Caine wondered for a moment who ‘Corporal Hussain’ was. Then he remembered – they'd agreed that if captured Naiman would give his name as Hussain Musa, an Indian from Calcutta. To reveal a name that was so obviously Jewish would have been fatal.
‘Don't,’ Caine panted. ‘Torture me if you want, but not him. He was only following orders.’
Rohde ignored his plea. ‘When your comrade is mutilated and shrieking in agony,’ he said, ‘you will remember that it was your doing – no one else will be to blame but yourself.’
Caine watched the German's smug expression, the caressing motion of the daddy-long-legs fingers on the cleaver, and knew suddenly that he was in the presence of a man with an extraordinarily acute insight into others' weaknesses. It was almost as if Rohde had read his thoughts. I'm patrol commander and this is my responsibility. I'd rather not let anyone else in for it…
Rohde wasn't simply doing his job, though: he believed in it, believed that his actions were of real benefit to his country. This was a man who identified himself with Hitler but was completely without feeling for others: a man who would excuse any crime, any inhumanity, on the grounds that it was of service to the state. The machine-like eyes, the high-pitched voice that seemed so out of place on a man so big, the disturbing hint of femininity in the posture, the spidery fingers, the perverted intuition, gave Caine the feeling that he was up against one of the most dangerous men he had ever met.
Rohde croaked another order, and one of the soldiers cut Naiman's bonds. The two of them stretched out his right hand until it lay palm-down on the table. Rohde lifted the cleaver. ‘The thumb first, I think,’ he said.
‘Wait,’ Caine gasped.
‘What information is Runefish carrying? I want the truth.’
Caine considered telling Rohde about Assegai: he knew that Runefish had destroyed the documents, without which, St Aubin had said, it wouldn't matter if he spilled the beans under interrogation. In fact, his CO had virtually given him the green light to mention Assegai under duress, yet something inside him, some stubbornness, just wouldn't give way. ‘I can't tell you,’ he said. ‘They sent us with orders to pull her out or kill her. That's all I know.’
Rohde brought the cleaver down on Naiman's hand with a savage motion, shearing the thumb clean off. Blood squidged from the stump, and Naiman vaulted high out of his chair, his body arching rigidly as if he'd been electrocuted, screaming in agony, letting out a stream of curses in a language Caine didn't recognize. Rohde evidently did recognize it, though, because he froze instantly. He stared at Naiman, his normally blank eyes alive with predatory interest.
‘Hebrew?’ he whispered. ‘You speak Hebrew? Now where would an Indian Muslim learn Hebrew? Unless… unless you are not a Muslim. Only a Jew or a scholar would know Hebrew, and you don't strike me as a scholar. I think you are a Jew. The Brandenburgers said you spoke to them in fluent Arabic. I put that down to your religion, but now… I see it: you are one of those Palestinian Jews, a refugee from Europe – from Germany, even? Well, well, well – now that is a surprise.’
Blood was still spurting from the place where Naiman's thumb had been, and one of the soldiers doused it with a rag. Naiman was sobbing with rage and pain, moaning to himself, clutching at the cloth, his bleach-white face contorted. He lifted his head suddenly, and Caine saw that his dark eyes were on fire. ‘Yes, I'm a Jew and I'm proud of it,’ he spat. ‘I am German by birth, and ashamed to admit it, ashamed that I was brought up among uncivilized pigs like you. I know all about your pogroms and your disgusting camps. You can do what you like to me, you filthy stinking butcher. With all your maiming and murdering you are doing us Jews a favour, because the more hate you build up, the greater the force that will one day destroy you.’
Rohde did no more than raise an eyebrow at this diatribe. ‘You know, Corporal… Corporal Yid,’ he said, ‘when I was a schoolboy they used to call me “Blond Moses”, because it was rumoured that my family had Jewish blood. It was a dirty lie, of course, and I have spent a great deal of my adult life proving that no German could despise the Yids more than I. Yes, I have had some of the most satisfying experiences of my life among your kind. I was with Heydrich during the invasion of Russia. We had orders to degrade and liquidate every Yid in the operational area – men, women and children. We very nearly succeeded, too. Your dirty Yid cunts were gang-raped in front of their children and husbands before being shot. Your Yid brothers and sisters are now buried in massed graves all over the steppe. Millions of them. That was what one calls very satisfying work. Why? Because it was the Jew traitors who handed our German Fatherland to the Allies, who sold us out for money during the Great War. I am not ashamed of my work in Russia, I'm proud of it, because I know that for every Jew-boy and Jew-girl I degraded and executed, I was taking revenge for my people – rendering a sterling service to my nation and my Führer.’
