by Alan Evans
His voice was savage. “That supply dump has two defences. One is the company of infantry guarding it and the other is the ten miles of country between it and the coast. Taggart’s diversionary attack should clear the way, but at the same time it will destroy any element of surprise. With a landing that close, the guard on the dump will be alerted and they’ll stay alert. They won’t stand meekly by while Jackson blows up the railway and if he tries to attack the dump he’ll be taking on odds of three to one. He knows it. So do Taggart and Edwards. They know also that we can put Jackson and Taggart and all their men ashore but we’ll never get one of them off again because the Turks will bring up guns that will make it impossible.”
He paused. Ackroyd seemed as dour as ever but Smith felt sick.
He finished flatly, “There is only one sure way of stopping the Afrika Legion and that is to strike the railway and the dump with overwhelming force and total surprise, in some way the Germans and Turks could never imagine, never guard against.”
He turned away to face forward, staring blindly out over the bow at the sunlit sea. Impossible. It was a bitter pill to swallow, that he was committed to this and could neither avert it nor save something from the slaughter. There must be a way to rescue some of them. Must be.
*
The ships steamed southward as if headed for Port Said until Gaza and Deir el Belah had slipped below the horizon. Then they turned and headed northward out of sight of the land.
Charlie Golightly had fallen into a doze, snored gently with his mouth open until cramp woke him and he rose stiffly from the drum of red lead to rub at an aching behind. It was some minutes before it stole into his consciousness that something had changed in the crowded little store, and minutes more before he identified it: the ray of sunlight no longer pierced the grime on the scuttle to point a slim finger of light at the deck. He stepped to the scuttle and peered out, up at the sky. The sun was low on the other side of the ship; the shadow of the tramp on the sea showed that. The sun had not passed over the ship because it had been past its zenith when Charlie came aboard, was already started on its long descent to the west. So — Charlie sucked in his breath —the Morning Star had turned and was headed northward where lay Palestine, Syria, Turkey — all in the hands of the enemy. Cyprus? No better to Charlie because the long-nosed Jeffreys would sniff him out there. But Jeavons had said he was bound for Tangier ...
Charlie had always intended to disclose his presence, nurtured no fond hope of being able to hide without food or water all the long way to Tangier. He decided this was as good a time as any.
*
Smith shifted about the bridge, huddled into himself. He knew it would be impossible to take off any of the landing force but still he sought a way. He visualised the two landing places, imagining how they would be. First the River Auja, with German and Turkish batteries pouring a murderous crossfire down on the beaches. Then saw again the shore where they had landed Edwards, the sea sliding oily through the gaps in the rockbound coastline, the distant lights of Jaffa and one light like a descending star that was the train from Lydda...
He halted in his restless pacing across the bridge, his thoughts racing and the plan forming, then stepped to the engine-room voice pipe and spoke to the engineer commander: “Chief, I want you to find a volunteer for me ...”
When he finished he turned back to the bridge to find Henderson, who had the watch, eyeing him curiously. But then the yeoman said, “Signal from Morning Star, sir.” He read it as the lamp blinked from the bridge of the tramp astern of Dauntless.
Smith listened absently, his mind busy with details now, all the pieces of the plan dovetailing into place. Then a phrase caught his attention and jerked his head around, but he waited till the yeoman finished and Henderson ordered, “Acknowledge.”
Then Smith said, “Read that again.”
Henderson grinned and read: “‘Stowaway. Sapper Golightly, C. Engine-driver, Royal Engineers. States ordered to Tangier to find availability railway sleepers and lines but orders mislaid. Request instructions.’” Henderson was laughing now. “Never heard such a lot of balls! Cheeky blighter, whoever he is.”
Smith grinned at him, excitement restoring his good humour. “Make to Morning Star: ‘Heave to. Sending boat for stowaway.’”
*
Charlie Golightly clambered aboard to be met by the master-at-arms who took him forward and up to the bridge at the double, barking at him, “Where’s your cap?”
“Lorst it.” Charlie stumbled on the ladder.
