Neither Corporal Lewis nor Lance Corporal Kulick could enter Tripoli again, to try to find out.
Would any enemy patrols stay out all night? Would the supply drop, then, be witnessed? Should he take the whole troop with him to Point A, in case a battle were to become unavoidable?
There was another worry: water. Among these hills were a few small streams that ran at this time of year, and a well or two. The water ration they had brought was about to run dry. Taggart had intended to send a party out to replenish it while his own party was picking up the air drop. If the enemy posted a guard on each place where water could be drawn, thirst would accomplish what Taggart had been sure Italian soldiers could not.
***
Pennati received the message from his Colonel without enthusiasm. A British soldier, in Italian uniform, wounded and captured. A companion, similarly dressed, still at large. The prisoner had confessed to being a member of a six-man party: an officer and five troops. They had been parachuted in with orders to obtain information that would facilitate an enemy invasion by sea of the Tripoli area.
There had been another episode on the same night: an Arab, or, as H.Q. suspected, another British soldier masquerading as one, had almost been caught, but had escaped after killing four policemen. The prisoner denied all knowledge of him, of course. The prisoner and his companion had killed a sergeant and four military policemen. The former had been sentenced to death and would be shot within the next 48 hours. They were delaying the execution while he was subjected to further severe interrogation.
A search was to be made for the enemy spies still believed to be in the area. Some Headquarters troops were already on patrol, but C Company and another company from the regiment were to go out as well.
Pennati was already bored with existence in the fort. He did not crave a return to the Front, but to be so far behind the lines and so close to Tripoli, yet be denied the city's pleasures, was frustrating and had put him into a permanently bad mood. Any kind of activity would be welcome; and if they found any of the enemy, surely the Colonel would allow him a few days' leave as reward. He was, however, sceptical of the report and of the prospects of rounding up five highly trained, tough, determined men who had several hundred square kilometres of country in which to hide: country which offered abundant concealment.
He had doubted the earlier report of enemy aircraft landing a raiding force. As the Colonel had said, echoing the view at Headquarters, the Arabs were all gross liars; and, if there had been an enemy incursion, would have exaggerated the numbers in the hope of increasing the reward.
The capture of one British soldier confirmed the presence of the enemy, but his claim to have been part of a group of only one officer and five troops was much more credible than any Arab's to have witnessed the landing of sixty. No doubt the Arab had seen an aircraft: but one, not four; and the six men had not been landed, but dropped by parachute. Such was the official interpretation of events and Pennati concurred with it. He seldom found merit in any of the works of Headquarters, but this time they seemed to have been rational instead of panic-stricken. There was, however, a suggestion of panic in the scale on which H.Q. had mounted the search.
He would enjoy leading a patrol, for, although these hills were a poor substitute for his native mountains, they were better than the desert. Also, he would show these base area troops who had joined the search how real combat infantry conducted themselves. He had watched with scorn as the second-grade company which arrived first had shambled off under its dandified and portly commander. When a company of his own regiment arrived it aroused his competitive spirit: they were good, but his lads were the best. He would demonstrate it.
***
Taggart and his men in their scattered picquet posts watched the hunt move through their area, with itchy trigger fingers. The strain of remaining still, of keeping their heads well down, of making every movement with laboured caution to ensure that no sound — a clink of steel, a dislodged stone — gave them away eroded their patience. Time and again a platoon would work its way past some place where a few seconds' shooting could have wiped out every man in it. The restraint put a heavy burden on the nerves of Commandos trained to strike at every opportunity, regardless of the odds against them.
The effect of scanty rations was beginning to tell. One proper meal a day had to suffice, and by the afternoon they were hungry. Thirst had begun its torment, but they had to conserve their water. They could not risk the movement and possible sound of unpacking their usual biscuits and cheese mid-day meal, or of taking a sip from their water bottles. And there were flies, constantly buzzing around them, that had to be borne, because to brush them away might send a pebble down a rocky slope and be seen and heard by the enemy.
Taggart, who by nature and training took quick decisions, was worried about keeping the bulk of his force on the hilltop. Even bad soldiers should discern its obvious virtues. He doubted that the day could pass without one of the patrols climbing it. Had he known that the enemy was seeking only five men, who were unlikely to choose such a site as a hiding place, and had he also known that not even the efficient Pennati, whom he had seen at the head of a patrol, believed that the quarry would loiter so near the fort, he would have felt remorseful for his cynical doubts about Cassola's courage.
The picquets had logged every patrol as it started out, identified by some feature such as the appearance of its commander, and noted the return of each. Thus they would know if any were still out at sunset. All had come back, but Taggart suspected that Penatti might not be content to stand his men down when the rest had departed to Tripoli. He left Jorrocks to report if a night patrol did go out. It was important to know. The march to Point A would take several hours. Carrying heavy loads on their way back, his party would be vulnerable to a trap. He could not delay his departure more than an hour after sunset.
Groundsheets covered the entrance of the biggest cave, so that the evening meal could be cooked. For some of the men the ban on smoking out of doors imposed a greater hardship than short commons. The mouths of other caves had been similarly curtained and there the inveterate nicotine addicts huddled, filling the confined spaces with smoke. Taggart despised but tolerated their lack of willpower.
