A wave a fury burned through Caine: he'd just returned from days of hard front-line combat in which, thanks largely to the incompetence of officers like Sears-Beach, more than half his unit had been scragged. A minute ago, he'd laid his life on the line, taking on a mission he had only a flea's chance of surviving. He was damned if he was going to stand being poked in the chest by a nincompoop who hadn't even got his knees brown, no matter what his rank. Growling with rage, he grabbed the swagger-stick, twisted it easily out of Sears-Beach's grasp and tossed it hard against the monastery wall. As the officer reeled back in astonishment, Caine raised his chin and clenched his fists. ‘Next time you try that, sir,’ he said softly, ‘I will ram that thing so far up your arse you will need to put your hand down your throat to polish it. If you want to know what the colonel said to me, I suggest you ask him. He won't tell you, but you can ask him anyway.’
Sears-Beach took a step backwards, swallowing hard, and a fleck of spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with a long finger. ‘I don't know what deal you struck with the colonel,’ he hissed, ‘and I don't care. I've got a long memory, Caine. By God you'd better keep your nose clean from now on, because long after the Commando's disbanded and the colonel's posted, I'll still be watching you.’
He bent down, picked up the swagger-stick, jammed it under his arm, and with as much dignity as he could muster, swivelled round and marched away.
9
It took Caine twelve solid hours to get everything ship-shape for the Runefish mission. Wallace and Copeland volunteered, as he'd known they would – Wallace immediately, Cope after a few minutes' soul-searching. Caine had appointed Copeland second-in-command and quartermaster, and Wallace his gunner and general minder. Together, they collected another twenty-one volunteers, mainly from the fractured Middle East Commando, but also odd stragglers from other units. One prize addition was a pear-shaped lance-jack from the Royal Corps of Signals, a loquacious Welshman named Edward ‘Taffy’ Trubman, who was said to be a whizz at wireless communications. Of Caine's old No. 1 Troop, Todd Sweeney had joined them, together with medical orderly Maurice Pickney, and an ex-Rifle Brigade lance-jack named Robin Jackson, who, like Fred Wallace, was a champion machine-gun shooter. Caine had managed to find two more specialists, both ex-51 Commando. Lance Corporal Moshe Naiman was a German-born Palestinian Jew who spoke Italian, Arabic and German. His comrade, Lance Corporal Gian-Carlo ‘Janka’ Cavazzi, was a short but savage-looking Corsican, ex-Free French airborne, who'd also served with the Foreign Legion, and was a trained demolitions instructor. Finally, Caine had persuaded an ex-Royal Army Ordnance Corps fitter, Lance Corporal Henry ‘Wingnut’ Turner, to join them. He knew that ‘up the Blue’, their lives would depend on vehicle maintenance.
By midnight, most of the stores had been loaded, and the seven wagons grudgingly assigned to them by the RQMS, ‘Pop’ Tobey, were lined up along the monastery wall. The oasis was quieter than the previous night. Though retreating Eighth Army units had been shambling in from the Gazala Line all day, most had already pulled out towards the next ‘sticking point’ – a station called Alamein on the road to the Nile Delta.
The desert cold had set in under a creamy, moonlit sky, and the commandos had donned greatcoats, sheepskins, leather jerkins and corduroy trousers. While the lads were brewing up tea with condensed milk and spooning down bully-beef stew with ship's biscuits, Caine made a final inspection of the transport with Turner, a cadaverous-looking non-com with ears like windsocks. Apart from the newly acquired 3-tonner, Marlene, there were two other ‘long-bonnet’ Bedfords, christened Vera and Judy: Caine was happy not to have been palmed off with ‘snub-nosed’ Bedfords, whose access to the engine was more awkward. There was a six-wheel US-built Ford Marmon Herrington 6-tonner, nicknamed Gracie, with a water-bowser, a Daimler armoured car and White and Dingo scout-cars. Caine had ordered all insignia and recognition-symbols removed, and in the case of the soft-skinned vehicles, bumpers, radiator covers and mudguards stripped, as well as anything else expendable that would economize on weight and allow easier access for repair.
Caine and Turner checked that all the wagons had been fitted with condenser-tanks for overheating, sand channels and sand mats for extricating them from ‘stickies’. The three AFVs carried sun compasses, and Gracie boasted a winch. The Dingo and Daimler armoured cars were fitted with No. 11 wireless sets.
