by Colin Forbes
The distant shoreline crawled nearer with agonizing slowness. The huge snow-covered bluff to their left where the rock rose vertically from the lake slid behind them as they drew level with the rampart walls of the monastery. And now Macomber saw that there was someone at the summit of the lofty tower which overlooked lake and sea, a tiny, faceless figure too minute to be identified as monk or German soldier, and the Scot blessed his foresight in arranging for the others to conceal themselves on the floor. The sun was low, casting the interior of the half-track in deep shadow, so even a lookout with field-glasses would see only a German half-track driven by one man, a man in a nondescript coat with an Alpenkorps cap rammed down over his head. You see what you want to see, Macomber told himself, so with luck a German lookout would see one of his own vehicles sent ahead to test the stability of the ice. He sucked in a deep breath of chilled mountain air to revive his flagging reserves. God he was tired, he was so damned tired! Within the next few seconds he was stirred into petrified alertness.
He was within two hundred yards of safety, coming closer to the shoreline where the road emerged from the snowdrift, when he felt the vehicle-begin to tremble, saw the ice sheet ahead of him tilt and quiver prior to the moment of fracturing fatally, realized that the huge weight under him was beginning to drop... His hands tightened on the wheel, his foot pressed down on the accelerator - reflex actions he was unaware of - and the sagging motion of the half-track quickened. He was speeding forward over the ice when he grasped what was happening - happening to him rather than to the vehicle: he was suffering a violent attack of giddiness. He leaned back hard against the seat, sucked in quick gulps of the pure air, felt his lungs expanding, his head clearing, and then he was closing the gap between lake and road, keeping his foot pressed down regardless and with only one idea in his mind - to get clear of this bloody lake come hell or high water. The wheels bumped over rock-hard ruts, the half-track drove forward through frosted grasses which broke off and scattered like pine needles as it moved onto the road, and it was soon ascending until it was lost from the view of the monastery under the leaning overhang of the bluff towering above them. Macomber pulled up, left the engine running and rested on the wheel. His eyes were still open when Prentice scrambled to his feet and laid a hand on his snow-covered shoulder.
'You've made it! Are you all right, Mac?'
'Give me a minute... Look down there...'
The words came out in gasps and while he struggled to get a grip on himself Prentice extracted the Monokular from his coat pocket and focused it out over the gulf. In the distance to the south a lean grey vessel was approaching with smoke streaming from its stack and a clear wake to stern. A British destroyer was heading for the peninsula. Her deck was crammed with troops and Prentice fancied he recognized the individualistic hats the Australians wore - Australians and some New Zealanders probably, steaming directly for Cape Zervos where the tortuous track led up the cliff face.
'It's packed with troops,' Prentice said quickly. 'Aussies and Kiwis. God, if only they'd get here in time.'
'They won't!' Macomber was recovering and he clambered unsteadily out of the vehicle to stand by the lieutenant. 'Burckhardt should make it within the hour and...' He looked back at Grapos who was seated on a bench beside Ford. 'How long do you reckon it would take a man to come up that cliff track?'
'Three or four hours. It would depend on the man. Mules find it difficult.'
'There you are,' Macomber said grimly. 'And they haven't even landed yet - won't for a while. That's always assuming they're heading for the cape - they could easily be bound for Katyra.'
'Lord, no!' Prentice was appalled. 'If only we had a Verey pistol - or even a mirror.' He turned to the others. 'It would be just too damned convenient if anyone had a mirror, I suppose?'
