Death or Glory III

by Michael Asher

  Trubman spooned stew. ‘Comms is a twoway business, see …’ He spoke rapidly through his mouthful of stew. ‘I got on to the guard net, but they didn’t answer my signals check. I sent out an SOS call with our call sign and location over and over: it went out all right, but no one rogered it.’

  Copeland frowned, put down his mess tin, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘So we have no way of knowing if the message was heard.’

  Trubman nodded vigorously, his mouth too full to speak.

  21

  Before they approached the bridgehead, Wallace, Caine and Grimshaw drove along the foot of the blockhouse cliff to the point where the rock wall turned sharply left towards the gorge, where the drywash cut down steeply from above, reaching the cleft further along, in a thicket of grass clumps and trees. ‘That’s where Mike and me have been gettin’ water,’ Grimshaw said, pointing. ‘You dig into the wadi bed, and it’s about a foot down.’

  ‘Good,’ Caine said. ‘Mines first, then water.’

  Before they pulled out, Grimshaw showed them a second gunpit dug in just where the cliff turned south: it was the twin of the gunpit on the gap, big enough to take a field-gun or a tank, with a ramp at the rear. ‘Not well sited, though,’ Caine commented. ‘If you get caught in there, there’s no way out.’

  At the bridge, Caine didn’t post a watch: all three of them worked together to lay the anti-tank mines – big steel saucers with a pressure plate on top that wouldn’t go off at less than a minimum weight. At least that was the theory. They worked quickly, dug out shallow scoops with hands and entrenching tools, armed the mines, placed them, covered them over with gravel and soft sand. They arranged them in a rough semi-circle around the bridgehead, far enough apart to prevent sympathetic detonation.

  Caine had spent a lot of his time in the Sappers with mines, but the experience had only endorsed his view that they were the most inhuman weapon ever invented. He’d seen what they could do – the vision of Moshe Naiman dying with his leg torn off on the Runefish op was still fresh in his mind. So was the time at Tobruk when they’d lifted five hundred Axis mines and transferred them to an Allied minefield. His RE troop had lost two men on that scheme – one wrong move and kerblooey. That had been the most nerve-racking night of his life.

  The sky was a shade lighter by the time they’d buried them all: they jogged back to the jeep, wiped dirt off their hands. Before jumping into the back, Grimshaw stood silently for a moment, listening to the night.

  ‘What’s up, Shorty?’ Caine whispered. ‘You spot something?’

  Grimshaw scratched his hog’s nose. ‘Didn’t see nothin’, sir … but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Just a feelin’, you know – like there’s someone about.’

  ‘You gettin’ the jitters or what?’ Wallace demanded.

  ‘Maybe. Sometimes I know what’s gonna happen before it does – like there’s a voice talking to me or sommat. You know what I mean?’

  Caine thought of the apparition of Pickney he’d seen on the STENDEC aircraft. He shivered.

  ‘Next thing is water,’ he said.

  Caine drove, Grimshaw directed them two hundred yards along the edge of the gorge, to where the drywash fell into the ravine over a steep scree of jumbled boulders. The wadi was edged with swordgrass, tangled stands of dwarf oak, palmetto and prickly pear, masking a bed of soft sand. Caine halted the jeep, cut the engine, listened to silence. An owl hooted suddenly, broke cover in a flutter of wings, tacked past them so close that Caine ducked. ‘Just an owl, mate,’ Wallace chortled.

  ‘Owls is bad luck,’ Grimshaw said.

  They unloaded jerrycans, mess tins, entrenching tools. ‘We’d better all go,’ Caine said. ‘Keep your eyes trimmed.’

  They dug down into the sand, making separate hollows, piling up little heaps of spoil. They found water calf-deep: Caine sampled it – it was earthy-tasting and warm. They set to, scooping the liquid up with mess tins, pausing every now and then to listen: birds cranked up a dawn chorus in shrill sequences. Caine filled one jerrycan, carried it to the jeep. He had arrived back, and was just starting on the other, when he heard a dull metallic clink, so faint that for a moment he thought he’d imagined it.

  Wallace and Grimshaw stared towards the end of the wadi: the sandy bed gave way there to the cataract of boulders on the edge of the ravine. Wallace laid down his mess tin quietly, drew his sawnoff. Grimshaw let the Bren lie, unholstered his Colt. Caine picked up his trenchsweeper, glad he’d left it cocked. He hefted the weapon in both hands, eased off the safety, moved cautiously towards the stonepile: Grimshaw lagged a little behind. A Jerry in a coalscuttle helmet popped up like a jack-in-the-box, glugged fire from a Schmeisser sub-machine gun. Rounds thrashed, hit Grimshaw as he turned, snagged his arse like a hacksaw.

