Figures in a Landscape

by Barry England

  He knew there was no more danger to their front. In forty minutes they reached the foot of the mountain range, where the slopes rose sheer as cliffs dropping into a sea. They started to climb out of the valley, his first objective at last achieved; but it would be at least another thirty hours before they had done with the valley, or the valley had done with them.

  For tomorrow they would have to return.

  Once again, the ground over which they travelled had changed character entirely. Here it was all angles, edges and spars, the gradient vastly steeper than the relative undulations of the hill range. To scale the mountains at all was going to be a punishing experience in their weakened condition; Ansell found even the early slopes witheringly destructive. But he stayed close behind MacConnachie until nearly four when the older man called a halt and, with nothing left of the day’s rations to eat, they fell into an exhausted sleep.

  *

  The sixth day. The dawn failed to wake MacConnachie, but the helicopter did.

  He opened his eyes, not otherwise moving. He could see nothing but sky. He rotated his eyes to take in the fullest possible field of view, but still he saw nothing but sky and the upper rim of the depression in which they lay. Moving with great care, he raised himself until he could look out: the chopper was a little below, and two or three hundred yards to the right, searching the forward slopes of the mountain.

  Of course the pilot would know they had escaped the valley. MacConnachie expected that: he knew the pilot did not be­lieve them dead. But he needed to see whether search parties were coming up, or whether it was still the pilot alone who held this conviction. He wriggled to the precipice and peered down.

  There was plenty of activity. The fire was out, and across the stalk fields there spread a large brown stain, smoky with mist. But throughout the rest of the valley soldiers were milling about in abundance, conducting a hut-to-hut and thicket-to-thicket search. None of them had so far mounted the slopes below, so there was no immediate threat. But one thing was clear. The boy had talked. They were known to be alive.

  With a sigh, he settled back and tried to make a proper mili­tary appreciation of their situation.

  At the moment they held the high ground and the initiative. Above, slope mounted upon precipitous slope until the peak was lost from view. Below, the faces of rock were equally vertical; they could not be taken by surprise. And all over the face of the mountain were many thousands of jagged cuts and scars, in one of which they now lay. Even from the helicopter it would be im­possible to spot them. A man three feet away could pass by unaware.

  The Goons had failed to recapture them where they most needed to succeed, and now the odds lay with MacConnachie and Ansell. The pilot was the one remaining hope of encompass­ing their defeat, and he would know it. But there was one major flaw. And this, too, the pilot knew. And so, therefore, did the Goons.

  They had to return to the valley. They had no choice. Without food they could never cross the mountains. And once up there in the high country, they would find nothing to help them: no animals, human or otherwise; no vegetation; nothing that lived. MacConnachie had always thought of it as the territory that Nature had forgotten, and it chilled him. Whatever they were to eat they must take with them, or in that alien environment they would die.

  So for one whole day they had to linger in the lower slopes, and for one more night they must commit themselves to an order of battle that favoured the enemy. Having seized the initiative they would have, in effect, deliberately to relinquish it.

  Fretting, MacConnachie kept watch, waiting for Ansell to wake. Perhaps Ansell would have some other suggestion.

  As he sat there, MacConnachie began to understand how much he had been hurt during the preceding days. His arms, legs and torso ached without ease. Somewhere just out of reach, but close at hand, there stood a vast backlog of fatigue waiting to engulf him. He couldn’t feel his left hand where the rope had cut in, where the piece of filthy cloth clung fast. But it was a trivial wound. He pinched it. He still couldn’t feel it. The other hand, both hands, were dark with muck deeply ingrained; the tips of his fingers had lost their clarity of outline, being nailless, spongy, blood-stained extremities of flesh. The knees were scraped and dirty, protruding through the torn slacks he had put on at night. And the burns. His face felt stiff and unmoving as a mask. To produce an expression would be to crack the exterior cara­pace, and what would then come out?

  He was not an imaginative man, but he was a man in pain. He held himself with the fixed formality of a wounded toy. The sleeping Ansell he did not even recognize. Tears came to his eyes, but he had no idea that he was weeping; and as they ran down his insensitive cheeks he felt nothing.

  MacConnachie was a big man of immense physical stature and great natural beauty in his bodily proportions. Or rather, he had been. What he mourned now, unaware, was the first onset of ruin in a noble structure.

  Ansell lay for some moments without opening his eyes. Although he didn’t know it, he had slept for eight hours; MacConnachie had slept for three. Ansell was aware of a sense of enormous lassitude. Then he felt the sun burning him, and sat up with a start of remembrance. The pain leapt from his shoulder to wrap round his face like a red-hot cobweb; he gasped.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was as though his entire body had been flayed with in­numerable rods and then plunged into a vat of boiling water. He hung forward from the waist, recovering. MacConnachie remained silent. At last Ansell looked at the sun.

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘Midday.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t wait for me?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a fool.’

  Ansell knew that he sounded querulous, but he couldn’t help himself. He said,

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Over the valley.’

  ‘Is that the chopper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are we going to eat?’

  ‘Meat.’

  ‘The last tin?’

  ‘Yes, the last tin.’

