HMS Saracen

by Douglas Reeman

  The marines faltered, but De L’Isle waved his stick and screamed : `Get them ! Get them!’ The words seemed to be wrung from his very heart.

  Two of the Turkish soldiers dropped to their knees and began to fire their long rifles as fast as they could reload.

  Pickles realised that the strange real enemy was directly in his path, but he could not stop himself from running, nor could he draw his revolver. Faster, faster. The rifle muzzles spurted yellow flame directly in his eyes. A marine, yelling like a fiend, screamed and clutched his stomach as a bullet smashed him down, but another marine reached the seemingly paralysed Turk and drove his bayonet deep into his throat. The Turk gurgled and rolled on to his face. With a sob the frantic marine turned and swung the bayonet again, the full force of his body pinioning the writhing man on the ground like an insect.

  From the flank Colour Sergeant Barnes bellowed : `Just give ‘im two inches ! Don’t make a bloody meal of it!’

  The battle-crazed marine faltered as he withdrew the reddened bayonet and blinked dazedly towards the parade-ground voice, then obedient and happy he. staggered after the rest, the Turk already forgotten beside the bodies of the others.

  Like savage, desperate animals the marines fell into the position vacated by the small enemy outpost, fear temporarily forgotten as lust and hatred dispersed itself in a frenzy of preparations.

  Grenades banged on the right, and another ragged cheer announced the end of the hidden machine-gun. De L’Isle said unevenly, `It’s a start, anyway.’

  A big shell sighed overhead, and then another. In the far distance beyond the ridge two green puffs of lyddite smoke blossomed and hung unmoving against the dull hills. The monitor had fired at last. Two vague, unchartered shots to give the enemy something to think about.

  The marines settled down amongst the rocks and readjusted their sights. Sergeant Barnes strode briskly towards Major De L’Isle and saluted. `Fifteen killed, sir. Ten wounded.’ His pale eyes watched the Major’s face with something like affection. `I’m afraid one of the young gentlemen ‘as bin ‘it too, sir.’

  jPickles, who had been fighting to regain his breath, erked upright at the words. All the things Chesnaye had said and done, all the pent-up fears and wants of the past weeks roared into his brain as Barnes added sadly, `Must ‘ave got ‘it just as we reached ‘ere, sir.’ Pickles stood up and began to run back across the open ground.

  A wounded marine cried out : `Help me, fer Christ’s sake ! Me eyes, I’m blind!’ As Pickles dashed past he screamed again : `Come ‘ere, you bastards ! Don’t leave me!’ Another marine, dead and cold-eyed, lay with his torn shoulder already alive with blue flies, his mouth half open as if in rebuke.

  A bullet snickered past Pickles’ head, but he ran on, deaf to it and the shouts of the marines. Perhaps this was how it was meant to end. He tucked in his head and ran even faster.

  Richard Chesnaye forced himself to lie quite still until his mind was able to break through the enveloping pain, and only then did he try to move. Very gingerly he took his weight on his hands and pushed himself slowly into a sitting position. The sudden movement made him cry out, and with something like terror he forced himself to look at the long dark stain which was soaking his right thigh and staining the dry stones at his side. His throat felt raw with sudden thirst, and as he stared round the small, saucer shaped depression into which he had fallen he was aware for the first time of the complete stillness and sense of loneliness. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he twisted his head to look around him, his eyes taking in the clear empty sky and the unmoving bent grass which crested the edges of the depression, and the clump of faded yellow balsam. He stared dazedly and uncomprehending for several seconds at the brown, claw-like hand which hung over the grass by his head, its wrist lined with dark dried blood upon which the flies were already at work.

  He tried to concentrate, to recall the exact moment when he had been singled out from the frantic, noisy dash across that vague open ground and had been thrown down by the savage, white-hot blow. He lifted his wrist, and then sighed with despair as he stared at his broken watch. Hours or minutes? The high unshielded sun gave him no clue. He stiffened as a distant rattle of machinegun fire echoed through the dusty grass. They were not all dead, then. As if to settle his disordered thoughts a pain-racked voice, cracked and unrecognisable, cried out and then died before he could judge its distance. His ears began to pick out other sounds too. The far-off rumble of heavy guns, the background to some other battle.

