When we were safely outside I turned helplessly to Jones: “Which are you—a lurkin' firkin or a peepin' gremlin?” He gave me a look.
“Me? I'm a tricksy pixie. An' that's not all, boyo. Soon's he found out I was Welsh he wanted me to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. I told ’im I can't sing a note, an' ’e says: ‘You're no more Welsh than I am. You're prob'ly a bloody spy. Spell Llandudno, or it'll be the worse for you!’ Straight up, it's what ’e said. Oh, aye, some mothers do ’ave ’em.”
“But…it's just an act—isn't it? I mean, for a minute he sounded perfectly normal. Or is he really cocoa?”
“Don't look at me, boy,” said Jones wearily. “Oh, ’e's all right, like…well, ’e's daft as a badger, but ’e knows what ’e's doin'—most o' the time. Between you an' me, I reckon ’e's due for leave, know what I mean? Aye, about two years' leave. Come on, an' we'll get you settled.”
He had a little hut of his own, and I dumped my gear while he brewed up and got out the bully and biscuits and put me in the picture. The unit, which was only of platoon strength, was composed entirely of Shan scouts, friendly hillmen from beyond the Salween; it was one of those little temporary groups which spring up on the fringes of most armies in the field and fade away when no longer needed. This one, Jones believed, was Grief's personal creation.
“’E's an I-man, see—an Intelligence wallah—well, you can tell from ’is patter, can't you?—but ’e was with the Bombay Sappers an' Miners, accordin' to what ’e told me—”
“I'm not surprised. You're not an Engineer or an I-man, are you?”
“No bloody fears, I'm Signals, me. But I speak Burmese, see, an' Grief doesn't. Boy, you should try translatin' ’is sort o' chat to a bunch o' Shans! Yeah, I been out yere since ’37. Puttin' up telegraph lines for the bleedin' elephants to pull down. Aye, well, roll on demob!”
“But what d'you do—the unit, I mean?”
“Watchin' the river, layin' ambushes, at night, mostly, ’cos that's when Jap tries to slip past. ’E ’ad two armies up yonder, you know, 15th an' 33rd—”
“I'm aware.”
“Oh, at Meiktila, was you? An' Pyawbwe? Well, you seen ’em for yourself, then. They been swarmin' down this way lately, keepin' as far east as they can, see, but plenty of ’em uses the river, too, an' we've ’ad three or four duffies, an' shot up their boats an' rafts. A lot of ’em got by, mind you—”
“So that's why he was on about boats! God, he must be harpic—what does he think a Piat can do against open boats that grenade launchers and two-inch mortars can't?”
“Oh, we got mortars an' launchers, but I s'pose ’e figured a Piat would be more accurate, bein' a tank-buster…Look, boyo, if ’e ’eard somebody ’ad invented a gun for firin' Rugby balls under water, ’e'd want it! An' ’e'd find a use for it, an' all. You wait an' see.”
The demonstration firing of the Piat took place on a paddy close to the camp. Grief, bursting with excitement, strode up and down before his platoon, sturdy Burmans in khaki shorts and head scarves who listened with no trace of expression on their flat, sinister faces while I named the parts and explained the mechanism with Jones translating. Then I cocked the thing, nipping my fingers in my nervousness, trying to ignore Grief's barks of encouragement. “Take the strain—heave! Bags of action, bags o' swank, Strang the Terrible pits his muscles against the machine, can he do it, can he hell, yes he can! Got it, corporal! Smashing, good show! Spinach wins the day!”
The target chosen was an old Jap bunker, a good solid construction, and I wondered if the Piat would even dent it—assuming I hit it, for never having fired the weapon it was with no confidence that I uncapped a bomb, laid it carefully in place, and took up the firing position.
“Range—eighty yards!” bawled Grief, standing over me. “Well, eighty or eighty-two, we won't niggle!” Silly bastard. “Wind backing nor-nor-east, visibility good, scattered showers in western districts! On your marks, take your time, and may God defend the right!” He flourished his hands and placed his forefingers in his ears. I had adjusted the supporting leg to what I hoped was the correct elevation, took a firm grip, lined up the sight, and pulled. There was an ear-splitting crack, the pad hit me a smashing blow, and as Piat and I were shunted violently back there was a great crump from up ahead. I looked, and approximately halfway to the target a large cloud of smoke was hanging over a tiny crater.
