Now he trotted across the plain by himself, still fuming with rage at Marko and the men under his command. How could such men ever hope to overturn the regime in Belgrade with its army and powerful police force? ‘God almighty,’ he cursed to himself. ‘What an uphill task it all is.’

  So, taken up with his thoughts and anger, the Grey Wolf did not see the two women among the vines until he almost rode into them. Hastily he reined in the white stallion with a jingle of harness, his sabre slapping the big beast’s flank.

  The women were on their knees, skirts pulled up around their waists while they knelt on old sacks to tend the grapes. He could see their buttocks pushing through their white underskirts quite clearly. Both of them, in peasant fashion, didn’t wear knickers. They were tying the branches of some new vines in on eight shape so that when the sun came the vine would get the maximum sunshine all over its surface. Then they sprinkled slate chippings from a basket they were dragging behind them around the base of the plant. This would reflect and retain the heat of the sun.

  He watched them for a moment as they squatted there, staring up at him and a little scared. One was older than the other, but they were both very pretty in a dark flashing-eye fashion and he told himself that they might even be Montenegrins. They looked that racial type. After a moment his anger vanished suddenly, he threw them each a cigarette and when they had put them in their mouths, he bent and offered them a light with his brand-new lighter. That impressed them, he could see that. Lighters were very rare in Bosnia; only the nobility and the very rich possessed them. His had been a personal gift from Aronson in faraway Leningrad and it was made of silver.

  By way of return the two women rose to their feet and curtseyed in peasant fashion, their loose breasts jiggling nicely underneath their blouses.

  The Grey Wolf nodded and looked down at them. Again this was the material with which he would have to form the new Yugoslavia one day. The peasants, especially their women, were very moral. It was due to all those bearded, fat-bellied popes and turbanned imans who ran their lives. He personally believed in only one morality, that of the new Soviet state. He tested them while they stood there in the field, looking up at him and smoking in silence. ‘Show me your legs!’ he said sharply.

  The two peasant women looked at each other. The younger one looked worried, but the older of the two nodded. Hesitantly she took the hem of her ankle-length skirt out of the waistband and lifted it. The other followed suit.

  ‘The shift, too,’ he commanded harshly.

  This time the two of them didn’t hesitate. They knew what he wanted now and it didn’t seem to worry them any more. They lifted the plain cotton shifts.

  ‘Higher!’

  They continued to lift their clothing until he could see the rich dark tufts of hair at the base of their stomachs. He gazed at their naked bodies for a while. They didn’t seem embarrassed. Indeed the older of the two peasant women looked quite excited, her dark eyes flashing. He swung himself down from his horse and took a handful of silver dinar out of his pocket. ‘I shall have her,’ he said, giving the coins to the older woman who dropped her skirt and curtseyed once more as she accepted the coins greedily. ‘You will help me.’

  That seemed to excite her even more. ‘I shall help, sir, never fear!’ She swung round on the girl who was still standing there with her shift raised. ‘On your knees,’ she ordered. ‘Now don’t be slow, can’t you see the gentleman hasn’t got all day?’

  Slowly, as the girl knelt in the field, the Grey Wolf unbuttoned his flies and then stood there, waiting.

  The older woman knew exactly what she had to do and he felt a great sense of command and power as she did so. He was in charge. She reached inside his breeches and, cradling his penis as if it was very precious, she pulled it out. Very gently she started to stroke it. ‘You like that, sir?’ she asked, her voice hoarse and cunning. ‘Am I doing it correctly for you, sir?’

  ‘Yes… yes.’ He felt himself beginning to stiffen already, as he gazed at the plump, fresh buttocks of the peasant girl crouched there waiting for him tamely and without protest. Perhaps she might be a virgin, though he didn’t think so. But the thought made him even more excited.

  ‘Now you’re ready, sir,’ the woman said, still holding his penis in her work-hardened hand. ‘I’ll help you.’ Together they knelt. He gripped the kneeling woman by the hips, who was trembling violently. Carefully she inserted his organ into the waiting woman. ‘Now give it to her!’ she said, her voice thick and distorted with lust. ‘Ram it right inside, sir – deep!’

