The Levant Trilogy (35 page)

'I'm liaison. I've a signal for CO, Engineers.'

Without speaking, one of the three pointed to
another group of men that stood darkly in the distance, then returned to the
search.

The CO, receiving the signal, said, 'Have any
difficulty finding us?'

'No, sir.'

'Clever lad. Report back "Detectors working
OK".'

Triumphant, Simon put his head down and ran
towards the barrage. Stumbling through the shrapnel fragments, he passed
between the gun emplacements and found a supply truck starting back to the
depot. Shouting to it to stop, he was taken back to his jeep that stood where
he had left it, with Crosbie asleep over the wheel.

Crosbie, wakened, started at the sight of
Simon's smoke blackened face and said, 'Where you been, sir?'

'Where d'you think? Delivering the signal, of
course.'

'What's it like out there?'

'Not too good. Come on, Crosbie, let's get
back.'

Expecting to be congratulated, Simon was
disappointed when his safe return had so little effect on Fitzwilliams who
said, 'All right, Boulderstone, get some sleep if you can, I've had to send
Blair to the MO, so you and Donaldson will have to do a bit more.'

'Sorry about Blair, sir. Hope it's nothing
serious?'

'I don't know. Could be that infectious
jaundice. Lot of it around.' Having spoken, Fitzwilliams stuck out his lower
lip so it was evident he knew exactly what was wrong with Blair.

Getting into his sleeping-bag, too tired to
notice the noise of the barrage, Simon looked at his watch and saw it was four
a.m., the latest he had ever been up in his life. He thought of the ghostly
men, each with a white cross on his back, and imagined them still moving through
the night. He almost envied them but greater than envy was his desire for
sleep.

He was roused two hours later by Crosbie who
handed him a mug of tea. Crosbie, wakened by the camp guard, said, 'We've got
to go out again, sir. You're wanted at the command truck.'

Pulling on his jersey and gulping his tea, Simon
went to the truck where a young captain called Dawson had taken over from
Fitzwilliams. Simon, newly awake, was slightly unsteady and Dawson eyed him
severely: 'Anything the matter?'

'No, sir. Didn't get much sleep, sir, that's
all.'

'Most of our chaps'll get no sleep at all
tonight. Now, we've had a signal from Corps CO. One of our armoured divisions
has failed to reach its objective and the radio's haywire. No joy on the
intercom, either. So, there's nothing for it. You'll have to go and find what's
holding them up.'

'Sir. Any idea where they are, sir?'

'Um!' Dawson said musingly: 'Thought you might
ask that.' He straightened out a hand-drawn map of the positions, or supposed
positions, of the different units and examined it with his head in his hands:
'Um, um, um! They're supposed to be in the northern corridor on their way to
the final objective. That doesn't tell you much, does it?'

'What
is
the final objective, sir?'

'Up here it's Kidney Ridge, down there it's the
Miteiriya. Ever heard of the Miteiriya?'

'Yes, sir.' It was fire from the Miteiriya Ridge
that had killed Hugo and all the members of his patrol. But Hugo's death now
seemed far in the past. Having seen what he had seen, Simon knew that if his
brother had not died that time, he would, as likely as not, have died in the
present battle.

Looking at Dawson's map, Simon saw the two broad
arrows aimed, the one at Kidney Ridge, the other at the Miteiriya, and thought
how simple and ordered the advance appeared on paper and what blinding
confusion it was in fact,

'Which route shall I take, sir?'

'Find one that aims at the northern corridor.
The corridor was supposed to be clear by daylight and the division on its way
through. Ideally, they'd be out in the open by now, but they're not. Either
they're off route and fart-arsing around, or they've been shot up by fire from
Tel el Eisa. Either way, they're stuck. Your job is to contact Corps Commander
and ask him what the hell? Or, in official language: "Is his division
properly set up for the attack?" Got it? Any questions?'

'No, sir, no questions.'

