Immediately after we’d breakfasted, bin Suleiman butchered the three camels, slitting their throats and letting the blood drain into a tin bowl. The carcasses were then disembowelled, and the meat cut into strips and hung to dry in the sun. Flies buzzed and the place smelt of blood, and yet it didn’t seem unnatural. Sand and rock and the blazing sky, that boy lying in the dim interior of the tower, his breath gurgling in his throat and blood seeping on to the floor, and below us an Arab town ruled by a man consumed by a murderous greed. Death didn’t seem so hateful when life itself was so cruel.
Action followed hard upon my thoughts. Hamid, from his lookout post on the very top of the tower, called down to us: men were circling the hill to the north. From the walls we watched them climb by the camel track. They were well spaced out, their guns ready in their hands. Others were coming up by the zigzag path direct from Hadd. Lying prone on the blistering stones, we waited, holding our fire. The stillness seemed to break their nerve, for they began shooting at a range of almost three hundred yards.
The attack, when it came, was a senseless, ill-directed affair, men clawing their way up the last steep rock ascent to the walls without any supporting fire. We caught them in the open, unprotected, and the attack petered out almost before it had begun. They went back down the sides of the hill, taking their wounded with them and not leaving even a single sniper to harass us from the shelter of the rocks.
“It won’t be as easy as that next time they come.” David’s eyes had a cold, dead look, untouched by the light of battle that I’d glimpsed for a moment on bin Suleiman’s broad animal face.
We had used, I suppose, no more than two or three dozen rounds, but it was sufficient to make David anxious about his ammunition. Whilst the two Wahiba kept watch, David and I lowered the ladder through a hole in the mud floor of the tower and climbed down into the black rubble-filled pit below. It was slow work, searching in the dark, for we’d nothing but our hands to dig with and after so long David wasn’t at all certain where he had buried the boxes. We must have been down there at least an hour, and all the time we were scrabbling at the rubble with our hands, Ali lay delirious on the floor above. Twice Hamid’s rifle cracked as he carried out David’s orders and kept the wells in Hadd clear of people. Those sounds and the darkness and the feeling that at any moment we might be overwhelmed through lack of ammunition gave a sense of desperate urgency to our work.
Finally we found the boxes and hauled them through the hole to the floor above—more than a thousand rounds of ammunition and two dozen grenades. We’d barely got the boxes open when Hamid reported a Land Rover leaving the palace. We watched it from the embrasures, blaring its horn as it snaked through Hadd’s crooked alleys and out through the main gates of the town. It headed south towards Saraifa, and David let it go, not firing a shot. “The sooner Sheikh Abdullah is informed of the situation here,” he said, “the sooner his raiding force will leave Saraifa in peace.” His eyes were shining now, for this was what he’d intended. That little puff of dust trailing across the desert was the visual proof of the success of his plan.
“But what happens,” I said, “when Sheikh Abdullah attacks us here with all his forces?”
He smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dark, lean face. “We’re not short of ammunition now.”
“But we’re short of men. There are only four of us. How many do you think Sheikh Abdullah musters?” I thought it was time he faced up to the situation.
“It’s not numbers that count,” he answered tersely. “Not up here. Whoever built this fort designed it to be held by a handful of men.” And he added: “We’re bloody good shots, you see. Hamid and bin Suleiman, they’re like all the Bedou—they’ve had guns in their hands since they were kids. And me, I learned to shoot out hunting with Khalid.” He was almost grinning then. “I tell you, man, I can hit a gazelle running with a rifle bullet—and a gazelle’s a bloody sight smaller than a man. Anyway,” he added, “no call for you to worry. With any luck we’ll get you away under cover of darkness tonight.”
“And what about you?” I asked. “You’ve no camels now.”
“No.” He stared at me, a strange, sad look in his eyes. And then he gave a little shrug. “There comes a moment in every man’s life, I suppose, when his destiny catches up with him.”
Again I was conscious of his strange choice of words, the sense of fatalism. “If you don’t get out … if you stay here until Sheikh Abdullah’s men have surrounded you …” What could I say to make him see sense? “You’ll die here,” I told him bluntly.
