction against another and discreetly withdraw: what could be more efficient? Though if the same thought had occurred to the others they must have either dismissed it or simply accepted it, obliged as they are to defend the pack territory.
The rest of the party press forward with greater wariness, weapons held ready as they attempt to find quiet footfall amid bracken and gravel. Tall junipers provide shade and cover but do no work to fend off the heat, each man curtained in sweat as they file along the groove of rock, their forearms and legs raked by thickets of tamarisk. They wind through several further bends in the wadi, pausing before venturing onto each new and unscouted stage, Brinkhurst quietly reminding all to keep scanning the high banks for any sign of sentries.
After a further distance they come upon a heavier dispersal of brush, and Brinkhurst signals caution as they spy a cleared area beyond, unoccupied for the moment but with an extinguished cooking fire at its centre, some mess tins and mugs laid nearby, several bedrolls laid out. At the camp’s far side a Fiat truck is parked, its tarpaulin-covered cargo bed and cab overlaid with scrim net and sprigs of bush. Swann directs Brinkhurst’s attention to a rifle and light machine gun rested up against the truck. An opportunity, then, the advantage of surprise open to them. Swann points again, this time to a small stockpile of ration tins and boxes set out in the shade of the wadi’s banks. The reward for their enterprise suddenly more enticing. ‘We can use that truck for cover,’ he whispers, prompting a grimace from the anxious Brinkhurst.
But too late for any argument, the lance corporal already moving through the branches, pushing them aside with one hand while gripping the Thompson with the other. The rider and Mawdsley both look to Brinkhurst only to see a helpless shake of his head. The inevitable consequence of indiscipline . . .
On the verge of making his trespass into the camp, a small stone catches Swann on the thigh. Surprised, he turns quickly enough to glimpse one of the Senussi boys who had earlier followed, his face bobbing from behind a bush on the wadi’s sloped face. Another missile lands near the lance corporal’s boot, its trajectory betraying an accomplice. He jerks his thumb in fury towards the bank. ‘Fucken get rid of ’em!’
Spurred to action, Brinkhurst rushes to the slope, shooing and waving his arms as though to flush grouse, his efforts serving only to make the two youngsters bolt from their hiding places and make for the camp. He seizes the smallest as he tries to scrape past, clamping a hand over his mouth while the boy’s confederate bursts through the foliage and onto open ground. Swann curses and moves quickly after him, undeterred by the urgency of the ex-captain’s warning. ‘Swann! Let it go.’
But then the boy inside the camp halts abruptly, his attention shifted suddenly towards his own feet. Swann likewise pulling to a sharp stop as he spies the two clusters of fuse prongs above the surface of the sand, the boy’s foot stretching the barely visible tripwire between them.
‘Swann! It’s no good. Just leave it!’
The lance corporal stands unmoving, his gaze alternating between the Senussi boy’s frightened eyes and his ensnared foot, the wire lodged between his toes and the sole of his sandal. A single tug likely to cause both mines to bounce to waist height to hurl their barrage of shot.
‘Swann!’ hisses Brinkhurst, the boy squirming in his grasp. ‘Come on!’
They hear voices beyond the truck, the sound of high-spirited chatter growing louder, causing the trapped boy to look up in alarm. Swann raises his hands in assurance. ‘All right now, just keep it steady. Right where y’are.’ He edges closer until near enough to bend and examine the terrified youngster’s foot, gently feeling the tension of the wire. No give at all. He rests back on his haunches, a triangle of sweat darkening the back of his shirt. ‘S-mines,’ he calls to the others, as loudly as he dares. ‘Mawdsley, you still near that acacia? Need a couple of thorns here, bloody quick.’ He looks up at the boy. ‘You just keep dead still. ’S all you got to fucken do. OK?’
Mawdsley squeezes through the brush and hurries over, dropping several of the small spines into the lance corporal’s open palm. A sudden noise from the other side of the truck alerts both, and the MO drops to a kneeling position, his rifle raised.
‘Swann, we don’t have time!’ insists Brinkhurst, still behind cover.
The lance corporal pulls off his helmet and slides onto his belly, bringing his face near to the leftmost of the mines. He scoops away a little gravel from around the plunger shaft, exposing a small pinhole, then takes one of the acacia thorns and gently slides it into the hole. He allows himself a deep breath and signals Mawdsley a quick thumbs-up, then rolls over to the second mine to begin the same operation.
The Italian soldier who arrives on the scene freezes in surprise, the ghost of a smile lingering even as a bullet from Mawdsley’s rifle splinters his breastbone, punching him backward against the truck’s cab.
Swann flinches, a thorn escaping his grip to tumble into the sand.
A second Italian appears, pistol already drawn. He skids to a halt by the truck’s grille and immediately looses off a shot at the boy, who tears himself free of the trap. The sound of gunfire obscuring Swann’s gasp of dismay as the mines jump up from their rooting. A drumbeat of air pressure, the staccato report of steel, fabric and glass as the truck is peppered. The pistol-wielding Italian collapses with a shriek, his hands pressed to his face.
Swann blinks and
looks down at himself to see dark spots appearing through his sleeve. Through the dust he picks out the boy already pawing his way through the screen of brush, trailing a stiff and bloodied leg. And then Mawdsley, the archdeacon rolled from his kneeling position onto his side, his bared back mottled with lesions, as though the handiwork of an overzealous blood-letter. The MO groans and calls Swann’s name but the lance corporal is already grappling for the Thompson, bringing the machine gun about as more of the Italians arrive. He sends a burst of fire across the bows of the truck, forcing them into cover, while Brinkhurst joins the defence, taking aim between the branches.
‘Swann! We’re pulling back!’
‘Don’t you fucken dare,’ roars the lance corporal. He stumbles over to Mawdsley and tries to drag him, the attempt eliciting a mournful wail. Rounds spring up dirt by his ankle and he again sprays the truck with fire. ‘Brinkhurst! You hear me? Don’t you fucken run!’
But too late, the ex-captain already making haste along the base of the wadi. The Senussi youths fleeing ahead, the wounded boy limping as best he can. The rider ducks as he hears shots whistling by, the crack of severed branches. An equine squeal as a bullet finds sheer stone. Swann crashes through the veil of bushes alone, red-faced and sweating, and drops to one knee to unclip a grenade from his waist belt. He tosses it to the rider and barks, ‘When I say!’
Raising himself to a stooping run, the lance corporal weaves his way from the camp, the rider at his heels. He pauses to pull the pin from a second grenade and lobs it in a wide arc across the intervening ground, crouching as the explosion lifts a shroud of dust and leaves. They hear one of the Italians moaning. Or might it be Mawdsley? Swann yells for the rider to do likewise, watching as he pulls the pin from the grenade. And then a flicker of hesitation, the rider’s arm momentarily in stasis. It’s a question of inclination, a longer throw placing the detonation nearer the truck, sparing the MO. A shorter one resulting in the opposite.
The Letter Bearer Page 14