When all were across they pushed on, only to run into wait-a-while. This forced them to back up and change direction. In spite of the cold Roger felt sweat trickle into his eyes. His stomach contracted in fear as voices began calling out behind them.
Suddenly the night erupted with gunfire. They all went down. Roger remembered to hold the rifle ready. At least a dozen weapons were firing but he could barely make out the flashes. He assumed that the whole partisan squad had opened fire. Terrified he crouched behind a tree, his heart beating wildly. Then he relaxed and wiped a wet thing from his face. The shots were not coming near them at all. Most sounded as though they were whistling through the tree tops.
Peter gave a soft grunt. “Those buggers have got no idea where we are,” he said.
As the shooting died down yelling began, mostly in Serbo-Croat.
Hauptman Ritnik whispered: “They are calling insults, trying to make us angry. Do not react.”
Inspector Sharpe groped his way past. “We will keep moving. We can’t fight that lot.”
When he reached Graham they rose and resumed their stumbling march. As they did a distant yell made Roger’s blood chill.
“Peter Dragovitch, we have your cousin, the Princess Mareena. Surrender to us and nothing will happen to her. If you do not, we will prepare her for the Special Interrogator. Think about it, but don’t take too long. If you do not give yourself up we will do terrible things to her- and enjoy it.”
There was a sob in the darkness. Prince Peter spoke quietly: “I must go back and give myself up.”
“No your Royal Highness,” hissed Hauptman Ritnik in a distressed voice. “It is a trick. They will not let the princess go, even if you surrender. They will kill you both.”
“But I must do something!” cried Prince Peter in an anguished voice. “We must try to rescue her.”
“We do not know where she is being held. She might already be dead,” Hauptman Ritnik replied harshly, anger and strong emotion obvious even in the blackness.
Inspector Sharpe cut in. “Be quiet! You are both my prisoners; and nobody is giving up, or going back. Now move!”
They resumed their slow progress. The shouting went on behind them, punctuated by occasional shots.
“They aren’t getting any closer,” Graham observed.
“I think they are just standing along that old timber track,” Peter replied.
Roger thought about that. He knew he would be terrified if it was him. Only a lunatic, or a fanatic, would walk forward in the dark knowing that their first warning would be a gunshot at point-blank range. ‘Perhaps we do have a chance to get clear,’ he thought hopefully.
Graham stopped and whispered, “We have come four hundred paces sir, about two hundred metres. If we get over this next log and I use my torch we can plan the next leg.”
One after another they clambered over another fallen tree. On the other side they crouched in a tight group. Graham knelt and put his map on his knee and flicked on his carefully shielded pencil torch. To Roger even that weak glow was like a lighthouse.
Graham explained as he worked. “If we go on five degrees, that’s Grid, so, add, no subtract seven degrees, that’s 358 degrees Magnetic, we will run down this spur for about half its length. Let’s see....hmmm…” He used the side of the compass as a ruler. “About seven hundred metres. We’d better double that for downhill and in the dark, say fifteen hundred paces.”
“Yes, alright. Do that,” Inspector Sharpe approved.
Once more the group moved in single file, changing direction from West to North. Within 50 paces the ground began to drop. Roger had never imagined it could be so dark! There were muffled curses from the front and the sound of ripping cloth and plastic.
“Bloody wait-a-while!” Graham muttered.
Roger shielded his face by lowering his head. The wait-a-while snagged at his hat and pulled it back off his head. The chinstrap pulled at his throat. A tendril caught his cheek and he halted. He let go of Stephen who was swearing and squirming.
After a minute of wrestling Stephen called quietly. “This is hopeless. We are hooked up in the bloody stuff. We’ve got to stop.”
Inspector Sharpe replied: “No. We must not. We are still too close. They will soon catch us when daylight comes. Back up and we will try to find a way around it.”
They shuffled back. There were more muffled cries of pain and tearing sounds. Roger felt blood trickling down his cheek. The scratches stung. He could feel something crawling inside his shirt. He scratched at it. Graham went right for twenty paces and tried again. Once more they encountered wait-a-while and came to a sweating, swearing stop. To Roger it was like the worst of nightmares. He wanted to run but he was enmeshed in a tangle of thorns.
