Death or Glory II: The Flaming Sword: The Flaming Sword

by Michael Asher

  The hiatus was broken by Audley, sidling up to inspect the dummy. He tried to work his filmstar features on Glenn, who acknowledged the smart Guardee salute with only a nod. ‘I say,’ Audley commented, ‘you had us going for a minute there, sir. Thought we were under fire, what?’

  Glenn sized Audley up as if he were something dredged out of a sewer. He didn’t deign to reply.

  ‘I don’t suppose this Major Maskelyne could magic up a new camshaft, could he?’ Caine asked.

  Glenn took a long look at him, and Caine thought he saw a momentary slyness in his eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ he said pensively. ‘We can’t give you a spare, but we might be able to repair the one you’ve got. Let’s go to HQ echelon. I’ll have to have a word with the boss.’

  The HQ leaguer lay in a depression only half a mile further on, through the ranks of dummy Crusaders. As the SAS convoy wheeled in, Caine saw a command marquee, a fuel dump, water bowsers, a dogsleg of troop tents, a mess awning attached to a cookhouse wagon where a trio of greasy cooks was peeling spuds. Nearby were the blackened remnants of an open fire – perhaps the origin of the smoke he’d spotted that morning. There was an M/T park of vehicular oddments: a Mammoth gunlimber, a tractor, a bulldozer, a small crane, a brace of motorbikes, a clutch of down-at-heel pickups. Further on were a couple of mobile workshops under canvas tops – a carpenters’ shop, where squaddies hammered and sawed on benches, and a mechanics’ shop, where Caine spotted the blue glimmer of a welding torch. Nearby was a troop of hardtop lorries bristling with signals antennae, dipole Windam aerials strung up between them like washing lines.

  Glenn had them halt outside the command marquee, told Caine to wait, and vanished through the flap. Caine slipped out of the jeep, lit a cigarette and gazed round at the camp, taking in the relaxed atmosphere. A few Tommies in shorts, fingers wrapped against desert sores, trawled about carrying clipboards and tools, snuffling and spitting in the heat but taking no notice of the newcomers. Many carried holstered pistols, a few had Lee-Enfields, but some weren’t armed at all. There were no sentries, no air defences, no ackack guns – the tents weren’t even sandbagged – and no sign of heavy weapons apart from the dummy tanks, AFVs and field artillery scattered across the desert like giant chessmen. Security here was lax and, it seemed, entirely in the hands of Glenn’s ersatz tank crews.

  A moment later, Glenn called Caine and Audley into the tent, with the stiff admonition that his men were not to wander about. Caine told Copeland to keep his eyes open and pushed through the flap with Audley behind him. Inside, amid a clutter of tables, camp-chairs, books, maps and artist’s pads, stood a slouch-shouldered stringbean of a man whose skin seemed stretched taut over a balding, narrow skull. He had a sharp silver non-regulation goatee, a pointed nose and watchful dark eyes under eyebrows like tangles of fusewire. He wore a green civilian shirt with major’s crowns stitched on the shoulders and loosefitting trousers of what looked like purple velvet. He carried no weapon, wore no headgear. He was probably the oddest officer Caine had ever seen, and he’d seen some beauties.

  ‘This is Major Jasper Maskelyne,’ Glenn announced dryly. ‘Our CO.’

  The man bowed. ‘At your service,’ he said, in a voice that was soft yet incisive. He answered Caine’s salute with a limp motion of the right hand, opening long, slender fingers to reveal a gold coin. ‘Have a sovereign,’ he said, holding it out. Caine hesitated. ‘Too late,’ Maskelyne said. He closed his hand, made a pass and opened it almost at once: the coin was gone. He opened his left hand and Caine clocked the sovereign lying there. Maskelyne shut both hands and presented them as fists. ‘Which one is it in?’ he demanded, his eyes slitted, comically snakelike. He opened both hands and the sovereign was in neither. ‘Or perhaps,’ Maskelyne said, reaching out snakelike fingers to tickle Caine’s ear, ‘it’s here.’ The major withdrew his open hand and Caine saw the coin revealed.

  Maskelyne held it out, his skullhead nodding springlike, as if expecting applause. Caine grinned, Audley clapped uncomfortably. Maskelyne bowed again. ‘Currently appearing in the Western Desert,’ he intoned, ‘by courtesy of His Britannic Majesty’s Corps of Royal Engineers.’

