Casca 32: The Anzac

by Tony Roberts

  He knelt by the figure of Alison, aware that blood was seeping from her side. The scalpel had caused some damage, but he wasn’t sure how much. “Where is he, answer me damn you! Where is he?”

  “Here, you bastard,” came a menacing voice from behind.

  Clark whirled, his eyes wide behind his glasses. Casca was stood a few feet away, taking in the scene. He’d heard everything from beneath the jetty, and guessed what had happened. He’d been too late to stop Alison being hurt, but he was going to put an end to Clark’s meddling one way or another.

  The medical orderly got to his feet, blood on his hands. “At last, I’ve found you!” He really had no conception of the danger he was in. His obsession in finding a man he regarded as a medical miracle had blinded him to everything.

  Casca pushed past him and knelt by Alison. She was still breathing but the blood was spreading. He turned her over and her eyes came to rest on his face. “Oh, Sandy,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said gently. “It’s alright.” He stroked her hair, smiling. Alison smiled back, then her gaze unfocussed and she went still.

  “Can you tell me how you’re able to heal so quickly?” Clark said from behind, keen to know the secret behind the mystery.

  Casca slowly put her down and stood up. He turned, his eyes hard. Clark began to feel irritation. “I’m asking you a question!” he snapped, “answer it!”

  Casca said nothing. His mouth turned down. He reached out and grasped Clark by the throat. He began to squeeze, the Welshman too shocked to react at first. Then suddenly, everything seemed to clear and he realized this man was going to kill him. He began to struggle but it was futile.

  Casca picked the man up, still throttling him, and held him over the edge of the jetty. Clark’s face was going red and his eyes bulged. A curious choking noise came from his lips and his feet kicked wildly. This man had caused him so much pain and trouble, now it was time to end it.

  When his victim had stopped struggling and his face had gone purple, then Casca released him. Clark dropped like a stone into the water and vanished with a loud splash. Then he turned and picked up Alison and walked with her in his arms away from the jetty. Men had gathered, attracted by the noise, and watched in silent fascination as the scarred man walked past them back towards the town.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Captain Hieron stood by the jetty and looked in mounting frustration as the dripping corpse of Clark was pulled out of the sea and deposited onto the harbor side. The way he’d died was obvious; the face said it all. “Cover his damned face,” Hieron grumbled and looked at the surrounding scenery, as if to get inspiration. “Damn him to hell.”

  The waiting MPs didn’t know to whom he was referring; it could either be the dead man or the man who’d killed him. Plenty of witnesses had testified as to the identity of the killer. But again, nobody knew where Atkins – or van der Laang – or Roman – had gone. What was also clear was that Roman had killed Clark after Clark had killed the woman. Crime of passion.

  The young Australian in the hospital had clammed up; the fear of God was in his eyes and someone obviously had said something to him. With Clark and the nurse dead and the young Australian too scared to say anything, nobody now had any clue as to where Roman could be.

  “Shit,” Hieron said finally and turned away. “Get him to the mortuary.” He was going to have to send a message to his superiors in Alexandria. They would not be pleased with him. The fact he was not there when Roman had been busted out of jail was besides the point. His was the responsibility and therefore the axe was going to fall on his head. Goodbye Aegean and hello France. Or maybe Mesopotamia. Christ.

  * * *

  Casca watched as the patrol passed by, then crossed the dusty road to the olive grove. Alison was light and he could carry her without any problem. He wanted to put her somewhere close to the hospital so that her body could be properly tended to. But he didn’t want to be caught again, and this time he was going to get off Imbros and make sure he was on that ship to Salonika. He’d had enough of the war and its suicidal tactics, and of the manhunt. The sooner he was gone the better.

  He waited till dark and then placed her body gently on the roadside leading to the gates. It was just far enough away so to be out of the range of the lights. The next person to come along would see her and take her to the hospital.

