The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  ‘You’re still here, though, aren’t you, sir?’ said Sykes.

  ‘As are you, Stan.’

  ‘Unlike Captain Donald,’ said Brown. ‘He got blown up after Mareth.’

  ‘He was being a bit careless, though,’ said Sykes. ‘He didn’t have to walk off the road, but he got impatient.’

  ‘Then Captain Troughton was killed at Wadi Akarit.’

  ‘Lost a few lads there,’ said Sykes.

  ‘And Captain Henderson was wounded at Enfidaville.’

  ‘And then they didn’t give us another,’ added Phyllis. ‘Got merged with B Company instead, and C Company with D Company.’

  ‘We were down to half strength then, sir,’ Brown said, turning his head towards Tanner. ‘Non-bloody-stop it’s been since Alamein.’

  ‘So we’d better enjoy this holiday now, Browner,’ said Sykes, ‘and I say that because I could sense you were about to start moaning again.’

  Brown did not respond. He was a young man, like most of them: barely twenty, with a long, thin face and light brown hair. His hands gripped the steering-wheel, a tattoo newly etched on his right forearm, and a watch around his wrist – dirty white strap, the badge of an experienced Eighth Army man. The Aertex shirt bore the two stripes of a corporal, while his legs were covered with khaki drill trousers rather than shorts – Tanner had insisted upon that: trousers meant fewer cuts and insect bites and, he thought, looked better. Men in shorts resembled schoolboys. They had stuck with trousers while he’d been away.

  He was glad to be back. Glad to be commanding his own company for the first time. It had happened very quickly, the letter waiting for Wiseman on their return: a request from Major John Peploe, acting Officer Commanding of the 2nd Battalion, the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers. Wiseman had shown it to Tanner immediately. ‘You’re wanted,’ he’d said, passing him the typed letter.

  ‘You don’t need me any more,’ Tanner had replied. ‘The lads put Jerry to the sword at the end of this fight. I take it you’ve no more trips overseas planned?’

  ‘Not me personally, no.’ Wiseman had grinned. He had slapped Tanner’s shoulder. ‘Well, buddy, I’m not going to stop you, although I’d have you serve with me any time. I hope you know that.’

  And that had been it. A day later, one of Wiseman’s men had driven him down to the Rangers’ camp near Enfidaville and, to his delight and surprise, many of his old company were still there, Sykes, Brown and Phyllis included. Even Hepworth had returned, back in the company and now platoon sergeant. McAllister had survived, too, and was platoon sergeant under one of the new subalterns, Lieutenant Bradshaw. A good pairing, Tanner thought – Mac would look after Bradshaw, all right.

  They rumbled on, past palm groves, citrus groves, through collections of ramshackle buildings. Despite the locust swarm of two armies fighting up this coastal strip of Tunisia, Tanner still saw the odd chicken and goat, mule and ox. It was a warm, sparsely populated land, but it was not the desert; despite the dark, jagged mountains that were never far away, Tunisia was a more fertile place. In many ways, it was not so very different from Sicily.

  The dust was bad, though: seventy-odd vehicles trundling down the same road. He poured a small amount of water onto his hand kerchief and wiped his face.

  ‘You’ve got to admit, though, sir,’ said Brown, seeing him do this, ‘that this new truck’s a great improvement. We’re not coated in dust and sand like we used to be.’

  Tanner glanced up at the olive drab canvas covering the cab. The Yorkshire Rangers were a motorized battalion, which meant they lived in and operated from their vehicles, rather than being deposited at the front by larger troop-carrying three-ton lorries. For more than a year, they had spent most of their time in either tracked carriers or the smaller fifteen-hundredweight trucks. It had meant smaller sections too: four of seven men in every platoon, rather than three of ten as was the case in other infantry companies. In the desert, their MWD Bedfords had been stripped down: no doors, no windscreen, no canvas. They had been basic as hell – an engine, four wheels, a few spare petrol cans and space for seven or eight men to sit – but these new ones, presumably freshly arrived from Britain, had all of the more normal fixtures and fittings, including a canvas roof over the cab and a further canopy over the body of the truck. The canvas had been rolled up so that Tanner could talk to Sykes and the others in the back, but it was, he knew, a sign of how fortunes had changed that they no longer had to worry about marauding Messerschmitts and Macchis spotting the glint of sunlight on glass.