Corporal Owen opened radio watch for the last time before Taggart's party must set out. In the light of a candle, his face twisted into a grin as he handed Taggart a signal.
‘Brigadier aboard aircraft.’
For a moment an implication struck Taggart that brought his quick temper to the boil.
‘My God! Don't say the Brig intends to bail out and join us?’
Gosland let loose a huge laugh. ‘He's a keen old devil, but I don't think even he would do that to us.’
‘If he did,’ said Stuart, ‘he'd explode when he found you've got rid of the mortars.’
‘He'd probably have me shot with the Boys.’
Jorrocks had not appeared with any warning message. The pick-up party set off, expecting to reach the dropping zone with an hour to spare. The moon cast enough light to help them, without being dangerously bright. They were simply shadows among shadows, moving with stealth and great care. Sounds seemed to carry further at night than in the day. The silence among the hills should have been reassuring, but for most of the men it had an eerie and threatening quality. Occasionally the howl of a jackal came to their ears and there was often the scurrying sound of a rat or jerboa on its hunt for food. Twice Taggart had a glimpse of a fox loping across a patch of moonlit ground. He listened constantly for some sound that would indicate the presence of a cluster of Arab tents. But there was no human voice, no camel's grunt or horse's neigh to break the stillness.
He smiled to himself. Much though the Brigadier irritated him, one had to admit that the old boy was a sport. His message was an obvious morale-booster, an assurance that he was deeply interested in their venture and was involving himself as closely as possible. You had to respect the old devil: and you had, however grudgingly, to admit to
a liking for him as well.
When they reached their objective they lay in concealment for a while, then circled it, to make sure that there were no intruders. After that there was nothing to do but place the three men in position with the torches, ready to switch on as soon as the aircraft arrived.
As midnight approached, even whispered conversation ceased. Everyone was intent on being the first to hear the approaching aircraft. The couple of minutes leading up to twelve-o'clock were taut with expectation. The hour came; and passed. Five more minutes went by.
Taggart spoke his thought quietly to Vowden. ‘I hope they aren't circling somewhere, looking for us: that would be a gift to the enemy.’
‘My brother's a pilot on Hampdens, sir; he says night navigation is very tricky. Crews often find themselves twenty or fifty miles off target when they bomb Germany.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Major. That's a titbit I wish you'd kept to yourself.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Vowden didn't sound it; his voice was as calm and cheerful as usual. ‘They've probably run into a strong headwind, or been forced to make a long dogleg to fool the enemy. Anywhere up to fifteen minutes late isn't bad out here, at night. They haven't got the beacons and fixer stations they rely on at home, even when they cross the North Sea. And there are damn all landmarks. And there's very little moon.’
‘You evidently know a lot more about it than I do.’
‘It's my brother, sir: he's always binding about observers losing their way.’
‘This observer had better be good with his navigation: the Brigadier will have him burned at the stake if he makes any kind of a balls of it.’
‘Just what I've been thinking, sir.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘What is it, MacIntosh?’
‘I think I hear-r-r-d yon airyplane, sir.’
A moment of concentration; then: ‘You're right. Hear it, Mr. Vowden?’
‘Yessir. It's not a Valentia... must be a Blenheim... to have the range. I hope it hasn't got a full load, sir: they can carry a thousand pounds of bombs.’
‘Is that so?’ Taggart sounded cross. He admired Vowden's knowledge, but thought that he had already aired enough of it. ‘We certainly don't want to lug all that amount back to base. And it would imply a depressingly long stay, anyway.’
A Blenheim came in view, a black silhouette against the stars, flying at 500 feet. The men standing with the three torches pointing vertically up switched on. A letter B flashed in Morse from the Blenheim. Taggart answered with a C.
Parachutes appeared, their silk canopies glaringly white in the moon and starlight. While the H.Q. group kept guard against intruders, the rest ran to detach the containers and gather the parachutes. The Blenheim turned and flew back along the path it had followed. This time, it was down to 50 feet. It rocked its wings in greeting and farewell; and, perhaps, a wish for good luck, thought Taggart. Then it was gone.
Taggart was relieved. Nothing that the Brigadier might do would surprise him, and he had been half-expecting to see him on the end of a parachute, among the bundles.
The Commandos carried the parachutes and canvas packing until they were two miles from the place where they had been dropped. There, they dug a pit with entrenching tools and buried them. Rid of these encumbrances, they were able to quicken their pace. Taggart had been relieved to find that the supplies meant a load of only some 30 lb for himself and each of the others: which suggested that the operation would not be delayed by more than another three or four days.
When, some hours later, a sentry at a picquet post challenged the party, and passwords were exchanged, Taggart was not surprised to see Jorrocks's form emerge from among the rocks. There was a good spirit among his H.G. group, and he knew that Jorrocks must be feeling left out of things.
It was more than comradely concern, however, that had brought his second runner to meet them.
‘Mr. Gosland sent me, sir. We had a signal from the radio link, sir. They'd just had one from the aircraft that dropped the supplies.’