“Probably.”
We stood there, staring at each other, and I knew there was nothing I could say that would make him change his mind. He didn’t care. He was filled with a burning sense of mission. It showed in his eyes, and I was reminded of the word Sue had used to describe his mood—the word “dedicated.” All the misdirected energy that had involved him in gang warfare in Cardiff docks—now it had found an outlet, a purpose, something he believed in. Death meant nothing.
“What about Hamid and bin Suleiman?” I asked. “Will they fight with you to the end?”
“Yes,” he said. “They’ve a blood feud on their hands and they want to kill.”
There was nothing more to be said, then. “If I reach. Buraimi and get through to the coast, I’ll inform the authorities of the situation at once.”
“Of course.” He said it with a bitter little smile, so that I was afraid he’d read my thoughts and knew I was thinking that help would arrive too late. But then he said: “It’s no good talking to the authorities, you know. They won’t do anything. Much better give the story to the newspapers. I wouldn’t like to die without anybody knowing what I’d tried to do.” Again that bitter little smile, and then he turned away. “Better get some sleep now. You’ve a long journey and you’ll need to be fresh for it.”
But sleep wasn’t easy. The only place where there was any shade was the tower, and there Ali’s agony of mind and body was a thin thread of sound piercing each moment of unconsciousness, so that I dreamed I was listening to David’s death throes, at times to my own. He died as the sun sank—a brief rattle in the throat and silence. And at that same moment David scrambled in by the entrance hole to announce that there were vehicles coming from the direction of Saraifa.
“I think Ali is dead,” I said.
He bent over the boy and then nodded. “I should have put him out of his misery,” he said. “Without a doctor, he hadn’t a hope, poor kid.”
From the embrasures we watched a trail of dust moving in from the desert … three open Land Rovers packed with men, a machine gun mounted in the back of each vehicle. David called down to Hamid, who was cooking rice over a fire, and he grabbed his gun and climbed the outer wall to lie prone beside bin Suleiman. David motioned me to the other embrasure. “Don’t fire till I do. And, remember, every man you hit is one less for us to deal with later.” He had dropped to his knees, his rifle ready in the slit of the embrasure.
The three Land Rovers reached the main gates and there they halted, stopped by the crowd of people who swarmed round them, all pointing and gesticulating towards us. An Arab askari in the leading Land Rover swung his machine gun, and a long burst ripped the sunset stillness. Bullets splattered against the base of the tower. The guns of the other two Land Rovers followed suit—a sound like ripping calico. Several rifles were let off.
It was a demonstration designed to restore morale. My hand trembled as I set the sights of my rifle to 500. And then David fired and I was conscious of nothing but my finger on the trigger and the third Land Rover fastened like a toy to the V of my sights. The smell of cordite singed my nostrils. Fire blossomed like a yellow flower against the dun of desert sand. Men scattered. Some fell. And in a moment there was nothing to shoot at.
One Land Rover in flames, the other two deserted; some bodies lying in the dust. Tracer bullets exploded like fireworks from the back of the burning vehicle, and almost immediately a second Land Rover caugh
t fire as the petrol tank went up.
“I’m afraid they won’t give us an opportunity like that again.” David sat back on his haunches and cleared his gun. “It will be night attacks from now on.”
Hadd was deserted now. Not a soul to be seen anywhere, the alleyways and the square empty. The Emir’s green flag hung limp above the palace; nothing stirred. Hamid went back to his cooking. The sun set and the excitement of action ebbed away, leaving a sense of nervous exhaustion. “You’d better leave as soon as it’s dark,” David said. Dusk had fallen and we were feeding in relays. He began to brief me on the route to follow, and as I listened to his instructions, the lonely desolate miles of desert stretched out ahead. The embers of the fire were warm. The dark shapes of the surrounding walls gave a sense of security. I was loath to go, and yet I knew the security of those walls false, the embers probably the last fire for which they would have fuel.
He gave me dates and a bottle filled with water, sufficient to take me to the first well, and then began to saddle the camel. “You’ll be seeing Sue?”
