Casca 11: The Legionnaire (9 page)

The time was now. Langer made up his mind to take the next opportunity to escape. The pain in his back receded but the memory of being bent over and whipped was worse than the pain had been. He had never believed in getting even. He wanted to collect some interest and couldn't do it while confined.

Two days after his beating, luck moved in his favor. During the peak of the daily rains, a flight of bombers happened to drop their load in the hills where the network of tunnels grew larger every
day. One cluster of them struck the section where he was held, ripping off the top of a group of tunnels. The rain rushed in, flowing in dark muddy torrents where it drained off the hills. A torrent filled the caves, washing men and equipment away. Debris blocked up many of the drainage outlets backing up the waters. It was almost like being in a submarine whose steel sides had been breached by depth charges, letting in the ocean to drown those trapped inside.

The lights went out as the subterranean flood shorted out the generators or washed away the lanterns. The tin sheeting covering Langer's cell was swept away as were the guards. One of them had his throat slit by the sheet of tin as neatly as if a bayonet had been run across his larynx.

When the first stick of bombs struck, Langer had thought an earthquake had struck the hills. The earth heaved and rolled under him. Then he heard the explosions, followed by screams of panic and terror. Water burst into his cell. The force of it dragged him out turning him end over end. His hands tried to grab anything that could keep him from being pulled further into the tunnels as the tons of fluid sought the lowest levels of the network. Hitting a section of collapsed wall, he managed to dig his feet in, sinking his toes deep into the sides. His hands caught a grip on a section of beams that had fallen. Bracing himself against the torrent he raised his face above the thick clay saturated liquid to gasp for air. Stubbornly he held his ground knowing he was near the top levels of the tunnels. If he could just hold on, the waters would pass him by. Then he could try for the surface and freedom.

Three bodies swept by him. One of them reached out a hand to him and grasped his sleeve. Eyes filled with terror,
he pleaded for help. Langer hit him in the face to get rid of him. The man's screams were silenced by the waters filling his mouth as he was sucked under and carried through a break in the walls down to the next level. As far as four levels below men tried to find ways out but the exits were all above them except for a few small openings cut in the sides of the mountain for drainage or escape. Their bodies quickly blocked these small exits. Only those on the uppermost levels escaped. Their tunnels were higher up than those opened by the bombs. They could do nothing to help their comrades below. One of the upper tunnel cells fell and collapsed as its foundations on the next level were swept away. Eleven of Thich's agents would never return to their jobs.

Thich and a squad of regular Viet Minh decided to take their chances on the bombs outside rather than stay where the floor under their feet could be removed in the blink of an eye. They followed after their leader as he broke out into the open. Running to get away from the tunnels, he headed up higher to where the foundation of the earth was more secure. His men who went with him were greatly relieved that Comrade Thich had enough sense to get out of the watery grave. The rains beating down on them were a welcomed relief in comparison to the panic they had felt at the thought of being drowned in the dark caverns below.

The pressure against Langer's body eased. The worst of the flood was passing as fast as it had begun. Pushing himself forward, he let the current against him lead him to the outside. All along the tunnel were the soggy remains of men who'd died, their bodies trapped by fallen beams or crates of military equipment. A Russian Tokarev Model 40 sniper's rifle with a scope was wedged between two crates of canned food. He pulled the weapon loose, took a quick look at it and checked the bolt. It was loaded and the action worked fine. Fifty feet farther down the tunnel he found the body of the man who had probably owned the rifle. Two bandoliers of ammunition hung from the corpse's shoulders. Langer wasn't able to get the body free from whatever it was that held it down. The face was still under a foot of water and muck. Taking the man's bayonet, he cut away the straps of the bandoliers and threw them over his shoulders. Now let them try to get him back!

His head was down, looking at the floor of the tunnel, when a rush of water went down his neck. Looking up he saw a hole in the roof of the tunnel. A way out! Dragging over some crates he erected a ladder to climb up to where he could get a grip on a tree root. Grunting and spitting out water that poured onto his face, he inched his way up until he had a hand on the trunk of a sapling. He waited a moment to catch his breath before giving a last effort to free his body from the roof of the tunnel. He was in the open. The bombs had stopped. It wouldn't be long before the Viets got their shit back together and he wanted to be long gone by then.