Inspector Sharpe hissed. “Stop for a while. We will have a rest for a few minutes, then back up and try again,” he ordered.
They stood in silence. Roger felt sore and miserable. His stomach grumbled audibly and he licked dry lips. He seemed to be one mass of frightened aches and pains.
“Listen! They are moving our way!” Peter said.
Roger felt water move in his bowels. Peter was right. There were voices and sounds of people crashing through the undergrowth; and definitely moving in their direction.
“We must move. I’ll use a torch and my secateurs,” Graham said.
“Won’t they see it?” Stephen cried.
“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think we are far enough away. Anyway, if they come down that ridge in extended line they will find us for sure. It is a risk we have to take,” Graham replied.
“But what if we run into more of them coming the other way?” Stephen said.
“Calm down Steve. It is a kilometre or more to the next road in the direction we are going, even if they have the men, which I doubt. There can’t be that many of the mongrels,” Graham said.
Peter agreed. “Besides, if they are moving we will see their torches and they won’t know who we are till we are close,” he added.
“Kirk’s right,” Inspector Sharpe said. “Use a torch but don’t shine it towards them. If they see it and shoot in our direction turn it off.”
“But the risk!” Stephen cried.
“It is a risk either way. It is my decision. Do it!” Inspector Sharpe snapped.
Graham clicked on his pencil torch. The dull yellow beam lit up a wall of seemingly impenetrable wait-a-while. He turned left, away from their pursuers, and began walking. Roger tensed but there were no shots or shouts from the partisans. Looking back he could not see any of their torches although he could hear the partisans clearly. They were yelling and cursing loudly as they blundered through the jungle.
Graham led to the right. His small secateurs went up. Snip! A tendril dropped. He advanced a pace. Snip! Snip! They were past that bush. There was still some scratching and tearing but they had gained ten metres and the slope steepened downwards appreciably.
On down they went at a slow walk, clinging to each other in a human centipede. Roger stopped sweating and licked dry lips. Now he felt hot and exhausted. He itched and chafed and his muscles ached. He just wanted to lie down but fear made him cling on tightly.
In ten minutes they moved about a hundred metres. Now they were down on the side of the mountain and only occasionally heard sounds of the pursuit. Inspector Sharpe refused to let them stop. They struggled on downwards, slipping and stumbling but making definite progress by the light of the torch. He kept them at it for another half an hour until he was satisfied they had come three or four hundred metres down the spur.
“OK. Stop for a rest. I think we’ve given them the slip for the moment,” Inspector Sharpe said. Graham switched off his torch. Roger sat down and leaned on a rock. Prince Peter bent over Hauptman Ritnik as Peter lowered him to a sitting position.
“How are you Hauptman Ritnik?”
“I am feeling not too good Your Highness. My head hurts and I am very much dizzy. I feel I will fall over at any moment. I am very thirsty.�
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Graham groped his way back up and passed a water bottle to the Hauptman who drank deeply. Once again Roger regretted his lost webbing.
Inspector Sharpe pushed closer. “How much water do you have CSM Kirk?” he asked.
“Another two full water bottles and this one is half full sir.”
“Give everyone a drink. If they’ve been sweating as much as I have they will need it.”
Roger was handed a canteen. He had one long swig and passed it to DS Crowe. It certainly tasted good and he felt better.
They lay there for nearly half an hour before Inspector Sharpe spoke. “OK. It’s nine O’clock. Let’s move again.”
9 O’clock! How did three hours pass! Roger rubbed his eyes then groaned as he stood up. All his muscles had stiffened up. They had to wake Hauptman Ritnik who was quite disorientated for a while. He began to babble and call out till Prince Peter quieted him.
The slow movement resumed. They slithered and stumbled down the steep slope with Graham again using his torch. Twice Roger fell and once he banged his finger so hard between the rifle and a tree that he feared he had broken it. He hadn’t, but it made holding the rifle painful. Another three hundred paces had been covered when Graham’s torch began to flicker. It abruptly went out.
No amount of tapping, fiddling or coaxing would get the torch to work again. They tried moving without its aid but after only another fifty paces they were again hopelessly ensnared in wait-a-while.