  With the minimum display of movement, MacConnachie removed the tin from the case, and started to attack its top with the knife. He said,

  ‘This afternoon we select a hut or group of huts specifically, and a route in and out. Tonight, we attack.’

  ‘We’ve no choice?’

  ‘Not unless you can suggest one.’

  The helicopter was drawing closer. MacConnachie seemed to be having greater difficulty than usual in opening the tin with blunted fingers. Ansell said,

  ‘Are there no villages in the mountains?’

  ‘There is nothing.’

  ‘Could we attack the valley in an unexpected place?’

  ‘There are no unexpected places. We’ve just so much time and energy left. We must use both where they’ll count.’

  The engine noise was loud now, the swish of blades clearly audible. Ansell said,

  ‘If we go after water, the well will be right in the centre of the village.’

  MacConnachie looked at him.

  ‘That’s right.’

  The helicopter was upon them, and MacConnachie lay back, shielding the tin with his big hands. Ansell leaned under the rim of the depression. The chopper floated into view; it was an extraordinary sensation having it so close and even a little below him, as though he could reach out and touch it. The pilot and observer were clearly visible. It was evident that they had only a vague idea of where to search, and were conducting a series of quick, preliminary swoops, with the vain hope perhaps of catching them unawares. At one moment the machine came right up to the lip of their depression, peering, as it were, like a fly into an ashtray. Then it was gone, the sound deadened at once by an outcrop close at hand. Ansell said,

  ‘The boy talked.’

  ‘Yes.’

  MacConnachie gouged out half the contents of the tin, which he had now mana
ged to open, divided it into two equal portions and passed one to Ansell. The tin he returned to the suitcase, roping it against a sudden move. Then they ate breakfast, forcing the meat down, for they were neither of them hungry. Ansell said,

  ‘Can’t blame him. Probably had it beaten out of him. Parents are like that.’

  ‘Were yours?’

  ‘No. Were yours?’

  ‘No.’

  It was difficult to think of MacConnachie as a child. A thought suddenly came to Ansell. He indicated the helicopter with his head.

  ‘How long’s he been up there?’

  ‘Since dawn.’

  ‘Were you awake then?’

  ‘Just after.’

  ‘Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.’

  MacConnachie accepted this without argument, saying,

  ‘Wake me if they start coming up. And let me know what you think of the village.’

  He was asleep at once. His implication was clear. He was leav­ing Ansell to plan the raid on the village.

  It seemed to Ansell a long time since he had thought of the sun as their principal discomfort but now, and throughout the long oppression of the afternoon, it sat heavily upon him, com­pounding his pain. The sweat ran down and dried on his face; to wipe it off was a stinging agony. The brass bowl of the sky contained him.

  Suddenly, towards evening, it grew quickly and unexpectedly dark. None of the Goon units had made any attempt to scale the lower slopes, which puzzled and disconcerted him. He woke MacConnachie while there was still light enough to test his sug­gestions against MacConnachie’s instinct and experience.

  MacConnachie noticed the sky at once.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Not dusk, I’m sure.’

  MacConnachie knew what it meant.

  ‘The rains.’

  ‘Oh God. When?’

  ‘Within a week.’

  He should have known the night before, the air had been full of it. Had he not been so tired and uncertain, he would have made the logical deduction. He said,

  ‘Not to worry. Show me what you’ve decided.’

  From this side of the valley, the village was now on their right. The river emerged from the delta at its heart to pass across their front and disappear to the left. Apart from one cursory glance at this left-hand end of the valley floor, they ignored it. Between them and the river system stood a narrow belt of fields and then the outgoing mud-flats, both of which they had traversed the night before, and which now constituted the terrain over which they would operate tonight. The pilot, having read the sky and knowing that further search before morning would prove fruit­less, had flown out. Ansell said,

  ‘There’s a tree I want to identify to you.’

  ‘I see it. Two o’clock; bushy-topped; right on the dividing line between the fields and the mud-flats.’

  ‘That’s the one. Stands out a mile. I’m sure we’ll be able to see it from anywhere on the ground. We can use it as a base and a beacon.’

  ‘Well done. Next?’

  ‘Look at the village. Two main roads form an H.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The well is at the most distant crossroads, in the square.’

  ‘Christ, it’s nearly out the other side.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll have to go through nearly the whole of the village to get there.’

  ‘Why not round?’

  ‘There are more Goons outside the village than in it. Once we penetrate the perimeter, we’ll have a better chance on the back streets. I’m sure. I’ve been watching all afternoon.’

  It was growing darker. Lights were coming on in the village, especially around the main streets. For some moments MacConnachie stared down, then he nodded in agreement.

  ‘All right. What routes have you chosen?’

  ‘Straight down to the bottom of the mountain. Then diag­onally across the fields to the tree. We don’t go on to the mud­flats at all.’

  MacConnachie shook his head decisively.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look at the Goons. First, they’ll put a line of sentries all along the foot of this mountain. Second, they’ve already set up mobile patrols—see them?—in those fields.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If we go for the tree diagonally, we’ll be moving diagonally across their front; that way we treble the number of patrols we’re likely to bump. No, we’ll go straight to the mud-flats, then move along the edge of them to the tree; that way we’ll be on the same line as the patrols and we’ll see them coming. Never move diagonally across an enemy’s front.’

