The group had not gone twenty five paces before the sub-machine gun stuttered again. Roger flinched and crouched against a tree. He watched the flicker of the gun flashes and prayed. Even as he cringed there his mind told him that none of the bullets had come anywhere near them.
Graham nudged him. “Don’t move or make a noise,” he whispered. “He is just trying to pin us down and provoke us.”
Roger then remembered that he had the rifle. He eased it up so he could use it but left the safety catch on and kept his finger well away from the trigger. The weapon felt cold and heavy. A whiff of burnt gun oil made him very conscious of reality.
The partisan fired again: single shots and from further down the track. Roger estimated that the man was at least 50 metres away and the gun flashes were barely visible through the jungle. The partisan began to shout.
“Surrender Peter Dragovitch. You cannot win. We know your plans. We are arresting all your criminal accomplices.”
There was silence for a minute. Some small creature scuttled off but the fugitives remained motionless. After another minute Graham hissed for them to start moving.
As they began to slowly move the man shouted again: “Peter Dragovitch! Surrender yourself, you dishonourable coward. Do not be so selfish as to let other people die to protect you. Give up. Your plot has failed.”
‘What cruel words,’ Roger thought. They seemed to strike with physical force. He could imagine the hurt they would cause the Prince.
The man yelled again but this time in Serbo-Croat. They ignored this and kept inching down the slope. Graham murmured: “He is on his own. The other two have gone back to the road. We need to move before they come back with more of them.”
They continued the slow movement. Several minutes of silence elapsed before another single gunshot disturbed the night. Roger did not even see the flash. The bullet came nowhere near them so, after a collective wince, they continued on. The voice yelled again, fainter now. “Give up Peter Dragovitch. Your life will be spared and so will your companions, as long as you promise not to meddle in the affairs of Kosaria.”
“Pig’s bum!” murmured Stephen. “Spared my foot!”
“He sounds a bit worried and scared,” Peter added.
“Sssh!” Graham hissed. “I can hear more coming.”
There were distant sounds of movement and the faint flicker of lights. A man further up the ridge began yelling to the man with the sub-machine gun.
Roger was both anxious and curious. “Why are they doing that yelling and using torches?” he asked.
Hauptman Ritnik answered: “They must find each other and they hope we will give away our position by shooting. It is one of their tactics. They don’t care if they lose some men. The Kommunisti have no respect for human life, the scum!”
“Be quiet and move faster,” Graham ordered. “They won’t hear us over the noise of their own movement.”
Roger took a firm grip on Stephen’s jacket and held the rifle hard against his body so the metal would not strike a tree. But he seemed to trip or stumble every second step; or a vine caught his face or neck. After about twenty paces they stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Inspector Sharpe asked.
“Bloody great log. Can’t get over it,” Graham replied. “I think we can get under it.”
They shuffled forward. It was now so dark Roger could not see Stephen. He just hung onto him and followed. Then Stephen crouched and Roger bumped into the log. He was forced to bend lower. In the process he bumped his face on damp rotten wood. To get under he had to go right down on his belly and even then he only just scraped under the huge fallen tree. While doing it in the pitch darkness he had to steel himself to ignore thoughts of snakes, spiders and scorpions.
Behind him Roger could hear a distant murmur of conversation. He estimated they had about a hundred metres lead. Another huge log blocked their path. This one they clambered over. Roger felt soggy moss and slime as he slid down the other side. The rifle struck a tree with a ‘thunk’. Roger flushed and could imagine the glares the others were directing at him.
When all were across they pushed on, only to run into wait-a-while. This forced them to back up and change direction. In spite of the cold Roger felt sweat trickle into his eyes. His stomach contracted in fear as voices began calling out behind them.
Suddenly the night erupted with gunfire. They all went down. Roger remembered to hold the rifle ready. At least a dozen weapons were firing but he could barely make out the flashes. He assumed that the whole partisan squad had opened fire. Terrified he crouched behind a tree, his heart beating wildly. Then he relaxed and wiped a wet thing from his face. The shots were not coming near them at all. Most sounded as though they were whistling through the tree tops.
