‘I can’t hold on, sergeant,’ sobbed Devlin. ‘I’m going to let go. My arms won’t hold me. Speak to my wife. Tell her I died in battle. Don’t let her know I drowned like a rat in a bloody bog.’
Crossman, barely able to keep his purchase on the canoe himself, tried to yell encouragement to the corporal, but lack of breath would not let him get the words out. Then he found his own fingers torn from the canoe, and was taken on a high wave, and thrown bodily on to shingle which shifted like quicksand beneath him. The next wave landed Devlin on top of him, the pair crashing together, painfully bruising one another. Bits of broken canoe struck Crossman’s head and chest.
Another breaker lifted Crossman off his feet again and carried him yet further up the shore, where he managed to scramble and claw his way out of the reach of the waves.
He lay there dazed for a few minutes, his head spinning. Then he sat up to choke more water from his lungs. When he found his voice again, he yelled out.
‘Devlin – are you there?’
There was no answer at first, but then a faint, laboured reply reached his ears.
‘I’m out of the water, sergeant.’
The two men lay where they were for quite a long time, trying to get some strength back into their exhausted bodies. Crossman could see the sky getting lighter with every minute and after a while the squall passed over, leaving the sea still raving, but getting calmer all the time. He finally managed to get to his feet and stagger down the shore to where Devlin lay amongst seaweed, tossed there like a seashell by the squall.
‘Are you well, corporal?’
Devlin let out a slightly hysterical laugh.
‘Am I well? I’m a bloody ruined man, sergeant, that’s what I am. I’ve been tortured with paddling for hours on end, I’ve been blown up and thrown this way and that, and I’ve been near drowned in a bloody storm. Am I well? I’m alive, is all I’m saying, but as to being well, only the Lord knows.’
‘A fine speech,’ Crossman said, wryly. ‘You must be as fit as a fiddle. I haven’t the strength to make such a speech.’
Devlin sat up and looked down at his soaked clothes.
‘We’re in a pretty pickle now, sergeant. We’ve lost our canoe and it’s a long walk home, through enemy territory. Do you think the others made it?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s go and look.’
They got to their feet somehow and began a search of the immediate area. There was no sign of either Ali or Clancy. It appeared they had not made it to the shore. The two men climbed up to a higher point from where they could look down on several small bays. In one there was something which looked bulky, like a body lying on the sand. The two men, cold and shivering, scrambled down the slopes which led to this bay.
It was Ali, and he was unconscious. Clancy was nowhere to be seen. They carried the inert Ali, a heavy load, up the track to the top. There Crossman scoured the landscape for signs of habitation. Finally he saw smoke rising from the west. He and Devlin managed to half-carry, half-drag the bulky Turk in this direction, until they came upon a large farmhouse. Smoke was curling skywards from the chimney. All the windows had shutters, which were still closed. A thick, roughly-hewn door barred their entrance to the dwelling.
Crossman hammered on the door with a rock.
12
The door opened and an elderly woman stood there. Her hair was completely grey and hung in a single plait down her back to her waist. Her face was tanned and weathered, with more creases than a well-used war map. She stepped back, her mouth dropping open, as she beheld the three drenched soldiers. A single word which sounded like an exclamation escaped her throat, but Crossman did not understand it.
Crossman waited no longer to be offered entrance. Still holding Ali’s legs, he pushed past the old woman with a murmured word of apology, which he guessed she would not understand. Devlin came up behind. Between them they carried the body of Yusuf Ali, whose eyes were now open. The Turk seemed to be having trouble focusing, but he was breathing regularly. He said something to the woman, who made a gesture which was incomprehensible to the other two soldiers.
The woman stared at the Turk for a short while, then left the room. Crossman was wondering whether he ought to follow her. Perhaps there were men in the house? In their present state the three soldiers could be overwhelmed very easily. But in fact he felt too cold and weak to do much more than wait for the outcome. Devlin had already collapsed on to a chair and lolled there like a rag doll. Ali remained on the floor.
