by Tom Gamble
‘The legionnaire is apt in smelling death wherever it occurs,’ whispered the voice. ‘Leave him, I say—or else you will be the one who takes the place in which you want him to be.’
Lying there, shaking uncontrollably, Summerfield then felt the thin, sharp tip of a knife touch his Adam’s apple. It sent a tremor down his chest and deep into his stomach. The grip on his mouth slacked and the cloth disappeared.
‘You have angels that follow you even in the dark,’ said the voice and Summerfield, certain now who it was, raised his head slightly to look at the blackness that was Abrach.
‘God,’ shivered Summerfield. ‘I thought it was all over.’
‘So did I,’ said Abrach, glancing at the man holding the blade to Summerfield’s neck. ‘As with most of the butchers one can hire, their sense of reflection is sometimes limited to sudden, primary gestures. It can be useful.’
‘What—what are you—?’ began Summerfield and tried to raise himself up on his elbow only to meet with ungiving resistance. He saw Abrach’s oddly shaped fingers rise to his lips—like knotted twigs—and gesture silence. Summerfield, powerless, closed his eyes in acknowledgement and returned to his prone position. ‘You were sighted,’ he whispered. ‘working for the Vichy French.’
‘The most despicable of men—just below these murderers I hired to help me.’
‘To kill your own people? I cannot understand, Abrach.’
‘To kill them if necessary if they get in my way. You know my target, Harry.’
‘Lefèvre?’ Summerfield frowned. ‘But he’s in Marrakesh.’
‘Was,’ said Abrach from behind the cheiche wound about his face. ‘Until he foolishly decided to choose the Free French. It was probably the biggest mistake he ever made—that, and destroying everything I ever had.’
‘You’ve lost your senses, Abrach—I just can’t understand,’ whispered Summerfield.
‘A man does something wrong,’ grunted Abrach, moving his face closer so that Summerfield could smell his breath. ‘And he expects some form of punishment. That is justice. But when the punishment goes on and on, disproportionate with what he committed, intended not only to punish but to humiliate, to ruin and to destroy him…it breeds vengeance like a disease that has no vaccine.’
‘Is there no goodness left in you, Abrach—the man whose heart ruled with intelligence and wisdom?’
‘You speak like a mountain Mullah,’ said Abrach, grinning slightly. ‘I see my decision to imprison you here has had an effect.’
‘So the cynical finally won over the hope?’ said Summerfield, breathing again as Abrach finally drew away.
‘I once told you it would get the better of me—and in all truth, Harry Summerfield, I cannot remember much of who I was before. It is of no matter. Like you said, too—death will get me. But not before I get Lefèvre and—may I add—his family.’
Summerfield felt as though he’d been touched with a live wire.
‘Jeanne?’
‘Perhaps. I do not know for sure, but would a father leave his daughter in a hostile city?’
‘She’s here? In the mountains?’
‘Perhaps,’ repeated Abrach. ‘I believe they talked to a certain Le Guédec and made arrangements. That’s what his manservant said at least.’
‘Mohammed? Where?’
‘That is what I am here to find. Obviously, you don’t know either.’
‘Leave her alone, Abrach—please.’ Summerfield stared into the man’s eyes. ‘It was not her fault.’
‘You’re the one to blame, of course, Harry. You always wanted to save the world, sacrifice yourself. Thus be it.’
‘No,’ hissed Summerfield, suddenly afraid and conscious of a renewed pressure on his throat. ‘That’s not what I meant. Don’t you see—you cannot kill. You said it yourself.’
A strange, soft, almost woman-like bubble of laughter came from Abrach. ‘My dear Harry Summerfield. You try, you try and that is good. Though too late, my old friend,’ continued Abrach, his face turning to stone. ‘Presently, I have discovered that my entire life was meant to lead to what I am about to do. I see no other reason for existing.’
‘In reality,’ said Summerfield, suddenly clear and calm. ‘You are out to kill yourself.’
Abrach looked back at him, unflinching and sighed. ‘It is time to return to your brothers,’ he said. ‘You have been away for too long. It would be a pity for them to fire into the mist and kill you by mistake. Leave, Harry. And say nothing. My men can pick you out at six hundred yards and are itching for blood.’
