The sun was lowering, the desert surface turning watered gold. The dunes had grown steadily from barely perceptible bulges to giant, towering sandcliffs, so steep and formidable that the idea of driving across them seemed ludicrous. Caine reckoned some of them were three hundred feet high, but he had no idea how far they extended south – his map was inaccurate and lacking in detail. From a mile away the sandwall came into sharp focus – a continuous defensive rampart of interlocking crescents whose slipslopes of creamy amber sand rose at acute angles to knifeblade crests. Copeland’s mouth fell open.
‘There’s no way,’ he muttered. ‘Skipper, there’s no way up those things. We’ll never do it. We’re knackered.’
Caine craned his neck to study the dunewall, and his spirits sank. He knew that a sandslope couldn’t exceed an angle of about thirty-three degrees before it collapsed, but these slopes appeared to be tilted at the maximum angle – the sun’s position made it impossible to discern small differences in gradient. As the jeep hummed nearer, he raked the slipfaces desperately with binos and naked eye, searching for the smallest chink, the slightest hint of a way in. There wasn’t any.
A sudden boom of ordnance made them all jump. It was followed by the hoot of a shell slashing air. They ducked instinctively. The shell thumped earth, kicking up a fountain of sand and stones directly behind them.
‘Keep going,’ Wallace rapped urgently. ‘They ain’t in range yet.’
The dunes towered above them, phantasmagoric whalelike monsters high and dry on the world’s greatest beach. Caine’s eyes darted left and right, searching for a way out of the cul-de-sac he’d painted them into. He swore viciously, banging a fist on the dashboard. He couldn’t believe it. There was no way into the dunes, nor was there any way around them – the sandrange stretched for miles in both directions. They were trapped, with an enemy column behind them, headed by an armoured car. He racked his brains for a ploy, but the only choices that presented themselves were making a kamikaze fight of it, or surrender. He thumped the dashboard again, so hard that his knuckles bled. Whichever way he chose, it meant the end of Sandhog, the end of their chances of destroying Axis chemical weapons, of rescuing Lightfoot from oblivion. It might lead to the failure of Monty’s offensive, and through it … Caine didn’t even want to ponder the possible ramifications. One thing was certain: it would end his chances of seeing Betty Nolan once and for all.
Caine turned to Copeland, his throat dry and a clawing, nauseous feeling in his stomach. Heading for the dunes had been his idea from beginning to end – even Audley had objected to it. It had been arrogance pure and simple, and now he could kick himself for his stupidity in attempting such a ploy without knowing what he was heading into. ‘You’d better stop,’ he told Cope, his voice flat and lifeless. ‘We can’t go any further. That’s it.’
Copeland glanced at him, his eyes standing out like quartz crystals against a deathly face. He throttled down, changed gear, slowed and stopped. The wagons behind followed his lead. Caine stood up in his seat and turned to find out where the enemy was. The black caravan was nearer than before. Caine knew there would be no chance of fighting it out – not unless they simply wanted to make a suicidal last stand. There was no cover, and the Jerry Sdkfz 222 armoured car, with her twentymil gun, would blow all four SAS wagons into the sky before she even got into bazooka range. His machine-guns and mortars might take out the other Hun vehicles from a thousand paces, but they’d make no impression on the hardskin. And why should Jerry commit them at close range when he didn’t have to?
He saw the faces of his crew staring at him from the aeroscreens and hatches on the other wagons, puzzled but trusting, awaiting his orders. He felt sick to the stomach at the thought that he’d failed them. These were good men, for the most part exceptional men. And now they were all going into the bag, where they’d probably remain for the rest of the war. He, Caine, deserved it for his bad leadership, but the other lads didn’t. They’d had faith in him and he’d let them down.
He sat heavily. ‘You got that infrared nightsight?’ he asked Wallace, his voice hollow.
The giant’s eyes widened. ‘It’s here, in your kitbag, skipper,’ he said, puzzled, ‘but it ain’t much use to us now.’
‘Better destroy it,’ Caine growled. ‘And find something for a white flag.’
‘Hold on a sec, Tom,’ Copeland said. ‘You don’t mean you’re giving up.’
Caine shrugged. ‘Unless you know a way of driving up a thirty-three-degree wall of soft sand …’ He paused, as a last-ditch idea hit him. ‘We’ll climb the duneface on foot. We’ll lose all our kit and the wagons, but some of us might make it to the top.’
