Death or Glory III

by Michael Asher

  He squinted at Wallace and Trubman. ‘Got one up the spout, Fred?’

  The big man nodded.

  ‘Get in here. And you, Taff. Hit that wagon before she does for us all.’

  Caine edged back from his position: Wallace and Trubman shimmied in. The big gunner hefted the stovepipe, came up in a crouch: Trubman set the sights.

  ‘Mind the backblast, skipper,’ he said.

  Caine shifted the others out of the blast area, crawled abreast of the bazooka team, heard balloon tyres grind towards them through the smokescreen, heard a gunturret clank. Oh shit, he thought.

  Wallace would only have one shot: he’d have to fire the moment the AFV slid into view. If he was too slow, or missed, they’d be sunk. He stiffened, saw the armoured car mooch out of the smoke, much bigger than he’d thought – a bluntnosed leviathan like a great iron barge, all rivets and protrusions on six balloon wheels. He watched her emerge from the smokefog, clenched his teeth, held his breath, awaited the shot, prayed it would be good. He noticed suddenly that the AFV’s turret was reversed 360 degrees, the gunbarrel tipped downwards, pointing at the ground. A Jerry was perched at the open hatch: black overalls, headset over tousled blond hair. Caine started: Fritz was waving a white flag.

  The armoured car was forty yards off: the commander was in plain sight; the white flag snickered. Caine took first pressure: he could have shot the chap easily, but he didn’t. ‘Hold your fire, Fred,’ he croaked.

  Wallace didn’t move. ‘Don’t tell me they’re gonna surrender,’ he cackled.

  ‘It’s a trick, skipper,’ Jizzard piped up from behind. ‘Let her have it, Wallace.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Copeland snapped.

  Caine followed the AFV’s progress through his sights. She inched up until she was no more than twenty-five yards away, scrunched to a stop.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Jizzard cawed.

  Caine watched the AFV commander jump down from the turret. He faced them straddlelegged, displayed an open left hand, held up the flag with his right. Caine didn’t show himself. The officer took a hesitant step forward, hands still raised. When nothing happened he took another, then another. After five steps, he gained confidence, began to walk steadily. Caine let him come within ten yards. ‘That’s far enough, Fritz,’ he growled.

  The Jerry’s duststained tank overalls had the sleeves rolled up, showing muscular arms. He was no older than Caine, lanky and leanhipped, a pimpled face ghosted with dust, tired eyes, gold fluffspeckles on a stone jaw. Caine saw subaltern’s insignia, the twin zigzags of the Waffen SS, and the Totenkopf skull-and-crossbones on his collar. He kept his weapon trained, aware that the enemy couldn’t see him. The soldier grinned nervously, showed grainseed teeth.

  ‘Tommy,’ he said. ‘We want to talk.’ His English accent was thick, his voice croupy and dustchoked.

  Caine sighed, laid down the Bren’s stock, stood up, wiped dust and gunblack off his face. He took in the canyon mouth, the Jerry corpses, the smouldering motorcycle combinations. A sniper could easily potshot him, he knew, but if that happened the Jerry officer would be instant dead meat. He stared at his counterpart. ‘Talk if you want, but keep your hands where I can see them. If the turret on that vehicle budges, you’ve had it, chum.’

  The officer eyed the Colt .45 on Caine’s belt. He fluttered the flag, let his left hand down. He shot a rueful glance at his dead comrades, the wispy lines of smoke trailing from the wrecked motorcycles. His fingers twitched.

  ‘No more dead,’ he said. ‘Too many dead already, yes?’

  ‘Ain’t they told you there’s a war on, mate?’ Wallace crooned from behind his hide.

  ‘Leave it, Fred,’ Caine said. He eyed the white flag: it looked like somebody’s old vest tied to a broomstick. Of course, it would be: no German soldier would go into battle carrying a readymade white flag. He raised an eyebrow at the Jerry. ‘Well?’

  ‘I have an offer … how do you say in English … a deal ?’

  ‘Oh yes. And what might that be?’

  ‘You have something we want. We would like you to give it to us.’

  Mystified, Caine pulled at the whiskered flesh on his chin. ‘What is it you think we’ve got?’

  ‘The blek box. The box you hev taken from the aircraft.’

  Caine started. ‘What black box?’

  ‘We know you hev it,’ the German officer said. His face had turned slightly redder under the pall of dust. ‘We followed your treks from the aircraft. Gif us the blek box and we will let you go.’

  Caine pulled at his chin thoughtfully. Fiske was right: that box must really be something.

