Another quarter of an hour elapsed, an interminable fifteen minutes when, in the lulls between the thunder-claps, every slightest sound was an approaching enemy patrol, before Miller materialised slowly out of the darkness, halfway down the rock chimney. He was climbing steadily and methodically, then checked abruptly at the cliff-top, groping hands pawing uncertainly on the top-soil of the cliff. Puzzled, Mallory bent down, peered into the lean face: both the eyes were clamped tightly shut.
‘Relax, Corporal,’ Mallory advised kindly. ‘You have arrived.’
Dusty Miller slowly opened his eyes, peered round at the edge of the cliff, shuddered and crawled quickly on hands and knees to the shelter of the nearest boulders. Mallory followed and looked down at him curiously.
‘What was the idea of closing your eyes coming over the top?’
‘I did not,’ Miller protested.
Mallory said nothing.
‘I closed them at the bottom,’ Miller explained wearily. ‘I opened them at the top.’
Mallory looked at him incredulously.
‘What! All the way?’
‘It’s like I told you, boss,’ Miller complained. ‘Back in Castelrosso. When I cross a street and step up on to the sidewalk I gotta hang on to the nearest lamp-post. More or less.’ He broke off, looked at Andrea leaning far out over the side of the cliff, and shivered again. ‘Brother! Oh, brother! Was I scared!’
Fear. Terror. Panic. Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain. Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain. Once, twice, a hundred times, Andy Stevens repeated the words to himself, over and over again, like a litany. A psychiatrist had told him that once and he’d read it a dozen times since. Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain. The mind is a limited thing, they had said. It can only hold one thought at a time, one impulse to action. Say to yourself, I am brave, I am overcoming this fear, this stupid, unreasoning panic which has no origin except in my own mind, and because the mind can only hold one thought at a time, and because thinking and feeling are one, then you will be brave, you will overcome and the fear will vanish like a shadow in the night. And so Andy Stevens said these things to himself, and the shadows only lengthened and deepened, lengthened and deepened, and the icy claws of fear dug ever more savagely into his dull exhausted mind, into his twisted, knotted stomach.
His stomach. That knotted ball of jangled, writhing nerve-ends beneath the solar plexus. No one could ever know how it was, how it felt, except those whose shredded minds were going, collapsing into complete and final breakdown. The waves of panic and nausea and faintness that flooded up through a suffocating throat to a mind dark and spent and sinewless, a mind fighting with woollen fingers to cling on to the edge of the abyss, a tired and lacerated mind, only momentarily in control, wildly rejecting the clamorous demands of a nervous system, which had already taken far too much, that he should let go, open the torn fingers that were clenched so tightly round the rope. It was just that easy. ‘Rest after toil, port after stormy seas.’ What was that famous stanza of Spenser’s? Sobbing aloud, Stevens wrenched out another spike, sent it spinning into the waiting sea three hundred long feet below, pressed himself closely into the face and inched his way despairingly upwards.
Fear. Fear had been at his elbow all his life, his constant companion, his alter ego, at his elbow, or in close prospect or immediate recall. He had become accustomed to that fear, at times almost reconciled, but the sick agony of this night lay far beyond either tolerance or familiarity. He had never known anything like this before, and even in his terror and confusion he was dimly aware that the fear did not spring from the climb itself. True, the cliff was sheer and almost vertical, and the lightning, the ice-cold rain, the darkness and the bellowing thunder were a waking nightmare. But the climb, technically, was simple: the rope stretched all the way to the top and all he had to do was to follow it and dispose of the spikes as he went. He was sick and bruised and terribly tired, his head ached abominably and he had lost a great deal of blood: but then, more often than not, it is in the darkness of agony and exhaustion that the spirit of man burns most brightly.
