Or perhaps, after all, the war wasn’t so far away. There were occasional pin-pricks–and constant reminders. Twice a German Arado seaplane had circled curiously overhead, and a Savoia and Fiat, flying in company, had altered course, dipped to have a look at them and flown off, apparently satisfied: Italian planes, these, and probably based on Rhodes, they were almost certainly piloted by Germans who had rounded up their erstwhile Rhodian allies and put them in prison camps after the surrender of the Italian Government. In the morning they had passed within half a mile of a big German caique–if flew the German flag and bristled with mounted machine-guns and a two-pounder far up in the bows; and in the early afternoon a high-speed German launch had roared by so closely that their caique had rolled wickedly in the wash of its passing: Mallory and Andrea had shaken their fists and cursed loudly and fluently at the grinning sailors on deck. But there had been no attempts to molest or detain them: neither British nor German hesitated at any time to violate the neutrality of Turkish territorial waters, but by the strange quixotry of a tacit gentlemen’s agreement hostilities between passing vessels and planes were almost unknown. Like the envoys of warring countries in a neutral capital, their behaviour ranged from the impeccably and frigidly polite to a very pointed unawareness of one another’s existence.
These, then, were the pin-pricks-the visitations and bygoings, harmless though they were, of the ships and planes of the enemy. The other reminders that this was no peace but an illusion, an ephemeral and a frangible thing, were more permanent. Slowly the minute hands of their watches circled, and every tick took them nearer to that great wall of cliff, barely eight hours away, that had to be climbed somehow: and almost dead ahead now, and less than fifty miles distant, they could see the grim, jagged peaks of Navarone topping the shimmering horizon and reaching up darkly against the sapphired sky, desolate and remote and strangely threatening.
At half-past two in the afternoon the engine stopped. There had been no warning coughs or splutters or missed strokes. One moment the regular, reassuring thump-thump: the next, sudden, completely unexpected silence, oppressive and foreboding in its absoluteness.
Mallory was the first to reach the engine hatch.
“What’s up, Brown?” His voice was sharp with anxiety. “Engine broken down?”
“Not quite, sir.” Brown was stifi bent over the engine, his voice muffled. “I shut it off just now.” He straightened his back, hoisted himself wearily through the hatchway, sat on deck with his feet dangling, sucking in great draughts of fresh air. Beneath the heavy tan his face was very pale.
Mallory looked at him closely.
“You look as if you had the fright of your life.”
“Not that.” Brown shook his head; “For the past two-three hours I’ve been slowly poisoned down that ruddy hole. Only now I realise it.” He passed a hand across his brow and groaned. “Top of my blinkin’ head just about lifting off, sir. Carbon monoxide ain’t a very healthy thing.”
“Exhaust leak?”
“Aye. But it’s more than a leak now.” He pointed down at the engine. “See that stand-pipe supporting that big iron ball above the engine–the water-cooler? That pipe’s as thin as paper, must have been leaking above the bottom flange for hours. Blew out a bloody great hole a minute ago. Sparks, smoke and flames six inches long. Had to shut the damned thing off at once, sir.”
Mallory nodded in slow understanding.
“And now what? Can you repair it, Brown?”
“Not a chance, sir.” The shake of the head was very definite. “Would have to be brazed or welded. But there’s a spare down there among the scrap. Rusted to hell and about as shaky as the one that’s on. . . . I’ll have a go, sir.”
“I’ll give him a hand,” Miller volunteered.
“Thanks, Corporal. How long, Brown, do you think?”
“Lord only knows, sir. Two hours, maybe four. Most of the nuts and bolts are locked solid with rust: have to shear or saw ’em–and then hunt for others.”
Mallory said nothing. He turned away heavily, brought up beside Stevens who had abandoned the wheelhouse and was now bent over the sail locker. He looked up questioningly as Mallory approached.
Mallory nodded. “Just get them out and up. Maybe four hours, Brown says. Andrea and I will do our landlubberly best to help.”
