‘Sears-Beach survived, then,’ Caine said. ‘Pity.’
Greaves suppressed the flicker of a smile. ‘No disrespect to officers, Sarn't, if you please. You are to present yourself at the battalion command post forthwith. That means now.’
Caine regarded the staff-sergeant with his steady, sandblasted eyes. For a moment it looked to Wallace as if he might refuse. Then he fished in his haversack for the black Tankie beret he favoured, put it on, slung his supercharged Tommy-gun over his shoulder. ‘No rest for the wicked, is there, Staff?’ he said.
Greaves' face did not relax: the skin was immaculately shaved and shone as if it he'd scrubbed it with sandpaper. ‘No facetiousness please, Sarn't. You're in deep enough shit as it is.’
An HQ tent of sorts had been erected against a White command vehicle inside the monastery yard, but the commanding officer had set up shop in a derelict room opening off it through the blanket that served as a door. Camp tables, chairs and oil lamps had been arranged, and a tarpaulin slung over the gap where the roof should have been. An enormous map of the theatre of operations had been pinned on one wall, illuminated by shafts of light from cracks in the wall. It was this map that the CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Hilary St Aubin, was scrutinizing as Caine and Greaves marched in. Behind a table on Caine's left stood Sears-Beach, very erect, displaying his prominent front teeth, holding a brass-tipped swagger-stick stiffly under his arm as if on inspection parade. To Caine's right stood a sandy-haired subaltern wearing the Royal Horse Artillery badge on his field-cap. Caine had never seen him before.
The CO turned towards them, but neither Caine nor Greaves saluted. It was one of the formalities that the commandos had long ago abolished, with a view to encouraging the comradeship between officers and soldiers which a lot of people had gabbed about, but which had never quite been achieved. St Aubin was unshaven, bareheaded, and clad in a threadbare woolly-pully, with corduroy slacks and desert boots. He wore a lime-green silk scarf around his neck, a webbing-yoke with small ammo-pouches, and a pistol in a low-slung holster secured to his leg.
Caine knew that the colonel was old-school – a Great War veteran with a hearty manner that was partly contradicted by his expressionless roastbeef face. He was said to be immensely proud of the Commando, but on the few occasions Caine had spoken to him previously, he'd had the impression of something inscrutable beneath the cheerfulness. Caine's nose for people was usually good, but in this case he couldn't have said whether St Aubin was a man of genuine warmth, or the type who could cheerfully commit his men to a kamikaze mission.
The CO took a lit pipe out of his mouth and pinched the bowl between finger and thumb. ‘Sarn't Caine,’ he said. ‘You are Acting Troop Commander of No. 1 Troop, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Captain Sears-Beach has put you on a charge for disobeying a direct order in battle. That is a very serious breach of discipline – one that could land you in front of a court-martial. Are you aware of that?’
Caine squared his brawny shoulders, shot Sears-Beach a piercing glance. The officer caught the look and flared. ‘Don't dare deny it, Caine. We have an eyewitness. Lieutenant Edwards here was with the Horse Gunners on the Box and he saw everything – didn't you, Edwards?’ H gestured towards the other officer, a wiry-looking man with a pink face and a blond bum-fluff moustache. Caine judged him to be about twenty – a good three years younger than himself. Edwards shifted nervously and his face grew pinker. ‘Yes I did, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but I have to say that I reported the matter only because I thought the sergeant here deserved a medal. It was the bravest thing I've ever seen in my life.’
Caine realized with a gush of gratitude that it was Edwards' crew whose last salvos had saved them. ‘That was no mean gunnery, sir,’ he said. ‘How on earth did you do that in the dark without scragging us?’
Edwards' blush grew deeper. ‘It was nothing really… well, we spotted your blue flare from the 3-tonner and guessed what you were up to. After dark we saw muzzle-flashes from the ridge and identified them as enemy weapons. We already had a range on that ridge in case it was overrun earlier, so we lowered the elevation a fraction and put our two last shells down at its base. It was a gamble, of course, but I'm glad it paid off. We spotted the lorry coming back a few minutes afterwards, so we guessed you'd survived.’