Peter gave a soft grunt. “Those buggers have got no idea where we are,” he said.
As the shooting died down yelling began, mostly in Serbo-Croat.
Hauptman Ritnik whispered: “They are calling insults, trying to make us angry. Do not react.”
Inspector Sharpe groped his way past. “We will keep moving. We can’t fight that lot.”
When he reached Graham they rose and resumed their stumbling march. As they did a distant yell made Roger’s blood chill.
“Peter Dragovitch, we have your cousin, the Princess Mareena. Surrender to us and nothing will happen to her. If you do not, we will prepare her for the Special Interrogator. Think about it, but don’t take too long. If you do not give yourself up we will do terrible things to her- and enjoy it.”
There was a sob in the darkness. Prince Peter spoke quietly: “I must go back and give myself up.”
“No your Royal Highness,” hissed Hauptman Ritnik in a distressed voice. “It is a trick. They will not let the princess go, even if you surrender. They will kill you both.”
“But I must do something!” cried Prince Peter in an anguished voice. “We must try to rescue her.”
“We do not know where she is being held. She might already be dead,” Hauptman Ritnik replied harshly, anger and strong emotion obvious even in the blackness.
Inspector Sharpe cut in. “Be quiet! You are both my prisoners; and nobody is giving up, or going back. Now move!”
They resumed their slow progress. The shouting went on behind them, punctuated by occasional shots.
“They aren’t getting any closer,” Graham observed.
“I think they are just standing along that old timber track,” Peter replied.
Roger thought about that. He knew he would be terrified if it was him. Only a lunatic, or a fanatic, would walk forward in the dark knowing that their first warning would be a gunshot at point-blank range. ‘Perhaps we do have a chance to get clear,’ he thought hopefully.
Graham stopped and whispered, “We have come four hundred paces sir, about two hundred metres. If we get over this next log and I use my torch we can plan the next leg.”
One after another they clambered over another fallen tree. On the other side they crouched in a tight group. Graham knelt and put his map on his knee and flicked on his carefully shielded pencil torch. To Roger even that weak glow was like a lighthouse.
Graham explained as he worked. “If we go on five degrees, that’s Grid, so, add, no subtract seven degrees, that’s 358 degrees Magnetic, we will run down this spur for about half its length. Let’s see....hmmm…” He used the side of the compass as a ruler. “About seven hundred metres. We’d better double that for downhill and in the dark, say fifteen hundred paces.”
“Yes, alright. Do that,” Inspector Sharpe approved.
Once more the group moved in single file, changing direction from West to North. Within 50 paces the ground began to drop. Roger had never imagined it could be so dark! There were muffled curses from the front and the sound of ripping cloth and plastic.
“Bloody wait-a-while!” Graham muttered.
Roger shielded his face by lowering his head. The wait-a-while snagged at his hat and pulled it back off his head. The chinstrap pulled at his throat. A tendril caught his cheek and he halted. He let go of Stephen who was swearing and squirming.
After a minute of wrestling Stephen called quietly. “This is hopeless. We are hooked up in the bloody stuff. We’ve got to stop.”
Inspector Sharpe replied: “No. We must not. We are still too close. They will soon catch us when daylight comes. Back up and we will try to find a way around it.”
They shuffled back. There were more muffled cries of pain and tearing sounds. Roger felt blood trickling down his cheek. The scratches stung. He could feel something crawling inside his shirt. He scratched at it. Graham went right for twenty paces and tried again. Once more they encountered wait-a-while and came to a sweating, swearing stop. To Roger it was like the worst of nightmares. He wanted to run but he was enmeshed in a tangle of thorns.
Inspector Sharpe hissed. “Stop for a while. We will have a rest for a few minutes, then back up and try again,” he ordered.
They stood in silence. Roger felt sore and miserable. His stomach grumbled audibly and he licked dry lips. He seemed to be one mass of frightened aches and pains.
