As though to emphasize his words, a shell exploded with a crash a hundred yards away, rattling the building.
‘Fortunately,’ Koppejans continued, ‘they are not very accurate, but if they keep it up they are bound to hit something sooner or later. Our boys should be okay as long as they stay in their positions, but the moment they make a move out into the open they will take some casualties. I want to avoid that.’
De Salis scrutinized the map. ‘The main road to Warambe lies to the north of the airfield,’ he mused, ‘and the Kerewatans are between the road and ourselves. The quickest way out is obviously by road and we’ve enough transport to accommodate everyone, but I don’t think we’d stand a chance of breaking through the Kerewatans without some of it being destroyed, and that means we would inevitably lose men. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that the only way out is to forget about the transport altogether and break out into the jungle from somewhere on the eastern perimeter. Then we can move across country until we strike the road well to the east of here.’
‘The Kerewatans will realize what we’re up to,’ Koppejans objected. ‘They have plenty of transport; they will almost certainly move east quickly to cut off our line of retreat.’
De Salis agreed with him. ‘That’s true. But if they get between us and the river we can nip back into the jungle and outflank them. Our boys are all experienced jungle fighters; the Kerewatans are not. In the jungle, we’ll have the advantage.’
Koppejans nodded. ‘All right. So we march out. But it’s a hell of a long way to the other side of the airfield, and all of it open ground. How are we going to get across there without being cut to pieces?’
‘We need to make the Kerewatans fall back from the northern perimeter for a few minutes,’ de Salis told him, ‘and that very much depends on whether I can summon up some help. The radio equipment in the tower is still working. Give me a little while, and I’ll see what I can do.’
De Salis went up the metal steps that led to the tower, a box-like structure resembling the type used by the USAF during the Second World War, and switched on the VHF radio. He tuned in carefully to a particular frequency and began to transmit a coded message. As he did so, more shells burst on the airfield and a fragment shattered one of the tower’s windows, the piece of metal embedding itself in the console at which de Salis was sitting. The next instant, the radio went dead.
De Salis’ call-sign had been quickly acknowledged, but he had no means of knowing whether the rest of his message had been received. To the north of the tower, from their foxholes, the mercenaries and his own men were firing once more; it was clear that another Kerewatan attack was developing. There was no point in remaining where he was, for the radio was obviously shattered and he knew that it would be useless to try it again. He hurried off to join his men, still carrying his shotgun. It was useless for anything other than close-range work, but it might come down to that before long.
Throwing himself into a foxhole, de Salis wondered how long they could hold out. If the promised help failed to arrive, they would have to try and fight off the Kerewatans until nightfall, when they could try and make their getaway under cover of darkness. But even as these thoughts ran through his mind, a shell exploded on the right of the defensive line, blowing four of Koppejans’ men to smithereens. The enemy were beginning to get the range.
The second Kerewatan attack was not much more than a probe, and was easily beaten off. For the next half-hour or so the Kerewatans contented themselves with sporadic shelling of the airfield, but the mercenaries and the Special Force men kept their heads well down and there were no further casualties.
Suddenly, the shelling stopped, and for a few minutes a heavy silence hung over the field. Then the silence was broken by the rumble of heavy engines, accompanied by a metallic clattering. De Salis and Koppejans both recognized it immediately for what it was.
‘We’re in trouble now,’ Koppejans told the Englishman quietly. ‘That shell that killed some of my men a while back — it also destroyed the bazooka.’
De Salis said nothing. His eyes were on the fringe of forest that stretched along the airfield’s northern perimeter, where the Kerewatan forces were concealed. A minute later, the bulky shapes of two Sherman tanks came lumbering out of the trees.
‘Where did they dig those up from?’ de Salis asked the Belgian.
Koppejans swore. ‘Damn it to hell, I’d forgotten about those. They’ve been unserviceable for weeks. God knows how they managed to get them going again.’
The tanks came on slowly and then halted just out of bazooka range, their crews not knowing that the mercenaries’ sole anti-tank weapon had been destroyed. A moment later, they opened up with their cannon. In a futile gesture, the defenders fired back with machine-guns; the bullets simply bounced off the Shermans’ armoured hulls and whined away uselessly.