I nodded.
“Give her my love; tell her I’ll be thinking of her and of a day we spent on the Gower. She’ll know what I mean.”
“She thinks you’re dead,” I reminded him.
“Well, tell her I’m not—not yet, anyway.” And he laughed and slung the heavy blanket over the wooden saddle.
Ten minutes and I’d have been away. Just ten minutes, that was all I needed. But then the sound of a rifle cut the stillness of the night and a man screamed and went on screaming—a thin, high-pitched sound that had in it all that anyone could ever know of pain. Bin Suleiman shouted a warning from the east-facing wall, and David let go the camel and raced to meet the attack. “Get out now,” he called to me over his shoulder. “Get out now before it’s too late!” He called something to Hamid, who was posted on the far side of the fort by the main entrance gate, and then the darkness had swallowed him. A stab of flame showed high up on the wall, and the echo of the shot cut through the man’s screams as though it had severed his vocal cords. A sudden silence followed, an unnatural stillness.
The camel, startled by the noise, had fled into the night. I found him close under the wall of the tower. Bewildered and obstinate, the wretched beast refused to move, and by the time I had coaxed him to the main gate it was too late. Firing had broken out all round us. A figure appeared at my side, gripped my arm, and shouted something in Arabic. It was Hamid, and he gestured towards the tower. Rocks thundered against the wooden timbers of the gate we had barricaded that afternoon. Hamid fired, working the bolt of his rifle furiously, the noise of his shots beating against my eardrums.
And then he was gone, running for the tower. I let the camel go and followed him, my gun clutched in my hands. Bin Suleiman was at the ladder ahead of me. David followed close behind as I flung myself through the hole and into the darkness beyond. As soon as we were all inside, we drew the ladder up. Bullets splattered the wall—the soft, dull thud of lead, the whine of ricochets. “Didn’t expect them to attack so soon,” David panted.
We heard the wood splinter as they broke down the gate. They were inside the walls then, vague shadows in the starlight, and we fired down on them from the embrasures. The shouts, the screams, the din of firing … it went on for about ten minutes, and then suddenly they were gone and the inside of the fort was empty save for half a dozen robed figures lying still or dragging themselves laboriously towards the shelter of the walls.
From the top of those walls our attackers kept up a steady fire. Bullets whistled in through the entrance hole so often that the slap of lead on the opposite wall became a commonplace. They caused us no inconvenience, for they struck one particular spot only, and the convex curve of the wall prevented them from ricocheting. We kept a watch at one of the embrasures, but did not bother to return their fire. “Let them waste their ammunition,” David said. “Our turn will come when the moon rises.”
Once they misinterpreted our silence and left their positions along the outer walls. We waited until they were in the open, and as they hesitated, considering how to reach the entrance hole, we caught them in a withering fire. Our eyes, accustomed to the darkness of the tower’s interior, picked them out with ease in the starlight. Very few got back to the safety of the walls or out through the gateway. And when the moon rose about an hour later we climbed the ladder to the very top of the tower, and from there we were able to pick them off as they lay exposed along the tops of the walls.
Below us Hadd lay white and clearly visible. There was great activity round all the wells. David fired one shot. That was all. The people scattered, activity ceased, and in an instant the whole town appeared deserted again.
We took it in turns to sleep then, but there was no further attack, and sunrise found us in command of the whole area of the fort. With no cover from which they could command our position, the Hadd forces had retired. We took the guns and ammunition from the dead and dragged the bodies outside the walls. Nobody fired on us. The hilltop was ours, and the sun beat down and the rock walls became too hot to touch. We buried Ali and retired to the shade of the tower. The camel that was to have carried me to Buraimi had disappeared. There was nothing for me to do but resign myself to the inevitable.
“How long do you think you can hold out here?” I asked.
“Until our water’s gone,” David answered. “Or until we run out of ammunition.”
“And Hadd?” I asked. “How desperate will they become?”
He shrugged. “There’s a well in the Emir’s palace, and they can always evacute the town and camp out in the date-gardens. There’s plenty of water there. It’s more a question of the Emir’s pride. He can’t afford to sit on his arse and do nothing.”
