‘Eight feet high,’ he said, facing a bank of smooth escarpment and talking in a high, strained instructor’s voice, as though someone was clutching him by the throat. ‘You can’t jump it. You can’t fly. You’re not monkeys. So how do you go about it? Easy. You have a little teet-a-teet, which is Frog lingo for getting your ‘eads together, and two of you ‘old your rifles as a mounting block for your pals. A light spring with one foot on it carries you up and over.’
‘With bloody great packs on, Corp?’ Waterhouse asked disbelievingly.
Cobbe gave a tight-lipped smile and turned to the biggest of the Stooges. ‘Cop hold of this rifle, Chamberlain. And see he gets a really good bunk-up so he won’t forget.’
Waterhouse sailed over the escarpment to land on his face, the breath knocked from his body by his pack. ‘You rotten bugger, Corp,’ he gasped. ‘And there I was, thinkig we was mates.’
Further on, Sergeant Jacka was facing another group whom he was instructing in street fighting. ‘I’m now about to put you through the wringer a little bit,’ he warned. ‘But it’s all in a good cause and at the moment you’re about as much use as a grasshopper’s fart in a gale. We will consider first how to take cover.’
‘A good idea by my reckoning,’ Bradshaw observed quietly.
Jacka agreed. ‘And so it should be,’ he said. ‘All that about dying for your country’s just a load of cock. Much better to make the other bugger die for
his.
So - if they start shooting at you, what do you do? You find somewhere to get behind, don’t you? A cigarette box’ll do. You’d be surprised how small you can make yourself when some fella’s trying to hit you. Anyone ever done any ju-jitsu?’
Jones the Body, Mr World himself, was pushed forward and, being what he was, he couldn’t resist boasting. ‘Why, aye, I know a bit, all right, Sergeant. It is fit I am, see.’
‘Right,’ Jacka said. ‘Let’s see what you can do to me then. And don’t hold back. I’m not a cream puff.’
Two minutes later, Taffy was being carried away, grey-faced and groaning that he wasn’t ready, and Jacka was staring after him, puzzled. ‘I thought he knew something about it,’ he said.
At the butts they’d set up in one of the wadis, Baragwanath Eva was showing Sergeant Sidebottom what he could do. ‘Five bulls out of five,’ Sidebottom observed. ‘You’re good with a bundook. There’ll be a few black camels turning up if you use that thing right.’
‘Black camels, Sarge?’
‘Islamic belief, lad. When you’re going to die a black camel arrives at your door.’
‘How d’you know that, Sarge?’
‘Thinking of turning Moslem, son. That’s how.’
And, of course, there was always By-the-Christ Bunch - 97 Commando’s Ancient Pistol - as rigidly at attention as if he’d set like plaster of Paris. Bunch’s methods consisted of sarcasm. ‘You couldn’t fight your way through the skin off a old rice pudding,’ he complained. ‘You’d make my old mum weep to look at you, so I’m going to see you turn out nice because I can’t stand the sight of a woman’s tears.’
The specialist parties worked at their own particular tasks, Ed By using his huge coal-grab hands to hurl Mills bombs vast distances, to explode so far away they were almost out of sight. The rest of them Murdoch had sweating in the sunshine for hour after hour, with the sergeants yapping at their heels like terriers as they scrambled round and over and under the collection of boxes, drums, nets, poles and old vehicles they’d collected, cornering in their panic like puppies coming up the cellar steps.
‘Pick up yon magazine, Mr Sotheby,’ Murdoch rapped as they came to a stop, panting and streaming with sweat. ‘And try not to drop it again. It gets sand in it and that’ll jam your gun. It’ll also make a clatter and that’ll get you shot. Mr Swann, for the love of God, stop nagging your men. And Corporal Snow, when someone tells you to move your section, make gey sure it’s a proper order and no’ just somebody in a panic. The rest of you: there’s too much grumbling, too much talking, too much puffing and panting. Remember, only he who gives himself up for lost
is
lost.’
As they marched off, Murdoch kept Bradshaw back. ‘You ever thought of applying for a commission, Bradwell?’ he asked.
Bradshaw was an easy-going unambitious man, who’d never expected to be a soldier at all yet somehow managed to be a good one.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I’d rather be one of the boys.’
Murdoch stared at him with contempt. ‘Has it no’ occurred to you,’ he snapped, ‘that intelligent boys grow up into men? As of now, you’re a lance-corporal.’