De Salis assembled four of his men and ordered them to manufacture Molotov cocktails with the aid of any bottles they could find and petrol syphoned from the trucks that stood in the shelter of the airfield buildings. The petrol bombs would be their only chance of knocking out the tanks, if the latter came within throwing distance.
Suddenly, the Shermans began to move again. As de Salis watched, the tanks turned broadside on and churned away in opposite directions, gradually moving round until they were positioned several hundred yards off the defenders’ flanks. Once again, the men in the foxholes flattened themselves against the ground as the tanks opened fire, this time with their .5-inch machine-guns.
Clods of earth showered down on de Salis’ back. The defenders were now in a dangerous position, for the tanks could keep them pinned down in a crossfire while the enemy carried out a frontal assault.
Cautiously, de Salis poked his head above the lip of his foxhole as the Shermans’ fire died away. He spotted movement among the trees on the northern perimeter, and warned the others. The Kerewatans were massing for an attack.
The events of the next few seconds happened with mind-stunning speed. Running from east to west across the northern perimeter of the airfield, at very low level, a Hunter jet fighter streaked in total silence, its wake of sound trailing half a mile behind it. Two elongated shapes dropped from beneath its wings and tumbled end over end into the fringe of the jungle. Instantly, the trees erupted in a billowing cauldron of fire and smoke.
‘They’re using napalm,’ Koppejans shouted above the shriek of the Hunter’s engine. ‘That’ll keep their heads down!’
A second Hunter followed the first, and then a third. Each unloaded its cargo of napalm into the forest. Clouds of blazing petroleum jelly boiled up into the morning air. De Salis shuddered slightly; he had seen what napalm could do to unprotected troops in Korea.
Suddenly, he swung round as a fourth Hunter appeared overhead, circling. It carried rockets under its wings, and he knew at once what the pilot intended to do. He screamed ‘Take cover!’ and the men disappeared liked magic into their foxholes.
Several hundred feet above them, Flight Lieutenant Neil Hart armed his 2-inch rocket projectiles and curved into a diving turn, hurtling low across the airfield towards the Sherman tank on the right of the defensive positions. The tank leaped towards him in his sight and he pressed the button, feeling a slight jolt as four rockets whooshed away from their underwing rails.
The grey smoke trails of the armour-piercing projectiles converged on the tank. Two of them missed the target and the warheads buried themselves in the ground to explode in twin geysers of soil and smoke; the other two disappeared into the tank where the turret joined the hull. Hart pulled hard on the stick and rocketed up in a climb. Turning and looking back, he was in time to see the Sherman’s turret sailing high into the air on top of a plume of black smoke.
He turned and went for the second tank, which was retreating at high speed towards the forest, and attacked it from dead astern. This time, one of his remaining rockets hit the vulnerable engine compartment at the rear of the armoured vehicle
. It slewed to a stop, a mass of flames, and seconds later exploded with a thud that shook the airfield.
Under cover of the dark smoke clouds that drifted across the field, the mercenaries and the Special Force men abandoned their foxholes and, in small groups, made their break towards the eastern perimeter. With them, on a litter, they carried Peter Gibbons, who was unable to walk because of his broken ankle and who had been sheltering in one of the airfield buildings. As they ran, a solitary stream of machine-gun fire lanced at them from the inferno of the forest and one of the mercenaries screamed as his legs gave way under him and he fell sprawling headlong on the ground. Koppejans ran back and bent over the man; the spreading red stain at the base of his spine told its own story.
The mercenary was still conscious and in agony. ‘Don’t let them take me alive,’ he sobbed. Without emotion, Koppejans pulled out his revolver and shot him through the back of the head. Then he turned and sprinted after the others towards the sheltering darkness of the jungle.
Chapter Twelve
YEOMAN LAY IN THE SODDEN UNDERGROWTH, HIS INJURED back throbbing. It had rained again and he was soaked to the skin, but he did not really mind that discomfort; at least the rain had helped to alleviate the greater discomfort of thirst. Hunger was not a problem; both he and Richter had carried chocolate in the pockets of their flying overalls, and they had rationed it out between them.
