Pickney delved into his medical chest and produced a gauze pad and a bottle of petroleum jelly. He smeared jelly on the pad and crouched down next to the patient, who looked only half conscious. ‘Come on,’ the orderly said. ‘I just need you to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. You'll be all right, mate.’
At the word ‘mate’ the soldier's eyes opened wide. He took in the scene with a terrified expression. Focusing abruptly on the gauze pad in Pickney's hand as though it were poison, he swiped it away with a croaking yell. ‘Jerries!’ he roared. ‘They're bloody Jerries!’
For a split second the little group stood frozen. Caine, unsure whether the soldier was delirious, took a step back, and in that moment saw Broderick's eyes flickering right and left. The captain's hand made a move towards his rifle, and in a flash, Caine brought his Thompson to bear on him. Broderick seized the barrel and tried to wrestle it from him. Caine stepped forward, squeezed iron. The weapon spat, working-parts thumped forward, gas belched from the muzzle with an ear-spattering crack. A .45-calibre round punched into the left cheek of the captain's arse. ‘Broderick’ let out a roar, cursed in German, jumped sky-high as if bitten by a snake.
Caine never saw how he landed. At that moment there was a kettle-drum bump of ordnance that seemed to shake the very ground they were standing on. Like everyone else, Caine fell flat on his face. There was a second boom, followed by a ruckle of Bren-gun fire. Caine was seized by a fit of coughing and clicked that the area was shrouded in billowing white smoke, under whose cover the stretcher party was scrambling to its feet. Caine saw Wallace shift his huge frame, going for his twelve-bore sawn-off. Before he could draw it, one of the stretcher-bearers dealt him a crunching blow over the head with a rifle butt. In an instant the strangers had scooped up their screaming captain and were making off towards their vehicles. Caine raised his Thompson to fire after them, then let it fall.
The Bren-gun rattle came again, followed by the clatter of Tommy-gun and .303 fire from the men under the scrim nets. ‘Stop shooting!’ Caine yelled.
An instant later came the gear-grating sound of the enemy 3-tonners moving off rapidly. From his left, Caine heard the hum of the Daimler's turret engaging, realized that Flash Murray was about to put a two-pound shell up the bum of the escaping wagons. ‘Don't fire,’ he shouted.
A moment later the smoke cleared, and it came to Caine that Murray must have lobbed a couple of smoke grenades from his tubes at the first sign of trouble. It had been the only thing the RAC lance sergeant could do, because if he'd let rip with a high explosive round it might have dobbed them all. He sensed Wallace at his elbow. The big man was staggering, a great knobby hand in his tangled mop of hair, covering a head wound that was dribbling blood. ‘You all right, mate?’ asked Caine.
‘It's nothing – only a scratch.’
‘Some scratch,’ Caine said. He shook a cigarette out of a crushed packet, stuck it in Wallace's mouth and lit it for him with his Zippo lighter. Wallace took a long drag and removed it with his left hand. ‘Why did you let them get away, skipper?’ he demanded. ‘We could have had them.’
Caine's polished granite eyes remained steady. ‘We could,’ he said, ‘but it would have delayed us. It would only have been a pain in the arse, Fred.’
Wallace gurgled with laughter, despite his wound. ‘Nothing to the pain in the arse that bloke's going to have tomorrow morning. See how he jumped? Could of made the Olympics.’
Caine chuckled, then a thought struck him. ‘You realize they risked their lives to save one of our own men?’ he said. ‘Would we have had the guts to do it? We'd have let the blighter peg out.’
‘They might as well have done,’ Wallace said, pointing with his cigarette to the patient on the stretcher. Pickney, leaning over him, glanced up desolately. ‘Didn't make it,’ he said. ‘Asphyxiated – that last effort was too much for him.’
Wallace swore under his breath. ‘I knew there was sommat wrong with that joker,’ he growled. ‘Knightsbridge, my hairy arse.’
Pickney stood up and faced him, tugging his blood-smeared hand away from his head wound. ‘Better let me have a look at that,’ he said.
While Wallace was graciously allowing the orderly to doctor him, Copeland came raking over with his sweeping strides, blue eyes glittering like ice cubes, his sniper rifle held at the ready position. ‘That's us blown,’ he said calmly. ‘They'll have alerted the nearest Luftwaffe squadron by now. We can expect visitors any minute.’
