The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  ‘Damn it!’ cursed Tanner, crouching beside Sykes. Which section was that? Hepworth’s platoon. He’d bloody well murder them later. Speed was of the essence; he’d told them that. Hepworth should know better. The mortars had already moved on, firing beyond the pillbox past the ridgeline. The sky was lightening already.

  ‘He’s firing wild, though, Jack,’ said Sykes.

  Tanner quickly looked around him. Smoke gushed from the embrasure in Dog pillbox; it appeared to have been silenced, but Able was still active, as was Fox. Fire from Able was supporting Baker. The chance to knock all of them out at a blow had passed.

  ‘We’ve got to get Baker,’ muttered Tanner. It stood about fifty yards above them.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Sykes.

  Tanner glanced around and found Brown and Trahair behind them, looking nervously up towards pillbox Baker. Phyllis. Where was Phyllis?

  A figure scrambled up behind them and collapsed on the ground gasping. ‘Blimey!’ said Phyllis, breathlessly. ‘This is a bit bloody hot.’

  ‘Put a sock in it, Siff,’ muttered Tanner, then said, ‘Right, we’re going to have to do this. We’re already inside the wire, but Hepworth’s mob over there are not.’

  ‘Look out, sir!’ said Trahair.

  Tanner ducked and felt a bullet hiss over his head as Brown lurched to his right and let out a short burst from his Thompson.

  ‘You’re all right now, sir,’ said Brown, as Tanner looked back towards the trench. ‘Got ’im. Some Eyetie poked his head up and took a pot-shot.’

  ‘Thanks, Browner,’ said Tanner. A burst of MG fire from Baker scythed over their heads. They ducked, then Sykes rolled over and pulled a stick of dynamite from his haversack, lit it with his American lighter, then hurled it up the slope. A pause, another burst of bullets whistled over their heads, then came the explosion.

  ‘Now!’ said Tanner. ‘Get up! Brown and Trahair, move wide and give us cover. Stan, Siff, you follow me!’

  They scampered on up the slope, the orange muzzle flash of the enemy machine-gun bright through the still swirling smoke. Bullets pinged onto the ground to their right, ricocheting off the rock. Tanner darted from side to side, ducking, gasping, then glanced at Sykes, who had produced two more sticks of dynamite. Together they dived behind a low rock, just twenty yards from Baker, flinching as more bullets pinged and hissed nearby. A glance behind, yes, there was Phyllis, clutching his helmet to his head. Grimacing, Tanner saw Sykes light first one stick of dynamite, then the other. The fuse fizzed, he passed one to Tanner, then they both rolled clear of the rock and threw the sticks. Another brief pause, then a double explosion. Smoke and dust and grit spewed into the air, but as it began clattering down on their tin helmets, Tanner and Sykes were already on their feet and rushing the last twenty yards to Baker, Tanner fumbling for a grenade as he did so.

  4.15 a.m. At D Company’s fire-support positions on the southern ridge of the valley, a Jeep skidded to a halt and a lieutenant from the Royal Artillery jumped out and ran over to Major Ivo Macdonald, D Company commander. Following him was a gunner with a radio set.

  ‘Colonel Creer sent me,’ he said to Macdonald. ‘Lieutenant Stokes.’ He saluted briskly.

  Macdonald nodded. ‘Better late than never. We were expecting you chaps an hour ago.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you mean. We’re here right on time. We were told you would be going in at oh four thirty.’

  ‘Really?’ said Macdonald, looking surprised.

  ‘But I see it’s already begun.’

  ‘The start time was oh four ten,’ said Macdonald. ‘Never oh four thirty.’

  Stokes shrugged. ‘Chinese whispers, I suppose.’

  ‘A signal taken down wrong,’ agreed Macdonald. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. It was always going to be a silent attack, anyway.’

  ‘Colonel Creer asked for artillery support, sir,’ said Stokes. He looked around. A row of mortar teams were firing. Boxes of ammunition lay strewn around them. Up ahead, the ground rose slightly so that the opposite side of the valley was out of sight, but Stokes could hear the battle raging beyond: the sound of mortar shells exploding, of small arms, and distant cries over the din.

  ‘Yes,’ said Macdonald. ‘I know.’ He glanced at his CSM, Spiers, who raised a wry eyebrow.

