Behind Mt. Baldy
Page 35
The darkness slowly changed to grey gloom. Roger began to discern colours, and then shades of colours. He felt so cold and sore his spirits were right down. Exhaustion, thirst and hunger were only dominated by fear. This kept him shuffling along.
The effort of moving, and the frustration of pushing through the jungle, began to warm him. After a time thirst became his dominant concern, even eclipsing chafing and sore muscles. This in turn was replaced by hatred for the ensnaring vines and the wait-a-while. This generated anger. Next time his jacket was hooked by one he swore and wrenched himself free, regardless of the tearing sound which resulted. This earned him a glare from both Graham and the Inspector. If his body had had the moisture to spare he knew he would have been in tears.
At 06:30 they halted and went into a huddle around either Graham’s map or Hauptman Ritnik.
“Where do you think we are?” Inspector Sharpe asked Graham.
Graham unhesitatingly placed the point of his pencil on the map on a spur line about half a kilometre south of Walsh Falls.
Stephen made a face. “You mean we’ve only come about three kilometres since midday yesterday,” he said bitterly.
“A bit more. About four and a half,” Graham replied.
“Which way do you recommend we go now?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“Those partisans have pushed us way off course sir. It is about half a kilometre to the edge of the rainforest anywhere to the north of us. We can go to Walsh Falls and either north along this ridge, then east; or go down where all these tracks are marked, into the valley of Sylvia Creek and past the Rifle Range. That would be easiest.”
“But is it the safest?” Peter asked. “Once we are in the open country we are much more likely to be seen.”
“Where is the nearest police roadblock sir?” Graham asked.
“I’m not sure but I would guess on the main highway where this road turns off to come past the rifle range and up the mountain to here,” Inspector Sharpe replied, pointing to the map.
“What about this secondary road which goes across these hills from Sylvia Creek to Mazlin Creek?” Stephen asked.
“Probably not being watched,” Inspector Sharpe replied, shaking his head.
Roger looked carefully at the map, then made a suggestion: “Why don’t we go east and cross the timber road near this pine forest, then follow this road out to Mt Baldy?”
Peter grinned at him. “What’s this! Roger suggesting we climb over a mountain! And Mt Baldy at that.”
Stephen sniffed: “Besides, it’s a dead end.”
“Which means the enemy probably won’t be watching it,” Roger answered.
“How do we get from Mt Baldy down to Atherton?” DS Crowe asked.
Graham spoke first: “It is open forest. We could just walk down the mountain.” He bent closer to the map. “That’s not a bad idea. If I was trying to surround this patch of forest we are in I would put men at this road junction near Walsh Falls; and here, where all the tracks come together. And here, at this road through the pine forest, where the track to Mt Baldy turns off. So, we avoid them, go South East and cross the main timber road here. We can then either go down Scrubby Creek to Carrington as we originally planned, or go to Mt Baldy.”
Inspector Sharpe rubbed his jaw. “Yes. If I was them I’d watch all these road junctions. But how about Hauptman Ritnik? Is he up to a slog like that?”
The Hauptman was sitting leaning on a tree. He looked ashen faced but had been following their discussion. “Do not let me delay you getting His Royal Highness to safety. Just leave me, under guard if you wish. In any case I give you my parole, on my honour as an officer of the Royal Guard.”
Inspector Sharpe shook his head. “We’ve had that argument. We stay together,” he replied. He reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re a good lad. I wish all my prisoners were gentlemen like you. Do you think you can walk?”
“I believe I can.”
“Good. OK CSM Kirk, get us to Mt Baldy.”
“Yes sir.” Graham used his compass as a ruler to pencil on a bearing, then as a protractor to calculate it. “One hundred and ten degrees Magnetic should do. We might be a bit out in our location here.”
“Lead on,” Inspector Sharpe said.
They resumed their slow trek. The compass bearing led them down a steep slope into a deep re-entrant choked with wait-a-while. Progress was a painful crawl. Frequent detours were necessary to avoid impassable masses of vines and wait-a-while. Even so Graham’s secateurs were in constant use. Blisters began to develop on his thumb and forefinger and he was scratched dozens of times by thorns and prickles.
After about an hour they came to a tiny creek at the bottom of the re-entrant. Small pools allowed them a chance to drink their fill and to rinse their grimy faces. The men all looked haggard and unshaven, as did the three older boys. Hauptman Ritnik looked like death warmed up and was visibly trembling. Roger washed his face and rinsed salt out of his eyes. Graham refilled all his water bottles.
When he was satisfied there was no obvious pursuit Inspector Sharpe allowed them to sit down for a short halt. Twenty minutes rest and the water revived them noticeably. Roger noted they were just in the bottom of the cloud. A watery sun glowed beyond the foliage and mist. Roger found he was sweating again but left his jacket on, reasoning he needed it for protection against thorns. The ripped and tattered condition of the plastic raincoats worn by the two policemen showed what they had passed through in the night.
The next hour was the hardest of the entire ordeal. The route led up a steep slope and through a massive belt of wait-a-while so thick that progress was a painful snail’s pace. Several times the suggestion was made to go back and detour around. Graham shook his head and continued snipping a path.
