One morning she saw Aaron talking to an elderly man who seemed vaguely familiar; she recognized the old sea captain who had brought her through the blockade in the “Zion”. It was Isaac Jordan. He, for his part, hardly recognized her, so much had she changed, but it did not in the least qualify his delight at seeing her. He was driving about the country in an old car, whose sides bore the legend “FRESH FRUITS AND VEGETABLES LTD.” The old “Zion”, he said, had sprung a leak and was being docked for overhaul. “But bless you,” he said, “I can’t sit idle at my time of life. My mother always told me that Satan would find work for idle hands to do. So I’ve gone into market-gardening. Look.” He pulled aside a tarpaulin. The whole of the back was indeed full of crates of vegetables. Isaac winked and, puffing at his pipe gingerly, removed one of the crates as one might remove a brick from a wall. “Peek through,” he said airily. Aaron did so and whistled. “All for us,” he crooned, and Jordan waved a great paw in a gesture of liberality. “All for you,” he said. “Hand-picked stuff with the dew fresh on it.”
Aaron produced a pad and pencil and Jordan recited in a low voice: “Thirty Tellers Mark 4, twenty cases of industrial dynamite, four drums of signal wire...
She moved off to allow them to talk privately, and presently heard the truck rumble away towards the underground arsenal where Anna, bright-eyed and chuckling, would doubtless be delighted at this offering.
That afternoon Aaron seemed preoccupied and thoughtful, and she sensed that something was going forward which concerned him. At last he told her. “There’s an ammunition ship in Haifa harbour which they want to blow up. The job has fallen to me. Isaac is arranging the details. It’s apparently very sketchily guarded and he thinks we could get aboard as a ration party with a few cases of fresh vegetables.”
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
She thought wildly for a moment. “You need not worry,” said Aaron. “Isaac never makes foolhardy gestures. He says it is as safe as houses. They have the uniforms and the passes and everything.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
Aaron looked at her searchingly for a moment. “I can’t take you. It’s not my op. Isaac is chief on this one.”
“Then you just tell him from me I’m coming and to find something for me to do.”
“Are you serious?”
They stared at each other for a long time.
“What do you think?” she said at last.
“I think you are — I know you are,” he said and took her in his arms.
Next morning he told her that Isaac had agreed and had allotted her a part in the operation. She sighed deeply, with a mixture of regret and elation. For the first time she felt fully committed.
•
Their rendezvous was a rather desolate hut on the outside margins of Haifa, in a sort of terrain-vague where once some long-since abandoned company had tried to quarry stone from the cliffs. A battered sign board still stood on the main road, with its worn letters proclaiming that inside the barbed wire was a territory belonging to the Kapa Mines. It was a desolate enough place, but easy to find; there was a bus-stop in front of the main gate. Judith arrived at dusk and found it without difficulty. She obeyed instructions and walked along the deserted paths until she saw a Nissen hut with a pale gleam of light inside. She knocked timidly at the door and was admitted to the company of four British soldiers. Isaac himself, clad incongruously as a warrant-officer, was playing cricket with his Bible. Two blonde Poles sat beside him smoking, while Aaron, also in British Army uniform, was occupied in a corner winding up lengths of fuse. “Good,” he cried when he saw her, and Isaac raised his grizzled head from his notebook to announce that if things went on this way there was no doubt that Surrey was going to win. Judith was given an ATS uniform, and her papers; her task was to drive the “ration” lorry. There was a large bottle of gin on the table and Isaac poured them all liberal tots while she changed. He was in a pensive and rather melancholy mood, which he explained by saying “I’m rather sorry to send up the old ‘Minerva’. She was a good old-fashioned ship and her skipper was a pal of mine. He kept a very good table indeed. However, they’ve filled her with delicious vegetables and left her there. A sitting target. Moreover, being a man of peace myself, I hate loss of life, and I think we can pull this off, and make one of the nastiest bangs ever heard in the universe, break all the windows in Haifa, without actually killing anyone. That would be wonderful, would it not?” He beamed at the assembled company.
