The Horizon (1993) (16 page)

He found the two detailed lieutenants crouching on the firestep, Maxted who commanded the second platoon
quietly smoking a cigarette, the glowing tip cupped in his fist. He was probably thinking about his second-in-command, who had been ripped apart by the grenade just hours ago. But for his body blocking the way, Maxted would have been the casualty. He seemed a good, serious-minded lieutenant; and Wyke, whose own second-in-command had been killed on this same firestep, was his usual laconic self.

‘Any chance of some leave after this, sir?’

Maxted gave a soft laugh. ‘Where to, for God’s sake? Mudros-on-Sea?’

Wyke did not hear him. ‘Just to saunter along Piccadilly again . . . order a bottle of champagne at Hatchett’s and dance the night away with some fabulous girl!’

Maxted stubbed out his cigarette and said, ‘On
your
pay?’ He laughed again, a sad sound in this place, and added, ‘Sorry, Chris. I forgot your father is a major-general.’

Jonathan climbed up and stared across the dark emptiness. In daylight and the sun’s pitiless glare it was different, a panorama of war, its cruel nakedness always there to stop a man’s heart. But now in the cooler air there was only the smell of it. Smoke, lyddite, and the dead. He heard the two lieutenants talking quietly below him, with the resilience of youth that made them feel invulnerable. They had already accepted that men they had known, closely or at a distance as demanded by the Corps, were gone. Even if a corpse lay beneath an old blanket or strip of canvas, it was not the man.

He heard Major Livesay’s boots in the trench and
knew he was coming to gather his raiding party together. There were too many officers going but without them, if the worst happened, the force would be headless, its determination gone before anything was achieved.

Payne climbed up beside him. ‘Got this off one of them Turks, sir.’ Even in the darkness, the long trench-knife seemed to shine.

Jonathan gripped his arm. ‘You’ve not been out there alone, man?’

Payne wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Safe as houses, sir.’

If Waring ever discovered what he had done Payne would face a court-martial or worse.

Jonathan sighed. ‘All gone, have they?’

‘Think so. I saw that flare, though. I reckon they know about the boats coming to the beach.’ He added heavily, ‘Like they did about us!’

Jonathan eased the knife down into his boot. Payne knew everything.

Major Livesay asked uncertainly, ‘Ready?’

Jonathan joined him with the others. ‘The sooner the better, sir.’

They were momentarily alone, the other dark figures somehow apart.

Livesay said, ‘If anything happens, old chap . . .’

‘Yes. Do the same for me, sir.’ It would not help the major to know that Jonathan had nobody else, whereas Livesay had everything to lose.

Sergeant McCann came up. ‘With respect, sir, if we gets cut off, there’s barely enough of our lads to hold the line.’

Livesay nodded vigorously, hardly hearing what he said. ‘We know that, Sergeant.’

McCann seemed satisfied. ‘We’ll show them bastards, sir!’

They stood in line along the firestep, their hair ruffling in the breeze, their helmets discarded, no matter what the colonel might say about it. Then up and over the parapet, the horizon that now reached out into unending blackness.

Nothing stirred, and even the wounded had fallen silent. It was as if the whole of the peninsula was holding its breath for them.

Livesay had drawn his revolver, but the lieutenants had armed themselves with rifles and bayonets and were spaced out along the untidy line of men.

Livesay bit his lip until the pain steadied him and said, ‘Forward, marines – good luck, lads!’

Jonathan felt the safety catch with his thumb. Livesay’s encouragement was puny compared with what was expected from them. But its very simplicity was perhaps all the more inspiring.

Major Andrew Livesay held up his hand and the long extended line of men came to a shuffling halt on either side of him. He could hear some of the marines gasping for breath as if they had advanced with full kit and at the double.
Fear
. He tried to calm his own breathing, and when he lowered his arm he could feel the sweat beneath his thick tunic like ice rime. Despite their slow and stealthy approach their footfalls and the sound of an occasional stumble in the darkness had seemed deafening.
But no flares had burst overhead and the machine-guns had remained silent, and all the more menacing.

One of the scouts was returning, his rifle and bayonet at the high port as if he were taking part in an exercise. It was Corporal Timbrell.

‘Nothin’, sir.’ He sniffed the damp air. ‘Corpses by the cartload, theirs or Aussies I didn’t wait to find out.’ He waited in silence, watching his officer without curiosity. He had done his part, and had left another marine up ahead as a picket in case they were approaching an ambush.

