He had positioned himself to one side of the village so that he could see something of the road and keep an eye on both the path and the crest. The structure of the company had completely broken down and the Karens were grouped irrespective of their original section or platoon. The last of the ammunition had been shared out; the final stage-settings made. Only the tightening hold of suspense remained. The sun lifted clear of the rim and a fever-bird started on its maddening, ascending scale. ‘You’re ill,’ it shrilled. ‘You’re ill ... You’re ill.’ A slight breeze came in from the east, shuffling the leaves of the bamboo thickets on the slopes, whirring the feathery ornaments which decorated the altar tables. It didn’t last and the air grew stagnant again, heavy with returning heat and the stale smell of the empty village. High in the plastic sky a trio of vultures soared on the strengthening up-currents, tracing wide, invisible circles over the place where Saw Tun Shwe had deposited the dead Karens. Under their covering of flies the bodies seemed to move like enormous living grubs, and no matter where Gilling looked his gaze eventually came back to the discoloured, apparently-squirming shapes that lay between him and the path.
When he could endure the sight of them no more he withdrew cautiously to the rear of the village and made his way up to the crest above. In the far distance he could just make out the fawn-green plain. Northwards, beyond the jumble of huts, the road showed occasionally on its winding descent through the jungle-clad hills, and he wondered anxiously how far the first cook had got; where the others with the wounded were. They would need all the start he could win them.
Nay Dun was on the crest with eight men and a Bren: the remainder were dug in around the village. The position dominated the approach to the clearing. To enter the village the Japanese would first need to occupy the crest or make it untenable — and they’d be able to do either at will. Daylight only confirmed what Gilling had known from the first.
The subedar was so well camouflaged that Gilling had some difficulty in finding him. There was plenty of cover and he stood up at the mention of his name. The tireless ease with which he could still move was a rebuff in itself and the yellowed, bloodshot eyes seemed to say: ‘I’ll outlast you yet — no matter what.’
Gilling fought the obsession down. ‘Any sign?’
‘No sign — but they are there.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can feel it.’
Gilling’s nerves tightened. The semi-circular barrier of trees into which the path funnelled was steeped in its own shadow, dark and impenetrable. Nothing moved or showed itself — and yet they were there: he trusted the subedar’s animal instinct. He switched his gaze to the stunted huts below; looked down on the spindly bamboo tables and saw that they were empty. The chill of superstition shivered through him, of supernatural evils beyond his comprehension. He belonged elsewhere. Not here. His mind hammered it out in a sort of panic. Not here ... The fly-crusted bodies of the dead were laid out like a sacrifice but the spirits had gone hungry and would demand more ...
‘You’re ill,’ the fever-bird called again. ‘You’re ill’
He glanced quickly at Nay Dun’s hairless, toffee-coloured fare The narrow eyes met his and he read into them: ‘But for you we would not be where we are now. We would have done better — at the bridge, on the escarpment, with the bus. Yes, even with the bus. We could have been reinforced but for you; spared this.’
Gilling ran his hands over his mouth in distress; turned about. ‘See that ridge?’ he pointed unsteadily. It was about a mile behind them. The road lay across it like a length of twisted ribbon. Somewhere on the other side of the ridge it would be starting on its westward swing toward Gyobin; searching for a way down to the plains.
The subedar nodded.
‘With any luck we can hold them there for a while.’
‘Not for long.’ It was grunted out.
‘Long enough, maybe. We won’t last half an hour in this place.’
The choked cry of a jungle cock split the silence. Gilling swung round in alarm, but all he saw was the matted roof of the forest and the mottled light where the trees ended. His mouth was like a kiln yet, perversely, the greasy streams of sweat still ran.
‘That message must reach Gyobin. If it doesn’t —’
He swayed, suddenly dizzy. Through the lime-green blur he could tell that Nay Dun was reaching towards him with tattooed hands. For a moment it was as if he had entered the tail-end of the dream again. Revulsion made him back away. Then, as his vision cleared, he felt his arm gripped. Viciously, he shook himself free.
