Behind Mt. Baldy (51 page)
“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!’
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.