Andy Stevens was afraid because his self-respect was gone. Always before, that had been his sheet anchor, had tipped the balance against his ancient enemy – the respect in which other men had held him, the respect he had had for himself. But now these were gone, for his two greatest fears had been realised – he was known to be afraid, he had failed his fellow-man. Both in the fight with the German caique and when anchored above the watchtower in the creek, he had known that Mallory and Andrea knew. He had never met such men before, and he had known all along that he could never hide his secrets from such men. He should have gone up that cliff with Mallory, but Mallory had made excuses and taken Andrea instead – Mallory knew he was afraid. And twice before, in Castelrosso and when the German boat had closed in on them, he had almost failed his friends – and tonight he had failed them terribly. He had not been thought fit to lead the way with Mallory – and it was he, the sailor of the party, who had made such a botch of tying that last knot, had lost all the food and the fuel that had plummeted into the sea a bare ten feet from where he had stood on the ledge . . . and a thousand men on Kheros were depending on a failure so abject as himself. Sick and spent, spent in mind and body and spirit, moaning aloud in his anguish of fear and self-loathing, and not knowing where one finished and the other began, Andy Stevens climbed blindly on.
The sharp, high-pitched call-up buzz of the telephone cut abruptly through the darkness on the cliff-top. Mallory stiffened and half-turned, hands clenching involuntarily. Again it buzzed, the jarring stridency carrying clearly above the bass rumble of the thunder, fell silent again. And then it buzzed again and kept on buzzing, peremptory in its harsh insistence.
Mallory was half-way towards it when he checked in mid-step, turned slowly round and walked back towards Andrea. The big Greek looked at him curiously.
‘You have changed your mind?’
Mallory nodded but said nothing.
‘They will keep on ringing until they get an answer,’ Andrea murmured. ‘And when they get no answer, they will come. They will come quickly and soon.’
‘I know, I know.’ Mallory shrugged. ‘We have to take that chance – certainty rather. The question is – how long will it be before anyone turns up.’ Instinctively he looked both ways along the windswept cliff-top: Miller and Brown were posted one on either side about fifty yards away, lost in the darkness. ‘It’s not worth the risk. The more I think of it, the poorer I think my chances would be of getting away with it. In matters of routine the old Hun tends to be an inflexible sort of character. There’s probably a set way of answering the phone, or the sentry has to identify himself by name, or there’s a password – or maybe my voice would give me away. On the other hand the sentry’s gone without trace, all our gear is up and so’s everyone except Stevens. In other words, we’ve practically made it. We’ve landed – and nobody knows we’re here.’
‘Yes.’ Andrea nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you are right – and Stevens should be up in two or three minutes. It would be foolish to throw away everything we’ve gained.’ He paused, then went on quietly: ‘But they are going to come running.’ The phone stopped ringing as suddenly as it had started. ‘They are going to come now.’
‘I know. I hope to hell Stevens . . .’ Mallory broke off, spun on his heel, said over his shoulder, ‘Keep your eye open for him, will you? I’ll warn the others we’re expecting company.’
Mallory moved quickly along the cliff-top, keeping well away from the edge. He hobbled rather than walked – the sentry’s boots were too small for him and chafed his toes cruelly. Deliberately he closed his mind to the thought of how his feet would be after a few hours’ walking over rough territory in these boots: time enough for the reality, he thought grimly, without the added burden of anticipation . . . He stopped abruptly as something hard and metallic pushed into the small of his back.
&nbs
p; ‘Surrender or die!’ The drawling, nasal voice was positively cheerful: after what he had been through on the caique and the cliff face, just to set feet on solid ground again was heaven enough for Dusty Miller.
‘Very funny,’ Mallory growled. ‘Very funny indeed.’ He looked curiously at Miller. The American had removed his oilskin cape – the rain had ceased as abruptly as it had come – to reveal a jacket and braided waistcoat even more sodden and saturated than his trousers. It didn’t make sense. But there was no time for questions.
‘Did you hear the phone ringing just now?’ he asked.
‘Was that what it was? Yeah, I heard it.’
‘The sentry’s phone. His hourly report, or whatever it was, must have been overdue. We didn’t answer it. They’ll be hot-footing along any minute now, suspicious as hell and looking for trouble. Maybe your side, maybe Brown’s. Can’t approach any other way unless they break their necks climbing over these boulders.’ Mallory gestured at the shapeless jumble of rocks behind them. ‘So keep your eyes skinned.’
