Swordpoint (2011)

by John Harris

  Tallemach was still staring at the map when Heathfield appeared. ‘The crossing at Cassino seems to be going well,’ he said.

  ‘My information’s to the contrary,’ Tallemach said coldly.

  ‘No, you’re wrong.’ Heathfield was enthusiastic, slapping at his leg with his stick. ‘They’re on to Highway Six and heading for Castle Hill.’

  ‘Perhaps the imponderables were in their favour up there.’

  Heathfield’s head jerked round. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, they certainly weren’t in our favour here, were they? The loss of those grenades and mortar bombs when they were needed. That damn bad recce of the track from Capodozzi. Whoever did that ought to be sacked.’

  ‘In fact, he’s in hospital,’ Heathfield said coldly. ‘With malaria.’

  ‘Then perhaps he should have been better briefed, because he obviously didn’t know what was wanted. Then there was the absence of boats. We hadn’t half enough.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There are quite a lot of things, and I intend to make them known in my report.’

  Heathfield ignored the comment. ‘I’m getting Rankin to try again at Castelgrande,’ he said.

  Tallemach gave him a hard look. It was the duty of a leader to chivvy his commanders and control the tendency among them to plan for every conceivable contingency when speed and boldness were called for, but there had to be a compromise between forceful leadership and the acceptance of practicalities such as difficult terrain, winter weather, the tiredness of overworked men and the expertise of the enemy. ‘My impression,’ he said, ‘is that he’s got nothing left to try with and that it would be a dead loss in any case.’

  ‘My impression is that it would not be a dead loss,’ Heath-field snapped. ‘We’re wearing down the Germans.’

  ‘I thought attrition went out with the last war,’ Tallemach snapped back. ‘We’re wearing us down, too.’

  Heathfield went doggedly on. ‘I’ve ordered him to erect two footbridges and I’ve told the Sappers to press on with getting the tanks across.’

  It was Tallemach’s impression that there was a certain amount of spite in Heathfield’s insistence. It was enough to shake anybody to have somebody offer to shoot you – especially someone on your own side and it must have shaken Heathfield. He was never the sort of man to take things lying down, and he seemed to have decided to break Rankin for his bluntness.

  ‘I’ve ordered another smoke screen,’ he was saying. ‘There are six hundred smoke pots we can use in Foiano.’

  Tallemach’s head jerked round. ‘Why were we told they were in San Bartolomeo?’

  ‘You weren’t.’

  Tallemach didn’t argue, because he knew his brigade major well enough to be certain he would have filed the signal that said they had been.

  ‘How much does it take to convince you that the defeat up there’s a final one?’ he asked.

  Heathfield stared coldly at him. ‘Are you arguing with the general?’ he asked.

  ‘If the general’s insisting,’ Tallemach said, ‘no, I’m not. If it’s you who’s insisting, then, yes, I am. This persistence with Castelgrande’s nothing but wishful thinking. The Germans aren’t groggy and their morale’s not low – especially up there, where we haven’t a single man on their side of the river capable of doing a damn thing. They haven’t shown the slightest signs of withdrawing anywhere, least of all up there.’

  The argument went on for some time, with Heathfield continuing to insist and Tallemach at one point even offering to write out his resignation. The matter ended with neither of them satisfied, but clearly Heathfield wasn’t backing down.

  Tallemach watched Heathfield leave in silence. He was still trying to decide what to do, with all their reserves committed except for Rankin’s single remaining battalion of Punjabis to which he was clinging like a leech, when General Tonge appeared. He wore his left arm in a sling and there was a piece of sticking plaster across his forehead. He looked pale and in pain and he also looked, Tallemach thought, in a damn bad temper.

  Tonge had left the crossing to Heathfield, thinking that, since he’d done all the planning, he ought at least to be able to handle the actual event. He’d also been inclined from the first reports he’d been sent to lie back in the hospital where they’d taken him and let them get on with it, but then he’d begun to hear rumours that things had gone very wrong indeed.