Caine detected a hint of reproach in his tone.
‘I didn't see any wireless aerials on those wagons,’ he said. ‘They were all captured lorries.’
‘We can't be sure they didn't have a set. In any case, they'll inform the first Axis unit they come across and they'll be after us quicker than axle grease.’
Caine shaded his eyes and swept the horizon. ‘We'll change direction,’ he said, pointing south-west. ‘See that dune chain over there? We'll head for that then wheel round back on to our course. They won't be expecting us to go that way, and it might at least buy us some time. Come on, let's get saddled up. Maurice – take two men and bury that poor sod. Cope – make sure everything is stowed. Let's move it.’
12
The going was classed on the map as ‘soft’ – an undulating plain of sand like a padded flesh-coloured quilt, as far as the barrier of the dunes. This was the most difficult surface to drive on, apart from a full-blown sand-sea, because it was booby-trapped with mish-mish ‘stickies’ – pools of dry quicksand that could virtually swallow an armoured car in a single gulp. Copeland was at the wheel again, and Wallace had insisted on retaining his place as spotter, despite his knock on the head. Caine tried to persuade him to take some rest in the back of one of the trucks, but he shrugged it off, declaring that with the risk of air attack, they needed his ‘Mark 1 commando eyeball.’
Cope drove at a steady thirty miles an hour, to the soothing rasp of the tyres, while he and Caine mulled over their encounter with the bogus Guardsmen.
‘Funny,’ Copeland said, ‘I was talking to some blokes from 50 Div. last night, and they warned me the Boche were up to tricks like that. They said they were using captured wagons, just attaching themselves to our convoys, cool as cucumbers, and as soon as there's a stop – bang, they nab the nearest vehicle.’
‘It's a rum old war,’ Caine said, shaking his head. ‘More like piracy on the high seas. Another minute and they'd have nabbed us. Lucky that chap came round and saved our hides.’
‘That “officer” spoke damn' good English, though. Very la-di-da. Must have been at British public school.’
‘Had me fooled,’ Caine said, chortling. ‘When he got nailed in the arse and shot up yelling Gott im Himmel or whatever it was… well, that's a story I'm going to tell my grandchildren.’
‘Hold your horses, skipper,’ Cope chuckled. ‘You haven't got any children yet…’
‘Sticks!’ Wallace belted out suddenly from the observation hatch. Cope eased the White to a halt, aware that hard braking would dig the wheels into the sand. They hopped out to find Gracie, with Todd Sweeney at the wheel, buried up to her rear axles in mish-mish. Sweeney had the lorry in first gear and was revving the engine hard, but her two pairs of back wheels were spinning. The harder he revved, the deeper she was digging herself into the sand. ‘Stop revving, Corporal Sweeney,’ Caine shouted. ‘Your back wheels haven't got traction. If she goes any deeper, we'll have to unload her.’
Sweeney scowled at Caine through the windscreen, but desisted, letting the engine idle. Caine turned and walked directly in front of the lorry for about ten yards, testing the sand with his feet – these pools rarely extended more than a dozen paces. He'd been told that mish-mish lay in places where there were minute air-pockets between the sand-grains, causing them to collapse like a house of cards under pressure. He marched to the back of the lorry and tested the sand in the opposite direction. ‘You've got solid ground about seven yards behind you,’ he told Sweeney, ‘so you'll n
eed to put her in reverse.’
Sweeney stuck his bullet head out of the window. ‘That'll be really easy,’ he snapped, ‘with the bloody bowser yoked.’
Caine gave Sweeney a hard look, then told his co-driver, Gunner Dick Hanley – a bulldog-faced, rugby-playing old mate of Wallace's from the Royal Horse Artillery, to unyoke the bowser. He ordered the rest of the truck's crew – Pickney, the Corsican, Cavazzi, and an ex-private of the Inns of Court Regiment named Mick Oldfield – to pull out the sand channels. As they were sliding out the five-foot steel ramps, the other crews gathered round. Caine appreciated their team spirit, but realized it left the column wide open. ‘I want all drivers and spotters back to their wagons,’ he said. ‘You're our eyes and ears, so stay alert. Everybody else, help to push the bowser out of the way, then grab a shovel or help with the sand channels. This will be SOP every time we get a stick.’