The master-at-arms caught him by his belt and rammed him up the ladder by brute force. “You’ll lose a sight more than that if you say one wrong word up ’ere. Our bloke eats wrong ’uns. Get hup!”
He obeyed Henderson’s pointing finger and thrust Charlie into the sea-cabin at the back of the bridge, bellowed, “Sapper Golightly, sir!” and closed the door behind Charlie.
Who for one gut-sinking moment thought he was in a cell. Then his gaze skidded off the encroaching, sweating steel walls and focused on the officer seated at the desk. He was a slight, wiry figure, thin-faced and his naval cap had left the fair hair pressed close to his skull. He smiled and Charlie was briefly relieved.
Smith saw a round, open face devoid of all guile, the natural camouflage of a regular soldier with thirty years of undetected crime behind him and thirty years of beer now showing in a belly in front of him. He saw no viciousness. Smith said, “I’ve heard your story and that you’re an engine-driver.” He paused, waiting.
Charlie answered quickly, “Yessir! Drove ’em all over for the army for the last twenty year. All kinds. If steam makes it go then I will. So on account of me being an expert an’ my experience an’ that, they asked me to go to Tangier to see what ...” His voice faded. The thin face before him had stopped smiling and Charlie remembered the warning of the master-at-arms and thought it no exaggeration as he looked into the cold eyes.
Smith said, “I think I can promise you no more than a reprimand. But first you’ve got to tell me the truth.”
Charlie swallowed and told him the most favourable version of the truth he could contrive, then waited and sweated.
Smith grinned to himself, his suspicions of Charlie confirmed. “No doubt the provost marshal takes a serious view of your crime. But I’m going to ask you to do something for me, and if you agree, I’ll do my best for you and I’m certain you’ll get away with a ticking-off. If you don’t agree then I must send you back to Deir el Belah at the first opportunity to be dealt with. That is my duty. Understood?”
Charlie jumped in eagerly, “I’m your man, sir!”
“Wait till you hear what you have to do,” Smith answered dryly, then told him.
Some minutes later the master-at-arms took a thoughtful Charlie Golightly below to find him a place on the already crowded mess-deck. The engineer commander reported that he had found two likely volunteers but Smith answered, “Thanks, Chief, but I’ve found my man.” Then he told Henderson, “Pass the word for Major Taggart, Colonel Edwards and Lieutenant Jackson. And the first lieutenant.” Because Ackroyd must be in on this.
He went to his sea-cabin, threw off his one good suit and pulled on another, old but serviceable. So he was workmanlike when they found him in the charthouse with the large-scale map of Southern Palestine spread before him. He waited until they were all present and then said abruptly, “I’m changing the plan.” He told them what he intended and watching their faces saw his excitement take alight in them.
Oddly enough it was Edwards, his drunken depression forgotten, who spoke for all of them. “It’s still a hell of a gamble but this way at least there’s a fighting chance.”
Smith looked at each of them in turn. “We sink or swim together in this. No more back-biting.” And when they nodded stiffly he told Taggart, “Tell Mr. Jackson about the battalion. What really happened.”
Taggart grumbled obstinately, “He thinks he knows.”
“I don’t give a damn what he thi
nks! Tell him the truth as you told me!” Smith’s patience was cracking and it showed in the edge of his voice.
Taggart swallowed his pride and curtly recounted the story of the colonel’s shooting. They heard him out in silence, then Jackson rubbed at his jaw and said wryly, “They still sound a funny mob to me, but at least they had their reasons.”
Taggart snapped, “That’s right! And I’ll tell you this: they’ve been caged too long, they’re ready to fight anybody and God help any man in their way!”
So now instead of mistrust there was a guarded truce between Taggart and Jackson. Smith thought bitterly that it was better than nothing and he blamed neither. He looked at Edwards, who said, “You can rely on me to carry out my orders.” All his huge confidence and arrogance had returned.
Smith wondered at the change in him, but then Ackroyd said doubtfully, “Will the general agree to this change, sir? It’s — an unusual plan.”
“It has to be and I’m not asking him.” And as Ackroyd scowled worriedly at the enormity of this, Smith said, “Wireless silence, remember?”
