Casca 32: The Anzac Read online

  A few minutes later Alison reappeared. Feminine curiosity, Casca thought with a half-smile on his lips.

  “What’s making you smile?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Seeing you again,” Casca lied gallantly.

  “Liar,” she said. “So what did those two want?”

  Casca laughed out loud. Alison pursed her lips and waited. Eventually Casca told her, and she quickly lost interest. “I need to get up and walk,” he said. “I’m getting cramp lying here.”

  Alison went to argue but he whipped off the blankets and stood up, dressed only in his army underwear. Alison’s eyes lingered for a moment on his underpants then she took his arm and began helping him walk along the small area by the bed. After a few moments, during which time Casca realized there was no more dizziness, he gently disengaged his hand from hers and walked up and down, smiling. “There,” he said in relief, “almost as good as new.”

  She shook her head. “It shouldn’t be, but I can’t argue with what I’m seeing. If the doctor says you’re fit to return to duty tomorrow I can’t see there’d be any problem.”

  “I can’t lie here doing nothing,” Casca remarked, bending at the knees and testing his back. Apart from a slight tightness, it was working fine. “I’d go mad.”

  Alison shook her head in disbelief. If she hadn’t seen it herself, she wouldn’t have believed it.

  The next morning Casca did ten sit-ups and ten press-ups in front of a baffled medical officer who pronounced Casca fit to return to the front line. He looked at the history sheet for Private Roman, then tore it up in disgust. Someone must have misdiagnosed his condition. He’d have some strong words at the next staff meeting.

  Alison came to wish him well. She seemed hesitant. “I’m going to miss you, Sandy. You’ll look after yourself, won’t you? I don’t want anything really bad happening to you.”

  “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’m not that easy to kill.” They looked at each other for a moment, as if there was something else that had to be said. She hugged him, squeezing tightly for a brief moment, then stepped away. She smiled slightly, then turned and made her way quickly back to the hospital tent, so that he couldn’t see her tears.

  Casca watched her go, then cursed under his breath and gripped his rifle before loping up the first of the sloping paths that led to the trenches high above the beach.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He was hailed as a returning hero. But as he sat down and accepted a mug of lukewarm tea that had no milk, he reflected on the cloth-covered figures that had been lying neatly in a row in the reserve trench. He’d been warned to keep his head down on more than one occasion as he made his way to the trench where Jeb and the others were posted.

  “Well, look at you,” Jeb said, his face darkened from the sun and streaked with dirt. “Clean shaven, spotless and as fat as a goose at Christmas. Hospital treat you well?”

  “That nurse did, I bet,” Archie said and dragged deeply on a cigarette, grinning.

  “Nothing happened,” Casca said slowly and loudly amidst the leering cheers. “She’s a decent girl, that Alison.”

  “Impressed young Rocky here, she did,” Archie rubbed the young man’s dark curly hair. Rocky swatted his hand away.

  “Yeah, but no getting wounded just so she can treat you, Rocky,” Casca warned him in good humor.

  The homecoming was short, however, for the same captain who’d sent him on the last mission came along the trench, hunched down. “G’day,” he greeted the men who nodded at him or returned the greeting. “Good to see you back with us, Roman, if a bit faster than I expected. Thought you were a goner. Word is that the blokes here think you’re sort of indestructible. You think so?”

  “If you say so, Captain. Can’t hurt, can it?”

  “Naw,” the captain grinned. “So that’s why I want you for a special task.”

  Casca groaned. “Oh, Captain, I’ve just returned from hospital!”

  “Yair, but we’ve got a particular problem. There’s this sniper who’s been taking out the officers from somewhere behind. Seems one of the bastards has sneaked through and is whittling down the headquarters staff. Those poor bastards you saw lying covered up as you came up? They were all shot by that sniper or those on the Turkish front line. Some of them were men who tried to find him and flush him out. Every time we send men out of the trenches they get hit by one or more of the enemy snipers.”

  “Snipe back, sir. We must have some good shots here.”

