by John Harris
The load that was on General Hodges’ shoulders seemed at that moment no heavier than the load that rested on the shoulders of Lieutenant Jinkinson.
There had been another downpour but, although it hadn’t lasted long and the roar of the rain had changed quickly to the hurried patter of drips as the sun came out and the steam rose in twisting wraiths where the greedy heat sucked up the moisture, it had been enough to make the hold-up alongside Thruster even greater.
Space was crowded because the LSTs, Driver, Holness and Harker, were all being loaded from the same ramp as Thruster, and the string of lorries was increasing all the time. Even Colonel Drucquer had been along to see what was causing the delay, and he had left Jinkinson red-faced and humiliated, to work it all off on his sergeant who had taken it out of his section. His section had not retaliated, however, and there had been no muttering, but everybody had seemed suddenly to be all fingers and thumbs and a case had been dropped on McKechnie’s foot. McKechnie had immediately announced that bones were broken and the delay had brought White back again with Frensham.
‘What in God’s name’s holding you up?’ he demanded.
‘Every bloody thing possible,’ Jinkinson said bitterly. ‘These bastards are up to something and I don’t know what.’
White’s eyes narrowed. He, too, had been aware of sulky looks around him and, though there had been nothing definite to put his finger on, even in his own section there had been a strange new stolidity that worried him. It seemed to be time to do something about it. Sullenness could change rapidly to open disobedience, and he’d heard rumours about acts of defiance about the camp.
He glanced at Frensham. ‘Right,’ he said to Jinkinson, making his mind up quickly. ‘Let’s spike their guns. March ’em off. I’ll get my chaps to unload it. You can pick it up when we’ve finished.’
Ten minutes later the gear from the lorry was being stacked at the side of the road, and the men of ACT5, annoyed at having to do someone else’s work, were throwing out private gear with a great deal of sang-froid.
White moved away and allowed Frensham to take control of the proceedings. Uneasy suspicions were forming in his mind, suspicions that he wouldn’t have believed possible in his earlier service. He swung round and stared at his own men, frowning. They were obviously displeased, and a kitbag bounced on to the road, followed by a suitcase. Frensham pounced on them at once.
‘The bastards were told no private gear,’ he snorted, giving the suitcase a shove with his foot.
‘It’s split, Sarge,’ one of his men observed.
‘Good,’ Frensham said unfeelingly. He glanced at the suitcase, then his frown turned to one of bewilderment as he saw stacked sheets of paper through the jagged opening at its corner.
Still frowning, he bent over the case then, staring more closely at it, he knelt down alongside it.
‘Surely to God they aren’t taking their HQ documents with ’em,’ he said.
He tugged at a yellow sheet that was sticking through the split, a small square sheet of cheap paper, and held it up in front of him, squinting at it. For a second his eyebrows worked up and down, then he swung round to one of his men.
‘’Ere! You! Get Captain White! Quick!’
Two minutes later White was alongside Frensham, staring at the sheet of paper.
‘Get Jinkinson,’ he snapped. ‘Better go yourself, Sergeant. We don’t want this spreading around.’
It took considerably longer to find Jinkinson who seemed to have given up in despair. His men stood in a group, sullen and angry, while Jinkinson, his hat in his hand, his long fair hair damp with sweat, paced up and down near the water’s edge, sucking at a cigarette as though his life depended on it.
They saw Frensham approaching the moment he appeared round the dockside crane, heading towards them in a purposeful manner than spelled danger.
‘They’ve found out,’ Spragg said nervously.
Leach glanced at Frensham. ‘Just stick together, brothers,’ he growled. ‘They can’t do a thing.’
Malaki gestured sadly. ‘It’s wrong,’ he said unhappily. ‘It’s all wrong, man.’
Leach swung round on him angrily. ‘Are you with us?’ he demanded.
Malaki said nothing and Leach persisted. ‘Don’t you agree with it?’
Malaki lifted his eyes as though they were weighted. ‘No, man,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Going to tell?’