‘But skipper …’ Wallace stopped himself in mid-sentence. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing his shovelsized hand.
Later, Caine didn’t know whether the sun had that moment emerged from a cloud haze, or just dropped a fraction of a degree, but its beams had suddenly hit the skirts of the dunes at an oblique angle, passing like a magical hand over what had seemed a perfectly regular surface, revealing veins, gullies and channels that hadn’t been visible a second before. Caine saw with a frisson of excitement that, exactly where the crests of two high dunes intersected, a narrow cleft had opened up. It was only three yards wide – it would be tight going – but as long as the sand at the bottom held, he knew there was a good chance that all four wagons would get up.
‘See that cleft,’ he told Cope. Copeland swallowed hard and nodded. ‘I want you to go for it, full throttle. Top speed right to the summit. I guarantee you’ll make it.’
The jeep’s motor clattered. Cope rammed the gearstick into first, let in the clutch, eased the throttle up as far as it would go. Wallace waved the other wagons on, but Caine didn’t look behind. He just prayed that the drivers remembered all he’d told them about driving on sand. ‘Whatever happens, don’t decrease speed,’ he shouted at Cope. ‘Go at it as if you’re taking a hurdle.’
The bottom of the cleft was a hundred yards away. Copeland whamped the jeep into second then third, changing back down into first as she hit the bottom of the sandramp. ‘Hold on, Fred,’ Caine yelled, closing his eyes, knowing that this was the acid test. If the lower skirts of sand supported Doris, she would get all the way up: the other wagons would only need to follow in her tracks. The jeep lurched sickeningly. Caine felt her tyres slip, and for a second he was sure she was going to stick. Then her wheels found purchase: she tipped backwards, almost throwing Wallace out. She catapulted up the slope as if floating on a cushion of air, gliding like a sleigh on snow, so smoothly that only the flickering needle on the speedo told them she was moving at all. Seconds later they were on top, hundreds of feet above the surface. Instead of facing a steep downhill slope as Caine had expected, though, he was astonished to see that the sand ran on through low ripples for at least half a mile before merging into the sandglare beyond. ‘Keep going,’ he bawled.
There was another blast from the German armoured car behind them: this time they didn’t hear the whistle, only the crump as the shell burst harmlessly on the desert floor. ‘Missed,’ Wallace declared. ‘Still out of range.’
Looking back to see if the other wagons had made it, Caine saw Veronica vault over the dunecrest, bounce on her big balloon tyres, her canvas cover flapping madly. Even from where he sat, Caine could make out the glee on the faces of Gibson, Rossi and Pickney, as if they’d just come off a thrilling rollercoaster ride. Before she had even caught up with them, Glenda appeared behind her, wobbling slightly as she broke the crest. Caine clocked Trubman on the hatch looking nervous, and Netanya in the cab, his cadaverous features set in an expression of absolute concentration.
Seconds ticked and there was no sign of Dorothy. Caine told Copeland to slow down, an apprehensive look on his face. No sooner had Cope eased the throttle, though, than Audley’s jeep reeled into view, weaving from side to side so wildly that Caine thought for an instant that she was going over. He saw Larousse grimly hanging on to his gunmounti
ngs, Audley fighting the wheel as he swerved, ploughed through sand ripples and finally got her under control only a few yards from Doris. Audley blinked at Caine apologetically. ‘I don’t think the Boche are coming,’ he shouted. ‘Looked to me like they stopped.’
Caine wiped sweat off his brow with his scarf and shivered suddenly, realizing that the day had turned cool. ‘Talk about a close shave,’ he said.
19
Just after sunset, they happened on a dustbowl among the dunes with a hard salt floor. As the wagons roared down into it, a small flock of gazelle stampeded in the opposite direction, white tails bobbing in the halflight. Audley let out a whoop and charged after them, trying to run them down, cheered on by lads on the other vehicles – all but Wallace, who cursed savagely and, before Caine could stop him, grabbed his Bren, put a .303-tracer round across Audley’s bows, narrowly missing the petrol jerrycans strapped flat on the bonnet. The bullet took the wind out of Audley’s sails: he gave up the chase, but drove over to Doris looking murderous.
Caine and Wallace were already donning their battledress trousers and coats against the rapidly cooling air when Audley jaunted up to them, scowling. ‘I want that man put on a charge for attempted murder,’ he announced, pointing a bony finger at Wallace. ‘He took a potshot at me.’
