Figures in a Landscape

by Barry England

  He had just decided that they should eat and commit themselves at once when he saw the figures below: the first of the Goons who lay in wait across their front.

  There was no mistaking them. Small and busy, they were shaking down for the new day; just visible on the far side of a medium height, near the top, about two hours’ march away and directly below. It appeared that they must have slept in low ground, and this bothered him by virtue of its obvious military ineptness. He searched at once for sentries or for another party, reaching out a hand to wake Ansell as he did so. Ansell said,

  ‘That’s cosy.’

  ‘Look for an advance party. There must be one. That lot are too casual.’

  ‘Right.’

  They searched the terrain in silence, then Ansell suddenly gripped his arm.

  ‘Mac, there!’

  The figures were coming up in single file, about half a mile to their right, close now to the top of the ridge. They counted until all had appeared.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘With a radio.’

  ‘Eleven’s too many.’

  ‘See which way they search.’

  They waited as the climbing figures laboured upwards. Every now and then MacConnachie glanced down at the main party below, but there was no sign of a move by them. It was im­possible to guess how many other Goons were hidden behind the height, but certainly there were some, perhaps a fair number, to judge by the way the visible members of the force kept talking and gesturing down to them.

  Then the buzz of the helicopter came to them from somewhere away to their left, and MacConnachie said,

  ‘See what he’s doing.’

  ‘I’ll have to move.’

  ‘Watch your rear.’

  As Ansell wriggled away, MacConnachie watched the ad­vance party achieve the summit. The radio operator adjusted his aerial and reported back to the main force. Looking down, MacConnachie saw that his opposite number had appeared on top of the height below, evidently increasing his elevation to prevent any masking of signals. Once the report was complete, the entire advance party sat down, lit cigarettes, and chatted among themselves.

  Ten minutes passed, and then the tiny figures on the height below suddenly straightened up, as at a word of command, and doubled down out of sight. MacConnachie waited to see in which direction, once the full force had emerged, the search would set out. Whichever way they moved, the advance party also would move, along the top of the ridge where he and Ansell lay.

  Ansell rejoined him.

  ‘The chopper’s searching the front face of the ridge, well away to our left. The River Boys are about two thirds of the way up the scarp. There are dozens more of them now.’

  ‘There would be.’

  ‘I estimate two hundred. They’re coming fast, in sections. I think they’re going to fan out.’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  Ansell looked past him at the advance party.

  ‘Nip along and see if they’ve got a couple of fags to spare, Mac. You’re better at that sort of thing than I am.’

  MacConnachie said, ‘Look.’

  A single file of men had begun to appear from behind the height below. The leading Goon brought them round hard right, and led them towards the ridge. Ansell said,

  ‘That’s jolly.’

  ‘They won’t come up here. They’ll move left or right in ex­tended order. The question is, which?’

  Twenty men in all appeared in the first column, and when the leading man had satisfied himself that the last man had emerged, he held up his hand and the file halted.

  ‘That can’t be the lot.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  A second file appeared, this time wheeling hard left and march­ing away from them, until a further twenty men had attached themselves to the end of the first column. The entire line then turned to face towards MacConnachie and Ansell’s right.

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  The extended formation moved off, working their way conscientiously forward, poking into every patch of brush with fixed bayonets. The advance party had also risen and, as the searchers progressed below, they kept pace with them along the top of the ridge. At the end of twenty minutes, three columns of forty men each had appeared and moved off in the wake of the leading line, sweeping up. All they could see now of the advance party was an occasional isolated figure negotiating one of the bumps along the ridge.

  ‘Just so long as they keep going in that direction.’

  ‘They’re bound to turn eventually.’

  ‘We’ll be across the valley by then. That’s Little Ridge, today’s objective. This is Big Ridge. Let’s eat and move.’

  They had half a tin of meat for breakfast, and made another unsuccessful attempt to defecate.

  ‘I wanted to half an hour ago.’

  ‘It’ll come.’

  ‘I wish it would hurry up,’ said Ansell wretchedly. He had been troubled by bouts of dizziness brought on by constipation, which he hated. He was an orderly man, and this was part of order. He saw, too, that MacConnachie was filthy, pale faced and heavily grown with beard. He must look the same. He probably smelt as well. It was the first time since his imprison­ment that he had thought of his appearance and yet, although by nature neat and scrupulously clean, he was not so disconcerted by their squalid condition as he would have expected. On the con­trary, it made him feel tougher, more competent, closer to MacConnachie.

  Inspecting his hands in extension of these thoughts, he turned them over and caught sight of his finger-nails. Not one remained unbroken. Some were torn off more than halfway down. Others were split vertically to the cuticle. His stomach stirred uneasily at the mixture of blood and dirt encrusted together, but he felt no pain. He said,

  ‘Should we do something about our hands?’

  MacConnachie inspected Ansell’s fingers with gentle im­patience, and then his own. He grinned.

  ‘Leave ’em. If we wash ’em, they’ll hurt. Anyway, the dirt will protect them.’

  MacConnachie packed the half-tin of meat they hadn’t eaten, and roped up the case while Ansell checked the gun. They then had a mouthful of water apiece, and set out once more.

