The house seemed very silent, and he decided that it must be nearly dark outside. He darted a glance at the door. The gun was still rigid and unwavering. Perhaps he’ll be one of the firing squad. Or maybe they don’t do it that way. Wait until I fall asleep, and then … a trickle of sweat ran coldly across his cheek, as he remembered the sentry’s gun.

  By an almost physical effort, he thought of his father, and the sun, slanting across his mother’s grey hair as she pruned the roses. His father had always seemed to be rather a forbidding man, but as Jervis closed his eyes to try to picture him more clearly, he could only see the kindness in the old man’s face.

  But of course, he thought dully, they think I’m dead already. The submarine will have been reported missing, and I shall be merely remembered, as I am remembering them. The cold finality of it seemed to sober him, and he lay wide eyed, staring at the flaking ceiling. His breathing became calmer, and his limbs started to relax.

  It’s funny how death doesn’t seem half so terrible, once you know it’s inevitable, he thought, and I must make sure that I don’t let myself down when the moment comes. The corners of his mouth drooped, and for an instant the sickness began to mount again inside him, so he turned his thoughts back again, it was useless anyway to look forward.

  He stiffened, as the sounds of voices drifted down the passage. One, a woman’s voice, called out sharply in Italian, and the other was swallowed up by the banging of a door.

  The sentry drew his feet together, as the first voice drew nearer. It changed suddenly into fluent German, and the soldier nodded violently, his helmet jerking forward over his admiring eyes. Jervis stared at her coldly, a feeling of resentment and anger, changing the girl who now stood inside the room, from a creature of beauty to another part of a scheme to mock and degrade him.

  She stood quite still, looking down at him, her bare brown arms silky beneath the naked light bulb. She was wearing a plain, dark green dress with a leather belt, the tightness of which helped to accentuate the rich curves of her body.

  Her dark eyes were almost black with the contempt and hatred which she directed at Jervis, and her wide mouth trembled as she spoke softly over her shoulder in German. The sentry, who was peering round the edge of the door, tittered, and settled down comfortably to watch, as the girl moved slowly across the room, stooping slightly, as if to make quite sure she took in every detail of Jervis’s face.

  He sat up slowly, and was about to rise to his feet, when the Schmeisser motioned him to remain seated.

  So that she can mock me to her heart’s content, he thought bitterly. He stared fixedly at her slim, bare legs, and was half tempted to throw himself at her. Only a few feet separated them. He tingled at the idea. It would be one last gesture.

  He went suddenly rigid. The girl continued pacing the floor, but her sneering voice had changed to English. He looked up, startled, and her eyes flashed with anxiety and sudden urgency.

  `Keep your head down! There is little time, so do as I say, and I might be able to help you!’

  For a moment his eyes held hers. She was no longer sneering, her mouth was trembling with desperation, and he lowered his head, so that neither she nor the sentry should see the faint hope in his eyes.

  She breathed deeply, and carried on with her pacing. As she spoke, the sentry tittered happily, quite convinced that she was continuing her attack in English.

  `Listen to me. I will help you to escape, if you will tell me where your friends are!’

  Jervis’s hope changed into a sudden cold wariness, and he sat forward on the edge of the bed, his eyes following her feet, but his mind again on guard.

  `I know you lied to the colonel. I saw one of your friends on the beach this morning. Tell me where I can find them, and I will fetch them to you.’

  Jervis shook his head. `I am alone. I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  She darted her hand beneath his chin and jerked up his head so that her eyes held his in a silent plea. `Please! I tell the truth, I saw one of them today!’

  The shock of her smooth skin against his neck made him search her face with new interest. `Describe the man you saw.’

  She stamped her foot, but there was frustration not anger in her eyes. `There is no time!’ She saw his obstinate mouth, and she darted a quick glance at the door. `He was tall and fair. He had two stripes on his shoulder, and he was carrying a pistol! Now do you believe me?’