De Berry was poring over maps in his office when Hockold arrived to see him.
‘They tell me you want our help,’ he said. ‘Rubber dinghies and so on to get ashore.’
‘More than that, sir,’ Hockold explained. ‘Things have changed. We’d like your diversion to draw off as many people as possible.’
De Berry’s eyebrows rose. ‘What do you want? Paratroops?’
It was meant in jest but Hockold nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s
exactly
what we want. Dummies. While your chaps are dropping their bombs, could they also toss out dummies on parachutes?’
De Berry smiled. ‘Bombers are bombers,’ he said. ‘You can’t shovel dummies out of ‘em just like that. You’d need the right aircraft.’
‘Have you got any, sir?’
De Berry stared at Hockold for a moment. ‘202 Group have a few Bombays. What do you want?’
‘Anything you can arrange, sir. Shop dummies. Tailors’ dummies. Even overalls stuffed with straw.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘Eight days now.’
‘How many do you want? Fifty?’
‘Couldn’t make it a hundred, sir, could you?’
A mock-up of their destination arrived in the bottom of a truck as Hockold returned to Scouab, and that evening he stood at the far side of it with an old billiard cue Amos had produced for use as a pointer while all the officers and senior NCOs crowded round.
‘That’s Qaba, by God!’ Brandison’s spontaneous exclamation could be heard all over the hut and Murdoch turned slowly, his eyes icy.
‘I think we’ll just forget you said that, Brandison,’ he commented and Hockold wished he’d been quicker and said it himself because, somehow, it added to Murdoch’s growing reputation for crisp leadership.
He jabbed with the pointer. ‘That’s the harbour area,’ he said. ‘There are four ships in there and it’s our job to destroy them. Since three of them contain petrol and one ammunition, it shouldn’t be too difficult.’
Sotheby tried a nervous question. Because he was aware of everybody looking at him, his stammer was worse than usual. ‘Sus-sus-sir! Who does it?’
‘Not you, Sotheby,’ Hockold said. ‘There will be five parties. Number One will hold the road and the harbour by the Roman arch -- here. Number Two will concentrate on the ships. Number Three’s job will be to open the prisoner of war cage and deal with any Germans on the east side of the town.’
‘What do we do with ‘em, sir?’ Swann asked.
‘For Christ’s sake, mon,’ Murdoch said, his accent suddenly more marked. ‘What d’ye think? Play kiss in the ring?’
‘Not the Germans, sir.’ Swann looked embarrassed. ‘The prisoners.’
Hockold tucked the billiard cue under his arm and lit a cigarette to avoid too sharp a retort. ‘We leave ‘em to their own devices, Swann,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir, I just wondered - ‘
‘That’s all right, Swann, but don’t interrupt again until you’ve got your orders.’
‘I just thought-’
‘Shut up,’ Murdoch snapped. This time Swann shut up.
Hockold drew a deep breath. Murdoch seemed to be managing the affair better than he was. ‘There’ll be two more parties,’ he went on. ‘Number Four will head for this warehouse - here. Get it clearly in your heads. There are alleys into Wogtown from the Shariah Jedid and it’s not an alley you’re looking for, it’s a road. The last party, Number Five, will destroy the fuel depot. Any questions?’
‘It’ll bub-be dark, sir,’ Sotheby said. ‘How do we know where the Germans are?’
‘Eat carrots,’ Collier grinned. ‘Like the night-fighter boys.’
‘Take a cat with us,’ Brandison added. ‘And aim where it’s looking.’
Murdoch silenced them with his bark. ‘There’ll be a moon and sairchlights at the airfield,’ he said. ‘And there’ll be flames. How about dress, sir?’
‘Drill trousers, battledress blouses; berets, bonnets, steel helmets or whatever you prefer; gym shoes or rubber-soled boots. We want no noise and with all that petrol splashing about we want no sparks from hobnails. As little webbing as you can manage with. As much ammunition as you can carry.’
Hockold paused and the pointer jabbed again. ‘A last word. The Ibn al As Mosque. See that it’s respected. We’ll have enough with the Germans, so we don’t want the Arabs sniping at us, too.’
At RAF, Sheikh Kafesh, Flying Officer Devenish was bored.
It had been his idea when he’d first joined the RAF to become an air-gunner but, unfortunately, just when he was seeing himself heading for Canada or Rhodesia for training, with the proud white flash of an air-crew cadet in his cap, he had discovered something about himself that he’d never before been aware of. He was colour blind.