Roger swore as another wait-a-while snagged him. “I hope I never see rainforest again as long as I live,” Roger said. Almost at once he was jagged again and he swore again. After wrenching himself free he wiped both sweat and tears from his face. It was all getting to be too much! ‘I just want it to end,’ he thought.
Quite abruptly they reached the top of a narrow spur and all lay down, sweating and gasping.
“Half way to the timber road, I think,” Graham said. “It should be only a hundred metres up this ridge.” He pointed to the map.
“Eight thirty. Time flies when you’re having fun!” Peter commented.
Roger’s stomach gave a long growl and Graham frowned and threw a twig at him.
“I haven’t eaten a thing since tea time two days ago!” Roger wailed.
“Do you bloody good,” Stephen snapped.
“I can’t help it. I’m hungry,” Roger retorted.
Stephen gave a derisive snort. “We all are!” he replied.
“Shut up! Don’t argue,” Graham said. “Let’s get moving.”
They pushed on down an even steeper slope through what appeared to be even thicker wait-a-while. Ordinary rainforest seemed open and easy by comparison; something to just stroll through. Roger found a leech behind his ear and pulled it off. He was sick and sore and fed up.
After twenty minutes they had moved barely 200 metres and had reached another tiny creek. This was just a trickle through a mass of rotting leaves but Roger still washed his face from a small pool. A scrub turkey scuttled away, giving them all a fright. They had been so taken up with their struggle against the jungle that they had forgotten their real enemies.
Then it was another testing drag uphill. Much of the time they had to actually crawl on hands and knees under the tangle of vines, ferns and thorny tendrils.
Graham suddenly halted, held his finger to his lips and pointed. Roger crouched and peered ahead to see what it was. He could not see anything and moved to one side. Then he saw it- through a gap in the tree canopy.
A pine tree.
The end of the rainforest!
Roger almost yelped with joy.
Inspector Sharpe and Graham went into a huddle. DS Crowe moved up to
join them. After a short discussion Graham crawled forward out of sight. Roger sat and searched himself for leeches, then examined his scratches. Stephen made another attempt to clean his glasses but they remained smeared with moisture and he looked thoroughly miserable. Hauptman Ritnik slumped down and lay with his eyes closed and mouth open.
Graham was only gone a few minutes.
“The road is about twenty five metres ahead,” he whispered. “And we’ve gone a bit too far left. I can see a road junction which I think is the one to Mt Baldy. The side road runs east through the pine trees anyway; and there is a partisan sitting there. He is on the far side of both roads, about fifty paces up to our left. He is behind a log. All I could see was his head.”
“So which way do we go?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
Graham pointed to the right. “We need to back up, then go right for at least two hundred paces. The road curves and it goes into a dip. We should be out of sight of the sentry there. We need to be very quiet though in case there are more of them spread along the road.”
Roger groaned inwardly. He couldn’t bear the thought of more jungle. Most unwillingly he followed Graham and the others back the way they had come for a hundred paces. Graham resumed slowly and laboriously cutting a path with his secateurs, and constantly checking compass bearings. They inched forward a couple of metres a minute.
9:30 came and went. The cloud lifted and bands of sunlight shone through, making them all sweat. Hauptman Ritnik staggered from tree to tree, helped by Stephen. Roger wondered just how much more the wounded officer could endure. He knew it would be a nightmare of a task trying to carry him through the jungle.
Graham signalled again. Roger glimpsed part of the road in a bar of sunlight. It looked very inviting. Graham went forward again to scout the area. After ten minutes he returned and beckoned them in close.
“We are on the bend. I can’t see anyone. What we will do is move forward to the edge of the trees and form a line side by side. When I give the signal we all walk across the road at once. But do not run. Sounds like that travel. Go quietly and try not to leave bootprints in any mud.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to cross one at a time?” DS Crowe asked, taking out his pistol and checking it.
“No. If we all cross at once a bored sentry may not see us, and has no time to aim if he does. If we cross one after another it takes much longer so he is more likely to see us and he can shoot the third or fourth. That would split the group across the road,” Graham replied emphatically.
“OK. All at once. You control it,” Inspector Sharpe agreed. He also took out his pistol. They crept forward to the trees on the edge of the road and formed a line. Roger crouched on the right hand end. He carried the rifle ready to use and clicked the safety catch off. Peter was on his left. Roger crouched behind a tree and peered out. Everything was quiet. The gravel road looked damp and greasy. On the other side was the dark mass of a fully grown pine plantation, big trees twenty metres tall. Under them was a tangle of weeds, bushes and deadfall.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peter rise and signal.
Go!
Roger stood up and walked forward, heart fluttering and mouth dry. He had to use conscious willpower to resist the temptation to run. As he came out into the open he looked to his right. The road curved out of sight through jungle. He glanced left. The road went up over a low rise. A few more paces and he was in among the pines, bent double to get in under the low branches.
They had made it. He sighed with relief.
The group collected together ten paces in and Graham held up his hand. “Sssh! Wait a minute and listen.”