  ‘I’ll give you that, Browner,’ said Tanner.

  ‘It’s a wonderful thing having command of the skies, isn’t it?’ said Sykes.

  Tanner smiled. It was good to be back with Sykes and the boys.

  They left the coast road south of Sousse and stopped for the night near the airfield at El Djem. The more fertile north had given way to rocky desert once more, but they found a sheltered spot at the southern edge of the town and parked. Tanner clambered down as Sykes was already ordering the men to begin brewing some tea. He found Captain Fauvel, his second-in-command in A Company. Fauvel had been a B Company man, but had been promoted and moved across to A Company in the reorganization of the battalion since the end of the North African campaign. Older than most at twenty-six, he was still a year younger than Tanner, with thick, mouse-brown hair, gentle features and a pleasant, soft-spoken manner. Fauvel was, Tanner knew, the kind of man who would never have worn a uniform had it not been for the war; he had admitted as much in the mess the previous evening. Tanner had pointed out that the same could be said for Peploe, yet since joining the battalion three years earlier, their acting OC had proved an outstanding soldier and officer. Fauvel wasn’t a Yorkshireman, although he had been training as a manager on one of the larger West Riding estates when war had broken out. He’d told Tanner that he could have avoided war service, but had felt it was his duty to go off and fight.

  ‘Good for you,’ Tanner had told him. He instinctively liked Fauvel and they had much in common: both southerners – Fauvel from Hampshire, Tanner from south Wiltshire – and shared a love of the land. ‘We’re countrymen, you and I,’ Tanner had said. He still had the faint Wiltshire burr he had been born with; it had softened over time, but had never gone entirely even though he had spent so many years overseas, first in India, then the Middle East and, these past few years, the Mediterranean.

  ‘Everything all right, Gavin?’ he asked Fauvel.

  ‘I think so.’ Fauvel took off his cap and scratched his head, squinting into the sun. At the airfield in front of them, a number of Dakotas were coming into land.

  ‘Transport planes,’ said Fauvel.

  Around them there was now a flurry of activity. Men were clambering down from their trucks, the engines ticking as they cooled; some were hurrying off to pee, others, like Phyllis, hastily starting the process of brewing tea. Tanner breathed in the warm, dry air and the sudden smell of burning petrol as Phyllis poured fuel onto a sand-filled flimsie and lit it. Americans drank coffee, mostly heated on small stoves or from huge vats brewed by canteen staff. British soldiers brewed char.

  ‘We’ll be into the desert tomorrow,’ said Fauvel. ‘Past Wadi Akarit.’

  Tanner saw him swallow hard. ‘Heard it was a tough one.’

  Fauvel nodded. ‘It was the Italians. The Young Fascists. They fought bloody hard. I lost a lot of men there. I’ll be glad to have it behind us, to be honest.’

  Tanner said nothing, but took out his cigarettes, offered them to Fauvel, who took one, then pulled one out for himself.

  ‘The chaps in my truck think it’s Sicily next,’ said Fauvel, as he exhaled.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I remember when I first came out here everyone said the Italians were push-overs. They might have been then, but they weren’t in Tunisia.’

  ‘I’d agree,’ said Tanner.

  ‘I’m just hoping they’ve lost some of the will to fight with the surrender in Tunis. We’ve just go
t the battalion back to almost full strength. We can’t go through that again. We can’t keep losing so many men.’ He looked at Tanner. ‘Can we, Jack?’

  ‘Maybe they’re sending us home. Get on the boat at Suez, back round the Cape, and hello, Blighty.’

  Fauvel smiled ruefully. ‘You don’t really think that.’

  ‘No – no, I don’t. We’ll be all right, though. I think those Eyeties are almost done. No matter where it is next – Sicily or Sardinia or Greece or bloody Timbuktu – I’m sure we’ll be fine. It’s different now. More planes, more everything. More Yanks for that matter. You saw those Dakotas coming in. We’re gathering strength. Don’t dwell on it too much, Gavin. Enjoy this little breather we’ve got.’

