Behind Mt. Baldy (53 page)
Abruptly he caught up. Hauptman
Ritnik had collapsed.
“Leave me! Leave me! Go on. You
must save Princess Mareena,” the Hauptman gasped.
Peter hauled him to his feet.
“Help me Steve. Roger, you take this rifle and keep on going. It’s on safe.”
Roger paused to take the AK47.
The whole world seemed to sway and whirl. It occurred to him he was going to
faint. To stop it he leaned on a tree and steadied his breathing. For a few
moments he stood there sucking in air. Then he resumed a slow plod up the
slope.
A hundred metres ahead Graham,
the partisan, Inspector Sharpe, Prince Peter and DS Crowe rounded the shoulder
of the mountain and vanished from sight. Roger gritted his teeth and kept on
walking, the two rifles being carried at the ‘trail’. Sweat ran into his eyes.
Thirst developed anew. He stopped to allow his heart to slow down. The rifles
were put down and he peeled off his field jacket. A cool breeze made him
shiver.
A glance behind
showed Peter and Stephen half-carrying, half-dragging a stumbling Hauptman
Ritnik between them.
Roger took several deep breaths, picked up the rifles and continued on. The
road was just a badly eroded track suitable only for four wheel drive vehicles.
It curved to the right up a steep slope into a patch of rainforest on a small
knoll, then left and up again.
Roger again stopped to allow his
hammering heart to slow down. He bent over thinking he was going to be sick but
his stomach was too empty. While his breathing eased he rubbed sore muscles.
Then he put his head down and continued his dogged plod up the slope.
Bugger Mt Baldy!
And he was on top.
The track levelled out to a
clearing of short grass on the very summit. The wind buffeted at him. He tottered
forward to where the others lay or sat and flopped down. After a minute he
raised his head to look.
It was a most impressive view.
Roger looked left, back up the
valley towards the pine forest,
then
slowly turned.
Rugged mountains ran off northwards. He could see for a hundred kilometres in
that direction, beyond Mareeba to the dimly outlined mountains behind Mossman.
He picked out Black Mountain up near Port Douglas, the Lamb Range and Lake
Tinaroo. The distant waters of the lake twinkled in the sunlight. The Danbulla
State Forest lay beyond them, the jungle appearing black with the distance. ‘It
seems like weeks, not days, since we started this adventure there,’ he thought.
The eastern edge of the Tablelands
showed clearly. Roger identified Walshs Pyramid and Mt Bellenden Ker. Mt Bartle
Frere, highest mountain in Queensland, stood up on the far side of the
Tablelands like a dark blue cardboard cut-out. Further right Roger could see
out over the rolling farm land of the East Barron area down towards Millaa
Millaa.
Then he picked out their route
past Wongabel and across the base of the Herberton Range. The line of the old
railway was just visible and led his gaze to the Pass,
then
back over the jungle covered peaks they had been struggling over for two days.
It was the grandest panoramic vista he had ever seen. ‘What a fantastic view!’
he thought.
And there, at the foot of the
mountain below him, was their objective
:-
the Rifle
Range. It was a long clearing in the open forest with several huts beside it. A
belt of timber separated it from the town of Atherton.
Only a
couple of kilometres to go.
Thank God!
Graham, crouched behind a small
tree, called to him: “Well done Roger. You’ve made it up Mt Baldy. Here, have a
drink.”
Roger took the water bottle and
had a big drink. As he finished Peter and Stephen arrived, still supporting an
ashen-faced Hauptman Ritnik. Roger took the water bottle to him. The Hauptman
was eased to the grass.
Peter straightened up and looked
around, then whistled. “Whew! What a view. I can see why Captain Conkey wanted
us to climb up here.”
“Bugger Captain Conkey! He’s a
sadist,” Stephen grumbled, wiping condensation from his glasses.
“Who is Captain Conkey?” Hauptman
Ritnik asked.
“The OC of our
army cadet unit.
We were going to have to come up here anyway as one of our clues,” Peter
answered.
“Clues?”
Peter explained their 100km
expedition.
Graham stood up. “We’d better
push on. That took us nearly forty minutes. It is ten past eleven.”
“Clue!”
Peter cried. “You start. We will
give Hauptman Ritnik a rest and look for our clue. Come on Steve.”
“Bugger the clue! You look,”
Stephen said, flopping down on the grass.
“Roger?”
“Yeah.
OK.” Roger looked around. Over
to his right were a few bushes and a small tree. The crown of the bare hilltop
was ringed by gnarled and wind-bent trees.
Graham walked over and took the
Royal Guard rifle. “You lot follow us. Go down this foot track along the ridge
and we will meet you at the bottom. We will do a recce.
If we
aren’t there when you get to the bottom stop and wait.
Keep away from
the Rifle Range.”
He set off, followed by the
partisan sergeant, Inspector Sharpe, Prince Peter and DS Crowe. Roger got to
his feet and moved slowly around looking behind rocks and in easy places. Peter
walked across to the small tree and cried out: “Here it is!”
He bent and removed a rock and
picked up a plastic bag with the familiar piece of yellow cardboard in it.
“What does it say?” Roger called.
Peter turned it so he could read:
BUTTS SHED
ATHERTON RIFLE RANGE
“Who is Butts?” Roger asked.
“Roger!
Stop
Butts; the earth mound at the end of the rifle range that stops the bullets.”
“That is where the princess is!”
Roger cried.
“Suits us.
We have to go there anyway,” Peter
replied.
“Come on. They might need us.
We’ve got one of the rifles and we might still be in time,” Roger cried. He
scooped up the rifle and started down a narrow and rough foot track which went
down the eastern spur of the mountain towards Atherton.
