The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Soutter seemed to hear the words he had read at the last Divisions before leaving Mudros, as if someone else were speaking them aloud on the bridge.

  And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away . . .

  Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Waring glanced around the command dugout, the cave now hated by everyone who visited it. In the flickering light from the small lamp his eyes shone like stones as he watched his companions. They looked as if they would drop once they found somewhere to sit or lie down. Their eyes were staring, and flickered with alarm at each unusual sound, the far-off crack of a sniper’s rifle or the thud of a grenade on the northern sector of the cove where Australians and New Zealanders were still holding out.

  Jonathan Blackwood sipped a cup of brackish water but barely tasted it. The attacks had continued for most of the day, as soon as the big warships had retired out of range of the Turkish guns. The Turks had come across the dusty landscape in yelling waves, to be met by the company’s murderous machine-gun fire and the endless bark of rifles. Each time the enemy had retired, leaving piles of dead and wounded, and each time the marines, gasping from thirst and exhaustion, had prayed it was the last.

  Then, just before dusk had drawn its copper glow over the ravines and gullies, they had attacked once more. At the critical moment one of the machine-guns on the left flank had jammed, and even as a corporal had rushed to clear the stoppage a grenade had exploded in the trench. The place had been too confined to allow the crude bomb its full effect, but the explosion had killed Second Lieutenant Dane of the second platoon and five other marines, who had been ripped apart in the blast. Jonathan had recalled the Australian captain’s warning and had yelled, ‘On the parapet, lads! Fight them off!’

  And in the light of an early flare and the dull copper sky, the marines had scrambled up from the firestep and onto the parapet, firing blindly through the smoke, until with their magazines empty they had faced the enemy for the first time, bayonet to bayonet. Anger mixed with fear was a terrible combination, and when the Turks had broken under the ferocity of the defenders’ steel, some of the marines would have chased after them, their minds unhinged by the pain and savagery of battle.

  All told they had lost twenty men and two officers including the luckless Cripwell. The remainder were barely able to stand and stared at the lip of the trench; they no longer wondered how they would die, only when.

  Waring said crisply, ‘A bad day, but it might have been worse. I have had a message from the beach. More boats will be attempting to land supplies and ammunition tonight. With luck some of the wounded can be taken off too.’ He looked at their dulled expressions. Captain Seddon of Reliant’s marines had his wrist in a sling, after seizing a Turkish bayonet to ward it off while he waved an empty, useless revolver. Livesay’s head was in his hands, his fingers dark with dried blood, his breathing heavy and painful.

  Young Tarrier was peering at a map, but stopped when Waring said, ‘We are getting support in twenty-four hours, from the new Royal Marines division at Mudros. The Australians will also send fresh troops once they have regrouped.’

  They all looked as Tarrier asked hoarsely, ‘But how can we hold on, sir?’

  Waring eyed him with cold dislike. ‘We must defend our sector of the beach until we are relieved. Hold the line. There is no alternative course open. We have the sea at our backs, and few would survive retreat once the enemy retook this defence line.’

  Livesay said wearily, ‘It can’t be done.’

  Waring snapped, ‘And what do you think, Captain Blackwood?’

  Jonathan glanced at the lamp’s flickering, smoking wick. What a story this cave could tell. One day.

  ‘The fleet can’t drive the Turks off that ridge without causing heavy casualties amongst our men. No naval gun is that accurate. We need a proper system of spotters ashore.’ He tried to clear his brain. What was he saying? It no longer mattered. At daylight the enemy would attack again, knowing that the defenders could not survive another day. The lucky ones would die instantly. The others, like the man he could hear sobbing and pleading outside in the trench, would linger, alive and aware. He had lost a hand and a foot when the grenade had exploded. Better he had died: his pitiful cries for help were having a damaging effect on his listless companions.

  Waring touched his moustache. ‘Suppose we commanded that ridge?’

  Jonathan said, ‘Is that what they expect, sir?’

  Waring shrugged. ‘Something of that sort. If we took it we could prevent frontal attacks and allow the squadron to concentrate their fire on the enemy support lines.’ One hand tapped impatiently on the stained map.

