The First to Land (1984)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Blair removed his helmet and crawled to the lip of the hill. ‘The boats are still there, and unguarded. We’ll have to jump about a bit when we cross the river.’ He gauged the distance with his eyes. ‘Once across, the machine-gun section can offer covering fire. That’ll keep their heads down for a bit.’ Surprisingly he rolled on to his back and stared up at the paling sky.

  ‘I’ve been really happy during my time out here. I suppose I’ve been getting past it for some time.’ He turned his head and looked at Blackwood. ‘I’m about twenty years older than you, and I feel it.’

  Blackwood watched him in the faint glow. Without his helmet he looked unshaven and tired. For some reason he wanted to talk. To while away the time or to ease the tension, he could not tell.

  Blair continued, ‘To begin with I was like any other young officer. You learn the jargon and the right postures. The rest comes easily. One ship after the other. Captains with different whims and fancies, and always you’re separate from the rest, no matter how crowded the ship might be. I suppose I grew tired of it. Even leave in England had nothing to offer. I’ve no family to speak of, whereas in Hong Kong . . .’ He sighed and rolled over on to his elbows again.

  ‘But all that is far away. We are here.’ He became businesslike and brisk once more. ‘Order a runner to de Courcy’s sector. Tell him to send a squad down to the boats, but keep them hidden.’

  Swan said, ‘I’ll do it, sir.’

  Blackwood licked his lips. They were beginning to crack. In an hour the land would start to throw back the heat. They could not go through another day. Even as he thought it, he knew they would if need be. And another, and another until the sun smashed them down.

  ‘Good chap, your man Swan.’ Blair yawned hugely. ‘A few thousand like him and I could take the whole of China!’ But the smile would not come. Blackwood looked at the river as the growing light gave it colour and movement again.

  Just to have a drink. Was that all that mattered in the end?

  Hidden in the fold of an adjoining hill Lieutenant Edmund de Courcy listened to Swan’s message and said, ‘Right away.’ He beckoned to Greenaway, his sergeant. ‘Job for you. Take a squad down to the boats. You should be hidden from the arsenal, but keep a weather eye on that bloody fort.’

  Sergeant Tom Greenaway was the oldest man in the whole company and had been in the Corps since he was fifteen. He had fought in most of the big campaigns in Africa and Egypt, and several of the little bush wars as well. He was old enough to be the lieutenant’s father and then some, but he liked de Courcy all the same. He had the ability to make quick decisions and act on them, unlike poor young Mr Bannatyre. He came from a good old Royal Marines family too. That carried more weight than de Courcy’s lack of experience.

  Greenaway detailed off his small squad and picked up his rifle. Some of the youngsters were worried, on edge. But Greenaway had grown out of all that. Curiously enough he had never even got a scratch, except once in a brawl with some soldiers in Southsea.

  He heard de Courcy say, ‘You go along with them, Ralf. Get the lie of the land.’

  Greenaway dropped his eyes to hide his irritation. The second lieutenant might be a Blackwood but he was bloody useless.

  He looked up. ‘Ready to move off, sir.’

  Ralf nodded. ‘Very well. Carry on.’

  Greenaway gritted his teeth. That was all the little snob ever said. Carry on.

  ‘Poole, take the point. Adams, bring up the rear.’

  Ralf said, ‘Have them fix bayonets, Sergeant.’

  Greenaway pushed his lower lip up into his big, bushy moustache.

  ‘Too risky. The sun’ll be up soon. It’ll reflect off ’em.’

  De Courcy heard him, but walked away rattling a warm pebble around his tongue and teeth to hold his terrible thirst at bay. Ralf Blackwood would get little change out of Greenaway, he thought.

  The squad slithered and crawled amongst some bushes, feeling their way, eyes everywhere as they headed for the river.

  How inviting the sea had looked from the hillside, Ralf thought. It was all so unfair. They should have been got out of it at the first sign of danger.

  He thought of Mediator. Probably lying safe and snug around the next spur of land. Surely they would not be left to die here in a wilderness? The thought unnerved him and for a moment he felt on the verge of panic.

