Figures in a Landscape

by Barry England

  They were moving now along the same line as the patrols and although, as he had predicted, those to their front were easier to spot, he had become concerned at the possibility that one might approach from the rear while they were halted. But they reached a point thirty yards from the tree without jeopardy, and flattened themselves to read the terrain ahead.

  It was then that their situation deteriorated abruptly. MacConnachie had not sensed the danger but the moment Ansell, having seen it, gripped his arm, he too saw.

  Around the base of the tree was spread out a brilliantly dis­guised ambush; probably there was a man up in the branches as well. He could see listening devices mounted on low tripods, and larger shapes which he took to be floodlights. So they had been out-thought. Some clever bastard, probably the pilot, had projected himself into their situation, had selected their route and found their fixed base. Perhaps they had already been pin­pointed. Certainly fresh water was now denied them. He should have guessed this would happen. He must be more tired than he had thought.

  Although a fixed base was not vital to their type of raid, thus to be denied it hurt MacConnachie, setting him at odds with the nearness of his operational method, and causing him to feel a nagging sense of imminent betrayal.

  The shapes in ambush gave no indication that they had been detected. We don’t deserve such luck, Ansell thought. I should have anticipated this. I’m supposed to be the brains.

  Because he felt he had betrayed MacConnachie, Ansell strove frantically to reassess their position. They couldn’t attack huts this side of the ambush; such huts would be empty shells, or the ambush was without point. They couldn’t turn back and strike in the other end of the valley; time and enemy-strength denied it. They couldn’t pull out altogether; without food they would be dead within a week. And there was no question now of raiding the well; however great the force at the tree, a force of much greater size would be guarding the water supply.

  They could only go round the ambush, and attack the huts behind it. They still held the initiative: they knew where the enemy were; the enemy did not yet know where they were. But, dear God, they would have to be quiet. They would have to steal and kill and slip away in desperate silence.

  MacConnachie touched his arm and pointed with great caution out to the right in a slow sweeping movement. Mac had come to the same conclusion as himself: they must swing to the right, curving through the fields; the mud-flats would betray them in an instant.

  As MacConnachie, flat against the earth, backed off carefully, Ansell looked behind him—and touched MacConnachie at once in warning.

  MacConnachie looked behind him. A patrol was coming up the very path he had feared, rolling up their rear; unless they moved at once, they were in the direct line of contact. He turned to Ansell, but Ansell had anticipated him, beginning now to worm his way sideways to the right. MacConnachie followed.

  Time was short and this was a manoeuvre that, with listening devices immediately ahead, demanded the most exquisite nervous and physical control. They could not hope to get far. But as the patrol came closer it served to help as well as to threaten them, for its own noises, however slight, would confuse the electronic ears, masking any sound that they themselves might make. Ansell seemed to understand this; he increased the rate of progress very slightly until, with the patrol very near, they were compelled to stop for fear of being seen. They could then only bury their faces and wait.

  The swish of feet through stubble, the grunt of laboured breathing, drew closer, and passed; and as the last man padded out of earshot, they looked up cautiously. The Goons’ discipline was excellent: the patrol approached and walked through the ambush without the smallest indication that it was there, dis­appearing into the shadows beyond.

  The swing out to the right was a slow, painful and laborious business, with Ansell of necessity in the lead. It wasn’t the patrols, to which they had grown accustomed and which they could easily slip, that oppressed them, but the awareness of those un­naturally powerful ears reaching out above their heads from the left. Until they had passed a point level with the tree they had to concern themselves primarily with the listening devices. After that, no soldier would point such a machine towards the village since the normal night-sounds of the population, however hushed, would render it useless.

  At last they were clear and they rested a moment, easing the painful tension out of their limbs and looking ahead. The lights of the village were now very close, the outskirts no more than three hundred yards away. Ansell knew that MacConnachie was waiting for him to give a lead, but try as he might he could not make the image of what he saw now knit with the image he had seen that afternoon. There were perhaps a dozen isolated huts spread out between themselves and the village, but at this level, and with the lights beyond, it was impossible to judge distances. He would simply have to pick one at random, and then they would have to recce it before striking.