  They might have been in a lecture hut. Ansell said,

  ‘Yes, Mac.’

  ‘Have you picked specific target huts?’

  ‘No. I’ve tried, but it doesn’t work. They all seem to be in­habited. We’ll have to choose when we’re down there.’

  ‘Fair enough. Do we go for water first, or food?’

  Ansell was touched at the conscientious way in which MacConnachie consulted him on every decision. The blue shadows darkened, and he spoke more rapidly now:

  ‘Food first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The water is stale, but it’ll last. And replenishing it involves the greatest risk. We can always abandon that part of the plan if we have to. Food we’ve got to have. We need as much time as possible to hit the huts.’

  ‘Good. You’ve done well. We go in one up, one down, in fifteen minutes.’

  Ansell started in surprise.

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘They’ll expect us later. We just might catch them night-sloppy, before they’re in position or properly adjusted.’

  ‘But the whole place will still be awake.’

  Dusk had swept up the mountain-side, and it was possible to stand without being seen. MacConnachie rose before he said, gently,

  ‘Kid, they’ll stay awake tonight, whatever happens.’

  And then Ansell knew that his growing apprehensions had been confirmed. After a silence, he said quietly,

  ‘Mac.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me why they haven’t left the valley and come up after us.’

  MacConnachie had untied the suitcase, and now settled to clean and oil the gun. He said,

  ‘Kid, you know why.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re waiting for us. They know we’re coming down again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They had a hut-to-hut this morning, but it wasn’t a search. They want to be sure no hut is empty tonight. There’ll be a farmer or a Goon in every one, armed and waiting.’

  ‘We’ll have to kill again.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Ansell rose and stretched himself, setting fire to all the aches and pains now inherent in his body. It was a sharp reminder of how daunting the night would be. He said,

  ‘There’s nothing we can ditch?’

  ‘No, we’d never find it again.’

  ‘It’s getting cold.’

  ‘Do you want to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll eat before we sleep, then.’

  Ansell had a pee. MacConnachie finished with the gun and changed its magazine for the fuller one they had wrested from the helicopter. Before tying up the case, he took out the razor and laid it to one side. Then, when all their equipment had been checked, he stropped the razor carefully against his boot.

  ‘Cut-throat,’ he said.

  They left the depression and descended the forward slopes of the mountain. The night was very dark. Below, they could see a panorama of twinkling lights, richly studded to the right, then fading to a thin necklet of isolated glimmers at their left. It was not unlike looking down into the cavern of the sky. The ribbons of water were barely visible except where they bore a lamp’s reflection diffused on the surface.

  Forty feet above the level valley floor, MacConnachie signalled for stillness and crouched, waiting. One by one, he picked out the sentries stationed at fifteen-yard i
ntervals along the foot of the mountain. In the field beyond, the dim shapes of patrols drifted past.

  MacConnachie was looking for the idle man, the careless one who shifted too much, who coughed and became bored or frightened on sentry duty; there was always one. In two minutes he found him; or rather, the man advertised himself with a poorly suppressed trumpeting into his handkerchief. MacConnachie at once led the way to the right until they crouched directly above him.

  For five minutes MacConnachie watched, without moving. It was unnaturally quiet; even the villagers were less talkative as though, in the distance, they had caught the whiff of blood. Dogs were restive, calling with solemn disquiet. The village was no more than half a mile to his right; the tree five hundred yards, almost to his front.

  In that five minutes, three patrols passed in the field, giving him some idea of their density. On each occasion the idle sentry looked back over his shoulder as though to reassure himself that he had not been deserted. Such a man is always more concerned with his own discomfort than with his unit’s purpose; at the next clear opportunity, MacConnachie led the way, slipping past him, breaking the cordon without trouble at its weakest link and leaving the man, oblivious of their passage, to his inefficiently performed duties.

  The field was covered only with short stubble, but the darkness of the night and the natural dullness of the earth afforded some protection. As long as they did not find themselves lying directly in the path of a patrol that they had spotted too late, they should have a reasonable chance of traversing it. Inching snake-like over the soft, irrigated soil, MacConnachie led the way towards the mud-flats, the cool air heavy against their damaged cheeks.

  Seventeen times they were forced to stop and lie in aching still­ness on their journey to the flats. Once a patrol came so close that they poised themselves to strike; and at no time were they longer than a minute without the sight of one or another group of dim figures making their way through the shadows close at hand. But at last MacConnachie saw the gleam of the mud-flats ahead and, turning to the right, led the way towards the tall shape of the tree against the sky.

  They started now to pass isolated huts, but MacConnachie considered it essential to establish a fixed base at the tree before they struck. In any case, he was puzzled: he couldn’t understand why the huts were dark; the Goons should have ordered every lamp in the valley to be lit, it was the logical procedure. It could hardly be that the Goons hoped to lure them more deeply in; they had no choice but to come, and the Goons knew it. Because he did not understand, he fretted.