It was too damned convenient; no one possessed a mirror. Macomber brushed snow off his leather coat and began walking stiffly downhill the way they had come, and every step jarred his cramped body, cramped with sitting behind the wheel, cramped with the tension of crossing the lake. Feeling as though at any moment he might keel over and fall in the snow, he reached the point where the road turned under the bluff to continue along the shore, and with Ford at his heels he came round the corner. He stopped abruptly, holding back the sergeant with his hand. 'There you are - that shows how much time we've got. Sweet Fanny Adams.' The bluff loomed above them, and above that rose the sheer climb of the monastery wall, terminating in the high tower which reared like a pinnacle in the sunlight. But it was across the lake where Macomber was staring, his face bleak as his lips chewed briefly. Round the flank of the snow-covered slope on the distant shore a small dark bug-like object was crawling forward. The first half-track had arrived already.
'You were right,' Prentice said tersely as he peered over their shoulders. 'Those chaps on the destroyer will never make it.'
Macomber turned round, talking as he started back towards the half-track, his weary feet scuffling through the snow. 'We'll go ahead with the plan exactly as we arranged. We've got to find some way of warning that destroyer - if they land men and start them up that track with Jerries in position at the top of it there'll be a massacre.'
'Burckhardt will know he can cross that ice when he sees our track marks,' Prentice called out, panting up behind him. The Scot had temporarily recovered his vitality, spurred on by the sight of Burckhardt's arrival, and he was moving uphill with rapid strides as he shouted over his shoulder. 'He'll see nothing. The wind has practically obliterated the marks we made, so he'll have to make his own recce. Which gives us extra time. Not bloody much of it, though.'
Taking a last quick look at the oncoming destroyer, he climbed back into the half-track, glanced to his rear to make sure they were all on board, and then began driving uphill. For a short distance the road fell away steeply to the west - to their right - where the mountain slope sheered down towards the wind-ruffled Aegean far below, while on their left the toppling wall of the bluff leaned over them. The road was deep with snow, soft snow from the recent fall, and streaks of whiteness smeared the bluff's wall. Across the gulf Macomber could see the ship-wrecking chain of rocks extending towards him from the mainland, ending in the saw-tooth which had so nearly destroyed the Hydra, and beyond the rocks he could see the mainland itself where Allied troops would be moving up the vital supply road. Then another rock wall closed off the view and they were ascending a narrow, twisting canyon on the last lap of their long journey to the monastery.
He had ascended perhaps two hundred feet, confined between the narrowing walls of the canyon which climbed vertically above them, when he saw a trail of cloud creeping over the road ahead, blotting out what lay beyond. Switching on his headlights, he reduced speed as they slipped inside the vaporous mist; ice-cold drizzle chilled his face and there was a sudden drop hi temperature as he crawled round a bend and went up a steep incline. The headlights penetrated the cloud just sufficiently for him to see what was happening, to see where the road turned yet another bend as it spiralled up towards the summit of the bluff, and now water was starting to run down the snow-packed road and the snow itself was melting to slush.
He drove on up through the drifting cloud, feeling his clothes grow heavier as the damp clung to him, feeling the tracks slither once and then recover stability as they ground patiently upwards while he grew cold and miserable and sodden and it seemed as though the elements were flinging one final ordeal in his path almost within sight of their objective. Behind him the others had taken up position. Grapos stood at the rear of the vehicle, the Alpenkorps rope looped over his shoulder, while Prentice and Ford huddled on a bench close to him, their weapons gripped between their hands as they watched the Greek who stood facing the way they were going. Macomber turned another bend, saw the road levelling out, switched off his headlights, and heard the hammering of Grapos' rifle butt. The signal to halt.
He braked, left the engine running, and the tang of salt air was strong in his nostrils as the clo
ud began to thin and pale sunlight percolated through the haze. Grapos dropped off at the rear between the tracks and was followed by Prentice and Ford who went after him and vanished in the cloud. Behind the wheel, Macomber was wiping moisture off his watch-face while he timed five minutes exactly. The mistiness, which would have masked his onslaught until the last moment, was receding rapidly as the cloud left the peninsula and floated out over the gulf. He grimaced, saw ahead the final rise in the road which hid him from the monastery, checked his watch again. At four minutes and thirty seconds the cloud had dispersed completely, but again that would have been too damned convenient. Now for the break-in, the final effort - with everything staked on one vicious surprise attack.