‘I wonder what’s happening now?’ Yeoman said. His companion shrugged, knowing that it was useless to speculate. They had both heard the sound of explosions and gunfire from the direction of the airfield, and had also heard the noise of Avon engines as the Hunters flew overhead. But that had been hours ago, and there was still no sign of any friendly forces approaching from the west along the nearby road. Yeoman was beginning to fear that the worst had happened.
The light was beginning to fade when the two men heard the sound of engines. Through a gap in the undergrowth they could see a section of the road, and a couple of minutes later a truck crawled past, laden with troops. They were Kerewatans. During the next few minutes Yeoman and Richter counted six more trucks; the vehicles moved on past their hiding-place, the sound of their engines fading and then ceasing altogether.
‘It sounds as though they’ve stopped a mile or so up the road,’ Yeoman said. ‘I wonder what they’re up to?’
Richter thought for a moment, then said: ‘I think I know. Our boys — or at least some of them — must have managed to break out from the airfield into the jungle. They’ll be heading across country towards the road. The Kerewatans must be trying to cut them off.’
‘That’s exactly what they are trying to do,’ a voice said. Richter spun round startled, and saw nothing. Then a shadow moved, and resolved itself into the figure of a man. He wore a green-and-black dappled camouflage suit, and a hood that concealed most of his face.
The stranger came forward and rolled up the hood. A sunburned face grinned down at Yeoman.
‘Hello, George,’ the face said. ‘Looks as though you’ve got yourself into a bit of a fix.’
Yeoman stared at him in amazement. The coincidence of meeting Richter had been astonishing enough; this was unbelievable.
‘Peter. I might have known you’d be mixed up in this business.’
De Salis held up a hand, flashing a sidelong glance at Richter. ‘No names, George, if you don’t mind. Who’s this?’ Yeoman told him, and de Salis nodded.
He studied the German for a moment without speaking, then turned towards the jungle and gave a low, bird-like whistle. Instantly, the trees sprouted men, the shadowy figures of the Special Force commandos followed a few moments later by Koppejans’ mercenaries, the latter still carrying Peter Gibbons on his litter. Yeoman was delighted to see him, having believed that the young pilot had been killed when his Hunter was shot down.
‘The Kerewatans are blocking the road ahead,’ Yeoman told de Salis, who nodded again.
‘We know. Thought they’d have done it a lot earlier.’
De Salis introduced Koppejans, who shook hands with Yeoman and then greeted Richter enthusiastically. His men, meanwhile, stripped off their packs and made themselves at ease among the trees, well out of sight of anyone who happened to be passing along the road.
Yeoman looked up at de Salis and said, ‘You don’t seem to be in much of a hurry.’
The Special Force officer grinned. ‘We’ve got a patrol out,’ he said. ‘They’re finding out exactly where the Kerewatans are and what they are doing. They should be back inside an hour. Meanwhile, we wait. Are you badly hurt?’ De Salis felt a concern he did not show.
‘Jolted my back when I banged out,’ Yeoman told him. ‘Can’t walk. Apart from that, and a few cuts and bruises, I’m as fit as a fiddle.’ He smiled ruefully.
De Salis immediately ordered some of his men to improvise a litter, which they did quickly and efficiently. For the first time in his life, Yeoman felt himself to be a useless burden. De Salis sensed it, and tried to take Yeoman’s mind off his injuries by telling him about the events of the morning, leading up to the escape into the forest. He had just concluded his tale when three of his men appeared as if from nowhere, breathing hard. They had obviously lost no time in returning to make their report after their reconnaissance of the Kerewatan positions.
The Kerewatans had picked their spot carefully, about a mile to the east where the road was flanked on both sides by a swamp. The swamp was extensive, and on either side of it the jungle was primary in nature and virtually impassable. The road was the only way through, and the Kerewatans had blocked it with a barricade of fallen trees behind which they had mounted heavy machine-guns. Moreover, they were well dug in on the eastern side of the swamp.