  But for one unfortunate development, the first half of the morning was trouble free. They progressed with steady caution along defiles, up gullies, and through thickets of scrub. Twice they took cover at false alarms, once, they saw a species of creature neither could identify. But, despite a careful watch for observation posts in the high ground, they saw no sign of the enemy, nor did they find evidence of his passing. Apart from the persistent buzz of the helicopter, itself distant, they might have been forgotten.

  Then, about ten o’clock, the unfortunate development occurred. Ansell suddenly stopped, and crouched.

  ‘Mac! I’ve got the squitters!’

  MacConnachie turned back and roared with laughter.

  ‘Oh, no!’

  Ansell’s face contracted as a spasm passed through him and relief came.

  ‘It isn’t funny!’

  ‘It is, you know. I’ve been holding ’em in for half an hour.’

  Suddenly MacConnachie too crouched.

  ‘Oh God!’

  His first spasm passed, meeting Ansell’s second.

  ‘It was that bloody fruit!’

  ‘I know.’

  MacConnachie couldn’t stop laughing. Ansell looked about in alarm, and moaned,

  ‘Oh God, this is hopeless!’

  But then he too started to laugh. Their situation was so ridi­culous. They squatted opposite one another, completely unpro­tected, the skirts of their native coats around their waists, gaining relief at one end, and then, through laughter, at the other, alter­nately. At least they had been without underwear since their capture, and their slacks were tied about their waists. Otherwise the damage would have been intolerable.

  In time, the worst excesses of laughter and diarrhoea passed, and they were able to progress again. But they had to stop re­peatedly for
one or the other to crouch, and it wasn’t until nearly midday that they finally regained control of their tender stomachs. During one of their latter halts, MacConnachie grinned down at the squatting Ansell and said, solemnly,

  ‘I suppose you realize you’re leaving a trail.’

  Ansell said,

  ‘I hope the Goons take it in the spirit in which it is offered.’

  Midday. They were approximately halfway between Big and Little Ridges, when Ansell saw tiny figures on Little Ridge, their day’s objective, near the peak. For the first time they were surrounded. The way ahead was blocked.

  MacConnachie moved at once, crouching, to the nearest rising feature, where he lay looking up at the enemy. Ansell joined him.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Keep moving. We must. The River Boys will soon hit the top of Big Ridge. We’re in broken ground, that helps.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Straight ahead. Why not?’

  For the next hour they wormed their way closer and closer to Little Ridge, MacConnachie leading, Ansell maintaining dis­tance. But it took only a fraction of that time for the breaking strain to close over them again. Time after time they thought they had been spotted and tensed to run—but they hadn’t been. They sought frustratedly a clear view of their enemy. Each open area became something to crawl across: gullies had to be walked, never upright, as though strewn with eggs, so urgent was the need to prevent drifting dust; defiles were cracks in the earth up which they slunk. In seconds only, the deportment of a man became the stealth of an animal.

  Then they saw what the Goons were doing.

  A line of men had formed up in extended order across their front, at the foot of Little Ridge. On a word of command they turned to face towards MacConnachie and Ansell, fixed bayonets and, at the next bark, moved slowly towards them, fanning out, thrusting the steel into every patch of brush and scrub.

  Behind this line there was another, some yards up the ridge still, and after that a third. These, in their turn, would form up when they reached the valley floor and, by following in the wake of the first, create a lateral sweep, three layers deep, of searching steel. MacConnachie murmured,

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘That is awkward.’

  ‘Yes.’

  MacConnachie was twisting his head this way and that, looking urgently to right and left and behind him. Ansell said,

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘We’ll have to go back!’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘What then?’

  It seemed to Ansell there was a new element in MacConnachie suddenly, not of fear exactly, but of desperation. He himself felt startlingly calm. He looked along the line of approaching men, left and right. They were about a hundred yards away, but he and MacConnachie were much closer to the right-hand end of the line than they were to the centre. He said,

  ‘Let’s try to get round the end.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Right flank.’

  MacConnachie looked and said,

  ‘We’d never make it.’

  ‘Well, where do we go, if we go backwards?’

  Again MacConnachie looked, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. The Goons kept appearing and disappearing in different places, always closer to them, as they worked their way over the humpback of the terrain. At length, snappishly, MacConnachie said,

  ‘We’d be going closer to the enemy!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake—we’re surrounded! We can’t do anything else!’

  All the time the net drew tighter, their chances diminished, and MacConnachie hesitated. Ansell couldn’t understand it. He was about to break forth in rage, when MacConnachie said, quietly,

  ‘What do we do if we don’t make it?’

  There was such sadness in his tone that Ansell looked at him closely.

  ‘We lie still and hope for the best.’

  MacConnachie nodded.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said.

  And now Ansell understood, and felt pity for the older man, who lay staring glumly at the safety to their right. He had im­measurable courage to stand and fight, to pit his strength against mountains and rivers and sun. But to lie and wait, to leave his death to chance, deliberately to relinquish the initiative, and with it his dignity as a fighter, was beyond him. Ansell didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Mac, we’ve got to move!’