With the cloud gone he was bathed in the cold bright sunlight of winter and he could see the Aegean to his right, but rising ground shielded the destroyer from view; he could see the stark triangle of Mount Zervos, a peak of whiteness where the light caught the snow crystals, but the monastery was still invisible; and he could see the deep, trench-like gulley along which Grapos had led the other two men, but they had disappeared. He checked his watch: ten seconds to go. Reaching inside his pocket he dragged out the Luger from the sodden folds and laid it on the seat beside him. Five seconds left. His hand clutched the brake, waited, released it. He was off.
He accelerated rapidly, mounted the rise, crested it. The road ran straight to the monastery which rose up less than two hundred yards away. He took in the impression in a flash. The towers and the wail linking them were lower on this side. The greenish shell of a dome, which he remembered was the church, showed beyond the wall-top. The ancient gatehouse, a tumbledown wooden structure which appeared to lean back against the stone for support, was in the centre of the wall. Three or four storeys up wooden box-like structures were attached to the stonework, protruding from the wall like giant dovecotes, each structure faced with tall shutters which led out to a small balcony. The ground between the crest and the monastery was bare and level with huge boulders strewn close to the left-hand section of the monastery. Mid-way to the gatehouse he swerved off the road, crossing open ground in a sweeping half-circle, which brought him back on the road again with the half-track's rear presented to the monastery. So far he had seen no sign of life and the place had a derelict look. He changed gear, began reversing towards the closed gate which barred his way, twisting round in his seat as he kept one eye on the road, another on the gateway rushing towards him as he built up speed and the monastery canie closer and closer.
He saw out of the corner of his eye movement on the roofed-in, railed walk which spanned the first floor of the gatehouse, the movement of a field-grey figure steadying himself as he took aim, and he knew something had gone fatally wrong. The Alpenkorps cap was not enough to make the German pause, or had he spotted one of the others at the last moment - Macomber had no idea which - but he knew that within seconds the German would open fire, that he must ignore the threat of almost certain death, that the rifle would be discharged at point-blank range if the man had the sense to wait only a few seconds longer when he couldn't possibly miss, firing down from his elevated position at a target moving rapidly closer under his gunsight.
During the final rush up to the closed gates Macomber became aware of everything around him - the snow-covered ground where rocks poked up through the whiteness, the shabbiness of the small balconies where decrepit paint exposed the mellow woodwork, the open-necked collar of the Alpenkorps soldier on the gatehouse who was steadying himself against the wall as he aimed his rifle, the rotting umbers of the large double gates, the mildewed-looking dome of the church vanishing from view as the wall rose up and screened it, the high-powered throb of the engine, the metallic grind of the whirling tracks...
He heard the report of the rifle above these sounds, a sharp crack, the first shot fired in the coming encounter - the shot fired by Grapos from behind a large boulder. The German on the balcony was stood immediately over the roadway and he staggered forward as the bullet penetrated, reached out a hand to steady himself on the frail balcony rail, sagged forward with his full weight, which was too much for the support, and he fell through it at the moment the half-track smashed through the gates, tearing both loose from the upper hinges so they toppled inwards and the vehicle stormed over them and continued reversing under the archway and into the vast courtyard beyond. Macomber blinked with relief, heard something thud down behind him, glanced back swiftly and saw the dead German folded over the second bench. The half-track roared on inside a stone-paved square which was larger than he remembered it, a square with a plane tree in the centre, the church to the right, an ancient stone well beyond the tree - a square large enough to accommodate a small army, overlooked on all sides by windows and arcaded walks which ran round the inner walls at each floor level. The vehicle was charging towards the tree when he reduced speed, changed gear, went forward and began thundering round the square, turning the wheel erratically as though the half-track had gone berserk. His Alpenkorps cap was prominently on view, as was the German soldier behind him, a soldier impossible to identify from his crumpled position. Macomber completed one circuit, heard the sound of shots, described a wild S-bend tour round the church and reappeared suddenly from the other side as he headed into the square again and accelerated afresh. For anyone inside the monastery the speeding half-track had become a hypnotic focal point - a focal point to divert their attention for vital seconds from what might be happening elsewhere.
