Brave Company (13 page)

Crack!

A black speck hurtled in a high arc into the sky. Yes, mortars. Several of them, all firing.

Other troops were scampering along the trenches, bent over to keep below ground level. A few stared as the jeep jolted past.

Crack! Crack!

More specks hurtling through the air. Machine-guns hammered, suddenly and startlingly near.

Thirty or forty yards ahead, off to the right, a column of earth erupted into the air. It hung for a second, then collapsed back.

Whoompf!

The sound reached them. A shell-burst, Russell realised. A shell-burst from an enemy gun.

‘Right, that's it!' Sergeant Barnett's foot stabbed at the brake, slewing the jeep towards the side of the
rough road. ‘I'm taking you two back.'

At the same moment, even as they came to a halt, they reached the top of the hill and saw what was happening ahead of them.

It was the sea that Russell stared at first. There it lay, over to the left, a stretch of flat grey under the low, dark sky. Warships crowded it. Six of them at least, too far away to identify, wreaths of smoke rising from their funnels. Not their funnels – their guns. They were all firing, the smoke from one salvo still thinning while the next one crashed out.

He thought of
Taupo.
What was she doing now? Still waiting offshore where she'd landed the supply party? And PO Ralston and the others back there with the 16 Field Regiment blokes – did they have any idea what was happening up here?

WHAM! WHAM!

Other guns, closer to them. On the slope below,
about a hundred yards away, firing across the broad valley. Artillery.

WHAM!

Russell saw the nearest one lurch back on its wheels as it fired, half-glimpsed the flare of flame from its barrel.

The ground angling downwards in front of them was criss-crossed with trenches. Trenches and sandbags. Barricades of barbed wire were everywhere, and great scars where bombs or shells had hit the ground. Walls of other sandbags enclosed gun pits or bunkers. Russell tried to take it all in.

The noise was much louder now. The sides of the valley must have muffled it before, but as soon as they'd come over the ridge the booming and crashing pounded in his ears. The slam of big guns, the sharp flat crack of mortars, the drumming of the naval bombardment, the roar of shells bursting all over the far side of the valley. He remembered the broadsides of the American battleship hurtling over their frigate. This was twenty times louder: an endless thunder that beat at them so hard that he felt his body shaking.

They sat totally still, all three of them gaping at the chaos ahead and below. The jeep had stopped, Sergeant Barnett gripped the steering wheel. He seemed to have completely forgotten about turning around. From where they were standing, they could see everything. And everything can probably see us, went a voice in
a corner of Russell's mind. We must be a real target, away up here.

What was the enemy doing? Where were they? Apart from that one shell-burst, they didn't seem to be shooting at all. It was the UN forces who were blazing away from land and sea. The far side of the valley, three hundred yards or more distant, was almost hidden by shell-bursts and smoke, as round after round slammed down. But there was no sign of enemy fire. Was anybody there at all?

And if they were, what must it be like, facing a bombardment like that?

His hands hurt. He was clutching the jeep's dashboard so hard that his knuckles had turned white. Behind him Sa-In sat unmoving. Sergeant Barnett was also still, staring at the great storm of explosions in front of them. Russell made himself let go of the dashboard. His muscles felt bunched and taut; his heart thudded.

He suddenly thought about his Uncle Trevor running into enemy fire alone, a flag above his head. All he wanted now was to be as brave as his mother's younger brother. He made himself breathe, unclenched his fists, forced his mind to be calm as shell and mortar fire rained from the sky.

How long had they been sitting there, staring? Thirty seconds at the most, probably. Beside Russell, Sergeant Barnett seemed to remember where they were, and reached for the gear lever.

Puffs of smoke appeared on the slope opposite. Two … three … a row of them, spaced across the far side of the valley. Weird to think of shells landing like that.

‘Hang on!' yelled the sergeant. He twisted the steering wheel and thrust his foot down on the accelerator till the jeep's engine revved madly. They half-jerked, half-skidded across the rough road, stones, dirt spraying from the wheels.

‘What—' Russell began to gasp. Then, in front of them, behind them, on both sides, the ground burst upwards in fountains of flame. Rocks, clay, sandbags hurtled into the air. At that moment, Russell understood. Those rows of explosions on the slopes opposite weren't from shells landing. They were from enemy guns firing, blasting at the UN front lines.

Whoompf!

A gout of fire on the road, twenty yards ahead. Stones, gravel, fragments of metal whined through the air just above them and crashed into the jeep so it rocked on its wheels. The windscreen broke apart; shards of glass skittered over the bonnet and cascaded down beside Russell's feet.

‘Down! Get down!' Sergeant Barnett's teeth were
clenched, his eyes slitted. He hauled at the gear lever and steering wheel again; the jeep jolted backwards till it was right across the road.

