Death or Glory III

by Michael Asher

  He jabbed the trigger furiously, spunted rounds, saw a Jerry crash and burn. He squeezed again: the breechblock chumped. Jizzard cursed: he’d forgotten to count rounds. It’s Caine’s bloody job to keep the bloody Hun off the pit. The Totenkopf were still coming, reaming off rounds in spasms: bullets buzzed, leapt off the parapet.

  A .30 ricochet hopscotched off the gunbarrel, passed between Wallace’s jaw and windpipe, threw him off his feet. I’m hit. I’m fucking hit.

  Jizzard traileyed him, saw him sprawled on his back between the guntrails like a great washed-up walrus, grasping his neck with shovelhead hands: blood pulsed between his fingers. His dark birdeyes were glassy, his mangled jaw worked, but no words came out. Jizzard’s pulse tripped. Get up, man. For Chrissakes, get up.

  He was furious with Wallace, furious with the Krauts, furious with Caine. Jerries darted nearer: Jizzard clocked Kaiser hats, squinteyes, rictus teeth, rifle muzzles, bayonet-glint. He reached for a fresh mag, changed his mind, drew his Colt .45. He saw Squareheads on the parapet, felt a hammerblow in the chest, stumbled back, wheezed bile. He felt no pain, only anger. I’ll fix ye, ye Nazi swine. He whoffed rounds at the first Kraut, felt the Colt jerk, heard flesh punched, saw a redblack eruption on a fieldgrey chest.

  Another Jerry dropped into the pit, growled like a dog: a squat soldier with mad eyes, bad teeth, and a two-day stubble, hefting a Schmeisser. Jizzard gave him two bullets, point blank, hit him in the chops, mashed his underjaw, severed his tongue, drilled a .45 calibre cavity through the roof of his mouth. The Jerry thrashed: Jizzard backed away, hit the wall, saw blood tricking from his own chest, gagged for air. Wallace was still down. Get up for Jesus’ sake. I’m sorry I cracked ye one: don’t dump me now.

  Wallace blinked, drank in sootsmudged sky, felt a searing pain in his jaw, saw his hands blood-drenched, heard the rasp of his own breath. He turned his head, clocked Jizzard against the far wall, clocked the writhing Kraut, whiffed blood, tasted scorched meat. Two more Germans leapfrogged into the pit: Jizzard fired at them, missed. A broadhipped Kraut with sergeant’s insignia and mildewed teeth stuck a bayonet into Jizzard’s midriff: Wallace heard the squelch of guts, heard Jizzard squall, saw him drool blood, saw him slide down the wall. The sergeant bent over to pull out the bayonet: the other Jerry shot Jizzard in the groin.

  Wallace rose, grunting, reaming blood: he drew his Purdey sawnoff, levelled it, hooked twin triggers, pumped both barrels, heard the double whooooompppphhhh, watched buckshot snag both Krauts side-on: he saw the Jerries jerk, saw cloth fried, saw tissue blasted, saw arterial gunge squiff, glimpsed white ribcage under peeled-off skin. He dropped the sawnoff, shipped his Colt, dragged himself forward, held his neck with one hand, gulped down bloody gloop. He beaded more Huns on the parapet, heard the air quaver, heard a machine-gun snarl, felt the earth rumble, felt his senses burn. He let his weapon fall, let the world shrug, slipped down a long black valley into stardecked night.

  30

  Cutler’s hands felt like they’d been put through a meatgrinder. His right palm had a hole through it: his left thumb was hanging off: both hands were pumping blood. Quinnell wrapped them in field-dressings. ‘Thumb needs stitches, but you’ll be all right.’

  Rounds thunka-thunked off the wall: Cutler and Quinnell dipped: unseen Huns bawled orders below.

  ‘Can’t bloody shoot back,’ Cutler moaned.

  Quinnell was still thinking about the collision he’d witnessed: someone had sacrificed himself deliberately. The door of his aid-post was open: it didn’t take much nous to work out that Grimshaw had hoofed it: it could only have been him in the Bren-carrier. That’s my grenade daisy-chain up the spout. Took me hours to set that up. I was saving it for the last ditch, too.

  He told Cutler what he’d seen. ‘Must have gone bonkers,’ he said.

  Cutler’s face was grey. ‘Shorty’s a bloody hero. That AFV could have done for us. It would’ve been all right if I hadn’t muffed the shot.’

  ‘You couldn’t help it. You were hit.’

  ‘Shut up, Paddy. Give me a wet.’

  Quinnell leaned over, gave Cutler a gulp from his canteen. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. His own throat was parched, his lips split and sore: there was half an inch of paste on his tongue. There were jerrycans lying around the jeep when we pulled out Caine, Wallace and Grimshaw. I was too windy to stop and pick them up.