  He fell back again on the warm earth, his eyes closed against the glare. His brain told him to make just one more effort to move, but something else held him back. The pain washed over him, and in his mind he saw a sudden picture of his father framed against the deep green of the English lawn and the worn, leather-bound books along the wall of his room. He flinched as a spent bullet thudded into the ground by his side; and tried to think more clearly. Was the ship still off the coast or even afloat?. With sudden clarity he remembered the small knot of Turkish soldiers and the flash of bayonets just before he had fallen. He recalled, too, that he had been keeping his mind blank when it had happened, yet unable to tear his eyes from the desperate, spurting rifles which blocked his way. Perhaps the dead hand which gripped so fervently at the grass by his head belonged to one of those soldiers? In any case it could not be long before others arrived. He felt his stomach muscles tighten as he imagined the figures tall against the sky on the edge of his hiding place, the agonising moment of discovery. And then the bayonets.

  Another burst of firing cut through the lazy air, and it was followed immediately by distant shouts and more firing. Through the ground at his back he felt the sudden thud of running feet, and he imagined he could hear quick, desperate breathing as the running man drew nearer.

  It was then that he realised just how desperately he wanted to live, and the approaching, hidden terror made him roll on to his side, his bloodied fingers groping frantically for his revolver. Whimpering and cursing, he tugged at the holster, the agony in his thigh adding to his sense of urgency. Just as he succeeded in freeing the flap a shadow blotted out the sun, and he tightened his body into one agonised ball, unable to look round, but waiting for the murderous thrust of steel.

  As if in a dream he heard Pickles say : `Thank God, Dick ! Here, let me have a look !’

  Chesnaye allowed himself to be rolled on his back, still only half, believing what he saw. Pickles, breathless but engrossed, his round face screwed in set concentration as he tore open the side of the dripping trousers. More pain when his hands found the place, but a quick reassuring grin when the warm snugness of a bandage and dressing cut off the probing sun and the eager flies.

  Pickles sat on his haunches. `I don’t know much about these things, Dick, but the bullet seems to have missed the bone.’ He grinned widely, as if the realisation of what he had achieved had suddenly reached him. `I knew I’d find you if I ran far enough!’

  A shell passed overhead, and Pickles said :`We must get out of here. The rest of our chaps are about a hundred yards further on, by the ridge.’

  Chesnaye felt the relief coursing through him like brandy. `I’m ready when you are!’

  Pickles sat upright and wrinkled his nose like a dog. For a long moment he stared at the dead Turk and then said : `Seems a bit quieter. We’ll chance it.’

  Together they crawled over the lip of the depression, their faces brushed by the grass and ageless gorse. Chesnaye kept his right arm across Pickles’ shoulder, and dragging his damaged leg between them the two midshipmen pulled themselves towards the ridge which had now lost its shadow and shone in the sunlight like brown coral.

  They paused for a brief rest and Chesnaye said slowly, `There’s a lot to do, Keith.’

  Pickles grinned. `You can say that again ! We’ve not started yet, and, quite frankly, I think it’ll be up to us again.’

  Chesnaye stared at him with open wonder. Then he gave Pickles’ shoulder a quick squeeze. `Thank you, Ke
ith. I’ll not forget.’

  Pickles sighed as three marines charged from cover and hauled them to safety behind a slab of broken rock. Dusting the grit from his trousers he said flatly, `I’m not sure that I will either!’

  Major De L’Isle greeted Chesnaye with a savage grin. `Well done, lad. We’ll be needing you as soon as my orderly can patch you up. Think you can make it up to the top?’ He beamed as Chesnaye nodded vaguely, but then turned on a scowl for Pickles’ benefit. `By God, you should have been shot for what you did ! You’re raving bloody mad, did you know that?’

  Pickles stood in the centre of an admiring circle of staring marines and felt the prickle of real happiness for the first time since he had stepped aboard the Saracen. He looked down at Chesnaye’s drawn face and said, `I suppose I’ve got used to running!’