  He pointed to camp-chairs and the two subalterns sat down: Caine noticed that Glenn had disappeared. ‘Illusion,’ Maskelyne declared, sticking a fat, unlit cigar into his mouth and taking it out again, ‘is one of the cardinal principles of war. Now the coin is here, now there, now it has vanished entirely. Convince the enemy you are in one place, appear somewhere completely different for a moment, then fade away. A transport column moves south in the dead of night: next morning a whole armoured division has sprouted out of the desert. A few days later, it has vanished without trace. The whole future of Monty’s campaign depends on convincing the Axis we are going to strike in one direction when in fact we are going to strike in another. Can you imagine how difficult that is to achieve in the desert, where no concealment is possible?’ He waved the cigar, his springloaded head nodding. Caine watched the cigar with fascination, half convinced he was going to magic it away. ‘I tell you, lads, what we are pulling off here is no less than the greatest conjuring trick in history.’

  He stuck the cigar back in his mouth with a sort of finality, struck a Swan Vesta, inhaled smoke, blew it out. ‘Now,’ he said, removing the cigar from his mouth, ‘I understand you need help with a broken camshaft?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Caine said. ‘I –’

  Maskelyne spread his tentacular fingers, cutting him off. ‘We can help,’ he said, his black eyes fixed on Caine, ‘but it will take time. We don’t have a welder here, you see, and it will take a couple of hours to get one over. I think you must resign yourselves to bivvying here for the night.’

  Caine was about to say that he’d seen a welding torch outside but swallowed his words raw. He didn’t quite like Maskelyne, or the way this was panning out.

  ‘So … Lieutenant … is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Lieutenant Caine.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Lieutenant Caine? Apart from breaking camshafts, that is?’

  Caine met his eyes. ‘That’s classified, sir. Special service mission.’

  Maskelyne puffed cigar smoke, his skeletal head bobbing gravely on its spring. ‘I see, I see. Behind enemy lines, no doubt?’

  Caine said nothing. Maskelyne’s beetle eyes lingered on the dirty field dressing wrapped round his arm. ‘You’ve already had a contact with the enemy?’ he asked. Caine and Audley exchanged a glance. ‘Ran into a Kraut patrol,’ Audley said before Caine could stop him. ‘Shot down a CR42, too.’

  Maskelyne swatted cigar smoke with his delicate hand. ‘Ah, I see, I see. Nasty. And how did you locate our little circus here?’

  ‘Wireless chatter,’ Caine said.

  The major smiled, thinlipped. ‘Ah,’ he said again. ‘That’s the real secret of the illusion. Signallers working round the clock, transmitting bogus messages at every level – tank commanders to troop, troop to squadron, squadron to regiment, regiment to division, division to base. The enemy’s “Y” Service monitors the lot – Axis command has a whole armoured div. pictured in its imagination before they’ve spotted a single tank. The plywood and chickenwire vehicles are the props that complete the act – the true deception is what goes out over the airwaves. That’s the key, you see, lads – shuftikites confirm what Axis command already knows is there. Only of course, it isn’t: like everything else, it is a mirage – it exists only in the mind.’

  ‘Like everything else?’ Caine repeated, mystified. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You don’t suppose that your mission, whatever it is, is real, do you? Of course it isn’t. All missions are part of the great shadow-play – a dream, a vision, a hall of mirrors reflecting each other to infinity. The war that you believe is being fought out on the plains of the Sahara is actually being fought out inside your own head.’

  Caine nodded, confused. For all he’d understood, the major might as well have been talking Mandarin. He was read
y to acknowledge the genius of this decoy plan: what concerned him was his own position. He opened his mouth to speak, but once again Maskelyne cut in over him.

  ‘Did you know,’ he demanded, ‘that I moved the harbour at Alex?’ He nodded, cackling. ‘Yes, I did. Pure illusion. Left the real harbour in darkness, gave the impression it was somewhere else by the clever use of light and sound. Enemy bombed empty desert and a few gas lamps and were convinced they’d destroyed it. I’d like to have seen Rommel’s mush when he realized it was still there.’ He chortled again. ‘Ah, sometimes my cleverness astonishes me.’

  He shot a probing glance at Caine then grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label whisky and slammed it down on the nearest table. ‘Have a drink with me,’ he said, spearing some tin mugs with his slim fingers. ‘Let’s celebrate.’

  Audley was about to nod when Caine shook his head. ‘No thank you, sir.’ He stood up suddenly. ‘I think we’ll need to be pushing off.’

