Flyaway

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Billson had still not got over his fit of the quivers. I couldn't say that I blamed him; being shot at takes different men in different ways, and Paul had not been the most stable man to begin with. And there was something else that Paul had to contend with which did not obtain under war conditions. He lived with the knowledge that he was being hunted personally, that someone malevolent was pursuing him with intent to kill. Every bullet that came our way had Paul's name engraved upon it And so he was in no shape to take an immediate part in the discussion. Konti, while being wise in desert ways, knew little about the Tenere; it was not his stamping ground. The same applied to me except the bit about desert ways, and so most of the decisions were made by Byrne.

After the flat statement that Mokhtar was not coming our way I merely said, 'Oh!' and waited for what he'd say next.

What he did say was: That djerba is going to come in useful. We're going to walk a piece.'

'How far?'

He said, 'I came this way because it's a short cut and okay for the truck. The camel trail is fifteen miles to the south.'

After leaving Fachi I would have sworn that Byrne had navigated from camel skeleton to camel skeleton but I had seen none in the last few miles. And he had just given the reason why. 'Fifteen miles,' I said, feeling relieved. 'That's not far.'

Byrne said, 'We'll need to take water — as much as we can carry.'

To walk fifteen miles?'

Byrne took me by the elbow and walked me out of Paul's hearing. He said, 'It'll take us the rest of today and all day tomorrow. You ever walked in soft sand?'

'Not far.' I looked up the valley. 'But it doesn't seem too difficult.'

He followed my glance. The camel trail to Bilma is successful because it follows the grain of the country. You can go up the long valleys between the dunes. We'll be walking against the grain; you'll be going up and down dunes until you're dizzy. It's fifteen miles across country plus five miles of climbing up and another five miles going down. And there are other things to keep in mind.'

'Such as?'

He shook his head. 'I'll tell you if it's necessary. No point in you worrying about what may not happen. Let me do the worrying.'

He only succeeded in making me uneasy.

The first thing we did was to fill the djerba with water from a jerrican, then Byrne looked me up and down. 'How much weight do you reckon you can carry?'

I remembered army route marches which were not so much for use in these mechanized days as to toughen the men. Officers were supposed to do better than the men. I picked a figure, then hastily revised it downwards as I thought of climbing interminably in soft sand. 'Forty pounds.'

Byrne shook his head. 'Too much. A jerri can half-full for you and Paul; that's about thirty pounds each. Konti can take his djerba; he's used to it.'

We took a full jerrican and split it between two, then made slings so the jerricans could be back-packed, taking care to put in plenty of padding to avoid chafe. Byrne made us take the djellabas. 'It gets cold at night.' I noted that the jerrican he picked to carry himself was full. That would be a killing load for a man on the wrong side of sixty if what he had said about our journey was true, but I said nothing about it. He knew what he was doing.

We then ate and stuffed what was left of the bread and cheese and a few scraps of meat into the breast pockets of our gandouras. 'Drink hearty,' advised Byrne. 'Water is better in you than out. Any camel knows that.'

When Byrne had spoken of water in the past he had referred to litres or gallons interchangeably, but his gallons were American. I estimated that we moved away carrying eight and a half imperial gallons in jerricans plus what was in the djerba which was difficult to estimate — say, nearly twelve gallons in all. It seemed a lot of water to take for a fifteen-mile hike and I wondered what possibilities were lurking in Byrne's mind.

My memories of the journey I seldom care to reflect upon. The most insistent thing that comes to mind is the soft, yet gritty, sand. A building contractor would have delighted in it because it would be ideal for making high-quality cement and concrete and, no doubt, some sharp entrepreneur will find some way of shipping it out and making a profit. God knows, there's enough of it. But I can never now look upon an expanse of sand without feeling, in imagination, the cruel tug of that damned jerrican on my back. We passed the place where Konti had hamstrung Bailly, crossed the valley and climbed another of the dunes which, in that place, were running from sixty to a hundred feet high. I suppose we were lucky in a way because the forward slopes which we had to climb were not as steep as the reverse slopes. Had we been going north instead of south it would have been much worse.

I watched Byrne going ahead of me across a valley floor and it came to me that there was some significance to that languid, gliding walk of the Tuareg — it came from much walking in sand, using the most economical means possible. I tried to imitate it without much success; you had to have been born with it or trained by the years like Byrne. My feet were more accustomed to city pavements.

