Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando

by Michael Asher

  Cope nodded, impressed once more with Caine's determination. ‘Let's do it then,’ he said, smirking suddenly. ‘Only I hope it doesn't rain.’

  At first the going inside the cleft was better than Caine had expected. The wadi bed was smooth water-graded gravel and the sides wide enough apart for two wagons to pass each other. The column moved at walking pace, and Caine tramped ahead with Sheikh Adud, Layla and interpreter Naiman. Most of the men debussed from the vehicles and walked along with them, clearing stones or tangles of vegetation out of the way as they walked.

  The sun dipped, casting zebra-stripes of light and shade across the gravel floor. The wadi sides grew higher and higher until they were soaring hundreds of feet above, giving Caine the feeling that they were walking along the bottom of a deep dyke, like the ones sunk across his native Fens. Sometimes he found himself staring upwards at places where the patina had fallen away in vast flakes, or where the rock seemed to have liquefied and oozed down the sides to solidify in purple blotches. As the wadi closed in around them, though, he began to feel claustrophobic. He was aware that it would soon be so narrow that the vehicles would have no chance of turning round.

  Darkness descended like a dead weight, and the wagons rumbled forward with their headlights off, filling the gorge with grumbling echoes and petrol fumes. The men fell silent, stalking on in the darkness like phantoms. The floor became increasingly steep: jagged boulders scraped against the lorries' sumps. In places the lads had to build ramps and guide the vehicles up them one by one.

  Around midnight, when they'd been climbing for a good five hours without a break, Caine thought he heard the sound of water. He tapped Sheikh Adud on the shoulder. ‘What's that?’ he asked.

  The old man's face was a dark hollow above a sprout of beard, made almost luminous by the aquamarine moonlight. ‘That is Shallal,’ Adud said. ‘Place of waterfall… but no problem. Not much water now.’

  Caine called a halt. He drew his torch and went forward with Copeland, Adud and Naiman. They hadn't covered more than ten yards when what looked like a sheer cliff reared suddenly out of the wadi bed. ‘Christ,’ Caine gasped. He was about to reel angrily on the sheikh, when Cope stopped him. ‘It's an illusion, Tom,’ he said. ‘It's not as steep as it looks.’

  They began to stumble up the rise, over stones and jagged boulders. Adud pointed out a narrow channel to one side where they could just make out a slim ribbon of water, silver in the moonlight. A climb of about fifteen minutes left Caine breathless but not disheartened. ‘You were right, mate,’ he told Cope. ‘I reckon the gradient's about one in three – steep, but not that steep.’

  They rested for a few minutes, swigging water, then Caine sent Copeland with Adud and Naiman to recce the way ahead. When they'd disappeared into the opalescent moonlight, he scrambled back down into the wadi and gave the lads an hour to rest and eat. He took the opportunity to pay a visit to Jackson, who was lying bandaged on a stretcher in the back of Gracie, with Pickney in attendance. The ex-Rifleman seemed alert and chirpy.

  ‘Was it the Schmeisser MG30?’ Caine asked.

  ‘Don't know where it came from,’ Jackson grunted. ‘I just felt this white-hot pain, like I'd been kicked in the chest by a bloody great mule.’

  ‘He was lucky,’ Pickney said. ‘It's a cushy wound – no vital organs hit. I've tried a new treatment – plugged both the entry and exit wounds with an ointment of crushed sulphenamide tablets, mixed with petroleum jelly and cotton wool. I'm also giving him sulphenamide tablets by mouth.’

  Jackson grinned weakly. ‘I'll be up and about by tomorrow, skipper,’ he said. ‘You'll see.’

  ‘Make sure you are,’ Caine said, his voice mock-stern. ‘We need you.’

  After Pickney had examined and re-dressed his own wound, Caine returned to the White, where Wallace was cooking bully stew in a dixie. By the time Copeland and the others arrived back, they were already digging into it.

  ‘It's about the same gradient all the way up,’ Cope reported, slipping his mess tins out of his belt-kit. ‘The slope extends about two hundred feet, and there's a plateau on top, where the watercourse goes off to one side. On the other side there's what looks like a natural ledge, with the mountain wall on the right and a sheer drop on the left. Hard to say how deep the drop is.’

  ‘Don't really matter, does it?’ Wallace chuckled, slopping stew into Cope's mess tin. ‘If a wagon goes over we ain't likely to get it back whether it's ten foot or a hundred, are we?’

