White Eagles Over Serbia

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. To Be or Not To Be

The soldier stood nonchalantly with his back to the sun, smoking, in an attitude that suggested lazy indecision. Methuen’s eyes took in the grey uniform, the mud-spattered gaiters and ugly boots: the flat cap with its lack-lustre star: and lastly the short repeating carbine of Russian pattern which he held at the hip. “What is it comrade?” he called in a whining tone. The soldier waved the muzzle of his weapon languidly and shouted: “Come here!” in a more imperious tone. His black eyes had a stupid arrogant expression.

It was clear that he was some peasant conscript from a remote country village rejoicing in the possession of a gun. Methuen nodded and said: “I come, comrade, I come,” and started to climb the cliff slowly and wearily. His eyes darted hither and thither, attempting to see whether there were other soldiers about; but as far as he could judge this one was quite alone. What should he do? He was almost within pistol-range now. The wisest move would be perhaps to be quite passive and to come in close under the muzzle of the carbine. If he were asked for his identity papers, as he most certainly would be, he could put his hand inside his coat and draw his pistol with one hand while he grabbed the carbine-muzzle with the other. He climbed with an exaggerated slowness up the slope.

When he was half-way up he saw an expression of resolute savagery cross the face of the soldier. His mouth depressed itself in a savage grin as, raising the carbine to shoulder-level, he fired at Methuen at almost point-blank range. Even as the latter felt the hot whistle of the bullet pluck the lapel of his coat he leapt sideways and in less time than it takes to tell, was cowering under the protection of a rock, swearing volubly in a mixture of languages. He was absolutely furious at this dumb treachery.

The earth began to jump and spatter around the rock as the soldier opened up on him, and Methuen with his pistol in hand cowered back against the smooth stone with murder in his heart. He began to feel sorry for the nonchalant young man who was so liberally peppering the landscape with lead. “You wait, you brute,” muttered Methuen through clenched teeth, and in his mind’s eye he had a sudden picture of Vida.

An interval of silence followed while the soldier smartly changed the clip on his carbine. He was obviously under the impression that his prey was unarmed. In the first gust of firing Methuen had felt a sharp stab of pain in the calf of his left leg and for a moment he had explored this feeling of pain with concern, for he could not afford to be incapacitated at this late stage of the game. Now in the silence he cautiously stretched his leg and was relieved to find that it responded normally enough, though it hurt him considerably.

A second burst of firing followed and Methuen tossed his fur hat down the slope as a distraction before worming himself away to the left to where a clump of bushes afforded excellent cover. Here he drew his breath for a moment before climbing gently up the slope at an angle. The soldier was still staring at the rock behind which Methuen had disappeared, attentively smiling. He had thrown his cigarette away now and had the butt of his carbine pressed to his shoulder.

Methuen took him softly on the sights of his pistol — the ugly backless shaven skull surmounted by the blue cap — and pressed the trigger. There was a loud sniff and the figure lurched out of sight, its disappearance being followed by a ragged bumping and scrambling noise. He had fallen down the cliff and rolled down to the bottom. In the silence that followed the noise of the river welled up once more, and Methuen could hear, above the sound his own laboured breathing, birds singing in the trees across the valley.

He waited for a long moment before he set off running across the now familiar valley towards the cave. The path was sheltered here and he raced along it, pausing from time to time to listen for sounds of pursuit. But the valley had returned to its silent beauty. Once he thought he heard the barking of dogs in the forest, but that was all. His leg was extremely painful now but he did not dare to stop and examine his wound, for he knew from experience that wounds are apt to seem worse than they really are if once one sets eyes on them. That it could not be anything vital he knew for, despite the pain which made him limp grotesquely, the limb could still be used normally enough.

Twilight was already upon him when he struck the main branch of the Studenitsa river and followed its silver windings and meanderings through the mulberry orchards and across the slopes beyond the monastery and sawmill. He was almost blind with exhaustion now and he forded the river with difficulty, staggering as he felt the sucking pull of the water around his ankles. Nevertheless he had enough presence of mind to wait for a full quarter of an hour on the hill opposite the cave, watching the entrance, before he climbed the slope to enter it.

It was extraordinary the feeling of affection he felt for this fox’s burrow which had sheltered him from his enemies; it was almost like arriving home once more after a perilous journey. Nothing had changed. The snake was not visible, but then it always retired at dusk. The barrier of greenery which he had placed at the mouth was undisturbed. Methuen entered the musty precincts and groped along the stone edges of the sill for the matches which he had placed in a convenient place together with his candle-stump. He lit up and the warm rosy light flickered once more over the veined walls which glimmered like the marbled endpapers of a Victorian ledger.