  Afterwards the two women waved to him, as he rode away slowly and wondered again at the strangeness of people. The older woman had seemed to have enjoyed the brutal, almost wordless coupling in the field more than the one he had taken from behind. But the encounter had cleared his mind and his blind rage at the failings of his men in not finding the Englishmen had evaporated. Now he felt relaxed and able to think clearly once more.

  He dismissed the two peasant women from his memory, he would never see them again, and concentrated on the task at hand. The English were heading for the river and the craft which had brought them to this remote spot. Naturally they wouldn’t have docked at Mostar. There they would have attracted too much attention. Nor would they have anchored at the mouth of the estuary. There there were too many fishing boats fishing the tides. So it would have to be between those two spots, and somewhere where there were trees or vegetation to hide their craft from prying eyes on the land.

  The Grey Wolf ran the coastline between the mouth of the estuary and Mostar past his mind’s eye, dismissing places where there were settlements of little fishing villages. Then he had it. He’d rally all his patrols and this time they would attack in force. He couldn’t let Aronson and the Cause down now.

  Hastily he applied his spurs to the big white stallion. It shot forward. Minutes later the Grey Wolf had disappeared.

  Now, time was running out for the fugitives. As a weary Billy Bennett two or three miles away panted, trying to keep up with the cruel pace that Smith had set, ‘Man, it’s either shit or bust now…!’

  Three

  On the Swordfish, they were tense and nervous. Everyone was standing by. The engines had been started and the anchor raised and they were ready to go at a moment’s notice. The gunners were at their posts scrutinising the coastline for the first sign of trouble. Those who wore watches kept constantly glancing at them to check the time, for all of them knew that time was running out and that they couldn’t wait much longer.

  ‘I’m sure that Mr Smith will have heard the firing and have decided not to wait for darkness, Chiefie,’ Dickie Bird told the old petty officer.

  ‘I agree, sir,’ Ferguson answered. ‘Let’s hope yon polise or whatever they were are not lying in wait for ’em.’

  ‘You know, Mr Smith,’ Dickie said confidently. ‘He can look after himself.’

  Ferguson didn’t reply and Bird could see the old sailor was worried, very worried. He was, too, but it didn’t do to show that to the men. Things were bad enough as it was.

  About 1300 hours that long nerve-racking day they spotted the first rider. Squatting on a sturdy little pony he was obviously searching the bank and a suddenly alert Dickie Bird commented, ‘You don’t need to be clairvoyant to know who he’s looking for – us.’

  ‘Ay, but he’s not a rozzer like the others,’ Ferguson answered. ‘You can tell that from the gear he’s wearing.’

  So far, the rider hadn’t spotted them. Constantly he looked in the wrong direction, but Bird knew it wouldn’t take long before he sighted the Swordfish. ‘I think I’ve got to get that chappie, Chiefie,’ he said, his mind made up. ‘Otherwise when he spots us the fireworks’ll start.’

  ‘Get him?’ Ferguson asked sharply, face puzzled.

  ‘Yes. Nobble him on land. We don’t want to give ourselves away by firing at the ugly-looking brute.’

  ‘But you can’t do that sir, it’s too risky and—’ Ferguson stopped short. The young officer was already pulling off his shoes, which were followed an instant later by his jacket.

  ‘Belaying pin,’ Dickie Bird said urgently. ‘That one over there will do.’

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘No buts. Got to be done, and quick.’ Bird took the belaying pin and thrust it in the back of his belt. Before an alarmed Ferguson could stop, he had run across the deck in his bare feet, taken a deep breath and dived neatly over the side.

  Unlike most seamen, Dickie Bird was a good swimmer, although he pretended to abhor all exercise. ‘That awful grunting and groaning,’ he was wont to say in the effete manner he affected, ‘How very working class.’ Now he struck out with a powerful breast stroke. Effortlessly, or so it seemed, he headed for the shore, while the crew of the Swordfish held their breath, hoping he would make it before the lone rider spotted him. For the latter had a carbine slung over his shoulder and there was a sabre dangling from the side of his saddle. Yet so far the rider seemed unaware of what was coming his way.