The woman returned, not with assistance, but with a warm blanket and some hot soup.
She wrapped the Turk in the blanket and then began to spoon-feed him some of the soup. When it seemed he had had enough, she handed the remains in the bowl to the other two men. There were the embers of a fire in the grate. Crossman took the liberty of placing some logs on the hot ashes. When he looked at the woman, her eyes revealed her approval.
Once the logs were blazing, all three men sat in front of the flames and warmed themselves through. They let their clothes dry on their bodies. Soon Crossman was feeling a great deal better and more able to cope with the situation, both mentally and physically. He was desperately tired, but he had been in that position so many times before. It was enough that he was warm and dry now, with some food inside him.
‘Don’t fall asleep, Devlin,’ he warned his corporal, whose eyes he had seen closing. ‘We have to get out of here. They’ll be looking for us. And if we don’t get to the ship soon, it’ll leave us here, thinking we are all dead.’
‘The sergeant is right,’ Ali said. ‘We must find the ship. It is too many miles to walk. Too much danger.’
He then spoke at length to the elderly woman, who stood with her arms crossed in front of her chest. It seemed to Crossman that the pair were arguing, but he had often made this assumption in the past with regard to foreigners, and often found to his amazement that the stiff words and raised voices meant nothing more than a mutual agreement over some third action or party. Such seemed to be the case here, for the woman left the room and returned a little later with two ancient muskets. There was also a tin box which contained powder and balls.
‘The carbines went down with the canoes,’ explained Ali. ‘I ask her to sell us some guns and dry powder.’
He gave the woman three coins which instantly disappeared in the folds of her dress.
‘With that her husband can buy a new rifle. He is away at market in Yalta,’ explained Ali. ‘They are Tartars. They not care too much for the Russians, who eat their food and pay nothing. They not like the Cossacks who is their old enemy, from old, old times.’
‘Tell her we appreciate her generosity very much. What did you give her?’
‘I give her Maria Theresa dollars we steal from the Russians.’
Devlin said rather indignantly, ‘You’re not supposed to have that. It’s to be shared out amongst us after the war is over.’
The Bashi-Bazouk never let criticism go unanswered.
‘I only take a little. I take some for good use. Maybe I not live until after the war. Maybe the Russians shoot Yusuf Ali and then I not able to spend the money,’ replied the unrepentant Turk, who always seemed to manage to get hold of things he was not supposed to have. ‘If I not take money, maybe Russian blow your head off with his gun, and you not able to stop him, eh?’
There seemed to be no answer to this, since Devlin certainly carried no international coin on his person.
Crossman now asked the question which had been worrying him since picking up the Turk.
‘Ali, is there any chance that Clancy survived the wreck of your canoe?’
Ali sighed. ‘I think not, sergeant. I saw him go under the wave. He not come up again. Yusuf Ali try to swim to him but another big wave come. I think he drown. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault, Ali. Not your fault at all. Devlin and I could not have saved one another either. We had not the strength nor the fortitude. I’m sorry the boy’s dead though. I liked him in
a lot of ways.’
‘Me too, sergeant,’ said Ali. ‘Private Clancy was like me – not afraid to kill a man with his hands.’
‘Well, that’s not a thing I’ll miss in him,’ Devlin said, ‘but it’s a crying shame, just the same.’
‘Time we were on the move,’ said Crossman, standing now. He picked up one of the muskets. Devlin quickly took the other. Ali shrugged and smiled. He and Crossman had dried their pistols by the fire: had reloaded them with fresh powder. So long as Ali had his various weapons about him, he did not worry.
They said goodbye to the elderly woman, whose thin worn face broke into a creased smile.
When they opened the door, however, figures were coming up the track to the farm. Figures in indigo. They were on horseback and they carried lances.
‘Cossacks!’ cried Crossman, slamming the door. ‘Bloody Cossacks.’
‘Did they see you, sergeant?’ asked Devlin.
‘I don’t know. There’s five or six of them. They’re probably part of a wider search for us. If we start shooting, we may bring the whole damn Russian Army down on us. How far are we from the sea? Did you notice when we came up here?’
