He took a dekko over the side. The gunpit was still shrouded in dust, but there was no movement: Hun bodies lay in dark huddles around its edge. Further on there was a wider swathe of Jerry dead, where he and Cope had mowed down the retreating horde. To his right he could see the smoking wreck of the armoured car that the gunteam had bagged, with more corpses scattered around it. Beyond that lay the jeep, still on its side, and, at the foot of the cliffs, the AFV Grimshaw had taken out, with what was left of the Bren-carrier smouldering half under its melted wheels.
He could make out no activity on the bridge: the Totenkopf platoons had gone to ground about four hundred yards away behind boulders, trees and grasstufts. There was an occasional puff of rifle smoke from their lines, the irregular rap of a machine-gun, but it was obvious they were making no effort to concentrate fire. What the hell are they waiting for? Why don’t they attack the gunpit? Caine wondered if they were playing it safe, waiting till their mates occupied the blockhouse on the stump above.
Trubman crept up to him panting, with Copeland close behind. ‘There’s something odd here, skipper,’ Cope wheezed. ‘Why haven’t they renewed the assault?’
‘They’ve taken too many casualties?’ Caine suggested. ‘Waiting for reinforcements, maybe?’
‘Or maybe,’ Trubman said, ‘they want prisoners.’
Caine narrowed his eyes, caught Copeland’s keen gaze. ‘Taff might be right,’ Cope said. ‘They could be waiting for us to spring the trap.’
Caine considered it, realized it was a possibility, decided he was going in whatever the risk.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it gives us a fighting chance.’
He peeked over the side again: the gunpit was no more than ten yards away – they’d be there in seconds. ‘You ready?’ he asked.
Copeland clasped his weapon across his chest: Trubman drew his Colt .45. They nodded.
‘Go.’
They made the run in line, spread five yards apart: Caine blasted off a couple of .30 rounds as they raced over the stony ground. Answering bullets scrooped air, slashed around their feet. They’d almost made the pit when Trubman stumbled: Caine grabbed his good arm, dragged him over the parapet. They both landed on their feet inside: Copeland dropped down beside them.
They stared openmouthed at the carnage: the field-gun pocked and bullet-scarred, her shield smeared with blood and draped with flaps of raw tissue, the Bren lying on its side in a winedark pool. Three Huns with their guts spilled, flesh filleted, white bones gaping, were slouched out like blowfish among fricasseed skin and gristle that was spread everywhere: more dead Germans hung over the parapet, arms dangling, bleeding from mouths and nostrils. Fred Wallace was on his back between the guntrails, a downed colossus, stewpan mitt clutching his bloody throat: the legwound he’d taken earlier had opened up – his smock was stiff with gore. Jizzard was sitting against the side of the pit five yards away, arms wrapped round his body, blinking and drooling blood.
Copeland crouched over Wallace. ‘Jesus wept,’ he said.
Caine picked up the Bren: the stock was wet with gore. He retrieved the haversack of spare mags, found a full one. He set the gun on the parapet, cleared it, racked a fresh mag in place.
‘Reckon you can fire a Bren?’ he asked Trubman.
The signaller flexed the fingers of his left hand. ‘I’ve got enough strength there to to hold the stock steady. It’s not going to be Bisley standard, but I reckon I can do it.’
‘If you can’t, use your pistol. If any Kraut gets within fifty yards, blast him.’
Trubman holstered his pistol, moved to the gun without another word.
‘Fred’s alive,’ Copeland said. ‘He’s still breathing, but he’s lost blood.’
Caine suppressed a surge of relief: there was no time for congratulations. He still had Quinnell’s medical pack: he knelt by the big gunner, listened to his frayed breaths, took in the neck wound. It didn’t look critical, he thought. He gave Copeland a field-dressing and a morphia syrette. ‘You see to him,’ he said. ‘I’ll check Jizzard.’