  Maskelyne paused in the act of unscrewing the bottle. He put it down carefully, pulled the cigar from his mouth, turned to face Caine. His features looked different – no smiles, no cackles – the magician’s mask was gone. ‘What about your damaged lorry?’ he demanded icily. ‘Wasn’t that what you came for?’

  Caine held the major’s insect stare. ‘We’ll have to leave her with you. No time to wait.’ He nodded at Audley. ‘Come on. We have to go.’

  Audley didn’t move: there was a second’s cold silence.

  ‘I don’t think so, Lieutenant Caine,’ Maskelyne said slowly. ‘Oh no, I don’t think that’s going to be possible at all. Now you’ve seen through my little trick – seen backstage, so to speak – there’s no question of your continuing with your mission. What if you were captured, and revealed it to the enemy?’

  His eyes were snakelike slits again, but there was nothing remotely comical about his expression now. ‘You may already have compromised us merely by coming here. You’ve fought an engagement: what if a Hun ground patrol followed your tracks? The game would be up, you see.’

  He shook his numbskull head, dropped the rest of the cigar, stamped it out in the sand underfoot. Caine dekkoed Audley: he was still sitting, staring at Maskelyne as if rooted to his chair. He hadn’t jumped at Caine’s order, and Caine doubted he could trust him when it came to the crunch.

  ‘Look, sir,’ he said, making an effort to keep his voice reasonable. ‘We’re a special service unit on a secret operation vital to the Eighth Army’s advance. Our mission comes directly from General Montgomery, and he won’t thank you for preventing us carrying it out, I can tell you that.’

  The magician sucked his teeth and waggled his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said dismissively. ‘What we’re doing takes priority. We’ve already notified GHQ about you. A squad of Military Police is on its way by plane to take you into custody, even as we speak.’

  It was the mention of Military Police and the word ‘custody’ that pressed Caine’s button. Moving like wildfire, he whipped out his Browning, seized the major’s spidery arm and twisted it viciously up behind his back. Maskelyne yelled and struggled. Caine felt wiry cable muscles tensing under his grip and realized that the major was stronger than he looked. He flexed his own iron biceps, reinforcing his grip until it was vicelike, and stuck the muzzle of the automatic hard into the cleft beneath the magician’s ear. ‘You aren’t going to make this disappear, Major,’ he growled. ‘This is a genuine Browning .45-calibre automatic. It is not an illusion, I can assure you of that.’

  Maskelyne stopped fighting, but his thin lips curled into a sneer. ‘You’ll be court-martialled for this, Caine.’

  Caine jagged the pistol’s muzzle so hard into the major’s flesh that his head was pushed sideways. ‘It won’t be the first time,’ he said. ‘And if you think I’m bluffing, I suggest you think again. I intend to carry out my mission even if I have to take out every man in this camp.’

  Audley was on his feet, face drained of colour, hands trembling. ‘Look here, Caine,’ he stammered, eyes popping. ‘You can’t …’

  ‘Go and get Copeland. Now.’

  ‘But look here, old boy …’

  ‘Go and get Cope. Or I snuff this cocksucker right here, and it’ll be on your head.’

  Audley shot a hunted look at Maskelyne, who caught it. ‘Don’t do it,’ he croaked. ‘You’ll both be for the firing squad.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Caine swore, yanking the arm up until he sensed it was at breaking point. Maskelyne shrieked. Caine fixed his gaze on Audley, his face livid. ‘Get Cope, or I swear he’s a dead man.’

  Audley dithered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes veering from Maskelyne to Caine and back. Caine cocked the Browning’s hammer with a click that sounded as loud as a cymbal clash. Audley scuttled out. Caine knew it was on the cards that he’d come back with Glenn, but a moment later Harry Copeland was wading heronlegged through the flap, his SMLE in his hands. His eyes widened when he saw Caine and Maskelyne. ‘What the heck …’

  ‘Major Maskelyne is coming with us.’

  For a split second, Copeland’s resolution flickered, and Caine guessed his mate was seeing yet another addition to Caine’s long history of impulsive eccentricities, and all future prospects of promotion – even a possible commission – going down the toilet. Then the shadow was gone, and Caine knew Cope was with him a hundred per cent. ‘Is anyone else around?’ he asked, keeping the pistol lodged in place.

  ‘Nobody. They took Glenda to the workshop though – Dumper’s there, with Glenn.’