‘And Jeanne? Promise me, Abrach. For old times’ sake.’
‘I never was who I was,’ returned Abrach, gesturing for his man to lift the blade from Summerfield throat. ‘All that counts is now. I can only promise you that my punishment will be without mercy.’ And with that, rough hands pulled Summerfield to his feet and gave him a push. ‘It is that way. And thank God that you have been spared.’
Abrach and his man disappeared silently into the mist and Summerfield, the tension released, suddenly broke down into a fit of uncontrollable sobs. A voice came to him.
‘Sidi Summerfield? Sidi Summerfield?’ It was the sentry, calling out from the left.
‘It’s me,’ Summerfield called back, stifling his tears. He took a few heavy, lurching steps, maybe five, six yards, and saw the vague barrel of a rifle nudging through the grey.
‘Is it you, Sidi Summerfield? I heard voices—are you all right?’
‘The sad past,’ said Summerfield, sniffing heavily. ‘I was only talking to myself.’
‘Talking to yourself, oh strange Englishman.’
‘Yes. About the saddest past you could ever imagine.’
49
Towards mid-November the first snows came—like the harvest rather late and sparingly. The wind, however, with a force and iciness that Summerfield hadn’t thought possible, was plentiful. It drove in from the summits, sweeping low through the valleys with an eerie moaning and cut through walls and clothing alike. Over the coming weeks, the pink earth that had risen in powdery clouds during the dry months alternately became a quagmire, liquid and thick when it rained or snowed, and a painful, almost impracticable rutted crust when it froze. Wrapped in their clothes and skins, people were hard to recognise now and Summerfield found himself looking out for their gait and how they held themselves rather than their faces. There was the old Mullah, hobbling along with his concave back, Raja with her lilting cheekiness, Badr with his long, slow and careful steps.
The first heavy snow finally arrived in the last week of November, turning the valley into a sumptuous and dazzling white. The wind died down and for a while children whooped and shouted as they played in the fresh and compact powder.
And it was once again Summerfield’s turn to join the other men on patrol. This time, the column of twenty men and three heavily-laden mules was headed by Badr. Before they left, his friend gave him an intricately tailored fleece to wear. Judging from the quality, it must have cost the young man a considerable sum, but all Badr did when faced with Summerfield’s objections was to comment on the Englishman’s inexperience of proper cold and a gory explanation of what frostbite could do to a man’s protuberances if unprotected.
The ritual leaving of the village at dawn took place, with the men’s coughing muffled by their headwear and long scarves. As they stamped about bringing warmth to their bodies, waiting for the order to leave, Summerfield saw Raja standing at the doorway to her mother’s house. He waved to her and she grinned, looking sad. She said something that was lifted away by the breeze, and then Badr appeared, walking over to her. The young couple stood close without touching and a silent message was passed between them. After a few moments, Badr turned to join the group of men and Summerfield saw Raja’s head drop with tears and turn away. He felt desperately sorry for her, somewhat irritated at Badr, his values and unwavering self-discipline and told himself he would have a good man-to-man talk with him about it all. Who knows, thou
ght Summerfield, perhaps a Christmas marriage might be in the offing.
Headed by Badr, the men and animals formed a loose column and with last waves and goodbyes, trudged off in the snow up the valley slopes. Once away from the village and a good hours’ walking behind them, the young leader called for a halt. Badr sat his men in a semi-circle around him and, squatting, told them the news.
‘We shall be gone for longer this time, my brothers,’ said Badr, pulling characteristically on his now fully grown beard. ‘Five, maybe six days.’ There was a ripple of a collective groan, then silence. ‘There has been talk of sightings,’ he continued and the atmosphere suddenly became measurably different, the men leaning forwards. ‘As usual, the rumours are conflicting. The messenger from the A-Auri says a hundred or so men with mortars. Someone else, from the tribe of the Toubkal say thirty at the most. And yet another says only a handful. Whatever their number, we can rightly say that they are there for three reports cannot lie, at least about their presence.’