‘We did, sir, and now I know who we have to thank for it. You're the one who should have a medal…’
‘Excuse me,’ Sears-Beach cut in furiously. ‘This is not a mutual-congratulations session. Caine is here to answer a charge.’ He turned to the CO for support, but St Aubin replied with an irritated look. ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘perhaps you two gentlemen would be good enough to retire and let me get on with it.’
‘But sir…’ Sears-Beach protested.
‘Dismissed, Captain. Escort them out, Staff Greaves, and make sure I'm not disturbed.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Caine fought back a wry smile. He had been marched in like a prisoner, but now it looked for all the world as if Sears-Beach was being marched out in his place.
8
After they had gone, St Aubin stuck his pipe in his mouth, knitted his bushy eyebrows and fixed Caine with a firm stare. ‘Well?’ he said.
Caine explained that Lt Green had promised the wounded lads that they would not be abandoned, and his conclusion that, left with identifiable commando weapons, they would be executed. ‘I know standard operating procedure is to ditch the wounded, sir, but this was a special case.’
St Aubin looked doubtful. ‘It's my fault that they were carrying commando paraphernalia,’ he said. ‘I should have given the order to leave it behind. I agree with Lt Edwards that you deserve a medal, Caine, but there's still no way round the fact that you disobeyed a direct order.’
The colonel pulled at his pipe while Caine waited in suspense. ‘I know you, Caine,’ he said. ‘I've seen your conduct sheet. You have an excellent field record. It is a fact that commandos are expected to use personal initiative – the way we were deployed at Gazala, for instance, was a damn' waste. We're meant to be a raiding unit, not a bunch of woodentops. I've lost a lot of good men, and I don't want to lose another one now. So I am prepared to make you an offer, Caine. It happens I'm looking for someone to lead a search-and-rescue mission behind Axis lines. Do that for me, and you have my assurance that the court-martial business will be dropped.’
Caine searched St Aubin's face with his wind-scoured eyes. He was about to speak when the CO interrupted him, holding up the stem of his pipe. ‘I know you're going to ask what the mission is, but I can't tell you. It's classified. I must have your commitment before I reveal anything about it. I can only say that it is hazardous and that your chances of survival are about even.’
Caine gasped: the odds weren't encouraging. ‘You mean I have to take it “blind”, sir?’
St Aubin nodded. ‘Take it or leave it, but bear in mind that if you refuse, Captain Sears-Beach will press for a court-martial.’
It was blackmail pure and simple: for all the colonel's blarney, the choice boiled down to either taking the mission or ending up on jankers. For him there wasn't a choice because, whatever the job was, it couldn't be worse than the five years' hard labour he would probably end up with if Sears-Beach had anything to do with it.
There was a silence that went on for ever, broken only by the drone of flies, and voices from outside that seemed to drift to his ears from the dark side of the moon. St Aubin glared at him. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
Caine swallowed hard. ‘All right, sir,’ he said in a rush. ‘I'll take it.’
The marble face didn't relax, but Caine saw, or imagined he saw, a glimmer of triumph in the colonel's eyes. ‘Sit down,’ St Aubin said. It was the first time since getting busted Caine had been asked to sit in the presence of an officer. He pulled up a camp chair and sat down with his overweight Tommy-gun between his knees. The CO had moved over to the map again, and faced Caine with his pipe poised as if
about to conduct an orchestra. ‘What I'm going to say is for you only,’ he said. ‘You will need to tell your men something, of course, but what you tell them should be governed by the “need to know” principle.
‘Understood, sir.’
St Aubin grunted and pointed the stem of his pipe at the Cyrenaica area of northern Libya. ‘Last night an RAF aircraft crossing the Gulf of Bomba was hit by Italian ack-ack fire and went down in the desert here, south of the Jebel Akhdar the Green Mountains. The sole passenger, a Royal Navy officer, baled out by parachute before the crate went down. The officer, codenamed Runefish, was a courier bound for Blighty, carrying top-secret documents for the Prime Minister. If the documents or the officer fall into the hands of the Boche, there will be hell to pay. These secrets are so crucial, they could change the whole course of the war. This is where you come in, Caine. I want you to take a section of twenty-odd men from what's left of the Commando, and whatever you need from the stores and the MT Pool, and snatch Runefish from under the Hun's nose.’
