Casca 32: The Anzac Read online

  Shot.

  It smashed into his shoulder, exploding pain through his body. He writhed in agony, then flopped onto his back and lay still. Sweat poured out from pores all over his body, a reaction to the shock of the bullet. The pain was intense and it was all he could manage to keep still while he feigned death. His rifle was underneath his right arm and his burning left shoulder was resting against the side of the gully. He could feel the blood trickling out of the wound inside his jacket. It felt like the bullet had ripped through the muscle and missed the bone. It had gone through him and spun to some distant destination beyond.

  He willed himself to lie still. He must be in the sights of the Turk; the shot had come from slightly above, so the canny bastard had quickly gone uphill after the first shot and had probably been watching him all the time, waiting for his night sight to return for a properly accurate shot. Again the darkness had saved him from a worse injury.

  How long he lay there he didn’t know, but the pain gradually subsided into a deep dull throb. It was uncomfortable but tolerable. His eyes were half closed and watchful, waiting for movement to attract his attention. Finally, he saw a dark shape approaching, slowly, cautiously. This guy was really playing it safe, taking no chances. The long shape of a rifle showed itself and it was aimed right at Casca.

  The Eternal Mercenary lay there, as one dead, holding his breath, as the Turk closed. The rifle was pointing right at his chest as the Turk stood next to him, examining his ‘kill’, when Casca jack knifed up, his feet knocking the Mauser rifle up and away. Another shot rent the air and Casca twisted, rolled and got to his feet.

  He was close to the surprised Turk. In desperation the man swung his rifle back to shoot Casca but he was too slow, too late. Casca crashed into him, sending both of them flying. The first thing he noticed was that this Turk was big and strong. Even though he’d been knocked off his feet he wasn’t helpless. Even as they struck the ground a knee came up and struck Casca painfully on the thigh.

  Casca hammered a fist down at the sniper’s head. It struck a glancing blow. Immediately the rifle butt swung up to hit Casca on the face but he twisted and ducked out of the way, then struck at him with his other fist. The Turk grunted in pain but had another go at Casca, kicking out and suddenly letting go of his rifle and jabbing for his eyes.

  Casca had to break his hold and roll away. Both men scrambled up, the Turk still holding the Mauser, and Casca grabbed it and pulled. Both men were now grappling, trying to force the rifle out of the other’s grip. Their breath sawed in and out in the night, and the smell of their sweat filled the air around the two combatants.

  Casca got a glimpse of white teeth as the enemy soldier grimaced with the effort, then suddenly he released the rifle and pushed hard, sending the Turk staggering back to come up against the rocky wall of the gully. Casca was on him at once, fists cutting up under the ribs. The Turk gasped and staggered, and Casca wrenched the rifle out of his hands and flung it aside.

  The Turk swung a boot up and it hurt. Casca moaned in pain and tried to grasp his testicles, but they were aflame. The sniper came at him again, and somehow had managed to pick up a rock. One swing cut across Casca’s forehead and he fell backwards, hitting the other side of the gully before sinking to the ground. The sniper turned round, saw his rifle, and stepped over quickly to pick it up.

  Casca spotted his bayonet, inches from his right leg.

  Grabbing the handle he sucked in his breath and got to his feet, almost bent double. As the Turk leveled his rifle to finish the fight, Casca threw the blade and it flashed once in the faint moonlight before striking the sniper.

  The Turk coughed and took two steps backwards, then dropped the gun and pulled at the bayonet, embedded in his chest. He grasped his wound with one hand and raised the blade with the other. Casca took no further chances. He ducked and groped for his own gun, and the bayonet intended for him flashed over his shoulder and vanished. Lining up the Lee Enfield, he saw the Turk trying to pick up his Mauser. As the Turk straightened slowly, obviously with difficulty, Casca set his mouth firm and squeezed the trigger.

  The shot took the Turk clean through the ribs and he pitched over the edge of the rocky wall of the gully and disappeared. A thin scream marked his descent, then there came the sound of him striking the ground and then there was nothing.

