A Good Clean Fight (61 page)

Another disappointment. Sometimes a raid seemed to be jinxed; sometimes a leader seemed cursed with ill-luck. Lampard sensed a slump of spirits and responded instantly with the British army's answer to all misfortune. “Time for a brew-up, sergeant,” he said. Long experience had shown that there was no reverse that did not look better after a mug of hot tea. When the operation was a shambles and the situation seemed hopeless, it was time for a brew-up.

They had brought the makings with them. The desert stove—a tin of petrol-soaked sand—was placed where it was hidden between the trucks. There was still a risk of its being seen, but Lampard reckoned that if Al Maghrun really was not operating the risk was worth taking. “We should be flattered,” he said. “Obviously the enemy's moving his planes from place to place to try and baffle us.”

Nobody said anything. What they were not saying was quite clear: tonight the enemy had succeeded.

The water boiled. A handful of tea was thrown into it. The brew foamed and seethed.

“I suppose there's nothing to stop us going back to camp now and trying again tomorrow night,” Dunn said.

“I hate to do that,” Lampard said.

Dunn immediately thought:
His brakes have failed. He can't stop himself.

A tin of condensed milk and half a pound of sugar got stirred in. The result was strong, sweet, hot and immediately cheering.

“Dawn in four hours,” Dunn said. “Not much time to recce somewhere else and raid it and still get into the Jebel.”

“Of course there's one place we don't need to recce,” Lampard said. “We've been there before.”

“Barce,” Davis said.

They finished their tea in silence; not because they disliked the suggestion but because it was the patrol leader's idea and his decision. “What d'you think?” he asked Mike Dunn.

For the first, and last, time, Dunn did not answer him.

“Hello?” Lampard said. “Anyone at home?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“How can I tell till I hear what you've said?”

“All right.” Dunn threw his dregs into the dying fire. “I think we should return to camp and try again tomorrow night. I think we ought to recce Barce first because the defenses have almost certainly changed since the last time. I think if we try to hit Barce tonight we'll run out of darkness before we're safe.”

“Ah. Any more?”

“And I think I'm wasting my breath because you've made up your mind.” Some of the men laughed at that, although the harshness in Dunn's voice was surprising.

“As to being safe,” Lampard said, “we're never going to be that. We left our calling card on the enemy with those bombs at the checkpoint. Also he's missing one large colonel. And Barce is the ideal target because they'll never expect another raid so soon.”

“You're guessing,” Dunn said.

“If you want to live by a timetable, old chap, you should have joined the GWR, not the SAS.” Lampard spoke gently, and won more laughter. “I'll give you one cast-iron
certainty. If we hit Barce twice, the Hun will definitely wet his knickers.”

“Not half,” said Trooper Smedley.

“How far is Barce from here?” Lampard asked Dunn.

“Couple of hours.”

“We'll dump these trucks and take the jeeps. Off we go, then.”

As they dispersed to the vehicles, Peck nudged Blake and muttered, “What's up with old Dunn, then?”

“Time of the month.”

“Don't be so bloody daft.”

“Well, don't ask such bloody daft questions.”

Davis navigated them around the perimeter of Al Maghrun until they reached the coastal road; then Lampard took over. He decided he wanted the corpse of the Oberst beside him, in the passenger seat of the staff car. It was fetched from the Ford, the tunic was removed, and the body was lashed to the seat with a length of cord under its armpits. The tunic was slit up the back and replaced on the body, all buttoned-up and tucked-in so the cord was invisible. With its cap on and its hands in its lap, the corpse looked very convincing.

Davis noticed some stiff triangular pennants in the back of the car. Lampard chose two and fitted them into sockets on the wings. Meanwhile Dunn had discovered a briefcase, forced the lock and found various official papers and quite a lot of money. Lampard took charge of it all. “You never know,” he said.

He reckoned it was about fifteen kilometers to where the jeeps were waiting and he hoped to cover the distance without meeting a roadblock. But quite soon he saw the familiar solitary red light in the middle of the road; and simultaneously he felt the double action of fear and excitement: a sudden tightening of the stomach muscles and a lively surge of blood to the head and neck. This roadblock must have been added since the supposed bomb attack on
the other post. It would be interesting to see how alert the guards were.

