Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando

by Michael Asher

  Caine let smoke trail through his nostrils, thinking that tobacco had never tasted so good. ‘Carlo was the man with you at the village? Your brother?’

  ‘Of course. You bring him with you, or you bury him there?’

  Caine shook his head. ‘The Germans burned his body before we got there.’

  ‘Pigs.’

  A thought occurred to him. ‘What happened to your jeep?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sheikh said you arrived in a jeep.’

  ‘Oh. The Tedesci took it, but it break down, so they dump it.’

  Copeland arrived with Sheikh Adud and Layla. ‘We let the boys go, skipper,’ he said. ‘They were none too chuffed about their ammo, but I think they were pleased enough to get away.’

  The Italian girl stood up, embracing Adud and Layla like long-lost friends, kissing them on both cheeks. Adud looked slightly taken aback. When she sat down again, Caine saw that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘I think this is yours,’ Copeland said, handing her the compact he'd found at the village.

  She took it, giving him a wan smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said, flipping open the lid and studying her face in the mirror. ‘As you see, I am very much in need of it.’

  ‘Look,’ Caine said. ‘We don't have a lot of time. I want to know who you are, and why those Germans took you…’

  He was interrupted by Pickney, who had shifted his medical chest over and was crouching down to examine his wound. Wallace loomed over him, his shoulder now heavily bandaged. He eased himself on to a petrol case and swigged water from his bottle.

  ‘Sorry, skipper,’ Pickney said, ‘but that wound needs stitches right away. You want morphia?’

  Caine had changed his mind. His side was still stinging badly, but he realized that he ought to keep his senses clear. ‘No, I'm all right,’ he said.

  ‘Go on with your conversation, then. Just pretend I'm not here.’

  ‘That's going to be dead easy, isn't it?’

  He gave his full attention to the girl, who had put her compact away and was now watching fascinated as the orderly started to clean Caine's injury with iodine. Caine coughed, and she switched her eyes reluctantly to his face. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘My name is Angela, Angela Brunetto. I'm from Trento, in the Alps, near the Swiss border. My husband is a communist. He was a soldier in the Italian army, but he didn't like it, so he ran away. There is a big band of – how do you call those who run away from the army?’

  ‘Deserters?’

  ‘Yes. There is a big band of deserters living in the Jebel. Deserters, communists, and many colonists who lost their farms because of the war. My brother, Carlo, is a colonist – he lose his farm after the Italian troops go, and the people are attack by Senussi. My husband, Michele, is capo of all deserters and colonists in the Jebel.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Caine yelled, making Angela start. ‘Steady on, Maurice. That hurt.’

  The orderly grinned apologetically. ‘It looks cushy, skipper. No internal damage.’

  ‘Good, but just go easy.’

  ‘Either I give you a shot, or you'll have to grin and bear it.’

  Caine made a face and turned back to Angela, whose gaze had been drawn again to Pickney, now stitching up the wound with catgut. ‘What were you doing in that village?’ Caine asked tersely.

  Once again she dragged her eyes away from the orderly's work. ‘Hiding from the Tedesci,’ she said. ‘Carlo and me go to Sirte to buy fish – it is far, but Benghazi is not safe for us. An aircraft follow us on the way back, and we go the opposite way – into the desert – so as not to lead them to our camp. We think we were safe, but the pigs find us there. They shoot Carlo, and me they take.’

  ‘Why did they kidnap you? I mean why not kill you too?’

  She shrugged eloquently, and Caine couldn't help noticing how supple her slim shoulders were. ‘At first I believe they want to make me talk,’ she said. ‘To find our camp. I am scared. These soldiers are not ordinary soldiers – not DAK, you know? I say to myself perhaps they come to hunt Italian deserters, but then why they keep talking to me in English, as if they believe I am English? Then I understand. They think I am someone else.’ She gazed at Caine, her eyes glowing with a feline intensity. ‘Perhaps they think I am the girl you are looking for?’

  Caine stiffened. ‘I never said we were looking for a girl.’

  ‘You attack them to save me?’ Angela gave an un-ladylike snort. ‘I am flattered, but I don't think so. You, too, think I am someone else. That is why you ask me if I am a fish. It is, how do you say… codice… code, no?’

  Caine locked eyes with Copeland, then with Naiman, who burst out, ‘I never said anything, skipper. I did ask if she was Runefish, but then you asked her too. She's not stupid.’