  Down to the left, close to the edge of the mud-flats, stood one hut quite alone, a dim glow of light showing beyond its farthest corners. The door must face towards the river. He indicated it to MacConnachie.

  MacConnachie looked at it, then looked towards the tree. Ansell knew what he was thinking: to reach it they must pass between the ambush and the village. But Ansell was convinced that subconsciously the Goons would believe them unable to bypass the listening post; and even a few minutes’ observation had demonstrated that, knowing it was there, the patrols were disinclined to search behind it and were concentrating on the fields and the mud-flats. In essence, their situation was a simple one: so long as they remained unlocated, they remained in com­mand of the situation; but on the instant of their detection, all the disconnected eyes and ears now searching and probing for them would become one, bent on their recapture, and the initia­tive would pass decisively into enemy hands. Wherever they walked in the valley, they walked with death; they might as well accept it now.

  It seemed that MacConnachie did. He checked to make sure that Ansell had the knife at the ready and passed the suitcase back to him. Then, in the pale wash of light from the village, Ansell saw MacConnachie draw the razor from his boot, open it, and clutch it in his right hand.

  Their war narrowed down to the hut that stood alone, the village on their right, the ambush on their left, and the ground in between. Ansell’s face burned. The night air was stiflingly heavy, the earth cold against his stomach. Slowly, slowly they inched forward, pausing, watching, waiting, listening, crawling forward again. The hut came to meet them with agonizing slowness, yet Ansell found that he was not afraid. It may have been the sense of having a defined objective that encouraged him.

  They saw only one patrol, but it was a vital one. It came from the left, passing through the ambush and moving past the hut on its farther side, before it was lost from view in the shadows to their right; it warned them that the hut stood on a regular patrol route along the edge of the mud-flats and that they would have to wait for the next visit, timing it.

  MacConnachie decided that, once the next patrol had passed through, they would approach the hut from the right. They had to see the front before they attacked it, and from that side they would get the maximum warning if the third patrol came early.

  They sweated and waited. At last the patrol came and went. The interval was ten minutes. That was the extent of time they had to reconnoitre and, during the next gap, to strike.

  He led the way to an observation point. He estimated that they had been in the valley two and a half hours.

  There was a Goon on guard in front of the door. Again, MacConnachie marvelled at the discipline of such men, that they could pass at night without speaking. They must want us very badly, he thought. He waited until Ansell had thoroughly absorbed their predicament, then led the way back to their former position, from which they could no longer see the sentry; they couldn’t afford to linger on the patrol route.

  For some moments he thought, then he put his lips to Ansell’s ear:

  ‘I wan
t you to kill the sentry. Go under the hut. Immediately the next patrol has passed.’

  He waited for Ansell’s nod, then took the fish knife and gave Ansell the razor.

  It had been a difficult decision for MacConnachie to make. But Ansell was the better stalker, and now this gift must be put to use. He was also a trained killer. He knew how it should be done; he must learn that it could be done, and that he could do it.

  In truth, MacConnachie had discovered that his senses were deserting him. He could no longer see as clearly as once he did, and his ears felt curiously muffled. The gift might be as sharp as ever, but the eyes failed, and the clarity of hearing was gone; it had been Ansell who had seen the ambush first.

  All evening, he now realized, he had operated by ‘feel’; but it was not until this moment that he understood how much he had come to depend on the gift. He could no longer trust himself to make this kill, for the gift would not help him: it was a matter of poise, observation, timing; all the senses tuned to an exact pitch. He must be very tired.

  He had to rely on Ansell. This was something he had never done before. Or had he? Had he known, and prepared for this moment, during the afternoon?