Wallace, wrestling a cap comforter over his tangle of bristling black hair, gave an explosive guffaw. ‘Don’t talk daft, man. I’m a champion marksman with a Bren. If I’d wanted to bump you off, I wouldn’t have missed.’
‘Kindly address me as sir. What the hell do you think you’re doing, opening fire on an officer?’
‘I told you – sir – I wasn’t shootin’ at you. I was trying to stop you killin’ those gazelles – beautiful animals. No need to run ’em down.’
‘Hear that?’ Audley said, glaring at Caine. ‘He’ll have to answer for attempted murder, and insubordination.’
Wallace stuck his roughstubbled mandrill face into Audley’s, his eyes glinting darkly like tarnished coins. ‘Yeah,’ he boomed, ‘and Ashdown, Penfold and Lennox? Who’s answerin’ for them?’
‘Those men were killed in action, you great booby.’
‘Yeah, they was. An action where the chap as was ordered to give coverin’ fire deserted his bleedin’ post. If it hadn’t been for Larousse, we’d all have been snuffed.’
Audley sucked his teeth, turned his indignant gaze on Caine. ‘Are you going to stand by and listen to this gorilla abuse an officer?’ he demanded.
‘He’s right, Fred,’ Caine said slowly. ‘You’re out of line.’
‘Out of line?’ Wallace repeated. ‘Funny, I didn’t notice Gary Cooper here in the dingdong today. Of course, he don’t approve of dingdongs, do he? Or maybe he was just savin’ his energy for knocking down poor little creatures as can’t fight back.’
‘How dare you?’ Audley blazed at him. ‘My jeep got stuck in a rut …’
‘Didn’t stop Larousse joinin’ in, did it?’
‘Shut it, Fred,’ Caine broke in. ‘You’re over the top …’
‘Damned right he is,’ Audley hissed. ‘He took a shot at me, and I promise you, I’m having him up before the CO the moment we get back.’
‘Fred,’ Caine said, sticking his arms into his duffel coat, ‘I want you to go to Veronica and take charge of the prisoner. Get the cuff key from Larousse. Jerry’ll need some attention from Pickney. No rough stuff, eh?’
Wallace grunted and shuffled off, leaving Audley and Caine confronting each other. Caine finished buttoning up his duffel coat, pulled down his cap comforter and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He offered one to Audley, who shook his head impatiently. Caine lit his cigarette with his Zippo and replaced the lighter in its protective condom. He blew a cone of smoke that hung in the still air. ‘Wallace shouldn’t have said that, Bertie,’ he said, ‘but we’ve fought two hard actions today and only outran the Hun by the skin of our teeth. We’re all dead beat and on edge, and in this state bad things sometimes get said. I wouldn’t take it seriously.’
‘Take it seriously?’ Audley spat, his eyes burning. ‘He impugned my honour.’
‘Yeah, he did, but you’ll survive. And there’s no question of him trying to kill you. Like he said, if he wanted to put a round through your brainbox, he wouldn’t have missed. He’s just got a thing about animals – doesn’t like to see them ill treated. This isn’t the Guards, Bertie. You can’t expect Tommies in a crack unit like the SAS to be in awe of you just because you’ve got two pips on your shoulder, stand to inherit a fortune and talk la-di-da. You’ve got to earn their respect. In any case, it’s not a good idea to threaten men with official charges – not when you’ve got to go into combat with them on a daily basis. You know what I mean?’
Audley looked flabbergasted. ‘Are you trying to –’ He was cut short by a single crisp gunshot that slammed out from the other end of the depression.
‘What the blazes was that?’ Caine snapped. He seized his Tommy-gun from Doris and cocked it with a snap. With Audley following, cradling his Garand, and Gibson, Rossi and Dumper in close pursuit, Caine moved cautiously out of the leaguer. The remaining men took up defensive positions. A slice of moon had come out, a curved daggerblade, and the depression, with its steep sand walls, was washed in silver. In the moonlight, Caine saw a dark figure labouring towards him, a tall, emu-legged shadow with a loping stride. It was Harry Copeland. He had his SMLE sniper’s rifle and a haversack slung over one shoulder and was bent forward, lugging something heavy on his back.