  ‘No, I am not stupid,’ Angela said, showing teeth that were sharp and remarkably white. ‘I thank you for saving me, even if it is a mistake. Now, why you don't take me back to my camp? Is not far and is well hidden. You will be safe there from aircraft. You can rest, and maybe Michele is help you find this fish woman. We have many contacts with Senussi all over the area – all the news reach us. In any case, Michele will be very grateful to you for bringing me.’

  Caine flinched. ‘Maurice, for Jesus' sake. Feels like you're carving the pork.’

  ‘Nearly done, skipper.’

  ‘I'm sorry about your brother,’ he said, panting slightly, ‘but you belong to a nation we're at war with. You're a hostile. I don't know if I even ought to trust you, let alone take you home.’

  Angela tilted her face to one side and fluttered her eyelids. Caine wondered whether the action was instinctive or a deliberate attempt to charm him. Whatever the case, he was charmed. ‘Me, hostile?’ she purred. ‘I am civilian, not army. Anyway, we are all against Mussolini.’

  Caine examined her face, and guessed that, behind the defensive manner, she was scared and lonely. Like Maddaleine Rose, she was on her own in the desert, and today could hardly have figured as a high-point in her life. She'd seen her brother shot down in cold blood, had been abducted by Brandenburgers, had witnessed men being killed horribly within inches of her, and was now in the hands of British troops. He felt sorry for her, and despite himself, he wanted to help. As a soldier, he didn't like the idea of deserters, but then, if they were a thorn in the Axis side, they could only be regarded as potential allies.

  Taking his silence for coldness, Angela cast around as if searching for inspiration. ‘You are hurt,’ she said at last. ‘You have men wounded. We have excellent medical supplies… we have everything there, more than the army… drugs, food, wine, whisky.’ She paused, and her eyes suddenly lit up. ‘What about benzina? We have benzina – thousands of litres. Michele will give you all you need.’

  Caine sat up too quickly, gasping as pain shot through him. ‘Hold still, skipper,’ Pickney said irritably. ‘Else you'll break the stitches.’

  Caine ignored him. ‘Benzina – you mean petrol?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, petrol.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ Copeland cut in, leaning forward suspiciously. ‘Where did your people get all that stuff?’

  Angela shrugged, showing her sharp white teeth. ‘We steal it, of course. We take what we find. There is a lot of stuff in the desert now, no? Benzina dumps, water dumps, supply convoys. We don't care who it belongs to – it is all the same to us.’

  ‘So that's why you wear British khakis,’ Copeland said, ‘and British officer's boots.’

  She giggled, taking this as a compliment. ‘British khakis look heavy,’ she said, ‘but they are cool. Italian khakis are for bella figura only. We Italians make beautiful boots, but your English boots, they are more comfortable.’

  ‘So glad you approve,’ Cope said drily.

  ‘Ouch!’ Caine spat suddenly. ‘Didn't you say you were done, Maurice?’

  ‘That's it, Tom. It's all over. You'll need sulphenamide pills for infection. I've cleaned it out best I can, but for all we know that
Jerry might have dipped his blade in piss.’

  Caine took the pills but didn't swallow them. When he turned to Angela again, he found that her smile had faded. ‘We have warm springs,’ she said lamely. ‘You can all have a bath.’

  To her surprise, Caine's face lit up. ‘A bath,’ he exclaimed. ‘I won't deny that some extra petrol would come in handy. But a bath? Now how could anyone refuse that?’

  After Naiman had taken Angela and the two Senussi away for scoff and a brew, Cope moved his petrol case nearer to Caine, who saw at once that he was furious. ‘You weren't serious about taking that woman home?’ he said.

  ‘I was deadly serious,’ replied Caine.

  ‘It's complete madness, skipper. You must still be shell-shocked. I couldn't say anything in front of her, but you've been taken in by a piece of skirt batting her eyelids at you. I know you've got a thing about damsels in distress, but…’

  ‘What thing? I haven't got any…’

  ‘You have, Tom. It's always the “women and children first” with you, isn't it? Look at what happened yesterday at the Senussi village.’ He caught Wallace's eye. ‘Tell him, Fred.’

