Death or Glory III

by Michael Asher

  There was a spare medical kit in the front of the jeep. He had to get it, but with his wounded elbow he couldn’t crawl. His head girandoled: the yard cartwheeled about him. He closed his eyes. It’s all right, sitting here. It’s peaceful. Why move? I can just sit here and go to sleep. He was drifting away, floating slowly undersea. He heard a series of five staccato cracks from a .303 on the other side. It brought him back. Five shots. Copeland’s SMLE. He forced his eyes open, knew he had to shift: if he didn’t he’d bleed to death.

  He lurched to his feet, jellylegged it towards the jeep. He made it to the W/T shelf, sprawled across it, mewled through his teeth, leaned on his right arm. He was about to launch himself to the front of the jeep when he heard a rasp of static: the tee-ta-tee-ta-tee dicker of Morse from far away. For a moment he thought it was a hallucination: but no – it was coming from the headphones. I’ve got comms. Someone’s trying to contact me. His good hand was trapped under him, holding his cap-comforter to his injured elbow. He tried to grab the headset with the other hand, howled as a new pulse of agony crackled. He ground his teeth, flexed his fingers, felt them wriggle, felt his senses pirouette, let out a long aaaaaaaiiiiiii, felt the headset in his hand, held it shakily to one ear.

  At first there was only mush: then a stream of Morse code blipped suddenly out at him through the headphone – the steady hand of a master, lucid as crystal. Trubman gasped: the message was coming in clear – in unciphered Morse. The airswell of dahs and dits spoke to him in the familiar syllables of a mother tongue: he grasped its meaning instantly: Charlie Delta Bravo, this is Charlie Delta Alpha. Nothing heard from you. Your position unknown. Message from Sunray. Our objective achieved. Situation now mobile. Your presence in field no longer required. Withdraw immediately. Repeat. Withdraw immediately. Return to base. Echo Foxtrot Zulu dispatched to cover you. Sunray’s message ends. Roger this message, over.

  Trubman couldn’t believe he’d heard right. He contracted his hand to take the Morse key, knew he couldn’t do it: the message would have to go unacknowledged. There was a pause: the message was repeated. He smiled blissfully, felt tears of gratitude in his eyes: it was all over. Charlie Delta Bravo was his own callsign: Charlie Delta Alpha was Fraser’s SAS HQ: Sunray was Fraser. Our objective achieved meant that Freyberg’s New Zealand division had taken the Tebaga Gap: situation mobile meant the Kiwis were now heading for Gabes, outflanking the Axis on the Mareth Line. They’ve done it. Caine’s patrol hadn’t blown the el-Fayya bridge, but that didn’t matter: they’d held off the Totenkopf battalion long enough to prevent them harrassing Freyberg’s rear. Even if the Totenkopf battalion broke through now, they’d never catch up with Freyberg before he reached Gabes. The best news of all was Echo Foxtrot Zulu dispatched to cover your withdrawal. Echo Foxtrot Zulu was a flight of Blenheim bombers of the Desert Air Force: the Brylcreem Boys were on their way.

  Trubman let the headset fall, tried to raise himself. He heard a ruckle of machine-gun fire from the front position – the Vickers – three extended bursts tack-tack-tack-tack-tack … The shooting stopped: Trubman heard the distinctive clang of working parts closing on an empty chamber. For a moment silence hooshed. The smile was wiped off his face: it hit him suddenly that Echo Foxtrot Zero might be here too late.

  31

  Caine and Copeland dragged Quinnell to the tunnel, set him down against the wall. He looked bad: his eyes were flipped over so far that only the whites showed. Caine inspected his mutilated knee, saw bone-ends like jagged sawteeth. He guessed that the round had hit his ankle, travelled along the shinbone, blown out through the kneecap: there wasn’t much blood, though.

  Quinnell was still carrying his medical pack: Caine fished in it for a syrette of morphia, gave him the shot above the knee. He took out two field-dressings, ripped one open with his teeth, pressed the pad on the main wound, knotted the ends. He tore open the other, tied it tight around Quinnell’s shin. It took him about five minutes, and by that time the morphia was starting to work. He could see the Irishman’s pupils again: his breathing was heavy, his lips set in an idiotic smile.

  The wound in Caine’s side stung like hell: his arm felt as if it had been barbecued. He was also starting to get Benzedrine burnout: he retrieved Bennies from Quinnell’s medical bag, popped four, washed them down with a gobful of water from his canteen.

  Copeland crouched against the wall, tried to bandage his left bicep. Caine went to help him.