  Vagrant rounds clattered: Quinnell corked the waterbottle, heard Copeland’s steady rhythm of aimed shots from his right. The pattern of bursts from Caine on his left, and Trubman, above, had dwindled: they must be short of ammo. He heard the ratatat of a Bren from the distant gunpit, heard the six-pounder gumf, heard the shell pancake: Wallace and Jizzard are still fighting.

  Quinnell crouched against sandbags: his smock was splattered with Cutler’s blood. He dug in his webbing, came up with a bandolier: two clips, five .303 rounds each. That’s all there is. His hands were shaking. Look what happened to Cutler. There’s no way I’m going to stick my head over the top. He forced himself to pick up his Lee-Enfield, released the magazine, gripped it in his left hand, set his teeth, fed in clips with rigid determination. Cutler watched him through painshot eyes. His gaze fell on the two-inch mortar. He nodded at it. ‘I reckon I could still fire that.’

  ‘There’s only two bombs left.’

  He clicked the magazine home, lugged the cocking handle, coiled the sling round his elbow, murmured a Hail Mary, steeled himself. Come on, you Paddy wanker. Get going. As he turned away, Cutler raised himself to his knees, made a bid for the mortar. Quinnell didn’t hear the falling shots that carved off one side of Cutler’s head: he saw the face expand, billow like a rubber mask, saw a skull unrivet, saw a cheek ripped out, saw jaws unhinge, saw an eye pop like a soapbubble, felt himself splashed with brainmatter, felt an intense burning pain in the knee. I’m shot. Quinnell folded: his head millwheeled: he fought to stay alive.

  In the next sangar, Copeland had been grazed by a bullet that had flipped off the wall, travelled along his left arm, scored a groove in his bicep. He bellowed in shock, pressed himself against the sandbag wall. It took him only a second to work out that the volley had come from high up. The Krauts have got on to the ridge above the blockhouse. He craned his neck to shufti over the side, was met by a barrage that tattered sandbag tops: he ducked, but not before he’d clocked pokes of fire from the ridge, maybe two hundred feet up. The Totenkopf boys had done what he’d thought impossible – they’d scaled the sheer cliff of the gorge, put a squad on the slab above. It was only smallarms fire: when they got a mortar up there, it’d be like spearing fish in a tidepool. Our position’s done for. There’s no option but to pull the defence. Even then, we’ve got about as much chance as a snowflake in a furnace. Copeland felt deep regret for Angela Brunetto, the moody, sensuous, incredible Italian girl he would probably never see again. He knew she’d been in love with him, knew she couldn’t possibly have been the spy they said she was. He wondered if she was alive, wished he had had the chance to kiss her goodbye.

  Blood blubbed from his left arm: it felt as if he’d been branded. He willed the pain away, cursed himself for underestimating the enemy. He’d told himself that the blockhouse was the perfect position, and he’d been wrong. It had been a mistake to try and defend it: SAS troops weren’t meant for defensive actions.

  Cope swallowed, flexed his bloody left hand to make sure he could still use it, saw redgored fingers ripple. He wiped the palm on his smock, grabbed the forward stock of his SMLE, shouldered the butt, scraped a round into the chamber. This has to be the fastest shooting I’ve ever done. He took five quick breaths, drew his upper torso clear of the sandbagged wall, snapped his eye to the telescopic sights, zeroed in on dark blobs on the ridge above, snatched steel, boosted fire, worked the handle like lightning, fired again, again, again, again and again. He didn’t wait to see if he’d hit anyone: he bobbed down, laid his weapon across his forearms, snaked out of the sangar working elbows and knees.

&nbs
p; Slugs dropped from the blue with a tuningfork hum, pranged metal, twisted steel. The Browning was shot out of Trubman’s hands: he went down with it on top of him, got the redhot barrel across his wrist, smelt seared flesh, screeched with pain. He shoved the gun away with a fist, lay frozen in a foetal curl: bullets rained down like hailstones, sawed through the sandbags, cut them to pieces, showered him with sand. He had never felt so petrified: he couldn’t move. That’s enough. That’s enough. I’m nothing to do with this. I’m a signalman. I shouldn’t be here. Stop it now. A bullet mosquitoed past his ear: a bolt of cold terror shook him wide awake. Never amount to anything, you won’t, boy. No good at sports. Can’t play rugby. Couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding. Royal Signals, that’s for nellies, that is. The enemy was above him: if he tried to crawl to the ladder, they’d spot him from up there, and they’d kill him. A round screwlined past his ear, galvanized his body into action. His heart jolted, he drew in sand-dust, ate cordite stink: he willed his hands to move, felt the wristburn sting, whimpered. I’m a twice-decorated soldier. Bravery, dah. His Majesty’s High Appreciation. I’m SAS. Special Air Service Regiment.