‘I see, Corporal.’ Livesay rubbed his chin. ‘I see.’ He saw Jonathan coming out of the darkness. ‘Ah – what do you think we’ve covered?’

Jonathan sensed the major’s uncertainty. ‘About halfway. Four hundred yards at a guess.’ He stared ahead but the slab-sided ridge looked no nearer. He had heard what Timbrell had said: just as well it was so dark. The stench of corpses, burned scrub and a few shell-blasted trees had been with them all the way. He turned to look at the trench, the scattered rocks beyond, but there was nothing. It was as if they had fallen from the sky into some unknown landscape.

Surely the enemy must know they were in this fought-over desert?

Livesay said, ‘Better get on. Tell the others.’ He saw Jonathan stride away, unhurriedly or so it appeared, and wondered at his calmness. Livesay was in his forties, old for his rank, and for several years had held settled administrative posts, the last being at the training barracks. After sending off the recruits to their various
ships and battalions, he might have stayed in Port Said or even Cairo. Enjoying a mess life of sorts again, showing the flag. He felt himself shiver. But not this. He was not trained for brutal murder. He cursed Waring and his stubborn dedication, even Blackwood for defending the colonel’s stupid plan. They would never get back, and if they were taken prisoner . . .

Corporal Timbrell said, ‘They’re ready to move, sir.’

‘I know that, damn it!’

Timbrell’s eyes widened in the darkness. In the Corps, you obeyed, and you did it better than any line-soldier. But Timbrell had never considered that an officer could be afraid. The realisation swept over him like a tide-race. God, you could smell it!

Timbrell peered round for the burly Sergeant McCann. Did he know? He swung away and hurried toward the brooding ridge again, his bayonet hovering occasionally toward some sprawled body. Things darted away from his boots and Timbrell grimaced. Rats. Dozens of them.

On the right flank of their wavering line, Jonathan stepped carefully over a piece of splintered wood. Part of a cart, an ammunition limber, another relic of war. Would it ever be clean again here? He sensed Harry Payne beside him as he had seen him many times, eyes everywhere, lips always pursed in a soundless whistle. He thought suddenly, vividly of Hawks Hill in the perfumed green of spring, so different from this baking hell, so different from the other days. Wounded and shell-shocked officers sitting in the early sunshine, or merely staring into space like those he had seen at
Porortsmouth. Men who had lost their pasts in the trenches and had no future to recognise.

He tensed. A sound, a smell – what was it?

Out of the stony ground itself a figure sprang into the air, as if one of the corpses had come to life. He heard Payne gasp as the figure jumped onto his shoulders and pulled him down. Too stunned to move, the nearest marines stared with disbelief, and one shouted, ‘He’s got a knife!’

Jonathan ran to help but sprawled headlong when his boot caught in some tangled wire. His rifle clattered across the dry stones, but he managed to reach out and seize the soldier’s belt. With a sob he dragged the Turkish trench-knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s ribs with such force that he could feel the pain lance up his arm as the blade glanced off bone, then went in to the hilt.

Two other marines dragged the Turk from Payne’s back and Sergeant McCann thrust down with his bayonet to end the last choking cries.

‘All right, Payne?’ Jonathan helped him to his feet, and for a moment longer they clung together like drunken squaddies emerging from a wet canteen. Payne could barely get his breath. Then he groped in the darkness and recovered his rifle, and said hoarsely, ‘Told you that knife would come in handy, didn’t I?’

Livesay was there now, peering round, bent almost double as if he expected a fusillade of shots.

‘What’s happened?’

Jonathan looked down at the man he had just killed. Only a thing. He said, ‘I think he was a sentry. Either that
or he was stalking Corporal Timbrell and didn’t realise this lot were behind him.’ He heard Livesay’s rasping breath and tried to help. ‘Just as well you ordered a halt back there.’ He was surprised he could speak so easily about it. The madness.

Livesay pressed him further. ‘You mean he’s the only one here?’

‘Until he’s relieved. Or maybe he’d fallen asleep. After all, who would expect a depleted platoon to advance on the Turkish army?’ What the hell did it matter, he thought. The Turk was dead, and nothing had happened.

Someone exclaimed, ‘Look, sir! A flare!’

But it was far away, probably a small one fired from a pistol.