  ‘Far enough, sir.’ Greenaway signalled the others to take cover as he flopped down behind a barrier of stones. Perhaps there had once been a terrible flood here, and only the stones remained to mark its passing.

  Ralf glared at the sergeant as he studied the boats which had been abandoned on the bank. Big, coarse and ugly, with thick hair on the backs of his hands.

  Ralf turned away as the anger swept through him.

  The sun touched his face and he dreaded the heat to come. There was a dark patch in the sky which had not been there before. From the direction of Tientsin. Part of it must be on fire. He thought of the mutilated and headless corpses when they had stopped the train and almost vomited.

  Here there was no train, no sign of help, and he had heard that only one of the machine-guns was serviceable. Even that fool Blair must see it was hopeless.

  An hour dragged past and Ralf’s anxiety mounted with each minute. It was as if they had been left behind, that nothing else lived here.

  Greenaway sucked on a piece of grass, his rifle pushed through the scrub and resting on the little stones as he watched the opposite bank. After this little lot he would be out of the Corps for good. But it was all he remembered, all he knew. What would he and Beth do when he quit the barracks for the last time? He had two daughters, but no son to carry on the tradition. Still, perhaps one of the girls would give him a grandson.

  He heard someone creeping down beside him and tensed as if he expected a blow from one of those terrible knives. But it was Corporal Addis from the platoon.

  ‘Gawd, you gave me a start, creepin’ up like that, Percy!’

  The corporal peered past him at the river. ‘We’re goin’ to attack. Just ’ad word from Cap’n Blackwood.’

  Even with the shock of his announcement Greenaway was able to hiss, ‘Tell the officer then!’

  Addis glanced contemptuously at the second lieutenant, ‘Fifteen minutes, sir. Mr de Courcy’s runner ‘as reported a force of Boxers coming from the sou’-west.’

  Greenaway grimaced. ‘That’s torn it. There’s only one way, an’ that’s through that ruddy arsenal.’

  Ralf floundered for words. ‘But – but what about the ship? I thought we were getting support?’

  Greenaway frowned. He shouldn’t talk like that in front of a corporal. Percy Addis was well known for his big mouth and lower-deck gossip.

  He growled, ‘Tell’m we’re standin’ fast until he comes.’ He pulled back his rifle-bolt with extreme care and thrust a bullet into the breech.

  Ralf stood up and stared wildly at the hillside. Addis had already vanished.

  ‘I’ll go and see Mr de Courcy.’ He nodded jerkily, only vaguely aware of the sprawled marines who were staring at him, their eyes like glass in the sunshine.

  Greenaway said, ‘It won’t do no good, sir.’ He reached out to encourage the young officer back into cover, but as he touched his sleeve he seemed to trigger off all of his pent-up fears and emotions.

  ‘Don’t you dare to touch me, you – you –’ He ripped open his holster and made to drag out his revolver. ‘You think you know everything –’

  In his agitation Ralf had holstered his revolver while it was still cocked. Now as he jerked it, his mind blank to everything but their hostility, the hammer caught in his belt and the revolver swung heavily against Greenaway’s rifle and exploded.

  Nobody saw where the bullet went but the sound of the single shot echoed across the sluggish river like a thunderclap.

  Unware of what had provoked someone to open fire Blair jumped to his feet and shouted, ‘At the double!’ The marines, who had already
been mustered in their various sections, came to life like puppets. With grim faces and rifles at the high-port they trotted down the hillside towards the river.

  Most of them had no idea of what might be expected of them. And those who had knew they would now do it alone without even the smallest hope of having surprise on their side.

  Blackwood waved his arm and saw the men fan out, keeping their proper distance in spite of the swift change of events. He heard the distant sound of a horn, and knew an alarm was being raised.

  It was suddenly desperate and they had not even begun.

  He yelled, ‘Colour Sergeant! The flag!’

  Some of the running marines turned to stare as the burly colour sergeant uncased the flag, and swung it through the air to clear its folds.

  Blackwood heard Blair panting beside him. It was only a gesture. But battles had been won on less.

  Lieutenant de Courcy paused only to stare across at the arsenal’s high wall, his eyes blazing as he shouted, ‘First Section into the boats!’ He pulled out his revolver and waited for the marines to run the last few yards to the water.