  Dickie reached the shore. He was not even breathing hard. As a boy he had swum for Harrow, later for the Royal Naval College. Whenever he had been able afterwards he had indulged himself in the sport. Now all that hard training had paid off. He shook the water out of his long hair and then advanced cautiously up the bank, already aware of the clip-clop of the advancing horse’s hooves. He pulled the belaying pin from his belt and secured a firm grip on it. He would wait till the rider had passed, then he’d reach up behind the rump of the little pony and – hopefully – whack the unsuspecting rider on the back of the head.

  Now the rider was almost upon him. He chanced a glance. The rider, small but wiry, was still studying the ground on the other side of the track. Why, Bird couldn’t fathom. Was he not looking for the Swordfish after all? He came parallel with the officer in the bushes. Bird ducked his head. Then he was past, moving at a snail’s pace.

  Abruptly Dickie Bird was on his feet, his usual languid image vanished, noiselessly in his bare feet on the sandy track. But the pony seemed to sense his presence in the fashion of nervous horses. It whinnied. The rider exclaimed something, but by then it was too late. Dickie Bird sprang upwards, as high as he could, and brought the heavy wooden pin crashing down on the back of the rider’s head.

  Without even a moan the rider pitched over the horse’s mane, out like a light. The horse started nervously and in a moment Dickie knew instinctively that it would bolt. Frantically he grabbed for the reins and tugged cruelly on the bit. The pony reared back. Holding onto the reins with one hand, Dickie pushed the rider out of the saddle, then he let go.

  Glad to escape, the pony trotted off down the sandy track. Bird didn’t care, he had got the rider. Hastily he rolled him down the bank till he came to rest on the sandy beach below. ‘Now, old friend,’ he said to the unconscious man, his face wreathed in a big grin. ‘Now I’m going to have the pleasure of trussing you up like a damned chicken!’

  That wasn’t to be.

  For in that same instant, with a bark of joy, a dog came hurtling out of the bushes, wagging its tail furiously. Next moment it had hurled itself into a surprised Dickie’s hands and was licking his face furiously.

  ‘What the hell—’ Dickie Bird began, caught completely off his guard. Then he stopped short. Tied around the little dog’s neck was a faded tie, but one he recognised immediately. It was a tie in the colours of Harrow-on-the-Hill and in the whole of Yugoslavia there could be only one other person besides himself who was privileged to wear that tie.

  ‘Golly!’ he gasped. ‘It’s from Smithie!’ The unconscious rider forgotten, he scrambled down the bank, clutching the excited little dog to his body. He plunged into the water and struck out for the Swordfish. Minutes later he was treading water and handing Bully up to a waiting Ferguson, whose relief that Bird had returned safely was all too obvious.

  ‘There must be a message from Mr Smith under that tie, Chiefie,’ Dickie panted. ‘That’s why he sent the dog. See what it says and then I’ll go down and get some dry togs.’ He heaved himself aboard.

  With his skinny, gnarled fingers Ferguson pulled open the knot in the yellow-and-white striped Harrow tie. Beneath it, as Bird had guessed, there was a sodden piece of paper. The old CPO unfolded it and as he was too vain to wear glasses – ‘I’ve never seed a matelot yet who wore specs, mon!’ – he held the paper close to his eyes and read out the words slowly, while Bird listened eagerly.

  ‘“Move berth two miles downriver. Position compromised. When we’re close we’ll fire one single flare. Answer with one rifle shot only. S”’

  Bird’s face lit up. ‘Jolly good show!’ he exclaimed with delight. ‘They’re safe and you can see from the shape the little mutt’s in that they can’t be far away. It’d be exhausted otherwise. All right, Chiefie,’ he added in high good humour now, ‘don’t spare the horses. Get the old Swordfish moving while I go below and dry my alabaster torso.’

  Minutes later the Swordfish was on the move, heading for the new rendezvous.

