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

by Michael Asher

  The others ran up and stood over it, doubled up with laughter. Harry Copeland ejected the case of the round that had just killed the pig and wheeled to cover the doorway on the off chance that the animal had some back-up. When it was evident that nothing else was going to come out, the four of them entered the house and searched it from top to bottom with their torches. They found nothing but the same broken remnants of a simple life they'd seen in the yard, with the addition of pig droppings and a defaced poster of Mussolini on the wall. When they emerged into the night, they found the rest of the boys gathered around the pig's carcase. ‘Plenty of meat on him,’ Maurice Pickney observed as Caine approached. ‘I reckon it'll be a bit tough, though.’

  It took four men to hang the pig by rope from an exposed beam in the farm's parlour, where Fred Wallace gutted and butchered it with his fanny. They broke up furniture, smashed doors, lit a fire – in the same room, so that it wouldn't be spotted from a distance. They roasted hunks of meat in the flames on hastily cut wooden spits. Soon, the room was full of the savoury aroma of roast pork, reminding Caine poignantly of the roast suckling pig they'd wolfed down at the Citadello two days earlier. It quickly became too smoky to breathe, though, and they moved out to the veranda on the opposite side of the parlour. They squatted to eat the fresh meat, washed down with Chianti from several large carafes that someone had ‘liberated’ during their sojourn with Michele's deserters. Caine and Rose sat together on the veranda's step, a little apart from the others.

  ‘It was a bit tough,’ Caine said, laying down his mess tin, ‘Still, it was damn' good.’ Noticing that Rose had also finished eating, he gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. For a moment they looked out through svelte moonlight on the gently falling blue-shadowed hillside. The moon was beginning to wane, giving way to the radiant stars and the long glossy splash of the Milky Way.

  Caine paused before lighting his own cigarette. He snapped the Zippo open again and bathed the tip of the fag in fire. He imbibed smoke, clicked the lighter shut and held it up to Rose. ‘See this,’ he said. ‘This saved my life and yours back in Biska. If I hadn't had this when I was in the well, I'd never have found the Senussi's knife. And without the knife I wouldn't have been able to climb the well. And if I hadn't climbed the well, you and I would now be stone dead.’ He brought out the Zippo's protective condom, and Rose's eyes fell on it. ‘Come to think of it,’ he smiled, ‘it was this condom that really saved our lives, because if I hadn't had the Zippo wrapped in it, it wouldn't have worked. Funny – isn't it? – how your life, future generations, everything, could depend on a rubber johnny?’

  Rose giggled, her teeth flashed like polished pearls in the moonlight. Her laughter faded quickly, though, and she turned away. ‘Future generations,’ she repeated coldly, not looking at him. ‘What makes you think there'll be any? Why even bring children into a world where people treat each other like animals? What's the point?’

  Caine stopped laughing. ‘Is that why you said that what happened to you didn't matter?’ he asked. ‘Is that why you volunteered for a mission with a cyanide capsule in your teeth? Is that why you tried to save an injured man in full view of an enemy aircraft? I saw how you acted when those Jerries were about to violate you and murder you in cold blood. It was like you just didn't care. Why?’

  When Rose turned to look at him again, her features were ice-cold, her eyes like marbles. Caine shivered as he stared into the face of the Maddaleine Rose he'd encountered in the guardroom at Biska: the Rose who'd refused to be rescued, whose resistance had led to his being tortured by the enemy, to Moshe Naiman dying a dreadful death. ‘It's none of your business, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘I'm a First Officer of the Royal Navy, and I don't have to answer to the likes of you.’

  It was so sudden that Caine felt he'd been rabbit-punched in the scrotum. His head reeled. He took two deep breaths. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I understand now. It's only “Call me Maddy” when it suits you, is it? They told me not to expect gratitude, and I don't expect it. I'm just a stupid piece of shit who carries out his orders, no questions asked. When they tell me I'm being sent to pull out some God's-gift-to-the-earth female officer who's carrying secrets about a Heath Robinson weapon that's supposed to win the war for us, I just say Yes, sir, three bags full, sir. I'm too insignificant in the great scale of things to be told what I'm giving my life for. Just shut up and take it. Well, First Officer Rose, ma'am, like I told you back in Biska, eleven good men the likes of me, have died so far to pull the likes of you out of this hell, and they didn't know what they were dying for, either. So, I'm ready to salute you, and stand to attention just like the manual says, because I'm a soldier. I don't need the pretence of your friendship to help me do my duty.’

