Attack Alarm (24 page)

“Orl right, orl right,” he grumbled. “Don’t fuss. I’ve got the bloody thing open.”

I could feel his body against mine. It was rigid as he struggled to cut through the ropes. Then suddenly it relaxed and he brought his feet up. His right arm moved stealthily—but freely.

“Yes, but what do we do when we’ve cut ourselves free?” I whispered. I felt helpless and rather a fool. The initiative should have been mine. I had got the lad into this scrape and felt it was up to me to get him out of it. Yet the leadership had passed from me.

His arm moved and his hand took hold of my arm, feeling for the rope. “You’ll see,” he whispered as he sawed at my bonds. A strand gave and then the knife slipped and cut into my hand. But my arms were free. A second later my feet were free too.

He stretched away from me a moment and then put his mouth close to my ear. “I can feel the end of the tarpaulin,” he said. “You gotta take a chance. Move
slowly to the other side of the truck as though you was still bound, and start ’ollering like you suffered from clausterphoby—ain’t it? I want ’is attention on you, see? Leave the rest to me.”

“O.K.,” I said.

He wriggled back against his side of the lorry. He took my jack-knife with him. His foot tapped my leg. I slid along the floor as far as I could without disturbing the tarpaulin. As soon as I felt it pressing against my back, I put my arms against my side and braced my legs together, so that I moved forward exactly as though I were still bound. At the same time I began to yell, “Let me out! Let me out! I can’t stand it. Everything is black.”

I heard the guard’s feet move towards me. I tensed, nerving myself for the blow. And at the same time I kept yelling to be let out. His boot caught me in the ribs, rolling me on to the floor and knocking the breath out of me. But I began to scream.

“Shut up, you bastard, or I’ll club you with my rifle.”

I put my arm up to protect my head and continued to scream. I heard the sling swivels of his rifle rattle. I did not hear him raise it but I sensed it.

The blow never fell, however. There was a faint choking sound, and then the rifle clattered on the floor of the lorry. A second later his body thudded on the boards. I struggled clear of the tarpaulin to see Micky retrieve my jack-knife from the man’s throat. I felt slightly sick. Blood was bubbling up in great gouts where the knife had been. Against the red of his neck his face looked horribly pallid in the moonlight.

The driver of the lorry suddenly braked. I glanced at the glass window at the back of the cabin. It had been slid back and the barrel of a revolver suddenly appeared. It was pointing at Micky. “Duck!” I yelled.

He dropped in the instant, and as he dropped, the revolver cracked and the bullet sang through the air in the direction in which he had been standing. I dived for the body. Subconsciously, I suppose, I had noticed the man’s revolver when I first saw him lying on the boards, though the only thing I had consciously recorded was his throat. I slipped it from its holster and dived back to the shelter of the cabin, where Micky had already taken cover. The revolver turned, nosing blindly in our direction. It was the civilian, Perret who had fired. But now he could not see us without leaning right across the driver. The lorry was drawing up. There was only one thing to do, and I did it.

I fired through the back of the cabin at the point where I thought his head would be. I hadn’t fired a service revolver since my schooldays when I was at Bisley. My arm must have been too slack, for the kick was much greater than I had expected. This, coupled with the fact that the lorry swerved badly, caused me to lose my balance, and I fell headlong into the middle of the tarpaulin. For a moment I thought I had hit the driver by mistake. But by the time I had picked myself up he had got the lorry back on to the road again.

The brakes were no longer being applied. At the same time he was not accelerating. It was clear that he was undecided what to do. I peered cautiously through the little window of the cabin. Perret was huddled in a heap over the gears. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or not, but he had a nasty wound across the side of his head.

I poked my gun through the window. “Draw up,” I ordered the driver.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. He saw the gun and braked.

“Get that rifle,” I told Micky. “I’ll cover him from
here. As soon as the lorry stops, jump out and cover him from the roadway.”