Caine would have liked the little snub-nosed Dingo as his command-vehicle for the operation, but as she carried only two men, he'd reluctantly settled for the White, which had room for seven. Standard Whites were open-top, and boasted a ‘skate-rail’ around the open rear body, on which a .50-calibre Browning machine-gun could be traversed 360 degrees. Caine was happy to see that this one had been modified: the skate-rail had been removed and an armoured roof had been welded on. The solid tailboard had been replaced by rear doors of half-inch steel plate, and there were two hatches in the roof of the cab with pintle-mounts for heavy machine-guns.
While the White was a traditional armoured car based on an ordinary lorry chassis, the Dingo was a state-of-the-art fighting vehicle, of which only a handful were on issue in the theatre as yet, undergoing combat trials. Caine hadn't even seen one close up before, and he couldn't resist running a hand along her armoured skin. ‘Beautiful bit of engineering,’ he commented.
Turner grinned, recognizing a fellow enthusiast. ‘Six cylinders, 55hp, 30mm of armour,’ he said proudly. ‘She's got four-wheel drive, and a pre-selector gearbox with a fluid flywheel – five gears forward and five reverse.’
‘No spare wheel, then?’ Caine said, not seeing one.
‘She doesn't need one – she's got hollow “run flat” tyres.’
‘I'll bet that makes her a bit rough.’
‘No, the wheels have independent suspension – she's a lovely ride. We'd better look after her, because Pop let slip that she's “experimental” and they want her back. I'm amazed you managed to prize her away from him, skipper.’
Caine laughed. True to form, the RQMS had proved obstructive, sneering at St Aubin's note, cavilling over every item on the shopping list as if it were his own life's blood. Caine knew that this stinginess was in the nature of all ‘Q’ staff, and experience had taught him the correct response. He had charmed, coaxed and cajoled Tobey into ceding item after item, until he'd ended up with exactly what he wanted. Well, almost exactly, because all four lorries had Lewis guns mounted on their observation hatches, which bothered him. He thought the Lewis obsolete, as it carried an open magazine of only forty-seven rounds and was easily jammed by sand and dust. ‘Good for anti-aircraft work, though,’ Turner observed when Caine pointed out the problem. ‘When I was with the motorized infantry, I saw a chap bring down a Messerschmitt 110 with a Lewis. Bloke called Crow. Emptied the whole mag as she blew over, and actually saw the rounds tearing up the fuselage – she dumped not half a mile away.’
Caine had wanted to mount Vickers ‘K’ aircraft machine-guns on all the vehicles, but as only four ‘Ks’ had been available, he'd had two pairs installed on the Dingo and the White – the Daimler didn't need extra armament as she had a turret hefting a 20mm gun. Caine knew the Vickers was designed to be air-cooled by an aircraft's slipstream and tended to overheat if used on the ground, but with a hundred-round mag, and firing almost a thousand rounds a minute, it was the most devastating weapon in its class. ‘We should test-fire these weapons,’ he told Turner, ‘but I don't think the MPs would relish us breaking the blackout regs. We'll have to do it in the field.’
Caine saw Copeland gliding out of the darkness with his camelline stride, his SMLE sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. He was waving some papers. ‘Here's the list of volunteers, skipper,’ he announced. ‘By the way, I've found a crew for the Daimler: Lance Sergeant “Flash” Murray, and his oppo “Shirley” Temple, from the Armoured Corps.’
‘Good work, Harry. How's the loading doing?’
‘It's done.’
‘All rig
ht, let's get everyone together and let them know what it is they've volunteered for.’
While the volunteers were gathering, Caine scanned the list, which noted only name, rank and parent unit:
Bramwell, Victor Gdsmn 1 Coldstream Guards
Caine, Thomas Sgt Royal Engineers
Cavazzi, Gian-Carlo L/Cpl 51 Commando
Copeland, Harold Cpl Royal Army Service Corps
Floggett, David Bdr Royal Artillery
Graveman, Augustus G/Mate Royal Navy Commando
Hanley, Richard Gnr Royal Horse Artillery
Jackson, Robin L/Cpl Kings Royal Rifle Corps
MacDonald, Ross L/Cpl Black Watch (Royal Highland Regt)
Murray, Alastair L/Sgt Royal Armoured Corps
Naiman, Moshe L/Cpl 51 Commando
O'Brian, Robert Pte Royal Ulster Rifles
Oldfield, Michael Tpr Inns of Court Regiment (RAC)
Padstowe, George L/Cpl Royal Marines
Pickney, Maurice L/Cpl Royal Army Medical Corps
Raker, Albert Pte Pioneer Corps
Rigby, Martin Pte Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry
Shackleton, Barry Cpl Royal Scots Greys
Sweeney, Charles Cpl Royal Military Police
Temple, Paul Tpr Royal Armoured Corps
Trubman, Edward L/Cpl Royal Corps of Signals
Turner, Henry L/Cpl Royal Army Ordnance Corps
Wallace, Frederick Gnr Royal Horse Artillery
He counted off twenty-three names including his own: it was a good mix, he thought, a nice balance of cavalry, infantry and specialist-corps men. It was slightly biased towards NCOs, of course, but he trusted that, thanks to the equalizing nature of commando training, this would boost the quality of the unit rather than creating an ‘all-chiefs-and-no-Indians’ situation.