Russell squeezed down in his seat, body hunched, shoulders up. Behind him, Sa-In was flat on the back seat, gabbling in Korean.

Whoompf!

More shell-bursts. Guns from both sides were firing. The thundering never stopped. The jeep skidded through another quarter-turn on the narrow road. They were almost facing back the way they'd come.

A rising shriek. A deafening bellow of sound. The jeep rose in the air, front wheels lifting off the ground till they seemed pointed at the sky. It hung there, then crashed back down onto the road. Metal screeched. The door beside Russell burst from its hinges. He was flung backwards against his seat, then forwards against the buckled frame of the windscreen. Pain tore through his left shoulder.

He clung to the dashboard with his right hand. Sa-In yelled. Beside Russell, in the driver's seat, Sergeant Barnett seemed to spring in the air, as if a huge hand had flicked him. His body somersaulted over the side of the jeep, landing with an ugly thump on the road.

Whooompf!

More explosions. The ground shuddered as shell after shell slammed down.

The jeep lay on its side. The bonnet was almost torn off, and black smoke billowed from the engine. Russell tried to struggle from his seat, but his left arm wouldn't work. He slumped back. We're going to catch fire, he thought. I'm going to be burned alive.

‘Sir!' A voice shouted. A hand grabbed at him. ‘Sir! Come!' Sa-In.

‘I'm not sir,' Russell mumbled. Then he pushed with his legs as the hand grabbed him again, and flopped out of his seat, down on his face in the road. One of the front wheels was inches from his nose, burst and ripped, the metal above it buckled by shrapnel. He glimpsed the smoking shell-hole, just five yards away.

His shoulder throbbed with pain. He fumbled at his face with his right hand, felt over the front of his torn, filthy duffle-coat, stared down at his legs. He wasn't wounded anywhere else. Or maybe he was, and couldn't sense it yet. His body felt cold and numb.

He yelled as Sa-In clutched at his hurt shoulder. The Korean boy stabbed a finger at the road nearby, gasped something Russell couldn't hear above the crash of shells, pointed again.

‘Wha— What?' Then he saw, too. The sergeant, sprawled motionless beside the wrecked jeep, his black beret gone.

Russell's stomach lurched. They both scrambled towards him. ‘Sir! Sergeant! Sir!' The NCO didn't stir.
One of his boots had come off; the leg of his battledress trousers was shredded.

Russell bent over him, hunching as more explosions tore open the ground nearby. His voice caught in his throat. ‘Sergeant! Sergeant Barnett!' No movement. He fought to remember his first aid training, then laid two fingers on the man's neck, just below his ear. ‘Yes!' he heard himself gulp. A pulse was there, low but steady.

He turned to Sa-In. The other boy's hair was streaked with dirt. An ugly cut ran across his forehead, blood dripping bright red from it. ‘He's alive!' Russell croaked.

‘Leg!' Sa-In pointed at the torn trouser leg and missing boot. ‘He doesn't need—' Russell began. Then he saw how the limb bent forwards, as if the sergeant was trying to kick a rugby ball. It's not meant to be like that, he thought foolishly, and reached to move it into its proper position. He felt the leg flop, and knew it was broken.

We have to get him into a trench or something, Russell realised. ‘Sergeant!' he shouted again, and Sa-In echoed, ‘Sir! Sir!' They both ducked as another salvo of shells roared down. Machine-guns had started firing again in snarling bursts. ‘We have to hide!' He didn't know if Sa-In understood, so he yelled again, and jerked his head at the unconscious sergeant. ‘Hide! Him, too.'

They crouched, staring around. The artillery thundered on. Then Sa-In pointed. ‘That!'

Below them on the slope, about fifty yards distant, a sandbagged trench snaked across the ground. Russell glimpsed movement at the far end. A mortar, its crew stooped over it, bomb after bomb sliding down the barrel, detonating with a
crack!
and hurtling away.

‘We have to – carry him.' As Russell made a lifting movement to show what he meant, another shriek and flash tore the air. They flung themselves flat, while more stones and shrapnel whirred past. Russell cried out as his injured shoulder rammed into the ground. Terror gripped him. His heart raced; he wanted to curl into a ball and lie there. It was like being stuck on the sandbank all over again, except that this time there was nothing they could do.

He began struggling to his feet, searching for a place to flee, to save himself. Then he stopped. His Uncle Trevor had known danger like this, and he hadn't run. Sa-In was afraid, too, and he wasn't giving in. Russell's breath gasped and jerked, but he seized the motionless sergeant by the arms, screwing up his face as pain burned through his own shoulder. He hissed at the other boy. ‘Come on!'

