Death or Glory III

by Michael Asher

  He paused to make certain that Caine had taken it in.

  ‘One battalion?’ Caine queried. ‘That wouldn’t be much of a threat to New Zealand Corps, would it?’

  ‘It’s a recce battalion: two Panzer divisions are moving up behind it. We don’t know which way they’re going to jump, but there’ll be hell to pay if they turn up in Freyberg’s rear.’

  Caversham paused again, scrutinized Caine from behind thick lenses. ‘What would you do in this situation, Caine?’

  ‘Take that bridge out, sir. Sharpish.’

  For a moment Caine thought the colonel was going to clap. Instead, he winked at Maskelyne.

  ‘Jasper, please give Captain Caine a cigarette.’

  Maskelyne pursed dry lips, stood over Caine with hands raised, as if he were about to conduct a choir.

  Caine flinched as the conjurer’s fingers probed inside his left ear. ‘What’s this?’ Maskelyne demanded. With a theatrical flourish, he held up a squashed Victory cigarette. ‘Mind you, I don’t think I’d want it after where it’s been.’

  ‘Now you see it, now you don’t.’ Caine shrugged. ‘Got a light, sir?’

  He stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

  Maskelyne opened his other hand, displayed an empty palm. He closed it, made a pass, opened it again, showed Caine a chrome Ronson lighter that had appeared from nowhere. He lit the cigarette, eyed Caine as he took his first puff.

  ‘Thank you,’ Caine said.

  Caversham cleared his throat. ‘Your job, Caine, is to go in with a small patrol and blow up the el-Fayya bridge. You will drop in by parachute the day after tomorrow, pick up motor transport and demolition gear from Captain Fraser, now commanding a composite SAS unit made up mainly of Frogs and Bubbles – Free French and Greeks, that is – on Freyberg’s flank. You will follow the old highroad across the hills to the bridge, destroy it, and withdraw the same way. Simple, you see.’

  Caine regarded the colonel with steady, stoneground eyes. ‘Let me get this straight, sir. You’re asking me to go in behind enemy lines and undertake a vital sabotage operation under the noses of a Jerry battalion, scouting ahead of two Panzer divisions. If the timing’s out, I’m likely to get squashed.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Maskelyne scoffed. ‘Speed is the key. You’ll be in and out well ahead of the enemy.’

  ‘Just how many men will I have with me on this little jaunt?’

  Caversham looked as if he were toting big numbers in his head. ‘Six,’ he said at last. ‘Seven including yourself. Special Service troops are hard to find.’

  ‘Yes,’ Glenn added. ‘We really had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get you.’

  Caine dropped his cigarette butt on the stone floor and ground it out underfoot. He was officially on sick leave, but he knew he was fit, whatever the quack said: he’d been anxious to get back into action for some time. He had no objection to a mission behind enemy lines: blowing a bridge was certainly an SAS task. But why hadn’t he been tasked by the SAS or by the raiding forces planning cell, G(RF)? Why hadn’t orders come down the usual channels? He didn’t trust Glenn or Maskelyne, and he’d never even heard of MO4.

  He raised his blacksmith’s shoulders, drew in a deep breath. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘The scheme sounds interesting. I’d like to help you, but I’m going to have to turn it down. I’m serving in the 1st SAS Regiment. I can’t do anything without orders from my CO.’

  Maskelyne made a scoffing noise. ‘Which CO would that be, Caine? Stirling’s been in the bag since January. Jellicoe’s only acting depot chief, and Mayne’s in Lebanon with ‘A’ Squadron. Of course, you know that, don’t you? You weren’t invited to accompany them, because your medical officer declined to pass you fit.’

  Caine glared at him. ‘You seem extraordinarily well up on my fitness record, Major. You know I’m considered unfit for active service, yet you reckon I’m in prime condition to carry out some dizzy bloody scheme for you.’

  ‘Admirably so,’ Caversham cut in. ‘You see, Caine, this op – Nighthawk – has to be kept tight as a duck’s derrière. We need personnel whose absence will go unnoticed by enemy agents. As you are on sick leave, you qualify.’

  Caine shook his head. None of it made sense: if they wanted to blow a bridge at short notice, why not use Desert Air Force bombers? If aircraft couldn’t be spared, there was Fraser’s Bubble and Frog squadron, already in the field. Why go to the trouble of parachuting in a special unit?