‘I’m all right,’ he muttered, but he thought: Damn you. Damn you ... His tongue moved dryly over his lips as the weakness passed. All his accumulated hatred for this man came to a head; inspired a despairing bravado. ‘Listen to me, subedar.’ He would justify himself yet. ‘They’ll have to clear you off here before they go for the village. Hold them as long as you can, then pull back and make for that ridge. I’ll cover you out. Understand?’
He was under intense scrutiny, but received no answer.
‘Try and check them again on the ridge. Every five minutes will count. Gyobin’s got to have as much warning as possible.’
Seemingly unmoved, Nay Dun continued to stare at him through the angled glare. Gilling’s hatred faltered a little. He had committed himself and fear knotted in his stomach. He expected some sort of protest from the subedar, or a query like: ‘Will you join us on the ridge?’ But there was neither. Only the hard, demanding eyes boring into his.
A terrible desolation possessed him. With barely controlled emotion he said: ‘You’ll be responsible for what happens north of here. You’ll be in command.’
He paused.
‘Understand?’
‘Understand, thakin.’
A nod, a parrot-phrase — that was all. Hysterically he thought: Don’t you see? — I’m making amends. You can’t fault me this time. Don’t you see? ... And then, with horror, he realized that he had proposed exactly what he believed the subedar expected of him.
*
He retraced his route round to the rear of the village; crawled forward until he found Saw Tun Shwe. It would be here, then. Here ... He was imprisoned now as surely as if there were bars of steel around him.
His orderly passed him a bamboo container retrieved from one of the huts and he drank from it absently, scarcely tasting the flat, warm water. His brain seemed to have gone absolutely numb and for a while he waited in a state of intense apathy, devoid of all sensation. He had sentenced himself, but he couldn’t yet grasp the imminence of death.
There was still no hint of the Japanese in the dark caves of the forest wall; no sound other than the morning’s stealthy murmur. The vultures grew impatient, planing lower as the sun worked on the bodies. The fever-bird sang intermittently, seeking to impose its will on him. A minute or two passed. Little by little he lost his stunned detachment and once more began to feel afraid. It wasn’t so much death itself that terrified him as the manner of its coming, and in dread he shut his mind against the fearful images his thoughts created. He drew his revolver instinctively; broke it and spun the magazine to see if it were full. A huge orange butterfly chopped heavily across the clearing, guiding his bleary gaze up to the crest, and his hatred flared again. There was no other antidote left to him and he let it rage, staring at the bamboo thickets along the skyline where the subedar lay hidden.
Then, with a shock that made his mouth go loose, he heard a shout from somewhere in the trees beyond the path.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Captain Gilling!’
He caught his breath and pressed himself against the ground, head turned sideways, eyes wide.
‘Give up, Captain Gilling ... It is useless to continue.’
The voice was effeminate; the English distorted by an alien rhythm. This was no Karen; no hopeless appeal made under duress. The high-pitched tone carried a spine-chilling threat. The use of his own tongue singled him out almost more than the mention o
f his name.
‘Give up. Surrender ... Save yourself and your soldiers.’
The voice chanted on, sibilant and frightening. At grass-level, Gilling and his orderly faced each other in the short scrub like men engaged in a staring match.
‘Surrender ... We will wait a few minutes. That is all. A few minutes only ... Give up, Captain Gilling.’
There was silence then, but for a while Gilling did not move a muscle. He continued to stare at Saw Tun Shwe as if he were trying to memorize every detail of the drawn, brown pock-marked face.
‘Thakin?’ His orderly hadn’t understood. His lips quivered. ‘What do they want?’
Unnerved, Gilling raised his head; peered towards the trees. They want me, he thought, and the very phrase dragged at his scalp. Me ...
*
They took their time. But when they came it was suddenly, the only warning being the hollow punk of mortars going into action in the near distance.