We climbed another dune, feet digging into the sand against insistent pull of the back packs, and sometimes slipping backwards. On the crest I paused for breath and looked around. Byrne had well described an erg as a sea of sand. The Tenere was like a still picture of a storm at sea, the waves frozen in mid-heave. But these waves were bigger than any wave of water and stretched interminably as far as I could see.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows into the troughs, and the crest of the dune on which I was standing wound sinuously for many miles until it dipped out of sight. The dunes themselves were soft and smooth, sculptured by the wind, unmarked by footprint, whether of man or animal.

Byrne gestured impatiently and we went slipping and sliding down the other and steeper side. Many times during that awful journey I lost control during these descents. The jerrican on my back would seem to push and I would lose my balance and fall headlong. Luckily the sand was soft and cushiony, but not so soft in individual grains that it wasn't also abrasive, and the skin of my hands became tender.

If I was suffering like that, what of Billson? I had lived a sedentary city life but had tried to temper myself and keep in condition by gymnastics and fencing. Paul had worked for fifteen years in the same dreary office in Luton and, from what I had gathered during the course of investigating his life he hadn't done much to keep fit. But the odd thing was that during this time he didn't complain once. He stolidly climbed and just as stolidly picked himself up when he slipped and fell, and kept up the same speed as the rest of us, which wasn't all that slow with Byrne setting the pace.

I was slowly coming to a conclusion about Paul. Some men may be sprinters, good in the short haul and competent in a crisis. Paul might prove to be the reverse. While not handling crises particularly well he was tenacious and stubborn, as proved by his lifelong obsession about his father, and this stroll across the Tenere was bringing out his best qualities. Be that as it may, he did as well as anyone on that journey, ill-conditioned though his body was for it We stopped on top of a dune just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, and Byrne said, 'Okay; you can take off your packs.'

It was a great relief to get rid of that jerrican which had seemed to increase in weight with every step I took. Billson slumped down and in the red light of the setting sun his face was grey. I remembered that he had been shot in the shoulder not many weeks before, and said gently, 'Here, Paul; let me help you.' I helped him divest himself of his back pack, and said, 'How's your shoulder?'

'All right,' he said dully.

'Let me look at it.' His chest was heaving as he drew panting breaths after that last climb and he made no move, so I unbuttoned the front of his shirt and looked at his shoulder before it became too dark to see. The wound, which had been healing well, was now inflamed and red. It would seem that the pull of the jerrican on the improvised harness was chafing him. I said, 'Luke, look at this.'

Byrne came over and inspected Paul He said, 'We drink the water out of his can first.'

'And perhaps we can transfer some into my can.'

'Maybe,' he said noncommittally. 'Let's eat.'

Our dinner that night was cold and unappetizing. The stars came out as the light ebbed away in the west and the temperature dropped. Byrne said, 'Better wear djellabas.'

As I put mine on I asked, 'How far have we come?'

'Mile and a half — maybe two miles.'

'Is that all?' I was shattered. It seemed more like five or six.

'More'n I expected.' Byrne nodded towards Billson. 'I thought he'd hold us up. He still might. I suggest you take some of his water. Do it now before we leave.'

'Leave! You're not going on in the dark?'

'Damn right I am. We're in a hurry. Don't worry; I have a compass and the moon will rise later.'

I put half of Billson's water into my jerrican, reflecting that Byrne was still carrying a full one. He gathered us together. 'We're moving off now. So far you've not done much talking. That's good because you needed your breath. But now you talk because it's dark — you don't lose contact with anyone and you don't let them lose contact with you. It'll be slow going but we need every yard we can make.'

He said something to Konti, probably repeating what he'd told us, then we descended from the top of the dune. It was damned difficult in the dark, and Byrne kept up a constant grunting, 'Ho! Ho! Ho!', sounding like a demented Santa Claus. But it was enough to let us know where he was, and I was encouraged to raise my own voice in song.

At the bottom he rounded us up and we set off across the valley floor under those glittering stars. I sang again; a ditty from my army days:

'Uncle George and Auntie Mabel Fainted at the breakfast table. Let this be an awful warning Not to do it in the morning.'

I paused. 'Billson, are you all right?'

'Yes,' he said wearily. 'I'm all right.' From the left Konti made a whickering noise. He sounded like a horse. Byrne grunted, 'Ho! Ho! Ho!'