And each night we’d be a little wearier, the hours of vigilance more deadly. I closed my eyes. The heat was suffocating, the floor on which we lay as hard as iron. Sleep was impossible. The flies crawled over my face, and my eyeballs felt gritty against the closed lids. The hours dragged slowly by. We’d nothing to do but lie there and keep watch in turns.
Shortly after midday a cloud of dust moved in from the desert—men on camels riding towards Hadd from the south. It was Sheikh Abdullah’s main force. They halted well beyond the range of our rifles, and the smoke of their cooking-fires plumed up into the still air. There were more than a hundred of them, and at dusk they broke up into small groups and moved off to encircle our hill. They seemed well organized and under a central command.
It was that and the fact that they were mounted on camels that decided me. I went to where David was standing by one of the embrasures. “I’m going to try and get out tonight,” I told him. “Whilst it’s dark, I’ll get out on to the hillside and lie up and wait for a chance to take one of their camels.” And I added: “Why don’t you do the same? A quick sortie. It’s better than dying here like a rat in a trap.”
“No.” The word came sharp and hard and violent. His eyes burned in their shadowed sockets, staring at me angrily as though I’d tried to tempt him. “To be caught running away—that isn’t what I want. And they’d give me a cruel death. This way …” Again I was conscious of that sense of mission blazing in his eyes. “This way I’ll write a page of desert history that old men will tell their sons, and I’ll teach the people of Hadd a lesson they’ll never forget.” And then in a quieter, less dramatic voice: “Think you can make it on your own?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s dark and there’s bound to be a certain amount of chaos when they put in their attack.”
He nodded. “Okay, it’s worth trying. But they’re Bedou. They’ve eyes like cats, and they know the desert. And, remember, the moon rises in four hours’ time. If you’re not away by then …” He left it at that and stood for a moment, watching me, as I gathered together the few things I needed—a canvas bandolier of ammunition, my rifle, the water bottle, a twist of rag containing a few dates and some pieces of dried meat. My matches and my last
packet of cigarettes I left with him and also something I’d become very attached to—a little silver medallion of St. Christopher given me by a mission boy in Tanganyika after I’d saved his life. “You’re travelling a longer road than I am,” I said.
Ten minutes later I was saying goodbye to him by the splintered timbers of the main gate. When I told him I’d get help to him somehow, he laughed. It was a quiet, carefree, strangely assured sound. “Don’t worry about me. Think about yourself.” He gripped my hand. “Good luck, sir! And thank you. You’ve been a very big factor in my life—a man I could always trust.” For a moment I saw his eyes, pale in the starlight, and bright now with the nervous tension that comes before a battle. And then with a quick last pressure of the hand, a muttered “God be with you,” he pushed me gently out onto the camel track.
Behind me the timbers creaked as he closed the gate. I heard the two palm trunks with which we’d shored it up from the inside thud into position.
I started down the track then, and in an instant the walls had vanished, merged with the dark shapes of the surrounding rocks. Black night engulfed me, and I left the track, feeling my way down the slope, my feet stumbling amongst loose scree and broken rocks.
High overhead a thin film of cirrus cloud hid the stars. It was this that saved me, for I was lying out in the open not two hundred paces from them as they climbed to take up their positions on the north side of the fort. I kept my face down and my body glued tight to the rock against which I lay. My rifle, clutched ready in my hand, was covered by my cloak so that no gleam of metal showed, and the two grenades David had given me dug into my groin as I waited, tense and expectant, for the moment of discovery.
And then they were past and the scuff of their sandalled feet faded on the slope above me.
I lifted my head then, but all I could see was the dark hillside in my immediate vicinity. No sign of the men who had passed, no shadows moving on the edge of the darkness. I slid to my feet, found the track, and went quickly down the hill. And at the bottom I walked straight into a camel. I don’t know which of us was the more surprised. It had been left to graze, and it stood with a tuft of withered herb hanging from its rubbery lips, staring at me in astonishment.
The Doomed Oasis Page 28