Payne said, ‘The buggers have taken the bait. The supply boats must be standing into the cove.’

Livesay whispered, ‘Thank God! We’d better advance, Blackwood!’

This from the officer who had protested to Beaky Waring:
Sacrifice our own people?
What had happened to that man?

Payne handed Jonathan the evil-looking knife. ‘All nice an’ clean now.’ He found it hard to express his true feelings. Ta, sir. For what you did: I thought I was done for good an’ proper that time!’ He peered after Livesay’s shadow until it was lost in darkness. ‘Well, you lives and learns.’

Jonathan cradled his rifle across his arm. ‘Couldn’t manage without you!’ He heard Payne chuckle. In this terrible place, while they moved slowly away from the
last man to die, the sound was the warmest thing he had ever heard.

Jonathan leaned on his borrowed rifle and waited while the marines, in small squads, clambered over the lip of the ridge and fanned out in three directions.

Made it. We made it
. If he was out of breath it was because of the last part of the climb. He almost wished it otherwise. He could feel the dead Turk’s blood already hardening on his fingers but sensed only disgust.

Lieutenant Maxted crunched across the loose stone and sought out Major Livesay.

‘One prisoner, sir. An N.C.O. of some kind. He was sleeping beside one of their old Maxim guns.’ He was quite matter-of-fact about it. ‘No other machine-guns though. They must have carried them down to rake our supply boats.’

Livesay stared around with increasing desperation. ‘If only there was a moon, some sort of light!’

They all turned as sporadic firing echoed against the ridge. Sergeant McCann said, ‘ ’ere we bloody well go!’

Jonathan asked, ‘Any grenades, John?’

Maxted tore his mind from the sound. ‘Sorry, sir. Yes – there’s a crate of them in one of their dugouts.’

Livesay came out of his thoughts as well and snapped, ‘Take Sergeant McCann and issue them to each squad. Just in case . . .’ He did not finish.

Jonathan watched Maxted hurry away. Thank God he had not noticed Livesay’s uncertainty. But when dawn broke . . . He said, ‘Issue rations, sir?’

‘Ah – yes, of course. Squad by squad, but have every
sector manned.’ He flinched nervously as a corporal called out, ‘The heavy machine-gun’s here, sir!’

There were several derisive cheers as the lump-shaped Langmaid and his assistants stumbled into the defence line, and two others dragged the ammunition belts after them like shining snakes. But there was relief in their voices as well. Once it had been hopeless. Now, with the heavy machine-gun and some grenades at hand, they had a chance, and it put new life into them. They might even get the ancient Maxim to fire.

Livesay said, ‘They can have a tot of rum with their rations. I – I think we should have some too.’

Jonathan glanced around but Payne had already vanished. He recalled when he had been resting in a ruined village on the Western Front, behind the support lines but not far enough to shut out the endless roar of artillery. Payne had disappeared then also, and had eventually returned with a dead chicken and some sticks of freshly-baked bread.

His shadow loomed towards the two officers now and he handed a mug to the major before offering Jonathan what he knew was the familiar silver cup.

Livesay swallowed deeply. ‘God! That’s the stuff to give the troops!’ He gestured with the mug. ‘Leave the flask, Payne, there’s a good chap.’

‘Sir.’ Payne seemed to be waiting for his reaction. ‘All right?’

The cup felt cold in his bloodied fingers. It was Scotch. The wheres and hows meant nothing to Payne, or to Jonathan himself now either.

Livesay was saying, ‘When we get some daylight we’ll know better what to expect.’

Jonathan ignored the meaningless comment but heard him refilling his mug. How many was that? He would be useless when the time came. The Scotch might hold his fear at bay, but it would not kill it.

He said, ‘Go and get yourself some food, Payne.’ He held out the cup. ‘And thanks.’

Payne grinned. ‘Told you, didn’t I, sir?’

Jonathan looked at Livesay’s outline. He must stop him from thinking about the enemy counter-attack, as attack there surely would be once they had discovered what had happened. There were more muffled shots, and the sound of a different machine-gun. But not Turkish; more like the one Langmaid was tinkering with while his crew dragged sandbags closer to give him some protection.

Jonathan said, ‘You once served with Captain Soutter, I believe, sir?’

Livesay wrestled with his reeling mind. ‘Yes. And Rear-Admiral Purves, for good measure. Why?’