“Jesus McGonigal!” roared Grief. “Ranging shot! Up fifty, direction, spot on, elevation—well, nobody's perfect! Try again, corporal, remember the spider, we're all with you, man and beast! Bags I be number two on the gun!”
He recocked the Piat himself, and by the time I had another bomb ready he was fiddling with the sight, adjusting the elevating leg, and squinting towards the target. “Gravity, muzzle velocity, density, intensity, one for his nob, and bullshit baffles brains! There—into the breach, old Whatsit, and if all else fails we'll fix a bayonet on the bloody thing and charge! Fire at Will, he's hiding in the cellar, the cowardly sod!”
I lined up the sight, held on like grim death, pulled the trigger, and being ready this time for the recoil was able to watch the bomb's flight. It arced slowly up, dipped, and descended, there was a brilliant orange flash and a roar, a billowing black cloud, and beneath it—nothing. The bunker had vanished.
“Take that, you jerry-built abomination! Flaunt your roof at me, would you? I'll huff and I'll puff and you've had your chips!” Grief was off like an electric hare, with his platoon chattering and laughing at his heels. Well pleased, I followed more slowly, pacing out the range: it was exactly seventy-nine yards.
“He'd measured it, had he?” I said to Jones.
“Don't you believe it, boyo,” he said. “He didn't need to.”
Grief and his gang were standing round the wreckage-filled pit in which beams and thatch were tangled in the fallen earth of the roof. As we joined him he heaved a deep sigh and looked solemn.
“Alas, poor Will, everybody's target, I fear he's been fired at for the last time. He's down there somewhere with his ears ringing and his arse full of shrapnel.” He shook his head and then was off again, sixteen to the dozen. “Not a bad bomb, corporal, not bad at all—and you can tell the manufacturers I said so, you unregenerate gremlin, you! Or was it firkin? Not that I give two hoots, I couldn't care less, but I don't want you wandering about in a state of uncertainty. Right, Sarn't Jones, dismiss the parade, depart and take your ease, and if anyone rings tell ’em the redskins have cut the wires. I'm going for a kip.”
He strode off to his basha, humming “Any Old Iron”, and I didn't see him again for twenty-four hours, which was a nuisance, because I wanted to suggest that I give two of his scouts a thorough course on the Piat and return to my unit without delay; I felt I'd had just about my ration of Captain Grief. But he had attached his own version of a “Do Not Disturb” sign to his basha door (it read “Wake Me At Your Peril”), so I turned in early and was lulled to sleep by Sergeant Jones, who had the Welsh gift of talking perfect English in a musical monotone, on and on and on. He lay on his charpoy, staring at the roof, telling me how he and his unit had once mounted guard at Caernarvon Castle, or it may have been the Naafi at Catterick, and so help me he did it down to the smallest detail.
“…it was full ceremonial, Jock, see, an' we was fell in in greatcoats with belts an' bay'nets, bags o' bull, an' a luvvly sight we were. ‘You're a luvvly sight, lads’, says the R.S.M., Williams ’is name was, played in the back row, was it, for Neath, big strong fellow, built like a slag-heap, played a trial once, I think, anyway ’e fell us in an' inspected us, an' then it was ‘Atten-shun! Slope arms, as-you-were, slope arms, that's better, move to the right in threes, right turn, by the left quick march, ’eft-'ight-'eft-'ight, pick ’em up, bags o' swank…’”
You have to make allowances for a man who's had nobody but Grief to talk to for weeks, but I was astonished, on waking some time towards dawn, to hear a hoarse murmur from the other side of the hut: “…an' then for the last time it was prese
nt arms, one-two-three, an' the general salute, an' all the top brass at attention, see, and the band playin' the Luvvly Ash Grove, an' slope arms, one-two-three, an' march off by comp'nies,sarn't-major, an' platoon move to the left in threes, left turn, by the right quick march, an' we marched off, bags o' swank, ’eft-'ight-'eft-'ight an' the band playin' Men of Harlech in the hollow, do ye hear like rushin' billow, an' Williams sayin' keep the dressin', don't go spoilin' it now…”
Grief was absent next morning, and Jones, possibly exhausted by his nocturnal filibuster, or sulky because I'd dropped off in the middle of it, was withdrawn and edgy. With his help I got two of the Shan scouts proficient on the Piat, but firmly refused their request to be allowed to fire it; with only ten bombs in hand we couldn't afford it.
