‘I wish to heaven I knew.’ Lazlo lifted his arms, a small, helpless gesture. ‘Could be ten. Could be over a hundred. We’ve no idea. We’ve sent scouts, of course, but they never came back. Maybe they were swept away trying to cross the Neretva.’ He looked Vukalovic, speculation in his eyes. ‘Through the Zenica Gap, through the Western Gap or across that ridge there – you don’t know where the attack is coming from, do you, sir?’ Vukalovic shook his head. ‘But you expect it soon?’
‘Very soon.’ Vukalovic struck the rocky ground with a clenched fist. ‘Is there no way of destroying that damned bridge?’
There have been five RAF attacks,’ Lazlo said heavily. ‘To date, twenty-seven planes lost – there are two hundred AA guns along the Neretva and the nearest Messerschmitt station is only ten minutes’ flying time away. The German radar picks up the British bombers crossing our coast – and the Messerschmitts are here, waiting, by the time they arrive. And don’t forget that the bridge is set in rock on either side.’ ‘A direct hit or nothing?’
‘A direct hit on a target seven metres wide from three thousand metres. It is impossible. And a target so camouflaged that you can hardly see it five hundred metres away on land. Doubly impossible.’ ‘And impossible for us,’ Vukalovic said bleakly. ‘Impossible for us. We made our last attempt two nights ago.’
‘You made- I told you not to.’ ‘You asked us not to. But of course I, Colonel Lazlo, knew better. They started firing star-shells when our troops were halfway across the plateau, God knows how they knew they were coming. Then the searchlights -‘ ‘Then the shrapnel shells,’ Vukalovic finished. ‘And the Oerlikons. Casualties?’
‘We lost half a battalion.’
‘Half a battalion! And tell me, my dear Lazlo, what would have happened in the unlikely event of your men reaching the bridge?’
‘They had some amatol blocks, some hand-grenades -‘
‘No fireworks?’ Vukalovic asked in heavy sarcasm. ‘That might have helped. That bridge is built of steel set in reinforced concrete, man! You were mad even to try.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Lazlo looked away. ‘Perhaps you ought to relieve me.’
‘I think I should.’ Vukalovic looked closely at the exhausted face. ‘In fact I would. But for one thing.’
‘One thing?’
‘All my other regimental commanders are as mad as you are. And if the Germans do attack – maybe even tonight?’
‘We stand here. We are Yugoslavs and we have place to go. What else can we do?’
‘What else? Two thousand men with pop-guns, lost of them weak and starving and lacking ammunition, against what may perhaps be two first-line German armoured divisions. And you stand there. You could always surrender, you know.’
Lazlo smiled. ‘With respect, General, this is no time for facetiousness.’
Vukalovic clapped his shoulder. ‘I didn’t think it funny, either. I’m going up to the dam, to the north-eastern redoubt. I’ll see if Colonel Janzy is as mad as you are. And Colonel?’
‘Sir?’
‘If the attack comes, I may give the order to retreat.’
‘Retreat!’
‘Not surrender. Retreat. Retreat to what, one hopes, may be victory.’
‘I am sure the General knows what he is talking about.’
‘The General isn’t.’ Oblivious to possible sniper fire from across the Neretva, Vukalovic stood up in readiness to go. ‘Ever heard of a man called Captain Mallory. Keith Mallory, a New Zealander?’
‘No,’ Lazlo said promptly. He paused, then went on: ‘Wait a minute, though. Fellow who used to climb mountains?’
‘That’s the one. But he has also, I’m given to understand, other accomplishments.’ Vukalovic rubbed a stubbly chin. ‘If all I hear about him is true, I think you could quite fairly call him a rather gifted individual.’
‘And what about this gifted individual?’ Lazlo asked curiously.
‘Just this.’ Vukalovic was suddenly very serious, even sombre. ‘When all things are lost and there is no hope left, there is always, somewhere in the world, one man you can turn to. There may be only that one man. More often than not there is only that one man. But that one man is always there.’ He paused reflectively. ‘Or so they say.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lazlo said politely. ‘But about this Keith Mallory -‘
‘Before you sleep tonight, pray for him. I will.’ ‘Yes, sir. And about us? Shall I pray for us, too?’ ‘That,’ said Vukalovic, ‘wouldn’t be at all a bad idea.’