  He gave her a silent farewell and sadly looked down at her. He’d only known her for a few months but as always it touched his heart, and he left a little piece of him behind with her passing. The crushing pain in his heart would pass given time, but each time this happened always reminded him of his immortality and their mortality. With a deep sigh he turned away and made his way back down the hill towards the harbor. That ship would sail with the morning sun and he intended being on it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thessalonika. Or, as Casca mused as he surveyed the old crumbling walls, Salonika as the allied soldiers were calling it. Same place, a city he’d been to many, many times before. It had been Roman, Byzantine, Venetian, Byzantine again, Turkish and finally Greek. The old Roman-Byzantine walls were still there but fading away, no longer of any use in the modern age of gunpowder. Besides, the population had outgrown the medieval city and had sprawled out untidily into the suburbs.

  Now there were huge army camps on the outskirts, full to bursting point with British and French soldiers. Casca had managed to get hold of a uniform to blend in on the ship, thanks to raiding one of the packages in the hold, but it wasn’t an Australian one. He regretted that in some ways, as he’d liked that army, and the men, but it was just not to be. He had to get away and even here, in Salonika, he was too close to the search area.

  He needed to disappear from the Allied forces altogether.

  North of Salonika the terrain became hilly and the border of Bulgaria wasn’t far. Word was that the Bulgarians were digging in on the hilltops, blocking any Allied advance up the Vardar valley. But that wasn’t the only problem the Anglo-French army had; the Greeks themselves weren’t letting them out to play either. The new Greek government wasn’t having any of it, being naturally worried that if they threw their hand in with the Allies now, they might get what the Serbs had got just a few weeks back. With Serbia conquered there was now an Austrian army not too far away, and Greece thought they would get attacked from two directions.

  Casca didn’t give a rat’s ass about that. He needed to find a way through the Bulgarian lines and then he’d worry about where to go after that. Maybe Romania. At least they were staying out of it at the moment, but for how long he wasn’t sure. But what he needed right now was to get his hands on webbing, a belt, a helmet and a rifle. Wandering around the streets of Salonika with none of that would get him noticed in no time and it wouldn’t take long before they found out he was a deserter.

  Night had fallen and that helped. He moved through the darkened streets, a wraith in the cold air. There was an icy bite to it and he wondered if it would snow. It almost certainly was snowing further north in the mountains, where he had to go. He shivered. He sniffed the air. Someone was cooking. It was meat – probably goat. He made his way along the stone-faced buildings and crouched close to a lit section. A door and shuttered windows were emitting light. From the sounds coming from beyond, it was a tavern. Casca looked up and saw what he wanted almost at once. A wall that would almost certainly lead to a yard at the rear of the tavern. Casca looked round and, satisfied he was unseen, reached up and grasped the top of the wall and hauled himself over.

  The sounds were slightly muffled as he dropped down the other side and looked around, fully alert. It was darker here, and enclosed. Sure enough, it was a fully enclosed area that led off ahead, and closed doors stood to the right, where the tavern was. Casca scuttled along and got to the end of the building without tripping over anything.

  There was a yard with double wooden doors at the end. This must be the delivery area. The place smelt of animal
dung and rotting vegetables. Crinkling his nose the Eternal Mercenary glided to a shut door and tested the handle. It moved and the door opened. Taking as much care as he could Casca slid into the building and shut the door behind him. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark but he could make out a bar of light under another door about twenty feet away. That must be the kitchen. The noise of music and revelry was coming from that direction.

  The sound of dripping water masked his slow and steady progress through the room, and he passed large shapes standing to either side; maybe clothes, maybe food supplies. He was too much in a hurry to stop and check. He pressed against the door and listened. There were sounds of movement from beyond and someone babbling in Greek. Casca slowly opened the door and slipped inside, leaving the door ajar just in case he needed a quick escape.