Inspector Sharpe spoke over their muted curses: “OK. That will do. We will wait here till daylight. I want a sentry roster maintained. Prince Peter, you and Hauptman Ritnik sit next to me. Crowe, you sit beside the Hauptman. Now, you four cadets sit behind me side by side. Rest for a minute while I work out a roster.”
“We can do that sir. We do it all the time in the cadets,” Graham said.
“Fine. Work one out please, and keep it simple.”
Graham thought for a minute, then said: “We are in two rows. We just wake the person next in line. We do two hours each, with a staggered relief, that is changing every hour so we have a fresh person and a tired person on at once. No talking, no fires or lights and no moving away.”
Graham then went on to detail the timings for each person. This got a bit muddled in the dark and he had to repeat it before they were all sure who they woke up and when. Roger was fourth so he wedged his boots against a tree to stop himself sliding down the slope and lay back. He was too tired to care about ticks, mites and leeches. He just closed eyes which felt hot and scratchy and settled down as best he could. Sleep claimed him within minutes.
Peter shook him awake with difficulty two hours later. For a moment Roger wondered where he was and felt a surge of panic. Heart beating rapidly he sat up and rubbed sore eyes. Stephen was still awake but lay back when he was sure Roger was fully awake.
Sentry duty was something Roger was familiar with but he had never experienced it like this before, with armed enemy soldiers hunting for him. He strained his ears but the only sound was the wind in the trees and the dripping of condensation. It was so dark that the only thing he could see was the whitish glow of luminous fungus and the faint paleness of the clouds overhead. He could not see Peter beside him. To test the old saying he waved his hand in front of his face and could not see it.
A tiny flickering light appeared further down slope. Roger tensed, then smiled. Only a firefly. When he looked for them he saw more and also the tiny pin-points of pale green which showed glow-worms among the rotting leaves.
Roger was surprised that he wasn’t all tense over every little rustle and creeping noise but decided it was partly because he was too tired to care, but mostly because experience told him no-one could creep silently towards them in that jungle, even if they knew where they were. What did prey on his mind was how they could escape from the partisans when daylight came.
From time to time he or Peter muttered a few words. The others all sounded as though they were sound asleep. Inspector Sharpe began to snore so Peter nudged him with his boot until he rolled on his side and the noise stopped. Time dragged slowly.
Peter checked a watch with a small light in it. “Graham’s,” he explained. “OK Roger, wake up Sgt Crowe. It is zero zero thirty.”
Roger shook DS Crowe. He snuffled and groaned, then sat up. “Wuzza matter? Christ it’s dark! Where am I?”
“Sssh!” Roger hissed. “We are in the jungle hiding from the partisans.”
“Partisans! I’ll give the bastards a hiding if I get a chance,” grumbled the DS. He sat up and as he did farted loudly. “Umph! Sorry. What’s the time?”
Roger told him. Peter passed Roger the watch and lay down.
DS Crowe yawned. “Thought it would be colder,” he said.
“It’s the cloud cover. It acts as a blanket and keeps it relatively warm. And we aren’t supposed to talk on sentry duty,” Roger replied.
“Hmmm. Yes. Sorry.”
They sat in silence. Roger then realized he was cold. He was shivering slightly and felt feverish. He also felt extremely thirsty. The hour seemed to drag by. For a while Hauptman Ritnik muttered and groaned. Roger touched him with his hand and he rolled onto his back and began to snore. Roger and DS Crowe had to get up and make him comfortable on his right side, which was difficult as he kept sliding or rolling down the slope. Then Roger had to find the rifle again.
On one occasion an animal scampered past and gave them a fright. Lizards scuttled. More glow-worms appeared. There was a brief shower of rain. On the next ridge a dead branch fell with a crash. Time dragged. It was dark and cold.
At last 01:30 came. Roger crawled over and shook the Inspector. Once he was awake Roger handed the watch to DS Crowe. With a sigh of relief he lay back on the wet leaves and put his hat under his head as a pillow. A few drops of condensation irritated him but within minutes he was asleep.