  Caine blasted slugs from the hip, heard them chump, saw Jerry’s face cleft into a mash of teeth, red pulp, white bone. The Hun tottered: a stick-grenade sailed over, karrummppped in a spasm of white light: air heaved, smoke stabbed, iron chinks vortexed. Caine went spinning, hit the deck, tasted sour cordite, felt the air knocked out of him. He got up, spat dust, heard bells clang in his ears. His left arm was cottonwool, diced by shrapnel furrows: the sleeve of his smock smouldered. He slapped out fire, saw fieldgrey shadows mass at the scree, more than there could possibly be, knew he was seeing double or triple. He slipped his pistol, squeezed steel, slammed rounds, heard the blammmmppppp of Fred’s buckshot.

  He scooped his Tommy, saw Grimshaw roll in purple dust, saw chunks of his arse hacked out. Wallace tossed a smoke-tin: Caine heard it plop, saw smoke huff in coiling riffles. He rat-tatted rounds into the smoke. ‘Get Shorty out,’ he bellowed.

  An MG41 chattered from the other side of the gorge: tracer rounds blipped out of the smoke, lashed sand, spiffled bushes. Wallace grabbed the Bren, slung it, heaved Grimshaw across his shoulders, padded into the trees. Caine zigzagged behind, bliffed off singles, double taps. Tracer chirruped: a thornbush exploded. Caine clocked shapes reaving through smoke billows, pulled a grenade, chucked it underarm, ran out through the foliage.

  Wallace gunned the motor. Caine jumped in, saw Grimshaw lolling behind him in a blood-puddle. Machine-gun fire creased air: another bush went up in a hoosh of flame. Wallace hit the hand-throttle: the jeep shot forward. Caine forced his Tommy into the mount, traversed the muzzle, drew steel, sprayed lead, felt the gun jam. He swore, tried to clear the stoppage, found his left hand too feeble. Wallace wheeled the jeep one-eighty, shoved the throttle up. The wagon threshed gravel, welted dust. ‘The berm,’ Wallace grated. ‘We can fix him up there.’

  Caine’s head hammered: his ears fizzled. It took him a blink to remember the gunpit. It would be a bad move, he thought. They might get trapped there. Once the Huns were in position it’d be hard to break out. If they didn’t, though, Grimshaw might bleed to death.

  ‘Go for it,’ he yelled. He pulled his Colt, swung round, saw Grimshaw writhe. ‘Hold on, Shorty, mate. Stay with us.’

  Tracer guzzled air. Jerries charged out of the trees, thrummed fire from rifles, SMGs. Caine honked rounds back: the jeep jiggled, spoiled his aim. The hammer clicked: he scrabbled for a fresh clip, dekkoed forward, clocked the blockhouse, wondered where the hell Harry was.

  Cope heard the sprazzle of shots, dropped his mug, lurched for the Vickers. Cutler went for the mortar: Trubman ran up the ladder to the Browning on the roof.

  Staring down the sights, though, Copeland hesitated: he could see the jeep standing by the trees at the end of the watercourse, but he wasn’t sure of Caine’s position. Smoke spindrifted: he clocked the muzzleflash of the MG41 from across the gorge. A grenade thumped: bushes flambeaued. He saw Wallace emerge from the trees, carrying a body in a fireman’s lift, saw Caine behind, splurting fire. It’s Grimshaw. He’s been hit. He saw Wallace lay the casualty in the back, saw him swing into the driving seat, saw Caine jump in. The jeep reeled away: Jerries darted out of cover. He swung the barrel, snapped the
sights, yelled, ‘Two o’clock. Five hundred yards. Enemy outside treecover. Fire.’

  He heisted steel, cued an arabesque of bright cables, jacked rounds at the low ground. Cope pulled and eased, saw Jerries jitterbug. He peered over the sights, saw the jeep accelerate along the foot of the scarp, saw Kraut fire spindle.

  Cutler still hadn’t fired the mortar. Copeland guessed he was guaging range, waiting for a gap, not wanting to drop a packet on Caine. Either that or his wound was slowing him. The MG41 rickyticked from across the ravine. ‘Taffy,’ Copeland bawled. ‘For Christ’s sake, knock out that gun.’

  ‘Gotcha.’

