‘The Colonel is escorting me, Colonel Vidmar,’ Murdoch said. ‘The Colonel also wishes to speak with Marshal Tito. There is no need for him to disarm himself. He has accepted the new situation.’
‘Has Mikhailovitch?’ Vidmar asked, still speaking from concealment.
‘I’m afraid not. I will make a full report to the Marshal.’
‘He awaits it,’ Vidmar said. ‘Very well, you may retain your weapons, Colonel Kostitch, but my men will carry General Mackinder. You will walk in front of us. Pass through the defile.’
Murdoch looked at Kostitch.
The Colonel shrugged. ‘We had better do what he says, or we will be here all day. He is obviously afraid of us, probably because he has only one or two men with him. Convince him that we mean him no harm.’
Murdoch hesitated, then nodded. The stretcher-bearers laid him on the ground.
‘Proceed down the defile, Colonel Kostitch,’ Vidmar commanded. ‘And keep your men under control.’
‘My men are always under control,’ Kostitch said.
Murdoch watched Kostitch and his six men move away. ‘This is very unnecessary, Colonel Vidmar,’ he protested, sitting up. ‘Colonel Kostitch has indicated his willingness to serve under the Marshal.’
‘He fights with Mikhailovitch,’ Vidmar retorted, and in the same breath shouted, ‘Down, General.’
Murdoch obeyed instinctively, hurling himself to the ground, but continuing to look up the slope as he did so, and gasping with horror and disgust as he saw the muzzles of the machine guns protruding through the rocks.
Kostitch saw them too, and shouted, and again, as he saw, not half a dozen men, but over a hundred lining the rocks. He drew his pistol, but the machine guns were already chattering and the rifles exploding. Murdoch turned his head to watch the Chetniks falling about, blood flying from their shattered bodies. Kostitch had been the first to die, cut to pieces by the machine-gun streams.
The firing ceased; only the echoes bounced off the hilltops. Slowly Murdoch pushed himself back to a sitting position, looking at the dead men.
Vidmar came down the slope to join him. ‘A clean job,’ he remarked. ‘I must thank you for cooperating, General.’
‘Cooperating?’ Murdoch shouted. ‘You have just committed murder, Colonel. And I will see that the world knows of it.’
‘I was doing my duty,’ the Colonel said stiffly. ‘They were our enemies.’
*
‘He was right,’ Tito said. ‘They were our enemies. Kostitch, at any rate.’
‘He was an honest man who was coming here to offer his services to you,’ Murdoch said. ‘He was coming in good faith. He had only the previous day rescued me from men who would have murdered me.’
‘As they murdered Captain Markham and Colonel Bogoljubova,’ Tito observed.
‘Yes,’ Murdoch agreed. There was no point in telling anyone the truth about Yasmin’s death. If he refused to do so for long enough, he might forget the truth himself.
‘Then you agree that they are our natural enemies.’
‘Some of them. Kostitch was not. He opposed Mikhailovich’s people to help me, Tito. And you had given me authority to guarantee those men’s lives. This is a foul business.’
Tito stared at him. He had never seen Murdoch so angry before. ‘I doubt you understand, even now, the issues at stake here, my old friend.’
‘You must take me for a fool. I will ask you one question, Marshal: did you give Vidmar orders that the Chetniks were to be shot on sight?’
Tito did not lower his gaze. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not give him that order. I told him to exercise the utmost caution in approaching any of Mikhailovich’s people, for fear of treachery.’
‘Then he entirely exceeded his instructions. I wish him court martialled.’
‘He is one of my most able commanders,’ Tito protested. ‘He is a cold-blooded murderer.’
‘So is every professional soldier. So are you, Sir Murdoch. Oh, we may commit our murders in the name of our religion, our country, our loved ones. That does not alter the fact.’
A cold-blooded murderer, Murdoch thought. Or murderess. Yes, Tito was right. They were all cold-blooded murderers. But yet had Vidmar forced him to betray a friend. And besides, he was tired. Old and tired.
