Behind Mt. Baldy

by Christopher Cummings

  Despite his fatigue Roger wondered where Graham was going. He could see that Inspector Sharpe did not look too happy about it. Thick cloud drifted in to give the semi-darkness an extra dimension of eeriness. Roger rubbed sore muscles and moved gingerly to ease thighs chafed by wet cloth. He was cold and worn out and was very thirsty as well as hungry.

  Hauptman Ritnik groaned. Roger groaned as well. He was tired of caring for Hauptman Ritnik. Reluctantly he got up and knelt to feel his pulse. Next he placed the back of his hand on the Hauptman’s cheek. It was like ice, and his pulse was very feeble.

  Prince Peter looked across. “How is he?” he whispered.

  “Not too good sir. He needs a doctor,” Roger replied.

  “You are very good. Forgive my bad manners. What is your name?”

  Roger told him. Prince Peter then asked who his friends were and then about the army cadets and the expedition the boys were on. Roger explained the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme.

  Prince Peter gave a wry smile. “My people seem to have ruined your chance of completing your award on time,” he commented.

  “That’s alright sir. We can always go on another hike. We go on expeditions like this a lot,” Roger replied.

  “I know the Duke of Edinburgh. Perhaps I could write to him and explain that you have done far more than required,” Prince Peter said.

  Roger was both thrilled and embarrassed. “Oh sir! That won’t be necessary. I’m sure Captain Conkey will sort things out.”

  “I will anyway,” Prince Peter replied.

  At that moment Graham returned from his reconnaissance. He crouched near them. “We are right on the crestline of the main range. The road goes over a saddle about a hundred paces that way but we can’t cross there. A Land Rover is parked there with at least four partisans in it. They have a radio.”

  “Which way then?” Prince Peter asked.

  “Along this ridge northwards, parallel to the road, then cross lower down,” Graham said.

  “This cannot go on much longer. Hauptman Ritnik is getting very weak,” Prince Peter cautioned.

  Graham bit his lip. “Should we split up? Some stay here with him while others go for help? I reckon Peter and I could get down the mountain in two hours,” he said.

  “I’d rather we didn’t separate,” Inspector Sharpe replied. “Commander Simkin of the Federal Police will have a grip on things by now. All the roads should have roadblocks on them and reinforcements should be moving into the area.”

  “It will be dark in a bit over an hour,” Graham reminded him. With something of a shock Roger saw that it was after 5pm. The thought of spending the night in the jungle was not appealing.

  “Then we will just have to sit it out through the night,” Inspector Sharpe replied.

  “Hauptman Ritnik may not last that long,” Prince Peter said. “He needs medical treatment urgently.”

  Roger felt sick at the thought of that. Hauptman Ritnik certainly looked as though he could die. His face was an awful pasty colour.

  Graham studied the Hauptman then said, “We’d better get some hot food and drink into him. I’ve got soup and coffee in my webbing.”

  “Good idea,” Inspector Sharpe agreed.

  “Not here. We had better get further away from these fellows and the road,” Graham said.

  With an effort Roger and Stephen got Hauptman Ritnik to his feet. Hauptman Ritnik was shivering all the time now and was on the edge of delirium. Graham led off down a long spur which dropped more steeply the further they went. Luckily the old timber track was relatively open and they made good progress for half a kilometre.

  As the ridge levelled off Graham led them off the track for twenty paces to the edge of a steep slope. It was an area thick with low palms and ferns. He indicated a relatively flat and open area. “This will do. We won’t get any further tonight. Steve, take the rifle and go sentry just out there where you can see along the track.”

  They quickly cleared dead sticks to make bed spaces. Graham unpacked his webbing and lit his hexamine stove. The flame gave a very cheery glow in the dusk. Peter and the Prince made Hauptman Ritnik comfortable and checked his bandages. Roger sat near Graham. As the soup was heated the aroma made his mouth water. He wished he could have some and his stomach grumbled in sympathy. No tea either!