It was dusk when Grief reappeared, emerging from the jungly fringe of the paddy with his long loping stride, two of his Shans trotting behind. They'd been travelling; Grief's bush-shirt was badly torn, and all three were caked in mud to the thighs, breathing hard and soaked in sweat. Grief flourished his carbine and shouted “Sarn't Jones!”, and for the next half-hour the two of them were in closed conference while I kicked my heels, feeling out of it and wondering what was up, and how it would concern me. I brewed up, and presently Jones emerged, issuing instructions to the Shan sergeant and his section leaders; they scampered away, and Jones came across to my fire, filled his pialla, and asked how I fancied night marching.
“Jap's comin' down-river tonight, see, a big bunch. Some of ’em in boats, mebbe rafts, wi' the main body marchin' on the far bank to cover ’em. It's paddy that side, see, an' they'll ’ave scouted to make sure it's clear. But this yere bank's jungly, an' we got West Yorks an' Gurkhas farther up, an' no sign o' Jap this side o' the river. ’E'll try to slip past on the water an' the far bank, an' we won't let ’im. Grief wants you on the Piat.”
It was no time to suggest that one of the Burmans I'd instructed should take over. I asked how far.
“Near eight miles to the ambush point, an' gotta be there by midnight.” That was less than four hours away.
“Over wet paddy and jungle? That's shifting. I'll need two men to take turns with me toting the Piat. And two for the bombs. How many Japanni?”
“Hundred, maybe two, Grief thinks.” He shook his head in admiration. “’E's a bugger, ’e is. Been scoutin' em ’alf the day, up to ’is neck in river. Then ’e comes back at the double, bitten rotten with leeches, ’e is. There's a Gurkha platoon rendezvousin' with us at the ambush, so we'll ’ave plenty support. Right.” He emptied his pialla on to the fire. “Let's earn our Jap campaign pay.”
I'd say that when you've done one night march through scrub and paddy you've done them all, except that this one was a bastard. Three miles an hour on hard level is the Army norm, but you can't do that through ankle-deep water and undergrowth, not by starlight you can't, so we were forced marching whenever the ground permitted. Luckily silence didn't matter, or we'd not have got half-way in time. The Piat was a monster, heavy as sin and snagging on everything, and we had to change carriers every few minutes, except on the open ground, where we could carry it two at a time, one on either end. Jones and another scout carried the bomb cases and our rifles, and since we were at the rear of the little column I cannot report on Captain Grief's deportment at the head. If he had breath enough to natter, even to himself, he was a fitter man than I. Within twenty minutes I was streaming sweat, and the Piat was wearing burning grooves on either shoulder; after two hours I was seriously wondering if I'd make it. My back and leg muscles were one great ache, the skin seemed to have been worn off my shoulders, I'd been whipped stupid by foliage, and I could only hope that the mud which plastered my legs was suffocating the leeches. In the last hour, by the time the whisper for silence came down the line, I was tottering, and too beat to take consolation from the fact that Jones and even the Shans didn't seem any better.
Then we were lying in rank grass among bushes, with the jungly screen behind us, and dimly seen in front the pale sheen of river water. Overhead a few stars were out in the pale night sky, but the far bank was lost in darkness, as if anybody cared by that time. It was positive pleasure just to lie there on the soggy ground, letting the aches drain away, muscles fluttering with tiredness. A couple of yards to my left there was a Shan mortar team in the lee of a bamboo thicket; Jones was to my right with the bomb-cases.
I must have dozed, rotten soldier that I was, for it was with a start that I was aware of movement behind, and heard Grief's voice and another English one: the Gurkha subaltern. There was rustling in the undergrowth, whispering of orders, as the Gurkhas took up their positions along the bank to our right; then the sound of their stealthy movement died away, and there was only the soft jungle chorus of chirps and croaks against the background murmur of the heavy Burmese night, and a voice at my ear inquiring: “Ever had an invite to Viceregal Lodge, corporal? Course you haven't, neither have I, so we can compare notes, tear their characters to pieces, mean bastards. Bugger these night-glasses, show you nothing but war movies, no cartoons, not even an organ interlude…”
He was alongside, prone in the grass, and although his face was nothing but a pale blur I could imagine the manic gleam in his eye. He went on, in a conversational whisper:
“Right, this is the form! There's one bloody great boat, sampan type, full of paying passengers, and she'll be as close in under the far bank as she can get—unless some dopey Samurai has run her aground first, in which case we'll demand our money back. Wait for the mortar flares, and then sink me the ship, master gunner, sink her, split her in twain—or thrain, if you feel like it. Don't bother about anything else; she's your bird. The range'll be about eighty yards—is the figure familiar? Spot on! Jones! Jones, are ye there, Morriarity? Slither over here to the mortar—no, never mind his bloody bombs, I'll look after ’em! Come on, jildi!”