  Jervis struggled with his emotions. It could be a trap to .draw the others into the net. That must have been Curtis she saw. A little breath of warmth moved within him, but he forced himself to consider the girl’s words. `Why didn’t you tell the colonel about this?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that. You must trust me. Please!’

  She stood over him, her hands clenched and her body trembling with emotion.

  `It could be a trap.’ Jervis watched her eyes, and saw the despair which followed his words. He knew that he was going to tell her, and he knew, too, that by so doing, he was risking more than just his own life, and the few hours left until dawn.

  `The hill at the end of the beach. By the fishing boats. They might be there. I don’t know.’ As the short sentences jerked from him, he instantly regretted his outburst, and looked up at her with sudden fear.

  But for a moment her wide eyes softened, and she nodded quickly. `I will go, before someone suspects. I am going to hit you now, I am sorry!’ With that, she struck Jervis a ringing blow on the cheek, and as he reeled back across the bed, she stepped quickly from the room.

  He sat up, gingerly feeling his face. The blow had somehow cleared away his doubts about her, and he felt a tremor of excitement run through his body, which even the jeering laugh of the sentry did nothing to dispel.

  He met the sentry’s stare calmly. You wait,, my lad. If the skipper comes you’ll laugh the other side of your face.

  He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. The girl had been a link, no matter how frail, with the outside. And from the outside, help would come, he was sure of that. He had to be. It was all he had left.

  6

  CURTIS settled his elbows more comfortably in the grass, and craned his head as high as he dared to watch the first of the lorries as it trundled awkwardly down the track and on to the beach. As the front wheels tested the strength of the sand, the driver revved his engine impatiently, the blue diesel fumes hanging listlessly on the still air. The villagers followed the lorry in an anxious, silent crowd, occasionally pointing either at the beach or the lorry, but mostly watching the uniformed figures who waved at the driver, or shouted urgently whenever the wheels threatened to leave the narrow track.

  Curtis had been on watch when he had heard the lorries halt at the top of the village, and after waking his exhausted companions, had fretted impatiently, and constantly changed his position to try to see what was happening. He had seen some of the returning fishermen run with their women up the track, ignoring their nets and showing an indifference to their boats which was completely alien to their kind anywhere.

  ‘Somethin’s up, Ralph.’ Duncan had come completely awake, his eyes narrowed against the sun. `Reckon it’s a search party?’

  They had felt for their scanty weapons, and Curtis had placed Taylor at the rear approach to the hill to watch for any new activity, but after what seemed like an eternity, a few uniformed Italians had sauntered down to the beach accompanied by the captain of the schooner. And now, the first of the lorries had started to move towards the sea.

  `They’re goin’ to load some gear on to the ship,’ said Duncan. `Looks like they might be sailin’ soon, eh?’ He smiled slowly, the leathery skin about his eyes bunching into broad crowsfeet. `We still goin’ through with our plan, Ralph?’

  Curtis studied the lorry, noting the travel stains across its broad bonnet.

  `We’ll take her whatever happens. Unless they’re embarking a regiment of troops!’ He smiled slightly, but inwardly he was already considering that such a possibility would smash his flimsy plans to nothing.

  `Another truck on the way,’ announced Duncan suddenly. `An’ there’s some more behind that!’

  The dust rose in a thick cloud as the four lorries manoeuvred into a ragged line on the edge of the soft sand and halted. The fishermen were listening to a tall officer in a dove grey uniform, who was waving a stick vaguely towards the boats and then at the schooner. The fishermen walked back to their boats and stood in a silent group, while the officer held up his stick like a sword and pointed at the lorries. He was smiling, his teeth gleaming whitely beneath a neat black moustache. He was apparently shouting some sort of a joke to the onlookers, but until the soldiers laughed, none of the villagers moved or spoke, and the tension could be felt by the three sun-baked figures at the top of the hill.

  The tail-boards of the lorries fell with a series of dull thuds, and some of the soldiers climbed up inside the tall vehicles.