Taggart chuckled softly. “Not so much turning the blind eye, more: ‘none so dumb as he who will not speak.’”
Smith said grimly, “You and your battalion know something of that.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s a lot to do.” A whole new set of orders to be drafted and when that was done Taggart and Jackson must be returned to their men to brief them on the changed plan. Every man had to know exactly what he had to do and that applied to the ship’s company of Dauntless, too.
They set to, working against the clock and Smith knew every flying second brought them nearer to committal. Once he paused, his thoughts harking back to Walküre, blockaded in the Gulf of Alexandretta. Sooner or later she would have to be winkled out or sunk and he wished that job was his instead of this attack. Then he concentrated once more on his planning for now on his own account he had taken into his hands the lives of the four hundred men to be landed and the thousands who waited before Beersheba.
8 — The Raid
There was a chill dampness to the night and the sky was overcast. Smith sat at the helm of the cutter with Edwards on one side of him and Lieutenant Jameson on the other. Edwards still wore his robes and carried the villainous knife. Three of Captain Brand’s marines were crowded into the sternsheets but Brand himself crouched in the bow along with Buckley.
Ackroyd had pointed out, “With respect, sir, the admiral’s order was that you were not to go ashore.”
Smith had answered solemnly, “In that operation. This is a different plan.” It was Smith’s plan and he was going ashore.
The coast loomed like a black frieze of dunes against the dark with the thick silver line of the surf underlining it. That line was broken some three hundred yards to Smith’s left where lay the mouth of the Auja river. No day attack this, as Finlayson had ordered. And no feint either. To his right and about four miles away, Jaffa lifted a ragged silhouette on its hill. Then it was lost to sight behind a headland and the cutter ran into the surf, bucked and pitched as it rode it, then crashed in on the beach. That crashing landing half-threw Buckley over the bow, Brand with him. Smith made them out, standing in water to their knees and grabbing at the bow, then with the sea above their waists as it crashed in again and they hauled on the bow of the boat.
Smith called, “Oars!” Whispering was pointless in this thundering surf. The oars came in and he saw the seamen rowing bow go over the side to add their muscle to hauling the boat in. Smith shoved Edwards forward after the marines and clambered over the thwarts behind him as the rest of the cutter’s crew plunged into the sea to wade in, hauling at the boat. Edwards was in the bow and jumped. Smith followed him into the surf, turned to give a hand with the boat but saw it being run up on the shore. Edwards slipped like a shadow across the beach, Brand and his three marines following him, Brand with pistol in hand, the marines with rifles at the trail. Smith brought up the rear with Buckley panting at his shoulder.
Their boots began to slip in the soft sand; they were into the dunes. Edwards turned to his left and headed towards the mouth of the river. Smith was up with the marines now, passing them, his breath coming fast. Edwards lunged to his right and reached one hand down to the sand. Smith saw him lift up the loop of telephone wire and the flash of the knife. Edwards tossed aside the severed wire and moved on. Now the machine-gun post was cut off from Jaffa, and from the Turkish regiment hardly more than a mile away to the north.
Edwards was crouching, moving cautiously now, edging away from the sea and further into the dunes. The sea’s pounding. became muffled and their own panting breathing could be heard. Edwards swung left towards the sea again and, as Smith turned to follow, he caught a glimpse of the river close to his right. The Turkish machine-gun post must be ...
Edwards halted, went down on one knee and flapped a hand, signalling, “Down”. Smith knelt beside him, Brand and his marines up close, faces blank with tension. Edwards pointed at the rise of the dune ahead of them, curled the finger over, his meaning clear: just over the crest. Smith and Brand nodded. Brand gestured and the marines spread out, hefting their rifles. Smith had told them: “No shooting. Use the butt if you must but no shooting without my order.” Smith found he had his pistol in his hand and checked again that the safety catch was set: no shooting.
