A Battle Is Fought to Be Won

by Francis Clifford

  ‘What sort of war is this?’ Perry had asked that morning by the pagoda. He could tell him now. Jesus, he could tell him now ...

  Bitterly, he wished he had booby-trapped the bed of the stream. A few well-placed grenades would almost certainly have gained them an extra hour or two’s reprieve. He wasn’t thinking very clearly and some time elapsed before it dawned on him that it would be equally effective if he booby-trapped the road itself. The thought had hardly taken root when they reached a sharp U-shaped bend and he saw the forward platoon splash through shallow water.

  The sight of it made him change his mind about marching non-stop. He halted the company at once and sent for Nay Dun. ‘Five minutes, subedar. Let the mules make use of this — God knows when we’ll find any more. Then take over rear-guard. We won’t be resting again until we get between the first and second milestones.’

  It occurred to Gilling then that the runnel was as good a place to plant grenades as any. Better, in fact. Most of the road was powdered with dust, but here, where the water glassed over, the surface was pebbly, offering natural camouflage.

  ‘And, subedar —’

  ‘Thakin?’

  ‘Let me have those grenades you’re carrying.’

  They were slung on Nay Dun’s webbing, the pins splayed and bent back. Obviously puzzled, the subedar unhooked them and handed them across. Gilling examined the ground while the mules nosed eagerly at the water. It wasn’t difficult to decide where to bury the grenades, and as soon as the mules had finished he ordered Nay Dun to take the company clear.

  ‘Booby-traps,’ he explained curtly, the grenades balanced in each hand.

  The subedar nodded. ‘You want help, thakin?’

  ‘No.’ Gilling said. And with a vehemence that surprised him, he thought: Not from you, I don’t.

  He waited until the last man had kicked through the water, then chose a spot near the runnel’s edge where the ground was only a little moist. He uprooted a half-covered stone with his heel and knelt to scoop the hole deeper. Then he laid one of the grenades in the hole and replaced the stone. Satisfied, he lifted the stone again and took the grenade out. It looked like a small, oiled pineapple. A mosquito sang a warning in his ear as he straightened the soft metal of the pin. All at once his hands were clumsy. He held the lever down and removed the pin, then fitted the grenade back into the hole, keeping pressure on the lever with the tips of his fingers. With his other hand he reached for the stone and laid it over the hole. Gradually, with trembling care, he began to ease his fingers free. As they slid off the lever he heard it grate against the under-side of the stone and for a desperate moment he thought it must have lifted sufficiently to release the firing-pin. His heart seemed to miss a beat. Slowly, now, he took his weight off the stone, pound by pound, ounce by ounce, watching to see whether it shifted. A long time seemed to pass. Then, gingerly, his hand came free and he backed away, sweating an ice-and-fire sweat.

  Given the slightest encouragement the stone would move and the lever fly off. Four seconds later the grenade would explode ...

  He gave the spot a wide berth and tiptoed through the water. On the other side he dug out another stone and buried the second grenade. Again he lived through the self-imposed torment of doubt as he increased his trust in the stone’s weight. But at last his hand lifted clear and he got up, dry-mouthed, and moved cautiously towards the waiting company.

  *

  Twice more he placed grenades — one wedged beneath a fallen branch which he dragged out from the bank; the other in the dust under an exposed length of heavy bamboo. If they inflicted casualties, well and good, but their main purpose was to slow the Japanese down; make them hesitant. Fear had given him cunning and several times during the next couple of hours he got Saw Tun Shwe to cut additional bamboos and strew them significantly across the road. Each one he saw as a flimsy barrier against their being overtaken before they could reach the demolition, but at the same time the inadequacy of what he was doing caused him despair.

  The gradients became more severe; the route more tortuous. All around them the night ticked and whispered. Now and then the skyline showed itself, etched like a graph through the lowermost stars, obliterating all but the tilted rectangle of the Great Bear. Bandaung was close behind the jagged crest; the hairpins somewhere in its shadow. The moon rode shoulder-high, but its light was merging into the greyness of approaching dawn. Another day was coming to burn and blister and Gilling made a renewed effort to increase the tempo of the march. The men stared at the road in front of them, apparently oblivious of his continued urging, and in his anxiety their fatigue seemed unreasonable. He shouted at them angrily, trying to goad them into a last-lap effort, but to no avail. There was no response at all now. They were at the end of their tether and even Nay Dun’s barrack-square vernacular could get nothing more out of them.