Aaron was still preoccupied in the corner with some technicality. “Isaac — this bloody fuse-wire,” he said. Isaac nodded and pursed his lips. “I know. It’s a new type. It seems to be slow burning, but it was very damp when we got it. Myself I ordered a couple of time-pencils but they couldn’t steal them for me in time, so we shall have to make do. Judith Roth!”
“Yes?”
“Does that uniform fit you?”
“Well...
“I’m afraid it is too late to have it taken in here and there. In twelve minutes thirty seconds you have to drive us.”
“It’ll do,” she said. “It’ll do.”
“Good.”
Jordan closed his Bible and said: “Now let us just run over the details for a moment.” They all came and sat around him while he talked, puffing at his pipe and taking an occasional nip of gin to round off remarks. “As you see,” he said, “it is theoretically simple. Agreed?”
They all nodded.
“Twixt cup and lip, however,” said Isaac prophetically, “you know the proverb.”
It was well after dark when they set out in the stolen three-tonner. Judith and Isaac sat in front with Judith driving, while Aaron and the two other youthful soldiers were accommodated behind, with their four or five large crates of vegetables. As they rumbled down the hill towards the ill-lit town, they felt the tug of anxiety and danger ahead. Haifa was under curfew, and only the dock area appeared to be normally lit up. On the outskirts they passed through their first checkpoint with an ease which struck them all as a very favourable omen. A young and tired-looking corporal took a perfunctory look into the back by torchlight and signalled them forward. Isaac chuckled as they moved on into the town and took a swift puff or two at his pipe before putting it into his pocket. He directed Judith in a low voice. So they arrived at the main gates of the harbour with its little cluster of pickets on duty under an arc-light — naval and military. The sentry who examined their papers winked at Jordan for a brief moment as he busied himself with an air of professional concern. “Rations, eh?” he said. “Okay then.”
The lorry rolled across the great network of open stages and warehouses at a sedate pace; it was the only thing moving on wheels in the great no-man’s-land of asphalt. The harbour was fairly full of ships which spread the dull yellowish bloom of their landing lights upon the water, as well as across the landing-stages. Somewhere a siren boomed and throbbed.
“Now there is only one picket,” said Jordan with pleasure, rubbing his hands. The “Minerva” lay at the far end of the harbour, tied up alongside. She was well lit but apparently deserted. A single gangway linked her to terra firma and beside this a naval picket stood under a lamp. They drew up and Isaac climbed out in leisurely fashion, banging on the tarpaulin-covered truck with his hand and calling: “Show a leg you duffers!” Meanwhile, Judith too climbed down and turned her bright eyes upon the young sentry. She began to grope for her papers, but Isaac called out in jovial fashion: “Number three ration fatigue. Father Christmas is here, mate!” The sentry grinned and said, “Okay mate! Make it slippy then.”
It was breathtaking, the ease of the whole thing.
The forage party, led by Isaac, unloaded its crates and made its way in leisurely fashion up the gang-plank of the “Minerva”, while Judith turned the truck round and brought it back to the sentry-post. She switched off the engine and yawned.
“Been out here long?” asked the sentry sympathetically. “You looked pretty browned o
ff!” Judith nodded. “Too long. I’m sleepy,” she said. “Been on duty since three.” The sentry tapped a bored foot and sighed. “My relief will be along soon. And right glad I’ll be for a kip!”
It seemed an eternity, the five or so minutes she spent there on the deserted landing-stage talking to the sentry under the yellow arc-light. Then the little party appeared, grinning and talking in low tones. Judith switched on. Aaron and Isaac both climbed into the front with her. She let in the clutch and the lorry started slowly along the quays. “I’m still not happy about that fuse, Isaac,” Aaron was saying in a preoccupied way. “I gave it another forty or so for good measure.” Isaac grunted and said: “I don’t know. We have to make do with what we can get these days. I think it will be...