Caine guessed that, while Rohde was badgering Naiman deliberately, just to see what he would do, he was also speaking the truth. He was proud of his part in the wholesale slaughter of helpless men, women and children. Caine realized that the Nazi wouldn't be admitting such crimes unless he intended to kill them.
Naiman's face was burning with rage. ‘You'd better make sure you don't leave a single witness, you scum,’ he screamed, ‘because when this is over, by God you will answer for your crimes.’ He suddenly threw himself out of his chair, pounced on Rohde, hissing like a madman, got his one good hand round the German's throat and spat in his eye. Before he could do any more, the Brandenburgers leapt on him, one of them whacking his head with a rifle butt. Naiman fell to the ground, both his hand and his head pulsing blood.
The major stepped back, scrabbling at the saliva in his eye as if it had been poison, and for the first time, Caine saw him looking disconcerted. He cursed in German and kicked Naiman's inert body in the ribs with his jackboot. ‘Very well,’ he said, his voice sounding even more nasal. ‘I have a special… treatment… I keep in reserve for cases like this. I will have you taken to the minefield.’
Rohde ordered the Brandenburgers to dress Caine and Naiman in their shirts. When they were ready, he had them marched briskly through the streets, dragged along by a dozen troopers under the command of Captain Haller. Naiman had lost so much blood that he could hardly walk, and even Caine, whose hands were still bound behind his back, found himself staggering from the pain of his wound and gagging with thirst under the hot afternoon sun. They passed a few Arabs on the way, but Caine knew they could expect no help from that quarter. At first the Senussi looked at the two prisoners with interest, but on noticing the ‘Black Widow’ lowered their eyes and scurried away. Their reaction spoke volumes for Rohde's reputation here, Caine thought.
The minefield lay about half a mile from the town hall, under a rock cliff covered in thorny scrub. It was sealed off by a barbed-wire fence hung with skull-and-crossbones signs, intercepted by a narrow path that led up to the stone rim of a well. Caine was just thinking that it seemed an odd place to lay mines, when Rohde said, ‘This isn't one of ours. A legacy from you British when they occupied this area. Ironical, isn't it? They must have installed it to stop us using the well. Evidently they didn't want to poison the water, perhaps thinking that it might be useful to them later. We cleared a path to the well, but left the rest of the mines in place. From what I understand, there is a nasty cocktail of anti-personnel, anti-soft-skins, anti-tank mines here – a little of everything.’
He snapped an order at Haller, who had his men throw Caine down. He hit the earth with a thump, and cursed at the fresh spasms of pain in his side. His shirt was already soaked in blood. The Black Widow stood over him in that disturbing feminine posture, pelvis tilted, all the weight on one leg, like a bathing beauty. Behind him two guards held Naiman, his face still pale, panting from the effort of the walk.
‘This is your last chance to talk,’ Rohde said. ‘I want to know where the rest of your men are hiding, the name and rank of the officer in charge, how ma
ny of them there are, what weapons they have and what their orders are. If you fail to give me this information, I shall force Corporal Jew-boy here to tramp around the minefield until he hits a mine. The anti-personnel mines are designed to maim rather than kill, on the theory that a wounded man will always be likely to attract rescue attempts – leaving open the probability of more casualties. Interesting how Machiavellian your people are, eh?, but also how much faith they put in honour. As I say, your friend will be maimed, not killed, and if possible we shall continue to force him to tramp until you talk.’
‘Don't tell them anything,’ Naiman croaked. One of the Brandenburgers cuffed him: Naiman spat in his face. The soldier swore and clutched the corporal's mutilated hand, squeezing it until Naiman cried out.
‘That's enough,’ Rohde said.
He strode over to show the soldiers where to open up a section of the barbed-wire fence. Caine watched Rohde mincing back towards him, and a sickening, acid sourness churned his stomach. As an ex-Sapper, he knew better than most what anti-personnel mines could do. Naiman had already been maimed once, and the thought of his blundering around in the minefield until his limbs were blown off was horrific. Death was one thing – this was entirely another. He should never have given in to the interpreter's offer to join him on the snatch – he could have muddled through on his own: in any case, the result would have been the same.