  ‘My orders are to see whether the attack needs our support,’ said Stokes. ‘We’ve a battery of twenty-five-pounders two miles back.’

  ‘You’d better have a look, then,’ said Macdonald. He led Stokes forward towards the valley’s edge. As they approached the ridge, they crouched down and hurried towards some bushes beside a lone fig tree, where a Bren team was firing.

  ‘How are we doing, Carter?’ said Macdonald, squatting beside the gunner as he changed magazines.

  ‘Looks like the attack’s stalled a bit, sir,’ said Carter.

  Stokes glanced at Macdonald, waved over his radio operator, then lay down on his front and peered through his field glasses.

  ‘There are six pillboxes,’ said Macdonald, beside him, ‘running left to right called Able through to Fox.’

  ‘The two middle ones, Charlie and Dog, appear to have fallen,’ said Stokes, ‘but I can’t see that any others have. All I can see are lots of men lying down among the rock and scrub.’

  ‘Early days,’ said Macdonald. ‘They’ve only just gone in. I’ll order the mortars to drop back a bit. Target the pillboxes overlooking the valley.’

  ‘Our twenty-five-pounders will sort those out in a trice,’ said Stokes. ‘Let me contact Colonel Creer.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Macdonald. ‘And that’s an order. If you start shelling now, there’s a good chance you’ll hit our own. Give them a chance. The attack’s only been going a few minutes.’

  Stokes nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Macdonald. ‘Let me see what our mortars can do to help first.’

  He left Stokes, who peered again through his binoculars. He could see Rangers on the far side of the valley, but they still appeared to be stuck. The orange flash of machine-guns and small arms flickered from the pillboxes. Stokes thought for a moment. Macdonald had just given him a direct order, but then so, too, had Creer, and he was a colonel and the officer commanding the Yorks Rangers. Macdonald was only a major. Creer had demanded artillery support and it looked to Stokes as though the attack needed it. Turning to Carter, his radio operator, he instructed him to call up the battalion’s net. A few moments later, Stokes had on the headset and was speaking to Creer himself.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stokes. ‘It’s hard to say … There’s a lot of smoke as you would expect … Yes, all right, sir … Yes, Major Macdonald ordered me to wait … Of course, sir … Yes, sir … Right away, sir.’ Taking off his headset, he turned to his radio operator. ‘Contact the battery.’ He pulled his map from his case.

  ‘Are we going to fire then, sir?’ asked Carter.

  ‘Yes, Colonel Creer’s orders. He wants us to stonk those positions.’

  ‘Won’t we hit our own men, sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Carter. They’re still some way from the pillboxes. We’ll start generously and creep down.’ He quickly calculated the co-ordinates, double-checked he had them correctly, then relayed them to the battery. A five- or ten-minute stonk by eight twenty-five-pounders firing a mixture of high explosive and armour-piercing would soon sort out those pillboxes, he thought.

  Two explosions from the valley made him look up. Beside him, the Bren opened fire again. Stokes peered through his field glasses. Smoke and dust swirled around pillbox Baker, but away to the left and right, below the domed roofs of Able and Fox, he saw the men still in the rocks and undergrowth.

  With a gasp, Tanner felt his shoulder ram into the edge of the concrete pillbox. He sank onto his backside and pulled out a grenade, a No. 74 anti-tank bomb. Inside, men were shouting, and then an arm appeared, waving a pistol vaguely towards the ground.

  ‘Jesus!’ muttered Tanner, as Sykes, under the second
peephole, ducked away as the pistol fired close by him. Pulling the pin of the grenade, he counted three seconds, then lobbed it into the embrasure. More shouts from inside and then, a second later, the grenade exploded. Tanner was already on his feet, but jolted at the sound of a large explosion from pillbox Easy, some sixty yards to his right. Glancing across, he fleetingly saw Peploe and Fauvel urging the men forward. Good. He ran around the pillbox and fired two one-second bursts at the communications trenches behind. His ears still rang, his heart pounded, the smoke and the bitter stench of cordite made his eyes smart and his throat sore, but he was conscious of Italians raising their hands in the air and of a man calling, ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,’ in English. More of his own were around him now. Brown and Trahair, and there was Sykes, Tommy gun pointed at the Italians.

