The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [13]
End of the car.
He crossed the platform to the next car. Palestinians. Down the aisle he worked, then crossed to the next car.
Colonel Potter was in the next car up. Mike was coming closer and closer to his deliverance.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning against the door, blocking it, stood a man. The man’s icy blue eyes were on Mike. He was tall and blond and wore a New Zealand uniform. The man in the bar who called himself Jack Mosley.
Mike felt for the pistol. It was gone!
The two glared at one another. Mosley dropped his cigarette, stepped on it and moved toward Mike.
Morrison spun about and shot through the car, onto the platform and through the carload of Palestinians.
Through the next car—and the next.
When he reached the jammed door of his own car he forced his shoulder against it until it finally burst open.
He halted his flight midway up the aisle. The door to his compartment was open. In the reflection of the glass he could see the little man with horn-rimmed glasses.
“You say he was here!”
“Yes, sir,” Mike heard the medic answer.
“Where did he go?”
“Forward, sir, to Colonel Potter—three cars down.”
“I’ve got to reach him first.”
Mike ducked into a compartment where two wounded soldiers lay. The little man in the horn-rimmed glasses rushed past.
Mike jumped out into the aisle and began to race back. “They’ll get you, Morrison. They’ll get you.... They’ll get you...”
He reached the rear platform—the end of the train. A blur of olive trees, and the ribbons of steel shooting out under the wheels and disappearing on the horizon.
Mike looked through the glass. The tall New Zealander was entering the opposite end of the car. There was a pistol in his hand. He walked slowly, looking into each compartment. He raised his eyes toward the rear platform, raised the pistol and made for it.
EIGHT
CLICKETY CLACK—CLICKETY CLACK—clickety clack...
Michael Morrison balanced himself on the edge of the step. The ground tore past him.
Clickety clack—clickety clack—clickety clack...
He eased back to the platform and crouched beside the door, poised to spring on Mosley the instant the door opened.
The train screeched to a sudden stop and Mike’s feet flew out from under him.
The sound from the sky—he knew it now—Stukas!
Little black specks circled overhead and began to take form as they dropped lower.
Mike leaped from the platform and rolled down the siding. Behind him men poured from the train, from the platform, through the windows...
The motors in the sky were suddenly still. A second passed—two—three...
The scream—the hideous scream as the bombs fell to earth. Mike covered his head.... The ground rumbled and split under the impact of the bombardment.
The first volley fell wide of the train. Everyone was up and running madly over the field toward a grove of olive trees. They fell and clawed at the earth as the Stukas came in for a second pass.
Over his shoulder Mike saw the third car disintegrate. The line of cars went into a snake dance. The engine skittered off the track and rolled down the rail bed, snorting and hissing.
Mike tumbled in at the edge of the olive grove. Soldiers poured in all about him and fell flat and lay motionless.
The Stukas turned from the destroyed train and began to blast the soldiers in the field who were scurrying like frightened ants. The planes cut them down like blades of grass then roared in on the olive grove at tree-top level. Their wings spit little gusts of fire and the trees whined and ricocheted bullets. A soldier shrieked, then lay very still.
“Here they come again!”
“Bloody bastards!”
They swept in so low that Mike could make out the face of one of the pilots. A soldier near him kneeled and fired his rifle defiantly. He shook his fist and screamed an oath. An officer ran to the soldier and jerked the rifle from his hand.
“You damned fool! Do you want them to know where we are?” the officer yelled.
“God dammit! They know where we are! What kind