  Heathfield, he supposed. He’d always admired Heath-field’s drive but he’d long suspected he was slapdash in his methods, and so dictatorial he wouldn’t listen to advice from more experienced men.

  Discharging himself, he’d been driven up to the Castelgrande sector and had arrived just in time to see Rankin’s Punjabis forming up with the remnants of the Birminghams and the Rajputs for a new attack. He had also seen with some surprise the senior surviving officer of the Birminghams shaking hands with his subordinates.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ he had asked.

  The officer, a very young captain, had at first refused to answer, and it was only when Tonge insisted that he’d sheepishly admitted that he was saying good-bye.

  ‘Why?’

  The captain drew a deep breath. ‘Sir, I made the strongest possible representations to Brigadier Heathfield. I was not prepared to lead my people across the river again. I consider it certain destruction. He insisted, however, and said that if I wasn’t prepared to do the job, then he’d have to find someone who was. Because I could see no sense in committing them to the attack under someone who was a stranger, I said that in that case I’d go. But I explained to my officers what I’d done and I was just saying good-bye to them.’

  ‘Hardly a way to instil confidence in them,’ Tonge observed tartly.

  ‘No, sir.’ The captain, who seemed about twenty, looked faintly ashamed.

  ‘The attack will not go in, nevertheless.’

  As he’d left, Tonge managed to acquire the captain’s name. His sympathy lay with him entirely, but officers who made dramatic gestures of that sort weren’t the type for promotion to command of a battalion. Gestures were all very well but they usually achieved nothing and very often merely put the fear of God into other people.

  All the same, he was disquieted by what he’d heard. In addition to mistrusting officers who made pointless gestures and argued about their orders with senior officers, he didn’t like senior officers who wouldn’t listen and used threats. British soldiers weren’t a bunch of Hitler Youth, blindly obeying the diktats of a megalomaniac commander. Men who were being asked to risk their lives had a right to state their views if nothing else, and Heathfield not only hadn’t bothered to listen, he’d been prepared to push the matter to the point of intimidation.

  He glanced at Tallemach. He looked tired, he noticed. ‘I’m sorry about your son, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just heard.’

  Tallemach nodded, grateful to Tonge for his sympathy. It made it a little easier to bear. Tonge’s son had disappeared in Hood just when his father had been engaged with the Germans in Crete. Both young men had no known graves and neither father had been vouchsafed the time for mourning.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘It was a bit of a shock. I only lost the other a month or two back.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Tonge didn’t dwell on the event. It didn’t help, and it would never bring the boy back. ‘This crossing of yours,’ he said. ‘Tell me what went wrong.’

  Tallemach paused, then decided there was no sense in beating about the bush. It was up to Heathfield to look after himself. There was often a great deal of infighting in the higher echelons of the army and it wasn’t all with the enemy.

  Tonge listened quietly, making no comment, no recriminations for things that had gone wrong.

  ‘I suspect it might be my fault,’ he said finally. ‘The reports I received were that two battalions were across.’

  ‘Elements of two battalions, sir,’ Tallemach corrected. ‘I was also told two battalions were across but I
knew it couldn’t be two whole battalions, and I took care to check it and correct the message before I passed it on to your headquarters.’

  Tonge said nothing, deciding that Heathfield had been deliberately clouding the issue for his own satisfaction. Heathfield was a man who liked to win, Tonge remembered. Even at bridge. And this affair was entirely his baby. It had always been Tonge’s practice to encourage his subordinates. How else could they gain the experience to become leaders? But he suspected that, having made his appreciation, Heath-field was determined to prove he’d been right. It seemed he’d even falsified reports – perhaps not with the outright intention of misleading but because he hadn’t yet learned to be dispassionate.

  His planning, too, it seemed, had been misguided and, because of his personality, inflexible, and the two, together with the imponderables of war, had added up to confusion. War and battles were always confused and victory went to the general who could first sort out order from the chaos; Heathfield had not only failed to do this but, by his rigidness, his willingness to believe what he wanted to believe, had actually added to it. Heathfield would have to go.