Caine let out a low whistle. ‘It's going to be like finding a grain of sand in the Great Sand Sea, sir. In any case, there are tens of thousands of Axis troops between here and Cyrenaica – we'll never get through.’
St Aubin blew smoke and coughed. He laid the pipe in a pot ashtray on the table with a small, pudgy hand. ‘Locating the officer shouldn't be difficult for a man of your calibre. We have a good idea where Runefish went down, because the Bombay was being trailed by a Royal Navy Albacore spotter, whose pilot recorded the coordinates. Runefish must have landed within a few square miles of that point, and can't be far away even now. Runefish was issued with a biscuit-tin wireless set and given an emergency frequency on which to transmit an SOS signal. There aren't many Royal Navy officers swanning about behind enemy lines at this juncture, and this one is rather special. As to your second point, you're right about the concentration of enemy troops, but in fact there couldn't be a better time for a small patrol to get through. Axis and Allied forces are mixed up in confusion all over the desert, each using the other's captured transport. In my opinion, it's most unlikely that you will be noticed.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘However, I'd be a fool to pretend that this assignment is going to be a pushover. It's not. We have word from our agents that a company of the Brandenburg Special Duties Regiment has been deployed in the area. It's possible that they've been sent after Runefish.’
‘You mean the Jerries know about Runefish?’ Caine cut in.
‘We have to assume it's likely. The German “Y” Service regularly intercepts our signals traffic, and there are almost certainly enemy informers in GHQ. It's even possible the aircraft was deliberately targeted.’
‘That's going to make it a lot more interesting.’
‘Precisely. So you see, getting in there is one thing. Snatching Runefish and getting out again, evading the Brandenburgers, the entire Panzer Army and the Luftwaffe is quite another. That's why I give you no more than a fifty-fifty chance of survival.’
‘No point me asking what these documents are, is it, sir? I mean, it's “need to know”, isn't it?’
St Aubin's forehead crinkled. ‘It wouldn't be violating the “need to know” rule to tell you a little about what you would be risking your life for. It might add a little incentive, and in that sense you might be construed as “needing to know”. He took a deep breath. ‘These documents concern some trials for a weapon the navy has been working on for some time – Assegai. Assegai is a new type of glider bomb that can be launched from a submarine. It's guided to its target by a combination of radio and radar, and has a range of two hundred miles. The Assegai bombs have already been tested, and only the trial results are needed for the green light. These results are outlined in the documents being carried by Runefish. You can imagine the devastating effect of this weapon if used on Rommel's tanks, but I'm saying too much. Of course, what I've told you is merely a thumbnail sketch, and even if you spilled the beans under interrogation, it would mean nothing without the technical specifications. I don't need to tell you what is likely to happen if the Jerries get those specifications. Not only will they be forewarned, they will effectively be able to abort the attack. They might even be able to reconstruct the glider bombs and use them against us. So there is your incentive, Caine. If you fail in your mission it could tip the whole balance of the war.’
For a moment, Caine stared at his commanding officer in disbelief. He was flattered that the CO had chosen him, but the sceptic in him groped for an ulterior motive. ‘Why entrust such a crucial mission to me?’ he asked. ‘Why not send a senior officer? I'm just a humble sergeant, after all.’
Caine thought he saw a flash of irritation in the colonel's eyes but, if so, it was quickly extinguished. The clipped voice went on, even-keeled and infinitely patient. ‘Believe me, Caine, other plans have been considered and rejected. A Long Range Desert Group patrol might do the job, but they're all deployed on crucial tasks. The Cherry Pickers or the King's Dragoon Guards might do it with an AFV squadron, but they'd be too conspicuous and, anyway, they're desperately needed to cover Eighth Army's retreat. The only special-service troops available are what's left of my poor old Middle East Commando. As for officers, I've precious few left, and none of them could match your skills and experience. You're mustard as a vehicle mechanic, a class-one land navigator and a combat veteran with several years clocked up in the desert. Besides, you were an officer once, and you displayed remarkable leadership skills. If it weren't for your peculiar penchant for taking orders as a basis for discussion, you'd be a major by now. You could say that I'm getting an officer's skills for the price of an NCO. Cut price, if you see what I mean.’ St Aubin chuckled at his own joke, but his eyes stayed cold. ‘When all's said and done about obeying orders, Caine, you've proved yourself more resilient than most, not to say more courageous, and that's what the commando principle is all about – the ability to adapt to changing conditions.’ Suddenly and unexpectedly, St Aubin winked. ‘We're both members of the desert club, Caine. Unlike some,’ he nodded towards the door through which Sears-Beach had disappeared… ‘we have both got our knees brown, and we both know that the best way to survive up the Blue isn't necessarily by adhering rigidly to the rules.’