‘About two hundred yards, I’d guess at, sergeant,’ Devlin replied. ‘We’re up on some cliffs. What are you thinking? That we swim out to the Antigone? If you try that, sergeant, I’m not coming with you. I’ll take my chances here. I’ve had enough of the water to last me a lifetime.’
The Irish corporal’s mouth was set in a firm line. He was usually the first to obey an order, but clearly the thought of another dip in the freezing water did not appeal to him. Even the threat of a court martial would not change his mind, that much was obvious from his eyes.
‘No, not swim. We wouldn’t stand a chance in that cold sea. I was thinking we could make our way along the beaches until we come to some sort of fishing village. There are dozens up and down this coast. We could steal a boat and row out to the ship. What do you think, Ali?’
‘I think this is the best plan. Yusuf Ali not want to go into the sea again today. Not without boat.’
The old woman showed them a window at the back of the farmhouse. They climbed through it and ran towards a ramshackle barn about fifty yards from the main house. Crossman and Devlin made it without being seen by the Cossacks, but the Turk was less lucky. He was just diving through the wide doorway into some hay beyond when a shot crashed into a wooden upright beam.
‘They’re on to us,’ cried Devlin.
The Irishman lay down behind a bale of hay in the open doorway as the Cossacks came riding round the corner of the house. He fired the old musket and spun one of the riders sideways on his steed. The other Cossacks reined in their mounts and looked for cover. Crossman had joined Devlin behind the bale and he too fired, but missed his target.
Four of the Cossacks turned and rode back behind the house. One, however, looked keenly at the two men behind the bale and saw that they were reloading their muskets. He charged forward, pointing his lance and yelling at the top of his voice. He was half-way across the yard, scattering chickens and pigs with his mount, when Ali appeared from behind a water trough at the entrance to the barn.
The Bashi-Bazouk had two pistols in his hands. He blazed away at the charging rider, until the hapless Russian fell from his saddle. The Cossack’s right foot remained caught in his stirrups and he was dragged along with the runaway horse. The creature went back to where the other horses were hidden, and on swinging round the corner of the house smashed the body like a toy on the end of a ribbon against the woodwork.
‘Two down,’ muttered Devlin.
At that moment carbines opened up from the right corner of the house. Heavy rounds began smashing into woodwork around the three soldiers. Cows inside the barn began to panic, making a din. Devlin suggested setting fire to the team and getting away out through the back while there was confusion amongst the Cossacks.
Crossman rejected this idea. It would have been devastatingly unfair to the old woman and her husband.
‘Well, what are we going to do, sergeant? There’s a hundred yards or more between us and the path down the cliffs. If we don’t move soon, we’ll be overrun.’
‘Right, Ali, you make a dash for the cliff edge after the next volley from the Russians. Devlin and I will remain here and cover your run. Then Devlin can go, while we cover him from two different positions. I’ll come up last.’
After the next fusillade of carbine shots struck the hay bales and the barn, Ali swiftly ran out and made for the cliff path. One of the Cossacks had a loaded weapon and showed himself to fire. Both Crossman and Devlin blasted away at this figure, which dropped back behind the right corner again.
‘Did we get him?’ asked Devlin, ramming another ball down the barrel.
Crossman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You’d better make a run for it now. We can’t wait for them to fire. They’re on to that trick now. Off you go.’
Devlin leapt out and ran to join Ali. This time no one appeared from behind the corner. Crossman waited, wondering whether he himself should try for the cliff, where Ali and Devlin both lay. He was just about to go, when three Cossacks appeared from behind the left-hand corner of the farmhouse. They had gone round the house at the back to the opposite corner.
Surprised, Crossman turned and squeezed the trigger of the ancient weapon. Nothing happened. It was a misfire. The Cossacks, seeing this, and hidden by the barn from the fire of the other two soldiers, stormed towards him. Reaching under his sheepskin coat he found his revolver. Whipping out the 5-shot Tranter he put one Russian down at twelve yards. It took three shots. The last pair came on, both whirling sabres.
