The Leader And The Damned

by Colin Forbes

  'I have to pilot this flying coffin,' was his favourite phrase. 'You keep both bloody feet safely on terra firma, Corporal,' he had told the mechanic before takeoff. 'One screw loose, up here...' He had tapped his head. '... Or inside here..' He had slapped his hand against the fuselage... 'And I'm a goner.'

  Oh, Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith was the cherry on the cake in his world. People ran when they saw him coming — in the opposite direction.

  'Be there in sixty min. Agreed, Conway?' he asked as he banked the machine a sliver to maintain course.

  'Sixty minutes, sir, and we land in The Cauldron...'

  'Heljec, or whatever your bloody name is, here we come!' Murray-Smith shouted. 'We've got the guns, you've got the man, so no frigging about...`

  Oh, Christ, thought Conway, he's enjoying himself.

  Hartmann and Paco had walked slowly along the full length of the makeshift airstrip, followed by a rebellious Heljec while they examined every inch of the ground. The German had imposed his personality on the Partisan leader, stopping every now and again to insist on the removal of a rock projecting a few centimetres above the surface. Paco acted as interpreter. Afterwards the defective patch had to be filled in with grit and hard-packed soil from a large wicker basket two Partisans carried.

  'No wonder they never get anywhere in this benighted country,' Hartmann grumbled. 'Sloppy. I'm sorry, I'm talking about your home...`

  'I'm half-English,' she reminded him. 'And I don't think I'm going to want to come back here. Ever. I can't get out of my mind what the Amazon Brigade did.'

  'Go and cheer up Lindsay...'

  'When we've finished this job. The plane should be here soon. It's nearly eleven o'clock.'

  Lindsay, aware that Hartmann was doing the job he should have attended to, sat on a rock feeling exhausted. The glandular fever was sapping him again. He cursed the timing. Dr Macek appeared from

  behind a boulder and felt his forehead.

  'We are not feeling in love with the world?' he enquired.

  'Not too bad. I should be over there, with Hartmann and Paco.'

  'No temperature. A period of convalescence is needed. It is good that the plane is coming after so many months...'

  'I want to thank you for all you have done...'

  'But it is my profession. Thank me by resting when you arrive at your destination. Maybe we shall meet again one day.'

  'Somehow I don't think so...'

  Macek nodded, a smile on his gentle face, and walked away. The whole plateau was deserted in the brilliant morning light apart from the group checking and putting finishing touches to the airstrip. Heljec had cleared the plateau of men and weapons, concentrating them on the rim at the head of ravines - inside the ravines - leading up to the plateau. He was convinced he had sealed off all approaches to his temporary stronghold.

  Lindsay made the effort, forced himself up off the rock and trod step by dragging step towards the airstrip. He used the stick Milic had fashioned for him. Poor Milic, killed in the German mortar attack a hundred years ago. Milic who was never mentioned, whose existence most of the Partisans had forgotten. 'How's it going, Hartmann?' he called out. 'Plane's due soon now, isn't it?'

  'The airstrip is level, my friend,' the German replied. 'As level as it ever will be. And yes, the Dakota should arrive any moment if it's on time.'

  'If it ever finds us, you mean.'

  'Surely you have faith in the RAF?' Hartmann spoke jocularly, realizing what the walk was costing Lindsay. He deliberately made no attempt to help the Englishman: Lindsay wouldn't welcome being treated as a cripple. 'He will come in from the south, so that is the direction we should watch...'

  'I'm as nervous as a girl about to have her first baby,' Paco said. 'Isn't it ridiculous?'

  'We're all a bit on edge,' Lindsay reassured her as he halted and lifted a hand to scan the sky.

  Was it old instincts returning? A throwback to the days when, behind the controls of a Spitfire over the glorious green fields of Kent, he had learned to look everywhere. Constantly ….'

  He looked to the south, as Hartmann had suggested, then continued searching the sky slowly in a three-sixty degree radius. Not a cloud anywhere. Incredible after yesterday's snow. The jagged peaks of mountains silhouetted against the blue. Nothing to the east. East-north-east. Nothing. He turned slowly, circumscribing the points of the compass. He had always been noted for his exceptional far-sighted vision. Soon he would be facing due north. He turned through a few more degrees. Oh, my God! No!