  ‘Looks like a soft-tissue job,’ he said.

  Cope spat sideways. ‘You should have seen Cutler. He was …’ He winced: the butchershop scene was distant, as if it had happened a week ago. ‘Must have been an explosive bullet …’

  Caine thought about Grimshaw, recalled the image of the Bren-carrier ramming the German AFV. ‘What the flaming heck did Shorty think he was up to?’

  ‘Must have been popped up.’

  ‘Either that or he was a brave bastard. Must be dead, anyway.’

  ‘I’m not going out there to look for bits of him.’

  Hun rounds went goompah: stone chips shellacked across the entrance. They ducked, forgot they were protected by the blockstone walls. ‘They’ll soon be down,’ Copeland said. ‘We need to get out, skipper.’

  Caine finished tying the dressing. ‘I’m not going without Fred and Taff.’

  ‘Taff? You volunteering to go up for a dekko?’

  ‘I’m hit, boys,’ a voice croaked.

  They gandered sideways, saw Trubman crab it in through the opposite end of the tunnel, his pudding face like death warmed up, his smock goresoaked, clutching his left elbow, his arm limp across his chest. Caine saw his eyeballs roll, jumped up, grabbed him before he collapsed. He helped him over, sat him down against the wall next to Quinnell.

  ‘Where’d you cop it, mate? Elbow?’

  ‘I gotta tell you, skipper … ’

  ‘Don’t talk. Let’s have a dekko.’

  Caine knelt, lifted Trubman’s arm, heard him yawp.

  ‘You need morphia.’

  ‘No, I gotta tell you …’

  ‘It can wait.’

  He was about to snatch another syrette from the bag when the Welshman stuck out a pudgy hand: Caine clocked the rabid scarlet burn on his wrist. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind that, skipper. Message from Tac-HQ. Freyberg’s through Tebaga. We’re to hook it. RAF Blenheims are on the way.’

  For a second Caine thought Trubman was delirious: he glanced at Cope, saw disbelief in his eyes.

  ‘It’s true, Tom,’ Trubman pleaded. ‘Came in clear, with all the access codes.’

  Caine nodded, spat. ‘How long before the kites get here? They give you an ETA?’

  ‘Nope. They don’t know our position. I couldn’t work the Morse key even to roger the message. I reckon they’ll fly in along the highroad: they’ll know we’re here somewhere.’

  Caine frowned. ‘Could be any time between five minutes and an hour. We can’t wait for ’em. We have to go.’

  He made a quick decision: they’d put Quinnell and Trubman in the jeep, lam it down into the lee of the butte, out of Nazi sight. Then he would take a shufti at the gunpit. ‘The wagon still in order?’ he asked.

  ‘Looks OK. Bren-carrier’s gone, though.’

  ‘Yep. Grimshaw wrapped it round a Kraut AFV.’

  ‘He bought one?’

  ‘No one could have come through that. Dunno about the two in the pit, but I’m not sloping off without a gander.’

  ‘You mean broach the gunpit?’ Copeland cut in. ‘That’s crazy, Tom. There’s a shitload of Squareheads down there, remember?’

  ‘Didn’t we just grease their backsides?’

  ‘So they scarpered. That doesn’t mean Wallace and Jizzard are still standing. Anyway, the Krauts’ll be back soon as they realize we’ve stopped shooting. Probably already are.’

  ‘What if Wallace and Jizzard are alive? You want to leave them to those cocksuckers?’

  Cope swallowed hard, fingered his inj
ured arm. ‘Listen, mate. When those Jerries on the ridge get here, they’ll drop fire right down on the pit.’

  ‘No they won’t,’ Quinnell’s voice rasped. ‘Not if I’ve anything to do with it.’

  Caine and Copeland turned to stare at the Irishman. His face was still green, but his eyes were bright. His lips had lost their dreamy pout: he looked grim and alert.

  ‘You’re badly wounded, mate,’ Copeland said. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Quinnell smiled painfully. ‘I never thought I’d be happy to hear a Brit officer call me mate. But I am. You pulled me out of that sangar under fire. You risked your life. That was a brave thing to do, and I thank ye for it. Now I’m going to return the favour. No bloody Kraut’ll get past that tunnel end while I’m still breathing.’

  Copeland held Quinnell’s gaze for a second, wondering if he was still compos mentis. ‘You’re wounded,’ he said again. ‘You’re in no state to cover us.’

  ‘I’m wounded in the leg, not the arms. I can still shoot.’