When Grapos jumped from the stationary half-track as the cloud dispersed from the bluff he plunged straight into the gulley leading away from the road and towards the monastery, a ravine seven feet deep which hid the hurrying men from any possible observation from the monastery walls. He ran forward in a crouch, his rifle between his hands, the rope looped from his shoulder. He was heading for one of the towers which protruded out from the wall, so that the side farthest from the gatehouse formed a right-angled corner which couldn't be seen from that direction. Behind him came Prentice with Ford close at his heels. The staff-sergeant's shoulder still throbbed with a dull ache but he could use the lower part of his arm and, more important still, he could use his machine-pistol if he held it awkwardly.
Close to the wall, Grapos paused and lifted himself half-out of the gulley at a point where a large boulder hid him from the gatehouse. This was the position he must take up to cover Macomber when he had arranged the ascent of his companions. Dropping back into the gulley, he ran forward again and clambered out where the ravine ended at the base of the wall. They were now hemmed in by the corner, invisible from the farther extension of the wall unless someone came out onto a balcony. Ford took up a position where he could observe the receding wall while the lieutenant gazed upwards, his machine-pistol hoisted. It took Grapos less than a minute to prepare the rope for throwing, a rope weighted at the tip by the metal hook, and when he hurled it upwards and inwards the hook trapped itself on the floor of the projecting side-balcony •twenty feet above them. Taking a long breath, Grapos jumped up the rope, held on, swayed briefly like a pendulum as he tested its resistance, then dropped to the ground again and glared at Prentice.
'It is good - but you must be quick. You remember the way?'
'Perfectly!' Prentice glanced at bis watch, looped the machine-pistol over his shoulder, began to climb the rope hand over hand, his legs stiffened, his boots pressed against the roughened stonework as he half-hauled, half-walked himself up towards the balcony. The shaky structure trembled a little under his progress, but he ignored the warning of its instability, climbing faster as he got the hang of the ascent. If the bloody thing came down, it came down. Neck or nothing now. His face eased up to balcony level and he saw the hook firmly embedded between the open floor-boards. One final heave and he was clutching the shaky rail, hauling himself over the top, standing on the floor with the closed shutters behind him. He propped the machine-pistol against a post where he could reach it easily, looked over, saw that Ford had already tied the
rope round bis body and under his armpits. As he started to haul up the sergeant Grapos was slipping back inside the gulley and running along it to take up position behind the boulder.
Hauling up Ford proved strenuous: the sergeant tried to help by splaying his feet against the wall, but he was unable to lift himself by his hands which were concentrated on gripping the rope, so the lieutenant had to haul up his full weight length by length, the rope taut over the balcony rail which was shuddering under the pressure, the floor quivering under his feet as Grapos' warning flashed through his mind. 'The balcony has not been used for many years because it is dangerous...' Sweating profusely, his arms almost strained from their sockets, his legs trembling with the arduous exertion, Prentice saw a tangle of dark hair appear, a hand grasp the floor edge, and then the railing gave way, collapsed inwards like broken matchwood. He jerked in more rope, his back pressed hard into the shutters, his feet driving into the floor as he heaved desperately and Ford was half-dragged, half-scrambled his way through the smashed rail and ended up on his knees on the balcony. The sergeant was still recovering his breath, blood was still oozing from his left hand where the wood had gashed it, while Prentice untied the rope, released him from it, and then dropped the rope end down to the ground for Grapos to use later. 'All right, Ford?' he croaked, leaning against the shutters as he reached out for the machine-pistol.
