The lorry-wrecks were burning out. When the Jerries slowed down to look at them, Copeland already had the point man in his crosshairs. He eased off the safety, hoooshed a breath, held it, took first pressure, tweaked the trigger. Craaaaack. The SMLE bolted a sear of flame: the round struck the Jerry in the solar plexus: he stood stock still for a moment, folded up with a graceful bow.
Caine switched to single shot, gripped the Thompson underarm, brassed off three bullets with careful timing. Blobbb. Blobbb. Blobbb. He showed himself, paused a half-beat to make certain the Totenkopf men had seen him, hared off across open ground towards the next ridge, traileyed Copeland galloping after him on heron’s legs. He dived into cover, whopped off another burst, saw that the Death’s Head men had hit dirt. Rifles rumped, rounds squdged, richochets rollicked off rock with staccato screams. Copeland threw himself beside Caine, shuftied back to see that some of the enemy were up and coming after them in skirmishing pairs. He sighted up, watched a Jerry drop and roll, let the SMLE’s muzzle follow his movement, blatted him out just as he came up into a firing position, heard a distant sigh.
Caine poised on the balls of his feet, ready for another run: he was panting: his legs were lumpen, the shrapnel scoriations on his arm had opened up. He felt as if he’d been dropkicked in the side: the ropeburns on his neck were acid fire. Copeland loosed another shot. ‘You ready, mate?’ Caine said.
He drew air deep, felt his lungs strain, forced himself out of cover: his legs worked sluggishly, his breath came in snags: every step was a minor hell. He reached the next sandpile, got down, watched Copeland zigzag behind him, almost forgot to fire. The Tommy-gun went blammpp, blammpp, as if someone else were shooting. Copeland threw himself down. ‘There’s something wrong with them,’ he panted. ‘They’re falling off.’
Caine squinted towards the Jerries: he saw what Copeland meant. A few were still skirmishing, but the perfect precision he remembered from the el-Fayya fight had gone: they moved ponderously, almost reluctantly. They look like I feel, Caine thought.
He could see the outpost now. The tangled palm thickets cast bowbacked shadows on the desert, the dried palm fronds stood out like beaten gold. The sun was drifting home to the hills through pavilions of bloodedged cloud: the sky was cooling gunmetal. Each feature of the barren basin was cleanly picked out by the soft, liquid light: peppercorns of scrub, reaches of patinated limestone, clints and grykes of outcrops like the flaking fins of golden fish.
He tried to judge how far they had to go: he reckoned it was only another three hundred yards, but part of the way was without cover. There wasn’t a peep from Fiske’s position: there hadn’t been since before they’d blown the wagons. Fiske might have been hit: he might simply have no idea what was going down.
They sprinted another stretch, then another, rolled in behind grass clusters that gave almost no cover from fire. Jerry slugs pipped air, dropped in sullen whinges out of the flint-hued sky. It was getting harder: Caine’s limbs had a hot, weary, feverish feeling: his whole body was on fire. The outpost was only a stone’s throw away but it felt like the end of the earth: they were down to a few rounds of ammunition. ‘Last go,’ Copeland gasped. ‘We can make it to the trees in one run.’
Caine dekkoed him, caught a flare of blue lustre in the bloodshot eyes. ‘See you on the ledge, Harry.’
‘Yeah. You’re buying the beers.’
Getting his body up was like hoisting a grand piano: Caine rocked to his feet, jammed the butt of his Thompson against his bicep, let the fingers of his left hand feel the foregrip grooves. ‘Go,’ he yelled.
He zigzagged forward on legs like pincushions, dimly aware of Copeland behind him, hardly registering the blips of enemy fire. His lungs hurt, his heart pounded. The palm trees seemed miles away. He faltered, forced himself on, saw Betty Nolan rear up in his mind’s eye: the thought of her boosted him. He dragged himself through a mire of agony: the palm groves were a paradise he’d never reach. Then suddenly the trees were rearing over him like a golden wave, and he was in among the cool sanctuary of their shade. He slumped down behind a knot of treeboles, rolled over, brought the Tommy up to cover Copeland. He blinked: Copeland wasn’t there.