Crossman shot one in the face. On falling, this Cossack’s sabre struck him on the breast, but without weight behind it the weapon bounced off. His final shot missed the last Cossack. Crossman fell sideways under a blow from the man’s sword, which cut deeply into his shoulder. While down in the mud Crossman swiftly reached under his coat again and found his German hunting knife. He sliced at the Cossack’s ankle, the nearest part of the man’s body to him, in a kind of panic.
The blade cut through the man’s boot and the back of his ankle and severed a tendon. The Russian fell with a grunt of pain beside the sergeant. Crossman leapt on top of him, pinning his sword arm to the dirt. Then the sergeant plunged his hunting knife deep into the man’s chest, several times, until the Cossack no longer struggled.
Without waiting to check if the man was dead, Crossman got to his feet and ran for the cliff edge. A mortally wounded Cossack, dying by the corner of the house, fired wildly after him. The shot cut through the dirt of the yard, creating a small channel about twenty yards long. Crossman, however, was half-way to the cliff path, where Devlin and Ali were waiting anxiously for him.
‘I think we’ve got them all,’ gasped Crossman, falling down beside the other two men. ‘I killed three.’
‘Listen!’ Ali murmured.
There were seagulls and other wild birds screeching around the cliffs, but a low note could be heard coming from beyond the farmhouse, slipping under these sharp sounds.
‘More of them,’ Ali said. ‘We must go quickly.’
The Turk then noticed the blood on Crossman’s coat.
‘You wounded, sergeant?’
‘Good God!’ cried Devlin. ‘You’re soaked in blood.’
‘I feel fine,’ lied Crossman. ‘Come on – down the path to the beach. We have to put some distance between us and those Cossacks.’
The three men scrambled down the path. They reached the beach at the bottom and waded through shallow water around a small headland to the next bay, which proved to be a long curving one about two miles in width. They half-ran, half-walked around this crescent, constantly looking behind them for pursuing Cossacks. Soon they saw them, blue figures without their horses, running on behind, too far away to exchange any fire.
Crossman was by now beginning to feel a little weak and dizzy from loss of blood. Ali saw the serge
ant falter once or twice and then ordered a halt himself.
‘We must stop the blood, sergeant. Devlin, give me the shirt on your back.’
Crossman was too weak to argue. He saw Devlin rip off his own coat, followed by his shirt. Ali used the dirty shirt to pad the wound in Crossman’s shoulder, tying it on with a strip of rag. All the while the Cossacks were getting closer, but Ali did not seem interested in these advancing figures. He worked calmly and efficiently, until he heard the report from Devlin’s musket, as the Irishman fired on the Cossacks.
‘They’re still too far away,’ said Devlin, reloading, ‘but it’ll give them something to think about. Is the sergeant ready, Ali?’
‘Ready,’ grunted the Turk, wrapping Crossman’s good arm around his thick neck, in order to assist the sergeant. He took a quick look at the Cossacks. ‘We must go now.’
13
The three men continued along the beach, but since there was nothing in sight – no farmhouse, nor any kind of building – they struck out inland again. They searched the landscape vainly for some hiding place. There were four Cossacks behind them. These men in indigo doggedly followed the three British soldiers, keeping them in sight. Devlin was in despair.
‘We’re caught this time, for sure. Even if we find a boat up here, we’ll never get it down to the beach. What shall we do, sergeant?’
Crossman’s dizziness had subsided for the time being. He tried to think clearly. Looking around him for a suitable place to make a stand, he saw a copse ahead. The trees were thick-trunked and close together. They would offer reasonable cover. They could wait there for the Cossacks to attack them and hope to beat them off. There were only four of them, after all, though probably more were coming on horseback.
He had to admit to himself that the more likely end scenario would be that the Cossacks would send for reinforcements and storm the position in the copse, giving the 88th no chance. But there was little choice for the three men. They would have to be thankful for the cover and take what came on after.
Soldiers in the Mist Page 10