‘No.’
‘Why not, if you disagree?’
Malaki didn’t know why not. It had something to do with the feeling he’d always had that he was never quite part of the section. They accepted him, they included him, they even obeyed him, yet he’d always felt that until he’d endured with them he was still not one of them. He’d hoped that Stabledoor would be the testing point, but he’d never expected to be tested in a way that tore at his loyalties. It never occurred to him that, in permitting him to know what they’d planned, they had already accepted him.
His reply was still in his throat as he endeavoured to frame it into words, when Frensham halted in front of Jinkinson and slammed to a salute.
‘Sir! Captain White’s compliments. Will you see him immediate?’
Jinkinson looked puzzled, then he threw away his cigarette. Two minutes later he, too, was staring at the yellow sheet of paper.
White waited until he had read it before he spoke.
‘We found what seems to be a whole suitcase of ’em,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of ’em. It belongs to one of your people. Know anything about it?’
Jinkinson glanced up at him nervously. ‘Christ, no,’ he said.
White turned. ‘Sergeant Frensham! March those men back here. At the double.’
Three minutes later, Jinkinson’s party came to a panting stop alongside White, who swung round on them as they stood at ease, hitching at their belts and wiping their sweating faces.
‘Right,’ he snapped. ‘Whose is this suitcase?’
His hand jerked and there were a few glances among the squad of men.
‘Come on,’ White said. ‘It belongs to one of you. Step forward. And damn quick.’
Spragg stepped forward hesitantly, his eyes flickering at Leach.
‘Name?’
‘Spragg, sir.’
‘Got the keys?’
Spragg hesitated, glancing desperately at the others for the support he expected. No one moved.
‘Come on, have you or haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sir,’ roared Frensham.
‘Sir.’
‘Open it up,’ White snapped.
‘That’s my private case,’ Spragg said aggressively.
‘I don’t give a damn if it’s your mother’s coffin. I suspect you’ve got something in there that you shouldn’t have. Open it up!’
Spragg hesitated a moment longer, then he fished in his pocket and, producing a key, stooped over the case.
White stepped forward as he raised the lid. The case was jammed with yellow leaflets and White picked up a handful and shoved them at Jinkinson.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Shove him under arrest. I’ll let you know what to charge him with later. There’ll be a cell on board. See the Military Police.’
Jinkinson stared back at him for a second, then he glanced with fury at Spragg and slammed to a salute.
A quarter of an hour later White was standing in the Harbourmaster’s Office that was doing temporary duty as police office and guardroom. Jinkinson was alongside him, hot, nervous and ill-at-ease, while in the background the slim Malalan policeman waited quietly, his eyes moving from one to the other.
White indicated the suitcase full of pamphlets that stood open on the table, and his eyes bored into Jinkinson.
‘You seen any of those before?’ he asked.
Jinkinson nodded. ‘One or two,’ he admitted. ‘I found one on my desk.’
‘What did you do about it?’
‘Made enquiries. Didn’t find anything out,
though. I heard that the 4th/74th’s seen one or two.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Well – nothing. I thought somebody was acting the goat.’
White stared at the youngster, a pitying look in his eyes.
‘Next time,’ he said, ‘for Christ’s sake assume that they’re not.’
The telephone clicked and he turned his attention to it.
‘Colonel? This is Dick White. I’ve got something here that I think you ought to see.’
Two
In the big cabin they’d set aside in Leopard for his personal quarters, General Hodges looked across at Colonel Drucquer with sombre eyes. Leggo had poured them all a drink and they stood now, enjoying the cool clink of the ice as they squinted at the grey light that came through the porthole.
In the early evening before dark, a storm of particular intensity had broken over Pepul. For an hour or more there had been violent electrical disturbances, with purple flashes and great squalls of wind, then the rain had come down in straight glassy splinters that shattered as they struck, and drenched in seconds the deck parties and the exhausted troops still struggling aboard the transports and landing craft. It came in a devastating downpour that rattled on the steel like stones and gurgled noisily in the scuppers. The sound of it had been a steady roar, threaded through by the hollow plop-plop as it had dripped off gun mountings, searchlights and radar gear, then it had stopped as abruptly as it had come, leaving only the weeping aerials and an atmosphere that was heavy, humid and depressing, and seemed to rest like a load on Hodges’ shoulders as he stared at Colonel Drucquer.