'Ovaltine has put them right, Now they do it morn and night; Uncle George is hoping soon To do it in the afternoon. Hark the Herald Angels sing, "Ovaltine is damned good thing."'

Billson made the first attempt at a witticism that I had heard pass his lips. 'Were you a Little Ovaltiney?'

I bumped into Byrne. 'Now we've had the commercial,' he said acidly. 'Let's get climbing.'

So up we went — slowly.

I didn't know then how long we stumbled along in the dark but it seemed like hours. Later Byrne said he'd called a halt just before midnight, so that meant a six-hour night march at probably not more than half a mile an hour. He stopped unexpectedly when we were half-way up a slope, and said, This is it. Dig in.'

Thankfully I eased the jerrican from me and massaged my aching shoulders. In the light of the moon I saw Billson just lying there. I crawled over to him and helped him out of his harness, then made sure his djellaba was wrapped around him, and built up a small rampart of sand on the downhill side of him to prevent him rolling to the bottom in his sleep. Before I left him he had passed out.

I crawled over to Byrne and demanded in an angry whisper, 'What the hell's the flaming hurry? Paul's half dead.'

'He will be dead if we don't get to where we're going by nightfall tomorrow,' said Byrne unemotionally.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, an azelai don't stop at sunset like we've usually been doing. Mokhtar will push on until about eleven every night. 'Course, it's easy for them, they're going along the valley bottoms.'

'How does he navigate?'

'Stars,' said Byrne. 'And experience. Now, I figure to get to where he'll be passing through before sundown, and I also figure that he'll be passing through some time during the night. Camels don't have headlights and tail lights, you know; and an azelai moves along goddamn quiet, like. At night a caravan could pass within two hundred yards of you and you wouldn't know it, even though in daylight it would be in plain sight. That's why I want to get there when I can see.'

'See what?'

'I'll figure that out when I get there. Now go to sleep.'

I was about to turn away when I thought of something. 'What happens if we miss the caravan?'

Then we walk to Bilma — that's why we brought all the water. Konti and I would make it You might. Billson wouldn't.'

That was plain enough. I dug out a trench in the side of the dune to lie in, and hoped it didn't look too much like a grave. Then I pulled the djellaba closer around me, and lay down. I looked up at the pock-marked moon for a long time before I went to sleep. It must have been all of three minutes.

We drank all of Billson's remaining water the following morning and abandoned his jerrican. 'Soak yourselves hi it,' advised Byrne. 'Get as much water into you as you can hold.'

Breakfast in the light of dawn was frugal and soon done with. I cleaned out the last few crumbs from my pocket, hoisted the jerrican on to my back with distaste, and was ready to go.

Billson said, 'Stafford, why don't we put half your water in here?' He kicked the discarded jerrican with a clang. 'I could carry it.'

' I looked at him in surprise. That was the first time he had offered to do anything for anyone so far. Maybe there was hope of reclaiming him for the human race, after all. I said, 'Better put that to Byrne; his can is full.'

Byrne stepped over to Billson. 'Let's see your shoulder.' He examined it and shook his head. 'You couldn't do it, Paul. More abrasion and more sand in there and you'll get gangrene. Keep it wrapped up. Let's move.'

And so we set off again — Tip the airy mountain, down the rushy glen' — the mountain bit was real enough and it was certainly airy on that cold morning, but there were no rushes and the valleys were anything but glen-like, although welcome enough because they gave a brief respite for level walking.

I pictured us as four ants toiling across a sand-box in a children's playground. At mid-morning, when we stopped to take on water, I said, 'To think I liked building sand castles when I was a kid.'

Byrne chuckled. 'I remember a drawing I once saw, a cartoon, you know. It was in a magazine Daisy Wakefield had up in Tarn. There was a detachment of the Foreign Legion doing a march across country like this, and one guy is saying to the other, 'I joined the Legion to forget her, but her name is Sandra.' I thought that was real funny.'

'I'm glad you're keeping your sense of humour.'

Billson was doing all right. He didn't say much, but kept up with us just in front of Konti. I had the idea that Byrne had detailed Konti as rearguard to keep an eye on Paul. Although he kept up with us I doubt if he'd have been able to if he still had water to carry. His wound was troubling him; not that he complained about it, but I noticed he favoured his right arm when he took a tumble and fell.