  8

  The Pinnacle

  The distant hills danced like a mirage in the twin lenses of Chesnaye’s field-glasses so that it took him precious minutes to refocus them and assess what he saw. Each second added to the pain in his leg, which in spite of the dressing felt raw and torn, and the more he looked through his glasses, the more hopeless seemed the task. It was quiet on top of the ridge. Quiet and with very little cover. The three naval officers and three seamen had crawled back and forth over an area which measured about fifty yards by twenty and represented the highest part of the ridge. Highest, that is, but for the tall, bleak pinnacle.

  It was funny how clearly he could think about the job in hand. Chesnaye moved the glasses slightly and watched two faint shell-bursts to the north. Perhaps the concentration was the only thing holding back the nausea and agony, or the sense of defeat.

  He tried again. Everything seemed to come back to the pinnacle. The ridge was good enough to pinpoint the enemy bombardment area, but then again was invisible to the ship. The pinnacle was the monitor’s aiming mark, a known object on chart and gunnery grid-maps. It glimmered in the bright sunlight, smooth and unlovely. It was about sixty feet high with a deep cleft just below the top. His heart quickened and he looked sideways at SubLieutenant Pringle, who was squatting tensely behind some boulders his back against the wall of the derelict hut. His sun-reddened face was worried and brooding.

  Chesnaye cleared his throat . `We’d better send a runner back to the beach with the first signal.’ He spoke through tight lips, intolerant of Pringle’s silence, which was even more unnerving than his noisy protests when the party had landed. `What d’you say?’

  Pringle jerked himself from his thoughts. His eyes flashed with some of his old arrogance. `What’s the hurry?, We’re probably wasting our time, anyway!’

  Pickles said quickly, `Shall I go?’

  Chesnaye wrote on his pad and handed the folded signal to one of the seamen. `No, Keith. You and I are going up the old rock needle here.’

  Pickles looked up and grimaced. ‘Ouch!’ Then with a look of concern. `Can you make it? I would have thought he could go !’ He spoke loudly enough for Pringle to hear.

  `Now that’s enough from you !’ Pringle leapt to his feet, his face working furiously. `Just because you’ve been doing some petty heroics you think you’re something, eh?’ His face twisted with anger. `Well, I know a few things about you ! By God, I’m sick of the lot of you!’

  Chesnaye nodded to the gaping seaman, who tore his eyes from the gesticulating Pringle and began to climb over the side of the ridge. Below him the marines in their prepared positions watched him descend with interest.

  With the whiplash crack Chesnaye had heard before, the sniper’s rifle sent the birds wheeling from the ridge in screaming protest. The seaman hung for a moment longer, his eyes on the pinnacle above him, and then plummeted down the side of the ridge.

  The hillsides re-echoed again to the rattle of the Lewis gun as the marines swept the silent rocks in a miniature dust-storm in a vain effort to find the hidden marksman. Then there was silence once more.

  Chesnaye bit his lip with sudden determination. `Here, give me a hand, Keith.’ Slinging his glasses round his neck he walked to the foot of the pointing rock and began to climb up towards the small cleft. Each move was agony, but his mind was too occupied with the urgency of his task and the fact that he had just sent a man to his death for nothing.

  Pringle’s nerve snapped as the two midshipmen turned away from him. He shook his fists in the air and yelled `What the hell is happening? For God’s sake let’s get out of here!’

  Pickles paused ahead of Chesnaye and held out his

  hand to help him. `I know how he feels,’ he said hoarsely, `and that makes a change!’

  Chesnaye forced himself to grin, and dragged himself further up the steep edges of hot stone. Once there and I’m done for, he thought. He could feel the blood beginning to pump through the bandage, and his right foot seemed to be dead.

  He heard another crack, and a bullet smacked hard against the pinnacle, hurling small splinters against his hands. With a sob Pickles pulled him unceremoniously into the cleft and a tiny, wonderful patch of shade.

  Chesnaye had difficulty in controlling his mouth as Pickles upended his water-bottle to allow a little lukewarm water to moisten his parched lips. He nodded, grateful, not trusting words. He watched Pickles with something like apprehension as he stowed away the bottle and busied himself with making Chesnaye comfortable. How much longer could they both last? he wondered. If he died what would Pickles do? It was suddenly terribly important that Pickles should be spared any more of this nightmare.