They were very alert, and very respectful when they saw the pennants flying on the wings.

A sergeant hurried forward and clicked his heels. He saluted. Lampard made a languid acknowledgment, more papal than military. He let the sergeant get out two or three words and then said, “Sh-sh-sh.” He put his finger to his lips, and nodded toward his passenger. The sergeant bent at the knees until his head was level with theirs. He began whispering. Lampard shushed him again. Using his hand to hide his words from his passenger, he said, slowly and softly: “Oberst . . . Max . . . von . . . Rommel.” The sergeant's eyes widened. Lampard nodded. He could see the sergeant thinking: I never knew Rommel had a son in the army, but then maybe it's not his son, maybe it's a nephew or a cousin, anyway he's still a Rommel, I'd better watch my step . . .

Lampard made a show of looking at his watch. He frowned and inched the car forward. But now the sergeant had a clipboard, and he needed information for it. While he whispered his question, Lampard leafed through the bundle of official papers, chose the two most impressive, added some of the money, and handed it to him. In exchange he took the clipboard and scribbled something illegible. “Heil Hitler,” he whispered. He aimed a finger at the pole-barrier and gestured upward. “Heil Hitler,” the sergeant whispered as he took back the clipboard. There was six months' pay in his hand. This had never happened before. Lampard inched the car further forward. Greed and duty fought for the sergeant's soul. Duty lost. The barrier rose. The car and the trucks accelerated into the night, the same night that concealed the sergeant as he stuffed the money in his pocket, telling himself that Rommel knew best.

At two-twenty the patrol reached the jeeps, transferred
the rucksacks of bombs, hid the trucks and the car, and set off for Barce. Lampard took the corpse of the Oberst as a good-luck token.

By three a.m. they were back in familiar terrain, the western foothills of the Jebel. Lampard wanted to be above Barce by four, which was absurd, and so he set an absurd pace, or tried to, racing along the wandering and rocky trails with headlights full on, skidding and slithering around S-bends in blind faith that he could cope with anything he found when he emerged. Once he failed completely: steering hard right, he could not stop the jeep drifting broadside left, over the edge and down a long, steep patch of rattling scree. Just a little steeper and the jeep would have rolled, bent the Vickers twin machine guns and probably broken a couple of necks. As it was, a few degrees saved them from anything worse than brief terror. The other crews helped manhandle the jeep up to the track. Lampard roared on.

Yet they paid for his impatience. The scree had ripped a tire; within minutes the jeep was thrashing that wheel to death. He forced himself to sit on a rock, in silence, while others changed it. They were far more competent. As soon as the final wheel nut was tightened, he started up and men scrambled aboard. It was three-fifty. Mike Dunn kept a constant check on the time. He had said very little since they left the airfield at Al Maghrun. Everyone else, including Sergeant Davis, followed Lampard without question; Dunn felt that he had said his bit and if nobody listened there was no point in saying it again. He experienced a sense of fatalism that kept fear at bay. Jack was the boss. Maybe Jack knew best, after all.

And for a time, things went right: for long spells it was like a night exercise, careering round the hills, steering by the stars, trying always to avoid losing height. Things also went wrong. Twice they drove slap into an Arab camp. The first was small, they reversed out and found a way
around it, dodging sleepy Arab children who were dazzled by the headlights which, to them, had arrived with all the sudden mystery of meteors. The second was big. Lampard saw a tent jump at him, swerved, and found himself in a sea of sheep. They panicked, which meant the whole night was full of angry Arabs chasing their property. The patrol sat motionless for three minutes until the chaos eased. Sergeant Davis gave the oldest Arab he could see two pounds of sugar and a big packet of tea. They shook hands. The old man seemed well pleased.

Sometimes the trail faded out and they had to search for another; sometimes there were too many trails. Lampard halted at a five-way crossroads and had to guess. While he was guessing, Dunn's jeep reported a puncture. The jack kept slipping; in the end, half the patrol held the jeep up while the wheel was changed. Lampard had gone on: he was exploring the right-hand trail. It led up a wadi and the wadi led nowhere. Dead end. He heard firing behind him and knew his luck had finally run out. You couldn't dash about the Jebel without meeting a German patrol, sooner or later.