  Wallace, who had been busy boiling tea on a Primus stove, filled three mugs with hot brew from the kettle. He stabbed a tin of Carnation with a clasp-knife, then dripped generous lashings of the syrupy condensed milk into the mugs. He dipped a spoon into a bag of sugar, shaking his bushy head. ‘You do come on a bit strong over the ladies and children sometimes, Tom,’ he said awkwardly, spooning sugar. ‘What about them wogs this morning?’

  ‘That's got nothing to do with it,’ Caine snapped. He took the mug Wallace handed him, crammed the sulphenamide pills into his mouth, swallowed a mouthful of tea, sighed with pleasure. ‘God, I needed this.’

  ‘Tom,’ Cope said. ‘You ever heard of the Sirens?’

  ‘I've heard of air-raid sirens,’ Wallace cut in, chuckling.

  Cope sent him an exasperated glance. ‘The Sirens were beautiful women whose singing used to lure sailors to death on the rocks. This area – Cyrenaica – it's named after them.’

  ‘The last thing I need,’ Caine grunted, ‘is a bloody history lesson.’

  ‘All right,’ Cope said. ‘This girl reminds me of the Sirens. For all we know, she might be drawing us into a trap.’

  Caine snorted, spilt gobs of milky tea. ‘Look, I didn't say I trusted her. We do need a place to lay up, though, and if that girl is being straight about her deserters and colonists, the fact that they're holding out there means that their base must be pretty secure. We also need fuel, and this is one easy way to get it. All right, we could bump a convoy for petrol, but can we afford another action just now? We've already got eight men down – more than a third of the unit. Fred's wounded, I'm wounded. The boys are knackered. If we take any more hits we'll never pull the mission off.’

  ‘Pull the…’ Copeland choked, spluttered, showered himself with tea. He coughed, put his mug down, wiped milky tea off his chin with his hand. ‘Skipper,’ he said, ‘you can't be considering going on with Op Runefish, surely? The mission's shot. We lost our chance of snatching Runefish the minute we started following those Brandenburgers. I admit I was convinced, but I made a mistake. What we've got to do now is stay alive long enough to get back behind the Wire.’

  Caine surveyed Copeland's face, shaking his head. ‘I agreed to take on a mission,’ he said. ‘Whatever bullshit they've fed me, however many red herrings we've followed, that mission is still on. While I'm alive, anyway, one thing is for certain: We're not going back without Runefish – or at least without making sure she's dead.’

  Cope sighed, seeing that the battle was already lost. ‘So what are we going to do, then? We're stuck in the middle of nowhere, without enough fuel to get back to Egypt, with God knows how many Huns on our trail, nothing on the emergency net, and no way of knowing or even of finding out where Runefish is – if she even exists at all, that is.’

  Caine was fully aware that the chances of finding Runefish were now limited, but he would be damned if he was going to run home with his tail between his legs without even a struggle. ‘You're wrong, Harry,’ he said. ‘Runefish is still out there somewhere, and going with Angela is our best chance. All right, she might be a “Siren”, but there are times in your life, mate, when you've got to make a leap of faith, when you can't just rely on two and two making four. My nose tells me she's above board. That doesn't prove anything, I'll grant you. Maybe her husband will be grateful enough to give us petrol and information, or maybe he'll sell us to the Nazis, or maybe they'll start shooting the moment we show up. Whatever happens, the bottom line is that we're trained special-service troops, and whatever comes up, we'll deal with it.’

  25

  The deserters' base lay in a vast crater at the heart of the Green Mountain, the hub of a complex of wadis that meandered out in every direction. By the time Caine's column reached the narrow defile that led into the basin, darkness had long since fallen. Angela advised Caine to halt the wagons at the entrance while she went ahead to warn her people of their approach.

  She was back within twenty minutes, declaring that her husband and his band were ready to welcome them with open arms. Copeland remained wary of a trap, though, and Caine ordered the wagons through the gap with hatches up and all guns manned. He quickly saw that these precautions had been unnecessary. As soon as he alighted from the scout car, a galaxy of lights sprang up in the darkness – dozens of candles and oil lamps blinked and flickered in the hands of scores of people. The crowd was assembled on a great flat slab of rock, extending like a giant foot from the base of a dark cave that opened in what looked like a sheer cliff. The lights streamed towards him like a current of stardust, in a flurry of voices and the barking of dogs. A moment later Caine was mobbed, a horde of excited men, women and children cheered, clapped, jabbered at him in Italian, clamoured to shake his hand. After the bloodbath on the road that morning, it felt like a hero's return.

