Storm Force from Navarone. Sam Llewellyn
still burning on the valley floor. The flames cast a flickering light on torn rock and twisted metal, and many still bodies dressed in field-grey. There were three trucks. Two of them were burning. The other lay like a crushed beetle under a huge slab of rock prised away from the gorge wall by the force of the explosion. At the far side of the gorge, three grey figures were draped over the rocks beside what had once been a mortar.
One of the figures moved.
Andrea pulled the Bren into his shoulder, and fired. The heavy drum of the machine gun echoed in the rocks. The grey figure went over backwards and did not move any more.
Then there was silence, except for the moan of the wind and the patter of sleet on rock.
Andrea watched for another five minutes, patient, not heeding the icy moisture soaking through his smock and into his battledress blouse.
Nothing moved. As far as he could tell, the radio sets were wrecked, and there were no survivors. But of course there would be survivors. He had no objection to going down and cutting the survivors’ throats. But if he did, it was unlikely that he would be able to rejoin the main party.
Andrea thought about it with the deliberation of a master wine maker deciding on which day he would pick his grapes: perhaps a little light on sugar today, but if he waited a week, there was the risk of rain …
Naturally, the Germans would assume that the force that had attacked them had gone on to Spain.
Andrea took a final look at the flames and the metal and the bodies. He felt no emotion. Guerrilla warfare was a job, a job at which he was an expert. His strength and intelligence were weapons in the service of his comrades and his country’s allies. He did not like killing German soldiers. But if it was part of the job, then he was prepared to do it, and do it well.
To Andrea, this looked like a decent piece of work.
He slung the Bren over his shoulder and began to lope rapidly up the steep mountain. It had begun to snow.
It was a wet snow that fell in flakes the size of saucers, each flake landing on skin or cloth or metal with an icy slap, beginning immediately to melt. They slid into boots and down necks, becoming paradoxically colder as they melted. Within ten minutes the whole party was soaked to the skin. And for what seemed like an eternity, there was only the rasp of breath in throats, the hammer of hearts, and the sodden rub of boots against feet as they marched doggedly up the forty-five-degree slope in the icy blackness. Miller’s mind was filled with anxiety.
He said to Andrea, ‘What do you think?’
Andrea knew what he was being asked. ‘They will think we have gone to Spain.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And they will send out patrols. In case we have not gone to Spain.’
‘Exactly.’
One foot in front of the other. Hammering hearts. Sore feet. Soon they would have to stop. Food was needed, and warmth. But they were walking away from food and warmth, upwards. Into unknown territory. Where they had been assured Jules would be waiting, somewhere warm and dry. Assured by Lisette.
Mallory was having to rely on people he did not know. And that made Mallory nervous.
Mallory said quietly, ‘We’d better watch the rear, in case anyone drops out.’
Andrea stepped to one side. The walkers passed him: Jaime in the lead, Miller, Thierry. Then, a long way behind, too far, Hugues and Lisette: Hugues hunched over Lisette, apparently half-carrying her, their shapes odd and lumpy against the white snow, like a single, awkward animal. Andrea could hear Hugues’ breathing.
‘You all right?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said Hugues, in a voice whose cheerfulness even exhaustion could not mar.
Andrea frowned. Then he fell in behind, and kept on upwards.
It felt like an eternity. But in reality it was only a little more than an hour before Jaime emitted a bark of satisfaction, and said, ‘Voilà!’
The ground had for some time been rising less steeply. Between snow flurries, Mallory saw a silvery line of snow lying across the black-lead sky: the ridge. Between the walkers and the ridge was what might have been a narrow ledge, running diagonally upwards, its lines softened by six inches of snow. Jaime kicked at the downhill side with his foot, revealing a coping of roughly-dressed stone. ‘The Chemin des Anges,’ he said.
The path was easy walking, following the contours, skirting precipices over which Miller did not allow his eyes to stray. They followed it up and onto the ridge.
Lack of effort let them feel the chill of their sodden clothes. They paused to let Lisette and Hugues catch up. Mallory took his oilcloth-wrapped cigarettes from the soaking pocket of his blouse, and gave one to Miller. Their faces were haggard in the Zippo’s flare. Hugues and Lisette approached.
Hugues said, ‘Lisette needs food. Rest, warmth-’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Lisette’s voice. She sounded weak, but resolute.
‘But my darling-’
‘Don’t you darling me,’ she said. ‘Can we go on?’
Mallory said nothing. It was possible to admire this woman’s spirit. It was less possible to admire the speed at which she moved. Too slow, thought Mallory. It was all getting too slow, and there was a hell of a distance to travel before they even got to the start line.
His watch said it was 0200 hours. He said to Jaime, ‘How long?’
‘Two hours. All downhill. The slope is not so bad now.’
Mallory could hear Hugues’ teeth chattering. There was a thin. icy wind up here, and the snow was colder. ‘Any shelter before then?’
‘In ten minutes. A shepherd’s hut. There will be nobody.’
‘We’ll stop for twenty minutes.’
‘Thank God.’
The shepherd’s hut had a roof and three walls, facing providentially away from the wind. The floor was covered in dung-matted straw, but it was dry, and after the snow it was as good as a Turkish carpet. They burrowed into the filthy straw, smoking, letting their body heat warm their soaking clothes. Jaime produced a bottle of brandy. Lisette was half-buried in the straw next to Hugues. When Mallory shone his flashlight at her, he saw her face was a dead grey. He took the brandy bottle out of Thierry’s hand and carried it over to her. ‘Here,’ he said.
The neck of the bottle rattled against her teeth. She coughed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, when she could speak.
Mallory said, ‘It was a good thing you found us.’
‘Love,’ said Hugues. ‘It was the power of love. A sixth sense -’
‘There was a little more to it than that,’ she said, dryly. ‘Hugues, you are getting carried away.’
‘Yes,’ said Mallory, warming to her toughness. ‘So how did you do it?’
She shook her head. Her shivering was lending a faint seismic movement to the straw. They were talking, the résistants. One of them I knew. They said the radio signal arranging your drop mentioned that you were carrying money, I don’t know if it’s true. They made a deal with a German officer. They are demoralised, some of these Germans in the mountains here. And of course the résistants too; some of them are no more than bandits. The German was to kill you. Then he was to give them the money and collect a medal, I guess.’ Her teeth gleamed in the pale reflection from the snow outside. ‘I saw them come back to warn the officer. I knew where they had come from. So I got on my bicycle, and fell off in the right place. And it didn’t work out for those pigs.’
‘Thank God,’ said Hugues, fervently.
Mallory found he was smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He got up, his weary knees protesting. It looked as if there