Edwards crawled forward, knife in hand, and the line of them went with him and only a yard behind. He went down on elbows and knees to inch up to the crest of the dune, edged his head above it, was still, then without turning beckoned with the knife. They all edged up to the crest. Smith saw the surf, the beach, and then, as his head still lifted, he saw the Turks in their machine-gun nest below him. They were just below the crest in a semi-circular earthwork built of timbers and sand, the rear of it open. There were three of them. Two lay wrapped in blankets or greatcoats, just bundles, and one stood by the machine-gun that pointed out to sea, his arms folded on the front of the breastwork, head on his arms. He seemed asleep on his feet and Smith was not surprised. After scores of nights spent peering at a black and empty sea with the surf’s regular pounding, it was no wonder the man dozed. And it was a blessing.
Smith’s eyes lifted briefly, peering out to sea. The lighters should be there. He could not see them but he ought not to see them; they should not be that close but lying off, waiting.
There was no reason for him to wait. He scrambled forward over the crest and at his movement they were all up and over, then plunging down into the nest. There was no work for the rifle-butts, nor for that wickedly long knife and Smith was glad of that. The two huddled Turks were buried under Brand and his marines. Buckley fell on the one who stood by the machine-gun and yanked him away from it and down, slamming him on to his back with one of Buckley’s big hands across his mouth. Smith pointed his pistol an inch from the wide and horrified eyes and Edwards hissed something. The Turk lay still, eyes flicking frantically from the pistol to the knife, the whites showing.
Smith took a breath and tried to keep his voice steady. “Good enough. They’re all yours, Mr. Brand.” He left Brand to secure the prisoners and threw at Buckley, “Bring up Mr. Jameson and the cutter’s crew.”
Buckley vaulted out of the nest and ran off along the beach. Smith dragged the torch from his pocket, pointed it out to sea and flashed the dot-dash of the A. And again. He waited, staring out to sea. Brand came to stand beside him, breathing heavily and he said with satisfaction, “All secure, sir.”
“Very good.” Smith still stared out to sea but he said rapidly, “They’ll probably telephone this post from inland during the night and when they don’t get an answer they’ll certainly send out a party to check along the wire. So when the rest of your marines come ashore, send a good N.C.O. and some men back along the line to lay an ambush for them.”
“I know the man to send,” answered Brand.
But Smith was hurrying on, “Colonel Edwards will show you the ford. Take two of your men and set up a def
ensive screen as I ordered.”
Edwards leaned on the earthwork, but now he stirred impatiently. “Come on! Where are the boats?”
Smith snapped, “I told them to lie off. No point in their being seen before we got ashore. Now get on!”
Edwards’s head jerked round at the rasp in Smith’s voice, then he shoved away from the earthwork and scrambled out of it, ran off into the darkness and headed for the river, Brand and two marines doubling after him. The third marine dropped to one knee just below the crest of the dunes, butt of his rifle grounded and peered inland keeping watch. There might be wandering Turks.
Smith stared into the darkness. Was there a square shape? And a silver flashing out there that would be a bow wave? Suddenly there they were, ugly and unwieldly like floating boxes butting in towards the river’s mouth. One, two — four of them!
There came a sound of scrambling to his left and he spun to face it, pistol lifting, then a voice gasped, “Dauntless!” And on the heels of the password Buckley ran out of the darkness and behind him came Jameson and the cutter’s crew.
Smith said, “Come on!” He swung out of the machine-gun nest and trotted along the edge of the dunes, then turned into the river’s mouth. He ran along the bank, heading inland for some fifty yards and there he halted. A track led down through the dunes to the water’s edge. Edwards waited there, peering out to sea. Smith tried to control his breathing. “Where’s Brand?”
Edwards pointed up the bank of the river that rose gently to about twenty feet. Smith ran up the slope, made out the figure of Brand kneeling below the crest and dropped on one knee beside him. Brand glanced at him and said softly, “All quiet, sir. I’ve one man there, the other there.” He pointed to left and right.
Smith peered but could not see them. He and Brand knelt on the track where it climbed the bank from the ford. From there it ran level for two or three hundred yards, then lifted again to a crest of dunes. There was no sound, nor movement. He realised Jameson now crouched at his shoulder, and said, “Take your orders from Captain Brand.”