  ‘All right, Harry. Go back out, get the lads into the wagons, start motors, all machine-guns cocked and ready. Find those cuffs we used on the Kraut. I’m going to bring the major out and I want him cuffed in Doris while I go and get Dumper.’

  ‘Right you are, skipper.’

  ‘You’re going to cuff me?’ Maskelyne sneered incredulously. ‘I warn you: I’ve escaped from chained boxes under water, and from half the jails in England.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Caine snapped.

  He heard motors gunned. He hustled Maskelyne out of the tent in a single headlong rush and a second later was handing him over to Wallace and Copeland in Doris. Cope slapped the cuffs on one of his wrists, wrapped them round the mount of the forward Browning and locked them on the other wrist. ‘Watch him,’ Caine hissed. ‘He’s tricky.’

  He looked around to check that his men were ready, saw Audley at the wheel of Dorothy, white as a sheet, and the cowboy leering at him goggle-eyed from the cab of Veronica. He wondered if anyone in the camp had clocked the abduction of their CO: the tents and workshops were widely scattered and the few Tommies about seemed too intent on their own business to notice anything amiss. He saw the dark bulk of Glenda parked near the workshop where he’d spotted the welding torch earlier, a hundred paces away. ‘I’m going to get Sam,’ he told Cope. ‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, go.’

  He sprinted towards the workshop, covering the ground in seconds. It was clear that no one was working on the 3-tonner. Three of the sham tankies were mooching in the shade, rifles slung, watching Glenn and Dumper, who seemed to be engaged in a dingdong. The athletic, broadshouldered officer soared over the little corporal: Dumper was standing his ground, though, hands on hips. Caine shoved his pistol back into its quickdraw holster, strode up to them, catching his breath. Dumper clocked him as he approached, turned towards him, indignation etched on his face. ‘Skipper,’ he said in an aggrieved tone, ‘there’s welding gear ’ere, but the captain won’t let me use it. Sez we’ve got to wait for their own welder, and that’s gonna take for ever. Seems to fink I’m a cretin. Can yer tell ’im I’m an ordnance mechanical engineer class one?’

  Glenn’s horse features registered Caine’s presence: his eyes narrowed warily. He cracked a false smile. ‘We have our rules, old chap,’ he said.

  Caine stopped about five yards short. ‘I’ve got Maskelyne,’ he said.

  Dumper looked mystified, Glenn shocked. ‘What do you �
�’ he began.

  ‘I’m taking him with me,’ Caine cut him off. ‘Sam, get back to the wagons. We’re going.’

  ‘Hold it,’ Glenn barked. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  Dumper hovered, looking from Glenn to Caine. ‘What about Glenda, skipper?’ he asked. ‘She ain’t been fixed yet.’

  ‘She’ll never be fixed, and these blokes have no intention of helping us. It was a trap. Leave her. Go back to the wagons.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Corporal,’ Glenn spat, looking at Caine. ‘You’ll never get away, you know. I’ll catch up with you and blast you off the face of the earth.’

  Caine made a face, snorted in a passable imitation of Glenn’s manner. ‘With industrial piping, old chap? In those chickenwire jalopies? I don’t think so. No, no, no.’

  Caine saw Glenn grab for the pistol in his holster: his Browning was out before the captain even got the flap open. He saw Glenn’s eyes go wide, heard the blubber lips mouthing, ‘You’re not going to shoot an –’, and shot him through the kneecap. The joint shattered with an audible crack of bones and a pop of ligaments, as if it had been bludgeoned with a mace. Caine clocked the splatter of gore, the detonation of ripped tissue and bone shavings, the flaps of skin flayed away from ragged joint ends. Glenn rolled on the ground clutching maniacally at his knee, eyeballs bursting with shock, shrieking like a harpy. ‘You bastard. You bastard. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.’

  Caine was already levelling his weapon at the three enlisted men, none of whom had managed to unsling his rifle. They stared at Glenn’s madly jerking, ranting figure, then back into Caine’s eyes, steady as paired shotgun bores. None of them made a move. ‘I’ve got your CO,’ he told them. ‘Anyone takes a potshot at me or mine – just one – the major’s dead meat.’

  He nodded at Dumper: the little corporal’s face was blanchwhite, but Caine was proud to note that he’d drawn his own pistol and was covering the squaddies loyally.

  ‘I’ll get you,’ Glenn screeched, sobbing. ‘I’ll have you, you bastard.’