‘Come, my friend,’ Tito said, as jovially as he could. ‘These things happen, in time of war. We cannot let them upset us. In a week’s time we will start our offensive. We are going to take Belgrade. What do you think of that? It will be our greatest victory. Nothing will stand in our way after that. I am told your wound is not a serious one. Will you not ride with me, in triumph, into Belgrade?’
And watch more murders, Murdoch thought. Why, I had even planned one of my own: Roebel of the Gestapo. But he was all done murdering.
Then was he going to walk away from here, from all the work he had done, all the effort he had made? Moscow was afraid of the influence he might have on Tito. But they were wrong. He knew now that no one was going to have any influence on Tito. Perhaps not even Moscow. Certainly not Murdoch Mackinder.
‘I’m afraid I cannot,’ he said. ‘I have been ordered to return home, by my Government.’
15
The Ardennes, 1944
The truck nearly overturned several times in the first few miles. Then they ran into very heavy traffic, all heading west.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Fergus demanded of an American Major, supervising what seemed like a massive withdrawal at a crossroads where all traffic had ground to a halt.
‘The Krauts are through on a big front,’ the Major said. ‘We can’t stop them. The orders are to pull out.’
Fergus found it incredible that the German Army, beaten and battered for more than two consecutive years now, in both the east and the west, would yet have the morale, much less the men and materiel, to launch an ‘unstoppable’ counter-attack.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon you could clear a way for me to get through?’
‘Where are you headed?’ the Major wanted to know.
‘I’m trying to rejoin my regiment.’ There was no time to explain that he was actually a brigadier — he hadn’t had the time to change his badges yet.
‘Which regiment?’
The Major was being unduly suspicious, but Fergus remained patient. ‘The Royal Western Dragoon Guards, of the Seventh Armoured Division of the British Army,’ he said. ‘We were camped outside Maastricht.’
‘Maastricht? Shit, the Germans probably have there by now.’
Fergus began to feel agitated. ‘Then will you clear a space for me to get through, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Okay, buddy. Okay. It’s your funeral.’
The Major gave orders, MPs stopped various lines of traffic, and the truck squeezed through and proceeded north. Fergus thumbed the wireless receiver but the air was a complete jumble of panic-stricken voices. While the roads remained jammed with vehicles and now too there was more sinister evidence of trouble to the east: combat troops began to appear, dazed and frightened, some even without their weapons.
‘Looks like real trouble,’ Sullivan said.
‘Yes,’ Fergus agreed. But how the hell had it happened?
*
The skies remained leaden and there were occasional flurries of snow; the roads, however, were so crammed with traffic that there was no chance for ice to form. Fergus could hear the roar of guns to the east, but was concerned mainly with regaining Brigade — it would be a hell of a thing to be given a command and have it destroyed before he even took over. He could hear the drone of aircraft, but they were above the clouds and it was impossible to tell whether they were Allied or German. Equally would it be impossible for the planes to tell what was happening beneath them, at least to the point of doing any accurate bombing.
They stopped for a bite of lunch at noon — Sullivan having come armed with sandwiches and coffee — while retreating Americans still continued to flood round them. Rumours were wild, e
stimates as to how far the Germans had reached being catastrophic. They shouted at the command truck as they passed.
‘Tanks, man, great big panzers!’
‘Must be a whole army of them.’
‘Paratroopers. Man, they been dropping all over the place.’
‘And are those guys moving!’
Paratroopers, out of total cloud cover?
Others grumbled about diversions and various roads being closed. ‘Goddamn MPs think they own the fucking world,’ one of them said.
Was there any suggestion of this when you left the regiment, Sergeant?’ Fergus asked.
‘It was quiet as the grave, sir,’ Sullivan said. ‘What do you think can have happened?’
‘I think that we had better get a move on,’ Fergus told him.
