In the morning he struggles to free himself of a stiffness which has set intractably into his limbs. The result of pushing them while deprived of fuel. He will need to slow down, measure his pace to the limits of his body. A frustration, but necessary if he is to see out his journey. Fortunately the temperature is a little cooler today and he opens his shirt to the waist, the draft of coastal breezes a boon for the next stage of his route, a twenty-odd-mile trek to the port of Derna, where he means to follow the path of the coastal highway to towns he hopes might still be garrisoned by Allied forces. He will be put to question on his arrival, of course, but he has his story ready, his evidence to hand: that he has broken against all odds from the desert after being left for dead. That he has hiked his way along the edge of the country in a brave effort to rejoin his countrymen. The model, in fact, of soldierly endeavour.
He pauses to take a drink and realises that his canteen is already near empty despite his thrift. Not so worrisome a danger in these fertile shorelands, but even so he will need to ration himself more strictly, be extra vigilant for any chance to resupply. He shouldn’t count on anything.
A little farther, and he finds an Italian field cap trodden into the gravel, the discovery surprising him. The owner a refugee like himself, perhaps. There might be a body later on, laid out as a warning, or a makeshift dwelling, the fugitive having instead settled into hermitry. The same fates that Lucchi might have faced had he managed to secure his freedom and flee into the mountains, pausing in that better version of events to study under the moonlight his wedding ring and wristwatch, waiting and watching until finally picking his moment to pass unseen back into the desert, and from there trekking to a highway to thumb a lift from a German keen to buy eggs, or perhaps another collecting ID tags as talismans. His adventure concluding with a report to his wife that he had faced certain death, but had been delivered by a fellow wayfarer with the courage to argue for him. A history that but for a cruel twist of fate might well have played out.
In any case, a kinder revision.
By nightfall the rider comes to the outskirts of Derna, the generality of the town ushered up against its harbour by a steep range of plateaux and gorges. Scrambling up to a vantage point, he sees from a distance German vehicles with blackout headlights travelling its streets and byways. And, on one of the main roads, several groups of soldiers attending a small convoy of supply trucks and wagons. Impossible now to travel across lower ground, the danger of being caught or shot too great. He’ll have to make his way over the brow – a far more punishing route – and hope that he can be stealthy enough to pass unnoticed.
The last of his canteen water gone, he takes one of the cactus fruits from his bag and halves it with a knife then squeezes it into his mouth, glad even for so bitter a refreshment. The muscles of his thighs and calves burning, his feet blistered, his shoulders chafed. Even with such a generosity of stops, he has forced himself beyond anything he thought himself capable of, and now there is the price for it. You won’t make it, Mawdsley would have told him. Too much to ask of your damaged lungs, your weakened heart. Inconceivable that he might manage the remainder of the journey. And yet if he can just find some resting place for the night, evaluate again in the morning . . .
He heaves his bag onto his shoulders, and begins to clamber over the hillside, slipping and sliding on loose gravel as he tries to keep himself as low as possible. No reason for even goatherds to be up on these empty heights, the Germans likely to presume him an infiltrator and fire upon him without question if he is sighted. A thought which causes him to measure out his progress with caution, scanning every now and then for any signal of alert as he makes his painstaking ascent. At the first summit he is obliged to rest and catch his breath, his hands and knees grazed, the onset of a deep nausea making him worried for a time that the cactus fruit might have been poisonous. But more likely a consequence of circulatory deficiency, the unequal distribution of vital minerals and elements. He could succumb at any time, shrugged from the mountainside to tumble down into the ranks of a bemused enemy, his cause of death mysterious. If only for some damned water!
The sound of an explosion pulls his gaze towards the town, a bright petrol fire sprouting from somewhere close to the harbour. But no sound of aircraft or ships’ guns. An accident, then, or some kind of covert action. Whichever, it’s his perfect opportunity, any attention now drawn from the hills. He gathers himself up and resumes his progress, determined to make whatever ground he can during the disturbance. But the light is deceptive, the surface of the plateau illuminated in one instant by a tower of flame, the next plunged into darkness, leaving him to hurry unsighted across ground laid with rocks, split by ancient shifts. He can’t seem to make a straight line, the balancing canals confused, his legs refusing plain direction.
And then the drop, arrived from nowhere and opening out beneath him as a gulf of unfilled air, into which he tumbles with not so much as a yelp of surprise. He feels his knuckles smash against stone, the kitbag’s strap whip across his chin, his flailing body lit for a split second by a fresh column of fire from the harbour. The landing is done with before he even realises it, his arms and legs brought to a crushing stop, the air smacked temporarily from his lungs. The agony holds off for several moments and then rushes over him, the shock of it threatening unconsciousness. What has he done? What idiocy? He tries to move position and immediately stops, the pain forcing a sharp sigh from him. He gingerly turns his head – relieved that he has that much movement – to find himself at the foot of a wide gully, its floor littered with boulders. Not the worst spot, if one were seeking a hiding place. But then if he has sustained serious injury . . .