Stephen swore but then helped
Hauptman Ritnik to his feet. The Hauptman gritted his teeth but made
himself
walk. Peter handed him a stick to use for support
and they followed.
Roger quickly found that going
down was not so easy. All his muscles were thrown into reverse and the pain was
sharper than on the upward slog. Graham’s group had already vanished from view.
The track was easy to follow but they had to watch carefully where they put
their feet so as not to slip on loose pebbles, or trip on a rock or log. The
slope was clothed in knee high grass and open timber and as they went down they
could see the entire Atherton Tablelands. From time to time they could see part
of the Rifle Range.
Roger paid particular attention
to this and the moment the Butts Shed came into view he stopped. The shed was
an unpainted corrugated iron building, set in behind the concrete retaining
wall which supported the mound and the target frames. A dirt road circled in to
it through a belt of trees from another road which ran along the far side of
the range clearing. This road continued on west, up the valley. A check of the
map confirmed it was the main timber road which they had crossed near Tardents
Lookout at the pine plantation.
Roger strained his eyes. Yes!
There was a person there. Two people! His pulse quickened. ‘Perhaps we will
still be in time?’ he thought hopefully. He turned and looked back up to see
where the others were. They were fifty paces back. He caught their attention
and pointed. Peter gave a thumbs-up. Hauptman Ritnik nodded grimly and
increased his pace.
Roger resumed the descent. Leg
muscles began to stretch and cramp. His right knee started to hurt; a sharp,
hot pain, on every second step.
‘If I can see them, can they see
me?’ he pondered. ‘No. Not unless they are watching very carefully.’ There were
too many trees obscuring the view he decided. Then a curve in the ground hid
the shed from view and he did not see it again.
The spur seemed to go on and on.
Sometimes it flattened out for short stretches. The track snaked on through the
grass.
Most of the time the slope was so steep there was a
constant need for care to avoid slipping or stumbling.
After about fifteen minutes
walking the ridge levelled out. This was about in line with the Butts. A short
detour confirmed this. After about 200 paces the track dropped down over a
steep, rocky section before finally ending at a low saddle down among the tops
of the surrounding forest. A fence ran at right angle across the spur. The foot
track joined a rough vehicle track.
Roger went left along this for
fifty paces until he could just see the open grass of the Rifle Range a few
hundred metres away through a belt of She-Oaks. He was at the height where the
tree canopies obscured most of the view. He stopped at a wire gate at the
bottom of the slope and looked around. No-one was in sight. He was quite alone.
He fingered the AK47 nervously, then settled himself in the grass beside the
track and slipped off the safety catch.
Roger sat in the long grass and
looked at his watch. 11:42.
It
had taken 27 painful
minutes to come down Mt Baldy. He felt pleased with his achievement but was
acutely aware that the morning was slipping away. Thirst bothered him. His
stomach kept grumbling, making him keenly aware that he had now missed four
meals. He had never felt so tired and sore in all his life.
Ten minutes later Peter, Stephen
and Hauptman Ritnik joined him. The Hauptman looked terrible. His unshaven face
was very pale, making the beard stubble more noticeable. His face was grimed
and streaked with dried blood, and his eyes were sunk deep in dark-ringed
sockets. His wounded arm appeared badly swollen. The group sat down.
A movement in the distance caught
Roger’s eye. It was Graham, running towards them through the bush. He was
skirting along the base of the mountain. Roger stood up and gripped the rifle.
Were they too late?
Graham raced up in a lather of
sweat, pounding through the waist high grass with complete disregard for snakes
and logs. He arrived with eyes gleaming and face alive with excitement.
“Come on! The princess is still
there. Or at least we think she is because there are five worried looking partisans
guarding the shed. They wouldn’t do that if there wasn’t a good reason. Switch
that radio off and follow me.”
He turned and set off at a run
back the way he had come. Roger and the others followed. Even Hauptman Ritnik
forced himself into a staggering jog. Roger felt excitement surge in his veins.
He gripped the rifle tightly at the ‘High Port’ and ignored his sore muscles
and pounding heart.
Graham led them through open
She-Oak forest North West along the base of the mountain. After a couple of
hundred paces Roger could not keep up and slowed to a brisk walk. Peter and
Stephen passed him and even Hauptman Ritnik was able to keep up.
Five minutes later Roger, his
heart pumping fit to burst, caught up. The others were lying on a low rise
amongst rocks and trees, peering through the grass and foliage at where the
roof of the shed was visible. Roger crouched and crept up to join them. He saw
that they were about a hundred metres from the shed, in a dip between the
mountain and the Rifle Range.
“There’s one,” Inspector Sharpe
whispered, pointing up to the left. Roger looked and saw movement: a partisan.
The man was sitting with his back to a tree watching up the steep slope away
from them; or would have been if he wasn’t bored and looking at the ants.
Inspector Sharpe pointed again.
“There is another at each end of the Butts Mound. One is looking this way but
you can’t see him from here. A third one is facing down the entrance road.
There’s a fourth one over beyond the shed. He must be watching back up the valley.
I haven’t seen him but the NCO has walked around there when he has been
checking that his sentries are alert.”
“What about the NCO sir?” Peter
asked.
“He seems to spend some time in the
shed and the rest checking around outside. He has a radio,” Inspector Sharpe
explained. He turned to the partisan sergeant: “What are his orders? What is he
to do if there is a rescue attempt?”
“He is to shoot the princess.”
“So we need a plan to prevent
that happening. We will move back to that gully behind us to talk this over.”
They crawled back ten metres into
dead ground, then moved at a crouch into the bed of a small dry creek. Graham
pointed and said: “Pete, you watch back towards the shed, Roger
watch
back the way we came and Steve, you watch down range.”
He crouched, put the rifle down and took out his notebook and a pencil. A
minutes rapid sketching produced a rough map of the area.