Swiftly, the favourite cliches of the adventure storywriters in the boys' twopenny weeklies of his youth came to Taggart's mind. ‘The cold hand of fear grasped his vitals... his brain froze in apprehension... his mind boggled at the premonition of danger... his whole being went numb with anticipation of doom...’ Any, thought Taggart, would have fitted his feelings at that moment.
‘What about?’
‘The aircraft was hit by flak, sir, soon after it left the D.Z. The pilot turned south-east, sir, to get down into the desert, away from the enemy, before he had to make a forced landing.’
All Taggart's tension ebbed away and he laughed. ‘Does that mean the Brigadier is marooned in the Western Desert, waiting to be found and picked up?’
‘No, sir. He bailed out, sir; not far from the D.Z.’
EIGHT
‘He knows the map references for the D.Z. and for this spot,’ Gosland said. ‘I wonder why the old sod bailed out?’
‘Sheer bloody perversity.’ This was a growl, rather than an observation, from Taggart. ‘Determined to get in on the show.’
‘I've got a theory about what must have happened,’ said Stuart. ‘They must have made a long dogleg far to the south on the way to the D.Z., to keep well clear of the enemy. Going back, they must have intended to cross out over the coast and cut across the Gulf of Sidra, to save fuel; and not to risk taking the same route twice, which might indicate some special interest in this area. Going north, to cross the coast, they'd have flown through a defended area: it's not surprising the flak got 'em. Then, rather than ditch, and probably not be found at all, or be picked up by the Italians, the pilot headed south-east.’
‘D'you suppose the Brig bailed out because he didn't want to arouse suspicion that something's going on, here, if the pilot forced-landed and they were all picked up by the Wops?’ asked Taggart.
‘Exactly. And his chances of survival are ten times better than any air crew's. I mean, the old brute has survived God knows how many narrow squeaks since he was a subaltern in the last war; and, of course, he's a trained Commando, not a typical chairborne, desk-bound Cairo-type Brigadier.’
‘Christ! That means he'll head for us. Damn and blast.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Stuart, with a grin. ‘The bedouin might grab him: they'd get a fat reward from the Wops for him. Or they might hang on to him and send a message to Cairo that they can ransom him for a hundred camels and a hundred beautiful houris.’
‘Jokes of that sort are in bloody bad taste, Angus! Dammit, the old menace is practically breathing down our necks; it's no laughing matter.’
‘And you without a mortar to your name,’ said Gosland; who also, evidently, thought the situation comical.
‘Of course, the Arabs might find him: but they'd hand him straight over to the enemy. That's our best hope,’ Taggart added uncharitably.
‘There's always the chance that they might help him to get back to our lines,’ Stuart said, ‘provided they could be sure of an even bigger reward. They might even hate the Italians enough to do it anyway.’
‘The Brig doesn't speak Arabic. How the hell could he do a deal with them? If he isn't caught, he'll be heading this way. He'll know the Blenheim wireless op's signal was received and passed on to us. He'll expect us to go and look for him: and my guess is that he'll make for the D.Z.; where he'll expect us to meet him.’
‘Provided he's got a compass,’ said Gosland.
‘Come on, Ted, you know better than that. He knows how to find his way by the sun and stars. Besides, I happen to know the old devil has a fixed rule never to move an inch without a compass, his small kit, iron rations, that bloody great forty-five Webley and twenty-four spare rounds. Plus, these days, his fighting knife.’
‘Bad luck, old boy.’ Stuart was mocking. ‘He'll be turning up any minute.’
‘He'll lie up by day. You'd better take a fighting patrol out to look for him, tonight, Angus.’
‘Seriously?�
�
‘I'm afraid so. I don't want to weaken my strength, but we can't have a brigadier falling into enemy or Arab hands. You speak Arabic. Detail ten men.’
***
Taggart was roused after three hours' sleep to read a signal.
‘Your report confirmed. Gariboldi C-in-C w.e.f. 12th. Rommel arrives same day. Carry out Operation Wolf 13th.’
‘The idea obviously being,’ Taggart said, ‘to let this Jerry general know we aren't impressed by his turning up. I like the idea. Bit of a bore hanging on here for another three days.’
That day, the next and the day after that. Shortly after midnight on the 12th, they would make the attack. They had enough rations now, but water was a problem. Lack of water meant not only thirst but also dirt. To save water, he had ordered, before they left the forward airfield for the operational area, that there would be no shaving. Each man had two spare pairs of socks and underpants; no clean shirt: they were all already smelling more than a little gamey. Added to that was the difficulty of performing their natural functions and still being able to conceal their presence and avoid attracting flies or fouling the air.
He sent for Sergeant Randall, who was the most experienced and the best of them at stealthy movement and concealment in the kind of terrain that surrounded them: he had been a sniper on the North-West Frontier and was as wily as any savage Pathan or Afridi, as patient and as deadly a marksman.
‘I want you to recce this well, Sergeant.’ Taggart's finger was on the map. ‘Bir Faarig.’
‘Yessir.’
‘Take four water bottles and fill them if you can; every little helps. If there are no bedouin around, and there's a safe route, you can take out a patrol tonight to fetch a decent supply.’
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