They crouched in thick weeds. Roger strained to listen but all he could hear was the sighing of a gentle breeze in the tree tops. Graham nodded, rose and led them downslope to the right, pushing through dense, waist-high weeds at a slow walk. After fifty paces this brought them out on an overgrown vehicle track running between the pine plantation and the jungle. The track went downhill in the right direction. Without a word Graham headed along it.
Roger became ‘Tail-end Charlie’. He crouched and looked back towards the timber road, then walked quickly to catch up, casting nervous glances over his shoulder.
And they were being followed!
For a moment he clearly saw the silhouette of a man against the sunlight where the track joined the road.
“Psst! Psst!” he hissed to Peter, at the same time giving the thumbs down. Peter glanced back and saw Roger crouching amongst the weeds. He quickly passed the signal on and also took cover. Roger backed into the pine forest, all his nerves tingling. Peter and Stephen did likewise. Inspector Sharpe and DS Crowe came quickly back, pushing under the edge of the pines.
They joined Roger, who was now kneeling in the weeds behind the trunk of a pine tree.
“What is it?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“A partisan. At the track junction. He...”
Roger stopped and his blood froze as the sound of a stick snapping out on the track came to him. Visibility was so restricted he could not see more than a few metres up the track. He lifted the rifle and slipped off the safety catch. That alone cost him an agony of conscience as the moral arguments swirled in his head. But aiming was even harder to do. Roger cradled the butt into his shoulder and tried to aim but was shaking so much the sights appeared to dance. His heart was pounding furiously and he was terrified and knew it. He rested his finger on the trigger and licked dry lips.
‘Oh no! Please God! I hope I don’t have to shoot!’
CHAPTER 35
MT. BALDY
Roger crouched lower. The sound of soft footfalls came to him. Into sight walked a partisan. He wore a uniform that was more brown than green, with brown leather webbing. On his head was a blue forage cap with a red star on the front. Circular orange badges with three black lines across them were pinned to his lapels. Across his chest was slung an AK47. He carried a small radio in his right hand.
The man stopped. His eyes searched the undergrowth. Roger licked lips dry with dread and squinted through the rifle sights. Ten paces:- he could not miss. His stomach churned at the thought of killing and he trembled, then moved his point of aim to the man’s leg.
Then, to everyone’s surprise the partisan spoke: “Australian soldiers, where are you? I know you are in there. I saw you. Do not shoot. I surrender.”
Was it a trap? A trick?
Roger saw Inspector Sharpe exchange a worried glance with DS Crowe. The partisan spoke again, “Australian soldiers, I surrender. I wish to claim political asylum.” He put his hands up, well clear of his rifle.
Inspector Sharpe spoke, quietly but clearly: “Who are you and why do you wish to surrender?”
“I am Comrade Platoon Administrator Yuri Barkovitch. I am not a communist. I no longer believe. Kosaria not a good place to live. I wish to live in Australia.”
“I am a police inspector. I cannot make you promises like that but if you co-operate it will be easier for you.”
“I help! I help! I tell you where other partisans are so you can escape,” the partisan replied.
“Are you alone? Is there anyone with you?”
“I am alone. I was walking along to check the sentries. That is how I saw you. The others are all back on the road.”
“Put down the radio and the rifle and come here with your hands up.”
The partisan did as he was told. As he walked towards them he said: “The radio, you see it? I could have used it to call the officers, but I did not.”
Inspector Sharpe stepped out, pistol ready. “Crowe, search him. Then tie his hands behind his back. Peter, pick up the rifle and radio and get back under cover. Roger, keep watch back along the track.”
Roger moved forward so that he could just see along the track. Shuddering with relief he put the safety catch back on and wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.
Inspector Sharpe continued to question the man. “How many others are there and where are they?”
“Map,” Inspector Sharpe called. Stephen pulled his out and went over. Inspector Sharpe asked: “Are any of these men close? Will they come here?”
The partisan shook his head. “No. The nearest is two hundred metres away at the road junction over there. He will not move without orders.”
“Where are the ones on the mountain?”
“I do not know for sure. They camped right on top last night. I took them a hot meal. I did hear that one of the squads is lost in the jungle somewhere over to the west. The two officers are at the top.”
“Two officers?”
Hauptman Ritnik answered. He rose from the weeds to glare at the man. “Yes. They use the old Communist system, a Military Officer and a Political Officer; a Commissar who has the power of veto.”
The Partisan sergeant looked at Hauptman Ritnik’s uniform. His eyes took in the badges and his mouth fell open in alarm. He spoke rapidly in Serbo-Croat, a frightened, whining tone evident.
Inspector Sharpe cut in: “Speak English! What did you say?”
Hauptman Ritnik answered: “He wanted to know if mine is a Royal Guard uniform. I told him that it is.” He gave the partisan a hard and suspicious appraisal.
“Why are you partisans here?” Inspector Sharpe asked the partisan.
“We were sent to assassinate Peter Dragovitch.”
“How did you get here?”
“We were flown to Australia last week, disguised as tourists. We came in ones and twos and were flown or driven to North Queensland only two days ago. The Embassy people gave us the uniforms and guns. We only came into these accursed mountains yesterday morning.”