  Jonathan said slowly, ‘Eight hundred yards across open ground, and then up to the top.’ The others were watching his lips as if they had all gone suddenly deaf. ‘The Turks haven’t attacked us at night.’ His mind was grappling with the immediate problem. He had witnessed it in France: the night raids, unlike any field training or staff college, unlike anything orderly or civilised. Grim-faced Tommies arming themselves with sharpened entrenching tools, knives and nail-studded clubs. They had become part of the mud and dirt that were a soldier’s lot. Methodically, ruthlessly, and without hope, they had gone out under the flares and through the wires to extend their positions, to kill or to die.

  ‘If there was a diversion . . .’

  Waring’s eyes glittered from either cheek. ‘The boats coming into the cove – they’ll provide a tempting bait.’

  Major Livesay seemed to emerge from his despair like an angry bear. ‘Bait, sir? Sacrifice our own people?’

  Jonathan rubbed his own reddened eyes. ‘It’s our only chance. Choice does not come into it.’ He did not look at Waring: he knew the triumph he would see there. Even in the face of death Waring would not alter.

  Waring said, ‘That’s settled then. Pity we’ve no light machine-guns, but once our people are in position a party can carry one of the others up to the ridge. That’ll dampen their fires a bit if their flank is under our guns for a change!’

  Major Livesay said dully, ‘I shall go, sir. I’ll take only volunteers.’

  Waring was already studying the map. ‘You will detail the right men, Livesay. Volunteers are not always the best material.’ He glanced up and gave the major a twisted smile. ‘Besides, if you rely on volunteers, you’ll likely be tackling the ridge on your own!’

  He gave his humourless braying laugh, which brought an instant response of shrill curses from the dying man outside.

  ‘Keep him quiet, somebody.’ Waring looked at Tarrier. ‘I want a runner sent to the beach with a message to be transmitted to the ships. Pick a good man. I don’t want him down there in the gully with all the other corpses!’

  Jonathan found that he could watch the colonel without anger, and it surprised him. The navy had been requested to perform this thing, and Waring, the callous, arrogant bastard that he was, would carry it out, no matter what.

  Waring added as an afterthought, ‘As second-in-command I think . . .’ His glance fell on Captain Seddon who was rocking quietly back and forth and holding his bayoneted hand. ‘On second thought.’ He smiled at Jonathan. ‘You go. As a gunner you might be of some use up there, what?’

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘Who else, sir?’

  Waring frowned at his abruptness. ‘Lieutenants Maxted and Wyke. Pick the N.C.O.’s yourself.’

  Livesay lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll deal with that.’ He hesitated by the blanket curtain and said, ‘What time shall we move out, sir?’ His face was stiff. A man already dead, Jonathan thought. He was married, with two boys who would doubtless end up in the Corps. But at this moment his family would still believe him to be safely in Egypt with nothing more dangerous than the mosquitoes to deal with.

  ‘Report to me when you’re ready.’

  Waring watched him leave and remarked, ‘I suppose that’s why he was given a company of green recruits!’ Waring’s M
.O.A. entered and after searching through a heavy pack produced a full bottle of White Horse. ‘Drink, Blackwood?’

  Jonathan would have given almost anything for a glass of Scotch. He seemed to hear Harry Payne’s voice in his ear. You don’t need it, sir. Not like some. He heard himself reply, ‘Later, sir. When it’s done.’

  He walked out into the darkness and watched another flare light up the gullies where the sunset had disappeared.

  He heard voices calling faintly from the long slope of no man’s land which separated their shallow defences from the nearest ridge; men dying even while he stood there. As some of his own had done. Thankfully they had managed to recover their bodies from in front of the trench. God alone knew when – or if – they could ever be buried. If you showed your head for more than a few seconds you were dead.

  He found the two detailed lieutenants crouching on the firestep, Maxted who commanded the second platoon quietly smoking a cigarette, the glowing tip cupped in his fist. He was probably thinking about his second-in-command, who had been ripped apart by the grenade just hours ago. But for his body blocking the way, Maxted would have been the casualty. He seemed a good, serious-minded lieutenant; and Wyke, whose own second-in-command had been killed on this same firestep, was his usual laconic self.

