Ship of Force (16 page)

Josef nodded. “We go, yes?” He looked at Smith.

Smith pondered. They were ashore in enemy-held country; they were committed. And the woods at De Haan must be less than a kilometre away to the north…

He said, “Go on.”

Josef led on, the boots of all of them padding softly in the loose sand until they came out of the dunes. The ground beyond was open for a hundred yards but then a low shadow stretched across before them. Halfway across the open ground they came on a railway line, crossed its tracks and came to the shadow, that proved to be low scrub.

Smith whispered, “The railway. Where does it go?”

“Up to De Haan and on to Zeebrugge, or down through Ostende and right down the coast. The Germans use it, of course.”

Smith nodded and followed him again as they skirted the scrub, keeping close to its shadow. He noted the abandoned ruin of a cottage or barn, stored it in his memory as he was trying to count the paces, keep an idea of his bearings. The rain came again falling steadily. They moved through the silent country for a quarter-mile or so, Josef halting to peer about him and cock his head, listening. Then they left the scrub and he led them angling to the right and they came to a hedge. He followed it down to a gap, stepped cautiously through, head turning, and then waved them on. They came out on to a dirt road slippery with mud under the rain and the Belgian whispered, “Now we must go carefully. The village is close.”

On again with the squish and slither of their boots in the mud at the side of the road, the sound of their breathing and the tinkling trickle of a score of water courses. Josef in the lead, then Smith, McGraw, Galt, Finlay and Buckley at the tail. Until Josef stopped again and whispered, “The village.”

Smith changed the Webley to his left hand and wiped the sweat from the right on his jacket.

There were lights, only three or four of them and giving little away, but lights all the same. The enemy could show them here; the village was a long way behind the line. Smith could make out buildings, the hard edges of roofs and walls where they stood among the softer lines of trees.

Josef whispered, “There is a patrol in the village. A non-com and two men.”

Smith nodded.

Josef moved on until the village opened up. The road ran between houses into a square. They passed between the houses, hugging the wall on their left and came to the square, stopped at the corner of the last house. Smith stood at Josef’s shoulder. The square was maybe three times the width of the road that ran through it, past a fountain that was not playing, and on out of the farther side of the square. The guard-post was obvious where it lay to the left, facing the square. It was a middle-sized house with a flagpole on its roof but no flag now. A short flight of steps led up to the front door and sentries stood on either side of the door in the shelter of the apron that projected out over the steps. Their rifles were slung on their shoulders. No one could enter the square without being seen.

Smith whispered, “What about the back?” There was a light behind the front door that showed in a thin crack at its foot and another in the room above the door. The window was curtained but a sliver of light showed at one side.

They turned, retraced their steps past the houses, climbed a low wall and trudged through a garden. Liquid mud sucked briefly and smellily at their boots as they passed a pig-sty and there was a rustling and grunting. They turned right round the back of the houses, came on a path, followed it.

Josef turned and waved frantically, ran crouching off the path and bellied down. They followed him and lay pressed against the wet earth, wet grass on their faces. Now they could hear the patrol pacing steadily, unhurriedly along the path. There was a mutter of voices that grew louder as the tramp of the boots grew louder. The voices were bored, soldiers trudging through a wet night, not for the first time, nor the last. They were passing…

They stopped.

Smith had his face pressed in his folded arms to hide it, the Webley under his chest. He peered up under his brows and saw the three soldiers close, winced as a match was scraped and the glare set him blinking, saw the man with the match hold it to the pipe, his cheeks sucking. The match went out, the pipe glowed then was cupped in one hand.

One of them spat out into the darkness and it landed before Smith’s face.

Then they tramped on, out of sight and sound.

Josef got to his feet and Smith and the others followed him in file as he went along the path, moving more quickly now with the patrol behind them. So that they nearly ran into the sentry. They had come to a chest-high wall and Josef started to follow it then dropped down on all fours, pressed in tight against it. Smith, kneeling behind him, saw above the wall the head and shoulders, the rifle barrel, the flat round cap and caught a glimpse of the face below it, the round lenses of spectacles above a big moustache. Smith could see him against the glow of light in the building behind him but Smith and his party had moved against a background of trees, otherwise the sentry must have seen them. He passed them, his boots crunching on gravel on the far side of the wall, turned and passed them again, his back to them as he paced back along his beat. That beat was the length of the wall that was some fifty feet long with the break of a gate at its centre. He paced along the inside of the wall and they, crouching, tip-toed behind him outside.

The wall bounded the yard of the guard-house and that was about fifty feet square. At the head of it stood the house and there was an uncurtained window. Through it Smith could see a long room that ran the width of the ground floor. It was a dormitory with beds down each side and men sprawled on them fully-dressed. Rifles stood in racks in the aisle between the rows of beds. All this he saw by the light of the lamp that stood on the table in the middle of the room and half-a-dozen men sat there playing cards.

A sentry stood by the back door of the house, his back propped against the wall, clasped hands holding the muzzle of the rifle, its butt resting between his feet.