One of the vultures was planing down as the shells burst around the clearing and the blast swept it up and away like a heavy kite gone out of control in a gale. Simultaneously the shadowy hollows under the trees became alive with movement. A wave of green-clad figures rose unevenly, emerging into the broken scrub on either side of the path, and Gilling experienced a shrinking sensation at the sight of them; at the familiar sound of their cries. A single shot rang out from the crest as the sun exposed them; another and another. Then the Bren chattered and cut the first gaps in the stumbling line. The scrub was patchy. Where it was comparatively open the oncoming Japanese made more rapid progress. Very soon the line broke into four or five distinct groups, half a dozen or so strong, each man taking on his separate identity as they came closer-hunched, gangling, shabby, theatrical — but all dangerous; all sickeningly intent. The nearest were halfway to the village before the Karens defending the clearing opened up. The result was immediate and startling. Within seconds the attack had disintegrated under the concentrated cross-fire, and in a moment of hopeless clarity Gilling realized with astonishment that the enemy hadn’t counted on the crest being occupied.
Another staggered salvo of mortar-shells erupted in and about the huts. The spouting fans of earth collapsed and ochreous veils of dust drifted slowly across the scene. There was still movement in the scrub, still a few survivors trying to regain the safety of the trees, and Brens and smallarms harried them; picked them off.
‘Hold your fire!’ Gilling bawled. ‘Save it!’
An unreal hush descended on the clearing, intense enough for him to hear a groan from somewhere nearby and the soft, tissue-paper crackling of burning grass. The dust settled and the flies returned in a blue haze to the dead Karens near the bamboo altars. The lull seemed endless, but he knew with certainty what it meant and where it was heading. Through haste or over-confidence the Japanese had made an elementary mistake — one which they wouldn’t repeat. For all their preponderance of numbers they wouldn’t assault the village again until they controlled the crest. And then it would be easy — a matter of minutes only ...
Once more he lifted his eyes to where he knew the subedar to be. You’re next, he thought, and a shiver of appeal went through him, compounding with his enmity, weakening it. Hold them, he pleaded. Forget what I said. Don’t pull out. For Christ’s sake don’t pull —
With a sound like soggy corks being drawn the mortars suddenly loosed off again and the sound seemed to stall his brain. He never shifted his gaze from the crest as he waited for the strikes. They pitched roughly where he expected them, with a dreadful certainty — one ... two ... three. Hardly had the debris ceased to fly than the top of the crest lifted again under the impact of a second staccato load of high explosive. Even where he lay Gilling felt the flap and suck of the blast. A manure-coloured cloud was spreading down the slope like a creeping avalanche and when the third clutch of shells landed they stabbed orange-bright through swirling murk.
No one could stay up there for long, and what remained of Gilling’s spirit withered as he saw what was happening — and how swiftly. His silent, unreasoning appeal wasn’t even remotely possible to honour, yet he continued to make it. He seemed to be going out of his mind; nearing the threshold of irredeemable panic. The pattern he’d foreseen was taking shape before his eyes, shell by shell, and the bravado with which he’d promised Nay Dun support had shrivelled and died.
Stay there, he pleaded shamelessly. Forget about the ridge ...
Yet another accurately-placed salvo split the darkening pall which obliterated the crest. He raised himself a little, peering with agonized intent, and as he did so he heard the whip of bullets passing close overhead. A fraction of a second later he was partially stunned by a concussive roar as one of the huts burst into a swelling ball of flame. The village had been under desultory fire almost as long as the crest, yet he’d scarcely been conscious of it. But now, as chunks of flaming thatch and bamboo spattered near, he was shocked into awareness of immediate personal danger. His ears rang as he looked about him. Here and there, prone in the scrub-fringe, he could see a Karen. One or two of them were sniping in the direction of the trees and the waste provoked an involuntary reaction.
‘Save it!’ he shouted.
They ignored him and continued to shoot. Either they didn’t hear or they felt inaction was a crime while their comrades suffered. But to Gilling their continued disregard of him seemed a gesture of rebellion. A dull surge of anger impelled him towards them.
‘Save it! Save it!’
Like a madman he scrambled through the scrub. They turned their heads at the approaching sound of his voice, staring at him blankly. He couldn’t see that he’d been mistaken in his judgment of them. He felt himself shunned, abandoned to their contempt, and he raged at them out of hurt and bitter loneliness.