  ‘Why? What is it?’ he asked.

  The Jerry shrugged. ‘I do not know this. I hev my orders, only. My orders are to bring it back.’

  Caine hesitated. The Hun’s eyes were keen: he was deadly serious. ‘What if we don’t hand it over?’

  ‘Then we take it.’ The Jerry took a breath: his smile wavered. ‘To refuse is foolish. You are a small unit. We scout ahead of a whole Totenkopf battalion, which will be here shortly. After that the 164 Panzer Division comes this way. If you do not give us the box you will be crushed.’

  Caine fought to keep his face straight. The Hun subaltern had just given away int. with a grim bearing on the Nighthawk op – if it was true, that was. It could be a deliberate bluff. He cursed himself for his impulsive behaviour in investigating the Mayday signal. Now the el-Fayya bridge might never get blown at all, and, if so, it might not be just one battalion hitting Freyberg in the rear, but a whole division. That would probably mean curtains for Monty’s flanking movement, and maybe a new stalemate in the campaign. He doubted that this Jerry knew that Caine’s unit had been ordered to sabotage the bridge, otherwise he wouldn’t be interested only in the black box. He must believe that the SAS patrol had also been sent to retrieve it.

  Caine sucked air through his nostrils: he had to take down that bridge at any cost, and his decision now might change the course of the Tunisian campaign. A lot depended on how far he could trust this Death’s Head wallah.

  ‘How do we know you’ll keep your word?’ he demanded.

  The Jerry let the flag droop, drew himself up straight. ‘Because I am an officer and a gentleman.’

  Caine suppressed a smirk. ‘I need to think about it,’ he said.

  ‘I gif you five minutes,’ the Jerry said sternly. ‘I will go back to my vehicle. Leave the box where we can see it, and go. We will not try to stop you.’

  He inclined his head sharply, turned, marched off as if relieved to have survived this far. Caine watched him go, saw the flag snap on its broomhandle.

  He ducked back into the cover of the scree, crouched behind the shatterstone jumble. Wallace was still hefting the bazooka in Caine’s position, Trubman crouched next to him. ‘Keep that AFV in your sights, Fred,’ Caine told him. He shuftied Cope lying in the tufa, rifle at the shoulder: he saw Fiske, Quinnell and Jizzard raking him with beaded eyes. ‘What do you think, Harry?’ he asked.

  Copeland’ s forehead puckered. ‘It’s a bluff, skipper,’ he said. ‘Has to be. That black box must be important. My bet is that they daren’t blitz us, in case they demolish it. That’s the only reason I can think of for waving a white flag when you’ve got superior firepower. We must have knocked off at least five of ’em. If that was our men, we’d be screaming for revenge, not conflabbing. Yet that chap didn’t turn a hair. I reckon he’s got no choice.’

  Caine nodded: it was an acute observation – why hadn’t it occurred to him? He scratched his chin. ‘Did you hear what he said? About 164 Panzer Div. coming this way?’

  ‘May be bullshit too.’

  ‘I say dump the bloody box, sah,’ Jizzard said, his voice queasy. ‘Let’s get rid of it and let’s get oota here.’

  Fiske seared him with steelball eyes. He turned to Caine. ‘It would be a mistake to give them the box, Captain. It could be very important. If Mr Copeland is right, they wouldn’t dare shell us while we’ve got it.�
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  Caine hesitated. He glanced over the outcrops, clocked the Jerry officer leaning against his vehicle, smoking. The AFV hadn’t moved, neither had her turret.

  He turned back to the expectant faces. ‘I’m giving them the black box,’ he said.

  Fiske’s eyelids came down like iron shutters, then snapped open. ‘But, sir …’

  ‘You sure, Tom?’ Copeland said. He ran blackgrimed fingers through his hair. ‘You trust that Kraut to keep his word?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Caine said, ‘but if we do a bunk, they’ll come after us. Our priority is to blow that bridge, and we can’t do it under fire. It’s a risk any way you slice it, but my hunch is that he’ll stick to his promise.’

  Cope made a choking sound in his throat. For a moment, Caine thought he was going to tell him that he should have got his priorities right before dropping them in this mess.

  Fiske licked his lips with the tip of a white tongue: his eyes were as wide and unblinking as a lizard’s. ‘I don’t think that’s wise …’

  ‘Your bad luck you’re not in command, then,’ Caine cut him off. ‘I’ve made my decision. Harry, take these three and start the jeeps, bring ’em here. We’ll dump the box and drive like the blazes.’