“Listen! They are moving our way!” Peter said.
Roger felt water move in his bowels. Peter was right. There were voices and sounds of people crashing through the undergrowth; and definitely moving in their direction.
“We must move. I’ll use a torch and my secateurs,” Graham said.
“Won’t they see it?” Stephen cried.
“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think we are far enough away. Anyway, if they come down that ridge in extended line they will find us for sure. It is a risk we have to take,” Graham replied.
“But what if we run into more of them coming the other way?” Stephen said.
“Calm down Steve. It is a kilometre or more to the next road in the direction we are going, even if they have the men, which I doubt. There can’t be that many of the mongrels,” Graham said.
Peter agreed. “Besides, if they are moving we will see their torches and they won’t know who we are till we are close,” he added.
“Kirk’s right,” Inspector Sharpe said. “Use a torch but don’t shine it towards them. If they see it and shoot in our direction turn it off.”
“But the risk!” Stephen cried.
“It is a risk either way. It is my decision. Do it!” Inspector Sharpe snapped.
Graham clicked on his pencil torch. The dull yellow beam lit up a wall of seemingly impenetrable wait-a-while. He turned left, away from their pursuers, and began walking. Roger tensed but there were no shots or shouts from the partisans. Looking back he could not see any of their torches although he could hear the partisans clearly. They were yelling and cursing loudly as they blundered through the jungle.
Graham led to the right. His small secateurs went up. Snip! A tendril dropped. He advanced a pace. Snip! Snip! They were past that bush. There was still some scratching and tearing but they had gained ten metres and the slope steepened downwards appreciably.
On down they went at a slow walk, clinging to each other in a human centipede. Roger stopped sweating and licked dry lips. Now he felt hot and exhausted. He itched and chafed and his muscles ached. He just wanted to lie down but fear made him cling on tightly.
In ten minutes they moved about a hundred metres. Now they were down on the side of the mountain and only occasionally heard sounds of the pursuit. Inspector Sharpe refused to let them stop. They struggled on downwards, slipping and stumbling but making definite progress by the light of the torch. He kept them at it for another half an hour until he was satisfied they had come three or four hundred metres down the spur.
“OK. Stop for a rest. I think we’ve given them the slip for the moment,” Inspector Sharpe said. Graham switched off his torch. Roger sat down and leaned on a rock. Prince Peter bent over Hauptman Ritnik as Peter lowered him to a sitting position.
“How are you Hauptman Ritnik?”
“I am feeling not too good Your Highness. My head hurts and I am very much dizzy. I feel I will fall over at any moment. I am very thirsty.”
Graham groped his way back up and passed a water bottle to the Hauptman who drank deeply. Once again Roger regretted his lost webbing.
Inspector Sharpe pushed closer. “How much water do you have CSM Kirk?” he asked.
“Another two full water bottles and this one is half full sir.”
“Give everyone a drink. If they’ve been sweating as much as I have they will need it.”
Roger was handed a canteen. He had one long swig and passed it to DS Crowe. It certainly tasted good and he felt better.
They lay there for nearly half an hour before Inspector Sharpe spoke. “OK. It’s nine O’clock. Let’s move again.”
9 O’clock! How did three hours pass! Roger rubbed his eyes then groaned as he stood up. All his muscles had stiffened up. They had to wake Hauptman Ritnik who was quite disorientated for a while. He began to babble and call out till Prince Peter quieted him.
The slow movement resumed. They slithered and stumbled down the steep slope with Graham again using his torch. Twice Roger fell and once he banged his finger so hard between the rifle and a tree that he feared he had broken it. He hadn’t, but it made holding the rifle painful. Another three hundred paces had been covered when Graham’s torch began to flicker. It abruptly went out.
No amount of tapping, fiddling or coaxing would get the torch to work again. They tried moving without its aid but after only another fifty paces they were again hopelessly ensnared in wait-a-while.