The dead man still lay on his rude couch of leaves. Methuen hardly gave him a glance as he busied himself in the collection of his possessions. The bed-roll must be sacrificed, but he was not going to lose the other things. He filled his pockets with the most vital of his possessions, and buried the rest in the earth floor. It was too dark and his leg was too painful now to enable him to hunt for his cherished rod. That too would have to be sacrificed, he realized with a pang. He ate a hasty and scrappy meal as he walked up and down. He did not dare to sit down for fear either that he would fall asleep or that his leg would stiffen and prevent him from undertaking the last lap of the journey into the Ebar valley.

Darkness had fallen when he limped out of the cave and with a final glance around him descended the slope to ford the river. He was glad of this, for it increased his chances of escape if he should run into further trouble. By now his route was familiar to him and he had no fear that he would lose his way. His only preoccupation was his wounded leg which had begun to stiffen up in an ugly manner; but he calculated that it was good for an hour’s march. A stiff drink had made him feel much better, though he realized that sooner or later the effect of the spirits would induce sleepiness and he was most concerned about this. Suppose he fell asleep and let Porson pass him in the night — at dawn?

It was useless worrying, however, and he plodded on across the soft meadows with determination. There was a feeble glimmer of light from one room in the monastery and he heard the distant barking of a dog. Beyond the trees by the sawmill he heard the sounds of singing from the little tavern where the peasants were drinking their evening glass of plum brandy. He smiled as he crossed the ridge for the last time and entered the dark avenues of pines to feel the soft ferny floor of the hillside under his bare feet.

He arrived at the road after a journey full of falls and slips, due to his leg, and worked his way along the northern end under cover of the trees. When he reached a point almost opposite the white marker stone where Porson should stop by agreement, he climbed into the ditch and was delighted to find it still dry and full of tall ferns which afforded excellent cover. Here he must lie until the car came for him, and it was characteristic that having won his way so far he should begin to worry about the rendezvous. His sleepy mind began playing tricks with him, telling him that to-day was not Saturday but Friday. He buried his face in the deep grass and, despite himself, fell into a fitful slumber, lulled by the roaring of the water in the valley below him. He had had the presence of mind to slip the leather thong of his pistol round his wrist and to slip the safety catch.

Time passed and the moon rose. He was woken by the whistle of a train which rumbled through the cuttings opposite and disappeared with a succession of shrill grunts and squeaks into the heart of the mountain. It looked more than ever like a toy with its small lighted carriages, and fussing engine. In the silence that followed he could hear the voices of soldiers and platelayers on the railway-line opposite.

His leg had become stiff now, and to ease it he was forced to turn on his back and lie in a more relaxed position. The mosquitoes too were troublesome and Methuen felt the bumps rising on his face and neck from their sharp bites; but he was too far gone with sleep to care, and sinking his head back into the soft bank he fell now into a deep troubled sleep in which the vivid images of the last two days flickered and flashed as if across a cinema screen: Black Peter’s glazing eyes, the turning, tossing figures of men in gold coats falling into space, the mule-teams strung out along the mountain like a serpent, the smile on the face of the soldier with the carbine. Then, too, he saw himself picking Branko’s pocket, walking along the edge of the cliff, or running bent double among the bracken like a wounded hare. The whole insane jumble of events seemed to have become telescoped in his mind with those other scenes taken from his first days at the cave — the fish rising to his fly, the rain swishing down from the great bare mountains.…

It is possible that he would indeed have missed Porson, so deeply did he sleep, had it not been for a lucky chance; for it was already dawn when he was abruptly dragged from his stupor by the rumble of lorries as a convoy burst round the corner and passed the place where he was lying, the yellow headlamps lighting up the cliff-side and the road with their ghastly pale radiance.

He counted seven lorries, and he could dimly see that they were packed with troops and leather-men. They were heading in the southerly direction which must lead them to the nearest road-point from which to climb to the scene of the battle. Methuen breathed a prayer of gratitude as he came full awake, for dawn was fast breaking; and in the choking cloud of dust which followed their passage he rolled once more on to his stomach and settled himself in a position of watchfulness by the road, half-stifled by the dust and petrol fumes.

He had not long to wait. The dust settled slowly and the dawn-light crept along the sides of the hill opposite, scooping great pools of violet shadow in the sides of the mountains. He heard, thin and sweet in the chill morning air, the klaxon of the Mercedes crying down the gorge, and he could not supress an involuntary cry of joy. “Good old Porson,” he said over and over again, every muscle tense with expectation, as he waited for the car to appear around the bend.

A thousand yards away Porson himself was swearing volubly as he drove the old car around the curves of the road. He was in a bemused and shaky condition, having nearly been run down by the convoy of lorries a little further down the valley. In addition to this he had spent time mending a puncture, and had twice been stopped by troops at a road-block, and forced to show his papers. If Methuen was still alive, and if he had managed to reach the point of rendezvous, perhaps he (Porson) was arriving too late? Perhaps there were troops around the white milestone? If so what should he do? His teeth were chattering with cold and excitement as he gradually throttled down the car and slackened speed, while Blair kept a check on their escort through the back. This time they had kept the hood of the car raised and the side-curtains drawn.