  Rose looked away, the corners of her mouth turned down in fury. There was an awkward silence as they smoked their cigarettes, staring at the night sky. It was Rose who broke the stand-off, her voice low and hollow, seeming to come from far away. ‘I was engaged once,’ she said. ‘He was an agent in the Special Operations Executive. They parachuted him into France. He was betrayed by a traitor in his network, and captured. The Gestapo tortured him and murdered him. His name was Peter, and I loved him very much.’

  She turned to look at him, her eyes vacant dark caves, each containing a bright pearl of starlight. ‘The day Peter died, I died with him,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. ‘I've thought of little else since then but getting back at the Hun. Revenge, yes, but that wasn't enough. I knew that the only thing that could really balance the scales, the only thing that could redress the wrong, was to go into the dark, to die like Peter. So, yes, Sergeant, you should have dumped me at Biska. I didn't need you to rescue me. Those Jerries couldn't have killed me, you see, because I'm already dead.’

  Caine bit his lip, distressed by her words, but more confused than ever. Rose had risked her life to courier a secret message to Blighty. That made sense, but it was the only thing that did. When the mission had gone pear-shaped, why had she given up all her secrets? If she wanted revenge and an honourable death, why not just spit in Rohde's face as she'd spat in his, and swallow her damn' cyanide pill? Or did she think suicide by poison too clean and easy a way to go? Was it possible that she'd sacrificed King and country – not to mention Moshe Naiman – just so she could get the Jerries to do her in in as horrific a way as they'd killed her fiancé? If so, Cope was right: she really did belong in the booby-hatch.

  Caine glanced over her shoulder to see if any of the others had heard. The commandos were in a jovial huddle at the other end of the veranda, finishing off the wine, intent on each other. They were keeping their conversation low, aware that raised voices could carry in the darkness.

  ‘Listen,’ Caine said quietly. ‘I don't give a tinker's cuss about your fucking deathwish. All I know is that you aren't going there with my patrol. I intend to carry out my orders: I'm taking you back alive, and if I have to restrain you again, I will. The odds are that none of us is going to make it anyway, so I want to know now why I was sent on this fool's errand. What was it that you were carrying that was vital enough to justify eleven of my mates getting scragged?’

  Rose dropped her cigarette stub and bludgeoned it out furiously with the toe of her boot. ‘All right,’ she said sourly, giving him a sideways glance. ‘You asked for it, so I'll tell you. The dispatches I was carrying had nothing to do with Assegai. What they concerned was the state of Eighth Army. After Gazala, the army's morale hit rock bottom: there's been wholesale desertion, even mutiny. At present, we're unable to sustain a concentrated attack by the Axis. My message was from the Commander-in-Chief, Claude Auchinleck, and was to be delivered personally to Mr Churchill in London. It was a request for permission to evacuate Egypt and withdraw to Palestine, or even the Sudan. If Eighth Army remains in Egypt, it will be crushed.’

  Caine's mouth dropped open in disbelief. ‘Rommel's already heading for the Egyptian border,’ he gasped. ‘If your message never reached London, and ther
e's no back-up, that means…’

  ‘It means the end of the war in North Africa,’ she cut in, her voice flat. ‘It means that the Nazis have won.’

  42

  For long minutes Caine was too shocked to quiz Rose any further about her revelation. What made him speechless was the knowledge that she'd actually revealed this vital intelligence to the Hun. That meant that Caine's entire mission – all the blood, all the hardship – had been a pointless waste of energy. Rommel would have known about the Runefish dispatch even before they'd left Biska. That almost certainly explained why he'd quit Tobruk and pushed on towards Egypt so rapidly. Thanks to Maddaleine Rose, the Desert Fox was now aware that his forces would meet zero resistance from the Allies. Caine had joked about getting back to find that their new CO was a Jerry. It now occurred to him that if they ever did get back to Egypt, they would find the entire staff of GHQ in jankers, and Mussolini installed as top dog.