  Curtis swore and squinted fixedly at the scene, wishing that they would, finish their job, whatever it was, and leave the beach empty once more.

  `Bloody Eye-ties!’ Duncan rolled his tongue across his lips. `Always make such a shindy over everything, I shouldn’t be surprised if-‘ He stopped, and Curtis felt his fingers dig into his arm.

  Neither spoke as the first khaki figure half fell, half staggered down on to the sand. He stood swaying dazedly from side to side, feebly trying to support himself on a piece of boxwood. One of his feet was encased in a great wad of bandage, and he tried to hold it clear of the ground by leaning on the little piece of wood. His bent swaying shape threw a queer twisted shadow across the white sand, like a caricature of a man.

  Another soldier climbed down and cannoned into him, and for a moment they swayed together, in a frantic embrace.

  This man was whole, but for the bandage across his eyes and most of his face. His hands gripped the other man and held on desperately, as the cripple fought to hold his balance and at the same time pacify his blinded comrade.

  One of the drivers laughed and kicked away,the wooden prop, and both of the tattered figures rolled over in the dust. Curtis drove his fingers into the grass until they were buried in the coarse dirt, the heat of his. rage and anguish almost blinding him, as one by one the ragged, khaki scarecrows fell, or were dragged from the four lorries.

  Duncan was crouched by a bush, his thick arms rigid, like a runner waiting for the gun, and his jaw moving silently as he cursed and swore under his breath in a savage chant.

  There were altogether about thirty wounded men on the beach. Some sat dejectedly in the sand, their heads hanging practically to their knees, while others clung together for support, their bandages stained either with dirt, or by the bright red patches which marked the pattern of their combined suffering.

  Some just laid where they had fallen, crumpled shabby forms, which had once been British soldiers.

  A driver shouted hoarsely, and some of his comrades climbed back into one of the lorries and dragged two more figures down over the tail-board.

  The officer shouted angrily and waved his stick, but the driver merely shrugged and prodded one of the bodies with his foot.

  A figure suddenly detached itself from the khaki huddle and limped sti y towards the officer. He carried one arm in a sling and only one eye was visible from beneath the massive dressing about his head. No one moved to intercept him, as with his good arm swinging in almost military precision, he marched up to the Italian officer, who stood swinging his stick idly against his polished boot, as if he had been hoping for and expecting just such an encounter.

  The soldier halted, his head twisted on one side so that he could see the other man. A set of sergeant’s stripes hung loosely from his sleeve, and as Curtis watched with sick horror, he could see the glint of campaign ribbons on the soldier’s chest.

  The sergeant pointed stiffly at his companions and then at his. own injuries. His mouth opened and closed slowly, as if he was trying to explain his requirements in that peculiar pidgin English which British troops use when confronted with a foreigner.

  The officer yawned elaborately, and in obedience, some of his men laughed. The sergeant’s red face seemed to get redder, but he brushed the sweat away from his face and continued to speak and gesticulate. The officer was evidently getting bored, for he called to the men by the boats and turned on his heel.

  The sergeant dragged himself painfully after him, anxiety giving him sudden energy.

  `Christ! The poor devils are dyin’!’ Duncan’s voice shook as the words were dragged from him. `That stinkin’ bastard’s makin’ the guy crawl!’ He half rose to his feet, one hand groping for his pistol.

  Curtis dragged him down beside him, his face set in a bitter mask. `Get down, Steve! We can’t do anything for them yet!’

  `Yet? You mean we’re goin’ down to have a crack at those yellow apes?’

  Curtis nodded, his throat clogged, as the wounded men began to stagger to their feet. `We’ll help them, if it’s the last thing we do!’ He slammed his hands together. `Look at them! God, why doesn’t someone give them a hand?’

  The officer walked away towards the sea, and one of his men pushed the sergeant towards the boats.