  There had to be more to it than they were saying. There always was.

  ‘I’ve already played Aunt Sally twice, sir,’ he told Caversham. ‘I got away with it, but I lost some good men in the process. I don’t fancy being set up a third time. No, I’ll pass on this one, thank you. It was very kind of you to offer, but no thanks.’

  He stood up, watched Maskelyne’s deft fingers caress his pistol butt. ‘I don’t think you’re going to shoot me, Major. Not in cold blood, not in the back.’

  Maskelyne’s fingers crept away from the weapon. He licked his thin lips. ‘No, I’m not going to shoot you, Caine. But you’re not going to walk away from this either.’

  ‘Oh?’ Caine said. He tilted his head. ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘Sit down, Caine,’ Caversham ordered, his voice sharp as a hacksaw. ‘I will explain exactly why.’

  Caine hesitated, sat. Caversham stood facing him. ‘On 6 November last year, you were involved in a motor crash, when a taxi, driven, you claim, by a Nazi agent, plunged into the Nile. You got out, but your companion, Captain Elizabeth Nolan, was lost, believed killed. Is that correct?’

  ‘Believed?’ Caine repeated the word under his breath. Believed? For an instant he was back there, in the Nile, fighting the treacle water, kicking out in the wet darkness with what felt like a ball and chain on his legs, struggling out of the clutches of the demon that wrenched him down, his lungs bursting, his head burning with pain. He was floundering his way to the surface, smashing through the river’s dark skin, sucking in mouthfuls of air, shrieking out her name in the great empty cavern of the night. He would not let her go, no matter how many times he had to dive back down into that terrible black pit, no matter if he had to plunge into the stinking bowels of hell itself. He’d kept on diving and surfacing and yelling her name, until the patrol boat arrived and other hands dragged him out: even then, he’d clawed, kicked, punched at his rescuers, trying to get back into the river, beating at them like a madman, screaming her name until the darkness had covered him like a hood.

  Caversham was staring at him. ‘Yet you don’t believe it, do you, Caine? That’s why you’ve spent every spare moment since then tramping the streets of Cairo, visiting every place Nolan has ever been, hanging about in every bar, every nightclub, talking to every cabaret girl, every barman she’d ever met.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Caversham whipped off his glasses, started to clean them with a handkerchief. ‘It’s my job to know. That’s why the doctor wouldn’t sign your medical release, isn’t it? Not because of the shrapnel wound you sustained on desert ops, but because he considered you unstable: you refused to accept Nolan’s death. You still don’t believe she’s gone.’

  Caine’s skin was suddenly clammy: his pulse went up a notch. ‘It was pitch dark that night,’ he said. ‘They dredged the river but never found any bodies. They said she’d got dragged down, but Nolan’s a strong swimmer. She could have swum to the opposite bank or got out somewhere else. It’s not impossible. Maybe …’

  He stopped himself. He couldn’t tell Caversham about the mysterious phone calls in the night: Eisner’s voice gloating, She’s not dead, Caine. She’s alive. She’s mine now. Mine to do whatever I like with. Of waking up later to find that his room had no telephone – that he’d been talking to a ghost. Or the times he’d actually seen Betty Nolan on the streets, spotted her in the shadows of a nightclub: of the time he’d glimpsed her walking arm in arm with another man – a man looking suspiciously like
Johann Eisner. About the time he’d sighted the two of them necking in a doorway, and had approached them, only to confront a blonde FANY and a resentful young lieutenant.

  Caversham replaced his glasses, lowered his orangutan head nearer to Caine’s. ‘What if I were to tell you that Captain Nolan is not dead?’

  Caine fought to control himself: his face turned white, his breath jabbed. ‘This isn’t funny, Colonel. Nolan has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Oh, I assure you I am quite serious,’ Caversham said. ‘You see, Caine, Captain Nolan is alive. I have conclusive proof of that.’

  2

  Dawnlight poked gilded shafts through the mullioned windows. Maskelyne turned off the gaslamps. Caversham spread photographs on the table, handed Caine a magnifying glass. He lit a pipe, stood back, watched him with quiet satisfaction. The shaftlight caught little explosions of smoke from his pipe, transformed them into swirling mandala shapes.