  ‘A pity it hasn’t helped them opposite Cassino,’ he said.

  Tallemach’s thoughts were bitter. If it hadn’t even achieved that, the thing had been pointless from the beginning.

  ‘I think I’m going to call it off, Tom,’ Tonge said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be understood, and I’m keeping the 19th Division artillery here a bit longer. So keep them hammering at Jerry to keep him busy. I shall have to explain, but it might help Rankin at Castelgrande. When they’re all out, try to evacuate the men in this sector.’

  Tallemach was still considering ways and means of extricating Yuell’s men when Yuell himself appeared. By dint of shouting, the men on the other side had managed to convey their need for boats to evacuate wounded, and the few that were left had been pushed across in the dark. Yuell had been in the last boat, with a gaping hole in his thigh.

  He refused to be put in an ambulance and insisted on being rushed to Tallemach’s HQ. He was deathly pale and in a lot of pain so that his words came slowly, but he was making an effort to make his brain function intelligently.

  ‘Warley’s hanging on,’ he said. ‘He’s done damn well and I want to make sure he gets something out of this, because he deserves it. We were just starting to evacuate the wounded when I was hit. But the German fire’s slackened a bit, and the Baluchis brought across a supply of ammunition and what appears to be some of the grenades we lost a couple of days ago. I think now it might be possible to make a move forward instead of backward.’

  Tallemach sighed. The bloody grenades would finally arrive when it was too late. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘the general’s just called it off.’

  Yuell frowned. ‘At any other time, I’d have agreed, sir,’ he persisted, ‘But, at the moment, I think we should try just a little longer. Haven’t you noticed the weather?’

  Tallemach’s eyes lifted. ‘What about the weather?’

  ‘It’s clearing, sir. You can see stars to the east.’

  Tallemach turned to his brigade major. ‘Get Intelligence to check with the RAF,’ he said quickly. ‘Then get hold of Division. I also want to speak to the general and to the artillery. Finally, find out if we have any information about any movement towards Cassino by the Germans opposite.’

  When the brigade major reappeared, he held a fistful of reports. ‘The general’s not at Division,’ he announced. ‘But the Germans are moving north. Army have let Div. know because they believe they’re moving out of our sector. The Germans have had heavy casualties at Cassino and they seem to think they can contain our attacks here.’

  As the brigade major vanished, the intelligence officer appeared. ‘RAF Met says the sky’s clearing, sir,’ he said. ‘They predict high cloud for tomorrow, probably even sun. I took the liberty of asking them what the chances of flying were. They said pretty good. Air Observation will be able to get spotting planes up.’

  As the Gunner colonel appeared, Tallemach turned to Yuell. ‘Think you’re capable of pinpointing the German strongpoints for us?’ he asked. ‘We’ve had it done once but I’d like them confirmed.’

  Yuell jabbed at the map with his finger.

  ‘I’d like stonks putting down on them,’ Tallemach said to the Gunner. ‘We’re going to try to move and I want those strongpoints swamping if possible.’

  The artilleryman was about to put forward objections when Tallemach bit his head off.

  ‘Don’t argue,’ he snapped. ‘See it’s done! I’ll give you the times later.’

  As the Gunner vanished and Yuell was helped out, Tallemach picked up the telephone and called Rankin.

  ‘George,’ he said. ‘I want your Punjabis.’

  ‘You can’t have ’em,’ Rankin fumed. ‘I need ’em here.’

  ‘George, they’re doing no damn good up there! They’ve just been shuttling backwards and forwards all day like a set of yo-yos. I want ’em here as fast as you can get ’em.’

  Rankin tried to object but Tallemach interrupted.

  ‘Listen, George,’ he said sharply, ‘we’ve had a report from the North Yorkshires. One of Yuell’s men swam the river and then Yuell himself was brought across wounded. They’re still hanging on there and they think that with help they can move forward. Especially if we can get an air strike.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky in this weather!’

  ‘George, we’ve had a Met report. The RAF think they’ll be able to fly tomorrow. And it’s been raining so long the chances must be in favour of it breaking. George, you know damn well I never liked this crossing, but there’s suddenly a chance. It’s worth taking.’