The sides of the jamba leading upwards from Major Broznik’s camp were very steep and very slippery and the ascending cavalcade of men and ponies were making very heavy going of it. Or most of them were. The escort of dark stocky Bosnian Partisans, to whom such terrain was part and parcel of existence, appeared quite unaffected by the climb: and it in no way appeared to interfere with Andrea’s rhythmic puffing of his usual vile-smelling cigar. Reynolds noticed this, a fact which fed fresh fuel to the already dark doubts and torments in his mind.
He said sourly: ‘You seem to have made a remarkable recovery in the night-time, Colonel Stavros, sir.’
‘Andrea.’ The cigar was removed. ‘I have a heart condition. It comes and goes.’ The cigar was replaced.
‘I’m sure it does,’ Reynolds muttered. He glanced suspiciously, and for the twentieth time, over his shoulder. ‘Where the hell is Mallory?’
‘Where the hell is Captain Mallory,’ Andrea chided
‘Well, where?’
‘The leader of an expedition has many responsibilities,’ Andrea said. ‘Many things to attend to. Captain Mallory is probably attending to something at this very moment.’
‘You can say that again,’ Reynolds muttered.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
Captain Mallory was, as Andrea had so correct-,’ guessed, attending to something at that precise moment. Back in Broznik’s office, he and Broznik were bent over a map spread out on the trestle table, pointed to a spot near the northern limit of the map.
‘I agree. This is the nearest possible landing strip for a plane. But it is very high up. At this time of ear there will still be almost a metre of snow up there. There are other places, better places.’ ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ Mallory said, faraway fields are always greener, maybe even far-away airfields. But I haven’t the time to go to them.’ He stabbed his forefinger on the map. ‘I want a Hiding-strip here and only here by night-fall. I’d be most grateful if you’d send a rider to Konjic within the hour and have my request radioed immediately to our Partisan HQ at Drvar.’
Broznik said drily: ‘You are accustomed to asking for instant miracles, Captain Mallory?’ ‘This doesn’t call for miracles. Just a thousand men. The feet of a thousand men. A small price for even thousand lives?’ He handed Broznik a slip of paper. ‘Wavelength and code. Have Konjic transmit it as soon as possible.’ Mallory glanced at his watch. They have twenty minutes on me already. I’d better hurry.’
‘I suppose you’d better,’ Broznik said hurriedly. He hesitated, at a momentary loss for words, then went on awkwardly: ‘Captain Mallory, I – I – ‘ ‘I know. Don’t worry. The Mallorys of this world never make old bones anyway. We’re too stupid.’
‘Aren’t we all, aren’t we all?’ Broznik gripped Mallory’s hand. ‘Tonight, I make a prayer for you.’ Mallory remained silent for a moment, then nodded. ‘Make it a long one.’
The Bosnian scouts, now, like the remainder of the party, mounted on ponies, led the winding way down through the gentle slope of the thickly-forested valley, followed by Andrea and Miller riding abreast, then by Petar, whose pony’s bridle was in the hand of his sister. Reynolds and Groves, whether by accident or design, had fallen some little way behind and were talking in soft tones.
Groves said speculatively: ‘I wonder what Mallory and the Major are talking about back there?’
Reynolds’s mouth twisted in bitterness. ‘It’s perhaps as well we don’t know.’
‘You may be right at that. I just don’t know.’ Groves paused, went on almost pleadingly: ‘Broznik is on the up-and-up. I’m sure of it. Being what he is, he must be.’
‘That’s as may be. Mallory too, eh?’
‘He must be, too.’
‘Must?’ Reynolds was savage. ‘God alive, man, I tell you I saw him with my own eyes.’ He nodded towards Maria, some twenty yards ahead, and his face was cruel and hard. ‘That girl hit him – and how she hit him -back in Neufeld’s camp and the next thing I see is the two of them having a cosy little lovey-dovey chat outside Broznik’s hut. Odd, isn’t it? Soon after, Saunders was murdered. Coincidence, isn’t it? I tell you, Groves, Mallory could have done it himself. The girl could have had time to do it before she met Mallory – except that it would have been physically impossible for her to drive a six-inch knife home to the hilt. But Mallory could have done it all right. He’d time enough – and opportunity enough – when he handed that damned message into the radio hut.’