He squatted by the Scotsman: Jizzard blinked at him with inflamed eyes. ‘You’ll be all right,’ Caine said. ‘We’ll get you out.’ Jizzard went on blinking: Caine couldn’t tell if he’d recognized him, or was even aware of his presence. He lifted the Scotsman’s arms gently, saw that he had a gunshot wound in the upper chest, a bayonet gash in the guts: the crotch of his overalls was black and bloody. Caine marvelled that he was still alive, let alone conscious. He drew his bayonet, cut open the trousers at the crotch to examine the wound: saw the red curry of minced tissue that had once been Jizzard’s testicles. There was surprisingly little blood: he’d been hit at point-blank range: the flesh had been cauterized by the hard contact shot. Caine shuddered, dug a pack of gauze out of the medical bag, wadded pads into the wound, bound the area with a dressing. He was turning his attention to the bayonet wound when Jizzard groaned. ‘I can’t feel anything.’
‘You’re numb from shock. It’ll wear off, though. I’m going to dose you with morphia.’
‘Don’t bother, sah. I’m not going to make it. Look after the big man. You let us down, ye know, sah. Ye stopped covering us. The Hun got through.’
Caine’s throat constricted. ‘We got bumped from the ridge. Had to switch fire.’
‘In any case, I reckon I still owe you an apology. For doing what we did. Och, I didnae even wannae come back here. It was Fiske that did it. Saying I was yellow.’
‘No one can call you yellow after this.’
A feeble smile played on Jizzard’s lips. ‘There won’t be any after this, sah.’ His hand sought Caine’s: Caine held it firmly, felt it tremble. ‘I wannae make it up to you, sah. Ye still wannae catch Fiske?’
‘If we get out of this, of course.’
‘I’ve got a map with his RV marked on it. The place he’s taking the black box. I sneaked a look at his map, and marked it on mine. Just in case. It’s in mah map pocket: help yourself, sah.’
Caine made a move to retrieve the map, but Jizzard clung to his hand. ‘There’s something else I have to tell ye.’
‘Don’t waste your strength.’
‘No, ye’ll want to know this, sah, believe me. You lost your girl, didn’t ye? In a crash in the Nile.’
Caine flinched: why the heck was Jizzard bringing up Nolan now?
‘When was it, sah? The date, I mean?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘What date was it?’
‘The day after Torch: 6 November 1942.’
‘Let me tell ye aboot a lassie named Maddy.’
‘Maddy?’ Jizzard was rambling, Caine thought. When he’d first met Nolan she’d been using the cover name Maddy Rose.
‘Och, Maddy wasnae her real name. It was when I was with the deserters. Some of the boys found her wandering the streets in Cairo one night, soaked to the skin. She hadnae a clue where she was: didnae even know her own name. Blond lassie, she was: green eyes you could ha’ drowned in. Knew how to shoot, too. Fired a pistol left-handed …’
A finger clawed at Caine’s spine: he felt his face flush, felt his grip tighten on Jizzard’s hand. A blond called Maddy. Green eyes you could drown in. Fired a pistol left-handed. Maddy. Maddy Rose. It can’t be. It’s another trick.
‘What are you getting at, Jizzard?’
Jizzard made a gurgling noise. ‘I recall the night the lads found Maddy wandering the streets of Cairo, soaked to the skin. I recall it well. The day after Torch, it was, sah. 6 November 1942.’
Caine’s jaw dropped. He felt as if Jizzard had just punched him in the gut. Maddy Rose – Betty Nolan. Living with the deserters … didn’t know where she was … didn’t even know her own name. He remembered Caversham’s voice: All I can do is offer … tentative explanations … that she suffered some sort of disorientation, and is no longer aware of her identity. Had the monkey-man been right first time? Could it be true? The deserters. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
/> ‘It must be … must be a coincidence.’
‘She was still living with them a few weeks ago …’
‘Where? Where was …’ Caine broke off.
Jizzard’s eyes had fogged up: he choked suddenly, coughed bloodspats. ‘Don’t let go of my hand, sah. I’m frightened …’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Hold on. Jizzard. Don’t go away. Hold on. Jizzard.’ He clutched the hand that had just become precious to him: his last link to Betty Nolan. He was still holding it when Copeland’s voice said. ‘He’s had it, Tom.’
Jizzard’s head drooped: brown sludge slavered from his mouth. Caine let go of his hand: the throb of gunshots brought him abruptly to his senses. He recognized the faraway, deepthroated grumpa-grumpa-grump of his own Tommy-gun. ‘That’s Quinnell,’ he said. ‘The Huns are in the blockhouse.’