  A few shots whimpered and cracked around them, some hitting the river, others thudding into the boats.

  Sergeant Greenaway waved his men on. ‘Pole ’em over, lads!’ One man spun round, his mouth wide in a silent cry as a heavy bullet hit him in the throat.

  More marines hurried past, their bodies bent as if carrying great loads, eyes startled at the sight of the dead man in their own uniform.

  De Courcy emitted a sigh as the hidden machine-gun clattered into life and cut little spurts of dust from the high parapet where the Chinese bullets had come from.

  He glared at Ralf. ‘Take charge of the MG section and the wounded!’ He seized him and shook his arm. ‘Control yourself, man! They’ll be looking even to you in a moment.’

  Ralf stared at him, his eyes wide. ‘But – but the Boxers are coming this way!’

  ‘Second Section!’ De Courcy winced as another man cried out in agony. But he had to make Ralf understand. ‘I shall signal you to cross the river. Cover us ’til then!’ He bounded over the stones and joined the second boat which was already being poled across the river, while some of the marines fired at the heads on the parapet.

  Blackwood saw the leading boats grind ashore, their occupants only too glad to leave and run for the hillside which sloped towards the arsenal. But for that single shot they would have had some small benefit. He saw a marine fall, clutching his stomach even as he vaulted from one of the boats. It was all going wrong, but if they stayed here they would be surrounded by the Boxers who were about a mile away and approaching fast.

  More men ran for the boats, while Blackwood saw his cousin climbing back up the hill, his revolver still dangling from its lanyard. In his heart he had known it had been Ralf.

  Blair joined him and paused to train his binoculars on the arsenal. The whole countryside would have heard the firing by now.

  He said, ‘Time to go.’ He shot him a twisted smile. ‘Separate boats, I think.’

  Blackwood ran over the last strip of land and saw the earth spurt beside him as some invisible marksman marked him down. Swan kept pace with him and dropped his rifle only to seize one of the long poles with Corporal Addis.

  A snail’s pace, Blackwood thought. He cocked his head to listen as the machine-gun fell silent. But it restarted and he pictured the dwindling pile of ammunition beside it.

  On, on, on, with the flag adding a touch of vivid colour above their lowered heads and taut faces.

  ‘Re-form!’ Blair limped up the last few yards and leaned against the rocks below the arsenal. ‘Get those wounded off the bank!’

  Blackwood glanced along the line of men nearest him. Some were feverishly reloading their magazines from their pouches, others stood with their eyes closed as they sucked in great gulps of air.

  Sergeant Major Fox bellowed, ‘Remember, lads, there’s food and drink over that wall! Come on, smarten yerselves up, goddammit!’

  Blackwood saw some of the men glaring at his squared shoulders, loathing him, but still managing to react as Fox knew they would.

  Blackwood heard someone give a groan as bullets hammered into one of the crude fishing boats while it was still in mid-stream. He saw several marines fall, one completely out of the boat. Another, probably his friend, tried to reach him but the current carried the dead man away. He looked strangely peaceful.

  Blair said sharply, ‘Mr Gravatt, have your men fire on the parapet. We shall go around to the gates on the road. It’s the weakest point.’

  Whistles shrilled and NCOs shouted names. Blair added between his teeth, ‘God, what a bloody mess!’

  Swan whispered, ‘The Colonel’s been ‘it, sir.’

  Blackwood realized that Blair was keeping his left elbow jammed against his side. There were flecks of blood on his sleeve. He seemed to sense Blackwood’s concern through his pain and gasped, ‘Say nothing, David. Not a bloody thing!’

  Blackwood cocked his revolver and saw the bugler watching him, his eyes horrified as a marine bounced from the wall, his face a mass of blood.

  He thought suddenly of Ralf, back there with the machine-gun section. It would be too much for him to deal with. The machine-gunners, a riding instructor, the engine driver and his mate, and the horse.

  It was not much of a threat to the oncoming Boxers. They were all caught in a trap. There was no way out this time.

  He forced his mind to respond. If he showed the slightest hint of anxiety or worse, they might break and run. Back to the boats, anywhere.