  * * *

  On the land the Smith party was about at the end of its tether. They had been on the move for over twenty hours now and their loads seemed to weigh a ton. Now they hardly spoke a word, keeping their eyes on the distant horizon, as if longing for the first sight of the water, which would spell the end of their torment.

  Smith would allow no stops although Hurd, the RAF officer, obviously unused to forced marches of this nature, was swaying dangerously, staggering from side to side as if he were drunk. Smith knew that every minute they stayed on land increased the chance of their being caught by the mysterious riders once more, and he couldn’t risk that. More than once he was tempted to tell the sorely tried men to dump their loads, but in the end he always resisted the temptation. His sense of duty was too strong. He knew just how precious the secret reports were to C.

  So they blundered on through the fields, the sweat dripping down their faces, their eyes wild, now and then thrusting out their hands as if they were frightened their legs might give way and they would fall, their breath coming in frantic gasps.

  In the lead, Smith was able to forget his exhaustion and keep watching his front for any sign of trouble. They were perhaps a couple of miles from the estuary now, and he knew they weren’t in any fit state to fight if they were attacked. He prayed that they’d make it to the Swordfish without trouble.

  ‘Please God,’ he prayed to himself fervently in a way he had not done since his days in chapel at Harrow-on-the-Hill, ‘save us!’

  The minutes passed leadenly. Now the only sound was that of their laboured breathing, the little gasps they gave when they stumbled in a furrow and felt they were going to fall. Hurd was lagging ever farther behind, weaving from side to side badly and then Sergeant Burrows shouldered his pack, too, to give the officer some relief. It didn’t help, the man kept dropping ever farther behind them. Smith knew he could do little to help the RAF officer. None of them had the strength to assist Hurd. He could only hope they reached the coast before the inevitable collapse came.

  Then there it was, the first glint of water in the weak afternoon sunshine. If Smith had had the strength he would have cheered, but he had nothing left. All he could do was to croak, ‘We’re almost there, lads… Keep going!’

  Ginger Kerrigan said weakly in an attempt at humour, ‘Thank God. Cor ferk a duck, my legs is worn down to me friggin’ knees.’

  They plodded on. Hurd was lagging badly now, but Smith didn’t mind. Once they reached the Swordfish he’d have a couple of ratings help the RAF officer to the vessel. The main thing now was for the party to reach her with their precious papers. Then, he told himself, he’d drink a gallon of beer and lie down for the next twenty-four hours.

  Then it happened.

  From to their right came a wild yell of triumph, followed an instant later by a savage cheer. Smith swung round, his exhaustion forgotten in a flash. Coming through the vines was a line of riders thrashing their horses cruelly with their reins, heading straight for them. Just behind Smith, Billy Bennett choked, ‘Christ, pipped at the bloody post…!’

  Four

  Dickie Bird knew immediately that the land party had run into trouble when he heard those wild yells. As yet he couldn’t see anything through the lines of trees which fringed their berth. But he could guess what was happening, especially as he made out the first chattering of a Tommy-gun. Smith’s party was under attack. Still towelling his long hair, he sprinted along the deck to where the gunlayer and his mate stood by the quick-firer.

  ‘Gunlayer,’ he addressed the burly rating formally, ‘do you think you could fire H. E. over the trees?’

  ‘Yessir, easy as falling off a log,’ the rating answered. ‘But,’ he added, looking hard at Bird, ‘I’d be firing blind…’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ Dickie Bird snapped impatiently. ‘There is some risk to Mr Smith’s party, but it’s a risk we’re going to have to take. Snap to it!’

  ‘Ay, ay, sir!’ The gunlayer nodded to his mate and the loader, his muscles flexed with the effort, pulled down the breech handle and thrust home a high-explosive shell. He snapped the breech closed and tapped the gunlayer on his right shoulder. The latter grunted and pulled back the firing rod.

  * * *

  They had dropped as one into the furrow, all save poor Hurd who had been too exhausted to react quickly enough. The bullet caught him in the face and now he reeled blindly, his face dripping blood down on to his chest like molten red sealing-wax. But their attackers were no fools; they had thrown themselves from their horses and were firing just out of range of the two Tommy-guns of Smith’s party.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17