Smith went down again with the rest of them. The sentry was coming to the end of his beat. He turned and passed them, the crunch of his boots fading. Smith saw Josef’s face turned pale towards him as he watched the sentry then he rose and moved on. He did not halt until they were well clear of the wall and then he looked at Smith. “Well?”

The back of the house was as hopeless as the front. They could do nothing. It had been a dangerous waste of time and they had a long way to go to get back to the ship. He looked at his watch and saw that forty-five minutes had passed since he sent Lorimer away and embarked on this folly. He had made a fool of himself and all of them would know it and Trist would smile. All for a woman just because she was a woman. Or was it because Buckley and the men expected him to perform some miracle and his vanity had led him to try?

They stood around him with their shoulders hunched against the rain, heads turning as they quartered the darkness but they shot quick glances at him. The carrot-headed Hec McGraw, and Galt, the mouth-organ playing tough. Dour Finlay and Buckley. He would have to tell them it was no good. He had risked their lives for nothing.

He asked, “Where does the path go?”

Josef shrugged. “I don’t know but I suppose it runs into the road again on the far side, the inland side of the village.”

“We’ll keep on, then.” Something nagged at him, something he should have thought of, that had eluded him so that he went over in his mind what he had seen, looking at it again as they walked on through the night, following the path as it bent slowly to the right. He recalled the road running between the houses and the sentries at the front of the house, at the rear. The wandering patrol. The single light on the upper floor suggested the woman might be there. Might? The square was empty so maybe the transport had not arrived and she was in there somewhere. It was too soon for the transport to have come and gone and surely they would have heard it, seen its lights —
That was it
!

He heard it then, and saw its lights as the factor that had eluded him snapped into place. The lights were moving, he could see them through the trees that ran in a line that marked the line of the road and he could hear the engine. The vehicle was about four hundred yards away and he was twenty yards from the road.

He started to run and shoved past Josef. “
Come
on!” He called it, not shouting but loud enough for all of them to hear and their boots pounded and splashed behind him. He made out two low gaps in the hedge and broke from the path that meandered on and ran straight through the long grass at one of the gaps and jumped it. He landed in the ditch beyond in a fountain of spray that stank and knee deep in water, fell forward, recovered and splashed out of the ditch and ran along the road towards the approaching lights. There were splashings and muttered curses in Scots accents and Buckley’s hoarse chiding: “Shut that gab! Save your breath!”

They needed it. Smith was already panting but he kept on running as the lights came towards him. Two hundred yards away? He stopped and dragged his torch from his pocket, switched it on and shoved it at Josef. “Get in the road and stop him!” And crouched in the ditch, the water up to his middle, waved down the others as Josef stood on the crown of the road and waved his torch at the vehicle lumbering down on him.

Smith gasped, “Point the pistols but no shooting unless they try it. Understood? It’s got to be
quiet
!” He saw them nod and his eyes swung back to the road.

It was a staff car. He saw that much behind the yellow orbs of its lights as it slowed, a mist of spray rising from its wheels, a leather or canvas top to it but no windows, open at the sides above the doors, two faces in the front…

It halted abreast of him, brakes squealing and only feet short of Josef. A head poked out at either side, one in a round cap, the other in a cap with a peak. A voice snapped a question, curt, impatient.

Smith could see faces in the back of the car now. Two? He shoved out of the ditch and straightened as he took the long stride that brought him up to the car to put his pistol to the face there. “Still!”

Buckley was around the other side, pistol pointing. So was Galt. McGraw was beside Smith and yanking open the rear door with his pistol pointed, threatening. “Keep still ye bastards or ah’ll shoot ye where ye are!”

Smith doubted if the words meant anything to the two soldiers inside but the pistol did. Like the two in front they sat frozen. He snapped, “Get ’em out! Quick! And watch for any tricks!” He eased back half a pace, tugging the door open with his free hand then beckoning: “Out!” They all climbed down, hands lifted above their shoulders. The two in the back were infantrymen, their rifles left in the car. One from the front was the driver, the other, in the peaked cap, was a Major. Smith recognised that rank. He was young and hard-faced and the face was scarred. He was startled and wary but already recovering. He took in Smith’s uniform and those of the men with him and broke into German.

“Shut up!” Smith told him.

For a moment he did. Then he started again. “You are English —”

Smith shoved him towards the ditch, snatched the cap from his head and snarled at him. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for good!”

He sounded as though he meant it. The Major believed him and was silent. But he was angry, not afraid.

Smith said, “Buckley, Galt, cover the other three. Finlay! You and McGraw make this officer fast and gag him. Use his belt, anything that’ll do and sit him in the ditch.”

He left them to it. He heard the start of an angry protest from the Major: “You cannot do —” It was suddenly cut short. Smith suspected the gag had been applied but he was inside the staff car, peering at the controls, trying to identify them from the memory of his one brief attempt at driving. He thought that the Major slipped easily into English and that he was probably another Sanders in reverse, spending long vacations in England before the war.