‘Let’s get Fred out,’ Copeland said.
Caine felt in Jizzard’s patch-pocket, found the map marking Fiske’s RV: it was dogeared and bloodstained. He stuck it in the map pocket of his trousers, spiderwalked over to Copeland, saw that Wallace’s eyelids were trembling. ‘Lift him up,’ he said.
Copeland slid both arms under the giant’s armpits from behind. Caine bent to help.
‘Hey … Tom.’ Wallace grimaced suddenly: his voice was weak, clogged with blood and phlegm. ‘What kept you?’
‘Never mind that,’ Caine said. ‘Let’s get you …’
A new broadside welted the parapet with a savage crackle, shed sparks, ground flint. The Bren burped, blattered out a trail of bright flechettes – tacka-tacka-tacka-tack. Trubman screamed from the pain in his elbow, but he didn’t let go of the stock. ‘They’re moving, skipper,’ he panted. He strung out another burst, paused. ‘They were waiting for the boys upstairs after all.’
Caine’s pulse jammered. For a split second he was torn between the idea of defending the position and getting Wallace out before the enemy poled up: it couldn’t be done, though, he realized. It would mean leaving the badly wounded Trubman to cover their withdrawal. There were the Krauts on the stump, too. How long could Quinnell hold them off?
He skipped over to the parapet beside the signaller. ‘Help Cope with Fred,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep the Hun away.’
Trubman opened his mouth to argue: a mortar bomb hueyed in, zapped the pitedge in a blinding corona, shockwaved a scourge of blue-white flame and hot steel into the pit. Trubman shrieked and spiralled away: Caine spun sideways in slow motion, hit the pitside, smelt butchermeat, saw Trubman beached on his belly with flaps of flesh torn loose from his back.
The gunpit was awash with smoke and fumes: Caine blinked, realized his eyelids had been burnt off: his mouth was sour with cordite, his face raw from the blast: its main force had somehow missed him, though, clobbered Trubman instead. Then he saw that Wallace had also been hit; his treetrunk legs were gouged and cratered with fresh wounds: Copeland was on knees and elbows behind the giant – he’d been furthest from the blast, and looked unhurt. Caine guessed he’d been in the process of hoisting Wallace to his feet and had been shielded by his barndoor body.
He shook his head roughly: a crushing volume of enemy fire was pouring down on the pit: he thought he could hear in it the rasp of voices like the chatter of demons. The Hun would be on them in minutes.
He dragged himself over to Trubman, amazed that his limbs still worked. The signaller was conscious, babbling unintelligibly. Caine’s heart slumped: he knew they’d never evacuate both Trubman and Wallace. It was too late. There was no way out: they were finished. He grinned madly: after all he’d endured, his war was over, just when he’d found out that Nolan was alive, just when he’d rediscovered something to live for. ‘Hold on, Taff,’ he said. He felt for the medical haversack: it was gone.
He backcrawled to the guntrails, where Copeland was desperately trying to pull Wallace up. The big man was awake and roaring. ‘Leave me alone, you bloody great twat. Get out of it, you bleedin’ moron. Don’t you know when to cut and run.’
Caine nodded to Cope to let go of him, cradled the great shaggy head in his arms. ‘We can’t leave you, mate,’ he said. He felt tears stinging the raw flesh of his cheeks. ‘Not after all we’ve been through.’
Wallace’s eyes popped like dark stars beneath the knobbly forehead. ‘You’re a bigger bloody fool than I thought you was, Caine. You think they can do for Big Fred so easy, you great pansy? I’ll come through it: they won’t stop me. I heard what Jizzard said. Nolan’s alive. Go and get her, mate. You can’t help us. Fuck off out of it, before I get up and kick yer soggy arse.’
Caine didn’t let go of the bloodsmeared head: Copeland touched his arm. ‘He’s right, Tom,’ he said. ‘We can’t get him out: it’s either leave him, or face the music.’
For a moment they locked eyes. Cope didn’t look away. ‘Your call, skipper,’ he said.
Rounds were buzzing closer: Caine faced the most agonizing decision of his life. He’d always promised he would bring back his wounded mates if it were humanly possible. But this time it wasn’t. And this time it was Fred Wallace. And if he stayed, fought to the last round or surrendered – what about Betty Nolan?
