by Hall, Ian
“Okay, get up then,” the leader said, the other looked far less confident. “But I’ll be watching.”
It didn’t take much planning, with my training foremost, I bent down to lift the bottle, then sideswiped his feet from him. The wise-cracking leader went down like a sack of potatoes. In seconds I had his pick-axe handle, and had rapped his knuckles hard. I then smacked his knee that much harder, just to show I meant business.
“Ow!” he howled in pain.
I kicked him in the Charlies, just for luck, and advanced on the hapless follower. To my shock, he turned and ran, full-pelt, straight towards the car that had just turned into the graveyard.
Before he knew what had hit him, two men had got out of the car, guns raised, and tackled him to the ground.
Ivanhoe walked steadfastly towards us. “Can’t I leave you anywhere?”
“Seems not,”
“What’s going on?”
I looked at the man at my feet. “Seems this fellow wanted the stuff in my pockets.
Ivanhoe lifted the lead ruffian to his feet, then looked at him askance. “Alfie?”
“Mister Irvine, sir!”
“Oh, God!” Ivanhoe grimaced, then pulled Alfie close. “Listen, sonny. Don’t muck around with my people. Right?”
“Yes, Mr. Irvine, I won’t. I promise.” Gone was the confident sneer from a few moments ago, replaced by a sniveling grovel, which definitely suited him more.
“And you never know who they are, right?” he grabbed Alfie by the collar and dragged him to the car. In seconds Ivanhoe’s men were running him to the gate, kicking the poor fellow’s arse as they gave chase.
Running with the Deer
“Why do you need me?” I asked. I sat in the back of the car with Craig and another man, crammed tight. Luckily I was against a window, the poor mathematician in the center.
“Shh,” He hissed in reply, the car taking off quickly, throwing me back against the hard seat, well as far as I could get.
For a good half hour we drove south, out of Edinburgh. After skirting Loanhead I’m not exactly sure where we got to, my local knowledge having dropped off a long time ago. One thing I knew, we were driving almost into the setting sun, and that did not bode well for poor Biggles, because that meant west, and the only end I could see to our journey was the hills, the moors or the coast, many, many miles away.
Ivanhoe passed guns out, and I found a Webley cavalry pistol shoved into my nervous hands; thanks to my week’s training, I knew the model well. I broke the pistol and looked at the chambers; six shiny brass discs winked back at me. I snapped the pistol closed and spun the cylinder. It was oiled, well taken care of. If the shit did indeed hit the spinning fan, I had six shots to save my life.
Glad of the road signs that documented my journey, we drove through the hamlets of Whim, Lamancha, and Romannobridge, before climbing no more than a track over the Pentland Hills.
We drove onward, the country outside darkening significantly.
We stopped in the outskirts of Carstairs, just a few yards past the village’s sign, and I became instantly nervous. The town was notorious for its ‘Correctional Center’, a home for rough boys, supposedly making them fit for society. Thankfully the man next to Craig got out, and we drove off again, leaving him behind in the growing darkness.
Just outside the village, we stopped again. This time we waited.
Ivanhoe, or should I say Mr. Irvine, turned in his seat, his elbow over into the rear. “Okay, James. This is where it could get a little dicey.”
I nodded, already aware that the taking of Craig had passed the ‘little job’ stage. “What happens if it goes tits-up?”
“You grab Craig and run into the hills. Go north or south. Somehow find your way back to Edinburgh.”
I could hardly believe my ears. That walk would now take us days.
He nodded to the gun I held in my lap. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Aye, we got it in training.” I held it up. “I’ve only got six shots though.”
“Oh,” Ivanhoe reached into his jacket pocket, and gave me a loose handful of bullets. “Sorry, old chap. Forgot about that.”
I swallowed. When I’d initially been given the gun, I saw the six shots as a safety precaution, we may need it. Now I had a pocketful, I suddenly was faced with the possibility of a standing fight; a shoot-out.
I saw the reflection of headlights from behind, and stiffened.