  Copeland nodded, tipped his head at the others: they began to crawl back towards the pits where the jeeps were hidden. Caine scrambled abreast of Wallace and Trubman. ‘Jeeps are coming,’ he said. ‘When I give the word, move out – keep that weapon loaded.’

  ‘I reckon you’re doin’ right, Tom,’ Big Wallace grunted. ‘We don’t need that box. Whatever it is, it’s a bleedin’ liability.’

  ‘Yeah. We’ve copped for a lot of those on this trip.’

  He heard jeep motors gun. This was going to be a tense manoeuvre, he reflected. He could send two of the jeeps on ahead while the others unloaded the box, but he wasn’t sure the Huns would accept that. On the other hand, all three vehicles would be exposed to enemy fire.

  His thoughts were cut short by the appearance of the wagons, bouncing over the pebblestone undulations. Cope was driving the leading jeep – the one carrying the black box. Fiske drove the W/T wagon behind him: Quinnell and Jizzard brought up the rear.

  Copeland’s vehicle scuttered to a stop a few yards from Caine. Wallace and Trubman were already withdrawing from the hide, the big gunner crooking the bazooka in the great hams of his arms, as if it were an infant. Caine watched them climb into the jeeps, took a breath, stood up. He strode over to the small convoy.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’re going to pull out and stop in full view of the Hun. Quinnell, Jizzard, I want you to fetch the box from my jeep. You set it down halfway between the AFV and us, and withdraw. Got that?’

  ‘Why the bijasus do we have to do it?’ Jizzard quavered.

  ‘Because I say so,’ Caine retorted. ‘We’ll be covering you.’

  He passed his Bren to Wallace, hopped into the seat next to Cope, jerked his Tommy-gun out of the brace. The jeeps moved out of cover, into the plain.

  14

  Caine stopped the jeeps fifty yards from the German armoured car: the Jerry officer stood upright, studied them. Behind the AFV, in the canyon’s maw, Caine could see lorries, motorbikes, a swarm of Totenkopf troopers. They weren’t making any move: just knowing he was in their sights made him jittery. He slid from his seat, gripped his trenchsweeper.

  A bloodorange sun lay in the peaks, drew a last sill of flash and glitter athwart an ashcoloured sky smudged with long flumes of darkness. The hills were humpbacked goblins laying down reefs of murk on the gilded plain.

  Wallace straddled the black box: Caine beckoned Jizzard and Quinnell. They sidled up to the jeep, rifles slung. ‘Hand it down, will ye, big man,’ Quinnell told Wallace. The gunner clamped racketsized hands each side of the box, heaved. The box didn’t move. His mouth garfished: he gasped, let go. ‘What the flamin’ hell is this?’ he demanded. He spat on his hands, squatted on his haunches, grabbed the box again, heaved, grunted. It didn’t shift.

  ‘Come on, ye great ox,’ Quinnell chuckled, blinking. ‘And ye call yeself a strong man.’

  Wallace let go, fixed Quinnell with a goateyed glare. ‘Hey rent-a-gob,’ he spat. ‘You wanna try?’

  Jizzard and Quinnell leaned over the chassis, strained on the box. It didn’t budge. ‘It won’t come,’ Quinnell panted. ‘It’s stuck fast, so it is.’

  ‘It’s like it’s welded to the jeep or something,’ Jizzard spat.

  Wallace guffawed. ‘Who’s the great fairies now?’

  Caine elbowed them out of the way, had a go at shifting it for himself: the box was fixed hard – no play, no wobble. He glanced up at Wallace, mystified. ‘It’s either stuck to the chassis, or it’s got heavier.’

  ‘It must be bloody heavy,’ Wallace guttered. ‘I can tote five hundred pounds deadlift easy, but I couldn’t shift it a blind inch.’

  ‘How can it have got heavier?’ Quinnell said. ‘Sure, that’s not possible, sir.’

  Wallace slid out his bayonet. He was about to probe the base of the box when the blade was suddenly tugged from his fingers. The bayonet hit the box with a clang and stuck there.

  All four of them flinched, stared in wonder.

  ‘Mother of God,’ Quinnell hissed. ‘It’s magnetic.’

  ‘Stand back!’ Caine yelled. ‘Hold on to your grenades – if it drags them in they could detonate.’

  Wallace jumped down from the jeep: the four of them backed away two or three yards.

  Fiske and Trubman were looking on stupefied from the W/T jeep. Copeland moved round to get a better look. ‘You mean we can’t get it off,’ he said in surprise. ‘What are we going to tell Fritz?’