The briefing of the correspondents had gone off better than he’d ever hoped – largely thanks to a few well-timed interruptions by Leggo which had deflected the worst of the questions. It had been noisy, because the newspapermen were excited, and there had been one or two tricky questions, chiefly about equipment and morale, but they had skated skilfully round them, and Hodges had thought that for the day his worries might be over.
Then Drucquer had phoned, requesting an interview, and the feeling of achievement had dispersed at once.
He and Drucquer were old friends. They’d served together several times, more often of late as the Army had diminished and the same old members of the fire brigade had been called out every time there’d been a minor outbreak. They’d served in the same theatre in World War II as subalterns and then in Burma and Korea and Kenya, and finally in Borneo and Aden. They were both experienced soldiers who knew each other well, and it was only the need for sound regimental officers that had prevented Hodges from asking for Drucquer for his staff.
He listened to Drucquer’s statement gravely, not interrupting with questions, then he turned to Leggo who was standing by the table where the maps were spread.
‘Shut the door, Stuart,’ he suggested. ‘And lean on it.’
Leggo did as he suggested, and Hodges studied with interest the pamphlet that Drucquer had brought, as the Colonel continued with his story.
‘I’ve got them all in my cabin at the moment,’ he was saying. ‘They’re locked up. They were found under the gear in a lorry. One of mine, I’m afraid, but I’ve made a few enquiries and I gather a few others have been seen in other units.’
‘Any special sign of disaffection in your people?’ Hodges asked. ‘You can speak freely.’
‘I’ve hardly got to know ’em yet, sir,’ Drucquer admitted. ‘I’ve only been here seven days. There’s certainly nothing you can put your finger on, though I know it’s there.’
‘Is it pay?’
Drucquer shrugged. ‘Perhaps, sir,’ he said. ‘Not sure. It was in a section I’d told Captain White to keep an eye on, though he’s not one of my officers. He’s a good man and the section officer’s only a youngster. Needs stiffening with a good sergeant as soon as I can find him one.’ He paused and sipped his drink. ‘I had a word with one or two other commanding officers,’ he went on gravely. ‘Naturally, sir. I was worried and I was anxious to know whether I was alone in this. It seems I’m not. Greatorex’s got the same trouble in the 20th/62nd and so has Berkeley in the 19th/43rd. In the 4th/74th, I think it’s reached the proportions of danger. They’ve had them in the Parachute regiments and even in the Guards. There, though, they didn’t catch on. One would expect that, of course.’
When Drucquer had left, Hodges stood for a moment, frowning, then he turned to Leggo. ‘Pass me that file, Stuart,’ he said, and Leggo crossed to the table and picked up a blue file, tied very securely with white tape.
Hodges opened it and spread it out on the desk. On the top of the papers it contained, there was a yellow pamphlet exactly like the one Drucquer had brought, and there were others underneath, attached to report forms.
Hodges spread them out, fan-shaped like a hand of cards.
‘See that, Stuart?’ he said. ‘Half the units under my command and almost every vessel. They’ve been turning up all over Duck and Beagle, according to Downes, and Neville tells me there’s a pocket in 677 Squadron of the RAF. And they’ve all come in, in the last twenty-four hours. It’s clearly some sort of movement, even though they vary a bit – as though several people have had a hand in it. They’ve all picked the same theme. The Right of Reply. They’ve all picked up that damned speech.’ He looked at Leggo. ‘Thank God the newspapermen hadn’t got hold of this.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Stuart,’ he said slowly. ‘Make a signal to commanders of all units. For their eyes only. Mark it secret. I want a report from every commanding officer, no matter how small his unit, and no matter whom he’s attached to. I want them all to investigate this – at once. I want all replies before we sail. Mark it top priority and pass copies to the Navy and the RAF.’