  ‘Any chance of some leave after this, sir?’

  Maxted gave a soft laugh. ‘Where to, for God’s sake? Mudros-on-Sea?’

  Wyke did not hear him. ‘Just to saunter along Piccadilly again . . . order a bottle of champagne at Hatchett’s and dance the night away with some fabulous girl!’

  Maxted stubbed out his cigarette and said, ‘On your pay?’ He laughed again, a sad sound in this place, and added, ‘Sorry, Chris. I forgot your father is a major-general.’

  Jonathan climbed up and stared across the dark emptiness. In daylight and the sun’s pitiless glare it was different, a panorama of war, its cruel nakedness always there to stop a man’s heart. But now in the cooler air there was only the smell of it. Smoke, lyddite, and the dead. He heard the two lieutenants talking quietly below him, with the resilience of youth that made them feel invulnerable. They had already accepted that men they had known, closely or at a distance as demanded by the Corps, were gone. Even if a corpse lay beneath an old blanket or strip of canvas, it was not the man.

  He heard Major Livesay’s boots in the trench and knew he was coming to gather his raiding party together. There were too many officers going but without them, if the worst happened, the force would be headless, its determination gone before anything was achieved.

  Payne climbed up beside him. ‘Got this off one of them Turks, sir.’ Even in the darkness, the long trench-knife seemed to shine.

  Jonathan gripped his arm. ‘You’ve not been out there alone, man?’

  Payne wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Safe as houses, sir.’

  If Waring ever discovered what he had done Payne would face a court-martial or worse.

  Jonathan sighed. ‘All gone, have they?’

  ‘Think so. I saw that flare, though. I reckon they know about the boats coming to the beach.’ He added heavily, ‘Like they did about us!’

  Jonathan eased the knife down into his boot. Payne knew everything.

  Major Livesay asked uncertainly, ‘Ready?’

  Jonathan joined him with the others. ‘The sooner the better, sir.’

  They were momentarily alone, the other dark figures somehow apart.

  Livesay said, ‘If anything happens, old chap . . .’

  ‘Yes. Do the same for me, sir.’ It would not help the major to know that Jonathan had nobody else, whereas Livesay had everything to lose.

  Sergeant McCann came up. ‘With respect, sir, if we gets cut off, there’s barely enough of our lads to hold the line.’

  Livesay nodded vigorously, hardly hearing what he said. ‘We know that, Sergeant.’

  McCann seemed satisfied. ‘We’ll show them bastards, sir!’

  They stood in line along the firestep, their hair ruffling in the breeze, their helmets discarded, no matter what the colonel might say about it. Then up and over the parapet, the horizon that now reached out into unending blackness.

  Nothing stirred, and even the wounded had fallen silent. It was as if the whole of the peninsula was holding its breath for them.

  Livesay had drawn his revolver, but the lieutenants had armed themselves with rifles and bayonets and were spaced out along the untidy line of men.

  Livesay bit his lip until the pain steadied him and said, ‘Forward, marines – good luck, lads!’

  Jonathan felt the safety catch with his thumb. Livesay’s encouragement was puny compared with what was expected from them. But its very simplicity was perhaps all the more inspiring.

  Major Andrew Livesay held up his hand and the long extended line of men came to a shuffling halt on either side of him. He could hear some of the marines gasping for breath as if they had advanced with full kit and at the double. Fear. He tried to calm his own breathing, and when he lowered his arm he could feel the sweat beneath his thick tunic like ice rime. Despite their slow and stealthy approach their footfalls and the sound of an occasional stumble in the darkness had seemed deafening. But no flares had burst overhead and the machine-guns had remained silent, and all the more menacing.

  One of the scouts was returning, his rifle and bayonet at the high port as if he were taking part in an exercise. It was Corporal Timbrell.