Jones wriggled past me, and there was more whispering beside the bamboo thicket as Grief issued instructions for the mortar. “Two flares, and then the H.E. iskers, as fast as you can—and make sure the buggers put ’em in right way up, or they'll find your bollocks on a nearby tree…”
Then he was away into the dark, and the Shan who had been with Jones crawled up beside me, opening a bomb case, and I realised with a shock that I hadn't cocked the Piat. I rolled over, pulled the heavy tube on top of me, heaved until it clicked, checked that the elevating leg was where it had been for the successful practice shot, and took a bomb from the case, fingers over the safety cap. I could hear Jones busy with the little two-inch mortar, and to my right there was the snap of a Bren magazine being pushed home, and the oily sliding click as the gun was cocked. No sound from far out in the darkness ahead; as we lay waiting I became aware for the first time of clouds of voracious mosquitos, but you daren't slap or do anything except keep rubbing your face and cursing inwardly.
A silent, sweating fifteen minutes, and Grief was kneeling beside me again. “There's someone at the door,” he whispered. “Two minutes, about.” Without being told I uncapped the bomb and laid it in place. “All set, Jones? On the whistle, let there be light, and we'll be able to see for bleeding miles!”
I suppose I must have been on edge with excitement, but I don't remember it. I know I was straining eyes and ears—was there sound or movement far out in the murk,where the far bank must be, or was it my imagination? I cuddled the butt-pad, left hand up and across to grip the barrel, felt in the dark for the trigger, touched it, and took my hand away, which was just as well, for when the whistle came with a piercing unexpected shriek I gave a violent twitch which would certainly have sent the bomb winging away prematurely. Jones's mortar exploded with a metallic whang, echoed twice along the bank, there was a second's pause and then three soft pops far overhead—and the darkness lifted in a great blaze of silver light as the three tiny parachutes with their burning flares hung over the river.
It all registered in an instant: the broad surface of the water shining with the reflected
glare, the far bank lined with little dark figures caught like rabbits in headlights, standing, running, dropping to earth, a raft halfway across crowded with men, and beyond it, near the far bank, the dark outline of a big unwieldy-looking craft about twice the size of a ship's lifeboat and high out of the water, and even as I took it in the Brens were stuttering along the bank, the rifles cracking in rapid fire, and I lined the barleycorn sight on the gleaming copper nose and pulled the trigger, shuddered with the recoil, rolled on my back dragging the Piat on top of me, and I was counting, one-thousand-two-thousand-three-thousand…up to six, waiting for the blast that would mean a hit, but it didn't come. Snarling, I dumped the Piat down, rolled in behind it, and Grief was slipping another bomb into the cradle while all around the rattle of Brens and rifles was deafening, and the air was heavy with cordite smoke, and the scene ahead was changing eerily as the flares drifted down to the water even as other flares broke out overhead, and a crimson Verey light arced away with a trail of smoke, passing over the raft and plumping into the water—an instant's glimpse of the raft suddenly bare as the Brens raked it and ploughed up the bright water in which heads were bobbing. Beyond it the boat was drifting slowly, and now there were men visible on her stern. I lined up the sight, aiming just behind the bow, squeezed, took a terrific glancing blow on the chin from the recoil, and was on my back again, feet slipping on the rest—strange that I should remember that, and the Piat twisting in my grip like a live thing—and then the firing position again, and Grief slipping in another bomb and leaning towards me to shout above the noise:
“Near miss, just short! Keep her as she is!”
Just short…I tried to snuggle the butt just that bit lower, squeezed, absorbed the recoil, rolled over dragging at the Piat and thinking, Jesus the things you do for eighteen rupees a week…and the next few seconds live in my memory like nothing else in my life. It seems now to have gone on forever, but it can have been only a few heart-beats, a tiny piece of time in which I thought this is the end, china, and you're going to find the Great Perhaps.
Quartered Safe Out There: A Harrowing Tale of World War II Page 25