“It’s okay, James; it’s our side.” Tyres crunched to a halt, and Ivanhoe got out. I heard talking, looked back, but the lights dazzled me against the darkness, and I couldn’t make much out. Then my door opened. “Front seat, Sonny Jim.”
I could feel the pressure building. From a back seat crammed passenger, I’d been ‘promoted’ to shotgun, and I could have cut the tension with a knife; it felt so real, so intense.
The back door on the driver’s side opened, and Max Born was ushered in, pushing Craig along the shiny leather seat. Ivanhoe stuck his head in the open door. “This is it, boys; the last part. If we get through, we get you to safety. If not, we all die shooting.” He grinned maniacally which did not settle my nerves one bit. “Good luck. Tally-Ho!”
And he slammed the door shut. Tally-bloody-ho?
The driver offered his hand, and we shook firmly. “Remember, if it goes all goes to shit, you take Craig. I got Born.”
“Your name?” my mouth felt so dry, I’m not sure I could have said another word without choking.
“Balfour,”
“Oh, real name?”
“Code,” He shook his head. “From Kidnapped.”
“Of course,”
As we started off again, my mind rushed headlong into the Robert Louis Stevenson novel, the chase across the moors, running from the redcoats. My God, we were reliving the pages right now, rushing from battleship grey coal-scuttle helmets rather than red-coated English.
I got a better view of our course from the front seat, but there now seemed a higher level of consciousness to accompany my loftier position. Every dry stone dyke the car headlights shone on seemed to hide German soldiers, I imagined every tree had a Schmeisser behind it, every farmhouse we passed held an ambush. I felt my finger slip onto the trigger of my pistol, then as the realization dawned, I removed it. This was no time for silly accidents.
From Carstairs, we turned south, passing through Ravenstruther and Hyndford Bridge, names which meant nothing to me, which just seemed to sink me more into obscurity; I could have been in the middle of Wales for all I knew. One fact remained; we were going further and further from my home, and mum would soon be going through the roof with worry.
I looked at my watch. Angled to catch the last rays of the setting sun, I saw a quarter past nine. I gave myself a shake, focused on the road.
Then we hit bad luck.
“Road block ahead,” Balfour said. “Shit.” I felt the car brake jerkily three times, maybe a signal to the car far behind us.
“What do we do?” I asked as we slowed down.
I saw two German soldiers, hands raised, one on either side of the road, and a small roofless car parked to one side. “There’s four of them at most, just one car.” Balfour said. “Maybe less if we’re lucky.”
Lucky? My heart was in my mouth. I’m not even certain if I was still breathing.
“Gun ready, right hand.” Balfour warned. We were almost at a halt, cruising slowly towards the soldiers. “Wind your window down. Get your papers out, wave them with your left hand, remember, we’re harmless. Go for head shots. Shoot yours right in the face when he bends to see your papers.”
The levelled rifle looked menacing as we pulled to a stop. I sat, my ID card in my left hand, as instructed.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other German, machine gun pointed at the car. I concentrated on my side.
Breathe, Biggles, I coached myself.
“Papiere?” I nodded, and smiled against the torch pointed at my face.
I fe
lt Balfour move in the seat next to me, felt his gun tap mine as he began to raise it.
Nerves took over. I had the pistol pointed to the soldier’s face before he knew I’d moved.
Bang!
The shot inside the car rang like an explosion, the smoke clouding my eyes for a second, choking me. A second shot echoed mine. The German and the torch flew backwards, and to my surprise I found myself opening the door. Instinctively I stepped out onto the narrow road. The second my feet touched the ground, I took aim and fired again, the discarded torch shining right in the man’s now bloody face.
“Gott!” I heard a man curse from the car, illuminated by our car’s headlights. I grabbed the torch from the ground and shone it towards the sound. A soldier was rousing himself from the back seat, his eyes bleary with sleep, his face a picture of panic. I fired as I walked.
One. Into the side of the car. I don’t think I hit him.