  He forced himself up on hands and knees, wheeled his body, monkey-ran out of the sangar headfirst. Enemy fire shaved air, notched masonry: his limbs worked with what seemed like impossible speed: for a moment it felt so ridiculous that he gurgled with madcap laughter. He saw the shaftends of the ladder in front of him, knew it was the moment of truth. He grasped one shaft with his sound hand, swung his body off the roof, felt hot iron snap his left elbow. He almost fell, managed to steady himself with the other hand, felt himself sliding helterskelter down the ladder, felt woodburn, felt splinters lacerate his right palm, hit the yard beneath, went down like a ton of lead.

  Copeland paused at the middle sangar, shuftied inside, saw a scene so sick he almost puked. Cutler’s corpse lay propped against the wall: his head was like a weird melted-wax sculpture, one side intact, the other a red pulp of shirred bone, charred steak: an eye like a crushed grape dangled on a string of nerve. Explosive bullet. Cutler’s chin was missing: bits of his shattered jaw poked out, relics of teeth protruded like dogfangs from the mess. Brain matter dripped down his shoulders, pooled under his legs: the sangar smelt like a firegutted abbattoir: the floor was smeared with blood: the walls were spattered with fried skinparings in burgundy streaks.

  Quinnell sat opposite Cutler: his eyes were glazed white clockballs in a face purple with arterial blood, speckled with globs of tissue-like congealed glue. His kneecap was one big exit-wound – sheared sinew, shanked meat, stripmined bone. Cope guessed the bullet had scraped his shin, chiselled nerve-ends, chamfered flesh. He shivered. Quinnell’s alive. The pain must be hellish.

  Enemy weapons squittered: bullets flew past with ribald shrieks.

  ‘Come on, Quinnell,’ Copeland croaked. ‘You’ve got to get out of it, now.’

  Quinnell opened his eyes: his pupils bulged. Yellowgrey saliva oozed from his mouth. ‘Can’t do it, sir.’

  Copeland hustled furiously into the sangar, kneeslid on gore, handskated on bloodslick. He hung his rifle over a shoulder, gripped Quinnell’s arm, pulled him hard. Quinnell let out a shocking scream: Copeland swore, kept heaving. Hun rounds guffawed: Copeland bit his lip, tried not to imagine the agony Quinnell must be in. He flexed whipcord muscles, dragged the screaming Irishman clear of the sangar, lumped a breath, came up into a crouch, snaked an arm between Quinnell’s legs, boosted him across his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

  In the end-sangar, Caine watched Grimshaw’s kamikaze crash with disbelief. He didn’t have time to think about it: the Totenkopf point-platoon was mooching dangerously near the gunpit. The morphia was wearing off: he felt queasy. He had a splitting headache, his lips were parched, his wounds smarted like fire. He’d been confident at the beginning, but the Krauts were moving in steadily, drawing the net tighter and tighter: his ammunition would soon be out. He slapped a fresh pan on the Vickers, slammed down the top cover, lined up the muzzle just in front of the leading Huns. He boosted a spread, saw a Jerry go bowbacked, saw another saw air. He wellied off more short bursts of three and four rounds, aimed at bodies, tried to make every bullet count.

  Rounds thrashed behind him, banged out wallchunks, flamed up sandbag hemp. What the devil … He dekkoed over his shoulder: it took him a sec to spot the Huns up on the ridge: then he flushed cold. The bloody bastards have got up there after all. It hit him that none of the SAS boys was shooting back: Trubman’s Browning was dumb. Where the heck are Cutler, Quinnell and Cope? Sweat stung his eyes: his heart clumped. For a horrific second he thought he was on his own: they’d all been scragged. Then he heard Copeland’s trusty bunduk crank with incredible speed: bomfff-chack bomfff-chack bomfff-chack bomfff-chack bomfff-chack: five rounds. A second later Copeland came leopardcrawling frantically out of the sangar as if his arse were alight.