He tries to unfold himself, nervous of discovering any protruding bones or separated joints. The pain particularly savage in his left knee, which he thinks he must have twisted. He probes the swelling tissue around the joint, wincing at the discomfort, then leans back against the rock face. It will be hard to walk on that leg, let alone haul himself from the bottom of this sheer trap. And so needless! Such careless haste. He drags over his kitbag and pulls out a stale biscuit to eat. He unrolls his blanket and carefully wraps it about himself, unable to keep his eyes from closing as more flames lighten the sky.
18
He wakes in the morning to a pink light flushing the depths of the gulley, and he lies still for a while as sunlight begins to cross his legs. It would be easier if he could just stay here a while and allow himself some rest. But after the disturbances of the previous night, it’s possible there’ll be search parties. He’ll have to do what he can to move on, even in this poor state.
He groans as he pushes himself upright, his limbs stiffened, his fingers and toes numb from the cold, or perhaps from the restriction of blood. He opens his kitbag and rummages inside it for the remaining cactus fruit, finding it crushed in the fall. He breaks apart the skin to squeeze out some moisture. The last of the biscuits now, too, a meagre breakfast to set him on his way. He rolls up his blanket and collects the kitbag and postbag of letters, then tries to stand. His knee the worst, purpled now from the contusion, and grotesquely swollen. Ligament damage, perhaps. If he’s lucky, only bruising. Either way, an unpleasant hindrance.
The gulley’s walls insurmountable, he decides to track the path of its base, following what he estimates to be a southward course until the channel eventually tapers and breaks into several subsidiaries, each becoming less steep. Trailing his injured leg, he pulls his way up over a slope of scree to find himself overlooking a sweep of blank desert. So he has managed by chance to put the hills between himself and Derna. If he can now make his way down, then he might track the base of the intervening heights until they lead him to the coastal highway. Everything in lesser stages.
He finds it easier to slide down than to climb, lifting his elbows clear as he toboggans short stretches of the descent. A series of low steppes at the hillside’s base allowing him finally to limp from one to the next until he reaches level ground. And th
en there is only the desert to adorn his travel, the heat building as his energy and concentration steadily drain.
It takes several hours of sluggish travel before he arrives within sight of the coastal highway, a pale stripe running proud of the surrounding terrain, no more auspicious in construction than those the deserters had crossed. At first he treks alongside it and at a prudent distance, mindful of the suddenness with which traffic can appear. But thirst and the pain of his injury make any progress a trial, every rock and scrub a wearying obstacle. The highway by comparison a luxury, panacea for a host of discomforts. In this condition, he has little choice.
And from then there is no sound to distract him but the hum of wind, or the grind of his own boots on gravel, the causeway a lustrous marvel laid out before him. He knows that he is dehydrated, his mind in consequence exaggerating nature, but still he finds himself captivated. An empty and cracked tortoiseshell inhabited by a snake. The carcass of a camel, its hide collapsed over exploded ribs, the word ‘Jerry’ daubed on its flanks. The sand across the road’s surface sculpted here and there into perplexing glyphs: a man holding a pistol upon another man. A skull without a jaw.
A check to his rear pulls him to a halt as he sees a spout of dust rising from the needlepoint of the westbound highway. Enemy traffic, almost certainly. He steps from the road onto its sand-drifted verges, and from there shuffles back into the enveloping desert, breathless by the time he reaches the cover of a tall hummock. A supply convoy of four trucks escorted by a command car and two motorcycles venting powder as they trundle past. A resupply to forward lines, perhaps. Brinkhurst may well have been right, any Allied forces now swept ignominiously from the map. An entire coalition of deserters readying to flee the country if he might only summon the strength to join them.
He is still waiting for the road to clear when a collection of white buildings distantly south of his position catches his eye. And even more miraculously, a sleeve of stone risen from the nearby ground. Indistinct in the boil of air, only fleetingly solid. But, a bir. Water. It has to be.
When he is certain the last of the traffic has passed, he decides to leave his baggage and carry with him only his canteen as he begins across a field of loose sand and rocks, the underlying crust lifting and diving as though arrested in the action of a wave. The sun is blinding, sweat creeping into his eyes, his breathing as loud to him as slides of shale. He loses his footing and trips, panicking in the moment that he will hit the surface like a thing of glass and break completely. The impact tearing skin from both palms, his injured knee catching a rock, leaving him curled in agony. And still with only a fraction of the distance covered. He sits upright, rocking in pain, staring at his objective with the sudden fear it might dissolve away before him. You need to gather yourself up, find a way forward. Draw your mind away from your body. What will your answers be when they interrogate you, your allies and protectors? What certainties can you offer?
Why no ID, Lieutenant Tuck?
A precaution in the event of capture.
But a precaution against what? What could you know? As a junior officer? Nothing of value, surely.
He heaves himself up, pushes onward.
Divisional strength, battle plans!
The battle was over, the division routed.
I didn’t know.
What became of your crew?