  Caine had to admit the photographs looked genuine: Nolan in a dark skirt, white blouse and light jacket, outside a Cairo cinema: Now Showing. Gone with the Wind: 26 December 1942 That was more than a month after the crash. Nolan reading a newspaper: the headline could be discerned through the lens: Tripoli Falls to Allies – 23 January 1943. That was seven weeks ago.

  Caine used the glass to check for trick photography: he examined the Nolan in the pictures minutely – the almost boyish haircut, the peek-a-boo wave that fell over her left eye, the slender legs, the vivacious breasts, the tiny blemishes – the scar on her neck, the freckles, the mole on her wrist. He studied her face – the full lips, the enticing overlap of her front teeth and, most of all, that dreamy, faraway look, the oceansoul eyes under lowered lids, that used to drive him mad. Every detail seemed right, but still he couldn’t be certain. He’d believed that Nolan was alive with no real evidence: now he was being offered evidence, he was reluctant to accept it. He didn’t want to have her snatched away a second time.

  Caversham gathered the snaps and laid the stack back on the table. Caine watched him. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘They look like the real thing. God knows how much I’d like to believe that it really is Nolan, but …’

  ‘But,’ Caversham cut in, laying his pipe in an ashtray, ‘certain questions need to be answered. First, if this is Captain Nolan, why hasn’t she contacted you? Why, for that matter, hasn’t she reported back to GHQ? As a serving officer, that makes her a deserter, doesn’t it?’

  Caine nodded reluctantly: Caversham had hit the nail on the head. If he’d expected categorical answers, though, he was disappointed.

  ‘All I can do,’ the colonel said, ‘is offer two tentative explanations. First, that she has been suffering some sort of disorientation, and is no longer aware of her identity …’

  Caine nodded again. Nolan hadn’t returned to her lodgings, and, come to think of it, he hadn’t recognized any of the clothes she was wearing in the snaps. If it was true, though, how was she living?

  He shivered.

  ‘The other possibility is that she has been prevented from making contact, either by friendly forces, or by the enemy.’

  A thought popped into Caine’s head: he knew it should have occurred to him earlier. ‘Eisner?’

  Caversham gave him a thick grin. ‘It’s certainly on the cards. You survived the accident. If Nolan survived, why not Eisner too?’

  Caine tried to stop himself thinking of Nolan and Eisner together, took a mental step back, tried to observe the three MO4 officers from a different standpoint. Could this be an elaborate hoax? Deception was, after all, Maskelyne’s game: he was quite capable of orchestrating the illusion that Nolan was alive. At the very least, Caversham and his crew must know where these photos had come from.

  He took in a deep breath. All three of them gawked at him.

  ‘Of course,’ Caversham went on, ‘you’re thinking that we must know the source of these photos and, if so, we could trace Nolan through it. After all, somebody took them, didn’t they?’

  ‘It had occurred to me.’ Caine forced the words out.

  Caversham shook his head. ‘You must believe me: we do not know Nolan’s whereabouts, nor who, if anyone, is controlling her. It is true that we might be able to track her down through the source of the photos, and we are willing to do so …’

  Caine’s eyes widened in anticipation.

  ‘… but only on the condition that you carry out the little job that we talked about.’

  Caine saw red. He bunched his fists, flexed ironclad pectorals, took a step towards Caversham. Maskelyne’s hand streaked to his holster, but not even the conjuror could match Caine’s speed when he was riled. In a greased movement he grabbed the magician’s right wrist, twisted his arm back, shook the pistol out of it. It clanked on to the stone floor. No one made a move to pick it up.

  Maskelyne stared at him coolly. ‘You gave your word.’

  ‘Oh yes, my word – I remember. With a pistol in my face.’

  Glenn stayed rooted to the wheelchair: Caversham didn’t budge an inch. ‘This is quite unnecessary, Caine. You can walk out this minute, and no one will lift a finger to stop you. You can comb Cairo till your beard is grey, but you won’t find Captain Nolan. You will only find her with our help, and that help is dependent on your accepting this mission.’

  Caine knew they’d got him. He could leave now, report to the SAS depot at Kabrit, tell them he’d been abducted. He could report Caversham’s actions to the Provost Marshal. None of that would get him an inch nearer to Nolan.