Sa-In gripped the man around the waist. Lurching and stumbling, mouths gaping with effort, they began heaving him across the ripped-up ground towards the
trench. They winced each time the broken leg bumped over a clump of dirt or into a rut.

They'd covered perhaps a quarter of the distance when Russell realised something had changed. The enemy shelling had stopped. He lifted his head to listen. Yes: guns still boomed and spat from the UN side, and from the warships out at sea, but the communist artillery was silent. He didn't know why, but he felt a flicker of hope.

Sa-In was listening, too. But the expression on his face wasn't hope. It was fear. Russell stared at the Korean boy. At that moment, a new noise shrilled out from the enemy positions across the valley. A piercing, frightening sound: the sound of bugles.

And right then, the enemy attack began.

At first, the enemy trenches on the far slope seemed to blur and swell, almost as if they were growing or spreading wider. Then tiny specks appeared: hundreds of them, rushing towards the bottom of the valley and the UN front lines.

Men, Russell realised. Communist soldiers. And now the bugles blared once more, harsh and terrifying. He and Sa-In froze in their steps at the sound. The bugles shrilled louder as more men poured from the trenches. There were thousands of them now, all surging in the direction of the UN forces.

They charged towards the valley bottom like an avalanche, an endless flood. A human wave, Russell realised. He'd heard the words; now he was seeing it.
A tsunami of enemy soldiers, churning forwards to capture and destroy. Nothing could stand against such a force, surely.

From the slopes and skyline above the advancing enemy, more smoke erupted. Seconds later, a new barrage of shells roared down on the UN positions. Russell glimpsed mortar crews further along the trench throwing themselves on the ground beside their weapons. A section of sandbags exploded in a storm of flame and flying soil. The communists weren't supposed to have much artillery, but somehow they were sending this storm of high explosive raining down. Trenches were caving in; barbed-wire entanglements were being blown apart.

Sa-In yelled at Russell, and they staggered forwards again, panting under the weight of the injured man. The Korean boy's teeth showed; his face was fierce and determined.

Just twenty yards to the trench. Russell heard himself gasping. The thunder of firing swelled, far out to sea. Every warship was almost hidden behind gun smoke. Salvo after salvo was being hurled at the enemy attackers. And from the rear, another steady boom and bellow echoed. The UN artillery was shooting furiously. Was 16 Field Regiment firing? And what was
Taupo
's supply party doing?

A monstrous roaring seemed to fill the entire world.
Fountains of flame and black smoke tore upwards among the waves of charging enemy troops. Men were being blown to pieces down there. Russell shuddered as he realised. Still they came on. Still the bugles shrilled.

The trench was just ahead. A slit in the frozen earth. A wall of sandbags lay in front of it, streaked with snow and dirt. Loose earth and lengths of smashed timber were strewn along the bottom. Flakes of snow were drifting down again, but in spite of the cold, both boys were dripping with sweat.

Sergeant Barnett's broken leg flopped along the ground. He didn't move or make a sound. Next second, they were collapsing into the trench.

They sprawled there, shocked, exhausted, dragging in lungfuls of icy air. Russell's left shoulder ached and throbbed. His duffle-coat was ruined: sodden and ripped, clotted with mud. Sa-In in his baggy white clothes looked as if he'd been dragged from a swamp.

The sergeant groaned once, then was silent. The enemy bombardment had paused for a second time. Shells were no longer exploding around them. Had the attack been stopped? Even as Russell lifted his head to listen, he knew it hadn't. The bugles still blared. And he heard a new noise: hundreds of voices screaming
and yelling. The communist troops were still coming, and they were nearer.

He peered over the top of the sandbags, and a fist squeezed his stomach. Soldiers in light brown uniforms – North Korean? Chinese? He couldn't tell – had reached the bottom of the valley, and begun flooding up the slope towards the UN trenches. Shells and mortar bombs burst among them. Machine-guns hosed bullets at them. But they kept coming. Russell swallowed as he watched. The courage of them! New waves poured down the opposite hillside. From out at sea, the ships fired endlessly. Did those on
Taupo
have any idea he was up here? No, how could they?

Sa-In crouched beside him, also watching. Russell heard the other boy panting, mouthing words he couldn't understand.

To the right he glimpsed UN troops, heads down, running for the trench behind theirs. The UN forces were falling back. Our guns against their massed infantry, he remembered someone saying. Just now, it was the masses of men who were winning.

The nearest communists were maybe two hundred yards away, struggling up the slopes, shouting as they came. A shell burst among one group, and when the smoke lifted, nobody was standing. But the UN ships and artillery had mostly ceased firing, too. The attackers were getting too close; there was too much
danger of rounds hitting the wrong side. As Russell stared, mouth dry, heart racing, the leading wave of enemy began splitting into hurrying, yelling bunches, looking for the gaps their guns had blown in the barbed wire entanglements. They were almost close enough for him to make out their faces.