The sun was now above the horizon. The barrage
had ended at daybreak and with the main guns silent, the lesser guns - tank,
machine, anti-aircraft - merged into a screen of noise so continuous the ear
ceased to notice it. Seeing the dust of battle blotting out the western
horizon, Simon no longer felt an eagerness for the fight. He knew what lay
ahead and was reluctant to return to it. Yet he was luckier than most: he had
had two hours sleep while other men, as Dawson had reminded him, had spent the
night in danger and wakefulness.

They met the dust cloud where it had been the
night before. Ambulances, appearing from it, were taking the severely wounded to
the field hospital behind the camp. A mile further on, the jeep passed the
dressing-station where men, awaiting transport, lay on stretchers on the ground
itself, or sat, some alert, some with head down on knees, maimed, bloody and
exhausted.

All the flies of the desert seemed to have been
drawn here by the smell of festering flesh. Simon urged Crosbie to 'step on it'
but there was worse to come. Less than a hundred yards further on, a mass grave
had been dug to receive the dead. It was not yet full. A sickly effluvium came
from it and flies hung over it like a shroud of black. Crosbie swerved,
attempting to avoid its malodour, and ran off the track. The jeep ploughed into
soft sand. It stopped and they were at once set upon by swarms of flies, some
no bigger than gnats, attacking the eyes and lips of the two men who, unable to
escape, set to digging and putting mats under the wheels.

Eventually, jerking the jeep back on the track,
they ran onto an empty track where Simon feared they might have driven beyond
the battle area. Then two vehicles appeared on the road ahead. Distorted by the
first wavering of mirage, they were difficult to identify but, seeing they were
stationary, Simon told Crosbie to draw up. Walking towards them, he was
disconcerted to see they were staff cars and four angry senior officers were
arguing in front of them. As he approached, one of them was shouting, 'I still
say it's not the way to use tanks,' and Simon hoped the tanks in question were
the ones he was seeking. The four officers had an appearance of unnerving
importance but one of them had noticed Simon and he felt it would be cowardly
to retreat. He said, 'Excuse me, sir,' and as he spoke, all the men swung round
on him in exasperated enquiry. He explained his mission and the one who had
first noticed him, waved him on: 'They're about a mile up the track.'

'Are they out of the mine field, sir?'

'No, they're not out of the mine field - and if
you want to know why, I suggest you toddle along and ask them.'

As Simon climbed back into the jeep, Crosbie
muttered, 'Ratty bastard,' and Simon saw no reason to reprimand him.

From the churned up sand, the overturned
markers, the smell of burnt oil and the thickening dust, it was soon evident
that they were in the wake of an armoured division. They were also within range
of enemy fire. Breathing in sand particles and the astringent smoke from
mortars and shells, they bumped forward, swaying in ruts and tilting over
sandhills, and passing vehicles that had been disabled and abandoned. A dispatch
rider came out of the dust; Simon shouted,' How far ahead are they?'

The rider stopped and leaning back over his
dispatch box, pointed to a black cloud on the horizon: "That's them.
You'll catch them up in no time: they're down to a crawl.'

But nearly an hour passed before Simon came in
sight of the rear tanks, a line spaced over so wide a field the flanking
vehicles were almost out of sight. The blanket of smoke about them was like the
blanket of night. The tanks appeared to be motionless but coming close behind
them, Simon saw they were making a very slight headway into a fog that was
peppered with the star flash of bursting shells.

Crosbie braked, and turned uncertainly to Simon.
He did not try to speak but his expression asked: 'Must we go into this?'

Standing up, Simon could see that one of the
nearer tanks had come to a stop and the bailed-out crew was starting to dig in.
He motioned Crosbie to drive towards it but as the jeep turned, shells fell
about them and Crosbie stopped again. Trying to keep up his own courage, Simon
bawled at him, 'Get a move on, Crosbie!' and they continued with flak hitting
their tin hats and striking the sides of the jeep. At the sight of them, the
tank commander waved them furiously away: 'What the hell are you doing here? Go
back. You're drawing enemy fire.'