Copeland touched his shoulder, announced that the muster was complete. Caine scanned the bodies before him. Unshaven, clad in their motley coats, with silk scarves, stocking-caps, black berets or balaclavas, carrying personalized Tommy-guns, Bren-guns and Lee-Enfield .303s, they looked like a rag-tag mob of partisans – pitifully few against the might of the Panzer Army. Caine reminded himself what two years in the desert had taught him – nothing, not weapons nor tanks nor artillery, counted a damn against the quality of the men behind them. And these were good men: mostly commando trained, all battle hardened, accustomed to the harsh discipline of the desert: combination individualists and team-players, confident but not reckless.
Caine introduced himself to the lads he didn't know, including the group's sole Bluejacket – Gunner's Mate Gus Graveman, a regally whiskered sailor from the Royal Navy Commando who reminded Caine instantly of the sea-dog on the Player's Navy Cut packet. He also met the new Daimler AFV commander, ‘Flash’ Murray, a sandy-haired little bruiser from Belfast with scarred fists like mutton chops and the guarded look of a street-fighter. Murray's driver, Trooper Paul ‘Shirley’ Temple, bore no resemblance to the child star after whom he'd been nicknamed. He was a gawky, big-boned clodhopper of a man with outsize hands and feet: Caine found himself wondering if he'd even fit into the confines of the little Daimler. Neither Shirley nor Flash was commando trained, and it was for this reason, Caine explained, that, though Murray was a lance sergeant and second in rank only to Caine himself, it was Copeland who'd be occupying the second-in-command slot.
Caine launched into his briefing, and the men listened in grave silence until he mentioned that Runefish was female. This brought whoops and catcalls. ‘Who's she, then?’ some wag demanded. ‘General Ritchie's squeeze?’
‘For all I know, she could be,’ Caine beamed, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling, ‘but as they say, “It's not ours to reason why.”’ He resolved quietly that, whatever St Aubin had said, the men needed to know why they were being sent to extract a Wren first officer, when even captured generals were left to rot in Axis jails. He decided to initiate them into Assegai – for what it was worth – as soon as possible after they'd left the oasis.
Caine had divided the execution of Op Runefish into four phases – move out, advance to target area, withdrawal from target area, final RV back to base. ‘Friendly forces,’ he said. ‘None, except for perhaps a few Senussi Arabs. They're generally friendly to us, but you can never tell – it has happened that they've shopped Allied troops to the enemy. Enemy forces: as if the Panzer Army wasn't enough, we know that a company of the Brandenberger Special Duties Regiment has been deployed in our target area. We can't be sure whether this has anything to do with Runefish, but whatever the case, it won't make life any easier for us. If they have been sent to find her, then we'll just have to make sure we get to her before they do.’
‘How are we going to recognize her, then?’ asked Maurice Pickney. ‘Have you got a photo?’
It was a question that Caine had already put to himself. ‘No photo, I'm afraid,’ St Aubin had said when he had returned to inquire at the office. ‘All I can tell you about her is that she's a left-handed, green-eyed blonde who speaks fluent German, Italian and French.’
Caine shifted to a discussion of tactical considerations, and finished up with a few generalities. ‘Remember lads,’ he said, ‘it's desert rules. Every man carries a map and compass and knows the next RV. No one is ever left on his own. No one goes anywhere without a full water-bottle, not even for a piss at night. Every wagon carries three days' rations of food and water. If a wagon breaks down, you stay with it. If a wagon gets stranded, you stop and work out your position, or wait till someone comes for you. Whatever happens, stay focused. Anyone left alone without a clear grasp of where he is on the map is likely to feel an urge to keep moving. Don't give in to it – the Blue is a damn' big place.’