  Tanner stepped forward, towards the Italian officer, who still had his arms in the air.

  ‘You speak English?’ said Tanner.

  The Italian shrugged. ‘A little,’ he said. Machine-gun fire rang out from the direction of pillbox Able. ‘They won’t shoot at us,’ he said, turning his head towards Able. ‘They won’t shoot on their own. It is over.’ He lowered his arms and reached into his holster. He handed Tanner his pistol. ‘Captain Niccolò Togliatti,’ he said. ‘Thank God it’s over.’

  ‘The battle or your war?’ asked Tanner.

  ‘Both.’ He smiled wistfully.

  ‘Were you in the desert?’ asked Tanner.

  Togliatti shook his head. ‘Russia. You captured our armies in North Africa, remember.’

  ‘I do, as it happens,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Sir,’ said a voice behind him. Tanner turned to see McAllister and some of his men from 3 Platoon.

  ‘What about Able, sir?’

  Turner looked up towards the pillbox away to their left on the ridge.

  Following their gaze, Togliatti said, ‘I will tell them to surrender. It’s over.’

  As he spoke, a noise made them both pause. An intense sucking noise, a terrific rush of air, then a dismal whine.

  ‘Oh, no,’ muttered Tanner. A split second later, the shell hit the ground twenty yards above them. Tanner felt the air sucked from him and a great force lift him from his feet and hurl him backwards. Pain shot through his back as he landed, sprawled, upon the bank of a trench, the recently dug soil cushioning his fall.

  No! No, no, no! More shells were falling now, so he quickly rolled over and into the trench alongside two dead Italians. Others, who had moments before surrendered, now cowered beside him, hands clutching their helmets. Where the hell was Sykes? Where was Phyllis? He had to get to Phyllis and that radio set and stop this.

  ‘Siff!’ he yelled, over the din. ‘Siff!’ Where had Phyllis been? By Baker. Get back to the pillbox. A shell landed close by, sending a mountain of grit and debris high into the air. Metal and stone zipped above him, then the shower of stone clattered down on his helmet and shoulders. Keeping low, Tanner turned and moved along the low trench towards the pillbox. He reckoned he’d been flung a good ten yards or more. More shells crashed into the Italian positions. The ground pulsing, the screams of men. Dust, smoke, debris. Tanner could hear almost nothing now, his ears ringing, his head and back thumping with pain. The stench of burned flesh from the entrance to the pillbox. Crouching, he moved forward. More dead – an Italian with a leg gone, just a raw stump. Tanner picked him up, and heaved him over the edge of the trench as two more shells whumped into the ground above him. Stop, cower, wait for the shower of debris, then move on. Where are you, Stan? A man groaning, an Italian, clutching his stomach. He was half leaning against the door of the pillbox, his head tilted strangely.

  ‘Siff!’ Tanner yelled again.

  ‘Mother,’ murmured the wounded man. ‘Mother.’

  Tanner looked at him again and felt his body go cold. The man was not an Italian at all. No. Please, God, no!

  ‘Mac,’ he said, ‘it’s me, Mac. Tanner.’ He tried to straighten McAllister, cradling his head.

  ‘Sir?’ he said. His eyes flickered. ‘Think I’ve had it this time.’

  ‘No, you’ll be all right, Mac. I’ll look after you. You’ll be just fine.’ Tanner looked down. Oh, Jesus. McAllister’s stomach had been ripped open, leaving a dark, glistening mass. The boy was clutching it, vainly trying to keep his guts together. Coils of blood-soaked intestine had unravelled down his side.

  ‘I’ve had it, haven’t I, sir?’

  ‘Sssh,’ said Tanner, feeling inside his gas-mask bag. Where the hell was that morphine? Gone. He cursed, overcome by his inability to help his friend. ‘You’ll be all right, Mac.’ What am I saying? He’s not going to be all right.

  Tanner held him there, but then McAllister looked down. ‘Oh, God,’ he mumbled. ‘Oh, God, look at me! I don’t want to die, sir. Please don’t let me die!’