  They reached the foot of the hairpins as the sun rose, and again Gilling remembered the scene, recalling the low-geared ascent of two years ago. At first glance it looked a formidable obstacle. For all of a quarter of a mile the road zig-zagged across the escarpment, cut into the wooded face like a giant staircase. To either side were precipitous, overgrown slopes and gaunt outcrops of moss-covered rock stained white with bird-droppings.

  Nay Dun took the company on to the first milestone while Gilling unearthed and fused the demolition-set. It was two-thirds of the way up the escarpment, marked by an inconspicuous wooden stake. According to the plan the entire central section of one diagonal ledge of road had been mined, and he allowed an extravagant amount of safety-fuse to ensure himself a comfortable getaway. Nerves had kept his own exhaustion in check until now, but as he fumbled with tape and detonators his body shook uncontrollably. The fuse-assembly bounced in and out of focus and a pinkish light discoloured everything he saw. Time and again he had to pause until his vision cleared, but at length he was ready.

  Without further delay he lit the twin fuses and retreated, his skin prickling in anticipation of the explosion. He reached two ledges of the road higher before the detonation shook the ground under his feet. Columns of earth and rock soared like poplars, each one separate, each with a short-lived core of flame. They remained poised for a split second, tall and opaque against the morning sky, swirling within themselves. Then they joined and became a wall which slowly subsided, leaving only a pall of dust filtering over the sun and the place where Gilling had flattened himself.

  He had no sense of satisfaction, as at the bridge. Even after he had clambered down to survey the damage and seen the great avalanche spilled from the raw, chancred quarries all he felt was hopelessness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hf. sited each platoon and left them to entrench themselves. Below, the foothills were spread like a map, their crumpled green monotony softened by veils of mist which still defied the early sun. Here and there the road was visible and Gilling put his binoculars on to it, doubtfully tracing its route through the roof of the forest, searching for signs of movement. Four or five miles away an unbroken length showed itself like a newly-healed scar and he gave the glasses to his orderly, telling him to keep it under constant watch.

  Aching in every limb he climbed back to the cutting where the mules had been taken. The wounded rifleman was silent now, his face the colour of putty, his eyes closed. Only the quick, soft pant of his breath showed that he lived.

  One of the cooks said. ‘He is dying, thakin,’ and Gilling nodded, numbed with weariness. It wasn’t the fear of death that worked in him, but of what had happened at the bridge, at the road block, and a sort of rage quivered through him that they should be expected to fight in this fashion, with a field-dressing as the ultimate medical aid. He looked pityingly at the dying man, remembering his stoicism on the mule, and with lead in his heart he thought: You were lucky, God help you. At least you weren’t taken prisoner ...

  He collected half a dozen grenades from one of the reserve boxes, primed them, and returned to the escarpment. A fever-bird was calling ag
ain and he abused it as he slithered down over the rubble. A hundred yards in advance of the base of the slope, at points in the road and on the banks where men might approach under cover, he began to lay more booby-traps. He placed them as an insurance against surprise, having made up his mind not to expose another section to the danger of being overrun. Between grenades he paused, breathing deeply, steeling himself for the next. Twice, glancing up the hill-side, he saw Nay Dun, arms akimbo, apparently watching him from one of the hairpins. And the second time he muttered: ‘Leave me alone, can’t you? For Christ’s sake, leave me alone.’

  Eventually, hands on thighs, he made his way back to the walnut tree under which Saw Tun Shwe had stationed himself.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thakin.’

  He took the binoculars and studied the distant stretch of road. The last of the mist had evaporated now and the reddish scar was sharply defined, angled slightly across a knuckled green spur. But nothing moved along it; no dust showed. He was as much mystified as relieved. The delay didn’t make sense.

  ‘Keep looking,’ he said.