  'All aboard for the Clipper! See it coming over that ridge - there, to the south...'

  It was Reader joining them with his transceiver carried inside his back-pack. He had been to the high point of the plateau, attempting a last-minute contact. The elevation had given him the first sighting of the approaching Dakota.

  'Look to the north, you stupid sods!' shouted Lindsay. 'The Germans are coming - a whole armada of troop transports …'

  Aboard the Dakota Conway was hammering his clenched fist on his lap with excitement. He smashed a hole in the map.

  'There's the plateau! There's the marker - the Communist star, five-pointed, laid out with rocks. God, there's not a helluva lot of margin for error...'

  'Calm down, man,' Murray-Smith reprimanded. 'I can land this on a bee's bum...'

  'And that's about what it is!'

  Conway snatched up a pair of field-glasses and focused on the tiny figures staring up towards the Dakota. One of them waved a stick with one hand, elevated the other in the thumbs-up sign. Then he began gesturing madly with the stick.

  'I think that's Lindsay down there, the one with the stick. He's waving the thing about like a lunatic. Understandable, I suppose...'

  'Considering the whole bloody Luftwaffe is coming in from the north, it is understandable,' said Murray-Smith in a tone of biting sarcasm. 'We're much closer, we might just make it.

  'God Almighty...'

  For the first time Conway saw what Murray-Smith had spotted seconds earlier. A fleet of dark blips growing larger as he watched them. Jerry troop transports. At a fairish height. Well spread out and stepped in layers, no one aircraft above another.

  'A parachute drop is my bet,' said Murray-Smith. 'A major operation. Down we go. Let's just hope they've dug all the rocks out of that airstrip. We'll know soon enough, won't we?'

  Jaeger, with Schmidt alongside, equipped with their chutes ready for the drop, sat in the command plane. The flight from Zagreb had been uneventful, the first off-key occurrence being when Colonel Stoerner, the paratroop commander, had been urgently summoned to go and see the pilot.

  'We must be bloody near the target,' said Schmidt. 'And I'm sweating...'

  'Who isn't?'

  The paratroopers sat in two rows, facing each other along the fun length of the aircraft. The drop controller stood by the door now. Jaeger glanced along the rows of faces frozen in rigidity, beads of perspiration on their foreheads. No one was speaking. Jaeger could smell the tension, the raw fear.

  The men stared straight ahead. Unnaturally still. The only sound the steady purr of the plane's motors, the creak of a harness. It never got any easier with each drop. With every operation there was a ten per cent ratio of nervous breakdowns. Among those who did survive.

  'Funny,' Schmidt whispered, 'our last time was Maleme airfield in Crete. I can't even recall which year that was. I can't think...'

  Jaeger looked up as Stoerner came back from the pilot's cabin and grasped his arm. A bullet-headed veteran, he looked odd; he had hardly any eye-lashes. He tugged at Jaeger's arm.

  'A word with you. Up front....'

  Which meant a crisis had arisen before the operation had even started. Jaeger puzzled over possibilities as he followed the paratrooper down the centre of the aircraft. An hour earlier a small plane had flown towards the target, keeping well clear of the plateau. The pilot had reported back that the Partisans were still in position. So ….

  He entered the cabin, crouching to e
ase his parachute through the narrow opening. Stoerner, able - but impetuous - in Jaeger's opinion, closed the door. He pointed ahead with a stubby finger. Jaeger could see the Dakota clearly.

  'We're just in time,' Stoerner said throatily. 'Watch that English pilot run for it...'

  'He isn't going to,' Jaeger replied. 'He's landing - he's got guts...'

  'He's a maniac!' Stoerner stared ahead. 'He hasn't the time...'

  'Don't count on it. I'm going back. Send me out of the aircraft first. Then Schmidt and the rest.'

  'You want to be brave? Be brave...'

  Stoerner made a gesture as much as to say you wish to commit suicide it's OK by me. The gesture was wasted. Jaeger had left the cabin. This time he did not return to his seat. He waved to Schmidt to join him and stood by the drop controller.

  The red light was on. Jaeger attached his snap catch to the overhead wire as the door was opened. A blast of chilly air dispersed the sweat-laden atmosphere inside the fuselage within seconds. Schmidt attached his own snap catch.