As he spoke they heard behind them a series of heavy but muffled jolts. They were not bangs in the accepted sense of the word, but as if someone had taken a blacksmith’s hammer and delivered a couple of tremendous blows at the earth’s axis. Both men moaned simultaneously as they stared at each other with a wild surmise. They both opened their mouths to speak, but before they could articulate the phrase which was uppermost in their thoughts, the dark sky behind them was suddenly split by a long pencil of light and the sound accompanying it lagged for half a second behind this phenomenon. Their ears were assailed by a great detonation like a sudden roll of drums, which threw up streamers of tracer on the dark sky. The entrails of the “Minerva” heaved and gushed smoke and flame. Involuntarily, Judith pressed the accelerator and the lorry rumbled towards the main gate. The night was full of the noise of smashing glass. It was as if the whole town jumped up in the air and landed suddenly, awkwardly, on its knees with an agonizing bump. Jordan was uttering a string of very choice oaths in a sort of litany — the whole of his naval culture was expressing itself in a riot of poetic licence. But meanwhile, the blast from the first series of explosions, almost palpable, roared across the deserted quays like a whirlwind. Judith aimed straight for the dock gates, where a single sentry stood on duty now; but the night was becoming full of other kinds of movement. A large naval picket was running towards them from the middle distance — a fleck of white on the asphalt grey of the yards. Whistles began to blow. It all began to happen at once. The blast stripped the tarpaulin from the lorry with a single gesture, like someone peeling an onion. Its pressure on the vehicle drove it into a long skid. The sentry slammed the gate to and raised his rifle. With a sickening crunch, the lorry buried its nose in the iron railings and stuck fast. Aaron leaped down and called out to the sentry, who, confused, stood in an attitude of vague menace. He made the mistake of allowing his quarry to approach too close and found himself lifted off his feet and dashed to the ground with a clatter. “Run for it,” said Isaac and, as if in a dream, they found themselves running like hares through the main gate and into the darkened town. Behind them the horizon seemed to be on fire. Faint and shrill came the cries of the naval picket racing towards them. Even in the crackle and boom of the “Minerva’s” explosion they heard the wicked small stammer of automatic weapons.
They got across the main square safely, only to find that army pickets were racing down to the harbour area along the main streets. They ducked aside into a narrow warren of unlit streets, running and halting in doorways to catch their breath. Running thus, it was some time before they noticed that Isaac was no longer with them. Yet there was nothing to do but press on, for behind them the patrols had multiplied and everywhere lights and sounds had begun to flower against the tapestry of flame in the western end of the harbour. One of the blonde boys said: “I’ll go back and see what has happened to him. You carry on.”
But it was not merely the pain of the traversing bullets which had halted Isaac in his clumsy run across the square; he felt little pain. Only an enormous sense of weariness came over him, of lassitude. He stood in a doorway shivering, his teeth chattering, to recover his breath. Everything had become vague and incoherent: it felt as if he had been drinking. Almost absently he opened the tunic of his battledress and saw the dark stains on his white sweat-shirt. Something had gone wrong with his breathing. He was overcome by a desire to sleep. He groped for his pipe. It was still alight. He puffed at it once or twice in drunken fashion. Then, still walking like a drunkard, he turned away to the quiet corner of the harbour where “Zion” lay on the slip. Here there was no sign of life at all. All the movement and noise was at the other end of the harbour. He walked softly, imprecisely, but with a sense of purpose. Yes, there she was in the darkness, alone and unguarded. With an effort, he hoisted himself aboard and into the familiar wheelhouse. Here he sat for a moment, getting his breath. Then he reached for his old dirty naval cap. Carefully and patiently he stripped his battledress top and absurd forage cap. In them he carefully wrapped his faked papers, together with a large and heavy spanner. This he tipped overboard and watched it slowly settle and disappear into the murky harbour water. Then he sat down with his head on the wheel of the “Zion”, puffing a pipe and listening to his own heartbeats which now seemed to be coming from a long way off; a very long way indeed.
•
Once in the dark hut they lit the lamp and divested themselves of their carnival clothes. The silence was oppressive. They felt an enormous sense of fatigue. There was a loaf of bread and some gin left in the bottle. They divided these in silence and ate like wolves. Isaac’s Bible lay on the table. Presently there was a sound of movement outside, and the weary face of the young soldier came into their angle of vision.