  Inspector Sharpe and DS Crowe stood talking quietly, looking incongruous in their torn raincoats and soiled business suits, their white shirts bright in the gloom. Roger felt very thirsty but the only water was in Graham’s water bottles and had to be rationed and shared. His share was only a mouthful. He wished he could do something to help but there was nothing so he just sat and watched as Hauptman Ritnik was spoon fed the hot soup by Peter.

  Graham then heated water and mixed a cup of strong, sweet coffee. This went to the Hauptman and the prince. Prince Peter had not complained about his wound all afternoon but Roger could see that he also looked ready to collapse. Next Graham opened a tin of meat and heated it in a mess tin with some water. Roger knew he was selfish to wish for any but he did.

  Hauptman Ritnik appeared to revive quickly with the warm food and drink in him. He thanked them and sat back with his eyes closed. Graham cleaned his mess tins and packed them and the stove. He took back his cup and began to wipe it.

  There was rustling in the undergrowth and Stephen appeared.

  “There are men coming down the track,” he hissed. “At least three partisans. They are armed.”

  Inspector Sharpe gestured to get down. “Everyone lie down. Not a sound,” he hissed.

  Graham swung on his webbing and took the rifle from Stephen. The two policemen folded up their collars and took out their pistols. Roger rolled carefully onto his front and peered under the palm fronds.

  Twilight had set in. There were a few bird noises and the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees. Then the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on the deadfall reached them. Roger glimpsed movement through the scrub. Only 25 metres away! His heart began to hammer and his mouth went dry.

  ‘What are the partisans doing here?’ Roger wondered. They were obviously going slowly and searching but surely they couldn’t be tracking in such poor light? Had they seen the glow of the hexamine stove? Or smelt it? No. The wind was wrong.

  Roger tried to steady his breathing and cursed when his empty stomach suddenly grumbled. The partisans were close now, near where the group had left the track. Roger saw a man with a sub-machine gun. The partisans were moving quietly, ten paces apart, eyes searching in all directions.

  Then Hauptman Ritnik groaned.

  The men stopped and went into a crouch. Roger could just see the legs of the second one. They faced towards him. Blast! Roger cursed silently but then Hauptman Ritnik groaned again. Roger swivelled his head to look and saw that he appeared to be unconscious.

  A metallic click which could only be a safety catch coming off made Roger’s heart stop. There was a muttered command and the swish of palm fronds as the partisans began to push into the undergrowth.

  A twig snapped. The men were only twenty metres away. Roger tensed his muscles and held his breath. They were sure to be discovered.

  Inspector Sharpe’s voice suddenly broke the silence. “This is the police. Stop or we shoot.”

  Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat

  In reply a sub-machine gun suddenly ripped out a savage burst. Roger clearly saw the muzzle flashes and heard bullets crack overhead and thud into the trees. There were shouts and another partisan also fired- a heavier weapon. It began to blast tongues of flame over to Roger’s right.

  Crack! Crack!

  Inspector Sharpe’s pistol replied. There was a shrill cry of pain, drowned out by more gunshots as DS Crowe, Graham and the third partisan all began firing.

  Roger lay flat on the wet leaves, half-paralysed by fear, and half-fascinated by the flashes and noise. In the semi-darkness the muzzle flashes flared bright red. The noise was stunning. It seemed unbelievably loud. The echoes rolled across the valleys
and up the mountain slopes.

  Cockatoos and other birds joined in with raucous screeching. There were shouts and running feet and the shooting stopped. Roger watched Graham change magazines. The empty one was thrust into his basic pouch and a fresh one clicked on. He cocked the smoking weapon and re-aimed. The reek of the acrid cordite fumes added to the conflict of senses and emotions.

  The partisans pulled back thirty or forty paces and went to ground. There were metallic noises as they also reloaded their weapons. From the sound of whimpering it was obvious that at least one had been hit, almost certainly by the Inspector’s first shot.

  “Anyone hit?” Inspector Sharpe called quietly. A quick check revealed they were all safe.

  “We had better get out of here,” Graham said.

  “It will be dark in a few minutes,” Inspector Sharpe replied. “We can’t move in this stuff in the dark.”