  Turning, he found Nay Dun waiting for him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is no water, thakin.’

  He flared. ‘I’m not blind, subedar.’

  Undeterred, Nay Dun said: ‘The nearest is in the town —’

  ‘This side of the town,’ Gilling corrected. ‘There’s a lake by the golf course.’

  A ridiculous sense of triumph welled through his fatigue. He knew Bandaung. It wasn’t the jungle. The town was his preserve — familiar, civilized. For once he wasn’t at a disadvantage.

  ‘With your permission,’ Nay Dun said, ‘I will detail a party —’

  ‘Later.’ He expected the inevitable salute, the impassive about-turn, but the subedar did not move. With hostility, Gilling repeated: ‘Later — understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Very well.’ He gestured irritably.

  ‘There is something else.’

  ‘What?’

  A barking deer coughed within earshot. A pair of huge red butterflies tumbled past, joined together, mating. Life was everywhere: life and death.

  ‘There is a track, thakin.’

  ‘A track?’

  ‘Into Bandaung.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘The sixth milestone. It runs to the east of here, through the village of Meingyi.’

  Gilling said: ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Meingyi was once my village.’

  Their eyes met, held each other, and the subedar’s seemed to say: ‘I knew about the lake by the golf course, too, but it is unimportant. The track is vital, though, and you were ignorant of it.’

  ‘It isn’t on the map,’ Gilling said, looking.

  ‘The village is, but not the track.’

  ‘Tracks die out,’ Gilling said defensively. ‘Change course.’

  ‘This one is still there.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘I saw it last night — when I was rear-guard.’

  Sharply, Gilling said: ‘I should have been told.’ Antagonism compounded with his growing dismay. ‘Why wasn’t I told, subedar?’

  ‘I camouflaged it, thakin. Nothing else could have been done in the time.’

  ‘I’m the best judge of that, surely?’

  The words mocked him. His thoughts were going in all directions at once. Anger and alarm competed for possession of him. A nervous tic flicked his left eye, advertising his trepidation.

  ‘The camouflage will stay fresh for a day,’ Nay Dun was saying, ‘but it would be wise to keep the track under observation. It meets the escarpment about a mile from here.’

  He pointed eastward through some sprays of bamboo, but Gilling stared at the distant spur to the south where the road showed. The rock-faces to either side of the hairpins precluded the possibility of rapid encirclement and he had been thinking only in terms of a frontal attack. But now he found he had a reason for the enemy’s non-appearance.

  Eyes screwed against the harsh light, he asked: ‘Would you say the sixth milestone is beyond that stretch of road?’

  ‘Yes, thakin.’

  He had feared as much. ‘Send three men to the village,’ he said urgently. ‘No more. See they’ve got a Very pistol. And go back into the town itself with the rest of that section and find out where the track leads in.’

  ‘I already know, thakin.’

  Without meaning to, Gilling said: ‘Where?’

  ‘Above the bazaar.’

  ‘Go and check — on the town, too.’ He snapped it out, reacting against the feeling of diminished authority. ‘And be back by ten hundred.’

  Swaying on his feet he watched Nay Dun depart. His small feeling of triumph had shrivelled like a deflated balloon. He gazed uneasily across the motionless ocean of the forest, questioning fretfully whether the Japanese had discovered the track and, if so, how long ago. It was nine now. They could have had knowledge of it for at least a couple of hours, in which case they might already be well on their way. They would have heard the detonation when he blew the road; deduced from their maps where it had happened and been encouraged to try an alternative route ... He reasoned with mounting concern. On the other hand, he told himself, they would have no idea where the track went and might decide not to waste time on it. Might. And there was always the possibility of Nay Dun’s camouflage fooling them. More than once, during training, he had stood within feet of the subedar’s handiwork and been completely fooled himself. But he lacked confidence in it now.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked his orderly again.

  ‘No, thakin.’

  He was in dread of their coming, but he willed them to appear on the road and release him from uncertainty. Sheltering beneath the walnut tree he waited, his craving for sleep destroyed. There was no alternative but to wait. It would be madness to pull back and leave the escarpment undefended without proof of a flanking movement. Yet if and when the proof was established it might be too late.