CHAPTER 34
BEHIND MT. BALDY
Roger was shaken awake by Peter. His eyes were gummed by sleep and felt hot and gritty. He rubbed them open to find that it was still completely dark. Every muscle felt stiff and he shivered. With an effort he hauled himself into a sitting position. He was so thirsty it felt as though his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. It took him a minute to generate some saliva.
Peter nudged him. “You awake now Roger?” he asked.
“Mmmm. Yes,” Roger mumbled. He yawned and stood up to stretch. In doing so he slipped and lost his balance. He slid down slope and was brought to a painful halt by some wait-a-while. It took him a minute to untangle himself. Gritting his teeth to hold back sobs of misery he groped his way back up, bumping into a sleeping person as he did. His hand encountered the cold metal of the rifle. That woke him up and returned him to reality. He sat down. His stomach grumbled and he felt very thirsty.
“What’s the time?” he murmured to Peter.
“Just after five thirty.”
“Be daylight in an hour,” Roger replied.
“Hauptman Ritnik doesn’t sound very well.”
They listened. The wounded officer lay near Peter’s feet. His breathing was irregular and to Roger it sounded as though it had a sort of choking rattle to it. ‘Is that a death rattle?’ he wondered, appalled at the thought.
“He sounds cold,” Peter said.
Roger slid down and found Hauptman Ritnik’s throat. With cold and trembling fingers he felt the pulse. It was very weak and rapid and the Hauptman was shivering violently. “He’s freezing,” he replied. For a moment he hesitated, as he was cold himself. Then he rebuked himself for being selfish. He peeled off his own field jacket and gently wrapped it round the wounded man. Carefully he tucked the edges under as far under as he could. Satisfied he had done all he could he groped his way back to sit beside Peter.
The two cadets sat in silence. Roger brooded over the events of the previous day; the shocking violence and sudden death; and on their chances of getting away. He was very scared- and very hungry.
His stom
ach gurgled.
Peter nudged him: “Bloody hell Roger! That sounded like a wild pig.”
“I’m hungry. I’ve missed three meals now. And I’m cold.”
Roger’s teeth began to chatter as the chill bit into him. He tucked his hands under his armpits. Heavy drops of condensation added to his misery.
As 6 O’clock approached and the first glimmer of daylight showed Peter said: “Let’s wake the others.”
There was a hint of greyness among the tree tops. Roger turned and shook DS Crowe while Peter roused Stephen and Graham. There were a few minutes of groaning, yawning and grunting as the group stirred.
Prince Peter shook Hauptman Ritnik. “Wake up Herr Hauptman.”
Roger watched the prince try to rouse the wounded man. His heart sank. Had the Hauptman died? Then Hauptman Ritnik groaned.
Prince Peter checked the Hauptman’s temperature and pulse. “He is very sick,” he murmured to Inspector Sharpe. “Whose jacket is this?”
“Mine,” Roger replied.
Prince Peter looked at him, then unwrapped the jacket. He passed it up to him. “Put it on. He can have mine. You are very good but you are also freezing. I can hear your teeth chattering. No, do not argue.”
Roger was embarrassed. He took his jacket and pulled it on. The light was now sufficiently strong to see the others as dark shapes in the gloom. Low cloud drifted through the trees.
Hauptman Ritnik was eased up to a sitting position. He groaned and muttered. Prince Peter spoke to him in a comforting tone and held him up till he was fully awake. Inspector Sharpe helped pull him to his feet, where he stood leaning on a tree, supported by the Prince.
Inspector Sharpe said: “We must start moving.”
“Which way sir?” Graham asked.
“Advise me.”
“Down this spur until it gets light enough for me to read the map.”
Inspector Sharpe nodded. “That will have to do. We must put as much distance as we can between us and those partisans. Let’s move.”
Roger picked up the rifle and peeled wet leaves off it. At the touch of the cold metal he shivered and his teeth chattered uncontrollably for a minute. The group began shuffling slowly down the slope. Within a few paces wait-a-while was snagging them but they could see well enough by this to avoid the worst of it. A tendril jagged the sleeve of Roger’s jacket. He cursed and tore free, the cloth ripping as he did.
Behind Mt. Baldy Page 34