Inspector Sharpe spoke over their muted curses: “OK. That will do. We will wait here till daylight. I want a sentry roster maintained. Prince Peter, you and Hauptman Ritnik sit next to me. Crowe, you sit beside the Hauptman. Now, you four cadets sit behind me side by side. Rest for a minute while I work out a roster.”
“We can do that sir. We do it all the time in the cadets,” Graham said.
“Fine. Work one out please, and keep it simple.”
Graham thought for a minute, then said: “We are in two rows. We just wake the person next in line. We do two hours each, with a staggered relief, that is changing every hour so we have a fresh person and a tired person on at once. No talking, no fires or lights and no moving away.”
Graham then went on to detail the timings for each person. This got a bit muddled in the dark and he had to repeat it before they were all sure who they woke up and when. Roger was fourth so he wedged his boots against a tree to stop himself sliding down the slope and lay back. He was too tired to care about ticks, mites and leeches. He just closed eyes which felt hot and scratchy and settled down as best he could. Sleep claimed him within minutes.
Peter shook him awake with difficulty two hours later. For a moment Roger wondered where he was and felt a surge of panic. Heart beating rapidly he sat up and rubbed sore eyes. Stephen was still awake but lay back when he was sure Roger was fully awake.
Sentry duty was something Roger was familiar with but he had never experienced it like this before, with armed enemy soldiers hunting for him. He strained his ears but the only sound was the wind in the trees and the dripping of condensation. It was so dark that the only thing he could see was the whitish glow of luminous fungus and the faint paleness of the clouds overhead. He could not see Peter beside him. To test the old saying he waved his hand in front of his face and could not see it.
A tiny flickering light appeared further down slope. Roger tensed, then smiled. Only a firefly. When he looked for them he saw more and also the tiny pin-points of pale green which showed glow-worms among the rotting leaves.
Roger was surprised that he wasn’t all tense over every little rustle and creeping noise but decided it was partly because he was too tired to care, but mostly because experience told him no-one could creep silently towards them in that jungle, even if they knew where they were. What did prey on his mind was how they could escape from the partisans when daylight came.
From time to time he or Peter muttered a few words. The others all sounded as though they were sound asleep. Inspector Sharpe began to snore so Peter nudged him with his boot until he rolled on his side and the noise stopped. Time dragged slowly.
Peter checked a watch with a small light in it. “Graham’s,” he explained. “OK Roger, wake up Sgt Crowe. It is zero zero thirty.”
Roger shook DS Crowe. He snuffled and groaned, then sat up. “Wuzza matter? Christ it’s dark! Where am I?”
“Sssh!” Roger hissed. “We are in the jungle hiding from the partisans.”
“Partisans! I’ll give the bastards a hiding if I get a chance,” grumbled the DS. He sat up and as he did farted loudly. “Umph! Sorry. What’s the time?”
Roger told him. Peter passed Roger the watch and lay down.
DS Crowe yawned. “Thought it would be colder,” he said.
“It’s the cloud cover. It acts as a blanket and keeps it relatively warm. And we aren’t supposed to talk on sentry duty,” Roger replied.
“Hmmm. Yes. Sorry.”
They sat in silence. Roger then realized he was cold. He was shivering slightly and felt feverish. He also felt extremely thirsty. The hour seemed to drag by. For a while Hauptman Ritnik muttered and groaned. Roger touched him with his hand and he rolled onto his back and began to snore. Roger and DS Crowe had to get up and make him comfortable on his right side, which was difficult as he kept sliding or rolling down the slope. Then Roger had to find the rifle again.
On one occasion an animal scampered past and gave them a fright. Lizards scuttled. More glow-worms appeared. There was a brief shower of rain. On the next ridge a dead branch fell with a crash. Time dragged. It was dark and cold.
At last 01:30 came. Roger crawled over and shook the Inspector. Once he was awake Roger handed the watch to DS Crowe. With a sigh of relief he lay back on the wet leaves and put his hat under his head as a pillow. A few drops of condensation irritated him but within minutes he was asleep.