‘I’ll do that, boss. No shootin’, huh?’
‘No shooting. Just get back as quickly and quietly as you can and let us know. Come back in five minutes anyway.’
Mallory hurried away, retracing his steps. Andrea was stretched full length on the cliff-top, peering over the edge. He twisted his head round as Mallory approached.
‘I can hear him. He’s just at the overhang.’
‘Good.’ Mallory moved on without breaking step. ‘Tell him to hurry, please.’
Ten yards farther on Mallory checked, peered into the gloom ahead. Somebody was coming along the cliff-top at a dead run, stumbling and slipping on the loose gravelly soil.
‘Brown?’ Mallory called softly.
‘Yes, sir. It’s me.’ Brown was up to him now, breathing heavily, pointing back in the direction he had just come. ‘Somebody’s coming, and coming fast! Torches waving and jumping all over the place – must be running.’
‘How many?’ Mallory asked quickly.
‘Four or five at least.’ Brown was still gasping for breath. ‘Maybe more – four or five torches, anyway. You can see them for yourself.’ Again he pointed backwards, then blinked in puzzlement. ‘That’s bloody funny! They’re all gone.’ He turned back swiftly to Mallory. ‘But I can swear –’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mallory said grimly. ‘You saw them all right. I’ve been expecting visitors. They’re getting close now and taking no chances . . . How far away?’
‘Hundred yards – not more than a hundred and fifty.’
‘Go and get Miller. Tell him to get back here fast.’
Mallory ran back along the cliff edge and knelt beside the huge length of Andrea.
‘They’re coming, Andrea,’ he said quickly. ‘From the left. At least five, probably more. Two minutes at the most. Where’s Stevens? Can you see him?’
‘I can see him.’ Andrea was magnificently unperturbed. ‘He is just past the overhang . . .’ The rest of his words were lost, drowned in a sudden, violent thunderclap, but there was no need for more. Mallory could see Stevens now, climbing up the rope, strangely old and enfeebled in action, hand over hand in paralysing slowness, half-way now between the overhang and the foot of the chimney.
‘Good God!’ Mallory swore. ‘What’s the matter with him? He’s going to take all day . . .’ He checked himself, cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Stevens! Stevens!’ But there was no sign that Stevens had heard. He still kept climbing with the same unnatural over-deliberation, a robot in slow motion.
‘He is very near the end,’ Andrea said quietly. ‘You see he does not even lift his head. When a climber does not lift his head, he is finished.’ He stirred. ‘I will go down for him.’
‘No.’ Mallory’s hand was on his shoulder. ‘Stay here. I can’t risk you both . . . Yes, what is it?’ He was aware that Brown was back, bending over him, his breath coming in great heaving gasps.
‘Hurry, sir; hurry, for God’s sake!’ A few brief words but he had to suck in two huge gulps of air to get them out. ‘They’re on top of us!’
‘Get back to the rocks with Miller,’ Mallory said urgently. ‘Cover us . . . Stevens! Stevens!’ But again the wind swept up the face of the cliff, carried his words away.
‘Stevens! For God’s sake, man! Stevens!’ His voice was low-pitched, desperate, but this time some quality in it must have reached through Stevens’s fog of exhaustion and touched his consciousness, for he stopped climbing and lifted his head, hand cupped to his ear.
‘Some Germans coming!’ Mallory called through funnelled hands, as loudly as he dared. ‘Get to the foot of the chimney and stay there. Don’t make a sound. Understand?’
Stevens lifted his hand, gestured in tired acknowledgment, lowered his head, started to climb up again. He was going even more slowly now, his movements fumbling and clumsy.
‘Do you think he understands?’ Andrea was troubled.
‘I think so. I don’t know.’ Mallory stiffened and caught Andrea’s arm. It was beginning to rain again, not heavily yet, and through the drizzle he’d caught sight of a hooded torch beam probing among the rocks thirty yards away to his left. ‘Over the edge with the rope,’ he whispered. ‘The spike at the bottom of the chimney will hold it. Come on – let’s get out of here!’