  ‘Then why not here?’

  Rankin seemed more bull-headed than ever and Tallemach suspected he was worried. Doubtless Tonge had had a few words with him and he was concerned about his future and wondering if he couldn’t pull a few things from the fire. Tallemach decided to stand no nonsense, sensing that Ran-kin would back down if he insisted.

  ‘Because the general’s called it all off up there,’ he pointed out. ‘We’re only reinforcing failure and you know as well as I do that that’s something we don’t do.’

  There was a long silence; then Rankin’s voice came again, still doubtful. ‘Has the general okayed it?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to contact him yet and we can’t wait. I’ll have to justify myself when it’s over, I suppose, but I’m going to chance it.’

  There was another silence, followed by Rankin’s grudging consent. ‘I’ll get ’em in lorries straight away.’

  As he put the telephone down, Tallemach looked up at the brigade major. ‘Get hold of that chap, Fletcher-Smith,’ he said. ‘But get one of the docs to have a look at him first to see if he really is fit to go back.’

  ‘He looked it, sir. And perhaps he is. I gather he once almost swam the Channel.’

  ‘Did he, by God? Well, let’s not have anybody say we sent him when he wasn’t fit. If he is, bring him here. As soon as the Punjabis arrive, he’s going to lead ’em to Warley via that ditch he used. Then get hold of the Engineers. We’re going to have another go at throwing footbridges across. If they’re wide enough for one man, it’ll be enough to feed supports to the Yorkshires. Once they’re safely across, I shall want that bridge putting over for the tanks. Tell ’em to get on with it. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

  Seven

  Warley lay on the lip of the hollow, peering ahead of him. His eyes were prickly with lack of sleep and red-rimmed with staring. A strange, almost eerie lull had fallen over the battle and he could even hear a bird singing.

  He listened for a while, thinking. According to casualty figures, they were defeated and as good as prisoners of war. But good soldiers trusted their instincts, not figures. They tried to understand silence on a battlefield, they tried to define tanks or cannon behind camouflage, they sensed the movement or non-movement of troops.

  Despite his prefer
ence for civilian life, Warley was a good soldier and his mind was moving swiftly.

  ‘Hear that, Tony?’ he said.

  Jago listened, his head cocked. He was a city-dweller and knew nothing about birds. ‘Sparrow?’ he asked.

  Warley gave a short bark of laughter. ‘It’s a nightingale, you bloody idiot,’ he said. ‘The first this year.’

  Jago was unimpressed. To him it sounded like a sparrow that couldn’t sleep. ‘So?’

  ‘You couldn’t have heard that a little while ago. I think the fire’s fallen off all round. Would you say something’s happened in front there?’

  Jago was a good soldier, too, and now his own acute senses were alert. ‘Think the buggers fancy they’ve got us licked?’

  ‘I bet they gave the padre his truce because they thought they had. It’d be nice to prove ’em wrong, wouldn’t it? I was wondering if we couldn’t have a go at enlarging this bloody bridgehead. The wire’s cut over there on the right where those Teds came through this morning, and I notice the artillery’s made a gap on the left as well. If we split our force and go for ’em at a rush, we might just do it.’

  Jago shrugged. ‘The colonel said he’d drum up some more men when he got to the other side. Hadn’t we better wait for them?’

  ‘You know,’ Warley said slowly, ‘I’m inclined to think not. If we can get through that wire before daylight, we can get into those bloody machine-gun posts that have been bothering us before they know we’re there. They’ve quietened down a lot, and I notice there haven’t been any flares lately. I wonder if some of their people have been pulled out as reserves against the crossing at Castelgrande.’

  ‘It’d help if they had.’

  ‘You could take the right side, I’d take the left.’

  ‘What about the Baluchis?’

  ‘This one’s up to us,’ Warley said. ‘If we’re quiet we ought to be able to get well forward. Then I’ll give everybody ten minutes and fire a Very light. How does it sound to you?’