What could he and Sa-In do? They had no weapons. They couldn't go back the way they'd come. With Russell's injured shoulder, there was no way they could carry Sergeant Barnett any distance. And the enemy would be at the crest in another five minutes. They had to leave the NCO and flee. Russell reached to clutch Sa-In's elbow. He pointed at the unconscious man, shook his head, then began to stab a finger behind them. ‘We go! We have to—'

His words stopped. No. Uncle Trevor hadn't run away. He knew that now. And neither could he.

He peered over the sandbags once again. Dozens of the enemy, rifles and sub-machine guns in hands, swarming up towards them. The nearest was just over a hundred yards away. Off to both sides, UN troops were falling back, none of them close enough for him to try and signal. They'd withdraw from the battlefield, and leave it to artillery and aircraft to stop the enemy. But by the time that happened, it would be too late.

The front line of communist soldiers was through the barbed wire and charging on. The yelling continued,
but the bugles had stopped. Russell stared along the trench at the cratered ground behind it. There was nowhere to hide. The three of them would be captured or killed. There was nothing they could do.

A voice was shouting at him. Sa-In. Shouting, and pointing at his own legs. Was the Korean boy hurt? Russell could see only the cut on his forehead, dried blood crusted across it. Sa-In pointed again, thrusting a finger at his clumsy, rubber-tyre sandals, then at Russell's boots. ‘Off! Off! Then hide!'

Hide? Where? How? But the other boy was hauling at the unconscious sergeant's uninjured leg, tugging off the boot and sock, flinging them away along the trench. Sa-In's dark eyes blazed. ‘Off! Make sir look like me. Sir and you! Take off!'

Russell blinked, trying to understand. He crouched, started easing the sock from the Barnett's broken leg. Don't let him wake up, he begged. He hurled the sock away, turned to Sa-In.

The black-haired boy was gone. Russell gaped. Sa-In was sprinting for their wrecked jeep, bent over as he ran.

Rage rushed through Russell. The refugee was trying to escape, running away and leaving them to die. He was a coward after all.

Then he saw that Sa-In was reaching into the jeep's back seat, heaving at something, slinging it over his shoulder, turning and stumbling back towards the other two. The tarpaulin, the one he'd been huddling under as they drove. What was he doing?

Next moment, Russell understood. He began pulling at his own boots, ripping the laces undone, tearing off boots, then socks. He snatched another look over the sandbags. The nearest communists were fifty yards away. He could see their faces, and the khaki caps they wore. They were cheering as well as shouting now. They must have realised that the UN forces had retreated.

Sa-In threw himself into the trench in a shower of dirt, tarpaulin trailing behind him. ‘Quick! Hide!' He seized Russell's boots, tossed them over the back of the trench. Hey! went a voice in Russell's head; that's navy property. What's Quartermaster Katene going to say when I tell him I've lost a pair of boots
and
socks
and
a blanket?

The Korean boy whipped off his own clumsy sandals and jammed them onto the feet of the sergeant, where they lolled unmoving on the trench floor. He shoved the battledress trousers up to the man's knees, then jerked his head at Russell. ‘You! Hide!'

They could hear individual voices now. Some cheering, some still shouting, one laughing wildly.
The enemy were only a few seconds away. There wasn't enough time. Sa-In snatched handfuls of mud and dirt from the ground and smeared them roughly over Sergeant Barnett's legs. ‘You! You!' He pointed to Russell, who seized a fistful of earth and did the same to himself. The Korean boy clutched at his own face, raked his fingers across the cut on his head till fresh blood showed. Russell stared. Had he gone crazy?

Sa-In rubbed his fingers in the blood, then wiped them roughly over Russell's and the sergeant's legs. He pointed at the tarpaulin. ‘Hide! Down! Hide!'

Russell threw himself onto the cold clay of the trench floor, huddling beside the injured man. Sa-In heaved at the tarpaulin, dragging it over the two of them. The stiff edge hit Russell in the nose and the world went dark. He felt Sa-In plucking at the canvas till they were entirely covered except for their bare, filthy, blood-stained legs.

He lay still, trying to breathe as little as possible. He jerked as Sa-In began to wail, voice rising and sobbing. What was – of course: the boy was pretending to be grief-stricken over the bodies of his family. It would never work; they'd be found for sure.

His heart thudded. He made his legs – his freezing-cold legs, he realised – flop like dead ones. The shouting and cheering was almost on top of them. Any second now, a hand would seize the tarpaulin, and—

Sa-In wailed on, louder and higher. Then a single voice spoke. A panting, breathless voice, angry and suspicious, right beside them. Russell didn't understand a word, but he knew what it meant. The enemy were here.