  “We will have to sir. If we stay here they will bring up reinforcements and surround us during the night,” Graham replied.

  At that moment a voice called out in heavily accented English,

  “Hey Australians! We know where you are. You cannot escape us now. Give us Prince Peter and we will spare your lives.”

  The proposal caused a real clash of emotions in Roger. Part of him grasped at the opportunity; part of him was repelled by his own selfishness; and part of him disgusted by the whole tactic. To make people betray others! What a cowardly thing to do.

  Inspector Sharpe replied. “I am Inspector Sharpe of the Queensland Police. Lay down your weapons and surrender; or take the consequences.”

  “Police! Hah! Fool!” the partisan cried. The sub-machine gun stuttered.

  “Don’t fire,” snarled Inspector Sharpe to the group. “He’s firing blind. He can’t hit us except by sheer bad luck.”

  ‘That’s me!’ Roger thought as he hunched in a terrified bundle behind a tree.

  Another partisan shouted: “Surrender policeman! Give us the prince and you can go safe.”

  There was another burst of firing and then silence. The men could be heard talking to each other.

  Inspector Sharpe spoke quietly to Prince Peter. “Sir, you are in my custody as a prisoner. That means that Sgt Crowe and I are responsible for your safety and well-being. We will not allow them to harm you while it is in our power to prevent it.”

  “Thank you Inspector. But what about these boys?”

  Inspector Sharpe glanced at them in the dusk: “They can head off to safety if they like. In fact that is a good idea.”

  Graham shook his head. “No sir. You need us; and we aren’t running out on you now. We’ve got to live with ourselves later you know.”

  “What’s this we?” Peter said with a grin.

  “You can go if you like,” Graham replied stiffly.

  “Pigs bum!” Peter retorted. “Let’s get Hauptman Ritnik up and get everyone out of here before their scaly mates rock up.”

  “Can you navigate in the dark CSM Kirk?” Inspector Shape asked.

  Graham looked pained. “Sir! Cadets do it all the time. It’s a basic skill, but I will need to use a torch to calculate the bearings and to set the compass.”

  “Too risky. Can you just get us out of this area?”

  “Yes sir. Due West for two hundred paces should do.”

  “OK, you lead. The rest of you crawl quietly one behind the other. I will go second last. Crowe, you go last.”

  DS Crowe muttered. “Always me that gets the sticky end of the stick. You wait till I’m a Detective Inspector!”

  It was almost completely dark by then. There was just enough light to see the others as black shapes. Roger got carefully to his hands and knees and crawled over to Hauptman Ritnik. He found he was awake and sitting up, leaning on a tree. The voices of the partisans stopped. There were rustling and crunching noises. They were moving.

  Roger froze to listen.

  Away, up the slope. He breathed out, only to receive a shock.

  A partisan’s voice called loudly from closer to them, out on the track. “Give up Prince Peter. You cannot escape. If you do not give him to us you will all die.”

  The man’s sub-machine gun rattled again, the darts of flame lighting up the jungle.

  Crack!

  DS Crowe’s pistol snapped a return shot from over to the left. That drew a startled oath and another burst of fire. Silence settled.

  “Get moving!” hissed Inspector Sharpe. “Close up and hold onto each other.”

  Graham had stood up. “Roger, carry the rifle. It’s on safe. I can’t hold it and use the compass.”

  Roger took the weapon. He held it at the ‘Shoulder arms’ to keep it close in to his side so it wouldn’t snag as much. Behind him he could still hear the sounds of people moving away up the track and decided it must be the wounded Partisan being helped away. The man with the SMG was still there though. He called again, taunting and listening.

  Slowly the group formed itself into a line. “Grab hold of the person in front and don’t let go. If the person behind you breaks contact stop and wait,” Graham ordered.

  Roger had Stephen in front of him so he grabbed his jacket. He knew Stephen would be hating every moment. Not only did he strongly dislike rain forest after being lost in it years ago but he would have taken his glasses off and would be, for all practical purposes, blind. Inspector Sharpe groped at Roger’s shoulder and gripped the epaulet of his field jacket.