There wasn't much point in stopping long at midday because we had nothing to eat and only needed to drink water. Byrne said, 'Okay, Max; take off your pack.'

'We had drunk from my jerrican at the mid-morning stop, so I said, 'No; you take off yours.'

The wrinkles about his eyes deepened as he stared at me, but then he said obligingly, 'Okay.' So we lightened his load by a few pounds between us.

That day I found I was glad to be wearing the Tuareg veil and the rest of the fancy dress. I could see that Paul, apart from anything else, was beginning to suffer from exposure whereas I was protected.

The rest of the day until sunset passed in a blur of exhaustion. Up one side, down the other, and still another one to come. Against the grain of the land, Byrne had said. It was a good descriptive phrase and I was now really beginning to find how good it was.

I fell into a blind, mindless rhythm and a chant was created in my mind — what the Germans call an 'earworm' — something that goes round and round in your head and you can't get rid of it. One bloody foot before the next bloody foot.

One bloody dune after the next bloody dune. One bloody foot before the next bloody foot. One bloody dune after the next bloody dune. One bloody… It went on and on and on…

Maybe it helped me.

And so it went on for hour after hour until I staggered into Byrne who had stopped. So did my bloody foot. 'We made it just in time.' He looked at the sun. 'Three-quarters of an hour to nightfall.'

'We're there?' I said thickly, and looked down the side of the dune. The valley bottom didn't look much different than any of the others we'd crossed.

'Yeah. Mokhtar will be coming along there.'

I looked around. 'Where's Billson?'

'Maybe a quarter-mile back. Konti's looking after him. Let's go down.'

When we got to the bottom I looked up and saw Paul and Konti silhouetted against the sky at the top of the dune. 'You mean we can rest now?'

'No,' said Byrne relentlessly. He started to walk up the valley so I followed. I was tired but at least this was reasonably level ground and I didn't have to go up and down. The dunes began to close in on either side and then the valley widened. Byrne stopped. This is the place. How wide would you say this valley is?'

'Quarter of a mile.'

'More. Six hundred yards. I want three trenches dug going up and down the valley. Each maybe ten yards long but I'd like more.'

That sounded like work and I wasn't in the mood for it 'How deep?'

'Not much; just so that your feet can recognize it in the dark. We're all going to stand sentry tonight.'

The idea was simple and good. The trenches divided the width of the valley into four equal parts and the four of us would patrol back and forth, each on our 150-yard stretch. When our feet encountered a trench we'd know it was time to turn around smartly and go back, just like a sentry in front of Buck House. If the caravan was coming through, then statistically it was highly likely that one of us was going to run into a camel. And the walking would keep us awake.

I began to dig where Byrne indicated, heaping the soft sand aside with my hands because I had nothing else to dig with. But first I unloaded the jerrican and had some water.

Billson and Konti came down and were put to work, and by nightfall we had done all we could do, not to Byrne's satisfaction but that couldn't be helped.

Then came the patrolling back and forth across the width of the valley, each in our own sector. I was weary and the slow trudge in the thick sand didn't help. Every so often my feet encountered the edge of the trench and I turned to go back. Say three hundred yards for the round trip, about six to the mile. I wondered how many miles I was going to walk that night. Still, it was better than the bloody dunes.

On a couple of occasions at a trench I met Byrne and we exchanged a word before we turned and went our opposite ways. If we could have synchronized our speeds we could have met every time, but there was no way of doing that in the darkness.

The night wore on and my pace became slower. I was desperately tired and it was only because I had to walk that I kept awake, although sometimes I wonder if at times I wasn't walking in my sleep. But the walking and a few hunger pangs kept me going.

I encountered Byrne again, and he said, 'Have you seen Konti?'

'We met a couple of patrols ago. He's awake, if that's what's worrying you.'

'It's not I should be finding Billson, and I'm not.'

I sighed. 'He's had a harder day than most of us. He's clapped out.'

'It leaves a hole in the line. I'll feel better when the moon comes up.'

We didn't have to wait that long. There was a yell from Konti and a startled cry of 'Hoi! Hoi! Hoi!' as someone strove to quieten a plunging camel. Then a couple of Tuareg came up from behind us, from up the valley. Half of that caravan had got past us without anyone knowing until Konti had bumped into someone.

I sat down, exactly where I was. 'Luke,' I said. 'I'm going to sleep.'