  The captain nodded but then jerked his head towards the Turkish trenches. “Every time one of our men gets up on the sandbags to snipe, the bastard behind us shoots him. If we can get rid of that one, we can fight back. We need to find where he is. Trouble is, if one of our men looks up at the rear, then he exposes himself to the snipers in the Turkish trenches. We can’t win! We’re stuck between a crossfire and it’s driving us mad. The blokes here think you can do it, Roman. They think you’re charmed in some way.”

  Casca slumped for a moment. Damned Curse! Then he straightened. “Alright, Captain. But I’ll need a different point of egress. They’ve got this stretch of line in their sights. I’ll have to find another angle of approach, wherever he is.”

  The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man! You’d better use a periscope to have a look at the rise he’s on. We still don’t know where he is, but if you look at the area you’ll get the general idea why it’s a tough task.”

  Jeb, Rocky and the others murmured their thanks to Casca. “Good luck you silly bastard,” Archie growled. Casca looked at him, and saw in the wiry Scottish-Australian’s eyes the worry. Worry directed at Casca. The Eternal Mercenary nodded once to Archie who nodded back. Archie knew just what a bastard it was going to be. There were no flies on him.

  Rocky, on the other hand, grinned boyishly. He thought it was a hero’s job and Casca was a hero, of some kind. He’d learn, Casca thought to himself, if he was allowed to live.

  Bill and Jeb stayed silent, but their unspoken gratitude at Casca trying to eliminate what had become a nerve-wracking experience was clear. Casca followed the captain back to the supply area, a meeting point of the main front line trench and the supply route that came up from the beach. Men were crouching really low at this point. Bullet holes in the planking that formed the buttresses keeping the earth from falling in were all round. Clearly here was where the sniper was concentrating – and why not?

  “Here,” the captain picked up one of the periscopes lying on the trench bottom. It was stained with blood. Casca queried it by raising one eyebrow. The captain grunted. “Last man who used that one got careless. Shot from behind by a Turk in their trenches. Keep your head down.”

  Casca grimaced and cautiously raised the square-sided wooden periscope. It was rudely constructed with angled mirrors at bottom and top, where the ends had been cut into to allow the user to see. He fiddled with the angle, keeping crouched low, and began to scan the hill that ran behind the trench. Somewhere up there one of the enemy was concealed and was slowly picking off Anzac after Anzac. Anyone trying to use a periscope in this sector was fair game to this sniper, wherever he was.

  The hill rose steeply about fifty yards away in a series of sharp folds, criss-crossed with fissures and scrub. Plenty of cover up there, maybe enough for the sniper to keep moving. Casca kept silent, slowly scanning the ridges. Nothing moved. He sat down and cradled the periscope. “What approach can be made to the rear of that hill, Captain?”

  “None. The southern edge is sheer and not even a goat can climb it, while the northern edge is too close to the Turkish lines – they weave in and out over there. It’s a bloody dead end.”

  “So that sniper has to come this way if he’s to get away. How did he get there in the first place?”

  “We think he was left behind during the landings and our advance up here, and got orders via mirror. He must have one to contact his superiors but we haven’t been able to spot it so far.”

  “Damned hard to
see anything up there, sir. No idea as to the general area?”

  The captain shook his head. “No smoke, he shoots once in a while. Not enough for anyone to spot him, and it’s clear he moves – two of the men shot were hit in an area hidden from the spot he hit another in. The angle was impossible for all to have been shot from the same spot up on that bloody hill.”

  “Alright, Captain. At night I’ll slip over and get to the hill and hide before dawn. I’ll then see if I can spot him. Hopefully I won’t be exposed to the enemy in the trenches.”

  He was given food and drink and allowed to shed his equipment apart from what he needed. Rifle, bayonet, uniform. Food and water. Nothing else. As dark fell he slid over the rear of the trench and crawled the fifty yards to the base of the hill, his spine tingling. Thankful that the dark was almost absolute, apart from starlight and the sliver of a crescent moon; he stopped in the shelter of the first rocky spur and looked up.