  Copeland glanced at Caine: Caine returned the look. On the one hand he was tempted to agree: Quinnell was partly responsible for their predicament. He’d deserted, and it seemed fitting that he should make amends for it. On the other hand, he’d come back of his own free will, fought bravely: he and Jizzard had saved their bacon when they were in trouble. Caine couldn’t dump Fred: the big gunner was his friend. Quinnell wasn’t, but he was a comrade, and to sell one comrade’s life for another wasn’t right.

  ‘We’re getting you out, Quinnell,’ he said.

  Quinnell chuckled. ‘I’m not going anywhere. The only way ye’ll get me out of here is by shooting me in the head. I’m done for anyway. The moment I turned back with that carrier, I knew I’d have to pay my dues. So here I am. This is me.’

  The words brought a sudden flush of sympathy to Caine’s cheeks. He stared at Quinnell, realized he was deadly serious. ‘What are you going to shoot with?’ he said. ‘You’ve lost your weapon. Anyway, you’d need a machine-gun for that job.’

  Quinnell’s eyes fell on the Tommy-gun slung over Caine’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ve always fancied that weapon of yours,’ he said. ‘Reckon one of they big magazines’d do it?’

  Caine sighed. His Tommy had been his talisman in so many battles: it was an old friend, and he felt he could never part with it. It occurred to him suddenly, though, how mean-minded that was: Quinnell was offering everything, and Caine was ready to begrudge him what was no more than a piece of hardware. He unslung the weapon, checked the 100-round magazine was full, clicked it back in place. He cocked the working parts, weighed the gun for a moment as if he were having second thoughts. Then he thrust it into Quinnell’s hands. ‘Pulls to the right on a long burst,’ he said. ‘Don’t fire too many at once: the working parts get hot.’

  Copeland stood up, hustled Trubman to his feet. ‘We’ll come back for you if we can,’ he told Quinnell.

  ‘Make sure ye do that, now.’

  ‘In case you don’t make it,’ Caine said. ‘Any last message?’

  ‘Long live the Republic,’ Quinnell said.

  32

  Shooting from the ridge had stopped: the Germans must be climbing down to the blockhouse, Caine thought. He scanned the high ground from the back yard, couldn’t see the enemy. Good: we’ve got a chance to shove off without being potshotted. The jeep looked untouched: Caine jumped into the driving seat, started the engine. There was a spare .303 in the seatbrace: he hefted it out, checked the mag. The weapon felt unwieldy compared with his Tommy-gun, but it was better than nothing. He hopped out, signalled to Copeland, still hovering in the tunnel with Trubman. He jammed the brass-edged butt of the Lee-Enfield into his shoulder, hissed at the pain from his arm, crouched over the bonnet, beckoned to Cope, covered him while he supported the signaller across the yard and helped him into the back of the jeep. ‘The Windam aerials,’ Trubman wailed. ‘We might need ’em.’

  ‘Dump them,’ Caine roared. ‘Detach them, Harry.’

  They bumped down the track: Caine heard sporadic fire coming from beyond the gunpit, guessed the Jerry platoons had dug in and were building up for another rush. He couldn’t hear the patterpat of the Bren-gun: the six-pounder remained ominously silent.

  He halted the jeep in the tamarix grove. He and Copeland leapt out, helped Trubman down. They crouched among the tangled trees and big stones, chugged water from canteens. Caine satisfied himself that the place provided solid cover: it was shielded by the rock wall from both the blockhouse above and the Hun units beyond the gap. He noticed that Trubman had found his M1 carbine in the jeep.

  ‘What you doing with that weapon?’ he demanded.

  ‘Same as what you’re doing with yours, skipper.’

  ‘I’m going to recce the gunpit.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Caine let out a gasp of exasperation. ‘You’re out of action, Taff.’

  ‘And you’re not? You copped it worse than me, but I don’t notice you excusing yourself.’

  ‘Privilege of command. Anyway, I need you here to make sure the Huns don’t nab the jeep.’

  ‘That’s Quinnell’s job. That’s why he stayed up there.’

  Copeland was scanning the skies for aircraft: he looked worried. ‘Where the heck are the kites? There must be three Jerry platoons out there. As soon as we stick our noses out, they’ll snaffle us.’

  ‘Why not do it in the jeep?’ Trubman suggested. ‘Just drive up fast with all guns blazing.’

  ‘There’s a better way,’ Caine said. He pointed to the base of the escarpment on the other side of the gap, about fifty yards distant. ‘There’s a gully on that side. It’s only about two feet deep, but it’ll do. We can crawl down as far as the gunpit.’