Hunched over, he headed for the brush and started downhill, not knowing which side of the mountain he was on; but he knew he had to get to low ground to get away. His attempt to escape undetected was interrupted by a burst of fire from a Ppsh 41, the bullets cutting down several branches over his head. He hit the ground, whipping his body around so that he faced the direction from which the shots had come.

Thich was furious. Not only had the storm caused severe damage, ruining the work of months and taking many lives, but now his prisoner was escaping. Angrily, he ordered his troops to stop him Langer settled back and not knowing how the sights were set on the sniper's rifle, aimed for the belly of the soldier with the Ppsh 41. Squeezing off a single shot he blew the man's left lung out. The bullet exited near the sixth dorsal vertebra of the man's spine between the shoulder blades. The weapon was sighted, he estimated, for five hundred yards and was hitting a bit to the left and high, striking several inches above where he'd been aiming. Return fire began to get too heavy. He couldn't hang around or they would be sure to get him, especially since more survivors were coming out of the tunnels to help. Cursing his luck, he took a quick snap shot at Thich who screamed and went down. Back crawling, until he was certain he was out of sight, he rolled over on to his feet and began a blind run downhill, ignoring the branches and vines that tried to snare him. He slipped and slid on the soggy earth, sliding down patches of slick grass like a kid on a sled. The guards normally on duty around the perimeter of the mountain were still in their holes hiding from the rain and the bombs. One thought he heard steps go past his hole but was too stunned from a near miss to bother looking.

Checking the sky, Langer knew that if he could just stay in front of them for another hour he would have a good chance to lose them in the coming darkness. One more hour. He hoped that he'd blown Thich away. The intelligence officer had been hit. That he knew, but how bad was something else.

The scope on the rifle was probably out of kilter after being swept along in the tunnel. He'd have to re
-sight it when he got a chance.

Chest aching from the unaccustomed strain, he kept ahead of his pursuers, who were not too anxious to close with him after they'd lost two more men to single shots. Thich was enraged. Langer's bullet had burned a furrow on the inside of his left thigh, nearly removing a portion of his manhood. As more men came out of the tunnels, he sent them down the mountain to aid in either killing or returning his captive. He wanted Langer and wanted him badly. This was now a very personal matter. Thich felt that if he did not do something to remove the Legionnaire from his existence, the man would always be a curse to him. There were forces in the universe that drew men together and not always for the good. Langer must be killed, of that he was certain. As soon as his wound was treated, he followed after the hunters, refusing the offer of a branch to use as a crutch. His wound was not that severe, merely painful and stiff. He would be in at the kill or capture.

Gasping, Langer reached the base of the mountain, finding himself in a mist shrouded valley. With the approaching nightfall, he had no idea of which way to head. Plunging into thigh deep waters, he headed into a marsh fed by the springs and rivulets that drained off the mountains on either side of him. With the dark came a chill that set into his muscles and bones making every effort to take another step increasingly difficult. The weeks of his confinement had cost him much in muscle tone. They were not used to this sudden demand on them. He knew that soon he would have to find a place to rest, in spite of the men on his trail.

The rains had widened the marsh he was in, making it into a small lake with many sink holes where an unwary step could drop a man into a hole ten or more feet in depth. It had become a pit that could be a watery tomb for any who moved too fast in the dark.

A cry of terror far behind him said that one or more of the Viets had just found their way to one of the hidden sink holes. Good! Now maybe they would break off the chase, leaving him to the marsh. Wearily he searched the night sky. There was no moon, and with a layer of fog resting over the marsh, no stars either. Finding a patch of ground higher than the waters, he made a bed in a cluster of green bamboo the height of two tall men. It would be a cold camp, with no fire to ease the ache in his bones or dry what remained of his uniform. For the first time, as he felt along his body checking for injuries, he became aware that his feet were badly torn. He cursed himself for being a fool and forgetting to get his boots, or at least something he could have used to cover his swollen appendages with. It was a little late to worry about that now. Perhaps tomorrow he'd be able to do something about it. Roughly guessing at the time, he thought it was no more than eighteen hundred hours. The sun had been down for two hours or more. He felt as if he had been running for weeks.