Headlights off, he went back down the wadi in an anxious crawl, the firing getting steadily louder. He crept around a bend and saw it: flying needles of red and yellow bouncing off rocks in a confusion of directions, like sparks in a steel mill. All the fire was coming from the enemy. Lampard approved. If they thought they'd won, they might quit.

Meanwhile there was nothing he could do except watch. It was four-twenty. He sat on the warm bonnet of the jeep to comfort his backside, which had taken a beating from too many rocks recently.

Dunn walked out of the night and sat beside him. “I reckon five machine guns and a dozen rifles,” he said. “We've got the jeeps behind some boulders.”

“This is a dead end.”

“Ah. Well, come and join us.”

“If I drive down there, they'll clobber me.”

“Not if we keep their heads down. We blaze away, you make a dash for it.”

“No. Too exposed.” Lampard drummed his heels against the radiator. “Why haven't they outflanked us?”

“They tried. Made a hell of a noise. We sprayed a few rounds their way and they made even more noise going back. I think they're pretty new at this game.”

“Huns?”

“Sounds like it.”

“Right. Tell you what.
We'll
outflank
them
.”

“We're not strong enough.”

“They don't know that. Pick four men, send two to each side of the enemy position with a couple of Stens and some grenades. While they're making nuisances of themselves I'll sneak down. Then they rejoin and we withdraw.”

“OK.” But Dunn did not go. “There's another way, Jack. We can just leave this jeep here.”

“I'm not going to abandon a vehicle.”

That was that. Dunn hurried back to the patrol, explained Lampard's plan and began selecting men. “Walters and Connors,” he said. “Smedley and . . . urn . . .”

“Me,” said Peck.

Dunn hesitated.

“Yeah, Peck's best,” Sergeant Davis said.

“Is that a fact?” Smedley said to Peck. “You never told me.” He was picking out weapons.

“Why keep a dog and blow your own trumpet?” Peck said. He stuffed extra grenades in his pockets.

Lampard released the brake as soon as he heard the fierce crack of the first grenade. He let the jeep coast down the wadi until he was sure the German gunners had swung round to answer the attacks on their flanks. Then he took his foot off the clutch. The engine fired. He drove
half-standing, peering ahead, straining to see rocks that often were gone before he could twist the wheel. At least one rifleman tried to stop him: bullets made firefly-sparks as they struck the ground, and one or two stung the jeep. The wadi widened and ended. He turned square into the trail, all four wheels spitting stones until they gripped and rocketed him toward the elephant-sized boulders beyond which the patrol waited. An enemy machine gun searched with short, probing bursts. It ruined the face of a boulder but it couldn't find Lampard. He was safe.

Walters came back, sweating and pleased. Connors came back with a dislocated finger and without his Sten; it had gone flying when he tumbled down a gully. Smedley came back with a bloody face: stone splinters had sliced his cheek open. Sergeant Davis snatched Connors's hand when he wasn't looking, straightened his finger with a clean jerk and caught him as he fainted. Peck did not come back.

They waited three minutes. Lampard had the body of the Oberst placed at the side of the trail, pistol in hand, facing the enemy. As an afterthought he scattered the remains of the money all about. “Should give them something to think about,” he said.

Still no Peck. Enemy fire had tailed off. Only an occasional bullet fizzed by.

“It's four-forty,” Dunn said. “You can forget Peck.”

“What d'you reckon?” Lampard asked Smedley.

“Dunno, sir.” His words were weakened by the hole in his cheek. “We split up. He was firing, running about, making them think there was ten of him.” He shrugged. “Dunno, sir.”

The jeeps retreated at speed behind spurts of covering fire, and stopped after a quarter of a mile.

“You can bet your boots that Jerry patrol has raised the alarm,” Dunn said. “There's still time to reach camp before dawn.” This night seemed to have lasted a week.

“Jolly good,” Lampard said. Dunn felt he had been
talking to himself. “Sergeant Davis!” Lampard called. “Casualties?”