‘We’ll never get out, Harry. Not with all that fire coming down.’
Copeland wasn’t listening: his eyes were far away. ‘What’s that?’
Caine heard it, too: the boom of aero-engines, a basso-profundo resonance that seemed to chafe the sky, quite distinct over the smallarms fire. For a moment they stared at each other, frozen-eyed: the aircraft noise sounded distant: it was increasing steadily, though.
Wallace had also heard it. ‘Get out now, lads.’ There was a new desperation in his voice. ‘The kites’ll cover you. Go, skipper, for Christ’s sake, or it’ll be too late.’
Caine nodded. ‘Can you fire a flare-gun, mate?’
‘Me? I can do anything. I’m SAS, my son.’
Copeland loaded a flare into the Very pistol, pressed it into Wallace’s giant palm. ‘Don’t shoot yourself, you big dollop.’
‘Get out of here.’
Caine braced his Tommy-gun, paused. ‘Fred, I –’
‘Don’t say it, Tom … Just get the hell out.’
They hauled over the pitside, rushed for the gully: a blue flare whooshed and popped above the gunpit behind them. At almost the same moment, a pair of Blenheim bombers swept in triumphantly over the blockhouse in a strafing configuration, engines snarling thunder, light flashing quicksilver on their plexiglass noses, bellyslung gunturrets spitting hellfire. Caine threw himself into cover, heard the whistle of bombs, felt the devastating quake of ordnance, so near it seemed almost on top of him.
33
A girl was screaming in Italian: Cazzi. Stronsi. Lasciatemi stare. Nolan heard the scrape of furniture, a slap, a man yelling. ‘The bitch bit me.’ She recognized the high-pitched voice of Dick Willets, one of Taylor’s gang, then the bass tone of Taylor himself. ‘Stick her in the shed. Let her cool off there.’
Nolan’s watch told her it was a quarter past seven. It was Saturday evening, already dark, but a bit early for a rumpus, she thought. She was lying on a mattress on the floor of the cubicle-like room, trying to catch up on her rest. In the week since she’d talked to Stocker, she’d been almost sleepless, brooding over Tom Caine, trying not to think about him, only thinking about him more. At the same time she’d had to work hard to prevent Taylor and the others from sensing any change: that was doubly difficult now she’d regained her memory, now that she had become a spy in their midst. She was acutely aware that she’d told Taylor her real name – or at least that Celia Blaney had called her Betty Nolan. Taylor had dismissed it at the time, but he wasn’t stupid. He only had to do a little checking up to discover that Captain Elizabeth Nolan of G(R) had been reported lost in a car accident in the Nile the same night that Maddy had appeared.
She’d poured her energy into finding out about Calvin, eavesdropping on conversations, asking discreet questions, picking up hints. When necessary, she’d u
sed her charms to wheedle out information, but she knew she was walking a tightrope: appearing to be too interested would have been suspicious. It had taken all her dramatic skills to bring off the act without a slip.
She’d talked to a Polish deserter who’d admitted kidnapping two Egyptian schoolgirls and delivering them to a place in Alexandria: he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell her its location, and she hadn’t pressed it. A Cypriot girl living with another deserter gang had confided in her that one of her girlfriends had vanished after being given the chilling message Calvin wants to see you. The woman was certain that her friend been taken to Alexandria. Others had hinted that Calvin was a Bluebeard figure with an insatiable appetite for women: that he’d have girls delivered to his castle, where he would torture and butcher them. She didn’t believe the tales, but no one she’d spoken to, not even Taylor, seemed to know anything definite about Calvin’s identity: some said he was a cashiered British officer: others had him down as Greek, Turkish – even Albanian.
One thing was certain: the attitude of the deserter gangs had become more robust in recent days. It was said that Calvin was making a bid to take over the whole show, to organize the gangs on a businesslike basis, to run them as a mafia, controlling smuggling, gambling, prostitution, drugs. There’d been some talk of turf wars between deserter groups: rumours of attacks on military bases, mainly for weapons. Taylor’s group had started running a protection racket in the Miski, shaking down Egyptian shopkeepers under threat of burning them out.
Death or Glory III Page 21