  Two men stood next to a roaring fire where a goat was being roasted on a spit. The smell of goat was strong here and Casca’s mouth watered. He needed something to eat. The two men picked up some iron pot full of vegetables and dumped it on an iron stove where more flames were licking upwards. Casca crouched and glided along under the level of the tables, a few feet from the two unsuspecting Greeks. A corridor led off to one side and the noise was definitely coming from there. Casca waited a few moments, then darted for the passageway and went along halfway before coming to a side door. From the smell of it he guessed it was what passed for a toilet. It opened to a small yard, roofless, and two walled areas stood to one side, one with a seat, the other with just a hole in the ground. The stench of feces and urine was overpowering. Casca pressed against the wall and waited, thinking it wouldn’t be long before someone happened by.

  In the event he had to remain there for nearly ten minutes before the door jerked open and a soldier came staggering past unsteadily, unbuttoning his flies. Casca moved behind him quickly and struck him behind the ear. The man sagged and Casca repeated the blow. The soldier collapsed. Without wasting a moment, Casca unfastened the man’s belt and untied the helmet that had been hanging from his belt.

  Slipping both on, he next unfastened the webbing and had to adjust it, as it was a little tight. Leaving the unfortunate propped against a wall away from the worst of the smell, Casca scrambled up over the toilet wall and down into the yard. Now at least he was dressed like any other Tommy.

  He got back over the outer wall and landed in the street. Nobody was in sight. He thrust his hands in his pockets and sauntered into the tavern. The wall of noise was deafening. Men were crammed against the walls, sat in every possible chair and even on tables, all drinking and singing. Casca grinned and lifted an unguarded mug of half-finished alcohol, and walked on through the throng.

  His size and strength helped him plow through the field of humanity, but he left a few annoyed persons in his wake. “Oy, watch it, mate!”

  Casca waved a hand in apology. He leaned against a small space and tested the drink. Watery ale. He grimaced, but it was better than nothing. Two men had been talking before he’d arrived, and they leaned out to continue the conversation. Both were British soldiers, quite young. Casca listened. They were men of the Hampshire Battalion, the 12th, and had been in Salonika only a few weeks. Their camp was north of the city, along the Lembet Road. Casca knew it, or rather, he’d known it. It would probably be unrecognizable now, but it was perfect for his route.

  One of them moved away, leaving the other to drink alone. “Bet this isn’t what you thought it would be like,” Casca said, imitating a Welsh accent. He’d had plenty of experience of it, having lived in Wales as recently as 1914.

  “Blimey, you Welsh?” the Englishman asked, surprised.

  “Yes. Joined up in Cardiff I did,” Casca grinned. “Been yer two days. Name’s Cas Long.”

  “Fred Vellender,” the Englishman shook hands. “Came from Flanders before we were posted here. I’m from Gloucestershire.”

  “Nice to meet you. They tell me we’re going to be stuck in camp for months.”

  Fred nodded, his face showing dismay. “Came here expecting to fight the Turks, then they changed their minds and said we were going to save the Serbs, now we’re doing nothing.”

  “Generals,” Casca said in disgust and threw the remnants of his awful drink down his throat.

  Fred nodded and took a much more careful drink. Casca thought maybe the Briton had the better approach to the drink. This stuff was full of piss and wind. A commotion broke out by the rear of the room and heads turned. “What’s going on there?” Casca queried, standing on his toes.

  “Don’t know,” Fred said, trying to see. Voices babbled up and a groggy form of a man without webbing or a belt was pushed through the throng, helped by two others. “Someone mugged poor old Mudger here in the karzi!” a voice hollered above the general hubbub. Laughs broke out.

  Mudger looked at those laughing in fury. “Not funny! Can’t a man go for a pee in safety these days? And my belt’s been nicked!”

  “Hold onto your trousers, Mudger, or someone might nick them too!” a wag cried out. More laughter.

  Mudger growled at everyone to fuck off and was helped into the night air, grumbling.

  Casca slapped Fred on the shoulder and wished him well. He went to the doorway and watched as the three men vanished northwards towards the camp. After a moment he followed and found he was accompanied by a group of others who had also decided they’d had enough. Using this group of five as cover, Casca approached the camp and was waved through by bored looking guards who weren’t bothering to check papers.