  Pickles pointed with surprise. `Look, Dick ! The ship!’

  Sure enough, the Saracen was visible, listing and shrouded in smoke.

  j`She’s in much closer.’ Pickles leaned out to watch, but erked back as another bullet whipped against the rock and ricocheted away over the ridge with an insane shriek. `God, they’re after us!’

  Chesnaye twisted round on the tiny space and levelled his glasses.

  Pickles tore his eyes from the ship and pulled the long Very pistol from his belt. `Ready?’

  Chesnaye nodded grimly. It had been arranged that if the exact bearings and ranges could not be sent by signal then a blind shoot would be carried out.

  Pickles snapped a cartridge into the breech and then said quietly, `God, there are Turks on that hill.’

  Chesnaye turned in time to see sunlight flash momentarily on metal and the quick movement of men amongst the rocks on the nearest hillside. They’re going to try and stop us, he thought dully.

  The Very pistol coughed and sent its light soaring high over the ridge. Like a green eye it hung apparently motionless in the clear sky, and some of the marines cheered.

  `Watch the ship!’ Chesnaye rested on his elbows and concentrated on the brown elbow of hills some four miles distant where the main Turkish support lines were said to be.

  Behind him Pickles said excitedly, ‘Now!’

  Subdued by the sea-cliff and the side of the ridge, the monitor’s voice was none the less impressive. Chesnaye waited, the sweat running into his eyes as he counted away the seconds. His heart sank as twin clouds of white smoke erupted above the slumbering hills. The monitor was firing shrapnel first. It was easier to see. He groaned `God, they’re miles out ! They’re almost firing on to our lines!’

  Pickles leaned over the side of the cleft and shouted down to Pringle : `You must get a runner back to the beach and send a signal ! It’s an overshoot!’

  Pringle stared up at them, his eyes red. `No one can get through ! There are snipers all round us!’

  From below came a sudden burst of firing from the marines and the sound of Major De L’Isle’s whistle. Chesnaye closed his eyes and tried to clear his reeling mind. The monitor would wait for another flare and then open the real bombardment. Or would it wait? He tried to imagine the battered ship with the impatient, desperate gunners crouching beneath the sun-heated armour. They might not

  wait, and it was not unknown for ships to drop shells on their own men. But not a ship like the Saracen. Each of her
giant shells weighed nearly a ton. He shook himself angrily. It did not bear thinking about. Tightly he said : `Tell Pringle to get up here and have a look ! He must be made to realise what’s happening!’

  Pringle did not even listen. He covered his head with his hands and ran into the roofless hut.

  One of the seamen ran from cover on the far side of the ridge, his face angry. “Ere, come back, sir!’ But instead of an answer he received a bullet in the throat and fell back writhing on the rocks, the dust around him brightly! speckled with his blood.

  Chesnaye felt sick. `Here, give me a hand up.’

  Pickles reached out, his face mystified, until he saw Chesnaye’s leg buckled under him. Chesnaye lay on his back, his eyes still on his objective. Pickles followed his gaze and then stood ups his face suddenly white. `I’m ready. I’ll make that signal.’

  Chesnaye wrote shakily on his pad, the figures and bearings dancing as if through a mist. It had to be done. It was the only way. He felt a wave of fury run through him as he thought of Pringle hiding below in the stone hut. `Here, Keith.’ He handed him the pad. `Just semaphore the first four sets of figures. They will have to do!’

  A voice called up from below : `The Major’s compliments, ments, sir, but can you get a move on? The bastards aree trying to get between us an’ the cliffs!’

  But Chesnaye did not answer. There was a lot he wanted to say, but nothing came. Instead he gripped Pickles’ hand. `Be careful, Keith!’

  With a quick grin Pickles leapt from the cleft and began to climb with the ease and agility of a monkey. Pieces of rock splintered around him as snipers on the hillside became aware of the small dark figure that was making for the very top of the pinnacle.