  Caine cocked a nervous eye towards the German officer: he was watching them curiously. He didn’t know what was going on yet, but he knew something was.

  ‘What we gonnae do now?’ whined Jizzard. ‘We’ll never get it off.’

  Caine scowled. He had no idea what was happening, and he wasn’t ready to start explaining it to the Hun. There was no choice: they’d have to hook it, black box and all. He touched Wallace’s broad arm. ‘You still got the bazooka loaded, Fred?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Get it out – on the sly, mind. Get down behind the front of the jeep. When I give the word, poke a rocket straight through that turret.’

  The giant swallowed: his throat tightened. ‘Got it, skipper.’

  ‘And Fred, you better hit the spot, mate, or we’ll be strawberry jam.’

  Jizzard was staring at Caine with mushy eyes. ‘But sah, didn’t you say they’d follow us …’

  ‘You got a better idea?’

  ‘No, sah.’

  ‘Then shut it. We’ll have to take our chance. You and Quinnell get back to your jeep. Don’t run. The second Wallace lets rip, start up, lay down suppressive fire with the Vickers, motor like the wind towards that pass. If we get split up, RV there. Tell Taff and Fiske to do the same.’

  Quinnell and Jizzard stomped off. Wallace took the bazooka from the back of the jeep, used the piled-up kit to mask the action. He squatted behind the chassis, pantherwalked to the front end, crouched alongside the bonnet. He set the sights, hefted the stovepipe to his shoulder. Copeland leapt back into the driver’s seat. Caine went round to the passenger’s side, stood casually, looking back at the Hun officer. He tried to hold his pulse in check, drew air through drybone nostrils, resisted the temptation to wave. The Kraut had clicked now: he turned and began to shimmy up the AFV’s body, the white flag discarded. Caine wondered if he’d spotted Wallace – it was too late to stop it, anyway. He felt sweat seep into his eyes.

  The officer was inside the hatch, only his head showing: the turret clattered, the gunbarrel cranked. Caine thought of what Copeland had said – that this might be a bluff – but the 40mm cannon was real enough, and right at that moment he wouldn’t have wanted to bet on it. He noticed that the Jerry troops in the canyon had started advancing. The AFV’s turret rotated, th
e gunmuzzle ranged in a low arc. It would be three seconds before the Kraut drew a bead on them.

  ‘Here she comes,’ Cope said.

  The turret stopped, the gunbarrel tremored: for a horrific instant Caine looked straight into its eye. He was about to hiss ‘Fire!’ when the bazooka spewed flame: the jeep’s chassis rocked, the ground jerked, gritshards flew: the rocket craunched across their front in a swell of curdling air, bucketed into the AFV just where the turret met the main body. The round kerbloonked, the gunbarrel pranged, the turret ballooned out in a gunge of shrapnel and gorehued flame: jags of hot armour plate buzzed, spun, cartwheeled. Caine heard the clack of smallarms from the canyon: bullets razzed past them like fuming bees. Cope had already hit the starter: the motor rumped: they were into a turn before Wallace had plonked the bazooka in the back, vaulted over the side. Copeland swung the vehicle, Wallace planted legs wide, cocked the twin Vickers, pulled metal: twin muzzles speared rimfire, cases clinked, traceries of light leaned into the twilight towards the blazing AFV and the oncoming troops. The other two jeeps were streaking across the plain, laddering the air with coppercoloured dust: Cope accelerated so hard that Wallace had to stop shooting and hang on to the mount. They were soon up abreast of the others, scoring ruts across the matt surface into the last crimson shaftlights of the dying sun.

  15

  There was a beautiful girl in his headlamps. A split second before he tramped the brakes, it occurred to Driver Jack Davis that he was dreaming. The 3-tonner staggered to a halt, scranched her springs: Davis swore, let out a shoosh of breath, shook his head roughly to rid himself of the apparition. The bint was still there, though, and she was a stunner: shapely figure, blond hair with an enticing peek-a-boo wave over her left eye, nice pins under an evening dress that showed the bulge of proud knockers. She had a cape draped over her shoulders and carried an elegant handbag. She was waving at him.

  Davis’s lorry was the last in the ‘C’ Echelon convoy, humping field rations to a dump outside the city. It was 2115 hours on a Cairo night: the moon was a bright cheeseparing, the streets burdened with cobalt shadow. Davis, a cocky 20-year-old from Bedford, with a ratlike face and diapered ears, had already had to work hard to follow the tail lights of the vehicle ahead. Now he’d lost the convoy completely.