  Casca had little difficulty in finding his way round since the camp was well lit. The barracks were roughly built wooden long sheds, probably with splintered floorboards and cheap uncomfortable wooden framed beds full of lice and fleas. He passed them by and looked for a suitable place to steal a rifle. One building had an open door and Casca walked boldly up to it and peered in. There was a small room and he looked round, seeing nothing. Another door stood opposite so he opened that. There was a larger room beyond which was lit but unoccupied. A couple of bunks lay to either side and equipment was stashed untidily on them, including one Lee Enfield. Grinning, Casca picked it up and also a spare clip of ammunition he found. Someone was damned careless.

  Sounds of somebody returning came to him so he hurried through the room to the far end and used the door there. He was in a washroom and a shuttered window stood to one side. He unlatched it and peered out. A couple of soldiers were marching past, so he waited till they turned a corner before slipping out and down. The shutter was allowed to close and he moved away, shouldering his newly acquired rifle.

  It wouldn’t be long before the careless owner raised hell for his missing gun – or would he? Most likely he’d report his gun missing after a search, so he reckoned on having about ten minutes. It was nearly ten o’clock so he reckoned a night patrol would be going out to the border pretty soon. He made his way to the northern edge of the camp and went up to the guard corporal. “The patrol gone out yet?”

  “Yes, private, about five minutes ago. You late or something?”

  “Bugger! Yes, had to use the karzi, and the sods said they’d wait!”

  The corporal frowned, but the guards behind him grinned. “Very well, hurry up. You know the password?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry, Sarge made sure we all remembered it!”

  The corporal waved him through and Casca scuttled off into the night, chuckling to himself.

  EPILOGUE

  The frontier was a mass of barbed wire and rifle pits. Bulgarian soldiers moved about, not taking any care to be quiet, but why should they? They had the high ground, they were on home soil and they’d just won a great victory in helping conquer Serbia, one of their ancient enemies. Casca wormed his way along a shallow gully and slid past a couple of smoking bearded soldiers, more intent on keeping warm than worrying about anyone approaching from the plains below.

  The cold bit hard into Casca’s body and he gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. His
breath clouded and he had to constantly place a hand before his mouth to dissipate it. It could so easily give away his position. He picked himself up off the hard frozen earth and crept over a crumbling, recently excavated pile of soil, making sure he didn’t dislodge huge clods of frozen mud.

  Casca wasn’t too good at Bulgarian. It was a language of its own. It even had a tense for what you might have done along with the usual present, past, future, perfect, imperfect and so on. Languages were one of his strengths, but some taxed even his ability. Bulgarian was one of these and besides, he’d never spent much time around Bulgarians to learn it.

  Two more soldiers came shambling along the front line trench, bayoneted rifles slung on their shoulders, miserably hunched into their great coats. Hands were thrust deep into pockets and they looked totally unenthusiastic. Casca stayed shivering where he was, a mere two feet above their heads, immobile, until they passed. He then slid down and crouched at the bottom of the trench.

  He turned away and went in the direction the two had come from. Dugouts were screened by cloth flaps and men were crowded inside around braziers. Clouds of steam dribbled out from the sides of the flaps and Casca envied them. He found a communication trench and slipped down this, zigzagging with the course it took.

  Luck was changeable, as Casca knew all too well and it took that moment to slap him in the face. Three soldiers came round the next corner, two privates and a corporal, all swathed in winter clothing, some of which was certainly not army issue. Their guns were either holstered or on their shoulders. Casca had his bayonet in his hand. The rifle was no good – it was too long for trench work and the noise would bring an entire army onto his head.

  He wasted no time. He had the advantage in that everyone he met was an enemy, while the Bulgarians had to work out who he was, what he was doing there and was he a friend or foe. That took precious seconds to process and by the time the corporal realized he wasn’t friendly Casca had sliced his throat open to the cold air. Blood sprayed out and the man clutched the wound and slumped backwards, gargling obscenely.