  Tanner turned McAllister’s head into his chest and rocked him gently. ‘You’re not going to, Mac, you’re not going to.’ He swallowed hard, and felt his throat catch. So many men had died in this stupid war, he thought, some good friends among them, but he had never let himself dwell on such things. Of course people died – that was what happened in war. But McAllister had been with him since Norway. Three long years. In that time he had grown from a cocky young Bradford guttersnipe into become one of his most trusted men. And a fine soldier too. How old was he? Twenty-one. No older. Twenty-one. Tanner briefly closed his eyes. It was no age. Here, as he lay cradled in Tanner’s arms, his body torn apart, he looked like a boy again.

  McAllister began to sob, and although Tanner tried desperately to control himself, he felt a tear run down his cheek too. He’d not wept in years – not once since his father had died – and yet here, beside this pillbox reeking of smoke, cordite and death, he felt overcome.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Mac,’ he mumbled, but McAllister was dying and knew it, and was weeping because his young life was about to end. How could it be any other way, with blood soaking both their uniforms and with half his innards strewn on the ground?

  Another shell hurtled over, smashing into the ground not thirty yards from them. Tanner ducked down, pulling McAllister tight towards him with one arm and with the other, feeling for his Colt at his hip. As the soil and stone and grit fell upon them, he raised the Colt towards McAllister’s head and fired. ‘Goodbye, Mac,’ he said, holding the now lifeless body and then resting it against the wall of the pillbox. He wiped his eyes on the back of his arm, then clenched his fist and brought it to his mouth, felt his body tremble, then yelled, ‘Siff! Siff!’

  ‘Here, sir,’ said a faint voice.

  Thank God. Tanner scrambled to his feet and clambering out of the trench, leaving McAllister’s lifeless body. He ran around the edge of the pillbox and there found Phyllis, huddled against the wall below the embrasure, knees tight up against his chest, hands over his ears.

  Reaching him, Tanner gripped his shoulder and shook him. ‘Siff!’ he said. ‘Bloody get that radio set of yours working!’

  ‘You all right, sir?’ said Phyllis as, with fumbling fingers, he pulled the pack off his back.

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Tanner snarled.

  Phyllis slipped the headset from around his neck onto his ears, and began calling up Battalion.

  ‘Hello, Sunray,’ he said, as another shell hurtled into the ground away to their right. ‘Stop shelling. Repeat, stop shelling.’

  ‘Here, give that to me,’ said Tanner, snatching the mouthpiece, then yelling, ‘Stop the bloody shelling now! Repeat, now!’ He handed back the mouthpiece. ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘Keep going, Siff, until the shelling stops.’

  More shells rushed over, exploding near pillbox Fox. Small-arms firing had stopped entirely. Smoke and haze covered the valley slopes. Christ, thought Tanner, why are they still firing? The battle was won, but at what cost? He wondered how many of his men were now dead or wounded, killed by their own artillery fire. How many more good men like McAllister? If this is Creer’s doing, I’ll kill him.
I’ll bloody kill him.

  From D Company’s positions on the ridge the other side of the valley, Major Ivo Macdonald had scarcely been able to believe what he was seeing when the first of the shells started whistling over. Lieutenant Stokes had struck him as a rather inoffensive sort of fellow, but taking him to the ridge edge had been little more than paying lip service to Colonel Creer. He was well aware that Creer had demanded artillery support, but it had not occurred to him that it would ever be needed. Nor had it been. Yes, A Company’s attack had briefly stalled, but never critically so, and no sooner had he left Stokes than he had watched two of the pillboxes fall. He had no doubt the battle would have been won soon after.

  Instead, the air had been filled with howling shells from the eight twenty-five-pounders – shells that were falling on both the enemy and their own men.

  Macdonald had felt sick – physically sick – as he had yelled at his radio man to call up Battalion immediately, then had run across to Stokes.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ Macdonald had barked. He was a tall, lean man with a gentle face and smooth dark hair. He was not a man to get easily riled, but right now, he had never felt angrier in his life.

  ‘Carrying out my orders, sir,’ Stokes had replied. ‘I was told to direct our fire onto the pillboxes.’

  ‘What about my bloody orders? Jesus, stop the shelling, Stokes! For God’s sake, stop the shelling now!’

  ‘But Colonel Creer ordered me—’

  Macdonald had his pistol in his hand and now pointed it at Stokes. ‘Stop the shelling, Stokes – now! My God, man, did you not see the men attacking just before the shelling began?’