A Battle Is Fought to Be Won by Francis Clifford

Author:Francis Clifford
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2020-04-23T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

There were three other places where the road was visible. The nearest was perhaps a mile away; the most distant twice as far. It was on this heat-blurred twist of brown that Gilling concentrated, but forty minutes passed before the convoy again nosed into view. This time he saw for himself the midget figures walking in front — three now, he thought. They were spread out across the road about fifty yards ahead of the first truck, and the convoy moved after them by fits and starts as if caught in a traffic-jam. He could see the Japanese in the trucks, too — solid loads of men, packed close. The trucks looked no larger than toys.

They were in view for a couple of minutes before the jungle covered them up. A quarter of an hour went by before Gilling had another glimpse of them, thinly veined over by branches. They were bigger now, though still like models on a playroom floor. It was uncanny to be able to see them and yet to hear nothing. In ten minutes they would be exposed for the last time before nearing the base of the escarpment, and the fact that he could plot their progress made the suspense all the more difficult to bear. There was an unnerving quality about the inexorable pace of their approach — as if a fuse were burning down.

The tic started flicking Gilling’s left eye again. He lay in the fractured shade of the walnut tree and waited for the convoy to emerge into the sunlit gap a mile away. It arrived punctually, almost to the minute. He counted the men in front — still three; the trucks — thirteen. They didn’t look like toys any more and he clearly saw the troop-loads sway as the vehicles lurched over some ruts. He thought he could hear the massed growl of engines and the small sound was menacing, bringing his nerves to fever pitch.

‘Thakin.’ Nay Dun was suddenly at his elbow, clutching binoculars. Gilling hadn’t heard him come. ‘Those men on foot —’

‘What about them?’

‘They are Karens, thakin. Not Japanese.’

Gilling stared at him stupidly. ‘Karens?’

His mind whirled. He put the glasses on the road but he was too late to see anything. The last of the trucks had vanished.

‘Karens,’ Nay Dun repeated flatly. ‘From Naik Ba Tin’s section. I recognized them myself.’

‘At that distance?’

‘With these, yes.’ The subedar flourished his binoculars. ‘I am not mistaken.’

Against his will Gilling believed him. He turned his head, dismay in full flood. ‘The bastards. The bloody bastards. Those grenades ...’

He broke off, mesmerized by Nay Dun’s expression: You put them there, it accused. They were your idea.

*

The sound of engines thrust at them like the muffled snarl of an animal, unmistakable now. Instinctively, Gilling peered at the matted surface of the forest, but his only thoughts were of the booby-traps and deceptions he had planted along the way; his only feeling one of guilt. For what seemed a long time he suffered

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