  The Browning blunderbussed splines of flame: Copeland shuftied the sangar to his right, saw Cutler hunched over the mortar. ‘What the heck’s up with you?’

  ‘Dropped the round in, sir. Nothing happened.’

  ‘You armed it?’

  ‘You have to arm these?’

  ‘Yes, you great dollop.’

  A round chunked the wall close to him, spun off with a crippled-bee buzz. There was a sniper down there. The mortar plumped: a bomb droned, smoketrailed, blatted apart in an asterisk of scarlet and brown four hundred yards away. ‘Raise elevation one degree,’ Copeland bawled. He sighted on running Fritzes, crackled a long burst, saw them duck and swerve. Cutler popped two bombs in quick succession: Copeland watched them screwtail, heard them hum, saw them trolley up reverse cones of debris, saw Huns gouged into splits of flesh, dismembered limbs, vapourized gore.

  The Browning tattooed an unbroken thread, so long that Copeland thought Trubman’s finger must be stuck. It stopped abruptly: Cope heard a bellow of glee. ‘Hit it, see that boys? Knocked the sod out, didn’t I.’

  They heard Cope’s Vickers start up just as they reached the berm: a second later mortar rounds crepitated, the ground mulekicked, broils of flame splashed up among the Krauts. Caine saw enemy knocked down, saw survivors stumble back in disorder. The echoes played out, gave way to the metallic chuckle of the Browning.

  ‘About bloody time,’ Wallace gurned.

  The berm had been fortified with cement: the ramp was deep enough to cover the jeep. They hoisted Grimshaw out, laid him face down on the dustriddled floor. He wailed: the numbness in his wounds was melting into desperate pain. Wallace removed his webbing: Caine slit open bloodsoaked rags with a bayonet, winced at the gory mash: the bullet had munched through his right buttock, exited through the left. The flesh was shredded, almost sheared off, leaving a flap of mauled meat: the exit wound was a cleft of crimson black. Grimshaw howled: ‘It’s all right, Shorty,’ Caine told him. ‘You’ll have to give up sitting on your arse, that’s all.’

  Wallace passed him a syrette of morphia. Caine considered it: he shook his head. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. Morphia might do him in. We’ll just cover the wounds with shell-dressings.’

  Wallace nodded, groped for his dressings, came up with a couple, handed them over. Caine dropped them, swore at himself. His head pendulumed, his ears zipped: there was a tightness in his chest. He gaped at the blood on his arm, remembered with a start that he’d been wounded. For a moment, the world receded down a long tunnel: he reeled backwards, felt Wallace’s goliath hands steady him. ‘I’ll see to Shorty, mate. You look after yourself.’

  Grimshaw was breathing easier, but he still wasn’t sure where he was. Sometimes, he was lying in the middle of the high street at home. He’d just crashed the coal lorry into a baker’s van: he’d staggered out of the cab and fallen down. What will Mr Smith say? You were drunk, Grimshaw, drunk at that time of the day. Disgraceful. No, sir, I wasn’t, sir. I was just mindin’ me own business, sir, and that tosser Sid Atkins cuts across me in the baker’s van.

  He’d known it was going to happen: he hadn’t even wanted to take the lorry out that day: he’d thought of saying he was sick but his mum hadn’t let him. He often knew what was going to happen: never anything you could cash in on, like which horse was going to win the races. Sometimes it would only be a bad feeling: sometimes particular things would pop out of the blue, like the time he knew his brother Bob was going to be knocked down by a horsecart. It was usually bad things like that, and in the end he’d stopped saying it out loud, because people didn’t like it and it got him into fights.

  They said he was a fighter. Well, you spend your life humping sacks with coaldust in your eyes and up your nose, no girl will look at you, and the other lads pull your pisser, there’s no wonder you have to stick one on ’em now and again, especially after a couple of pints on a Friday night down the Bull and Hound.

  His dad, Alfie, was a fighter too, or had been in his day. He’d been in the trenches in the Great War with the Somerset Light Infantry. He used to tell Shorty about his time on the Somme: how, when you got over the top you hardly knew if you were awake or dreaming, dead or alive, and all you could think of was getting the Huns and killing the bastards. Alfie had stopped a salvo of machine-gun bullets during an attack, and had lost a leg. He’d been a cripple for the rest of his life, doing odd jobs to support his family.