  Copeland nodded warily. ‘We’ve still got to get across the gap, skipper. We’ll be picked off.’

  ‘We’ll cover each other and take our chances,’ Caine said. He cleared his .303, ejected a round, caught it with his left hand. He removed the magazine, thumbed the round back in, searched his pouches for ammunition. He came up with only a couple of rounds, regarded them sadly. ‘Got any ammunition, Harry?’

  Copeland didn’t need to check. ‘One full mag of .303 for the SMLE and one of .45 for the pistol. That’s it.’

  ‘You, Taff ?’

  ‘Thirty M1 rounds, and a full magazine in my Colt.’

  ‘Give me the M1. It’ll be more use in the gunpit than a .303 with ten rounds.’

  Trubman scratched his eye under the cracked lens. ‘I’ll need it myself, skipper. It’s light enough to be fired one-handed, see.’

  Caine felt irritated: technically, Trubman had just refused two direct orders. Not that he’d ever stood on ceremony, but the signaller’s new resolute manner was disconcerting. ‘I told you you’re staying here,’ he snapped. ‘With your arm in that state you’ll never manage to crawl down the gully.’

  ‘I’m not sitting this one out, skipper. We’ve been through plenty of shit together: I’m not deserting you now.’ The signaller sounded as determined as Quinnell had: Caine knew it was an expression of deep personal loyalty rather than of insubordination: he was moved almost to tears.

  He turned away, dekkoed Copeland, watched him jack a sniper-round into the chamber of his weapon. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any use my ordering you to stay, either, is it, Harry?’

  Cope’s ice-coloured eyes were strained: he shook his head grimly. ‘Not on your nelly, Tom. But let’s make a dash for the gully together: fire and movement will only alert the Krauts, and one of us is bound to cop it.’

  ‘OK.’

  They checked their weapons: Trubman considered his M1 carbine gravely, frowned at it, handed it reluctantly to Caine. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll never fire it one-handed. I’ll stick to the Colt.’

  Copeland found the Very pistol and flares: they would need them when the RAF arrived – if they ever did. Copeland and Trubman swallowed Benzedr
ine tabs: Caine found a crushed packet of Victories in his pocket. There were only two flattened fags left: he slung the M1, lit one with his Zippo, passed it round.

  He took the last long drag, closed his eyes, held the smoke in his lungs, felt the nicotine fire up in his drug-laden blood. Was he doing the right thing? He’d already lost most of the patrol: he couldn’t deny that it was his decision to investigate the STENDEC aircraft that had dropped them in it. If they’d just blown the bridge and run, they’d be back with Fraser’s force by now. Fiske wouldn’t have had any reason to mutiny and desert. That bloody black box. Maurice Pickney warned me not to touch it. No he didn’t: Pickney’s dead.

  But wasn’t he making the same mistake again? We’ve been ordered to withdraw: it doesn’t matter that the Totenkopf are across the ravine – it’s too late for them to stop Freyberg. It’d be so easy to just hop into the jeep, pile back down the road and let the bombers deal with the Krauts. There was no more than an even chance that Wallace and Jizzard were alive, but if Caine dumped them, he’d have it on his conscience for ever.

  He let the smoke dribble from his nostrils, stamped the fagbutt under his boot, paused for a moment, conjured up a vivid image of Betty Nolan. She was the one thing I had to live for, and they knew it. That was how they got me into this. I’ll never find anyone like her again. If I get through it, though, I’ll wrap that fucking black box round Fiske’s head. I’ll see to it that Caversham and the others rot in hell.

  Copeland touched his hand. ‘Ready, mate?’

  Caine put an arm round both their shoulders: he wanted to say something, to say sorry, to say thanks, but he couldn’t. ‘Let’s go for it, then,’ he said.

  They sprinted across the track in a cluster, so fast that the Jerries didn’t have time to sight up on them. It wasn’t until they were safely in the gully that rounds started scissoring over their heads, scuffing sand, starbursting stones. The shooting was languid, Caine realized: they’d been clocked all right, but the Squareheads weren’t wasting any ammo. They squirmed like maggots along the sandy bed, Caine leading, Trubman in the middle, crawling lopsidedly on his good hand, Copeland bringing up the rear. They covered the distance to the bend in jerks, pausing for breath every ten yards. By the time Caine judged he was abreast of the gunpit, he was in agony from his wounds. He snorted breaths, saw that Trubman was dragging behind.