The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [15]
There was no relief. The vultures in the sky hovered over them and dogged their every step. At last the young Aussie captain gave the order to halt for the day. They would move by night.
Mike kept his agonized vigil until sunset. They might be lurking behind every rock, every tree, waiting to pounce on him.
He stumbled on through the long black night. Each time he fell a nameless soldier would pull him to his feet and offer a word of encouragement. In the hours before dawn two soldiers half-dragged, half-carried him along the tortuous route.
The third day found them cowering in a lemon grove near a village, sweating out the daylight hours.
A wonderful daze enveloped Mike. He could see and he could hear but sounds seemed to come from a great distance. He could touch but he was numb to feeling. He could walk without falling but had no sense of movement. He could speak but his words were inaudible to him.
While the unit lay asleep, exhausted from the night’s march, Mike sat propped against a tree, his eyes wide open.
He cocked his head and looked down the rows of lemon trees. Sunlight filtering through the tree tops created weird shadows and the shadows flickered under a soft breeze.
A sudden glint at the edge of the grove some three hundred yards away caught his attention. Mike blinked. A reflection from some type of glass... Then he saw the outline of a man. The glint again—the man’s glasses. The figure walked slowly between two rows of trees, half in shadow, half in dancing sunlight.... A small man—a very small man—and he walked through the shadows toward the group of sleeping soldiers.
NINE
“WHERE THE DEVIL DO you think you’re going?” the Aussie captain said.
“Water,” Mike rasped. “I need water. Village...”
The captain was about to order him back to the grove. He studied Morrison. The bloke was in wretched condition... worse off than the rest of his troops. He carried no rations or canteen. Perhaps it would be better to let him get some food and water and freshen up. Otherwise they may have to be packing him and he’d slow the whole group down.
“Very well,” the captain said, “but be back in an hour.”
Mike headed down the path....
“Soldier!”
“Yes, sir ...”
“When you get back, you’d better get some sleep.”
“Sleep—sleep...I can’t sleep....I can’t sleep....
They won’t let me sleep....”
The Aussie captain stared after him, puzzled, as he swayed down the path to the village. Strange chap, this.
Mike stepped into a dirt square surrounded by a few dozen white stucco huts. In a moment he was engulfed by a half hundred peasants, women and little children for the most part. They all began jabbering at once, offering handshakes and back slaps of welcome.
Some kissed him. Some of the women cried.
Why do they cry for me? Don’t they know the British are beaten? Don’t they know their saviors can’t help them? Why do they cry for me? What strange people are these?
He took a kidskin of water from one of the peasants and the dryness loosened under the cool sweet taste of artesian water. It trickled down his chin and over his jacket. He poured it over his head and laughed, half-hysterically, as it revived him.
A woman shoved a loaf of bread into his hands and another gave him a cheese. He tore at the bread and stuffed it into his mouth and drank some more of the sweet water.
Another kidskin of water was given him and he looped its rope over his shoulder and stuffed his pockets with bread and cheese and thanked them all and shook their hands and kissed them.
The plane struck so fast no one heard it coming. It streaked from the sky and roared over the square, its machine guns ablaze.
A little girl of about four lay dead in the square, clutching a rag doll. She had pretty black curls and she held her doll tightly against her.
“Lynn,” Mike whispered his daughter’s name....“Lynn.”
The villagers began to edge back into the square. He could not face them. He turned and ran past the white huts onto the path.
“You there! I’ve been