  Casca staggered over to the edge and peered over. He couldn’t make out much in the darkness, but there was a substantial drop to the next ridge. He sank to his knees, much out of relief than anything, and now the wounds he’d received began to make themselves known. He was a mass of pain; his shoulder, face, head and balls all vied for the honor of being the most painful.

  Gradually voices began penetrating the world of pain. He lifted his head and listened.

  “Private Roman?” a few voices called from far away. “Sandy?” came a few others.

  He groaned and pulled himself up, leaning over the edge of the rock lip. Below, about seventy feet away, a group of soldiers were slowly making their way along the hillside, calling out to him.

  “Here,” he replied, wincing in pain.

  The men stopped and looked up. Casca waved tiredly. They pointed and clustered together. “Hey, great work, mate,” one of the figures called up. “The bloody sniper’s down here dead. Soon as the shots stopped the Captain ordered us to find you; he was worried you were dead.”

  “I feel as if I am. I’ll come down.”

  Casca couldn’t remember much about the descent but he did remember the last part; he fell and re-opened some of the wounds, coming to a rest along with an assortment of rocks and boulders at the bottom of the path. He lay there, half conscious, and looking up as a group of soldiers crowded around.

  “You alright, mate?”

  “Never felt better,” Casca said thickly.

  “Bonzer,” one of the Australians said enthusiastically. “Captain wants to see you. Come on, cobber, up you come!”

  With a groan Casca was helped up, and congratulated on a successful job. He wasn’t feeling in the mood for that; the pain and tiredness he felt were too much at that moment to think of much more, but he allowed himself to be dragged along by the Anzacs to the trenches. The Turks sent up a few flares to see what was going on, but by that time it was too late and everyone was well under cover.

  Casca sat listlessly on a canvas chair in the officer’s dug out, sipping on a hot mug of cocoa. Someone had thoughtfully provided a slice of bread which had been liberally smeared with plum jam, and he slowly ate on that. The Captain, accompanied by a few other officers, thanked him and stated he’d recommend him for a medal.

  “Sir, it’s very kind to do that, but I think I haven’t earned one yet. If I capture an entire enemy trench then maybe I’ll agree with you.” He grinned to rob any possible offense from his words.

  The Captain stood thoughtfully for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Strewth! You’re a bloody maniac, Roman! Alright, no medal this time but if you do carry out your crazy promise I’ll have Kitchener come out here in person to pin a gong on you.”

  The others chuckled. Casca nodded and took another draught of the cocoa. He had an awful feeling that maybe he might well have the chance to carry out his promise in the near future. He didn’t like the thought at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The beach received a continual supply of reinforcements, mostly soldiers, but at times other personnel. One day in July one of the supply vessels nudged against the jetty in the center of the beach and off stepped a sun-tanned Ieaun Clark. He walked to the end of the jetty and looked at the scene in front of him.

  The beach was a mess, with broken equipment, discarded items and the flotsam of military supply depots the world over scattered untidily in a variety of places. Shell craters pock marked the area and Clark grimaced. He looked up at the precipitous cliffs and wondered how on earth the Anzacs were managing to hold on to such a narrow and surely impossible stretch of land.

  He saw the hospital,
marked with red crosses, and strode across the beach, stepping over the many telephone cables that trailed loosely everywhere. He felt closer to his quarry. Orders had finally come through to transfer to Anzac Cove, as it was being called, as the unit the fugitive had joined had been identified as the 3rd Battalion. Now he had a much smaller group of people to search.

  He reported to the senior surgeon on his arrival and presented his orders. The surgeon looked at them with a weary air. It was exhausting and never ending work here on the beach with constant casualties or, at an increasingly worrying rate, sick soldiers coming into the hospital. Dysentery was increasing at an alarming rate and it seemed there was no stopping it.

  “I see I’m to extend to you every assistance in identifying every member of the Third Battalion of the First Brigade. Any reason why, Clark?”

  Clark wasn’t comfortable with this. “Orders from Alexandria, doctor. I’m to identify a certain individual and arrange for his arrest.”