  Graham began moving:- one careful step, feel for the sticks and vines, get balanced, bring the other foot slowly forward, feel for logs and sticks. Roger felt terribly vulnerable standing up. At any moment he expected the sub-machine gun to blast them. He found he was sweating and his breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. The whole experience seemed to be getting worse- a nightmare come true. He just wanted it to stop. Then a vine hooked him around the neck. Swearing silently he unhooked the vine. Another careful pace.

  CHAPTER 33

  NIGHT BEHIND MT. BALDY

  The group had not gone twenty five paces before the sub-machine gun stuttered again. Roger flinched and crouched against a tree. He watched the flicker of the gun flashes and prayed. Even as he cringed there his mind told him that none of the bullets had come anywhere near them.

  Graham nudged him. “Don’t move or make a noise,” he whispered. “He is just trying to pin us down and provoke us.”

  Roger then remembered that he had the rifle. He eased it up so he could use it but left the safety catch on and kept his finger well away from the trigger. The weapon felt cold and heavy. A whiff of burnt gun oil made him very conscious of reality.

  The partisan fired again: single shots and from further down the track. Roger estimated that the man was at least 50 metres away and the gun flashes were barely visible through the jungle. The partisan began to shout.

  “Surrender Peter Dragovitch. You cannot win. We know your plans. We are arresting all your criminal accomplices.”

  There was silence for a minute. Some small creature scuttled off but the fugitives remained motionless. After another minute Graham hissed for them to start moving.

  As they began to slowly move the man shouted again: “Peter Dragovitch! Surrender yourself, you dishonourable coward. Do not be so selfish as to let other people die to protect you. Give up. Your plot has failed.”

  ‘What cruel words,’ Roger thought. They seemed to strike with physical force. He could imagine the hurt they would cause the Prince.

  The man yelled again but this time in Serbo-Croat. They ignored this and kept inching down the slope. Graham murmured: “He is on his own. The other two have gone back to the road. We need to move before they come back with more of them.”

  They continued the slow movement. Several minutes of silence elapsed before another single gunshot disturbed the night. Roger did not even see the flash. The bullet came nowhere near them so, after a collective wince, they continued on. The voice yelled again, fainter now. “Give up Peter Dragovitch. Your life will b
e spared and so will your companions, as long as you promise not to meddle in the affairs of Kosaria.”

  “Pig’s bum!” murmured Stephen. “Spared my foot!”

  “He sounds a bit worried and scared,” Peter added.

  “Sssh!” Graham hissed. “I can hear more coming.”

  There were distant sounds of movement and the faint flicker of lights. A man further up the ridge began yelling to the man with the sub-machine gun.

  Roger was both anxious and curious. “Why are they doing that yelling and using torches?” he asked.

  Hauptman Ritnik answered: “They must find each other and they hope we will give away our position by shooting. It is one of their tactics. They don’t care if they lose some men. The Kommunisti have no respect for human life, the scum!”

  “Be quiet and move faster,” Graham ordered. “They won’t hear us over the noise of their own movement.”

  Roger took a firm grip on Stephen’s jacket and held the rifle hard against his body so the metal would not strike a tree. But he seemed to trip or stumble every second step; or a vine caught his face or neck. After about twenty paces they stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” Inspector Sharpe asked.

  “Bloody great log. Can’t get over it,” Graham replied. “I think we can get under it.”

  They shuffled forward. It was now so dark Roger could not see Stephen. He just hung onto him and followed. Then Stephen crouched and Roger bumped into the log. He was forced to bend lower. In the process he bumped his face on damp rotten wood. To get under he had to go right down on his belly and even then he only just scraped under the huge fallen tree. While doing it in the pitch darkness he had to steel himself to ignore thoughts of snakes, spiders and scorpions.

  Behind him Roger could hear a distant murmur of conversation. He estimated they had about a hundred metres lead. Another huge log blocked their path. This one they clambered over. Roger felt soggy moss and slime as he slid down the other side. The rifle struck a tree with a ‘thunk’. Roger flushed and could imagine the glares the others were directing at him.