The Final Cut. Michael Dobbs
cannot escape. Come out, I promise no one will get hurt.’
There was silence. He directed two other members of the section to empty their magazines against the rocks, and suddenly there was a youthful cry of pain. A spent bullet had ricocheted and caught one of the lads a glancing blow. No damage, but surprise and distress.
‘Can you speak English? Come out now, before anyone gets hurt.’
Silence.
‘Damn them! Do they want to die?’ Urquhart beat his palms with frustration. But Ross was on his knees, fiddling with a Mills grenade.
‘What on earth…?’ Urquhart demanded, but could not avoid taking an involuntary pace backwards.
The corporal had bent the pin so that it could not fall out, then with meticulous care and using the stock of a Sten gun for torque he proceeded to unscrew the top of the grenade, lifting it away from the dull metal body complete with its detonator. The powdered explosive poured out easily into a little pile on the rocks beside his boot. He now reassembled the harmless bomb, and handed it to Urquhart.
‘If this doesnae scare those rabbits out of their hole, nothing will.’
Urquhart nodded in understanding. ‘This is your last chance,’ he shouted to the rocks. ‘Come out or we’ll use grenades.’
‘Eleftheria i Thanatos!’ came the reply.
‘The EOKA battle cry. Freedom or Death!’ Ross explained.
‘They’re only children!’ Urquhart snapped in exasperation.
‘Brave wee buggers.’
Angrily, Urquhart wrenched the pin from the grenade, letting the noise of the spring-loaded firing pin drift out across the rocks. Then he threw the grenade into the bowl.
Less than two seconds later it came hurtling out again. The reaction was automatic, the instinct for self-preservation overriding. Urquhart threw himself to the ground, burying his head amongst the pine needles and cones, trying to count the seconds. There came a muffled pop from the detonator, but nothing more. No blast; no ripping metal or torn flesh. Eventually he looked up to find the figure of Ross towering above him, framed in menacing silhouette against the evening sky.
‘Let me help you tae yer feet. Sir.’ Derision filled every syllable.
Urquhart waved away the proffered hand and scrambled up, meticulously thrashing the dust from his khaki uniform to hide his humiliation. He knew that every Jock in the section was mocking and by morning the tale would have filled all four corners of the officers’ mess. Ross had exacted his revenge.
A rage grew within Urquhart. Not a blind rage that blurs judgement but a wrath that burnt and whose light brought appalling clarity.
‘Fetch two jerry cans of petrol from the Champ,’ he instructed.
A soldier went scurrying.
‘What are you intending to do, Mr Urquhart?’ Ross asked, the triumph evaporated from his voice.
‘We need information or examples. Those terrorists can provide either.’
Ross noted the change in the boys’ status. ‘Examples? Of what?’
Urquhart met the other man’s gaze; he saw fear. He had regained the advantage. Then the jerry cans arrived.
‘Corporal, I want you to get around behind them. Use the cover of those rocks. Then empty the petrol into their hide.’
‘And then what?’
‘That will depend upon them.’
‘They’re nothin’ but bairns…’
‘Tell that to MacPherson. This is a war, not a tea party. So they can come out in one piece or with their tail feathers scorched. Their choice.’
‘You wouldna burn them out.’
‘I’ll give them far more chance than EOKA would.’ They knew the bloody truth of that, had both seen the blackened carcasses, hands stretched out like claws in charred agony, fathers and sons often dragged out of church or from the desperate clutches of their families, burnt, butchered. As examples. ‘And the message will get round, serve as a warning. Make it easier for us next time.’
‘But, Sir…
Urquhart cut him short, handed him a jerry can. ‘We’ll give you covering fire.’
Ross took one step back, shaking his head. ‘Ah’ll no’ burn them oot. I dinna fight that way. Against bairns.’
There was an audible stirring of support from the section’s other members. Ross was able, experienced, some of the men owed their lives to that.
‘Corporal, I am giving you a direct order. To disobey is a court-martial offence.’
‘I hae lads of my own.’
‘And if you don’t follow my orders I’ll make sure you’re locked up so long they will be grown men by the time you next set eyes on them.’
Agony had carved deep furrows across the corporal’s expression, but still he refused the jerry can. ‘Rather that, than never being able to look my boys in the eye again.’
‘This is not me ordering you, Ross, it’s your country.’
‘You do it then. If you hae the stomach fer it.’
The challenge had been struck. Urquhart looked around the others, five men in all, saw they had sided with Ross. He knew he couldn’t court-martial the entire section, it would reduce him to a laughing stock. Ross was right; if it were to be done, he would have to do it himself.
‘Give me covering fire when I’m round behind them.’ He eyed the corporal. ‘No, not you Ross. You’re under arrest.’
And he had gone. Ducking low, pacing rapidly through the trees, a can in each hand, until he was well behind the hide. He signalled and one then another of the troops opened up, sending barrages of sound across the scene. Quickly and as quietly as he was able, Urquhart edged up to one of the taller boulders, almost the height of a man which stood directly behind where the boys were hiding. The cap was off one can, he stretched and spilled all four and a half gallons of stinking fuel down the rock face and into the bowl. The next four and a half gallons followed immediately. Then he retreated.
‘You have thirty seconds to come out before we fire the petrol!’
Within their rocky hide, George and Eurypides’ faces spoke of their dread. As fast as they tried to crawl away from the swamping fuel, they were forced to duck back beneath the blanket of ricocheting bullets. What was worse, the fuel had begun to make the elevations of the rocky bowl slippery, the nails on their boots finding little purchase on the smooth stone. The inevitable result in such a small place was that their clothes became soaked in foul-smelling petrol. It made them retch.
‘Fifteen seconds!’
‘They won’t do it, little brother,’ George tried to convince himself. ‘But if they do, you jump first.’
‘We mustn’t tell. Whatever happens, we mustn’t tell,’ Eurypides choked.
‘Five!’
It was longer than five. Considerably longer. Urquhart’s bluff had been called. There was no turning back. He had retained a rag half-soaked in petrol; this he tied around a small rock so that the fuel-impregnated ends hung free. He brought out his cigarette lighter, snapped it into life, and touched the rag.
Events moved rapidly from that point. The rag burst into flame, almost engulfing Urquhart’s hand, scorching the hair on his arm. He was forced to throw it immediately; it performed a high, smoky arc in the sky above the rocks before plunging down. Ross shouted. There was a crack. Hot vapour danced above the hide like a chimney from hell. Then a scream, a terrified, violent, boyish shriek of protest. Two heads appeared above the bowl, then the tops of two young bodies