He scanned the area he’d just run over, saw, almost halfway across it, a pile gilded by the waning light. It was Copeland: Cope was down. He looked again, saw that the pile was moving. He’s alive: he’s trying to get up. Caine couldn’t leave him there. He had to go back for his mate, but he’d used all his energy in the last run: he was drained. In the past three days he’d been hit by shrapnel, wounded in the side, caught in a bomb-blast, bashed with rifle-butts, hanged by the neck. He’d lost his entire patrol, including his closest friends. No one could take all that and keep going. The last run had been purgatory: he couldn’t go back: he didn’t have the strength. He surveyed the field again, saw that two Death’s Head men were advancing towards his downed pal. They were a long way off as yet, and they seemed to be stumbling along erratically, but they were certainly heading in Cope’s direction.
Caine sieved air through his nostrils. He’d promised that he would bring back his wounded comrades. He hadn’t kept his promise in the case of Wallace and Trubman: even if it killed him, he wasn’t going to let that happen to Cope. He raised himself on jellylegs, propped himself up against a palm trunk. He checked his magazine: his heart dropped. It was empty: he was out of rounds. He set the Thompson against the trunk, groped in his knapsack for Wallace’s Purdey. It was still there. He hefted it in both hands: it wasn’t much of a combat weapon, but it felt like a friend.
He launched himself out of the trees, gritted his teeth, overrode the torment, forced his muscles to submit to his will. This time, he refused to heed the straining of his lungs, the ache in his muscles, the fire in his wounds, the swimming giddiness in his head. He was intent only on Copeland: he was going to get him out. He was running, turfing dust: it seemed as if he’d been running for ever. Miraculously, nobody was shooting at him: he could still see two Huns moving towards Cope with a lumbering, manic gait. He was ten yards away, five: Copeland was trying to raise himself on one shaky arm, and a rifle-butt. Caine saw that he had been wounded in the calf: his trouserleg was soaked in blood. He crouched down, met Cope’s eyes, saw the pupils dilated with pain. ‘I’ve had it, Tom,’ Copeland soughed. ‘You get out of it.’
‘Can’t do it, mate.’
A sub-machine round fluepiped, chuzzled dust close to them. ‘Don’t get up,’ he told Cope. ‘We’ve got guests.’ He flopped down on his stomach with a gasp, let go the shotgun. ‘Gimme your weapon,’ he said.
He took the Lee-Enfield, drew the stock into his shoulder. Copeland sucked rapid breaths, swivelled round so that he could see the enemy, trailed blood. Caine peeked through the sights, picked out the two Jerries. They were about a hundred and fifty paces out, coming on unsteadily without any attempt to use the ground: they were slightly staggered – a broadhipped, longlimbed Hun behind, and a shorter man with a triangular torso in front. Caine focused on the leading man. Christ in Heaven. It was Lohman, but not the same Lohman who’d strung him up not long before: his face was swollen, covered in vomit-coloured blisters: his mouth was a bloated purple gash: his eyes dark cherries almost lost in the diseased face. Caine gasped. He dekkoed the other trooper, saw that his features were distorted by the same rabid pustular growths. These Death’s Head men were sick, badly sick, and whatever it was they’d got, they hadn’t had it a few hours before. It must have come on very quickly: it hadn’t been apparent when he’d scanned the battleground from the ridge. He was acutely aware that the sickness might be contagious. He didn’t want any part of it: he’d rather face a bullet than death from disease.
The Jerries were swaying slightly but still moving. Caine wondered why they didn’t shoot: he noticed that they were both carrying Schmeisser sub-machine carbines. They were about a hundred yards away now: near enough to hit him, but too far to be sure of a good shot. He lined up the sights: he couldn’t allow them
to get close. He had only a vague knowledge of germs: he knew that some could be passed on by touch, others through the air. He had no idea what distances were involved in airborne contagion, but the further away he kept the enemy the better,.
He chose the taller Squarehead, pinned him in the crosshairs, took a breath, pulled iron. There was a dry click. He cocked the handle, pulled again: nothing happened. ‘Out of ammo,’ he said disgustedly.
‘Sorry, Tom: I forgot to count.’
‘What about the pistol?’
Cope shook his head. ‘Forget it. That’s out, too.’
Caine swore, gave the rifle back to Copeland. ‘Have a shufti,’ he said.
He picked up Wallace’s sawnoff: it was a close-quarter weapon with an effective range of only ten or fifteen yards. To hit anyone he’d have to let them get right up close, and by then it might be too late.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Cope ejaculated. ‘Those boys are sick as pigs.’