He nodded. “Orl right,” he said, and picked up the rifle. An instant later the lorry jerked to a stop. He was over the side before the wheels had stopped moving. “Put your hands up,” I told the driver. “Now get down.” There was no fight in him. He climbed down into the roadway, his hands above his head. He was a big, thick-set man and his bewilderment and fear were almost comical. I suppose he thought he was going to die. I got down from the back of the lorry and took his revolver from its holster. “Turn round,” I ordered. As soon as he had done so I passed the revolver to Micky, barrel foremost. “Do you know how to knock a man out without killing him?” I asked in a whisper.

“You just watch me,” he said.

He spat on his right hand and a second later he hit the man. The thud of it seemed to go right through me. Yet I saw him crumple up on the ground with a complete sense of detachment.

We pulled him to the side of the road and bound him with the rope that had been used for us. I stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and put a length of rope round his head to keep the gag in. Then we got the other two bodies out of the lorry. Both of them were dead—the bullet I had fired at Perret had cracked the man’s skull. We dragged them into the wood that bordered the road and hid them in some rhododendron bushes.

Then we went back to the lorry and drove on. I had driven fast on my way out to Cold Harbour, but on the return journey I pushed the Bedford to the limit of its speed. We had all too little time to spare. As we swept by the Roebuck and down the long hill with the bend on which we were to have been murdered, I saw that it was past three. And though I drove as
fast as I dared, we did not run into Thorby village until twenty past.

“I’m going into the camp by the way I came out,” I told Micky. “Are you still deserting or are you coming in with me?”

“I weren’t deserting,” he shouted angrily. “I were just transferring myself. You know that.”

“Well, are you still going to transfer yourself, or are you staying with me?”

“I never deserted a pal yet.”

“You mean, you’re returning to camp with me?”

“I suppose so. But why d’you have to make it more difficult for us by going back the same way? Any one would think it was a bloody obstacle race. Why not drive up to the main gate and ask to see old man Winton?”

“Because time is precious,” I said. And as I spoke we passed the turning that led to the main gates of the aerodrome. “Besides,” I added, slowing down, “Winton probably wouldn’t believe me. We’ve got to get hold of those lorries before we tackle Winton.” I stopped the lorry. “Come on, this is where we came out.”

We were half-way down the hill, and as soon as we had climbed out I released the brake and let the lorry run. “That’ll distract their attention,” I said, and led the way through the barbed-wire fence and into the wood that lay directly below our gun site.

T
HE CRASH
of the lorry as it hit the bend seemed surprisingly loud. Automatically we halted, listening. The trees whispered amongst themselves, stirred by a faint breeze. There was no other sound. We crossed the trench where we had stumbled into each other only just over three hours ago. A ghostly pallor filtered through into the wood so that everywhere was shadow. We went stealthily, flitting from tree to tree. Reason told me that it was all right. A sentry would not leave the path without cause and, if he were anywhere near, his attention would be drawn towards the lorry. But reason could not still the flutter of my nerves. So much was at stake. We had to get back to the site without being caught. To be frustrated at the last moment by the obtuseness of a Guards’ corporal would be bitter in the extreme. And I knew that the wood was the easiest part. Beyond was the slope up to the barbed wire. It was bare of all cover and would be lit by the moon. Finally there was the barbed wire itself.

We reached the path, a broad white swathe in the moonlight, and crossed it without mishap. At last the trees thinned and their leafy boughs stood out against the white of the hillside. We pushed through the low-hanging fringe of the trees and paused, gazing up at that pale grassy slope. There was the dannet wire, a dark streak against the grass, and along it a figure moved slowly. At every step the man’s bayonet caught the moon and glinted white.

“Cor!” said Micky. “This ain’t ’alf going to be a job.”

I nodded. “I’m afraid the odds are against us,” I said. “We’d better split up.”

“O.K., mate. But what do I do if I get through and you don’t?”

“Go to Gun Ops. and get in touch with any one in authority. Tell them what you’ve heard and seen. And if a sentry challenges you, don’t try and get away. Good luck!” I said. “If we both get through we’ll meet in the hut.”

“See you in the ’ut, then.”