It was St Aubin's final pitch, and Caine had never heard anything quite like it. In so many words, if he'd read them right, the CO had vindicated his action in retrieving the wounded men and tacitly condemned Sears-Beach as a hidebound fool. That particular sentiment chimed with Caine's own feelings, but the rest of the speech was so unexpected it set his internal alarm bells ringing. It had to be flannel. He had a nagging hunch that St Aubin had left out something vital, and was prepping him for a mission quite different from the one he'd been briefed about. Caine was tempted to tell him where to stick the assignment, but he was aware that he had already given his word. There was no going back on it now.
The colonel was bending over the table, scribbling in a field message pad with a stub of pencil. He tore the page off and handed it to Caine. His manner had become businesslike. ‘This is a note to the Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant Major, authorizing him to give you anything you ask for in terms of kit, rations, weapons, fuel and transport. The RQMS will stick to everything like glue, of course, but don't take any nonsense. You'll need three or four soft-skin vehicles and some armour. You can pick your own men – you'll want some specialists, such as a medical orderly and an interpreter. You start an hour before first light tomorrow, and you have seven days to complete the stunt – I've written down the grid reference of the point where the aircraft piled, and another for the RV where you're to be in a week's time – the head of a pass on the Maqtal plateau. A Long Range Desert Group patrol is being assigned to escort you from there back to the Wire. They'll be waiting for you: your recon signal is a blue Very flare. And don't be late – the LRDG boys are in demand these days.’
Caine stood up and slung his heavyweight Tommy-gun over his shoulder
s. ‘Il file a mission plan with the HQ Squadron office, then, sir,’ he said.
St Aubin smiled crookedly. ‘Let's keep this one off the books, shall we?’
Caine gave a start. No mission plan meant that if anything happened to St Aubin in the meantime, no one on earth would know where they were. He gulped. ‘Very good, sir,’ he heard himself saying. Then it occurred to him that he knew nothing at all about the officer he was being sent to look for. ‘You said Runefish was “special”,’ he said. ‘What exactly did you mean?’
St Aubin chuckled again, and this time there was real feeling in the sound. ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘I've forgotten the most important thing of all. Stupid of me. Runefish is special because she is a woman. Her name is First Officer Maddaleine Rose, WRNS – twenty-three, blond and, I'm told, shapely in all the right places.’
Caine felt his face drop in surprise. ‘And there's one other thing I haven't mentioned,’ the CO went on. ‘If you are unable to extract First Officer Rose, then your orders are explicit: you are to execute her. Is that clear?’
Caine stammered a ‘Yes, sir’, and stumbled out through the blanket stunned, unable to decide which appalled him most: the idea of a young woman lost and alone in the endless Sahara, or the prospect of having to put a bullet through her head.
He was about to pass through the gap in the monastery wall when a dark figure barred his way. It was Sears-Beach, and he did not look happy. His tombstone teeth were bared in a humourless grin, and he was slapping his shin with his swagger-stick in an aggravated manner that Caine didn't like. ‘What did the CO say to you, Caine?’ he demanded.
Caine was forced to halt. ‘With all due respect, sir,’ he said, ‘that's none of your business. Now, would you mind letting me pass?’
Sears-Beach's normally pale face flushed crimson. He lowered his head like a bull ready to charge and took a step forward, jabbing Caine hard in the chest with the brass tip of his stick. ‘You had better be careful what you say to me, Sergeant,’ he growled.
Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando Page 6