  Volleys from the ridge went quiet. Caine gripped the Vickers’ tripod with his right hand, shifted the gun a couple of yards to the opposite wall, squatted behind it. He elevated the barrel, saw Copeland dive into Cutler’s position, heard the pitch and crack of Jerry’s reprise, heard the eddy of echoes, the backslam of ricochets. He braced the gun, saw Copeland lug Quinnell out of the sangar, saw him heist the shrieking Irishman across his shoulders, saw him stagger straight for Caine’s position. He’ll never make it. He’s a sitting duck. Caine’s guts fluttered: he pulled a breath, hauled iron, brimmed fire, felt muzzlekick, heard spent cases chink, saw tracer darn a helix of rockchip splashes along the ridge. He didn’t ease off until Copeland collapsed into his sangar, pitched Quinnell forward at his feet. Caine clocked the gash on Cope’s arm, saw Quinnell’s blown-out knee. The Irishman wasn’t bawling any more: his eyes were closed.

  ‘Where’s Cutler?’ Caine asked.

  ‘Bought one, mate.’

  ‘Trubman?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘How the heck did the Huns get up there?’

  Copeland shook his head. ‘We’ve had it, Tom.’

  Caine heard a Bren pattercake from downside, heard the six-pounder go kapppowwww, remembered the gunpit, realized with horror that he’d just given the Jerries a chance to overrun it. He yanked the Vickers back to its original position: Copeland struggled to help. Caine lowered the muzzle, angled the sights, dekkoed the pit. It was shrouded in dust and smoke. He saw Huns jogging through the murk. The Bren-fire stopped: he listened in vain for the bang of the field-gun, heard only distant yells, dull smallarms slaps.

  ‘They’re in,’ he grunted. ‘They’ve overrun the pit.’

  He grabbed the field telephone, turned the handle. There was no answer. He spun it again, heard silence.

  Copeland crawled alongside. ‘Nothing we can do, Tom. We’ve got to leg it.’

  Fizzers from the ridge started up again, spunked and crossfired, divotted shrapnel flotsam, creaked up parachutes of stonebats and dust.

  Caine was already reloading the machine-gun. ‘Get Quinnell into the tunnel, Harry,’ he said. ‘This is the last belt. I owe ’em that.’

  ‘Tom –’

  ‘Beat it, Harry. That’s an order.’

  ‘No, sir. Not without you.’

  Caine spat grit, snapped the cocking handle, declined the barrel, drew a line as near to the pitedge as he could without dropping fire inside. Copeland unslung his weapon, stuck it over the parapet, chambered a round. ‘Say when.’

  ‘Fire.’

  The Vickers steamdrilled, vented orange, blustered fire. Caine hammered twenty rounds in a single sequence, saw smokeveiled bodies stumble, saw a Kraut writhe on the parapet, breathed fire on him till he went still. Two Jerries wove uncertainly: Copeland’s rifle whammed so close to Caine it stung his ears: one of the Jerries staggered, tried to right himself: Cope blew off his chin. A bunch of Totenkopf figures scurried away from the pit: Cope picked the tailender, spiked him through the back, saw his guts spew out front. Caine blitzed the rest with his last twenty shells, saw J
erries dance and jiggle, jounce and flip: a sole survivor headed for cover, dragging a maimed leg. Caine squeezed the trigger: the Vickers stopped firing with an obstinate final chunk.

  Trubman was out for a few seconds: when he came round the pain in his elbow was so bad he almost passed out again. His wrist was burning, his right palm stung: his elbow felt as if it had been squeezed through a mangle set with broken glass. He guessed that the bullet had hit the joint: he’d seen a wound like that before: the phrase ulnar nerve palsy sprang into his head. He was lying under the ladder at the base of the blockhouse wall, out of sight of the Jerries on the ridge. That, at least, was good: he could still hear shooting out front.

  He sat up, felt for the field-dressing in his top pocket, couldn’t find it. Instead, he snatched off his cap-comforter, padded it under his elbow, folded the useless arm across his chest. He daren’t look at the wound: he felt warm blood soak his fingers through the cap.

  He became aware that he was sitting in a pool of gore, knew he must be losing blood. The wound had to be dressed. He gazed around the yard, saw it out of focus, realized he’d lost his glasses. He couldn’t remember if he’d had them on when he’d made his dash from the sangar: he felt a sudden wave of helplessness. Then, to his relief, he clocked them lying in the dust a couple of feet away. He stretched to pick them up: the frames were twisted and one of the lenses was cracked, but they would do.

  He put them on, saw the wireless jeep parked by the wall, noticed that the yard gates were open. It struck him that something was missing: the Bren-carrier had gone. He’d been so focussed on the firefight he hadn’t been aware of her exit. The Jerries could have come up behind him and he wouldn’t have heard a damn’ thing. He turned his attention back to the jeep. The drop-down wireless shelf was open: the No. 19 set was still on, with the headphones and Morse key attached, just as he’d left it. The Windam aeriels he’d set up with such effort were still standing: the wire antenna drooped between them like old washing-line.