The traffic thinned as they crossed the border into Belgium, and suddenly they raced up an empty road signposted to Philippeville...and a mile further skidded on a corner: Sullivan lost control, and the truck went over on its side. Fergus saw the accident coming and he braced himself, but even so as the truck went on to its right he fell on top of the sergeant, who was knocked unconscious. Fergus clambered out of the upper door, and looked around him. He was bruised and had a few minor cuts caused by glass splinters, but was otherwise unhurt; Sullivan was both bleeding and pinned.
The road remained empty for a few minutes, then he heard the sound of an engine, and out of the afternoon murk emerged an American MP’s jeep, containing a corporal and a captain. ‘Thank God!’ Fergus said, jumping down. ‘There’s an injured man in that truck. I need help to get him out.’
The Captain stepped out of the jeep. ‘You shouldn’t be on this road at all, Colonel.’ He spoke with a rather flat, nasal accent. ‘It’s closed.’
‘Closed? What for?’
The Captain glanced at his corporal. ‘Headquarters staff will be moving along here from Bastogne, sir. Seems the Germans are making a deep penetration.’
Fergus frowned at him. Bastogne was some sixty miles east of Philippeville. That was a long way for a headquarters staff to be clearing the way for their retreat: that sounded more like an absolute rout.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘They’ll take a good while to get here. You fellows give me a hand with my driver.’
Once again the captain and the corporal exchanged glances, and the corporal got out from behind the wheel. Fergus was aware of a curious prickling sensation behind the ears. The two men were immaculately dressed as American soldiers, they spoke with American accents... ‘Heil Hitler!’ he snapped.
Both men instinctively came to attention, realized what they had done, and reached for their sidearms. But Fergus was ahead of them, had drawn his service revolver. He fired six times. The first bullet was wild, the second struck the captain in the shoulder as he drew his own pistol, the third went past him and hit the corporal in the face, the fourth struck the corporal in the chest as Fergus got the gun under control, the fifth missed and the last slammed into the captain’s skull as he groped for his Luger wish his other hand.
The sounds of the shots drifted away into the afternoon, and Fergus found that he was panting. He reloaded, made sure both the ‘MPs’ were dead, then climbed back on to the truck and lowered himself into the cab. But Sergeant Sullivan was also dead; he must have died within seconds of the accident.
Fergus climbed back out, got behind the wheel of the jeep, turned it, and raced to the north.
*
Philippeville was a chaotic mass of support staff packing up, trucks waiting to be loaded, and people in a panic. Some civilians were already attempting to stream to the west, further adding to the confusion on the roads. Others stood around gaping at the American soldiers who down to this morning they had regarded as invincible liberators.
Fergus fought his way through behind a blaring horn, turned right for Dinant and then left for Namur, intending to skirt the western side of the big flap. Even so progress was dreadfully slow, and the reports of disaster in the east grew with each village. He managed to wheedle some petrol out of a dump master just north of Namur, but by now it was growing dark, he had not eaten since his early sandwich lunch, and he had little hope of finding his command at night.
But the next heavy conglomeration of traffic he drove into, almost literally, because the trucks were using no lights, turned out to be a British infantry regiment.
‘Where are you heading?’ he asked the Lieutenant-Colonel.
‘We’ve been ordered to fall back on Brussels, don’t you know.’
‘On Brussels? My God! Whose orders were those?’
‘GHQ, of course.’
‘They were from your Brigadier, personally?’
‘No. They were in writing, brought by an MP lieutenant.’
Fergus snapped his fingers. ‘They were forged.’
‘Oh, really, old man. They were quite pukka. I have the order here.’
They studied the sheet of paper by the light of a torch. It certainly looked genuine, had all the official seals, and had been signed by the brigade major.
‘I still think it’s a forgery,’ Fergus said. He just could not imagine Montgomery ordering such a precipitate or far-reaching retreat - or any subordinate officer doing so without first checking with the Field Marshal. ‘I have an idea there are a whole hell of a lot of Germans behind our lines, dressed as British and American MPs, dislocating traffic, and carrying false orders.’