He stared round at them, seeing only shadows like gathering spirits in the darkness. Above them, familiar constellations trooped out in full royal panoply: Caine recognized the sparkling cluster of the Pleiades, the three bright studs of Orion's belt ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That's it. You're volunteers, and I know you'll do a good job. The best of British to us all.’
Before dismissing the boys, Caine ordered Copeland to issue a rum-ration all round.
While Cope was doling out rum, Caine and Wallace unrolled their flea-bags by the White scout car. A pair of bats looped-the-loop over the monastery walls, and an owl hooted softly in the darkness. Copeland arrived a few minutes later, carrying a jar that was about two thirds full of Navy-issue rum. They squatted down in the cold sand by the White's wheels, arranging jerkins and coats around them, and Cope poured three fingers into each of their mugs. ‘That ought to warm the cockles of your heart,’ he said.
Caine sipped the rum and felt the first drops setting his stomach on fire. ‘That's good,’ he announced. ‘Consider my heart well cockled, Harry. Say what you like about the Bluejackets, you can't fault their rum.’ He held up his tin mug and proposed a toast. ‘Here's to all Jack Tars, especially First Officer Maddaleine Rose, wherever she may be.’
The three of them lit cigarettes, cupping them deftly in their hands to prevent the glowing tips from showing and breaking blackout regulations. They could just make out each other's faces in the starlight. ‘We aren't exactly a fear-some crew,’ Copeland grunted, ‘but we do pack a punch out of proportion to our size. There's a Bren for every two men, Thompsons and SMLE .303s. Every man's been issued with a .45 Colt pistol, and a twenty-two-inch sword-bayonet. We've got ten boxes of Mills grenades, five Boys anti-tank rifles, Long Yoke attachments and blanks for grenade throwing, three two-inch mortars, thirty No. 2 landmines, six boxes of Nobel's No. 808 gelignite, and time-pencils, instantaneous fuse, detonators, four Lewises and two pairs of Vickers ‘K’s, and that's without the two-pounder on the Daimler. There's even some No. 76 Hawkins grenades.’
‘You want to watch them things,’ said Wallace, gulping rum. ‘That crush-igniter system they have is unstable. We only need one to go up and the whole convoy'll be fried.’
Cope ditched his cap-comforter, running a ha
nd through his bog-brush blond hair. ‘Just the ticket for tanks, though,’ he said. ‘One seventy-six will whack the tracks right off a Mark III panzer.’
‘Only trouble is, Jerry'll shoot your arse up before you get near enough to throw it.’
‘Maybe you didn't see how Tom used that Hawkins when we pulled the boys out the other day?’
‘For your information, Mister “Hostilities Only”, it wasn't the Hawkins that saved our bacon, it was them Horse-Gunners. God bless the artillery.’
Copeland raised a hand as if he were a timid schoolboy asking a question. ‘Please, sir,’ he piped in a mock-childish voice, ‘does “hostilities only” mean I'm not one of those cretins who sent millions into mass suicide in the trenches in 1914?’ He paused and resumed his ordinary voice. ‘Maybe it means that, unlike some, I'm capable of thinking for myself,’ he said. ‘And by the way, it's Corporal “Hostilities Only” to you.’
Wallace snorted. ‘You practising to be Todd Sweeney?’ he said, ‘cause for a minute there you sounded just like him.’
‘Leave it out, Fred,’ Caine cut in, frowning. Disagreements like this between Cope and Wallace had been known to erupt into fistfights. ‘There's no “regulars” and “hostilities only” in the commandos,’ he said. ‘We all volunteered to get away from all that bullshit – officers and other ranks, regulars and territorials, us and them. We're all fighting the same war, aren't we? Or are you two fighting a different one?’
Cope and Wallace blinked at him, and Caine grinned back, exasperated. His two mates were as different as Laurel and Hardy, but he liked and valued both for their distinctive qualities – Wallace for his staunch and unswerving loyalty, and Cope for his precise and analytical mind.
Wallace had been his mate almost from the day he'd arrived at Middle East Commando, still smarting from his swift descent from lieutenant to private soldier. As the ‘crow’ in his troop, he'd been assigned a bed-space next to the door of his tent, despite the fact that there were other spaces: the old lags told him these were ‘reserved’. He hadn't understood the dirty trick they'd played on him until next morning, when he'd woken up to find his blanket soaked in piss. Almost everyone in the tent got up to urinate during the night, and instead of going outside to the latrines in the cold, would pee from the door-gap. If there were any ‘blowback’, it was the man sleeping by the door who copped it.
Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando Page 7