The crest was still under bombardment. He spared it a long glance before starting on his return to Saw Tun Shwe. Metal flipped past and he went flat, coughing as he inhaled smoke from the burning remains of the hut. The air whined under pressure from a falling shell. There was a blinding flash, a noise like a thunder-clap, and the ground seemed to leap under him. He waited a moment before moving again, then got up and ran as well as his maimed leg would allow. His orderly was kneeling, apparently willing him to safety, and as he threw himself alongside Gilling cried: ‘Get down!’
‘Thakin,’ he heard.
With his head cradled into the crook of an arm he sucked acrid, smoke-laden air into his lungs.
‘Thakin —’
The voice insisted through the deafening aftermath of the explosion. Yielding to it he discovered to his amazement that Saw Tun Shwe was still kneeling, clutching his stomach as though he’d been winded. With one convulsive movement Gilling pulled him down and rolled beside him. Jets of blood were spurting vividly between the interlocked fingers. Gilling could tell at a glance that there was no hope for him. He’d been hit in the hip and the armpit as well.
‘Easy,’ Gilling said. ‘Take it easy.’
The brown pigment of the Karen’s face was taking on a ghastly, greenish hue. His heels drummed frantically against the ground as if he sought to flee from the consuming pain. Only seconds remained to him but they lasted interminably; cruelly. Then his screwed-up eyes slid open like a doll’s and, without recognition, fixed themselves on Gilling.
‘Take it easy,’ Gilling repeated. He said it several times, with hoarse and hopeless gentleness, but it was some moments before he realized that he was talking to the dead. Automatically he began to grope for the identity disc under the blood-soaked shirt, and the brief, desolate thought came: You were the nearest I got to any of them ...
A feeling of utter desolation seized him. His hand came away empty, leaving the disc on its string. For a brief space of time his senses had scarcely registered the din, but now, as if plugs had been snatched from his ears, it enveloped him again. The crest was no longer the focal point of the bombardment: it had switched back to the village. Another hut was on fire and the re
st were hazy under the drift of dust and smoke. Some of the rain-starved scrub was beginning to burn. With difficulty he made out the crest, the skyline of which was just discernible. Between the crash of explosions he faintly heard shouting; the rattle of automatics. In alarm he looked along the path towards the trees, believing the final assault was on its way in, and though there was nothing to be seen the instinct of self-preservation welled up deliriously: Move! ... Get out! They’re finished up there. Get out! Make for the ridge yourself ...
More shouting: a brittle exchange of rifle-fire. And with sudden, stark dismay he knew that it came from the crest. It hadn’t seemed possible that Nay Dun’s small party could have survived — yet they had; some of them, anyhow. Under pressure they were retreating along the skyline, and their continued existence robbed him of the wild and selfish hopes that were seeking his domination.
Oh God, he thought. Oh God. Oh God.
An enormous weight seemed to enter his body. He shouted at the Karens scattered around him to engage the crest, but the words were ripped from his mouth by a tornado of blast as shell after shell detonated in the clearing. Through the tumbling spouts of earth he saw men rise from their positions and start to fall back.
‘Stay where you are!’
He waved his arms frenziedly, but they ignored him. Three or four went past; bent over, stumbling.
Don’t leave me, his mind cried. Don’t leave me ...
The clearing erupted again, scarlet and black, and as he opened his eyes he saw that others were on the move.
‘Hold it!’ he bawled. ‘Stay where —’
He never finished it. The roof of the nearest hut collapsed with an abruptness that constricted his throat. He ducked, reflex-fashion, anticipating an explosion, but for some reason there wasn’t one. Sidelong, he saw something bounce off the springy bamboo floor of the demolished hut and ricochet ponderously towards him. It seemed to travel through the air with unnatural slow motion, turning lazily as it described an arc, but it wasn’t until it hit the ground that he identified it as a mortar-shell. It trundled in his direction, crushing the short grass in its path, finally coming to rest within a few feet of where he lay.
A Battle Is Fought to Be Won Page 14