‘And us?’ said a man—Taffu—an eager shine in his now uncovered eyes.
‘I will lead you to a place where they were said to be heading. We are to meet up with the Toubkal men and join up to force the French away.’
‘So we shall see fighting?’ said Summerfield.
‘It is very likely,’ replied Badr, avoiding his eyes. ‘The winter is our ally. It has been our companion for thousands of years in these mountains. Now is a good time to teach the invaders a lesson.’
‘Before they teach us a lesson in the spring!’ spat a tribesman.
‘Before they try to teach us a lesson in spring,’ corrected Badr, with unaccustomed bravado. He looked steadily at the man behind the comment. ‘We will see how your spirit changes once we see them running for their lives in the snow.’
They sweated as they walked despite the cold. The strain on the muscles of Summerfield’s legs was ten times worse than usual and during the first day he suffered enormously from cramp. At one point, he slipped and his knee came out of its joint only to slip back with a horrendous clumping sound. One of his comrades produced a balm from a small, glass jar that burnt like fury on his skin but which helped calm the stabbing soreness of what was likely to be a trapped nerve.
During camp that evening, Badr came to him and suggested he return to the valley with one of the men. Summerfield refused, playing down the pain and hopeful that the morning would see things better. As evening set in and a cold blue light sent them into shadow, each man burrowed a deep hole in the snow and lit some dry sticks, alternatively changing position every now and then to warm their bodies. Somewhere around ten o’clock, they ate some salted meat and bread that they heated over the flame before rolling themselves up in multiple layers of clothes, prayer mats, covers and sacking off-loaded from the mules. To Summerfield it was a night of uncomfortable shifting as he fought to find both evasive warmth and comfort. He would lose consciousness for twenty minutes only to wake suddenly, as though hardly a second had passed, shivering. He was grateful to be shaken by one of the two sentinels at around three if only to move. It was his turn—two hours of watch until five.
The next day followed in much the same way. Muscle-burning hikes up tracks made perilous by the snow and ice, descents into neighbouring valleys, stumbles and falls, the relief of the rest periods and boiling tea. Once they thought they heard a plane, but it was only the wind making a strange droning noise as it drove through the crags around them. They were so high now that there were no longer any trees. In the summer, Badr told him, as they trekked, the place was a mountain desert, arid and the colour of golden sand with only lizards for company.
On the third morning, they once again gathered around Badr before they set out. There was a sense of hard lucidity about the young man as he talked to the men, over a half of them double his age.
‘The next three hours will see us in the area where the French were heading,’ he informed them. ‘I want your guns ready at all moments and your courage firm. There is a small group of buildings—up there and this is where I believe they will be.’
‘I knew the buildings,’ said a man, his mouth almost toothless. ‘They spent March and September there years ago and hunted cats, and many times laughter could be heard ringing in the valleys around.’
‘That is the place,’ nodded Badr, gravely. ‘With God’s will, the chance will be ours to show them how the tribes are truly warriors, that this land is ours.’ There was a general murmur of agreement and several muttered prayers. ‘Remember, winter is our ally. We must use the snow and the clouds; make the cold our sword as we drive them out.’
Clenching his teeth against the stubborn pain in his knee—every time he bent it to step upwards, a knife blade seemed to enter his cartilage—Summerfield followed Badr as he gestured back along the line of men for them to distance themselves and keep low. He gratefully accepted a sturdy stick from Badr and found himself wondering when he should speak to him of Raja. Finally, two hours of hard slog took them to a small plateau that looked down onto a series of natural terraces carved into the rock of the adjacent slope. The terraces cascaded down into a valley they could not see the floor of until, at last, the tree line appeared just above the clouds.
‘We are here,’ said Badr. The men squinted, searching the uniform whiteness. ‘Down there by the trees,’ indicated Badr, pointing. He brought out a pair of captured binoculars from his sack and began checking the terrain. ‘The French planted the pines here years ago when they built the houses.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘They are the only trees for miles.’
‘Do you see anything?’ said a man, gruffly.
Badr shook his head. ‘The buildings are hidden behind the copse—too far away to see anything else. We will go down. Unload the provisions and put the mules to rest. Harry—you will stay to guard them.’