He felt a fresh wave of indignation against Maddaleine Rose: he had the Wren to thank for this situation. She had not only alerted the enemy deliberately, she had also treated him and his mate as if they were dumb beasts whose lives were of no consequence. Whatever her motive, it was unforgivable. Weighed against Naiman's torture, though, were the lives of his men – his friends Copeland and Wallace and all the rest. Neither he nor Naiman had a chance now, but the other commandos did, and he couldn't take that away from them just to save pain to themselves. He buoyed himself up with the knowledge that, whatever Rohde knew about his patrol's actions against the Brandenburgers, he could never be certain that the two of them had been part of that group.
Rohde was standing over him. ‘Well?’ he said to Caine. ‘Where are the rest of your unit?’
‘There are no others,’ Caine answered in a voice that was deliberately dull. ‘The corporal and I came in by parachute. There only ever were two of us.’
Rohde's grin was an obscene leer. ‘So, the two of you wiped out a whole Brandenburger platoon at Umm 'Aijil, and another on the road to Benghazi, where you destroyed five vehicles, including an armoured car? What about the 3-tonner Bedford that was destroyed there also? Did you parachute in with that in your haversack, perhaps?’
‘I don't know anything about that. It must have been another group.’
‘I see, and where exactly did you get that wound in your side, Sergeant? Come to that, where did you get the Arab clothes and those interesting bows and arrows, with the sleeping potion? How did you know that Runefish was in the town hall, and how did you know its layout? How did you know she was in Biska in the first place? Who were your collaborators among the Senussi?’
‘The wound was an accident – my bayonet came loose when I landed on the drop. The Arab gear and the bows – we brought them with us. We got the other information by hearsay from passers-by, chance encounters – I don't know who the Senussi were. I don't speak Arabic.’
‘Where did you leave your weapons?’
‘I forget.’
Rohde shook his head. ‘This is already getting tedious,’ he said. ‘For the last time, where are the rest of your men?’
‘There are no other men.’
Rohde let out a sigh. ‘Throw him into the minefield,’ he ordered Haller, speaking English for Caine's benefit. The two soldiers holding Naiman pushed him roughly through the gap in the fence. The corporal staggered, clutching his wounded hand, then stood stock still. One of the Jerries poked his backside with a rifle muzzle, but Naiman didn't budge. Rohde shouted something at the other soldiers, two of whom grabbed Caine and hauled him towards the minefield. For a second he thought Rohde had given up on him and intended to hurl him in there too. Then he realized he was being forced to take a ringside view of the show. Rohde was standing outside the fence a few yards behind Naiman. ‘Move,’ the major yelled at him. Naiman stared straight ahead. ‘All right,’ Rohde whispered. ‘Stubborn, is it?’
He drew his .38-calibre revolver from its button-down holster, aimed and fired. A single shot cracked: Naiman shrieked as a gaping entry wound appeared in his calf, and his lower leg went crooked, as if the bone were smashed. Caine shuddered, knowing how excruciating the pain must be. Incredibly, Naiman didn't fall over. Instead, he hopped forwards into the minefield, hurled curses in Hebrew, squealed in torment, jitterbugged, gavotted, blebbed gore. The Brandenburgers cackled, yelled brutal remarks at the jerking figure. Caine got the impression they were actually laying bets on how long he'd survive. Rohde fired several more rounds in Naiman's direction, but missed.
Caine felt more sickened than he'd ever felt in his life: the gorge rose in his throat. As a spectacle of sheer brutality, this would be hard to cap. He watched with bated breath, feeling hot salt stinging in the corners of his eyes, praying that his mate would be lucky – that a mine would finish him off in one go. He cast around, seeking any means possible of putting an end to this, even if it meant his own death. One of the Jerries near by was holding his Schmeisser loosely, unslung, and the soldier's attention was totally focused on the sport. If Caine's arms were only free, he could have snatched the sub-machine gun, made a last suicidal effort. He had just started working his wrists, trying desperately to get his hands loose, when there was a heart-stopping kabuuumfff from the minefield. Brandenburgers ducked. A blast-wave broke, the air folded, the ground staggered: a parasol of dust and smoke ribbed over the minefield, debris pattered around them.