‘My dear fellow,’ the infantry Colonel remarked. ‘You must have had a damned good leave.’
Fergus saw no point in quarrelling. ‘Anyway, I’m trying to find my brigade,’ he said. ‘My regiment is the Royal Westerns.’
‘An,’ the Colonel said.
‘You’ve seen them?’
‘Well, no, I haven’t. But earlier this afternoon, just before dusk, we did mingle briefly with First Fifty-Third Lancers. Aren’t they brigaded with you?’
‘Yes. Thank God for that. Where are they?’
‘They were about five miles north of here.’
‘And presumably they too were heading for Brussels.’
‘Well, of course, old man. That’s where we’re to concentrate.’
Fergus nodded. ‘I won’t see you there.’ He got into his jeep and roared into the night.
*
The German plans, and the way they were being carried out, were becoming more sinister with every minute. Fergus had never known such a devious operation — nor one whose deviousness was proving so successful. He felt himself sweating with anxiety, despite the cold.
The roads grew even more clogged in the darkness, with men cursing and swearing against the lone jeep going the wrong way. But Fergus fought on, although now he was dropping with fatigue, and he was rewarded just before midnight, when he came across a line of tanks, proceeding slowly west.
‘Where is Colonel Harding?’ he demanded.
‘With the ACV, sir, trying to raise Brigade,’ the Lieutenant said.
Fergus got to Harding ten minutes later. ‘Fergus!’ the lancer commander shouted. ‘What in the name of God are you doing here? Your chaps haven’t been shot up?’
‘I have no idea,’ Fergus said. ‘I am trying to find them. But what the hell are you doing here?’
‘We’ve been told to pull out.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Fergus said. ‘They were written orders, brought to you by an MP lieutenant.’
‘That’s right. I suppose you got the same.’
‘Billy, I will bet my last penny that that MP lieutenant was a German.’ He told Harding of his experience south of Philippeville.
‘Holly hell!’ Harding commented. ‘If that’s true...oh, Jesus Christ.’
‘Exactly,’ Fergus agreed. Now, you were trying to raise Brigade. Why?’
‘To ask permission to call it off for tonight. My men are dog tired, and this road is so goddamned choked we might as well pull out and wait until dawn.’
‘Right. Only you’re not pulling out to wait. You’re pulling ou
t to turn round and go back.’
‘Go back? Now, really, Fergus, my men...’
‘May be tired, but we have a lot to do. You may have heard a rumour that I now have Brigade, Billy.’
‘Well, yes. Best congratulations, old man. But you don’t take command until tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is in half an hour. I am taking command right this minute, Billy. Give me your notebook and a map.’
Harding hesitated, then handed over the book. Fergus studied the map and then wrote very carefully: ‘Brigade will concentrate on Bassenge north of Liege.’ He signed it.
‘Bassenge? But Fergus, the enemy already have Eupen. And Malmedy. There are rumours of nine thousand Americans having been captured. Liege is being evacuated. They could be across the river and in Bassenge right now.’
‘Then we’ll throw them back out,’ Fergus told him. ‘I have given you an order, Billy. I wish that order carried out.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Harding grinned. ‘You know, you could lose the brigade before you even take command of it.’
‘That thought had crossed my mind,’ Fergus agreed. ‘In which case I’ll sell you my first used car. Now let’s get these tanks turned around. Your men can sleep as they move, taking turns at driving.’
*
He ate, then snatched a couple of hours’ sleep in Harding’s ACV; worried as he was about the whereabouts of the regiment, he knew he could do nothing more without some rest. He left orders that attempts were to continue to raise Brigade and Division by radio, but the air continued to be clogged. So were the roads, and progress against the tide of terrified humanity was slow. But Fergus was awakened at dawn with the glad news that Brigade was at last on the air.
‘Conant, here, Brigadier,’ the Major said.
‘Is General Manton with you?’
‘No, sir. General Manton went off to Division on Friday. I was told to hold the fort until you took over.’
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