They clattered round the last bend and into the cover of the trees when all of a sudden Porson gave a great yelp of surprise for a battered-looking scarecrow with bare feet suddenly plunged into the road by the white milestone, waving its arms. It limped grotesquely and seemed about to collapse under the wheels of the car. “He’s done it,” said Blair. But for a moment Porson could not believe it was Methuen, so wild and ragged did the figure seem. He pressed the brake and the car slowed down. “Good show!” shouted Methuen in a thin voice and clutching the handle of the door swung himself by a mighty effort into the back of the car, where Blair immediately threw a rug over him.

“My God,” said Porson in a shaky voice as he accelerated once more, “Methuen, are you all right?” but Methuen was pressing his cheek to the dusty floor carpet of the car and thinking that he had never felt so glad to hear English voices in all his life. So great was his relief that he was completely bereft of speech. He tried once or twice to say something but only a dull croak came out of his mouth. Perhaps it was sheer fatigue or the dust he had swallowed. But he became conscious now that he was hot, indeed that he had a high temperature.

He heard Porson say: “Just in time”, and then he heard the rumble of another convoy of lorries. The two young men were too busy to pay much attention to him for a moment or two. The car was fairly speeding along the road when Porson turned a pale face over his shoulder and said: “Blair, for heaven’s sake, see if he is dead?”

Once more Methuen tried to speak but could only utter a dull croak. Blair’s white face peered down at him and a hand touched his cheek. “No. He’s not dead. He’s smiling,” said Blair academically, and Porson made an impatient movement. “For goodness’ sake, Blair,” he said, “get into the back and see if he’s wounded.”

With an heroic effort, Methuen rolled over on to his back and croaked. “Not dead, Porson, not dead,” and Blair, like a man coming out of a trance, suddenly went into action. He gave Methuen a long shaky drink out of a thermos, and climbing over him on to the back seat, examined him roughly for wounds. “I’m all right,” said Methuen feebly, glad that he was recovering his voice at last. “My leg is shot up a bit.”

Porson let out an explosive breath of relief. “Thank God!” he said, and there were tears in his eyes. “We’d really given you up as lost. The place is swarming with troops and some sort of battle seems to be going on.”

Methuen drank once more, deeply, and spilled some water over the crown of his head. It was wonderfully refreshing. “I know,” he said, and even in extremis he could not prevent a touch of innocent pride creeping into his voice, “I know. It was going on all round me.”

Blair’s methodical examination had by now reached his injured leg and Methuen began to protest at these amateur ministrations with a vigour which showed that he was far from seriously wounded. “You just leave it alone until we get in,” he said. Blair peered at him gravely. “But it’s bleeding,” he said. “Colonel, it’s bleeding. It may need a tourniquet.”

He was vainly trying to recall a diagram he had once seen in the Scouts’ First Aid Manual of how to apply a tourniquet. You took a pencil and a piece of string.… He could not remember exactly. Methuen brushed him aside and repeated: “You leave it alone until we get to the Embassy doctor. I’ve walked a good thirty miles on it and it’ll last out awhile.”

“But what,” said Porson, jumping up and down in the driving-seat in an ecstasy of curiosity, “what has been happening up there in the mountains? Did you find the White Eagles?”

“They found me,” said Methuen, “and darned nearly kept me. I’ve been trotting up the mountains with them, trying to get the Mihaelovic treasure to the coast, believe it or not. But the troops surrounded us.”

“Crumbs,” said Porson solemnly, “did you really?”

Blair was feeding him slowly and carefully with bread and butter from a paper bag, and after a long gulp of wine Methuen felt sufficiently recovered to prop himself on one elbow. “The puzzle all fitted together very nicely,” he said, “once I reached the White Eagles, though they took some finding. They’d unearthed the treasure, you see. We were fools not to think of that.”

Porson blew a great blast on his klaxon in order to express his surprise as he said: “Of course. There is a whole file about it which I read a few months ago. What idiots we are. But Methuen, will they get it out?” Methuen smiled sadly — for in his mind’s eye he saw once more those toppling kicking figures falling into the gulf of the Black Lake. “Laddie,” he said soberly, “there’s not a hope in hell. We walked into the neatest ambush you’ve ever seen. Regular troops. Caught us in a defile.”

But it was useless to attempt a connected conversation for he was still far more tired than he himself knew. His voice tailed away into a sleepy mumble. “I’m going to have a nap now,” he said, and propping his head on his arm he closed his eyes and felt the great car racing on towards Belgrade. “And I’ve lost my fishing-rod,” he added as an afterthought.

“His fishing-rod,” said Blair in accents of pious horror, raising his eyes to the sunny sky.

“His fishing-rod,” repeated Porson, wagging his head.

Methuen began to snore.