  He clenched his hands. ‘Come on,’ he urged aloud. ‘Come on, sod you.’

  *

  The rifleman was dead when Gilling next climbed to the cutting where the topmost ledge left the hillside. He cut the red identity-disc away and put it in one of his ammunition-pouches along with those of Ba Tin and Saw Pah. ‘Animist’ was stamped into the disc, but he said the Lord’s Prayer over the body and told the cooks to bury it before the flies got worse and the vultures arrived.

  Forty-five minutes had elapsed since the men left for the track, but no warning Very light soared from the forest to the east and he took heart. He made use of the time touring the weakened platoons, encouraging the sunken-eyed section commanders to complete their preparations as quickly as possible. He didn’t spare himself. Layer upon layer of weariness ached through him, but he was restless and moved endlessly about the escarpment as if in search of something he had lost.

  Gunfire trembled in from the invisible plain to the west of them. Earth and sky were merged in a lilac band of heat and he studied the map, guessing at the division’s whereabouts, wondering how the battalion fared. It was almost impossible to believe that he would ever rejoin them. Time had lost its shape. Gyobin was still two days away and every hour had become a nerve-racked lifetime of existence. The sense of horror was never entirely absent from his mind, and willing the Japanese to show themselves like deliberately encouraging a nightmare to return. But knowing where they were was better than not knowing; seeing them was better than having the imagination run riot ... Inexplicably, though, the road remained deserted.

  Nay Dun returned shortly before ten. His sweat-polished face told Gilling nothing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The track comes in above the bazaar, thakin.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, but to Gilling it seemed to avoid insolence by a hair’s-breadth. ‘And the town is empty.’

  Gilling had expected as much in view of the lack of a signal from the direction o
f Meingyi, but confirmation added a final touch of relief. He sucked in air thankfully.

  ‘Very well. The mules can be watered now,’ he said, ‘and something done about starting a meal. Get the men’s bottles collected first, then send the cooks and the walking wounded back to the golf course. They’ll probably find running water in the clubhouse. Tell them to hurry,’ he added curtly. ‘We may not have long.’

  Nay Dun nodded. He turned to one of the riflemen who had accompanied him and waved him forward. To Gilling’s surprise the man was carrying a monkey.

  He said: ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘For strength, thakin.’

  The subedar grabbed the monkey and held it in front of him, proffering it. There was blood on the ginger-grey fur and Gilling imagined the animal to be dead, but the black, rubber-band lips suddenly parted, emitting a piteous squeal, and the brown eyes opened, huge with pain and fear.

  ‘For strength, thakin,’ Nay Dun repeated. ‘For you.’

  ‘No.’

  Gilling looked away, but — sidelong — he saw the subedar draw his chopping knife and cut the monkey’s throat with a swift, expert movement.

  ‘Thakin,’ he said again, pushing the monkey forward, thumb pressed on the severed artery.

  ‘No.’

  Gilling shuddered. He knew what store the Karens put on monkey’s blood. He had seen them drink it; seen them and been revolted. And now, as Nay Dun lifted the limp bundle of fur and let the blood dribble into his upturned mouth, his stomach heaved. There was terror in this, too.

  ‘Good thakin.’ The subedar swallowed, mouth and chin stained raw, proffering the monkey yet again.

  ‘Take it away.’

  He saw no generosity in the subedar’s insistence; only a barbarous taunt. The sight of the blood was a mnemonic of all the vile and horrifying visions from which he had tried desperately to escape all day.

  He shut his eyes. ‘Take it away,’ he shouted. ‘Take it away, d’you hear?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Time passed without sign of the Japanese. The men snatched an hour’s sleep, turn and turn about. Gilling slept, too, plummeting abruptly into a deep, dreamless oblivion from which his orderly roused him at noon. He awoke with a gasp, eyes focusing in bleary alarm. The first thing he heard was the low drone of aircraft somewhere over the plain and the dyspeptic crump of distant explosions. The sound gave an edge to his mind and he sat up, startled. But his orderly shook his head.