  Caine heard a voice rasping orders, and the crowd peeled back to let through a short, broad-chested, swash-buckling man with a goatee beard and a shoulder-length mane of wild hair. He was clad in a sheepskin coat, Afrika Korps jodhpurs, high cavalry boots. The newcomer marched up to Caine, threw his arms round him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I am Michele Brunetto,’ he announced. ‘My wife told me everything. Thank you for bringing her back. You are welcome here – our place is yours.’

  Trubman, Naiman, Pickney, Graveman and Cpl Barry Shackleton, the ex-Scots Greys farrier, volunteered to stay with the leaguer. Caine left them with orders to man the Vickers on the Dingo in two-hour stags, and gave Trubman instructions to renew his efforts on the emergency net. Adud called him aside and explained through Naiman that he and his daughter wouldn't be joining them. Some of the Italian ex-colons here weren't well disposed towards his folk – their homesteads had been sacked by bands of marauding Arabs after the Itie army had gone, and they blamed the Senussi.

  Here in the camp, which they called the Citadello, Angela and Michele were evidently king and queen. They led Caine and his men up on to the slab, and into the cave-opening. As he entered, Caine caught his breath. It was like the distorted mirror-image of some huge Gothic cathedral, lit with dozens of lamps in niches, its huge vaulted ceiling supported by grotesquely twisted stalagmites as thick as the trunks of oak trees. There was room for a squadron of tanks to leaguer in there.

  The rock pillars enclosed recesses that Caine saw were furnished with old carpets, sheepskins and cushions and hung with threadbare drapes and tapestries. In the open area between rock pillars there stood ranks of trestle tables and benches that must have seated scores, and the cave wall was lined with other tables laden with brandy casks and wine bottles in straw envelopes. Caine noticed another cave opening off the larger one, that seemed to be festooned with hanging legs of ham, sausages, and Parmesan cheeses as big as truck-wheels: it was stacked with jars of tomato pulp, glass magnums of olive oil, ten-pound tins of jam and coffee,
square chests of tea. There were cartons upon cartons of captured compo rations. Caine surveyed the bounty and shot Michele an incredulous glance. ‘You do all right for yourselves here, don't you?’ he said.

  The Italian shrugged, unbelting his sheepskin, giving Caine a glimpse of the pistol he wore in a button-down holster at his waist. The eyes that met Caine's were shifty, and the face, more lined in the light of the cave than Caine had noticed outside, gave an impression of slyness. ‘This is nothing,’ Michele said, making an expansive gesture towards the stores of food and drink. ‘We have chickens, pigs, even some cows for milk – many of our people were colon farmers before the war, and they bring their animals with them here. We buy fish and lobsters from the Arabs on the coast, and we have more tinned food than we can eat.’

  Copeland frowned. ‘British or Axis?’ he enquired.

  Michele opened both hands wide. ‘We trade for some. Some we take. It doesn't matter from which side we take, because property is theft and all are class enemies.’ He caught Cope's expression and went on hastily. ‘Not you, of course.’ He turned, seized Angela tenderly in his arms and gave her a long, breathless kiss on the lips that ended only when she pushed him away, snickering. ‘You bring back my treasure,’ he said, touching the bandage on her forehead. ‘She is hurt, but it is nothing. I thought she was dead.’ He released her with apparent reluctance and clapped Caine on the shoulder. ‘You are blood brothers for ever, and my life is yours.’ He gestured at his chest with his right hand, his thumb pressed against four fingers. ‘Me, I am like your English Robin Hood. I take from rich capitalist pigs, and I give to the poor.’ He chuckled, showing gold teeth. ‘The poor, that is me and you, no?’

  He stared at Angela again, his face drained of joviality. ‘We will miss Carlo,’ he said. ‘He was a good man. Tonight, we hold feast to his memory, to celebrate your safe return, and to honour our guests. We eat roast suckling pig, we drink wine, we have music and dancing, and we forget the war.’

  Noticing that this news wasn't greeted with unalloyed rapture by Caine and Cope, Michele lifted both of his hands in a gesture of openness. ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘I know you are soldiers, but you are safe here with us. Angela says you need benzina. It is yours. You can take whatever you need. Come, I show you.’