For a second the air was opaque with smoke. When it cleared, Caine saw Naiman lying in a heap in the sand. He was no more than twenty paces from where he had started, and Caine could see that his foot had been blown clean off. It lay in the sand a good two yards from his body. The corporal was slumped face down on a smoking crater, sobbing and wheezing audibly, swearing, ranting to himself in a mixture of Hebrew, German and English. Caine felt tears running down his face. Nudging his guards back with his massive shoulders, he twisted round and puked into the sand. Forcing his mate into that minefield was the most malicious thing he'd ever witnessed, he thought, and if by a miracle he survived this, he'd make sure that these Nazi pigs paid and paid.
Rohde strolled over to him, looking light-hearted, as if he'd just done a good day's work. ‘I think we'll just let him lie there,’ he said. ‘Die slowly. The vultures will be in around sunset. They don't care if an animal's dead, as long as it can't move. They usually begin by pecking out the eyes.’ As if on cue, a large brown Nubian vulture glided in on majestic wings and landed on the crest of the cliff, inspecting the scene superciliously. Rohde laughed.
Caine gritted his teeth. ‘I'll see you in hell,’ he spat.
At a nod from Rohde, two soldiers seized him from behind, yanking him backwards. His lungs sponged up air as a new oscillation of pain hit him from the wound in his side. Rohde lifted his pistol and held it against Caine's temple. Caine felt the muzzle digging into the skin. ‘Go on,’ he grunted. ‘Do it.’
Rohde let the weapon drop. ‘I don't think I'm going to get much more out of you, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but no matter. I expect Runefish will tell me all I really need to know, and my carabinieri trackers will quickly find out where you came from. Since you insulted my Führer, though, I feel that shooting is too quick for you. Instead, I'm going to have you thrown into the well. How do you like the idea of dying alone in a watery dark hole a hundred feet down, listening to your friend's agonized cries as he bleeds to death or the vultures peck his eyes out, knowing that you can't do anything to help him? You'll die very slowly down there, of hunger and hypothermia – oh, and you'll have some charming
visitors too – scorpions and snakes are very fond of wells. The last Senussi we dropped in there thought he was a hard man: wouldn't talk, just like you. He kept going for five days, and in the end he was begging and pleading with us to let him rat on his relatives, offering to let us fuck his own daughter if we'd only pull him out. We told him that we'd arrested his entire village, so we didn't need any names, and that we'd already fucked his daughter, his wife and his sister. He wasn't too happy about it…’ Rohde paused and holstered his pistol. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘You will excuse me if I don't wait. I am long overdue for a cosy chat with that little girl. Goodbye, now.’
As Rohde stalked off, Haller had six Brandenburgers seize Caine: they were taking no chances, he thought. As they shoved him towards the cleared pathway, he caught the eye of the young captain. ‘You're a soldier,’ he shouted. ‘How can you allow this?’
Haller evidently understood, because he reddened slightly. ‘Orders,’ he said in English.
The Brandenburgers half dragged, half carried Caine, struggling and fighting, along the narrow path to the lip of the well. As they bent him over the rim while they cut his bonds, he got a momentary impression of a dank, humid, bottomless shaft. A frail voice inside his head snivelled with blind terror: once inside that pit he would never get out. He felt the rope fall from his wrists, but before he could make any last attempt to lash out, the soldiers had jerked his legs from under him and sent him plummeting head-first into the dark abyss.
31
Caine remembered falling, turning slowly like Alice in Wonderland, but he didn't recall hitting the water. The next thing he knew was the smell of burning carbon and scorched iron. There was fire in the forge and his father was whacking in sledgehammer blows while he played duet with the smaller hammer. After a while you didn't have to think about it – it seemed to work by itself, as if some great invisible force were working through the two of you, and the perfect cadence of the two hammers came like music, like the throb of two hearts beating. A single smash from the sledgehammer would have crushed his hand, but he knew that not a blow would miss its mark, and it wasn't hard any longer, because he had perfect trust in his father's skill, and he had trust in his own skill too, and the steel formed into shape under their blows as if by magic. He knew that, if he wished, he could stay here for ever in the warmth of the forge, and his father's presence, but there were things he hadn't finished, things he still had to do. The hammering stopped and he was looking at his father's face: a blunt, heat-weathered face, wise only with the simple wisdom of a man who had spent his entire life working with his hands. ‘I have to go, Dad,’ he said.
Death or Glory I: The Last Commando: The Last Commando Page 30