  ‘Nothin’, sir.’ He sniffed the damp air. ‘Corpses by the cartload, theirs or Aussies I didn’t wait to find out.’ He waited in silence, watching his officer without curiosity. He had done his part, and had left another marine up ahead as a picket in case they were approaching an ambush.

  ‘I see, Corporal.’ Livesay rubbed his chin. ‘I see.’ He saw Jonathan coming out of the darkness. ‘Ah – what do you think we’ve covered?’

  Jonathan sensed the major’s uncertainty. ‘About halfway. Four hundred yards at a guess.’ He stared ahead but the slab-sided ridge looked no nearer. He had heard what Timbrell had said: just as well it was so dark. The stench of corpses, burned scrub and a few shell-blasted trees had been with them all the way. He turned to look at the trench, the scattered rocks beyond, but there was nothing. It was as if they had fallen from the sky into some unknown landscape.

  Surely the enemy must know they were in this fought-over desert?

  Livesay said, ‘Better get on. Tell the others.’ He saw Jonathan stride away, unhurriedly or so it appeared, and wondered at his calmness. Livesay was in his forties, old for his rank, and for several years had held settled administrative posts, the last being at the training barracks. After sending off the recruits to their various ships and battalions, he might have stayed in Port Said or even Cairo. Enjoying a mess life of sorts again, showing the flag. He felt himself shiver. But not this. He was not trained for brutal murder. He cursed Waring and his stubborn dedication, even Blackwood for defending the colonel’s stupid plan. They would never get back, and if they were taken prisoner . . .

  Corporal Timbrell said, ‘They’re ready to move, sir.’

  ‘I know that, damn it!’

  Timbrell’s eyes widened in the darkness. In the Corps, you obeyed, and you did it better than any line-soldier. But Timbrell had never considered that an officer could be afraid. The realisation swept over him like a tide-race. God, you could smell it!

  Timbrell peered round for the burly Sergeant McCann. Did he know? He swung away and hurried toward the brooding ridge again, his bayonet hovering occasionally toward some sprawled body. Things darted away from his boots and Timbrell grimaced. Rats. Dozens of them.

  On the right flank of their wavering line, Jonathan stepped carefully over a piece of splintered wood. Part of a cart, an ammunition limber, another relic of war. Would it ever be clean again here? He sensed Harry Payne beside him as he had seen him many times, eyes everywhere, lips always pursed in a soundless whistle. He thought suddenly, vividly of Hawks Hill in the perfumed green o
f spring, so different from this baking hell, so different from the other days. Wounded and shell-shocked officers sitting in the early sunshine, or merely staring into space like those he had seen at Porortsmouth. Men who had lost their pasts in the trenches and had no future to recognise.

  He tensed. A sound, a smell – what was it?

  Out of the stony ground itself a figure sprang into the air, as if one of the corpses had come to life. He heard Payne gasp as the figure jumped onto his shoulders and pulled him down. Too stunned to move, the nearest marines stared with disbelief, and one shouted, ‘He’s got a knife!’

  Jonathan ran to help but sprawled headlong when his boot caught in some tangled wire. His rifle clattered across the dry stones, but he managed to reach out and seize the soldier’s belt. With a sob he dragged the Turkish trench-knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s ribs with such force that he could feel the pain lance up his arm as the blade glanced off bone, then went in to the hilt.

  Two other marines dragged the Turk from Payne’s back and Sergeant McCann thrust down with his bayonet to end the last choking cries.

  ‘All right, Payne?’ Jonathan helped him to his feet, and for a moment longer they clung together like drunken squaddies emerging from a wet canteen. Payne could barely get his breath. Then he groped in the darkness and recovered his rifle, and said hoarsely, ‘Told you that knife would come in handy, didn’t I?’

  Livesay was there now, peering round, bent almost double as if he expected a fusillade of shots.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Jonathan looked down at the man he had just killed. Only a thing. He said, ‘I think he was a sentry. Either that or he was stalking Corporal Timbrell and didn’t realise this lot were behind him.’ He heard Livesay’s rasping breath and tried to help. ‘Just as well you ordered a halt back there.’ He was surprised he could speak so easily about it. The madness.