When Cope saw the others coming, he stopped and threw down his burden. Caine saw that it was the carcase of a fullygrown gazelle, brown and tan in the moonlight, its sprawling legs elegant even in death. ‘One shot, five hundred yards,’ Copeland announced proudly. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered, but I thought the boys deserved a treat.’
The five SAS men gawped at him in amazement. ‘Boy, that was hot shootin’,’ the cowboy gasped. ‘How the heck did you spot it?’
Cope shrugged. ‘I had this …’ He swung the haversack off his shoulder and held it out to Caine. ‘The RG sight. I thought you wouldn’t mind me borrowing it, skipper, and we’ve never tested it. I can tell you now, it works a treat.’
Before Caine could take the sight, Dumper snatched it out of Copeland’s hand. ‘Careful with that thing, Sarn’t Copeland,’ he crowed. ‘More than my life’s worth if you wrecked it.’
Caine chuckled ruefully, remembering how near they’d come to destroying it earlier on.
When Cope dumped the gazelle carcase in front of Wallace in the leaguer a few minutes later, the big gunner blinked darkcushioned eyes at it and spat. ‘What the hell did you go and do that for?’ he demanded.
‘Boys needed fresh meat.’
‘I’m not cookin’ it,’ Wallace declared, turning his back. ‘I’m not touchin’ the poor thing.’
‘All right then, I’ll cook it myself.’
Wallace wheeled round on him, incensed. ‘I should of let them thugs bash your head in back in Cairo,’ he rumbled. ‘And I should of …’
‘Fred,’ Caine cut in, ‘where’s the Kraut?’
‘Over by Glenda, with the quack. Maurice said he’d need a few stitches. Larousse is there gettin’ his own wound looked at, keepin’ an eye on him.’
Caine raised an eyebrow: the Canuck hadn’t even reported a wound. ‘Larousse got it bad, did he?’
‘Nah. Bayonet slash in the calf. Nothin’ serious. You want to talk to Jerry now, skipper?’
Caine sighed and looked around. Pickney had set up a makeshift dressing station at the tailboard of Glenda, about forty yards away: Caine could see him working on the German prisoner, who was seated on a petrol box, with the sacklike shape of Larousse looming over him. ‘Let’s leave it a while,’ he said. ‘I need a brew.’
A brewcan was already rattling on the Benghazi cookbox Wallace had set up – an ingeniously improvised device made of a petrol flimsy with the top sliced off filled with petrolsoaked sand. Caine sat
down on the ground with Audley, Copeland, Dumper, Gibson and Rossi. Trubman was working on the wireless, leaning on the signals board that folded down from Veronica’s body, trying to get comms with HQ. Netanya had taken first stag as prowlerguard. Caine was pleased to note that the drivers had formed the wagons into a rough defensive square, each vehicle covering one arc, throwing down their bedrolls and kit in the middle.
Gibson handed round Camel cigarettes and listened to the customary jibes about camel dung with a good-humoured smirk. ‘Mebbe you prefer those “V” cigs you Brits get issued with,’ he chortled. ‘A maggot in every pack.’
Wallace served tea in enamel mugs to everyone except Copeland.
‘Hey, where’s mine?’ Cope demanded.
‘You, you murderer,’ Wallace snarled, ‘you can drink it out of your arse. I’m done with you.’
The others laughed as Copeland got up, suppressed rage on his face. ‘You’re done with me, you great baboon,’ he scoffed, pouring tea into a mug. ‘You nearly did for me in that melee today, chum. You waited a whole minute before you snookered that big bastard trying to pigstick me in the eye with a bayonet. What were you waiting for, Christmas?’
‘Don’t talk soft,’ Wallace snorted. ‘It weren’t more than fifty seconds.’
Cope ignored him, waving his full mug, slopping hot tea. ‘I know the skipper’s weapon jammed, but there’s no excuse for you. Trying to put the wind up me, weren’t you? Thought it was a funny joke? Well, your funny joke nearly got me whacked, so don’t talk about being done with me, mate, because as far as I’m concerned you’ve had it.’
‘Yeah, I did mess up,’ Wallace shouted at him. ‘I should of let the bastard top you. Then we’d all be better off.’
Copeland blinked and stared at Caine. ‘You know, skipper,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘there’s a handbag factory in Cairo where they buy gazelle skins. I was talkin’ to one LRDG chap who’d collected so many he touched for a hundred and fifty quid. I was thinking of collecting a few myself.’
Death or Glory II: The Flaming Sword: The Flaming Sword Page 13