The men were soon at work with shovels and bare hands in the scorching sand, digging out deep grooves behind the truck's wheels, deep enough to feed the sand channels under them. It was hard graft in the blazing sun and they were quickly panting and sweating – the sand was so hot that it scorched their hands and knees. Caine paused from his shovelling and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his silk Tank Regiment scarf. ‘All right, lads,’ he said. ‘That's deep enough.’ He supervised the placing of the sand channels, then had another pair brought from one of the 3-tonners. ‘Any dab-hands at channel-throwing?’ he asked.
Co-driver Dick Hanley, who'd once played prop-forward for the army, put up a ham-like mitt. ‘Yep, I'll have a bash, skipper.’
‘We need two – anyone else?’
Private Martin Rigby, a small red-bearded Cornishman from the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, volunteered. When Caine asked him jokingly for his qualifications, Rigby said he played bowls for his village. The steel ramps were so hot the two ‘throwers’ had to put on gloves to carry them to the rear of the truck, where they got ready to hurl them in place when she reached them. Once moving, it was crucial to keep the wagon's momentum, so the channel had to be thrown with precision and timing. There was only one chance, and it needed a good eye and a steady hand.
Caine gave Sweeney the order to start up, and the lorry roared into life. ‘Just take it steady,’ he told the driver. ‘Don't hit the gas too hard.’
Sweeney scowled again, and lamped her into gear. The truck lurched backwards, her rear wheels bracing the sand channels. The steel sank several inches, but the wheels got traction, the engine screamed and the men cheered as she belted in reverse along the channels. Caine watched Hanley and Rigby slap the second lot of channels in place with perfect accuracy. The spectators hollered as if they'd just watched a goal scored by their favourite football team. Caine gave the two throwers a broad grin and the thumbs-up. ‘Well done, lads!’ he shouted. ‘Now we're going to have to winch the bowser out.’
When they were ready for the off again, Caine looked at his watch and realized that the ‘unsticking’ had taken almost an hour. Even though it had been complicated by the water-bowser, this was too long, but he knew it would get quicker and smoother with practice. The two channel-throwers were worth their weight in gold, but he had his doubts about Sweeney as a driver. Ground-feel was essential to a good driver up the Blue, and Sweeney was too hasty and aggressive: he just didn't have it.
Caine was about to give the signal to move out when Cope said. ‘Where's Wallace?’
Caine's heart missed a beat as he realized that they'd almost left without him. He jumped out and scanned the area around the convoy. ‘There he is,’ Copeland yelled suddenly, pointing ahead through the windscreen. The giant was lumbering slowly towards the convoy from the direction of some low sand-hills, his Bren-gun slung underarm. He appeared to be carrying something, and his wide, granite-carved features puckered with a smile. Caine jogged out to meet him. ‘You all right, Fred?’ he asked.
Wallace lifted up the small bundle in his arms, and Caine saw to his astonishment that it was a baby gazelle – a fragile, elegant creature of brown and white, with enormous eyes, a slender head and long spindly legs. ‘Abandoned by the mother,’ Wallace rumbled. ‘We must have frightened her off. It ain't more'n a week old.’
Caine raised his eyebrows. ‘What are you going to do with it?’ he asked.
‘I'm taking it with me, of course,’ Wallace said. ‘Can't leave it here – poor thing'll die.’
Copeland's face dropped when he saw what Wallace had brought. ‘You're not bringing that stinking animal in here,’ he bawled.
Wallace's dark eyes narrowed. ‘There's one stinking animal in here already,’ he said.
Cope looked to Caine for support, but the sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders. He knew from the incident of the dog shot by the RSM that Wallace was attached to animals, and hadn't the heart to tell him to ditch it. Instead, he allowed the gazelle to take up residence in an empty petrol crate in the back of the White, until its fate could be decided.