  'Trouble?' he asked, his mouth close to Jaeger's ear.

  'The British are taking Lindsay out. At this very moment a Dakota is landing on top of the plateau. It will all hinge on minutes. When we hit the ground shoot up the Dakota - stop it taking off. That's the first priority.'

  As he spoke Jaeger double-checked his machine- pistol. Satisfied that it was in working order, he took

  off the magazine and thrust the weapon, butt first, into the breast of his jacket.

  There was a stirring of systematic activity inside the aircraft as men made their way to join the queue.

  The usual mix of relief and apprehension on their faces, Jaeger noted. Relief that the waiting period was over. Apprehension as to what was going to greet them on the plateau - if their 'chutes opened. Stoerner had earlier told Jaeger that over half of them had only made one practice drop. Germany was running out of time - and trained men. Jaeger waited for the green light.

  'A bee's bum it is,' Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith said cheerfully as the plateau rushed up to meet them.

  'God! They were told the minimum length,' Conway gasped.

  The landing wheels touched down, bumped, the wingtips hardly wobbled. Murray-Smith slowed the machine at the extreme limits of safety. He pouched his lower lip, a sign of intense concentration as the Dakota swept on towards the northern rim where the plateau fell into eternity.

  He had almost stopped when he performed a manoeuvre that almost gave Conway a nervous breakdown. He circled the machine through one hundred and eighty degrees, ending up on the airstrip - facing south, ready for immediate take-off. Against all regulations he did not switch off the engines.

  'Open the cargo door,' he snapped at Conway. 'We've got to get this gang of Wogs moving.'

  He opened the cabin door and jumped to the ground, an absurdly small figure among the Partisans crowding towards him. He spotted the man limping forward with a stick, the stained and worn RAF jacket, the smashing blonde by his side.

  'Lindsay?'

  'Yes. I...'

  'Which wallah is in charge of this show?'

  'Heljec here. Paco can interpret for you...'

  'No time for flaming interpreters. They'll understand me. Just watch...'

  They won't let me board the plane till they have the guns and ammo...'

  'Won't they, by God! We'll see about that...'

  He ran to the cargo door where Conway had already lowered several wooden boxes with rope handles into the hands of the waiting Partisans. Flicking open the catches on one box, he threw back the lid, gathered up a random collection of sten guns and thrust them into Heljec's arms. Grabbing hold of Lindsay with one hand he gestured into the aircraft with a stabbing thumb, talking non-stop to Heljec.

  'You've got your bloody guns! I've risked my life to bring you this frigging lot! Lindsay goes aboard now! In case you haven't noticed, you've got visitors — not the sort I'd ask to my mess...'

  He was miming madly. Pointing to the aircraft. Making more stabbing gestures towards the Luftwaffe armada which was almost on top of the plateau, shouting at Heljec as though he were dressing down some useless mechanic.

  It was comic, if the situation hadn't been so desperate. The small man standing up to the six foot two Heljec. And he had been right, he needed no interpreter. Heljec stared at him in amazement, then began distributing the sten guns and magazines.

  'Well, get aboard, for Christ's sake!' Murray-Smith told Lindsay. 'Conway, give him a hand - he's got a

  gammy leg. Expect me to do every flaming thing? As usual...'

  The exchange took place very rapidly. The cargo hold was emptied. Lindsay was hauled aboard, Conway helping from above, Hartmann from below. Next the German hoisted Paco aboard and Reader climbed inside by himself.

  'What about Hartmann?' Paco snapped.

  She reached down and helped him inside. Conway closed the door as Murray-Smith appeared from the direction of the cabin. His manner was abrupt and urgent.

  'Come on through here! We've got seats. This isn't one of those Yank Liberators where you roll about like peas out of a pod. Sit down in the bloody seats! Strap yourselves in with the bloody belts! This is going to be a rough take-off - a very rough take-off. Turbulence won't be the word for it...'

  'And turbulence isn't the word for you, mate,' Reader said as he sagged into a seat.

  He was talking into a void. Murray-Smith was already back in his cabin, seated behind the controls. He peered out at the umbrella-like objects blossoming above in increasing numbers.