Gradually, meticulous in their care not to dislodge the smallest pebble, Mallory and Andrea inched back from the edge, squirmed round and headed back for the rocks, pulling themselves along on their elbows and knees. The few yards were interminable and without even a gun in his hand Mallory felt defenceless, completely exposed. An illogical feeling, he knew, for the first beam of light to fall on them meant the end not for them but for the man who held the torch. Mallory had complete faith in Brown and Miller . . . That wasn’t important. What mattered was the complete escape from detection. Twice during the last endless few feet a wandering beam reached out towards them, the second a bare arm’s length away: both times they pressed their faces into the sodden earth, lest the pale blur of their faces betray them, and lay very still. And then, all at once it seemed, they were among the rocks and safe.
In a moment Miller was beside them, a half-seen shadow against the darker dusk of the rocks around them.
‘Plenty of time, plenty of time,’ he whispered sarcastically. ‘Why didn’t you wait another half-hour?’ He gestured to the left, where the flickering of torches, the now clearly audible murmur of guttural voices, were scarcely twenty yards away. ‘We’d better move farther back. They’re looking for him among the rocks.’
‘For him or for his telephone,’ Mallory murmured in agreement. ‘You’re right anyway. Watch your guns on these rocks. Take the gear with you . . . And if they look over and find Stevens we’ll have to take the lot. No time for fancy work and to hell with the noise. Use the automatic carbines.’
Andy Stevens had heard, but he had not understood. It was not that he panicked, was too terrified to understand, for he was no longer afraid. Fear is of the mind, but his mind had ceased to function, drugged by the last stages of exhaustion, crushed by the utter, damnable tiredness that held his limbs, his whole body, in leaden thrall. He did not know it, but fifty feet below he had struck his head against a spur of rock, a sharp, wicked projection that had torn his gaping temple wound open to the bone. His strength drained out with the pulsing blood.
He had heard Mallory, had heard something about the chimney he had now reached, but his mind had failed to register the meaning of the words. All that Stevens knew was that he was climbing, and that one always kept on climbing until one reached the top. That was what his father had always impressed upon him, his brothers too. You must reach the top.
He was half-way up the chimney now, resting on the spike that Mallory had driven into the fissure. He hooked his fingers in the crack, bent back his head and stared up towards the mouth of the chimney. Ten feet away, no more. He was conscious of neither surprise nor elation. It was just there: he had to reach it. He could
hear voices, carrying clearly from the top. He was vaguely surprised that his friends were making no attempt to help him, that they had thrown away the rope that would have made those last few feet so easy, but he felt no bitterness, no emotion at all: perhaps they were trying to test him. What did it matter anyway – he had to reach the top.
He reached the top. Carefully, as Mallory had done before him, he pushed aside the earth and tiny pebbles, hooked his fingers over the edge, found the same toe-hold as Mallory had and levered himself upwards. He saw the flickering torches, heard the excited voices, and then for an instant the curtain of fog in his mind lifted and a last tidal wave of fear washed over him and he knew that the voices were the voices of the enemy and that they had destroyed his friends. He knew now that he was alone, that he had failed, that this was the end, one way or another, and that it had all been for nothing. And then the fog closed over him again, and there was nothing but the emptiness of it all, the emptiness and the futility, the overwhelming lassitude and despair and his body slowly sinking down the face of the cliff. And then the hooked fingers – they, too, were slipping away, opening gradually, reluctantly as the fingers of a drowning man releasing their final hold on a spar of wood. There was no fear now, only a vast and heedless indifference as his hands slipped away and he fell like a stone, twenty vertical feet into the cradling bottle-neck at the foot of the chimney.
He himself made no sound, none at all: the soundless scream of agony never passed his lips, for the blackness came with the pain: but the straining ears of the men crouching in the rocks above caught clearly the dull, sickening crack as his right leg fractured cleanly in two, snapping like a rotten bough.
The Guns of Navarone Page 11