  ‘I know.’

  MacConnachie was unable to look at him.

  Ansell said, ‘Come on,’ and immediately scrambled away to his right, not looking back to see if MacConnachie followed. For ten minutes he didn’t look back; it became a point of honour. He concentrated solely on the job in hand, an immensely difficult manoeuvre complicated by the fact that he never knew at what point a Goon face might suddenly appear above him. At a half­crouch he hobbled along, wallowing in tacky sweat, stopping again and again to peer gropingly, to wait, to listen, sometimes seeing many men, sometimes none. Now he was afraid; the un­natural calm had left him, and he felt intensely alone. The heat bore down and the earth pressed up to meet him.

  It became rapidly apparent that he would never make the end of the line before it was upon him. He looked, at last, for MacConnachie, but MacConnachie was nowhere to be seen. He told himself that this was due to the nature of the ground, but his determination wilted, and he began to seek a place to hide.

  Every movement was stiff with caution now. Figures lurched into view not thirty yards away, and snatches of conversation came to him. He wriggled to a gully and, sliding into it, burrowed deep into the thick scrub. With one cheek pressed against the cool soil, he waited, straining his ears for the slightest sound. But it was no good. Whatever training may decree about the white flash of a face in shadow, he was unable to accept the prospect of lying there, face down, to be bayoneted in the back. He turned with great caution to face whatever came, looking up into the impenetrable brush.

  The sound of voices was loud now, and the swishing of boots through scrub seemed everywhere. He clung to the canteen, suddenly pulling it, on impulse, over his stomach to protect it, wishing MacConnachie were with him, or that he knew MacConnachie was safe. As a man does, even when he can see nothing, he moved his eyes to follow the sounds that approached him.

  For an immensely long time the voices were near without actually reaching him, then suddenly boots crunched by very close to his head, and he heard the swish and snick of searching metal against the branches, and the small chop of steel driving into earth. He had intended to remain alert to the last, to fight when all hope was gone, but in fact he shut his eyes and mur­mured, ‘God, God.’

  There was a startlingly loud remark in his right ear, and the first line was gone.

  Silence fell, of such a pitch that he gasped. He thought, until that last moment, that he had lain calm, but now his bones creaked as they unlocked themselves from a posture so rigid it sent pains flaring down his limbs. What in the name of God had happened to MacConnachie? At the thought, his body locked again in fear, waiting for the sudden shout and the bursts of rapid fire. Then he heard the second line approaching.

  No search, however deep, can be completely thorough. It is the nature of men that, seeing the man in front, they tend to probe in different places. Ansell lay in no danger from the second line, but he suffered as he had never suffered with the first.

  By the time the second line had passed, Ansell knew he should never have hidden in a gully; it was the first place a searcher would look. But observation should have told him that this fact had twice been defied in the event. And common sense should have told him that no soldier, laden with equipment in the hot sun, would willingly struggle along a gully when he could walk beside it, using the length of his rifle to poke its depths with a bayonet. Ansell made up his mind to move.

  Very cautiously, he eased round on to his knees, holding the canteen in front of him, searching the canopy of scrub for a place through which he might take a careful look about. He got no farthe
r. A bayonet came down through the foliage, jarred against the canteen, knocked it from his hands, and the third line was gone. He hadn’t even heard them coming but, strangely, as though in some way the close call had released their tension too, they chattered now, animatedly among themselves, as they went away.

  For some moments he remained in a state of stilled shock, unmoving. Then his whole body started to tremble as he gasped with astonishment and relief, chilled by a sudden cold, then flushed by an uncomfortable and sticky warmth. He folded for­ward. The canteen lay a few inches from his face, a raw, livid gash in its leather work. The Goon must have thought it a rock. He laughed uneasily.

  Then he began to concern himself with MacConnachie, who, to judge by the absence of shooting, must still be safe. They had to regain contact at once. After three minutes, he wriggled to the edge of the gully and looked back.

  The searchers were bobbing in and out of view as they had before, but now they were moving away from him, and they looked less dangerous. There was no sign of the River Boys yet on Big Ridge, but when they came the valley search party would turn back and try their luck a second time. A small command group still remained on Little Ridge.

  He had last been with MacConnachie to his left. If Mac were still on that side, then Mac would find him. He would know that Ansell couldn’t move without increasing the danger of their passing one another. He waited fifteen minutes, and then another fifteen.

  To the right, then. That was their last line of march. He had to increase his field of view, to get higher without being seen by the many eyes that surrounded him.

  He left the gully at a flat crawl, animal-close to the earth, slithering over cracks and fissures, the torments of dust and heat forgotten, seeking a place from which to scent the hunt, the canteen dragging behind him. At last, to his left, he saw a feature that might be suitable, and inched his way to the top.

  The extended lines of men had almost reached Big Ridge, and now the River Boys had appeared on the summit. In a few minutes the net would be recast, and if he and MacConnachie were still outside it, they were only just beyond its outer rim. He could see to his right a wide gully, some forty yards distant, that ran away towards Little Ridge. He decided to make for it. It was a feature so prominent that MacConnachie could hardly miss it, and would be bound to head for it in the end.