  As he was saying this, he heard his name called and turned to see Peploe striding towards him.

  ‘Ah, Jack, there you are,’ said Peploe. ‘Can I borrow you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Shall I go around and check on the platoons?’ asked Fauvel.

  Tanner nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He turned to Peploe. His old friend’s willingness to smile, Tanner thought, was one of his most endearing features. The grin spread across his round, affable face.

  ‘How are you settling back in?’ Peploe asked him.

  ‘Fine. Like I’ve never been away. It’s good to be back.’

  ‘Good to have you, Jack.’

  ‘Was there anything in particular?’ Tanner asked, as he saw Phyllis stirring in sugar and condensed milk not ten yards away. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact there was.’ He glanced at Phyllis. ‘Let’s have a brew, but then I want to show you something.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tanner. ‘I have to admit, I’m parched.’

  Peploe grinned at him. ‘You’d never know it, Jack. I saw those furtive glances at the brew can.’

  Ten minutes later, they were climbing into Peploe’s Jeep.

  ‘We’re going into the town,’ said Peploe. ‘Remember how we never quite got to look at Knossos properly?’

  ‘I do,’ said Tanner, as Peploe pressed the starter button and put the Jeep in gear. ‘Jerry paratroopers spoiled the party.’

  ‘Well, I promised myself then not to make that mistake again. When we got to Tunis, I went straight to Carthage, and I’m going to look at El Djem too.’

  ‘What’s at El Djem?’

  ‘Only the best-preserved Roman amphitheatre outside Rome. There’s not much to be said for regularly putting one’s life on the line, but seeing some of the ancient world’s finest is some compensation in my book.’

  ‘You didn’t see it on the way up, then?’

  ‘No. Too busy chasing Italians and Germans for that. Anyway, I thought we could look at the amphitheatre and have a chat while we’re about it. The battalion can manage without us for an hour or two. There have to be some perks to the job.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll keep it? Being OC, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. No one’s said a thing. “Right, you’re acting officer commanding, Peploe,” was all I was told. The word “acting” suggests temporary, don’t you think?’

  Tanner shrugged. ‘Officers are getting younger and younger. You’re perfectly capable of doing the job. You know the battalion and its men as well as anyone. Everyone respects you. Why risk upsetting the apple-cart by bringing in someone new?’

  ‘Good of you to say so, Jack, but you know the Army doesn’t work like that. I’d be honoured to take it on – of course I would – but I wouldn’t be at all upset if I was stood down. It’s a hell of a responsibility, you know.’

  ‘I hope you do keep it, John,’ he said, happy to return to first-name terms now that it was just the two of them. ‘The last thing we want is some newcomer arriving and trying to throw his weight around.’

  ‘He might be a brilliant man.’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s either going to have been promoted from another battalion, or brought in from somewhere completely different – a staff job, or another theatre. You’re doing a fine job by the look of things. They should leave you to crack on with it.’

  ‘Well, time will tell, Jack. Time will tell.’

  The amphitheatre dominated the centre of the town. Parking the Jeep beneath its high, curved walls, they jumped out and passed through one of the archways into the arena. For a moment, neither spoke, as they looked around the giant ancient structure.

  ‘It’s bigger than Lord’s,’ Peploe said eventually. ‘This place could seat thirty-five thousand people, you know.’

  ‘It’s incredible.’ At that moment, the lowering sun struck one of the arches at the far end of the amphitheatre, casting a dazzling beam of golden light across them.

  ‘There’s been fighting here for millennia,’ said Peploe, lowering his cap over his eyes. ‘We’re just another generation of soldiers.’

  ‘But still fighting Eyeties,’ said Tanner.

  Peploe smiled. ‘I suppose so, yes, although I wouldn’t say Mussolini’s Italy has much in common with Ancient Rome.’

  ‘He wishes it did, though.’

  ‘I’m sure. But the Roman Empire lasted centuries, more than a thousand years, if you include Byzantium. Mussolini’s Italy has lasted twenty-one.’

  Peploe produced a bottle of whisky and two tin mugs from his haversack and together they walked towards the high banks of stone seats that surrounded the arena. ‘What were the Americans like?’ Peploe asked, as he poured two large measures.