In desperation, he had looked round for something in which he could prove himself and had discovered that a small and very select branch was being formed expressly for Demolition. As his subjects were physics and chemistry, he had volunteered at once and, encouraged by an unorthodox commanding officer, had developed into an expert. Posted to the Middle East he had gathered round him a small group of men, which included a Palestinian Arab called Uri Rouat who had turned up from God alone knew where and insisted he was part of Devenish’s outfit, and their work consisted chiefly of blowing up damaged enemy planes on captured aerodromes. Devenish considered it dull and unexciting, however, and was still itching to gain a little glory, so that when Hockold, on Kirstie McRuer’s advice, descended on Sheikh Kafesh, he was more than willing to offer his services.
‘Ships,’ Hockold reminded him quietly. ‘You’ve had no experience of ships.’
Devenish’s scholarly face twisted in a slight smile. ‘All you have to know is where to put your firework,’ he pointed out.
‘Would you be prepared to volunteer?’
Devenish didn’t hesitate. He still felt he had a long way to go. ‘Yes, I would,’ he said. ‘I can’t speak for the rest of my people, of course, though I think they’d come along.’
‘How long would it take you to find out?’
‘About five minutes.’
Meanwhile, Commander Babington hadn’t been idle. During the night he had moved his empty ammunition lighters up alongside
Umberto Uno
and had started to remove her crew and cargo. Because of prying eyes ashore, the work had stopped before daybreak, and the lighters were now lying nearby, apparently completely unconnected with the coaster. During the coming night, more would take their places and these would be replaced nightly by others containing carpenters and armourers to replace the deck cargo with guns and dummy crates. The gangways and ladders to be used at Qaba were being prepared ashore; because they’d be spotted the minute they were put in place, they were to be carried aboard at the very last minute. For the same reason the splinter mats and steel plates which were to cover the bridge and upperworks of
Horambeb
were stowed out of sight in the holds and would not be fitted until the ship was at sea.
Extra petrol tanks were being fitted to the Fairmiles and high-speed launches, which were also being stripped to make room for the soldiers they were to carry. Stores were being amassed and routes marked on charts and the commander of ML 112, which was lying alongside
Umberto
as guard-ship, was at that moment arranging several pounds of explosive in the stern bilges of his command. Their detonation at the moment of departure would suggest she had been hit by gunfire from
Umberto,
but only seven already dead men would be likely to be harmed. They were to be brought aboard the night before, and the bodies, in lifejackets and attached to spars, would float into the water as the launch sank.
It all seemed easy enough and the commander of ML 112, a breezy young volunteer reserve lieutenant called Dysart, seemed quite capable of doing his part effectively.
‘What about your crew?’ Babington asked.
‘Mostly awkward bastards, sir,’ Dysart said cheerfully. ‘Chaps who misbehave themselves ashore get sent out here to work off their bad temper.’
‘How about you?’
‘I can handle ‘em,’ Dysart said cheerfully.
‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, are
you
here because you’ve misbehaved yourself, too?’
‘Oh!’ Dysart grinned. ‘In a way, sir. I called my superior officer a stupid bugger without looking round first to see if he were within earshot.’
Babington said nothing but he thought it might be a good idea to find out who Dysart’s commanding officer was, because Dysart impressed him with his self-confidence.
‘These chaps of yours,’ he asked. ‘Have they ever been put on charges?’
Dysart grinned again. ‘More than once, sir. Either by the Regulating Branch or the civilian police.’
‘Let’s have a look at them.’
The twenty-three sullen members of the crew were lined up on the foredeck and Babington studied a list in his hand that contained the vital statistics of the seven dead men at present lying in the mortuary. He jerked a hand at a beefy leading seaman running to fat.
‘He’ll do,’ he said. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Gaukrodger, sir.’
‘It fits, I think. What about the little chap in the middle?’
‘Smith.’
‘That goes with him, too. I’ll have the chap next to him, too, and the three on the end.’
Dysart looked at Babington admiringly. ‘The six most awkward bastards I’ve got, sir. You couldn’t have done better with a divining rod.’
Babington smiled. ‘All the better. Have they got records?’
‘Not half, sir. Tiny Gaukrodger’s cleared the Fleet Club more than once and smashed up the Tipperary more times than I can remember. The owner starts calling up reinforcements the minute he arrives.’
‘And the others?’