  That had been a bad time, in the water, when the gift had left him.

  Or had it been when he was in the water?

  He could not remember.

  Ansell held the razor in his hand.

  Kill the sentry. He had killed before. He had killed the farmer. He had kicked until the teeth shattered and split from the gums, and the jaw went awry, and the blood came out as foam. The man had gone on screaming. The sentry must die quietly. Quick, clean, without fuss.

  The blade towards you, at a slight angle. One hand over the mouth. We don’t want him shouting, do we? Tilt the head back. Remember to bring your hand up close to the neck so he can’t get his arm inside it. Then one neat swift movement, across, in that manner there. If you have to cut again, cut quickly. And don’t forget, blood makes a noise on a hard surface. So lean him forward. If you’re on a flat, hard surface, always lean him for­ward. And keep your hand clamped over his mouth for at least ten seconds. He’ll go on living that long. Even if you have his head right off, he’ll still live for six seconds. And lay him down, like a baby, don’t drop him. And never waste time hiding him, you can’t hide the blood. Right, next!

  There was a gap just under the hut, between the bottom of the hut and the soil. Perhaps the river floods sometimes. There’ll be two steps and a pair of feet. If you can’t see the feet, go for the steps. You’ll have to come out in one swift movement. If he sees you coming it doesn’t matter, so long as he makes no sound.

  Crawl halfway, then rise; the hut will mask the rest of your approach.

  I wonder what were the last words he heard on earth? He has already heard them.

  The patrol came and went. No one spoke to the sentry. MacConnachie touched Ansell, and Ansell crawled away towards the hut. MacConnachie thought: we’ve got ten minutes at most. The moment the next patrol sees the body, or sees that the sentry is missing, secrecy will be gone. We must be into that hut like a streak. There’s a light inside, it’s bound to show. How much does it matter? Have orders been given not to open any door without first dimming the lamp? And why the hell is the valley so dark? I wish I could work out the answer to that one.

  He rubbed the scar in the canteen which Ansell had left at his side, worrying.

  At the side of the hut Ansell dropped to his knees, feeling under­neath to see what sort of surface he would have to crawl over. It was cool, damp earth; ideal.

  He flattened himself and inched forward until he was com­pletely under the hut. The air had a stale liquidity that was unexpectedly refreshing. In front of him was a low, long strip of visible landscape bordered at the top by the floor of the building. No steps. Two feet, and the bottom half of two legs forming the traditional shape of a soldier in battle dress.

  He readjusted the razor to its correct position and crawled forward until, within a few minutes, he lay immediately behind the booted feet which were only twelve inches from his face. He breathed deeply, quietly, half a dozen times. Then, as he inched forward a fraction at a time, the base of the hut fell back until, eyes angled upwards, he could look up the entire length of his adversary’s body. From this position the great trunks of the legs led to a small body and a smaller head. The man was looking to his left but now he turned to look to the right. Ansell remained absolutely still. He could see nothing of the man’s features. The light from under the door drew a wobbly line across from the back of one trouser-leg to the back of the other. The man looked to his front.

  Ansell drew carefully back. He was right handed; the man was in perfect position. He took another slow, deep breath, poising himself: He worked his right leg cautiously up the side of his prone body, bending the knee, flattening the foot against the earth; from that leg would come the motive power for his spring. He felt the razor to be correctly gripped. He inched his left hand forward, leaning into the soil until he reached the point of true balance. He took one more slow breath.

  He came forward, up and out in one swift movement. His left hand clamped over the mouth, his right punched forward, the razor bit deeply in and the blood spouted startlingly as he drew his hand across. He was aware that he carved too severely. The man raised no noticeable physical objection. Ansell kept his left arm rigidly locked, finding that he could pinch the nostrils now as well, pulling the head back against his own mouth, breathing through the musty locks of the other man’s hair. His helmet must have fallen off.