  Copeland attacked the stew ravenously with a spoon, while Caine searched his face in the greengage moonlight. ‘The width is the crucial factor, Harry.’

  ‘As the bishop said to the actress,’ Wallace cut in.

  Chuckling, Cope put his mess tin down and held out his mug for tea. Wallace poured him half a pint of fluid, then added Carnation milk. The corporal sipped at it with small noises of appreciation. He wiped his lips. ‘I reckon it's just wide enough to take our widest wagon,’ he said, ‘but there isn't much margin, and I can't swear what it's like further on. Adud told me it doesn't get any narrower, and what he's told us has held up so far.’ He sipped more tea. ‘Only one thing, though. I wouldn't want to take on that ledge in the dark. I mean, one slip and you're over.’

  Caine scraped out his mess tins with sand. ‘It's just gone 0100 hours,’ he said. ‘I reckon it will take us till first light to get up the next two hundred feet.’ Another thought struck him. ‘Is there enough room up there to leaguer all the wagons?’

  Copeland considered it. ‘It'll be tight,’ he said, ‘but it'll do.’ He put his mug down and lit a Player's Navy Cut. ‘You thought how we're going to do this?’ he enquired.

  Caine fitted his mess tins into each other and replaced them in his pouches.

  ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I'm sending the Dingo up first – she's got four-wheel drive so it shouldn't be any problem for her. She can tow Gracie, and the water-bowser. On top, we'll use the winch to haul up the rest of the wagons. Anything up there we can secure her on?’

  Cope blew out smoke, nodding. ‘Some free-standing boulders.’

  ‘We ain't got a two-hundred-foot cable, skipper,’ Wallace butted in.

  ‘There's an extension,’ Caine said. ‘I remember ticking it off on the list.’

  ‘OK,’ Cope said, ‘but who's going to drive the Dingo?’

  ‘You are. Just as soon as you've finished that.’

  Within ten minutes the men had been briefed, and the drivers were in place.

  Caine divided the co-drivers and crews into two parties. One group would go ahead, clearing the larger stones and boulders out of the way. The other would push the wagons, haul on toggle ropes or place chocks under the back wheels if there were any sign of slippage.

  Caine watched Wallace ease the White scout-car out of the way so that the Dingo and Gracie could pass – there was just enough room. While Wingnut Turner yoked the six-ton truck securely to the Dingo with a tow-rope, Caine hopped on to the running board of the lorry's cab, where Todd Sweeney sat behind the wheel. ‘Just take it steady,’ he said. ‘Don't overdo the throttle.’

  Sweeney shot him an irritated glance. ‘I know, I know,’ he snapped. He punched the starter and the engine roared. The clearing party was already climbing the slope, hidden by the darkness. Caine checked that the team with chocks and toggle ropes was in place at the rear. Cope was ready in the Dingo, with the engine gurning. ‘All right,’ he bawled. ‘Hit it.’

  The Dingo crawled forward and the tow-rope tightened steadily. At the wheel of Gracie, Sweeney let out the clutch a fraction of a second too late, and there was a twang as the rope snapped. Caine and Wallace leapt out of the way.

  ‘You tosser,’ Wallace yelled at Sweeney.

  Caine marched up to the truck and opened the cab door. ‘Stand down, Corporal Sweeney,’ he said.

  Sweeney looked flustered. ‘Are you saying I don't know how to drive a lorry?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘No, Corporal, I'm not saying anything. I'm o
rdering you to stand down. I want you to take charge of the clearing party.’

  Sweeney shot him a vitriolic glance. He was a muscular man, squat and powerful, but he knew better than to aggravate Caine when he was in a determined mood. Muttering, he opened the door and dropped out. Caine took his place. Wallace jumped on the cab's running board. ‘She's yoked up, skipper,’ he said.

  Caine nodded. Minutes later they tried again. As the rope tightened, Caine eased the clutch out. Gracie moved steadily forward. The Dingo began to crawl up the gradient, and Caine kept his foot on the accelerator, his eyes riveted on the tow-rope, reading its tension. He felt the big lorry's wheels shudder and her coil-springs wobble as she rolled over loose stones. He smiled to himself, remembering that one of those coil-springs was an inflated inner tube. They were about half-way up the slope, and doing well, when Gracie's engine suddenly lost power. Caine stabbed the accelerator frantically, but a fraction of a second later she spluttered and died. The lorry stopped abruptly: the tow-rope snapped, whiplashing his bonnet. A few yards above, Copeland braked the Dingo.

