“They won’t be waiting much longer,” Mallory interrupted grimly. He pointed to the north. “Here come their eyes.”
At first only specks above the promontory of Cape Demirci, the planes were soon recognisable for what they were, droning in slowly over the Aegean at about fifteen hundred feet. Mallory looked at them in astonishment, then turned to Andrea.
“Am I seeing things, Andrea?” He gestured at the first of the two planes, a high-winged little monoplane fighter. “That can’t be a PZL?”
“It can be and it is,” Andrea zuuuunred. “An old Polish plane we had before the war,” he explained to Miller. “And the other is an old Belginn plane–Breguets, we called them.” Andrea shaded his eyes to look again at the two planes, now almost directly overhead. “I thought they had all been lost during the invasion.”
“Me too,” Mallory said. “Must have patched up some bits and pieces. Ah, they’ve seen us–beginning to circle. But why on earth they use these obsolete death trap5
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Miller said rapidly. He had just taken a quick look round the boulder in front of him. “These damned guns down there are just linin’ up on us, and muzzle-on they look a considerable sight bigger than telegraph poles. Fragmentation bombs, you said! Come on, boss, let’s get the hell outa here!”
Thus the pattern was set for the remainder of that brief November afternoon, for the grim game of tipand-run, hide-and-seek among the ravines and shattered rocks of the Devil’s Playground. The planes held the key to the game, cruised high overhead observing every move of the hunted group below, relaying the information to the guns on the coast road and the company of Alpenkorps that had moved up through the ravine above the carob grove soon after the planes reported that the positions there had been abandoned. The two ancient planes were soon replaced by a couple of modern Henschels–Andrea said that the PZL couldn’t remain airborne for more than an hour anyway.
Mallory was between the devil and the deep sea. Inaccurate though the mortars were, some of the deadly fragmentation bombs found their way into the deep ravines where they took temporary shelter, the blast of metal lethal In the confined space between the sheering walls. Occasionally they came so close that Mallory was forced to take refuge in some of the deep caves that honeycombed the walls of the canyons. In these they weró safe enough, but the safety was an illusion that could lead only to ultimate defeat and capture; in the lulls, the Alpenkorps, whom they had fought off in a series of brief, skirmishing rearguard actions during the afternoon, could approach closely enough to trap them Inside. Time and time again Mallory and his men were forced to move to widen the gap between themselves and their pursuers, following the indomitable Louki wherever he chose to lead them, and taking their chance, often a very slender and desperate chance, with the mortar bombs. One bomb arced into a ravine that led into the interior, burying itself in the gravelly ground not twenty yards ahead of them, by far the nearest anything had come during the afternoon. By one chance in a thousand, it didn’t explode. They gave it as wide a berth as possible, almost holding their breaths until they were safely beyond.
About half an hour before sunset they struggled up the last few boulder-strewn yards of a steeply-shelving ravine floor, halted just beyond the shelter of the projecting wall where the ravine dipped again and turned sharply to the right and the north. There had been no more mortar bombs since the one that had failed to explode. The six-inch and the weirdly-howling Nebeiwerfer bad only a limited range, Mallory knew, and though the planes still cruised overhead, they cruised uselessly; the sun was dipping towards the horizon and the floors of the ravines were already deep-sunk in shadowed gloom, invisible from above. But the Alpenkorps, tough, dogged, skilful soldiers, soldiers living only for the revenge of their massacred comrades, were very close behind. And they were highly-trained mountain troops, fresh, resilient, the reservoir of their energies barely tapped: whereas his own tiny band, worn out from continuous days and sleepless nights of labour and action. . . .
Mallory sank to the ground near the angled turn of the ravine where he could keep look out, glanced at the others with a deceptive casualness that marked his cheerless assessment of what he saw. As a fighting unit they were in a pretty bad way. Both Panayis and Brown were badly crippled, the latter’s face grey with pain. For the first time since leaving Alexandria, Casey Brown was apathetic, listless and quite indifferent to everything: this Mallory took as a very bad sign. Nor was Brown helped by the heavy transmitter still strapped to his back–with point-blank truculence he had ignored Mallory’s categorical order to abandon it. Louki was tired, and looked it: his physique, Mallory realised now, was no match for his spirit, for the infectious smile that never left his face, for the panache of that magnificently upswept moustache that contrasted so oddly with the sad, tired eyes above. Miller, like himself, was tired, but, like himself, could keep on being tired for a long time yet. And Stevens was still conscious, but even in the twilit gloom of the canyon floor his face looked curiously transparent, while the nails, lips and eyelids were drained of blood. And Andrea, who had carried him up and down all these killing canyon tracks–where there had been tracks–for almost two interminable hours, looked as he always did: immutable, indestructible.
Mallory shook his head, fished out a cigarette, made to strike a light, remembered the planes still cruising overhead and threw the match away. Idly his gaze travelled north along the canyon and he slowly stiffened, the unlit cigarette crumpling and shredding between his fingers. This ravine bore no resemblance to any of the others through which they had so far passed–it was broader, dead straight, at least’ three times as long– and, as far as he could see in the twilight, the far end was blocked off by an almost vertical wall.
“Louki!” Mallory was on his feet now, all weariness forgotten. “Do you know where you are. Do you know this place?”
“But certainly, Major!” Louki was hurt. “Have I not told you that Panayis and I, in the days of our youth–”
“But this is a cul-de-sac, a dead-end!” Mallory protested. “We’re boxed in, man, we’re trapped!”
“So? The Major does not trust Louki, is that it?” He grinned again, relented, patted the wall by his side. “Panayis and I, we have been working this way all afternoon. Along this wall there are many caves. One of them leads through to another valley that leads down to the coast road.”
“I see, I see.” Relief washing through his mind, Mallory sank down on the ground again. “And where does this other valley come out?”
“Just across the strait from Maidos.”
“How far from the town?”
“About five miles, Major, maybe six. Not more.”
“Fine, fine! And you’re sure you can find this cave?”
“A hundred years from now and my head in a goatskin bag!” Louki boasted.
“Fair enough!” Even as he spoke, Mallory catapulted himself violently to one side, twisted in midair to avoid falling across Stevens and crashed heavily into the wall between Andrea and Miller. In a moment of unthinking carelessness he had exposed himself to view from the ravine they had just combed: the burst of machine-gun fire from its lower end–a hundred and fifty yards away at the most–had almost blown his head off. Even as it was, the left shoulder of his jacket had been torn away, the shell just grazing his shoulder. Miller was already kneeling by his side, fingering the gash, running a gently exploratory band across his back.
“Careless, damn careless,” Mallory murmured. “But I didn’t think they were so close.” He didn’t feel as calm as he sounded. If the mouth of that Schineisser had been another sixteenth of an inch to the right, he’d have had no head left now.
“Are you all right, boss?” Miller was puzzled. “Did they–”
“Terrible shots,” Mallory assured him cheerfully. “Couldn’t hit a barn.” He twisted round to look at his shoulder. “I hate to sound heroic, but this really is just a scratch. . . .” He rose easily to his feet, and picked up his gun. “Sorry and all that, gentlemen, but it’s time we were on our way again. How far along is this cave, Louki?”
Louki rubbed his bristly chin, the smile suddenly gone. He looked quickly at Mallory, then away again.
“Louki!”
“Yes, yes, Major. The cave.” Louki rubbed his chin again. “Well, it is a good way along. In fact, it is at the end,” he finished uncomfortably.
“The _very_ end?” asked Mallory quietly.