Two. Catching him in the shoulder, spinning him in recoil.
Three. In the neck. I watched him fall backwards onto the seat, his head at a strange angle.
As the sounds died in the night air, I switched the torch off and stood listening.
I could hear our car’s idling engine, then it too died, the dying headlights throwing us into total darkness. I cocked my head, but apart from the sounds of insects, I could hear nothing else. My eyes slowly became accustomed to the black. In the silence that followed, I was certain we’d killed the entire roadblock crew.
“Are we done?” I spun to see the dark figure of Balfour standing by the car. My gun was aimed at his head. I breathed heavily, and lowered my weapon.
“I think we got them all.”
“Give it a minute.” Balfour said. “Listen for sounds of alarm.” A distant dog barked twice, then was silent. I swear that minute lasted an hour. “Right, strip them.”
Using their own torches to illuminate the bodies, we stripped the two we’d shot in the face. It seems the uniforms were going to be useful sometime down the road, along with the guns and ammunition. We stowed everything in the trunk, along with all papers we found in the car.
Then we dumped the bodies over the low wall into the field beyond.
To complete the whitewash, Balfour drove the car through the nearest gate, and left it in the middle of a blacker-than-hell cow field.
“Pee on the blood.” He instructed. “It’ll help wash it away. With any luck, even their relief won’t find them until daybreak.”
It certainly was one of the strangest requests I’d ever had.
When we drove on, apart from the watered down blood on the road, we’d left no sign of any roadblock.
“What do you do for a living?” Balfour asked.
I reloaded my pistol, the windows open for a while to rid the car or the smell of cordite. “Philosophy student.” I said. My mind seemed to be trying to relive the encounter, play the whole thing as a movie, but some part of my psyche wasn’t allowing it. I’d blanked it out, leaving me quiet and calm. Almost cold.
“Student, huh?”
“Aye,”
“Well, you didn’t freeze, that’s for sure.” He nudged my arm. “You did well.”
“Thanks,” I didn’t even glance at him.
We drove on into the night, again the only clue to our destination were the road signs; Rigside, Douglas, Muirkirk. I suddenly knew I was either in or approaching Ayrshire. After Lugar, we skirted the larger town of Cumnock, then hit the narrow country roads again.
I smelled the ocean before I saw it, a vast expanse of water illuminated by the very last vestiges of light over the islands on the distant horizon.
Dunure was the tiniest tiny fishing village I’d ever seen, having no more than a dozen houses down by the small harbor, but the light from the glistening water was enough to illuminate the thin masts of the boats in the harbor, it’s walls dark against the waves beyond.
“Eleven o’clock.” Balfour announced, braking near the rough breakwater that ran near the harbor entrance. He switched the engine off and extinguished the headlights. He opened his door, and bade me do the same. “It lets us hear better,”
But at close to midnight, the only sounds were the lapping of waves against the harbor walls and rocks.
I got out, stretched my legs and back. I slipped the revolver into my jacket pocket. Then I heard the car approach. “Someone’s coming,” I leaned back into the car.
“Probably Ivanhoe,” Balfour replied. I readied my pistol as a precaution. The car followed our route, parking next to us. I turned away, maintaining some semblance of my night vision, until they too doused their lights. I recognized Ivanhoe immediately, and his driver had been the silent companion who had first accosted me in the Student Union toilet, many months ago.
“What happened back there?” Ivanhoe asked, rounding our car, talking to Balfour.
“Roadblock. We took care of it.” He gave a laugh. “Well, he did. He tackled the third man in the car, before he could get his trousers on.”
I could hardly think about it.
Ivanhoe approached me, slapped my back. All I could think of was the German’s features, distorted beyond belief, two heavy 45 caliber shells having cut into his face. I shudder to think what the back of his head looked like.
To that thought I felt my stomach heave. Suddenly the contents of my stomach were rising like a manic volcano.
I rushed to the edge of the breakwater, and retched onto the rocks. Stinging bile from a meal far too distant in my memory, the taste of whisky, the beers shared with Craig.