  As the knees sagged Ansell bent forward with him, holding him close, gripping tightly to the head, feeling the warmth of the other body against his own. There was a hot, radishy smell in the air, primitively exciting. As the body slumped farther, putting its full weight on Ansell’s arms, the head tilted back, alone supporting the torso from dropping to earth. There was a striking freedom of play in this head as though at any moment it might come free entirely, to be left, as a trophy, in Ansell’s embrace.

  MacConnachie loomed up beside him.

  ‘Put him down!’

  As Ansell broke off his dance with the corpse and let it fall, MacConnachie stooped and picked up the sentry’s gun, thrusting it at Ansell. With barely any hesitation he opened the door, dropped low and dived through it. A glance told him that the room was unoccupied. He went at once to the lamp and stood in front of it, masking it, until Ansell had come in after him, when he hissed urgently, ‘Shut the door!’

  Ansell shut it. There was blood on his hands.

  MacConnachie had not realized how empty the hut was until he looked now, carefully, all round it. There was a table, a chair, a pallet bed without coverings; nothing more. Nothing else at all. Bare walls; bare floor. The hut had been stripped of anything that could be carried and might be useful to them. The lamp burning in the centre of the table was, apart from themselves, the only object to display any appearance of animation.

  Ansell made a noise. MacConnachie turned. Ansell was staring at him, eyes forced wide open in shocked realization.

  ‘There’s nothing here!’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘There’s nothing here!’

  It was as though, in a whisper, in something less than a whisper, Ansell was screaming at the top of his voice. He had blood on his chin.

  MacConnachie turned out the lamp.

  ‘Come on!’

  He went through the door without looking to see if Ansell followed. Caution was no more than a reflex now. The one thing that could save them would be outrageous boldness and resolution.

  He went straight to the canteen and suitcase which he had left outside, turned to hang the canteen on Ansell, then set out at a fast open walk towards the next hut, farther along the edge of the mud-flats but closer to the village. In forty seconds he was there, closing rapidly on the sentry who stood at the door. He let the case fall, dropped the gun, and went in with the fish knife. The sentry saw him coming. He turned t
owards him, bringing up his gun, but his whole manner was redolent of a profound and inhibiting uncertainty, so undisguised was MacConnachie’s approach. MacConnachie walked straight up to him and killed him with the knife and the boot, one small cry of surprise alone escaping.

  As Ansell came up laden with two guns, the razor, suitcase and canteen, MacConnachie whispered, ‘Wait here!’

  He was into and out of the second hut in thirty seconds. It was as naked as the first; they had been again out-thought, and were now alone and helpless.

  A shout rose up from the far side of the nearest water. MacConnachie bent, took up the dead sentry’s helmet and clamped it on to Ansell’s head, pulling the strap roughly down under his chin.

  ‘Wait here!’ he said again, and ran back towards the first hut, vanishing in shadow.

  The shout came again. A shot was fired. Ansell saw the flash from across the water, but heard no bullet fall. In a dazed condi­tion he knelt and searched the sentry’s body for magazines, which he stuffed into his frayed jacket pockets. Then a burst of firing came from across the river and bullets smacked into the front of the hut at his side. MacConnachie came running back. He, too, now had a steel helmet on his head.

  ‘Come on!’

  They ran at a crouch towards the mountains, passing across the front of the village lights and presenting themselves in silhouette to the men in ambush. Speed was of the essence: for a few moments there would be confusion as figures ran towards the sound of shooting; no one would have a clear idea of where they were or who was firing. They both knew too well the vital nature of the coming seconds.

  Whistles were blowing and the firing had stopped. There came a dull, flat whoosh of sound and a few seconds later a red star shell exploded in the sky. A mortar had been fired from the ambush position. At this signal, lights appeared all over the valley. It was clear what had happened: the sentries had opened the doors of the huts they were guarding and brought the lamps out into the open, turning them up to their fullest extent; MacConnachie now had the answer to his question.