“I couldn’t find him,” he said. “There was a trail of blood back toward the harbour.”
It was a day later that they heard of Isaac Jordan’s death. Ironically enough, he had not been connected with the act of sabotage on the “Minerva”. It was deemed an accident by the military authorities, and in default of any other explanation the Navy, always jealous of their own, decreed that he should have a naval funeral.
19
Across the Border
When Donner’s papers finally came home to roost, together with the signal and Movement Order which made him shake the dust of Palestine off his feet, he was vastly relieved; nor did he disguise the fact from his superiors. “It’s a bloody relief, I can tell you,” he said, mopping his brow and staring out unseeingly at the apricot-coloured walls of Jerusalem, shining softly in the afternoon sunlight. “A really bloody relief.” The Superintendent nodded. “The place has changed for the worse,” he said. “We were better off in the old days.” Donner smiled gloatingly. “The old days are gone,” he said prophetically. “This week I’ve been stoned in Beersheba, shot at in Nazareth, and found a microphone in a vase. I tell you, it’s getting hot.” He rubbed his chin and thought too of the casualty list which was steadily mounting. “Well,” he said, “a policeman’s lot is not a happy one, and I’m glad to go for a soldier.”
In fact the old tune stayed in his head and he found himself humming it on the way to the airport, resplendent in his new kit which had been lying ready for this great moment for weeks, wrapped in tissue paper on the chair by his bed. He kept a look-out for senior officers in order to have a chance of trying his “regular” salute on them; he carried this new, this military salute, like a violinist carries his cherished instrument, carefully wrapped, so to speak, and ready at hand. His apotheosis was near. “You will report to Prince Jalal at the Palace immediately on arrival at the capital,” read the order. It sounded good, it sounded romantic. Yet he had seen too much of the Middle East to feel romantic about it. He supposed that Jalal was just another “bloody wog”, some Arab princeling, ruler of a tin-pot state. But his spirits soared with the plane, and the whole journey seemed to pass in a sort of dream. The battered capital was exactly as he had last seen it some years ago on leave; its dusty palms and faded towers drowsed in the exhausted tepid air. A city of dust and disillusion.
But he was a trifle put out to find that Prince Jalal, after letting him cool his heels in an anteroom for an hour, received him without any outw
ard and visible sign of gladness. He was not only a very good-looking man with carefully manicured hands, but he spoke beautifully fastidious English and wore a Rifle Brigade tie. Donner executed his salute and received no response beyond a nod. The Prince was in mufti — the sort of mufti which spelled Camberley. He pulled down the Regency waistcoat and regarded Donner absently. “Yes,” he said in the tone of a man classifying an insect, “you are to take the cars up tomorrow. You know the assignment. You will be attached to the Mission under Towers.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Donner hoarsely, saluting again.
“You know the country, I gather from your report.”
“Like the back of my hand,” said Donner, and extended the back of his hand, noticing with chagrin that it was somewhat grubby.
The Prince smoothed a carefully trimmed moustache and crossed the room to a great operational wall-map of the western border. “Towers’ dispositions are here,” he said vaguely, pointing with his chin, as his hands busied themselves with the trimming of a mouthpiece in a slender cigar. “He will explain everything. As you know, our forces are under my brother, the Prince Daud. You will take some despatches up to him from us — my equerry will give them to you. He will also take you to the cars. They are waiting. Better check them over tonight and start early. They must be in good shape for desert work. Towers is always groaning about mobility. Now he’ll have some.”
Donner breathed hard through his nose. This damn wog telling him his business; moreover wearing a Rifle Brigade tie! The Prince crossed back to his desk and lit up with the huge ornate lighter. As he puffed, he said in a tone of idle reminiscence: “It’s a cushy sector and presents few problems. In the event of hostilities — at the moment things look as if they are moving that way — your only tactical problem will be to take and reduce Ras Shamir.”
Judith Page 21