  Duncan ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at his jacket, as if he could no longer breathe. `All those blokes bein’ packed into that one crummy ship? How long’ll they be aboard for Chrissakes? They need medical attention, and quick!’

  Curtis narrowed his eyes, as he looked towards the still forms which lay by the lorries. `Not them,’ he said softly. `They’re out of it.’

  One of the watching women was crying into her apron, and Duncan looked down at her, his face hard.

  `Yes, cry, you bitch! When the Eighth Army comes through here, you’ll remember all this P

  The boats pushed off from the beach, but as one of them bumped against a sandbank, weighted down with its.heavy load, one of the khaki shapes half rose from his seat, and the silence was split by a terrible cry of pain.

  In the bows of another boat a stocky figure scrambled precariously on to the gunwale, his head bandages gold in the sun. Curtis groaned aloud; it was the sergeant again. His groan faded into a sob as the sergeant’s cracked voice floated across the painted water.

  `Bless ‘em all, bless ‘em all! The long an’ the short an’ the tall!’

  The schooner’s captain waded after the nearest boat and climbed clumsily over the stern, while behind him, alone on the beach, the officer danced up and down with rage, screaming and waving his stick at the sergeant, `Silenzio ! Silenzio !’

  An old fisherman standing by his cottage door saluted with sudden gravity, and a woman pulled her child closer to her skirt.

  Curtis watched the boats bump alongside the schooner, their shapes blurred and indistinct.

  `We’ll board her tonight,’ he said quietly. `Whatever happens now, we have to take that ship!’

  Duncan stared down at the officer, his face tired and heavy. . `I hope he’s around, when we go!’

  They looked at each other, both aware of the new implication and the coldness which had enclosed them like a shroud.

  They waited until the bodies had been removed from the beach, and the lorries had departed, and then settled down to wait for the darkness. The waiting had been made easier by the hatred which waited upon each of them with persistent greed.

  The grass around the hilltop rustled uneasily as the cold breeze from the north tested its strength momentarily on the side of the slope, before passing on with mounting strength to fan out across the bay and bring the dark water alive with dancing whitecaps. Occasionally the moon showed itself in a feeble silver crescent, and tinged the edges of the black racing clouds with its fading brilliance, so that they looked angry and solid as they scudded purposefully across the late evening sky. As the moon darted an occasional ray upon the shoreline, the distorted shapes of the cottages shone like large lumps of sugar, before fading away into the blackness of the surrounding hills, and the sand spit seemed to rise from the sea in an effort to hold the passing light, before it, too, joined the shadows and the unsettled noises left by the wind.

  Curtis stood up and stamped his boots in the dust, while he attempted to study the luminous dial of his watch.

  Taylor stood at his side, his face an indistinct blob against the sky. He was buttoning his jacket, and carefully going through his pockets.

  `We makin’ a move soon, Skipper? There don’t seem to be anybody about.’

  `Yes, soon.’

  Curtis stared towards where the schooner lay, but against the constant movement of the water and the rearing and falling of the short, white-crested waves, he could no longer see the vessel’s hull. The nagging doubts persisted, and he had only half heard Taylor’s question.

  Suppose the ship pulled out without warning, and without waiting for the German officer to rejoin her? Until the last of the daylight had passed with the sun behind the headland, he had watched the movements in the village, and had waited coldly for the ship to show some sign of departing. Fresh water had been rowed out to the schooner’s side, the operation being carried out in several laborious trips by the fishermen in their boats, but still nothing happened. Like the others, Curtis had expected that a doctor would arrive to attend to the wounded, but the village had gradually quietened, and the ship had. i become more and more indistinct in the gathering darkness. Perhaps they had a medical officer on board, he thought, and dismissed the idea as unlikely, the gnawing anxiety he felt for the wounded soldiers only adding to the uncertainty of his next move.

  A stick cracked, and both men went stiff. They heard Duncan curse briefly from the ground below them, and Curtis moved to meet him.