  ‘Even if I get back in one piece, how do I know you’ll help me?’

  ‘You don’t,’ Glenn crowed. ‘You’ll have to trust us.’

  ‘Accepting the mission means accepting my orders,’ Caversham cut in. ‘In particular, you won’t carp about the chaps I assign you. Is that understood?’

  Caine eyed him. ‘Why? What’s wrong with them?’

  Maskelyne handed him a sheet of paper with a very short list typed on it. Caine read:

  Fiske, Richard Pte Royal Army

  Ordnance Corps.

  3 years, theft.

  Jizzard, Mitchell Gnr Royal Artillery.

  5 years, extortion.

  Quinnell, Dominic Pte Royal Irish Fusiliers.

  4 years, conduct

  unbecoming.

  He looked up, mystified.

  ‘Convicted offenders,’ Maskelyne grinned. ‘Serving time.’

  For a moment, Caine couldn’t believe it. ‘You mean you’re sending me into the field with a bunch of ex-detainees from the glasshouse?’

  ‘You should feel at home with them,’ Glenn interjected. ‘That’s just where you ought to be.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Roger,’ Caversham barked. He eyed Caine solemnly. ‘Look, Caine, these men were all we could get at short notice. Of course they aren’t SAS, but on the other hand, they are all ex-commando, all parachute trained, and all volunteers.’

  Caine swallowed. ‘Colonel, on a scheme like this, you need men you can trust. These chaps will be liabilities.’

  ‘I doubt it. They’ve been offered the choice of an honourable discharge or a chance to soldier on if they acquit themselves well. So they have every reason to toe the line.’

  Caine choked down an expletive. He was convinced now that Maskelyne, Glenn and Caversham had cooked this up between them with something untoward in mind. He again considered turning on his heel and marching out. It hit him suddenly how much he despised them. The army had been his home since the age of sixteen, and he’d always felt solidarity with his comrades. It was the brass he couldn’t stand: the arrogant, incompetent blunderers who thought themselves entitled to make men jump through hoops on command – who would use his feelings for Nolan to control him.

  The image of Nolan was too fresh in his mind, though. He’d accepted the job, and that meant taking any lemon they handed him. He squared his deep chest, took a breath, clenched his fists.

  ‘You agreed not to quibble about your team,’ Caversham reminded him.


  ‘I did, sir, but I wasn’t expecting this. If these men do anything to endanger the mission, you’re responsible.’

  ‘I accept that responsibility.’ Caversham’s eyes didn’t flicker. ‘Now, if that’s all done, I want you and your team assembled in the briefing room after breakfast, at 0900 hours sharp.’

  He was about to turn away when Caine stopped him. ‘Wait a minute, sir. How come there are only three names on this list? Where are the rest?’

  Caversham turned back. ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. Your friends have been here since yesterday.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir?’

  ‘Your SAS comrades … Sergeant … no, Second Lieutenant now … Copeland, Trooper Wallace, and Corporal Trubman.’

  Caine gaped. ‘You mean you’re dragging them into this? But they’re on active service.’

  ‘Actually, they’re not. Copeland was en route to OCTU. Wallace was under arrest for knocking down his OC and Trubman was awaiting transfer back to a signals unit. So, as luck would have it, they fitted the bill. In any case, it means you will have at least some men you can trust not to shoot you in the back.’

  Caine glanced at him sharply, taking in the simian face, the blackball eyes. He resisted the urge to demand what the hell he’d meant by that.

  3

  Fiske, Quinnell and Jizzard were sorting equipment in the refectory corridor: they stood to attention when Caine and Maskelyne approached. Maskelyne told them to stand at ease. ‘Let me introduce your patrol commander,’ he said. ‘Captain Thomas Caine, 1st SAS Regiment. You’ll take your orders from him: I don’t want any backsliding, men. Do a good job and you’ll come back with a clean slate.’

  ‘Aye, if we come back at all,’ Jizzard grunted.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Maskelyne snapped.

  The three men had prison-style crewcuts, and were wearing starched fatigues and ammunition boots they’d obviously been obliged to spend hours bulling. Caine told them to stand easy, shook hands. They eyed him without enthusiasm, emanated a sort of resentful silence, as if they’d been volunteered for yet another pointless army task, like painting black coal white.