  The surgeon snorted. “This is a hospital, Clark, remember that. Any man coming here is to be given treatment, not hauled off under irons to one of the army’s torture chambers! I don’t know what murky business you’re involved in, but your first duty is to save lives here, you understand?”

  The Welshman agreed. “But even so, doctor, I’m to identify this fugitive and make sure he does not get away again. He’s killed two British soldiers in Egypt.”

  “And pray tell me, Clark, how is this man to be identified?”

  “Many scars on his body, and his upper body has been burned recently. There’s no mistaking this man.”

  The surgeon tapped his orders in his palm for a moment. “I’ve seen nobody with that description. He might well be lucky and not have been hurt or fallen sick as yet.”

  “May I ask around? You have plenty of staff here. One of them might have seen something.”

  The surgeon waved a hand in the air and turned away. “As long as you don’t disrupt matters. We’ve got a dysentery epidemic here and we’re knee-deep in shit.”

  Clark pulled a face and looked around. A few orderlies were tending some patients, and he made his way over to them. After a few moments of asking, he was directed to the nurses’ tent. He repeated his question, and although he got no satisfactory reply, one of the nurses stood back and put her hand to her mouth in shock. Alison. The description was something similar to Sandy Roman, although he hadn’t got any burns. But she thought back and believed he did look at the start as if he’d been burned some time in the past. Now she thought of it, although he showed no sign now, she was sure he had been burned shortly before they met.

  She would have to ask questions. A murderer? It made her feel queasy. She would have to speak to some of Sandy’s colleagues, if she got the chance.

  * * *

  The summer was stiflingly hot. Flies were everywhere. Casca sat in the underground shelter they’d dug a month ago and played cards with Jeb, Archie and Bill. Rocky was lying on his bunk complaining about a stomach ache. Talk was of a planned attack in the near future, something to do with a diversion while a big attack was made elsewhere. The Anzacs were relieved at the news; sitting in trenches looking across no-man’s land for weeks on end had bored them to death. Now there was a chance they could get at ‘Johnny Turk’.

  The problem was that rumor had it they were to attack the Lone Pine ridge, across open ground against well prepared enemy lines. Barbed wire and machine guns would have to be taken out before the soldiers reached the trenches. It looked suicidal. The soldiers were all hoping the bombardment would destroy the obstacles, but Casca’s experience in Flanders had taught him that was unlikely.

  The other problem the Anzacs had was dysentery. Casca was immune to it but many of their unit had already gone down with it. Casca wondered if the replacements they were getting were up to the job. Besides, many of the new boys were going down with it too. The high command had tried to change the diet, thinking it was something to do with that, but to Casca it was clear what was behind the problem; the flies. They were everywhere, clustering around any corpse and toilet. The voiding of bowels due to the sickness only made things worse, for the flies were there before it could be cleared up, and then when anyone tried to eat anything, the flies were on it in clouds.

  Casca wasn’t complaining about the diet. That in itself was good, better than anything he’d found so far in the British army which was notorious for poor food. He was keeping healthy on preserved meat, biscuits, bacon, cheese, potatoes and jam. There was plenty of tea to drink and tobacco was in plentiful supply. The Australian army wouldn’t suffer through poor cuisine, that was for sure. He heard that they’d set up a bakery on nearby Imbros.

  Other irritations were lice, but then Casca had experienced them plenty of times in the past. They were an occupational hazard for soldiers staying in the field for any length of time. Some of the men were also getting broken teeth chewing the hard biscuits. Casca showed his colleagues how to avoid that; the biscuits were dunked in the mugs of tea to soften them. That went well until Rocky dunked one of his too long and the biscuit collapsed into two pieces, Rocky watching in bemusement as the bigger part plopped into his mug. He found the biscuit later when he got to the bottom of his drink and pulled a face.

  Archie got new boots in July, his previous pair having disintegrated through overuse. How Archie did that was a guess. He hardly ever looked as if he was doing anything. The thin Australian gingerly stepped about in his new footwear and complained about them being too hard. “I’ll get blisters and then I’ll be crook,” he predicted darkly.