  Caine could feel Gracie's wheels grinding, slipping back under the drag of the heavy water-bowser. He ramped on the handbrake, but she slipped back even faster. ‘Hold her, lads,’ he yelled through the open side window. The team behind the truck threw in the wooden chocks. The clearing party ran back down the slope to help, and as Todd Sweeney passed, Caine saw or imagined he saw a gloating look on the ex-Redcap's face. Even with the chocks in, and the whole team straining, Gracie continued to creep backwards with a sickening crunch of stones. Wallace ran forward with the men carrying toggle-ropes. They looped the ropes around the winch-bar, and Caine saw Wallace's face in the moonlight, rutted with strain as his great muscles heaved. Gracie's backwards momentum was checked momentarily, and for an instant it seemed to Caine that Wallace's prodigious strength alone was holding the truck. Then she lurched backwards again, shuddering dangerously.

  Caine was debating whether to abandon her when he remembered that Robin Jackson was lying helplessly in the back. He was about to call out to Wallace, when his eye fell on the petrol gauge. The tank was empty: Sweeney had forgotten to top it up. That was why the engine had cut.

  Gracie was rolling back even faster now, and Caine saw that Wallace and the others were being dragged forwards on their toggle ropes. Cursing himself for not having checked the fuel earlier, Caine switched over to the reserve tank and pressed the starter. The engine coughed. He could feel Gracie's wheels shivering, going out of control. ‘Get out, skipper,’ Wallace yelled. Caine thought of Jackson: if he jumped, it would mean abandoning the wounded man to his fate. He hit the starter a second time. Again nothing happened. The truck was slithering back faster and faster. Caine took a deep breath and hit the starter a third time. The engine exploded into action.

  Caine put her straight into first gear and let the clutch out. Gracie jerked forward with her six wheels spinning, but didn't stall. Then she got traction and Caine hit the clutch and brake: she stopped abruptly. The men behind the lorry cheered.

  Holding her in first gear, Caine saw Wallace's broad face leering at him through the left-side window. ‘We're not going to be able to splice the tow-rope, Tom,’ he said.

  Caine made an instant decision. ‘I'm going to play the winch cable out,’ he said. ‘Take the hook and yoke it to the Dingo. Then go up there with Harry, and attach it to a secure rock. Give me the word and I'll winch her up.’

  Wallace gave him the thumbs-up. Still balancing the truck in first, Caine began to unwind the winch-cable, as Wallace took the hook and ran with it to the Dingo. A moment later the little scout-car was crunching up the slope taking the cable with her.

  It worked better than Caine could have imagined. He kept playing out the cable until it was fully extended. Wallace was back within ten minutes, saying that the end was secured to a rock on the summit. Caine started to wind the cable in, giving the vehicle a little throttle. Gracie juddered but started to grind steadily upwards. The winch whined, the engine grumbled. The commandos behind the wagon clapped and whistled.

  With the winch reeling in the cable steadily it took only ten minutes to cover the hundred feet to level ground. Once the lorry and trailer were safely on the ledge, Caine had the lads unyoke the bowser, detach the winch-cable. After checking that there was enough room, he turned her round and sited her facing the slope. He applied the brakes and jumped out of the cab, to find Cope and Wallace waiting for him. ‘What happened, Tom?’ Copeland asked. ‘How come she stalled?’

  Caine wiped sweat off his brow, took in the rock wall rising steeply above them. ‘You won't believe it,’ he said. ‘Petrol ran out.’

  ‘I'll kill that tosser,’ Wallace roared.

  Just as Cope had said, there were large boulders up here that had been separated from the rock face by erosion. The three of them worked to secure Gracie to them with side cables, then Wallace attached the winch-cable extension. While the big man worked the winch, Caine and Copeland took turns to run down the slope to yoke the cable to the other vehicles. It was hard, slow, painstaking work, but one by one Marlene, Vera and Judy and the two armoured vehicles creaked up the slope. By the time the last wagon, the Daimler, reached the summit, the men were dropping with fatigue.