  He nodded to the bugler and realized he was not afraid, he was not even angry any more.

  ‘Sound the Advance, Oates!’ Blackwood’s grandfather’s old servant had been called Oates, and this callow-looking private was related to him. Nothing changed.

  Oates raised his instrument, and Blackwood saw his eyes widen as another bugle call echoed faintly above the firing.

  Sergeant Greenaway wiped his streaming face with his forearm and said hoarsely, ‘Jesus, will you look at her!’

  Blackwood swung round and heard the others calling to each other as Mediator’s long, graceful hull crossed very slowly from left to right beyond the fort.

  Splashes marked the sea around her white sides, but Blackwood saw the guns swinging towards the shore, as if they were pointing directly at him.

  He said to the bugler, ‘Your turn, Oates.’ It was all he could do to keep his voice steady. Masterman had made his gesture too, only he would have kept his bugler for this precise moment.

  Blair shouted, ‘Now, at them, Marines!’

  The blare of the bugle, the sudden crash of gunfire from Mediator’s six-inch armament were almost drowned by the wild cheers as the marines swept towards the adjoining wall and across the road which Blackwood and the colonel had watched from the hilltop.

  Huge gouts of fire and earth shot skywards as the first shell exploded on the land. Mediator’s gunnery officer was first-class, Blackwood thought, although through his powerful rangefinder the forts and the arsenal probably looked at arm’s length.

  The lieutenants shouted wildly to restrain their men from breaking cover until they were ready to attack.

  Fox pointed and showed a rare excitement. ‘Look, the buggers are comin’ out!’

  The arsenal’s gates were opening even as the marines knelt down to take aim. Just a handful of Imperial soldiers in their strange smocks and dark mandarin hats were crowding each other through the gap, ducking as another salvo blasted into the hillside. Masterman’s guns were firing well clear of the arsenal, but these Chinese soldiers were not to know that. One of those six-inch shells exploding inside the ancient arsenal would have blasted them to pieces.

  ‘Take aim!’

  Blair gasped, ‘Belay that, Gravatt! Let ’em run. There’s been enough slaughter.’

  Gravatt lowered his revolver, the light of wildness still in his eyes. ‘Inside the arsenal, Sergeant! Jump about!
’

  Blackwood watched the colonel anxiously. He was bleeding badly, but showed no sign of collapse. He heard de Courcy order his runner to recall the machine-gun section, for the Third Platoon to give them covering fire as they crossed the narrow river.

  When he turned again most of the others had already vanished through the gates, bayonets ready, nerves brittle in case of a trick or ambush.

  A few moments later the Chinese standard above the wall was hauled down and the bright Union Flag appeared in its place. Blackwood stared up at it. But for Masterman he doubted if any of them would have survived to see it.

  Swan muttered, ‘Close thing.’

  There was no more opposition, and while the wounded were carried into the protection of a cool cellar, the dead were dragged to the wall for a hasty burial.

  The last boat, with the horse swimming and wading beside it, grated into the bank and Blackwood saw his cousin amongst the small rearguard. They all ducked as another salvo ripped noisily overhead to explode beyond the low hills. The gunnery officer and his spotters could probably see the advancing Boxers. At such range and exposed as they were on open ground, the Boxers would stand no chance at all.

  Blair sat down very carefully on an upended ammunition case, his orderly steadying his arm.

  Blair asked, ‘How are the supplies, David?’

  Blackwood began to unbutton Blair’s tunic with the aid of his orderly.

  ‘Just as you said, sir. Food, water, ammunition, everything. It must be one of Tientsin’s main arsenals.’

  Blair nodded dully. ‘The road. I knew it was a clue if only we could use it.’

  Swan hissed. ‘Gawd, sir. That’s a bad ’un.’

  The bullet had hit Blair in the side and had made a black-rimmed hole which revealed at least one shattered rib. How he had managed to carry on in such terrible agony was beyond understanding.

  Blair sat very upright as they tied a thick dressing around his body. Even that was soon sodden with blood. In the shadowy gloom of the building it looked black.

  Gravatt whispered, ‘We’ll get him back to the ship if she comes further inshore, sir.’