  “Well soften them, then,” Casca said helpfully.

  “How? Dunk them in me bloody tea?”

  “You could try that,” Casca agreed with a grin, “or try the tried and trusted way.”

  “Are you going to tell me, you Canadian drongo?”

  “Piss in them. Works every time.”

  The others looked at Casca in amazement. “You kidding?” Jeb said, laughing.

  Casca nodded. “It’s an old trick; the guys in the trenches in Flanders do it. Softens the leather. Makes you smell like an old drunk, but it saves your feet.”

  Archie looked at the shoes dubiously. “I’ll give it a go, but if you’re pulling me leg, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Rocky groaned again from his bunk. “My stomach’s tearing in two!”

  Casca threw down his cards and went over to look at the stricken Australian. He’d seen enough stomach ailments in his time to know Rocky wasn’t kidding, and the pale complexion made him look deathly. “Best get the medics in,” he said. “Rocky, you’ve got a touch of dysentery. Best it be treated now rather than when you’re shitting your stomach out in bed. Besides, I don’t want the smell in here.”

  “Why me?” Rocky wailed.

  “Because you’re the most handsome of the five of us and its God’s way of evening things up.” Bill didn’t usually stoop to morbid humor but he did this time. “I agree with Sandy; the sooner we get you to hospital the easier we can breathe without fear of waking up tomorrow knee deep in your shit.”

  “You bastards,” Rocky moaned. “Some fine friends you are!”

  Casca and Jeb carried the complaining Rocky out of the shelter into the daylight and got the attention of a medical officer who swiftly diagnosed dysentery. Two stretcher bearers appeared and carried the moaning soldier away, yet another fallen to the disease. The hospital was getting around 200 a day and were close to being overwhelmed.

  Ieaun Clark examined the new arrival, as he tended to do as a matter of course, and questioned the stricken man as to his unit. His ears pricked up when Rocky told him. “Third Battalion, eh? You boys are in the thick of it, aren’t you?” He’d spoken to a few of the battalion but so far nobody had given him as much as a glimmer of hope. “Say, you seen anyone with a lot of scars and burns amongst your lot?”

  Rocky was too much in pain to really listen, but he caught one or two words. “What was that about scars?”


  Clark leaned closer. “Scars, yes. As a doctor I’m interested in people with scars; how they got them, how their medical treatment went. I’m writing a book, see?” He had his cover story polished by now, having uttered it enough times over the past couple of weeks.

  “Oh. Well there’s Sandy, he’s got lots of scars. Ughhh!” Rocky suddenly doubled up as a severe spasm struck him.

  “Who?” Clark forgot his medical calling for a moment, being more interested in what the soldier had been saying than his obvious discomfort. Two other orderlies came over, together with Alison who was on duty that moment. They got him onto a bed and Clark was pushed aside. The Welshman hovered about, hoping the young soldier would talk more to him, but he was in too much pain to care about that.

  “Are you going to help?” one of the two men asked sharply. “If not then bugger off!”

  Clark went red-faced, as much in shame as anger. He nodded and went to the other side of the bed, where Alison was busy undressing the moaning man. “We’ll need a basin and water pretty quickly.”

  Alison went to get them, her mind full of questions. It was clear Clark was interested in Sandy Roman, and the poor boy on the bed would be questioned further if he recovered. What Rocky would say was anyone’s guess, but the short Welshman was not being truthful in his explanation. He was looking for a murderer and his description matched Sandy, or at least some of it did. If Rocky talked some more then it was likely the big man would be arrested. How did she feel about that?

  She would have to ask Sandy directly, in view of others so that she felt safe. And depending on his reaction and reply, she might have to tell Rocky to say nothing. But she might also have to tell Clark herself.

  The build-up for the attack went on. A new general, a man by the name of Walker, was appointed to the division. Casca didn’t care much about that; the new man could hardly bring anything new or different to the situation; they would still have to go over the top and attack dug-in entrenched troops behind barbed wire armed with machine-guns. There was no room for maneuver.