He indicated the pamphlet. ‘Where was it printed, by the way?’ he asked. ‘Any ideas, Stuart?’
Leggo studied the pamphlet for a moment. ‘Not ashore, I’d say, sir,’ he said slowly.
‘Thank God for that,’ Hodges said. ‘I thought it might be, and we know there’s an element in Pepul who’re against us being here, even though we’re going to try to get King Boffa Port back for them. What makes you think that?’
Leggo gestured with the pamphlet. ‘You can recognise the local printing anywhere, sir,’ he said. ‘The typeface’s always badly worn. I believe they buy it second-hand from England. And they make mistakes that European printers would never make – phrases we wouldn’t use, old-fashioned words and stilted sentences, that sort of thing. I’d say it was run off aboard ship by a ship’s printer. All the passenger ships carry them for bulletins, menus and so on. They make quite a bit of money when the ship’s in use as an army transport, producing smutty books.’
‘Let’s find him, Stuart,’ Hodges said shortly. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult. We haven’t all that many transports. Get the Provost people to do a little detective work on the paper and the print and the ships’ captains before we sail.’
By the time night had fallen, most of the ships had been loaded, naval vessels, ancient transports and troop carriers, and a great many over-age landing craft.
It had not been possible to make Stabledoor an air invasion because there were too many things against such an operation. For one thing there wasn’t the elbow room at King Boffa Port for an air landing, and what was more important, an air operation would have been too incisive. It would have been too easy to become committed, and all the time and even now, the brains behind the operation in London had hoped that the Khanzians still might retreat from King Boffa Port and evacuate the great base alongside; and a seaborne operation had been chosen deliberately to give them time to do so.
The problems had been incredibly involved, nevertheless, for there weren’t many signposts for an invasion of what was still considered to be a friendly nation who were expected to welcome the troops with open arms – but might not. How did one behave? How much was needed? The build-up had been slow. There had not been sufficient troops. The new National Service Act had not had time t
o provide sufficient trained reserves, and the responsibility had been given to the same old firemen who had been to every other bush fire for the last twenty years.
And, until Hodges’ arrival from Germany, not enough had been done at Pepul. The different types of fighting vehicles that had been scraped together had created tremendous difficulties for the staff with their multitude of spare parts. On the air base next door, several machines were grounded now for nothing else but missing screws or cotter pins, or because mechanics had arrived from England without the necessary conversion courses on to unfamiliar engines and airframes. The tank regiments were suffering from the same diversification of equipment, and even the radios varied in age and range and design.
But the miracle had been achieved. They were all aboard at last. The aircraft were waiting with their parachutists who were to seize the harbour installations, and the ships were getting under way. Above Hodges’ head feet scurried as restlessly as rats, as Leopard stirred. There was a grinding and clanking of heavy machinery and a series of dull thuds, then the ship shuddered and the little chintz curtains over the porthole began to quiver. The humming of turbines became a muted throb of power and the great ship swung round and headed towards the open sea.
Slowly, as darkness increased, the ships began to take station, attack transports, slow, rust-scarred cargo boats, small liners, a hospital ship, weather-beaten tankers, and groups of fussing tugs. To starboard were the columns of shallow-draught landing ships containing the first wave of the assault troops, and behind them the troopers with the Malalan soldiers who were to be used in reserve. Ahead of the convoy were the minesweepers, harbour installation vessels, buoy layers, motor launches and the escort vessels – the British ships astern, ahead and to port, the old carrier, Liverpool, now converted for helicopters, in the lead; and the Malalan naval vessels, an over-age frigate, a corvette and two wooden motor launches, moving erratically to starboard where the Malalan troops were.
It was an impressive-looking gathering of equipment, and the newspapermen were busy in Leopard’s wardroom preparing reports on the show of strength. Hodges, who knew the defects, was not so happy as they were.