  Dawn was already firing up in the east, a vast band of gold and pink spreading across the sky, revealing a labyrinth of mountainpeaks and deep wadis stretching as far as the eye could see. Caine ordered an hour's rest for breakfast. As he, Cope and Wallace leaned against the bonnet of the White, smoking cigarettes, Cope said, ‘You deserve a medal for that, skipper. Nobody's done anything like this since Hannibal crossed the Alps with his elephants.’

  Caine was so done in he could barely manage to force a smile. ‘Don't count your chickens, Harry,’ he said. ‘We haven't got down yet.’

  20

  In the same limpid morning light, five hundred miles away to the east, Captain Julian Avery emerged from a staff car at the block where Sim-Sim's flat was situated. He found the flat easily enough – it was cordoned off with tape and crawling with Field Security personnel. Avery, still clad in his service dress and Sam Browne, was pooped. He'd come straight from an all-night conference at GHQ, chaired by Auchinleck, to discuss the implications of Rommel's imminent attack on Tobruk.

  He found the Defence Security Officer, Major John Stocker, in the sitting room, drinking coffee with his sergeant, and a corporal. Avery didn't miss the bloodstains on the furniture and the Persian carpet. He saluted, then whipped off his service cap, smoothed his pale moustache and wayward blond hair. ‘You look all in,’ Stocker told him. ‘Have some coffee.’

  Avery took the coffee gratefully. He sipped it, winced at its bitter strength, but enjoyed it all the same. ‘What news from Tobruk?’ Stocker asked.

  ‘It doesn't look good, sir,’ Avery said. ‘Rommel encircled the town yesterday. The word from GHQ is that he'll be through the perimeter this morning, and will probably move in for the kill tomorrow.’

  ‘It had to come,’ Stocker sighed. ‘Will Klopper hold out?’

  ‘To speak frankly, sir, I think he'll fold on the first wave of Stukas. Holding it was only viable while the Gazala Line was in place. Now that's gone…’ Avery gulped savagely at the bitter coffee and surveyed the DSO with interest.

  Stocker was what Avery called the ‘boffin’ type – a stout little officer with a domed forehead and thick-framed glasses who wore the badge of the Intelligence Corps on his service cap. All Avery knew about him was that he'd been a professor at Cairo University before the war and had virtually no military training yet was reckoned mustard as a spy-catcher, and had scored some outstanding successes.

  ‘So,’ Avery said, giving his mug back to the corporal, ‘you said it was urgent.’

  Stocker took him by the arm and moved him away from the others, lowering his voice. ‘This flat was rented by a young woman known as Sim-Sim,’ he said. ‘She was what I believe is referred to as a “cabaret girl”, at M
adame Badia's nightclub. The term implies both entertainer and prostitute.’

  Avery chortled. ‘I'm familiar with the term,’ he said.

  ‘The name “Sim-Sim” was, of course, assumed. In fact, she was a Palestinian Jew named Rachel Levi. She was raped and murdered here in the flat in the early hours of the morning. Her body was found by the civilian police after a tip-off by neighbours, who'd heard screams. The police noticed something familiar in the perpetrator's modus operandi. It was identical to that of the murder of Lady Mary Goddard, the diplomat's wife, last July.’

  ‘I remember that case. It was all over the newspapers.’

  ‘Yes. Levi's body was found in the room through here.’ He ushered Avery through an open door into a small bedroom, where two Field Security men in smart khaki drills were taking forensic samples and dusting for fingerprints. The body had been removed, but Avery's glance was drawn to the double bed, the sheets and blankets of which were caked in dried blood. ‘Levi's body was on the bed,’ Stocker told him. ‘She had been raped in the anus and her throat had been cut from behind, probably while she was being raped. This was precisely the manner of the homicide of Lady Goddard in the ladies' room of Madame Badia's. Now, you may remember that the perpetrator in the Goddard case was never found, even though he was witnessed in the act of committing the crime by a woman called Betty Nolan.’ He dropped his voice to almost a whisper. ‘I believe this Miss Nolan is of some interest to you?’

  Avery bristled. His tired mind interpreted the word ‘interest’ as implying a personal involvement. Certainly, if circumstances had been different, he'd have liked to have become involved with Betty, but her heart had always been elsewhere. Then he realized that Stocker couldn't possibly be implying anything personal. The fact that the DSO had called him indicated only that he was aware of a professional connection. This, in itself, was unexpected enough.

  ‘Are you indoctrinated, sir?’ he whispered.

  ‘Into Runefish? To a certain level. Only in as much as it affects the counter-intelligence scene.’