‘I cannot guard mules,’ said Summerfield at this. ‘I know even less of these beasts than I do of winter warfare.’
‘Harry—your leg.’
‘I insist on coming, Badr. And Youssef,’ he continued, looking round to find the youngest member of the patrol, ‘is barely past adolescence. His family would be devastated if ever anything happened.’
Badr held his gaze for some moments, thinking, and then nodded assent. ‘Let it be.’
They ate, out of sight behind the crest and out of the cold wind. Curiously, after they had finished, the wind suddenly died down only to be replaced by a gentle snow fall that sent Summerfield into warm recollections of Christmas walks in England. This he soon forgot as Badr gave the order to split into two groups and descend the mountain slope by separate approaches. Thankfully, Summerfield found himself just behind his young friend. The thought that it was only his second time in any sort of action crossed his mind and still in some doubt over his potential reaction preferred Badr to be close by to guide him.
Every fifty yards down the slope, Badr gave the sign to halt while he swept the wooded terrace below with his binoculars. They crouched as they moved, sometimes almost on their backsides as they slid over and between rocks, sometimes up to their thighs in snow when it became deep. Barely half-way between the crest and the cluster of pine trees they received a series of signs from the other group descending on their right.
‘The men of the Toubkal,’ muttered Badr and gave a brief smile, almost of relief. ‘They have joined us, moving up from below, slightly east.’ He brought the binoculars to his eyes and after several moments handed them to Summerfield. ‘Here, Harry. Look.’ Badr nudged Summerfield to the right direction. ‘Mmm—they look like insects down there. They should take more care. If we can see them—’
‘They know what they’re doing,’ answered Badr. ‘I trust.’ He took back the binoculars and once more gave the sign to advance.
The stonework of the buildings suddenly came into view through the pines, grey pinkish patterns. Two, maybe three buildings, one set apart and obviously serving as stables and store houses. Another four hundred yards and they woul
d be there.
‘See the smoke?’ whispered Badr, asking Summerfield to confirm.
Squinting through the eyepieces, Summerfield saw a thin, almost transparent wisp rising from behind the trees from what would have been the roof. He nodded, feeling his heart suddenly beating heavily. ‘A fire—there’s someone there.’
Badr relayed the information to the groups and a soft, muffled series of clicks told Summerfield that the men had released the safety catches on their rifles. The raiding party split into sub-groups and Badr sent two of them skirting to the left and right. Once in position he gave the sign to close in. His eyes, thought Summerfield, looked glazed and wild—maybe the effect of fear or apprehension—and wondered what his own looked like.
At last they were among the trees, thirty or so yards from the first set of buildings. They waited a while, caught their breath and listened as the snow began to fall more heavily, great feathery flakes that made it difficult to see anything with any precision. There was no noise coming from the buildings, at least from this distance. Summerfield watched Badr tugging nervously on his beard. ‘Forwards,’ murmured the young man and Summerfield followed, his Lee Enfield ready, his senses too occupied by the forthcoming attack to notice the sharp pain in his knee. They crept silently up to the walls of the outhouses and paused for final preparation. Was it the cold stone or the situation that made Summerfield’s fingers tremble numbly? The other groups should now be in position, he thought and wondered why Badr was waiting. Then, sticking close to the walls, he found himself moving forwards behind Badr as they advanced on the main building. Suddenly there was a noise, a movement and a loud shout. A shot rang out and Summerfield fired too, lashing back the bolt to reload. Then chaos—a volley of detonations from all sides as something moved in front of them in a blur whining like a demented banshee. Summerfield saw it, a bucking bundle of movement and fired again. There was a hideous yelp. More shots. ‘Stop!’ shouted Badr. ‘Cease fire, damn you! Stop!’ The mountain rang and echoed with the diminishing waves of gunfire until silence came upon them. Badr craned his head carefully and peeked around the corner of the wall. ‘A goat,’ he exhaled. ‘Curse it—a goat!’ Summerfield relaxed and involuntarily stepped forward only for Badr to pull him back. ‘Careful, Harry. We don’t know what else there is.’