  'Here they come, Conway. Whole flaming army of them. Time we used our return ticket...'

  The Dakota seemed to commence take-off with incredible slowness as Paco watched from her window seat. They were crawling when she saw the first German land, roll over, detach himself from his harness and crouch, aiming his machine-pistol.

  'Oh, my God, Lindsay...!'

  She clearly recognized Jaeger. He was aiming the muzzle of his weapon at the pilot's cabin. More paratroopers landed. Heljec, armed with one of the new stens, rose up from behind a rock and fired half a magazine in one lethal burst.

  Jaeger was pushed forward by the shock of the bullets, his face distorted with agony. What does a man think in his last moments? Dear Magda, We've had a marvellous life... He was dead before his body hit the ground. Paco felt physically sick. A vivid image came into her mind. The Four Seasons Hotel in Munich. Dining with Jaeger, so smart in his uniform, so courteous, so... Oh, hell!

  The aircraft picked up speed as Murray-Smith, looking neither to right nor left, headed for take-off. He

  could hear above the engines the rattle of machine-pistol fire, the spatter of bullets entering the fuselage, the crack! of grenades detonating. He ignored it all.

  Lindsay saw the so familiar figure of gentle Dr Macek rise up behind a rock, holding something as though about to hurl it. A burst of rapid fire threw him backwards out of sight. Lindsay had no doubt Macek had just died.

  'They just got Macek: he said to Paco who was sitting beside him. 'Poor sod...'

  'Christ, what is it all about?'

  'I've been wondering that ever since I first flew to Berchtesgaden,' Lindsay replied.

  After months of pain, endless trudging and ever- present fear in the winter of the Balkans, their first sight of North Africa was unforgettable. Peering from the windows of the Dakota, the warm ochre of the flat Libyan desert spread out to the horizon.

  Still over the intense blue of the Med, they saw the white ribbon of surf separating sea from shore. The plane began its descent. Ten minutes later Murray-Smith touched down at Benina. The door was opened by Conway and glorious heat flooded inside the machine.

  'Half an hour's wait here while we refuel,' Conway told them. 'You have to disembark so you can stretch your legs but don't wander out of sight of the plane. Dr Macleod is waiting for anyone who requires medical attention...'

  'I'd like to thank the pilot,' said Lindsay. 'Wouldn't advise that
, Wing Commander, if I may say so. He's a bit of a character, is Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith. Never can tell how he's going to react. In any case, a fresh pilot is taking you on to your final destination.'

  'Which is?'

  'Haven't a clue. Sorry, sir...'

  They strolled about in the glowing heat with an odd sense of disorientation. Lindsay decided it was caused by the feeling of vast space after the claustrophobic atmosphere of Bosnia. He also decided it was time to extract information from Reader. Paco and Hartmann followed him.

  'I believe I out-rank you, Major Reader,' Lindsay began. 'I wouldn't normally give a tinker's cuss on that score but now I need to know. What is our , destination? Cairo? Tunis?'

  'Lydda, Palestine...'

  'That's crazy...' Lindsay's tone expressed sheer disbelief.

  'Could we have a little chat on our own? Maybe stroll over to the airfield building in case you'd like to take the weight off your feet ….'

  Lindsay made his apologies to Paco and Hartmann and headed away from the building. He was soaking up the heat like a sponge after the chilling cold of Yugoslavia. When they were out of hearing he

  stopped and faced Reader,

  'How much do you know? I want all of it. Something smells rotten. We're flying in the wrong direction - my destination is London.'

  'The planes for London fly from Cairo West!. 'Crazier still! Why fly me to Lydda first?'

  'Security I understand. And someone is waiting for you at Lydda, a chap flown out specially from London. So you are enjoying five-star treatment.' 'What chap?'

  'A Peter Standish...' Reader hesitated.

  meet him by the end of the day so I may as well tell you. Standish is a cover name. I'm talking about Tim Whelby.'

  'I see.'

  Lindsay started his dot-and-carry tread across the hard rock of the desert. You couldn't see Benghazi at all - it was over the far side of a low ridge, on the edge of the sea. Nothing but desert and heat dazzle and one building and one Dakota and a fuel truck alongside. He heard Reader following him, then quicken his pace to catch up.