  The blackness of the slope was almost total. He could make out shapes of bushes, rocks and other objects but nothing that resembled a human head or rifle. He doubted the sniper was stupid enough to reveal his position. There were sounds of shots and the occasional artillery shell landing, so trying to hear the enemy was not on. There again, his approach would be masked as well, unless he dislodged a rock or two.

  He slung his rifle over his shoulder and across his back, and gripped the edge of the first rock. Here goes. He slowly pulled himself up and over, trying not to scrape his arms too much on the sharp stones. His searching left hand found nothing in front of him and he teetered on the edge of the rock and then overbalanced and fell face forward, his stomach striking the other side of the ridge and he slid down to the bottom; about six feet.

  Cursing silently, he sat up and rubbed his skinned arms and legs. He was already beginning to hate the sniper. This was a bastard. He’d best get under cover soon or he’d never get some sleep. He’d need it before a day of concealment trying to find the Turk.

  The next rise was over his head, and he walked sideways, touching the rock, trying to find a way up. A fissure provided this, and he began inching up, fingers seeking cracks and ledges of a few inches in width while his army booted feet gripped the fissure. He inched up sideways, along the rock, until his hands found a ledge that went back beyond his groping hands.

  He pulled himself up slowly, holding his breath, and slid onto the ledge. It had earth on it and went back a way. Good. He crawled along and found that the ledge began to rise. He passed a thick growth of scrub. It looked good enough to hide in, but in the dark things always looked that way. You might find in daylight everyone could see you. Casca knew he had to lie in the lee of a ridge that gave him cover from the Turkish lines, so that his back was covered. He could then relax and scan the hill once daylight came.

  Another little rise, but this time it was gentler and he wormed through a small gully and suddenly here was a large thick growth of scrub. Perfect. Or at least, it looked perfect. He found a comfortable spot and unhitched his rifle, laying it carefully on the ground beside him. One last check to see how much starlight he could make out through the leaves – not that much – and he rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.

  He reckoned he had six hours until dawn.

  He slept soundly. The usual noises of war made little impression on his subconsciousness and he felt rested upon waking with the dawn. He looked about his hidey hole and reckoned he was fairly well concealed. Certainly the ridge behind him prevented the enemy in the trenches from seeing him. All he had to do now was to lie still and wait.

  As the light grew the details of where he was became clearer. He was in a shallow gully with plenty of loose rocks and soil lying about, and plenty of scrub bushes sprouted from a myriad of crevasses and niches in the rocks and soil. It would even keep the worst of the sun off him and keep him in shade. Casca felt satisfied with that. He wondered about the call of nature, though, and wriggled round to look to see if there was any place he could relieve himself.

  There, at the rear of the gully, was a gap where rainwater had obviously washed away in the past. He decided to relieve the pressure in his bladder now, rather than become uncomfortable later on and when the day was fully upon him and any movement might be spotted.

  That done, he settled back into his position and began scouring the hillside. It was a mass of ridges, gullies, outcroppings, shadows and bushes. It wouldn’t be easy to see someone who was well concealed. Only a shot would give his position away.

  The sun climbed into the sky behind him, warming his legs where it shone through the leaves and twisted branches of the scrub. He ran his eyes across the hill from north to south and back again, his eyes beginning to ache with the reflected sunlight off the whitish rocks. Where was this damned sniper? His eyes hurt, his neck hurt. He was getting thirsty.

  A shot!

  It passed very close to his position, causing him to involuntarily flinch. It had come from higher up slightly to the left. His eyes centered on the general area and he became very still. He refused to allow himself the luxury of blinking as long as possible.

  There! Movement. Ever so slightly. An arm maybe, working the bolt of his rifle? He knew where the Turk was now, twenty yards to the left and maybe a hundred feet above. He was using a long ridge as cover and had scattered bushes as additional shelter. Casca gauged the approach he’d have to make to get to him. It would have to be in darkness because the Turks in their own trenches would see him, and they knew their man was on this hill so anyone climbing up would be shot at.