I felt a hand patting my back.
“The first is always the worst,” Ivanhoe said unconvincingly.
I managed to stand, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. “It wasn’t the first man I killed.” The admission came to my lips so coldly, I hardly recognized the man who spoke them.
A Plethora of Nurses
“You killed Charlie Peacock?”
“Aye.” I could still remember the sound and feel as his neck snapped under my twisting.
“I didn’t know.”
I wanted to shout, ‘well you know now!’, but there seemed no point.
“The submarine’s surfaced.” The shout took all our attention. I strained my eyes, and there sure enough, far off shore, sat a black shape like a gravestone, sitting low in the water.
“Right,” Ivanhoe snapped into action. “Balfour, you and Biggles here go inshore to the gate, protect us from the road. Get out some of that Jerry hardware you guys stole.”
Seconds later, I was walking back to the side of the road, leaning against the wall. I had a captured German rifle, a Webley pistol, and two stick grenades stuck inside my jacket. If we got captured, I was headed straight for the firing range.
Despite my remit to watch the road coming down the hill towards the harbor, I could not help looking back out to sea. Knowing there was a submarine out there really lifted my spirits; a reminder that our men hadn’t completely deserted us, that they were still fighting.
A noise caught my attention, and I cocked my head to listen. “A truck!” I shouted over to Balfour on the other side of the wide entrance. I shook my head. There hadn’t been enough time to get men ashore, never mind get our nuclear experts onto the sub.
I suddenly knew we’d have to take it on, just the two of us.
When I saw the headlights of the truck start down the hill, there was no doubt they were coming for us, they couldn’t be going anywhere else.
I picked up the rifle, steadied it on the rough stone wall and fired, aiming just behind the lights. The rifles retort broke the silence in the bay. I cocked the rifle, and fired again, in all putting five shots into the area before it clicked empty. I threw it to one side and pulled a grenade from my pocket.
The truck was half-way down the hill, and I heard the rat-at-at of Balfour’s Schmeisser, saw the muzzle flash light the area in fleeting grey two-dimensional tones.
Undaunted, the truck turned the corner at the bottom of the hill, a
nd headed straight for us. I pulled the tab on the grenade, and threw it into the truck’s path. Despite the risk of shrapnel coming back at me, I couldn’t look away. My grenade exploded under one axle, sending the truck three feet into the air, then collapsing with an erratic crash and grating of metal. My second grenade I threw down the truck’s side. I could hear commands being shouted.
I don’t know why, but I crossed myself, and hunkered down, ready to fire.
Two Germans showed face from behind the truck, only to be blown to pieces with my grenade. Damn, I wished I’d had more. A second explosion tore the truck’s side off, and more Germans fell.
Ping!
I ducked as a bullet ricocheted from the stone near my head. I saw the flash, took aim, and fired two shots into the area. It was too loud to hear any result.
Then the petrol tank exploded, sending burning liquid all around, and illuminating every survivor in livid yellow. I just fired, shot after shot into the melee of frenzied bodies until my pistol was empty.
Ducking down behind the wall, I searched in my pockets for more ammunition. “Re-loading!” I roared to Balfour.
I had five bullets left.
Rolling past the wall, into the open ground, I aimed at the inferno, only to see no standing targets. Then a bullet dinged off the ground in front of me. I felt it sting high on my head, up past my right temple. Ignoring the pain, I’d seen the muzzle flash. I fired two shots at it, and rolled back. I clambered up the wall, looking over the top.
Ding!
Another close one. This latest Jerry was way behind the truck, but thankfully he was firing low. I shot another two at his position, and ducked back behind the wall as a shot zinged over my head. He’d adjusted too much.
“Where is he?” Balfour shouted.
“Behind the truck!” I roared. “My side, maybe ten yards out!”
Another shot hit the wall.
I heard fire six rapid shots, then apart from the flaming conflagration in front, the night fell silent. I gave it a minute, but we heard no more shots or men approaching. “I’m coming over!”