Caine cocked the Purdey’s hammers, came up into a crouch, levelled the barrels at the Jerries, aware that at this distance he could do no more than make a big bang: it might scare them off, though. ‘Stop. Don’t come any closer,’ he bawled.
The broadhipped Jerry seemed to spot him for the first time, raised his weapon lethargically. He stumbled, doubled over, dropped the carbine, vomited copiously: then he tumbled face down into his own puke. Lohman glanced round at his fallen comrade, staggered, recovered himself. He fixed glittering goateyes on Caine, marched directly towards him. He was seventy-five paces distant – near enough for a Schmeisser shot: too far for the Purdey. Caine shivered, felt sweat break out on his brow. ‘Stay back,’ he yelled. He was suddenly aware that other grey dots had popped up out of the shadows behind Lohman: just visible in the sombre purpled hues of late afternoon.
Lohman was sixty yards away. He wasn’t slowing down: he looked like a clockwork mechanism that wouldn’t stop until it was knocked over. The flush of clear sunlight illuminated the parchment-coloured papules on his face, trailed a monstrous shadow behind him like a dark cloak. Fifty yards: Caine’s pulse sledgehammered, his breath came fast. He raised his left arm, swore at the pain, used his elbow to steady the twin barrels. He watched Lohman with both eyes wide, centred on the decomposing blur of his face, shifted to his fieldgrey chest. Forty yards. It was near enough: too damn’ near. His finger tightened on the double-triggers, he paused, yanked steel.
The shotgun went whommmmfffffff, shrivelled air, scattergunned an ironball spread. It had no effect on Lohman: the Sturmscharführer didn’t falter. He strode on oblivious. Caine lowered the shotgun, saw smoke trickles become gold filigree in the dwindling light. He’d fired his last shots. There was nothing left but hand-to-hand, and Lohman would surely finish them both before he got that near. He felt suddenly tranquil, released from pain. He’d given it his best: he’d pushed himself beyond the limits of human endurance. He could do no more. He watched Lohman coming on, slowly raising the Schmeisser: he was close enough for Caine to see the raddled features, the quartzite glint in the eyes. Lohman halted abruptly, pulled the butt into his waist, then, as if in slow motion, sank down slowly to his knees with a stark, demented moan. He let his weapon drop: Caine saw that his whole body was shaking. The Sturmscharführer made a last attempt to raise his head: for a split second they looked at each other: Caine glimpsed jelly-eel eyes in sockets bulging with puce-coloured ulcers, like egg-yolks poached in fat. ‘Caine …’ the Sturmscharführer wheezed. ‘The blek box. The blek … box … ist Tod.’ His eyes closed: he crumpled into the desert floor and lay still.
44
Caine picked up his Tommy at the palm groves, stopped to bandage Cope’s calf with strips torn from his smock. There was no exit wound: Caine was sure a bullet was lodged inside. The wound was agony, and they had no morphia: Cope could only just hobble with Caine’s help. The Totenkopf boys didn’t seem to be following them any more, but they were still about: Caine was acutely aware that if it came to a dingdong, he and Cope didn’t have any ammunition. They had a bayonet, but Caine didn’t fancy trying to take the Krauts down with that: not when it meant a chance of picking up that face-rotting lurgi.
They had about another forty minutes of light, he reckoned: there’d be less danger from the Huns at night. There were recognition panels on the landing ground, though: if a plane was coming in, it would be before dark. He had no idea who’d be on the plane or what their orders would be: he was ready to hijack the kite if he had to, but without loaded weapons wasn’t sure how to manage it.
He helped Copeland to his feet: they limped through the underbrush with their arms around each other’s shoulders, through tangled palm fronds draped in thick tapestries of light and shade. It was tough going: Caine was so weak from pain and exhaustion that he hardly knew who was supporting whom. They stopped to rest: Caine propped his friend against the broad, fluted bole of a palm. They had no water left: their mouths were thick with mucus.
‘Did you hear what that last Jerry said?’ Copeland panted. ‘The blek box ist Tod.’
Caine scratched his chin. ‘That means …’
‘The black box is death. Those Jerries were as sick as hell, and they weren’t an hour ago. You were right, mate. There’s some kind of germ-warfare agent in that box, call it Holy Fire, call it what you want. The Jerries must have opened it –’
‘They must have overrun Fiske’s position while we were blowing the lorries –’
‘Or maybe Fiske had opened it already. Maybe he was sick. Maybe that’s why his shooting was so off … maybe the Huns got the infection from him … but Jesus, it must spread like the clappers. I mean, they got it in minutes.’