The details aren’t clear. I’m sure it’ll come back to me.
He missteps again, managing this time to stay on his feet.
Do you feel you did anything wrong? Did you make a mistake? Did you let people down?
No need to ask that. It’s incriminatory, offensive. I refute the question!
We only want the truth.
It’s as I’ve explained.
Think again.
I did the best I could. It comes down to luck. I brought their letters with me. All of them.
As a penance?
In fellowship.
And these others you ran with. These deserters. You were with them against your will?
Almost there. The buildings are all real, the well real. His boot nudges against a wooden sign lying face down on the sand. He rests on his good knee to lift it. Against my will? Yes, from the very start. He turns the sign over.
Think again.
He lets the board drop and sits in the dust, bewildered. If he looks into the huts’ blank doorways he can see it all now. The ferrying of shrouded corpses, the ever-dwindling cortèges. No graveyard here, all having been slid back into the desert. Swann would approve. He licks his broken lips, stinging them. Why had they taken down the sign? Because the well has been declared safe? He could risk it. Just a small amount to wet his lips. He rocks forward and hangs his head, almost too exhausted to think. He’s heard of drinking blood or urine in place of water, a final squalor. He turns again to view the highway, now a slender thread. Bringing himself to his feet will be hard enough, let alone the return crossing. So much easier to haul himself into one of those dilapidated buildings and wait, commit himself in full to the act of desertion.
He heaves himself up into the northward breeze, desperate to be carried, each footfall a tectonic murmur. No one will hear, or care. He sees a kinder Brinkhurst at his side, matching his step, his bullet-holed forehead set in a frown of concern.
Are you quite sure it’s even worth it, old man? All this struggle?
I can’t stop now.
The ex-captain pauses and removes his cap to bat at flies. Well, we must always presume the best of ourselves, mustn’t we. He gives a sly wink then veers off, distracted by a stone’s glitter.
The rider sucks in oven air. He drops to his undamaged knee, a quantum of energy preserved in the pause. He’s almost made it, almost back to where he started. If only he could hear her say his name. That would be his water.
Little by little, now. On all fours if need be. Pick up the postbag. Just the postbag, nothing else matters. Use whatever power is left to you, carry yourself over to the highway. Sit by the side of the road where you’ll be seen. A marker of note even in death. You can do that.
He has the idea that three hours pass before the Germans encounter him. But perhaps twice that number, time now subject to the same doubt as distance. He recognises the fading light, the early stars, the rotating charts from Francis Chichester’s Planisphere, bought from a Cairo bookshop. When the soldiers finally arrive they step down from a truck the colour of the desert and approach with rifles raised, as though he might be a threat. They search his postbag for weapons and then give him water. One of them lifts him up and tells him in English he is going to be all right, and the rider holds dearly to his hand.
And then he is bundled from the road, as lightly and cleanly as though trafficked by the breeze.
Three
19
‘How is it out there?’ the dying man asks him. ‘Still snowing?’
The rider swats away a fly and puts his eye back to the hole in the wall. ‘Couple of feet deep now. Probably be skaters out on the pond soon. Some kids making a snowman. With a fedora and a Tommy gun.’
The dying man grunts and shifts onto his side. ‘Little Caesar. I’ve seen that one. They’d better be quick. I think we’ve got a thaw coming.’
The rider resumes his sitting position, his back against the wall. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’
The dying man nods towards the rider’s postbag. ‘You could pick another.’
‘Which one?’
‘What about the one from the kid to his mother.’
‘Hopgood-Banks.’
‘Haven’t heard that one for a while. Have we?’
The rider takes one of the letters from the bag and tugs it from its envelope.
‘Just a minute,’ says the dying man. He coughs and rolls onto his back, his gaze fixed on the hut’s flat ceiling. ‘All right. I’m listening.’
Dearest mother,
This is the most difficult letter one could ever write. But I have had a little time to think about
what I should most like to say in the event that . . .
‘You can skip the beginning,’ the dying man tells him. ‘Move to the part with the dog.’
The rider rubs his eyes as he tries to focus. The heat inside the hut is overbearing, the stink of sweat and excrement bringing flies through every hole and crack in the dry mud walls. Most days their guards will empty the waste bucket, but sometimes not, allowing the stench to permeate the crushed straw and sackcloth rags on the floor, any incoming air curdled at once into the same foul state.
. . . it seems odd to think about Beaulieu in all of this, but I often imagine myself on my old walk with him across the fields to the stream. How I’d give him a quick cheer if he would plunge in to chase a rabbit or squirrel. Sometimes when I’m listening to R/T static I swear I can hear that same noise of him in the water. It’s quite a comfort to . . .
‘I’ve changed my mind about the breed,’ interrupts the dying man. ‘Not a setter. Something more exotic. A Weimaraner. Or a Portuguese Pointer.’
The rider folds the letter.
‘Wonderful dog, a Weimaraner. A king’s dog.’ The dying man closes his eyes. ‘You’d want to walk one in open country.’
The Letter Bearer Page 16