The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [16]
Mike whirled around.
A Palestinian sergeant walked up the path to him. “The captain sent me for you. We’re going to push on.”
“The plane—killed a little girl....”
“I said we’re moving out.”
“Moving out? But—but it’s still daylight—the planes will find us....”
“New orders by radio. Hop to it.”
“The man,” Mike whispered, “don’t let the man get me....”
“What man?”
“The little man—the little man with the horn-rimmed glasses...”
“There is no man,” the sergeant said.
“Yes—I saw him. I saw him coming through the grove....”
The sergeant frowned. “You feeling all right, cobber? Come on now, let me help you.”
Mike fell against the sergeant. The Palestinian steadied him and helped him back to the lemon grove where the troops were griping and muttering as they struggled into their packs.
The sergeant looked at the Aussie captain and shrugged, and the captain nodded knowingly.
“Just our blooming luck.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him, sir,” the sergeant said.
“I saw him coming through the grove....” Mike mumbled.
“Steady, cobber, steady.”
They moved on.
The Palestinian sergeant stayed close to Mike and never took an eye off him. As the terrain became steeper and more rugged, Mike was alternately encouraged and prodded to keep on. When his strength gave out completely he was dragged. The Aussie captain led his weary troops toward a craggy mountain pass toward the coast. The endless day slugged on into an endless night.
“They’ll get you.... They’ll get you.... They’ll get you....”
Dawn of the fourth day brought them staggering from the mountains to the coast. They made for a beach not far from the city of Nauplion. The trek was called to a blessed halt in a woods behind the beach. Another group of a hundred men was already there and rumors flew wild.
From their hiding place they could see the town beyond the stretch of beach—what was left of the town. Once it had been the capital of a republic. A picturesque ancient fortress jutted out into the Gulf of Argolis and once the fortress had been known as the Gibraltar of Argolis. But that was once upon a time in another age and another war. In this war the Gibraltar of Argolis was a useless pile of rock against the vultures in the sky. Nauplion was bombed to the ground.
The Stukas were at it again, playing havoc, their scream overhead continuously.
The group dispersed and sprawled on the ground in weariness. Mike Morrison had reached an exhaustion beyond exhaustion. The days without sleep hung over him like the blade of a guillotine. He crawled away from the soldiers until he found a clump of thick shrubbery and he buried himself under it. He lay there, unable to move. His eyelids fell like heavy weights. He was unable to fight any longer. A deep slumber overtook him.
A beam of sunlight struck Mike’s eyes. He blinked them open and propped up on his elbows. He pushed aside a branch and saw the fading sun. He had slept most of the day.
He yawned and stretched. His whole body ached, but his mind was clear. His gradual recovery from the stupor made him aware of the physical pounding he had taken in the past few days. He eased off his shoes and discovered that his feet were a mass of blisters.
He removed the kidskin from his shoulder and took a long swallow, then splashed some water over his face. He ate some of the bread and cheese, then gently worked his shoes back onto his feet.
The woods was strangely silent. There was no one in sight. He got to his feet unsteadily.
A far-off sound of cheering and singing brought him to alert attention.
He worked his way through the trees toward the sound as it continued to grow louder and more boisterous. Mike halted at the edge of the woods. Stretched across the shallow beach he saw hundreds of men. Units had been coming through the mountains for this rendezvous all day, he thought.
The sun was sinking fast into the bay....
A ship stood offshore, blinking out a message.
Mike caught snatches of the men’s talk.
“Prince Line steamer... An eight-thousand tonner...”
“The Slamat....”
“We’ll evacuate as soon as it turns