Caine licked his arid tongue. ‘There’s no way that black box is getting out of here, Harry. Imagine what an infection like that would do in Egypt – it could wipe out half the population, let alone the Allied armies.’
Copeland made a visible effort to focus. ‘What about the Krauts, though? If any of them gets away, they could spread it here. I mean, what if they were captured by our side?’
Caine pulled at his chinstubble. ‘They can’t get away: we put their transport out of action. They might try it on foot, but how far would they get in that state?’
‘Disease affects people differently. Maybe some of them haven’t got it yet. And don’t forget, Tom, there’s a jeep here somewhere. The one Fiske nicked. What if they get hold of that?’
Caine shook his head. ‘We’ll have to make sure they don’t.’
‘That’s going to be dead easy with no ammo. Maybe we can use diplomacy, or you can finish ’em off with your clasp knife.’
‘Fiske might have ammo …’
Copeland shuddered. ‘I’m not going near Fiske. We don’t know how close you have to be to pick up the germs.’
‘We’ve got to at least have a shufti at his position.’
They found Fiske behind the broken wall of the disused well, slumped by the black box in a pool of his own vomit. His face was so bloated with blisters that he scarcely looked human. His head hung down on his chest: he lifted it as they approached, stared at them with eyes that were fevered dots in dark-jellied caverns.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ he croaked. ‘… It’s spread by contact … I didn’t know … Sears-Beach never told me what was in it …’
Caine was startled. ‘Sears-Beach? What’s he got …’ Then he remembered – even Pickney had mentioned Sears-Beach.
Fiske didn’t seem to hear him. ‘Never told me … nor did Caversham or Maskelyne … maybe they didn’t know … I opened it …’
‘You opened it?’
Fiske’s head flopped: Caine realized that he was hanging on to life by a thin strand. He was talking to himself now. ‘Don’t touch it,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t touch anything. Don’t let it get out of here. Get rid of it. You’d be doing the world a favour.’
Caine shivered. Those words had come in a voice that wasn’t Fiske’s: they were only subtly different from what he’d heard i
n the derelict aircraft. Fiske tried to lift his head again: the light caught the disease-blurred features and Caine froze. Behind the putrid mask of suffering, just for a second, he saw not Fiske’s, but Maurice Pickney’s face.
The RAF Blenheim came in twenty minutes before last light: Caine had guessed the time right, but hadn’t expected to see a medium bomber. He and Copeland sat on the edge of the landing ground in a wreath of shadows, watched the big bird drift down through massed terraces of giltedged cloud: the embers of the sun burned firegold along the dark blade of the hills. The landing gear squeaked, the light played on the aircraft’s glazed nose like splashed syrup, rippled along the tapered fuselage, the gun turrets – one on top, the other upside-down on her underbelly. Her wheels crunched on stones: she taxied towards them through billowing dusteddies: her twin Bristol Mercury engines boomed.
‘Blenheims have a six-man crew,’ Copeland rattled. ‘How we going to deal with that?’
Caine winked. ‘Like you said, mate, we’ve got two choices: clasp knife, or diplomacy.’
They watched the plane’s grasshopper shadow scorch to a standstill, caught the heady tang of aviation fuel, heard the propellers slew. The cockpit door yawned: an RAF pilot-officer jumped out, a gaunt figure in khakis and fleece-lined flying jacket, with a long chin, a fish-hook for a nose and a waxed cavalry moustache. He looked about nineteen, Caine thought. He poised loose-hipped in the plane’s shadow, popped a pipe in his mouth, stared at them with mild surprise. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Anybody order a kite?’
Caine helped Copeland to his feet, aware suddenly what a sorry sight they must look in their torn, bloodcaked uniforms, goresoaked dressings and filthy bandages, their faces gungy and powder-black, eyes like pissholes in snow.
‘Captain Caine, 1st SAS Regiment,’ Caine wheezed. ‘This is Lieutenant Copeland.’
‘Pilot-Officer Willington,’ the RAF man said. ‘I’m the driver of this kite.’
He put his pipe away, helped Caine support Copeland. ‘I say, sir,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve taken some flak.’
Death or Glory III Page 29