“I hope so,” I replied. And we parted company, advancing into the open and moving obliquely up the slope. The sentry was going away from us along the wire. He was the only one visible. There might be another where the wire ran into some trees to the south of our hut, but I had to risk that. Crouching low, I moved quickly up the slope, my eyes on the sentry. Once he stopped and stood for a moment gazing down into the valley. I flattened myself into the grass. The moon seemed unnaturally bright. I felt he must see me. But at length he resumed his pacing northwards along the wire.

I was now less than a hundred yards from the wire. I could just see the barbs on it. I began to worm my way forward on my stomach. My whole instinct was to make a wild dash for it. Time was so precious. But I knew that I should lose far more if I were caught, so I continued to crawl forward, laboriously slow as it seemed. I was lost among a forest of grass tussocks. I could no longer see the sentry without craning my head up and I could see no sign of Micky.

At last I was in view of the whole length of the wire from the trees on my left to a dip away to the north. The sentry was returning along his beat. I lay low, burying my face in the grass, hoping that my head would pass for a shadow. The jingle of his equipment came near and nearer, until I felt he must stumble
right over me. I longed to look up and see whether he was looking at me. Suddenly I knew he was past me. The rattle of his bayonet against the rifle boss gradually receded. Then it stopped abruptly.

I couldn’t resist the temptation. Cautiously I raised my head. He was standing stock-still about thirty yards along the wire to my left. The moon was behind him so that he was a dark silhouette, reminiscent of countless memorial statues to men who had died in the war to end war. It seemed an age that he stood there motionless, gazing down the slope in front of him. Somewhere on that slope Micky must be lying, waiting, as I was lying, waiting.

God knows how long he stood there. I didn’t dare make the slight movement necessary to look at my wrist-watch. The smell of the dried grass reminded me of the lazy peace of summer under an oak tree or the still quiet of the Sussex downs. The familiar scent brought an ache of longing to my heart for the days that were gone. At last he moved on, but only to stop a few yards farther on to gaze again down the moonlit slope. My heart began to thud against my ribs. Surely he must have seen Micky. His bayonet caught the moon and the steel of it shone white.

I thought he never would move on. Time was passing. And time was precious. Already I thought I could sense a slight lightening of the sky that was not due to the moon. Dawn would soon be here.

But at last he turned and resumed his measured pacing along the wire. He did not pause again, and finally disappeared into the little stretch of wood through which the wire ran. This wood was not more than fifty yards away to my left. Had time been less pressing, I should have waited until he came back along his beat and was walking away from me to the north. That would have been the safest thing to do. I could then have made certain that his back was
towards me. But my watch showed the time to be already three twenty-five. If I waited until he returned it might easily be another quarter of an hour before I could cross the wire. I dared not wait that long. I had to chance it.

I raised my head up out of the grass. There was no sign of any other sentry patrolling the wire. I rose to my feet and, crouched low, made for the wire.

There was no retreat now. I reached the wire and parted the near side of a coil with my gloved hands. I did not even glance in the direction of the wood. If he were standing there watching me, there was nothing I could do about it. My whole attention was concentrated on getting through that wire in the quickest possible time. Had the slope been down instead of up, I am certain I should have risked jumping it. As it was I had to follow the more laborious procedure of climbing through it. And the angle of the slope made it more difficult.

I slipped into the gap I had made in the near side of the coil and then, pressing the farther side apart, swung my right leg high over the wire into the gap.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

The challenge rang out clear and startling in the stillness. I froze, the barbs of the wire cutting into the flesh between my legs. Instinctively I looked in the direction of the wood. But before my eyes had seen that there was no one there, I had realised that the challenge had come from the opposite direction. As I turned my head I heard the sound of a man running. He was coming along the wire, up out of the dip, as fast as his equipment would allow him. His rifle, its bayonet gleaming, was held at the ready.

For an instant panic seized me. I wanted to run. But I was still astride the crossed coils of the wire. Before I could get clear he would have ample time to pick me off. I waited. There was nothing else I could
do. The sweat broke out on my forehead with the sense of frustration that overwhelmed me. There was the hut and the gun pit. They were not more than fifty yards away and so plain in the moonlight that I could almost believe myself there. Just fifty yards between success and failure. It was heart-breaking. But perhaps Micky would get through.