The area in front of the road-block was clear of cover for a hundred yards or more; anyone attempting to make a frontal assault on the objective would almost certainly be cut down before they had gone twenty.
‘We’ve got a problem,’ Koppejans said, which was something of an understatement.
‘Is there no chance at all of crossing the swamp during the night?’
The NCO in charge of the Special Force patrol shook his head emphatically. ‘None at all. There might be a way across, but only the local natives will know about it. I wouldn’t risk it in daylight, let alone at night.’
‘Then somehow we’ve got to knock out that road block,’ de Salis declared. He looked up through the trees at the rapidly vanishing daylight. ‘Let’s move up and get into position. The enemy will be expecting us to try something during the hours of darkness, so we won’t try anything until dawn. Then we’ll hit them. I don’t quite know how,’ he added, under his breath.
Within five minutes the Special Force men and the mercenaries were moving stealthily through the forest parallel with the road, carrying Gibbons and Yeoman along with them. A patrol probed ahead of the main body, clearing the way. Within an hour, the whole force had reached the western fringes of the swamp and the men silently went to ground, preparing for a sleepless and vigilant night. It was still just light enough to see the road block, and they caught an occasional glimpse of a helmeted head as a Kerewatan soldier showed himself carelessly. Then the darkness closed in, blotting out the scene.
It was the most miserable night Yeoman had been forced to endure since the time in that fearsome winter of 1944-45, when he had escaped from German-held territory in Holland after his Tempest fighter had been shot down. Now, adding to the discomfort of the cold and damp that descended on the forest like a blanket, was the pain of his injured spine. More than once, he found himself biting on his already-mangled lower lip to prevent a tell-tale cry bursting from him; in the end, he quietly asked Richter to give him a piece of wood, on which he could bite if the pain became too bad to bear in silence.
He supposed, later, that he must have passed out. When he regained his senses, a thin grey light was filtering through the trees and the forest was echoing to the sound of gunfire. De Salis, bent low, darted across to him.
‘What’s happening?’ Yeoman croaked, his mouth and throat like sandpaper. De Salis looked grim.
‘The Kerewatans are behind us, as well as in front,’ he said. ‘They came up during the night, and God knows why they didn’t attack then. They could have been all over us. We don’t know how many there are, but they’re just sniping at us for the moment. Keep your head down behind that tree and use this, if you have to.’ He thrust an M-I carbine into the pilot’s hands.
‘Where’s Richter?’ Yeoman wanted to know. De Salis pointed, and Yeoman made out the figure of the German, nestling among some tree roots near the road. As Yeoman watched, Richter’s carbine barked twice and there was a high-pitched scream from among the trees somewhere on the other side of the road. Richter’s marksmanship was clearly as expert on the ground as it was in the air.
De Salis dragged Yeoman’s litter into the shelter of the tree trunk and hurried away. Yeoman found himself next to Peter Gibbons, who was also armed. Gibbons, although in great pain from his smashed ankle, seemed cheerful enough. ‘It doesn’t look as though you and I are going anywhere for the time being, sir,’ he commented. ‘Still, this is better than waiting and wondering what’s going to happen. Care for a swallow of this?’ He handed Yeoman a hip flask. It contained raw whisky, and Yeoman coughed as the fiery spirit coursed down his throat. ‘Courtesy of the mercenary commander,’ Gibbons smiled.
Yeoman handed back the flask, then frowned as he spotted something in the grey twilight. He nudged Gibbons and pointed.
‘See that bush over there, about a hundred yards away over the road?’ The other pilot nodded.
‘Well,’ Yeoman said, ‘it wasn’t there yesterday. I know, because I remember thinking just before nightfall how open that strip of ground was. I think it might be worth a spot of target practice.’
He and Gibbons injected a round into the breeches of their carbines and took careful aim, laying their sights close to the base of the bush. They fired almost at the same instant, and were disappointed when their shots produced no result. Then, a good five seconds later, the head and shoulders of a man rose above the bush. He stood upright and remained there for a moment, as motionless as a statue, before crumpling sideways to the muddy ground.
Hunter Squadron Page 15