Cope gave a short blast on his horn: the convoy breezed off. Caine turned his attention back to the going and the shadow on the sun-compass, directing Copeland to the left of the dune field that was now looming up close – a wall of interlocking cut-glass facets with knife-blade crests hundreds of feet high. Caine knew there was no chance of getting through it at this point, but he was confident that they would be able to go round – there were no major sand-seas marked on the map in this area. Sure enough – and to Caine's relief – a plain of wind-graded gravel opened up on the southern side, allowing Cope to accelerate to forty – the column's maximum speed. They trolled on silently for an hour, the wagons playing around each other jubilantly in loose air formation. Caine told Copeland to stop for a compass adjustment. The White was just about to slew to a halt, when Wallace roared, ‘Aircraft. Three bombers at twelve o'clock. We got about two minutes – maybe three.’
Caine's blood ran cold. He squinted through the windscreen, making out three planes raking over the horizon, sinister dark insects against the flawless azure screen of the sky. This was the direct consequence of his decision to let the enemy go, he thought. As Cope had predicted, ‘Broderick’ had contacted the nearest Axis air-unit in double-quick time. His diversion hadn't put them off the scent.
Caine drew a long breath, and in the instant it took to expel it, made a sober assessment. At the briefing the previous night they had discussed four alternative actions on air attack: run for cover, halt, open fire or scatter. There was no cover nearer than the dunes, so that was out. Stationary wagons were hard for fast-balling pilots to clock from the air, but he guessed they'd already been seen. The utility of shooting it out depended on the bombers' altitude, and he reckoned these were out of range of his Lewis guns. ‘We'll scatter,’ he told Copeland. ‘When you see the strike pattern, turn sharp out of its path.’
Cope gulped grimly, his large Adam's apple working. He hooted five times – the agreed dispersal signal – then flipped off his cap-comforter, ran a nervous hand through his thatch of blond hair and reached for his tin hat. He tilted it on and hunched forward over the wheel, his eyes like gas-blue jets in the starched face. Caine knew that this manoeuvre required stone-cold nerve from the driver: he also knew Cope would deliver. He ramped on his own tin lid and stuck his head and shoulders through the hatch. Wallace had removed the dust quilts on the twin Vickers and was traversing them, his eyes like ink spots, glaring at the raiders over the sights.
‘Hold your fire,’ Caine said. He eased himself into position near by, then swivelled round and made hand signals to the spotters poised on top of the other vehicles. The action was interrupted by the ear-crushing drone of aero-engines. Caine half turned to take in the great silver mosquitoes careening towards them – it was a moment of complete and terrifying powerlessness. He didn't see the bombs, but he heard the whine as they fell, scatter-gunning along the desert surface directly in front of the wagon. Sand and stones heaved up with a noise like ripping steel, burst in fountains of foul smoke an
d debris. The earth vibrated: the air quivered. Hot pressure seared Caine's lungs.
He watched the strike pattern approaching with almost detached interest. Just as the crisis point arrived, Copeland swerved out of the bombs' path, so sharply that Caine and Wallace had to grip the hatch covers to stay upright. As the White bumped and shuddered, Caine took a quick dekko over his shoulder to make sure the spotters on the other wagons had understood his signals. He was satisfied to see that all but Gracie had dispersed to the four winds, each vehicle taking a separate course. None of them had taken a hit. There was a startled yell from Wallace. ‘Blenheims!’ he bawled. ‘They're ours.’
For an instant Caine didn't believe it. He watched the dark bombers fade into the distance, bank with the grace of seagulls on a thermal, dump altitude, brace for another approach. With a sinking feeling, he recognized the profile of RAF Blenheim light bombers. ‘They're out of bombs,’ he hissed. ‘They're dipping into a strafing run.’
Caine knew that, while bomb strikes were always inaccurate, strafing was likely to be far more deadly. He ducked back into the cabin. ‘Stop,’ he ordered Copeland. The driver stomped the brake-pedal, and the White jerked to a halt, sending Caine sprawling over the seat. ‘It's the RAF,’ he told Cope, picking himself up. ‘Fred, get down here. Get those recognition panels out. Now.’
He shoved open the side door and half tumbled out on to the sand. He waved at the nearest wagon – Gracie – clocking the drawn face of Sweeney as he pulled up. The other vehicles were still speeding away in every direction.
‘They're ours,’ Caine bawled to Sweeney. ‘Someone help us with the recognition panels, fast.’
Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando Page 10