A Game for Heroes (1978) by Higgins Jack

Author:Higgins, Jack [Higgins, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-03-16T14:25:03+00:00

Chapter Nine.

THE ROAD GANG

THE FIRST DAY on the road gang was hard and for me most of all. The period in hospital, the months of idleness in Cornwall had taken their toll and I was no longer in particularly good physical condition, unlike Fitzgerald and his Rangers who seemed to take twelve hours a day with a pick and shovel in their stride.

Considering the circumstances, they were all remarkably cheerful, but the reason was simple enough. Not one of them, including Fitzgerald, believed for a moment that there was any prospect of the executions promised by Radl taking place. The war might end any day and only a madman would be willing to take responsibility at this stage for an act that would surely sign his own death warrant afterwards.

From what I had seen of Radl, I wasn't too happy about the line of argument and it seemed to me then that our strongest chance of survival lay in the fact that it was highly unlikely that Olbricht, the new governor, would ever manage to get to St. Pierre from Brittany at all through the kind of blockade the Navy was putting up at that time.

There was always the possibility of escape, of course, and it had been thoroughly discussed, but at the moment, there didn't seem to be much hope in that direction. It wasn't just the chains or the constant armed guards. It was the simple fact that having broken free, there would be nowhere to run. On such a small island it would be impossible to remain at large for very long and the place had been turned into an impregnable fortress so far as I could see, every cliff and headland boasting artillery positions, machine gun posts and concrete bunkers of one kind or another. Since the raid, all guards had been doubled.

So, for the moment, we worked and made the best of things and waited for something to happen or at least I did, for out of some strange sixth sense, I was aware that we stood on the brink of events and waited, sniffing at the weather, glancing often at the sky, a slight aching pressure behind the eyes, wary as any animal that senses thunder beyond the horizon. Yet even I could not have guessed at the extraordinary course things were to take.

Whatever the calendar says, the first day of spring is never a question of date. Day follows day, much as usual and the world waits and then it happens. A morning to thank God for. A morning of blue skies and soft air and scents and sounds that all winter long one has forgotten existed.

In the spring, there is nowhere quite like St. Pierre with the blackthorn blossom like snow in the hollows and the cliffs draped in sea campion, thrift and broom, the yellows and mauves and whites so vivid that the sight of them catches at the throat.

On the fourth morning, working up there on the spine of the

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