  Shorty hadn’t fancied the infantry. He’d joined the Yeomanry to start off with: when he’d found himself crewing an AFV in the Western Desert, part of 10th Armoured, though, he’d had a bad feeling about it – a very bad feeling. Rightly, too, because his squadron had been virtually wiped out at Bir Hakeim. Thank God, he’d been out of it by then, serving in the ME Commando. Then that mob had folded and he’d become SAS. Now here he was, lying in the high street by the coal-lorry, just where he’d started.

  He opened his eyes, blinked, licked split lips, felt a raging thirst. Big Fred loomed over him, proffering a waterbottle that you’d have thought came from a doll’s house in his enormous hand. The big man looked wild with his gypsy hair, his bristling cliff of a jaw, his broken teeth, his pokerball eyes, but there was something comforting about him. He was invulnerable, like the gentle giant in the fairytale. Grimshaw muttered: Wallace leaned closer to hear it. ‘Told yer,’ Grimshaw croaked. ‘Told yer owls was bad luck.’

  Caine had dressed his arm: he felt steadier. He’d been peppered lightly with grenade fragments, but the main force of the blast had passed over him – a few paces back and he could have been ratshit. There was no damage to nerves or bone. His arm was stiff, but he could still move his fingers.

  He mounted a Bren on an embrasure in the berm. For a while the enemy had stopped shooting: now they’d opened up with intermittent fire. Rounds hustled dirt, pitched out of the air with lazy plips. The Totenkopf boys were in cover: they hadn’t gone away. Caine couldn’t help admiring them: they’d crossed a fifty-foot ravine, scaled the nearside so quietly that he and his mates hadn’t rumbled it till the last minute. They were well trained and they had guts: sooner or later they were going to launch an assault – three men in the blockhouse weren’t going to stop them. While he and Fred were pinned down here, the defence was halved. Then there was Shorty – he needed better medical support than they could give him.

  ‘We have to buzz off out of here,’ he told Wallace.

  The big man stowed his canteen. ‘That’s gonna be a piece of cake, innit? Last time I looked, the only way out is across Jerry’s front. We’ll be askin for it.’ He paused, gestured to the escarpment that rose steeply above them. ‘’Course, we might wanna consider luggin’ Shorty up a sheer cliff in full view of the Hun.’

  Caine bent to peer through the embrasure overlooking the northern approach: the gap was only two hundred yards away, along the foot of the blockhouse butte. Once they got through it, they’d be out of danger. Wallace was right, though: to get there they’d have to run the gauntlet of enemy fire.

  He considered a skirmishing breakout, making use of the sparse cover, realized they could hardly do that carrying Grimshaw. Leave him here? No, then there’d be no chance of getting him out till the action was over: by that time he might be dead. Come to think of it, they might all be dead by then.

  ‘We’ll make a dash for it in the wago
n,’ he said. ‘It won’t take more than a minute.’

  Wallace’s forehead creased: his eyes were wary. ‘A minute’s a long time when a hundred Krauts are throwin’ shit at you.’

  ‘Harry’ll give us covering fire.’

  ‘You sure he can see us from up there? How will he know when to start?’

  Caine shuftied up the cliff to their left: the berm might be just visible to someone standing on the blockhouse roof. He thought for a moment. ‘We’ll fire a blue flare,’ he said. ‘Cope will know what it means.’

  22

  The firefight had petered out: Copeland told Cutler to stand fast and keep his eyes open. He left the sangar, ran through the tunnel, climbed the ladder to the roof. He wanted to find out what had happened to Caine since the jeep had gone out of sight – the roof would be the best observation point, but dicey if there were Hun snipers in place. It was still cold: dawn was a bloodred rag on the distant hills, a spread of forked tongues blistering the darkness: strobes of fingergold spindled from behind plumes of cloud, split them into woolpack flotillas, argosies of cumulus in great candyfloss whorls. The battlefield below was a weft of gold and silver, crisscrossed with thorntree shadows in elastic doglegs: the escarpments on both sides were lizardskin with glistering brilliants, pocked with cavities of purple shadow. Copeland smelt wormwood, tasted scorched dust.

  He crawled across the roof to the emplacement, found Trubman huddled against sandbags smoking a cigarette. The .50 Browning stood on its tripod loaded with a fresh belt and made safe: Cope noticed that Taff had gathered all the spent cartridge cases into a neat pile. The signaller was slackfaced: the eyes behind his lenses were black pips.

  ‘Nice shooting, Taff,’ he said.

  Rosepink blotches bloomed on Trubman’s cheeks: a smile frayed his mouth. ‘They always said I couldn’t shoot for toffee, see. Been saying I wasn’t the right stuff all my life.’

  ‘You got your Skill at Arms test, didn’t you?’