Curling up, using his knees to warm his chest and stomach, he set the rifle close at hand, leaning it against a clump of the bamboo. In these waist deep waters he wasn't too concerned about being snuck up on: He would hear anyone before they got too close to him. For now, he needed the rest more than anything else. Letting his eyes close,
he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, ignoring the chill and wet earth he rested on. He slept the light, razor edged sleep of the soldier whose ears listen though the thoughts are far away... Faraway, where the sounds of battle were those of swords, spears, and armor, where men stood face to face hacking at each other with edged weapons, and the rumble of man-made thunder was yet long centuries away. Huns and Mongols, Tartars and Vikings, Castillian and Burgundian knights on huge armored mounts, all of them died for some idea of obscure honor. Great fleets of ships with bronze prows, powered by the arms and backs of slaves who strained at the oars, driven by the slavemaster's lash until their hearts burst under the strain. In his mind were all the wars of the last two thousand years. There were rivers and oceans of blood, and mountains of dead human flesh that had once faced him in mortal combat. He knew them all. Attila was no stranger, nor was the great Augustus or Tiberius. Nero, he had seen face to face, and he had watched the burning of Rome, as he had the first sacking of it by Alaric the Visigoth. On both sides of the Great Wall of China he had marched and fought. Each step, each battle, doing no more than pushing him closer to the next one. Even in his sleep, his feet still ached from the horrible cold of Russia as he followed in the wake of the remnants of the dying army of Imperial Napoleon. Each pain, each bit of suffering, had to be tolerated on its own. The only relief for him was that he knew it would eventually pass, as it always had. Pain would leave him for a time and he would endure till the next...

Thich stood at the edge of the marsh, sweeping a battery powered lantern over the dark, straining his eyes to peer through the reeds as if he thought by looking hard enough he would be able to penetrate past the range of his light. He knew this region well and already had men spreading out around its perimeters to isolate the five square miles of reeds and mire from the outside world. Somewhere inside there, he was certain they would find Langer. With the dawn the hunt would begin in earnest. His men would close in from all sides, in the same manner as when Indians used beaters to chase the tiger into the sights of the white hunter. He would pick his spot and wait for the quarry to come to him.

Thich stayed by the edge of the marsh. A lean to had been built for him. The rest of the Viets made out the best they could from their posts around the water's edge. The only fire was that of their leader who sat alone waiting for the dawn, anticipation building in him. He was, for the first time, beginning to understand the fascination the British had for chasing a fox with a pack of hounds. The Legionnaire was the fox, his soldiers were the hounds, and he would ride them until they brought the fox to bay.

An hour before dawn, Thich sent in the first line of his beaters. He had nearly two hundred men with whom to flush his prey. Left on the banks within sight of each other, more soldiers stood, weapons at the ready, to prevent Langer from escaping the marsh and getting back into the jungle.

Langer's eyes snapped open, focusing instantly even in the dark. A small gurgling sound had drifted over the marsh, followed by a spontaneous curse from a Viet who had found a sink hole. Mist still sat on the waters of the marsh, floating above it in gray thick wisps that made everything appear to move in eerie gray images. A thin sheen of light rode at the top of the haze where dawn was cresting the ridge of mountains. It would be light soon. He knew he would still have an hour, perhaps two, before the sun burned off the mist and exposed the marsh. By then he would have to be gone. Hanging the rifle by its strap at a slant across his back, he retied the ends of the bandoliers and hung them around his waist. He didn't want to use the rifle if he didn't have to. It would draw too much attention to his location. This was going to have to be handled much more quietly. Taking the bayonet in his right hand, he slid belly first into the waters. Skin rippling at the chill of the marsh, he let his weight take him under to where only his eyes were above the fluid.