Two hours later, with the engine still out of commission, they were well outside territorial waters, closing on a big island some eight miles away to the W.N.W. The wind, warm and oppressive now, had backed to a darkening and thundery east, and with only a lug and a jib–all the sails they had found–bent to the foremast, they could make no way at all into it. Mallory had decided to make for the island–the chances of being observed there were far less than in the open sea. Anxiously he looked at his watch, then stared back moodily at the receding safety of the Turkish shore. Then he stiffened, peered closely at the dark line of sea, land and sky that lay to the east.
“Andrea! Do you see–”
“I see it, Captain.” Andrea was at his shoulder. “Caique. Three miles. Coming straight towards us,” he added softly.
“Coming straight towards us,” Mallory acquiesced. “Tell Miller and Brown. Have them come here.”
Mallory wasted no time when they were all assembled.
“We’re going to be stopped and investigated,” he said quickly. “Unless I’m much mistaken, it’s that big caique that passed us this morning. Heaven only knows how, but they’ve been tipped off and they’re going to be as suspicious as hell. This’li be no kid-glove, hands-in-the pockets inspection. They’ll be armed to the teeth and hunting trouble. There’s going to be no half-measures. Let’s be quite clear about that. Either they go under or we do: we can’t possibly survive an inspection–not with all the gear _we’ve_ got aboard. And,” he added softly, “we’re not going to dump that gear.” Rapidly he explained his plans. Stevens, leaning out from the wheelhouse window, felt the old sick ache in his stomach, felt the blood leaving his face. He was glad of the protection of the wheelhouse that bid the lower part of his body: that old familiar tremor in his leg was back again. Even his voice was unsteady.
“But, sir–sir–”
“Yes, yes, what is it, Stevens?” Even in his hurry Mallory paused at the sight of the pale, set face, the bloodless nails clenched over the sill of the window.
“You–you can’t do _that_, sir!” The voice burred harshly under the sharp edge of strain. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly, then he rushed on. “It’s massacre, sir, it’s–it’s just murder!”
“Shut up, kid!” Miller growled.
“That’ll do, Corporal!” Mallory said sharply. He looked at the American for a long moment, then turned to Stevens, his eyes cold. “Lieutenant, the whole concept of directing a successful war is aimed at placing your enemy at a disadvantage, at not giving him an even chance. We kill them or they kill us. They go under or we do–and a thousand men on Kheros. It’s just as simple as that, Lieutenant. It’s not even a question of conscience.”
For several seconds Stevens stared at Mallory in complete silence. He was vaguely aware that everyone was looking at him. In that instant he hated Mallory, could have killed him. He hated him because-suddenly he was aware that he hated him only for the remorseless logic of what he said. He stared down at his clenched hands. Mallory, the idol of every young mountaineer and cragsman in pre-war England, whose fantastic climbing exploits had made world headlines, in ’38 and ’39: Mallory, who had twice been baulked by the most atrocious ill-fortune from surprising Rommel in his desert headquarters: Mallory, who had three times refused promotion in order to stay with his beloved Cretans who worshipped him the other side of idolatry. Confusedly these thoughts tumbled through his mind and he looked up slowly, looked at the lean, sunburnt face, the sensitive, chiselled mouth, the heavy, dark eyebrows barstraight over the lined brown eyes that could be so cold or so compassionate, and suddenly he felt ashamed, knew that Captain Mallory lay beyond both his understanding and his judgment.
“I am very sorry, sir.” He smiled faintly. “As Corporal Miller would say, I was talking out of turn.” He looked aft at the caique arrowing up from the southeast. Again he felt the sick fear, but his voice was steady enough as he spoke. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
“Good enough. I never thought you would.” Mallory smiled in turn, looked at Miller and Brown. “Get the stuff ready and lay it out, will you? Casual, easy and keep it hidden. They’ll have the glasses on you.”
He turned away, walked for’ard. Andrea followed him.