  If Eighth Army had been ordered to withdraw across the Suez Canal or south into the Sudan, it might be able to regroup and refit for a counterattack. Since Runefish's dispatch hadn't reached Churchill, though, and assuming there'd been no back-up, then no such permission would have been forthcoming. Unless Auchinleck had decided to act off his own bat, the remnants of his army would be snared like a bunch of jack-rabbits in the open, skinned, gutted and deep-fried in oil.

  ‘Is it possible,’ he asked, a lifetime later, ‘that the Auk relied on a single courier to get the message through? Surely there must have been others?’

  ‘I can't answer that,’ Rose replied stiffly. ‘I only know about myself.’

  ‘Why wasn't it at least confirmed through wireless comms?’

  Rose pouted, scraping out her mess tin noisily with a fork. ‘Because GHQ has been penetrated by Axis agents. All our signals chatter is being monitored by the Axis “Y” Service: they broke our codes long ago. The C-in-C couldn't risk anything –’ She never finished her sentence, because at that moment two things happened. First, a sentry's whistle sounded three crisp blasts from the direction of the wagons, and second, a green Very flare torched back the fabric of the night sky. Caine just had time to leap up and cock his Thompson when scores of wild figures, armed to the teeth, appeared out of the darkness, converging on the house from all sides. ‘Drop your weapons,’ a voice hissed.

  Caine stood poised, balancing his overweight Tommy-gun in his hands, as one of the figures sidled towards him. In the starlight, he recognized the untamed black hair and sheepskin-clad torso of Michele Brunetto, hefting a Beretta .44-magnum revolver in his right hand. Michele's eyes were aflame with pleasure, and there was an oily grin on his lips. ‘You may be fast, Thomas,’ he said, ‘but there are more than one hundred rifles and sub-machineguns aimed at you. Even you cannot move fast enough to get out of that.’

  Caine glanced around, clocking the horde of sheepskin-and jerkin-clad bearded bandits who had somehow crept up on them like ghosts in the night. Michele wasn't exaggerating: there were at least a hundred men here, and they were well armed. He remembered the ziggurats of stores, the stockpiles of weapons and ammunition at Michele's camp: he saw in their hands brand-new Schmeissers, Lee-Enfields, Berettas, Thompsons. He stood erect, making no move to drop his weapon. ‘What are you doing, Michele?’ he asked.

  The Italian swept back his long hair with the same narcissistic gesture Caine remembered. His grin grew yet more cunning. ‘Simple,’ he croaked. ‘I am selling you to my friend, Major Heinrich Rohde of the Abwehr, whose men will be here shortly. Lay down your weapons – now.’

  At the mention of Rohde's name an icy frisson passed down Caine's spine: if Michele had been in contact with the Black Widow, he would have been able to give him vital intelligence about the Runefish mission: arms, strength, intentions. He hoped to hell that none of the lads had let slip to any of Michele's band the fact that they were to meet an LRDG patrol the next day. Out of the trail of his eye, he noticed that Fred Wallace, to his right, had drawn himself up to his full, impressive six foot seven and was bristling with fury. His Bren was shoulder-slung, muzzle-forwards, and Caine guessed that he was a hair's breadth from pulling steel, sweeping Michele and his mob with .303 ball. To Wallace's left stood Turner, Padstowe, Copeland, Trubman, Temple, Raker and Pickney, all with weapons at the ready. The only commando missing was Graveman, the ex-Royal Navy Commando, who'd been on stag at the leaguer on the other side of the house. Caine knew that it must have been he who sounded the whistle: he hadn't heard any gunshots, and hoped that Graveman had simply been overpowered.

  Whatever the case, that still left only ten men and a woman against over a hundred well-armed bandits. In a ding-dong scrap at this range, most of his lads would be hit. A few might manage to dive for cover into the parlour, but they couldn't hold out there for long – certainly not after the Jerries arrived. Their best course of action, Caine decided, would be to pretend submission now and tackle the Ities later, when they weren't expecting it – preferably before Rohde turned up. It would be a tall order without weapons, but at least there'd be a chance. Right now they had no more chance than rubber ducks in a shooting gallery.