He heard Buckley say, “Same with the others, sir?” And nodded absently. The engine was still running and that was something. He didn’t have to worry about starting, adjusting the mixture etc. He saw that the safety catch was applied on the Webley then tucked it in his belt and went over the procedure, muttering instructions to himself. He thought he had it — Buckley showed at the window. “All secure, sir.”

He had to do it. “Finlay! McGraw!” As they came up he saw beyond them the heads of the Major and his men sticking out of the ditch at the edge of the road. He’d picked McGraw because he was a fighter and Finlay for his cool head. He would keep McGraw in check. He told all of them what he wanted and then looked at them. McGraw was enjoying himself, that was obvious, but Finlay was poker-faced. He sent those two off, carrying the soldiers’ rifles and running for the path by which they had come.

“All right,” he said, “the rest of you get in.” Buckley sat in the front by Smith. Josef and Galt got in the back. He saw Josef holding the Major’s Mauser pistol, checking the load, smacking the magazine home.

Smith took off his cap and crammed the Major’s on his head so it rested on his ears. He jammed the car into gear and got it moving but jerkily so it shook them and he heard Galt swearing. Then it ran more smoothly and they were bumping over the pave, picking up speed as Smith clung to the wheel. Something moved at the edge of the light, came up at them as they closed the distance between and they saw the patrol they had seen earlier, still making their circuit of the village and about to cross the road. They waited for the car to pass, hunched under the rain and Smith told himself he had been right to order the prisoners to be gagged because a yell now would have given the game away. The patrol squinted against the lights but then the car was past them and running into the village. Smith only had time to be glad the patrol had not come five minutes sooner and then the little square showed ahead of him. He braked and they slowed a little but still swayed drunkenly as they took the tight turn into the square. The headlights swept around the faces of the houses and settled on the door with the two sentries. The car jolted down at them over the cobbles, swerving out and in as Smith swung it desperately around the fountain, straightening…

The car slid to a halt with its front wheels almost on the steps and the engine hiccupped and died. Smith stuck his head out of the side, mouth open to bark, “Komm!” But it was unnecessary: the sentries were already coming down the steps, blinking against the glare of the headlights. One of them saw the Major’s cap and snapped to attention and the other followed suit. Smith said, “Out!” He thrust open the door and pointed his pistol at the nearest sentry. He saw Buckley menacing the other. Galt and Josef came slipping around to snatch the gaping sentries’ rifles and Smith said, “Galt! You hold them!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Smith ran at the door, twisted the handle and pushed it open. Beyond was a hall stretching towards the rear of the building. Empty. To the right a staircase led up and he took the stairs on the run, three at a time. On the landing he paused briefly. There were four doors on the landing but light showed under only one and that one of a room that faced the square. Buckley and Josef crowded behind him, breathing heavily. To Buckley he said softly, “Watch our backs.” Then with Josef he moved to the door, paused to take a breath then seized the handle, twisted and shoved and burst in with the opening door.

It was an office. Opposite the door was the curtained window and on either side of the room stood a desk. An orderly sat at a typewriter behind the one on the left. Behind the other on the right sat an officer, bareheaded. His hands rested on the blotter before him. Another Major but this one’s close-cropped head was grizzled and between his hands lay a Mauser automatic pistol like the one Josef held now. Between Smith and the Major sat a woman in a straight-backed chair, her back to Smith. A guard, rifle slung, stood stiffly at her shoulder. It was all taken in with one blink as he stood at the door and those in the room gaped at him, all except the woman who did not turn. For that blink of time all of them were frozen as if posed for a photograph.

Then Josef said, “That’s her!”

The picture broke up, was smashed. The Major snatched at the pistol and fired at the same time as Smith and Josef. The reports were thunderous in the room. Something burred past Smith’s head and the Major, half rising, went backwards over his chair to fall spread-eagled on the floor. The guard was unslinging his rifle but Josef was on him, hitting him wildly across the side of the head with the Mauser, a blow like a man chopping wood that jerked another shot out of the pistol to smash into the ceiling in a spurt of plaster and the guard fell against the desk and then to the floor. Josef grabbed at the woman’s arm and she rose under that urging, turning. She wore a blouse and skirt, both cheap, and a shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. The dress of a peasant woman. Then she turned fully around and Smith saw the face, pale and tight-drawn. It was the face of Eleanor Hurst.

For a moment he could only stare, unable to take it in. Eleanor Hurst.
Eleanor
!

And though she in her turn gazed at him blankly, she recognised the face. But not the man. This man with his cold, savage stare was a stranger. But then Buckley yelled and a shot crashed out in the hall, a door slammed. Shooting broke out at the rear of the house, a fusillade, and there was the sound of shattering glass. Smith heard distant cheering and knew that was Finlay and McGraw but then there was firing closer, inside the house and he ran out on to the landing. Buckley stood crouching, wide-legged, pistol covering the landing. He turned his head fractionally. “A feller popped out of a door an’ jumped back when he saw me. I fired a shot at him but he got away.”