  For the rest of the day he kept a watch. The Turk fired four more times, each time from a different position along the ridge. He caught a sight of him twice, a blurred indistinct shape moving carefully higher up. As darkness fell Casca moved out of his shelter, exercising his cramped muscles, and then began to make his way up the route he’d planned that day.

  He felt he knew the hill face fairly well by now. His intention was to angle up so he was off to the west of the sniper and would sneak up on him from behind. He just hoped he didn’t get lost on the way up. His climb was helped with starlight and the now larger crescent moon once more, and it was light enough to make out the main dips and ridges, albeit only in degrees of blackness and deep grays.

  Once his foot slipped and dislodged some stones. He froze to the rock face and cursed under his breath, clinging to the warm stone. Nothing happened so he breathed again and resumed his climb. When he pulled himself over the ridge he knew he was on a level with the sniper. From now on he would have to go much more carefully.

  He crouched and pulled out his bayonet. His rifle was slung over his back and of no use in the dark. A blade was much more practical. Ahead the ridge ran along the hill, generally sloping upwards and dotted with dark shapes of boulders and bushes. He crept forward, eyes darting left and right, watching for any movement.

  A shot suddenly roared out of the night, and a bright flash caused his eyes to shrink. But it was the stinging pain across his face that caused him to jerk back the most and fling his arm up uselessly, and he felt himself falling backwards, off balance, and he had no idea if beneath him was solid earth or a void a hundred feet deep.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The sound of the shot was still ringing in his ears. It had been about seven or eight seconds since the Turk had shot at him. His night sight was ruined, thanks to the muzzle flash. The swine had been a matter of twenty or so feet from him when he’d fired. The only thing he could think was that it had been dark and he’d been surprised. There was no other cause for him to miss at so close a range.

  His face stung. The rock chips that had been sent flying from the stone that had been struck had scored across his face. No doubt it was cut in a few places but that would soon heal. The main thing was that he was in one piece and ready to fight back. The fall had been about five feet and he’d landed in a hollow. He’d wasted no time but rolled to his side and then got to his feet and hauled his Lee Enfield off his back and h
ad worked a round into the chamber.

  His eyes scoured the edge of the hollow. The sniper was maybe a dozen yards away by now, coming to investigate. He’d be outlined against the sky and even with Casca’s ruined night sight he’d see him. The rifle was jammed hard against his shoulder and right cheek, and his eye was lined up along the barrel.

  Nothing.

  The bastard was playing it cautiously. He’d wait until either he heard a noise, then come to finish him off, or until daybreak and check that his shot had indeed killed him. Casca took a step to one side. The ground rose up and if he went up that way he’d lose cover and it was then fifty-fifty as to who’d get the first shot off. Against Casca was the fact that he would be the one outlined against the sky. He could go right and down the slope but it was steep and bare of cover for a distance and the Turk would have an easy time picking him off, even in the dark.

  Backwards? Casca inched back and came to the edge of the hollow. It dropped away down a rock-strewn slope that even a retarded goat would baulk at. He’d make enough noise to bring even the enemy in the trenches swinging their guns round to aim at him. Damn it! He was boxed in with only one way to go. Forward.

  If only he had a grenade, or those home-made hand bombs that they were manufacturing because of shortages. What were they calling them? Jam-tin bombs. He had nothing of that sort. He inched forward onto his stomach, sliding slowly up the end of the hollow to where he’d fallen down. Lying flat he’d present a smaller target and his rifle was primed to shoot. His bayonet was lying somewhere on the ground ahead. He regretted dropping it but he’d had little choice.

  He used one hand and both feet to inch himself along, and slowly the dark shapes of the boulders and bushes came into his line of sight. He held his breath and froze. If the sniper were going to shoot it would be now. There was nothing. Casca’s eyes were starting to get used to the dark again, and he could make out his bayonet, lying with the blade towards him a few feet away. He slowly reached out his left arm.