  ‘A bit rough around the edges,’ said Tanner, lighting a cigarette.

  Peploe passed him a mug and they chinked them together.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Peploe.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘The attitude in Eighth Army was rather condescending, I thought,’ said Peploe.

  ‘They were green to start off with, no doubt about it, but they learned quick. Damn quick. On Hill 609, they bloody proved themselves, all right.’ He exhaled. ‘That was a bitch of a fight. Jerries dug in on the top. We’d take it, then be counterattacked, but the Yanks never gave up. Germany’s on our doorstep and we’re Europeans and we’ve been in it from the start, but those boys …’ He shook his head. ‘Most of them farm lads from God only knows where in the middle of America. What do they care about Hitler and Nazis and Musso-sodding-lini? And yet they fought and fought. The war will be a hell of a lot easier to win now they’re alongside us. They’re different – don’t stand on ceremony so much – but they’re good, John. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’

  Peploe smiled again. ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’

  They were silent for a moment, then Peploe said, ‘So, is it going to be Sicily?’

  Tanner had not spoken a word to anyone about his mission to the island, but on the other hand, no one had ever told him not to; not Wiseman, not Spiro, not even General Carter. There had been no signing of the Official Secrets Act. Maybe the Americans didn’t even have such a thing. Could he mention it to Peploe? Instinctively he thought not, but then again what did he know? Very little.

  ‘I think so,’ he said.

  ‘You know what it’s like in a battalion. Always the last to find out anything. But at a corps headquarters – well, there are rumours.’

  Tanner took a sip of his whisky. No. It was not his place to tell Peploe or anyone else about what had been a highly secret mission. His silence, while not asked for, had been a given. It was a question of honour, as much as anything. Honour. Those Sicilians and their bloody honour.

  ‘The rumour is Sicily,’ he said at length. ‘In any case, Sardinia would be out of fighter range. Now we’ve got command of the sky, no one’s going to let us lose it, especially not while we’re carrying out a seaborne invasion.’

  ‘Because that’s what it’s going to have to be,’ added Peploe, ‘no matter where we land.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Makes sense. But why send us back to Egypt?’

  ‘Because we can’t send the entire invasion force from Tunisia.’r />
  ‘Of course. And Egypt is still Headquarters Middle East.’ Peploe leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘It feels like we’ve been doing this a long time, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘I had a few good days in Tunis and now we’re on the road again, and I know we don’t have to worry about enemy aircraft, or some Jerry strongpoint up ahead, but the prospect of what’s to come is hanging heavy on me, Jack, I don’t mind telling you. For so long it’s been the war in North Africa. For a couple of days it felt like the end of the whole war, but now there’s the knowledge that we’ve got to start all over again. I’m not sure I’ve got the stomach for it any more. So many good chaps have gone already. I heard that one of my oldest friends was killed just before the end – a chap I’d known since I was seven. Blown up at Medjerda.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Peploe took another swig of his whisky. ‘I keep wondering who’s next. Whether it’s my turn. It’s this journey. Too much time to think.’

  ‘Everyone feels that way at the moment. Gavin Fauvel does. I do. I’m sick of fighting. I’ve been a soldier for more than ten years. I just want to be left in peace. Go back to being a gamekeeper. Me, my dogs, the countryside around me.’

  ‘Maybe a Mrs Tanner and some junior Tanners.’

  Tanner smiled. ‘Never say never, John.’

  ‘Well,’ said Peploe, ‘here’s hoping Sicily is a walkover and that they then decide it’s time we had a breather. Perhaps they’ll send us home.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Peploe, getting to his feet. ‘We should go back.’

  Later, Tanner lay in his tent, wide awake, his thoughts turning back to the mission to Sicily. What a strange episode. He wondered what had happened at the beach defence encampment when dawn had broken and those two Italians had woken up. Would they have known that an Allied soldier had knocked them out cold? He remembered Wiseman asking him on the voyage back how he had managed to knock them out. Easy, Tanner had explained. Neither had been expecting any trouble. ‘Catching people unawares gives you a hell of an advantage.’ Knocking out the second had been harder but, Tanner had gone on, he’d been expecting his mate to rejoin him. Instead, he’d had Tanner’s fist driving into the side of his head.