  ‘Hold it, Fred,’ Caine said. ‘Don't fire.’ He laid his Tommy-gun smartly on the earth in a drill-like ‘ground arms’ movement. Wallace glared angrily at him and there were groans from the lads, but after a brief hesitation, they followed suit. Michele chuckled triumphantly. ‘I want all those little gewgaws you have,’ he snapped. ‘Those knuckle-duster knives, bayonets, pistols, cheese-wire, grenades – tutti.’

  When the commandos had divested themselves of everything that resembled a weapon, Michele instructed a handful of his minions to bundle the hardware into the cab of the Dingo. ‘They will be ready when the Tedesci arrive,’ he said. ‘We will give them the weapons and vehicles as a tip, no?’

  He ordered the commandos to form a line, with their hands on their heads, then sauntered up to them cockily, a ragged little sparrow of a general taking an inspection parade. He halted three feet in front of Rose and gawped greedily at her body. ‘So,’ he gloated, ‘you are the famous Runefish. Very nice. Very nice. Is true, you look like my Angela, but you have bigger bum and better boobs. But I do not think Major Rohde wants you for your bum and boobs. I ask myself from the beginning why the British send out a special squad to rescue a girl like you? You must be worth a lot of money, I say to myself. Then, by surprise, last night, I receive a message from Captain Haller of the Brandenburgers. He says you escape from Biska with British commandos. He need my help to get you back, and his boss, Major Heinrich Rohde of the Abwehr, he pay good price, and promise no hunting down deserters.’

  Caine snorted. ‘What happened to the “Italian Robin Hood”?’ he scoffed. ‘What about robbing the rich to help the poor?’

  Michele stepped in front of him, squaring up to him. Caine stood half a head taller, and though Michele's shoulders were muscular, Caine's were almost twice as wide. ‘Robin Hood is just a story for children, no?’ Michele sneered. ‘Real life is not a storybook. You have to play both ends – make a little bit here, a little bit there. Major Rohde, he make a good offer – too good to refuse.’

  ‘So, you turned out to be a capitalist, after all,’ Caine sniffed. ‘How did you find us, anyway?’

  Michele snickered smugly. ‘Was not so hard. This morning we pick up some friends of yours – the old Senussi and his daughter. She is a beautiful girl, that Layla, no? I threaten to take her virginity – me and all my men together – and the old man squawks like a chicken. He knows which way you go – he track you for us. What you do here at the bivio – covering tracks – is clever. It almost put us off, but then we smell smoke from one of the old farms, where no one is living for weeks. We leave our trucks and sneak up in the dark. You are so taken up with your porchetta you don't hear us. Only your sentry – the sailor with the beard – hears us, but by then is too late for you.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Caine demanded sharply.

  ‘We hit him on head. I don
't think he is dead.’

  ‘If you've hurt him…’

  Michele chuckled and turned his attention back to Rose, moistening his dry lips with a flicking tongue.

  ‘Major Rohde will be here soon,’ he said. ‘I think there is enough time for us to get to know each other a little better, no?’

  Rose ignored him, and he took a step closer, brushing her breasts with the tips of his fingers, running a hand along the curve of her hips. Rose didn't flinch, but stared back at him with narrowed eyes. Caine clenched his fists. ‘Don't touch her,’ he spat.

  Michele raised his eyebrows and chortled. Stepping in front of Caine again, he kicked him hard in the groin with a cavalry-booted foot. Caine doubled over, grunting. The pain in his side-wound flared up, sent spurls of liquid fire through his abdomen. Michele stood over him. ‘You don't give orders here,’ he crowed. ‘I welcome you like brothers, and you pull a gun on me in my own camp. You take my benzina without thank-you. Your men fuck my women…’ He paused as if a thought had just struck him, and looked around, his eyes quickly falling on Copeland in the line near by.

  ‘Ah, and here he is, the great lover of women.’ He skipped over to Cope and eyed him appraisingly. Copeland, a foot taller than the Italian, gazed into mid-space with a bored expression, as if he wasn't there. Michele snarled and punched him savagely in the kidneys. As Cope bent forward panting, Michele jammed the muzzle of his revolver into his cheek. ‘You, my cocksucker friend, you are finish. I see to it that you don't fuck another man's wife, never again.’