Awaiting no further encouragement, Crosbie swung
the jeep round and tried to fly the field but Simon, catching hold of the
wheel, forced him to stop.

Simon knew he must again make his way forward on
foot. Ordering Crosbie to drive back to the track and wait, he ran to the tank
crew and asked where he could find the CO. The tank commander answered with
disgrumled brevity: 'Up front, 'Bout a mile,' then as Simon started forward,
shouted after him: 'And don't take that bloody jeep. Everything that moves,
draws fire.'

Bent almost double, finding what cover he could
from each tank as he reached it, Simon went at a good pace but slackened every
few minutes to ask direction from the tank commanders. The commanders, bored
and irritated by the delays, sweating in the heat generated by the slow grind
forward, were as perfunctory as the first man. No one knew for sure where the
CO was to be found. All they could do was gesture him towards the forward
sector where the leading tanks had come to a stop. The way ahead was lit by
blazing tanks, and tank crews were tramping back to dig themselves in when they
found a likely space. Bren carriers, looking for wounded, came out of the dust,
swaying about until they made sufficient speed to steady themselves.

At the front of the advance, which was less an
advance than a standstill, enemy shelling was intense. Crouching behind tanks,
darting on whenever there was an instant's respite, Simon's progress was slow.
As he sheltered behind one tank, a shell burst over it, not penetrating the
fabric but showering it with burning oil that spattered his shoulders. Small
flames sprang up over his jersey and as he gathered up sand to quench them, the
whole tank was enveloped in fire and he threw himself down, rolling on the
ground until he was away from the conflagration.

He found the commanding officer sitting on the
lee side of his tank in an attitude of despondent impatience. Having read the
signal, the commander said in a strained voice: 'The Scorpions broke down.
Fault was the flails raised too much dust, damned things over-heated and the
sappers had to scrap them. Half the detectors brought up were faulty and now
the chaps are down to bayonet prodding. Slow business. That's why we're stuck
here. Lot of sitting ducks.'

'You know your radio's packed up, sir?'

'Yep. We were shot up and shrapnel knocked it
out. We've given it a shake but the damned thing's kaput ...' He stopped then
as though galvanized, shouted at the top of his voice: 'We're breaking through.'
The tanks began to roll forward and at once, as though the movement had been a
sign to heaven, the sinking sun cut the fog with a shaft of orange light and
enemy fire became furious. The C O ordered Simon away: 'Ruddy counterattack
just as we've got the light in our eyes. Better dig in till the show's over.
Goodbye. Good luck.'

Making his way back between the advancing tanks,
Simon came on a trench and threw himself into it. The men in possession gave
him space and they all sat together, speechless beneath the uproar of battle.
Too tired now to care what was going on, Simon sank into drowsiness, imaging
himself back in Garden City with Edwina, in her long, white dress, smiling her
conciliatory smile. Now he did not feel resentment but a confused pity for her
and for all womankind. In a world where men died young, what was a girl to do?
Facing life alone, she had to fend for herself. He murmured, 'Poor little thing!
Poor little thing!' then sleep came down on him.

He woke at daybreak to find he was alone in the
trench. The noises of the night had come to a stop and, climbing out, he found
the tanks had advanced out of sight. He had the field to himself - but not
quite to himself. Burnt out tanks stood about him like disabled crows and the
smell of burning was heavy on the air. There were dead men and men not yet
dead, and the Brens were returning to pick them up.

As the sun topped the horizon, the first, subtle
light of day swept like a wave over the desert and about him, and passed on,
lighting desert and more desert, miles of desert that had once been
no-man's-land. He was not sure now whether the division's objective had been
Kidney Ridge or the Miteiriya but it was in no-man's-land that Hugo had died.
He had bled to death like the dead left behind by the battle and perhaps he bad
lain here, on this barren ground that was now the field of victory.

Walking back among tanks as useless as the sand
they stood on, stepping over the bodies of lost young men, Simon asked, 'Is
this what Hugo died for? And am I to die for this?' There was no one to answer
him and as he realized how hungry he was, he forgot his own questions and
started to run.