Other Paths to Glory

by Anthony Price

  ‘Come on, Captain. No time to admire the scenery.’

  The voice came from nowhere - from somewhere still some distance below him. He clambered off the brickwork on to the ladder, dislodging a few small pieces of debris which pattered on to the rungs below. His hands were covered in dust and cobwebs which he could feel rather than see: everything was bone dry down here, even the air had a dry, chalky smell about it where he would have expected mustiness. It was like a tomb which had long passed through the stages of rottenness and decay to reach an equilibrium in which all other smells had been neutralised.

  He stepped off the ladder on to the firmness of the tunnel’s floor.

  ‘Call Mademoiselle MacMahon, Captain.’

  Mitchell stared upwards. He seemed to have descended an immeasurable distance, so that the real world was even further away than the distant suggestion of light far above him.

  ‘Very good. Now I want you to stand to the left of the ladder. I have a Sten gun - a gift from Britain thirty years ago, but none the worse for its age, I do assure you. We have any number of them down here, still as good as the day they were made. Turn and face the wall, if you please - that’s right.’

  Mitchell fought the lethargy of the prisoner whose position was only hopeless because he had given up hope. In the brief moment in which he had been able to look around him he had been aware of a chamber perhaps ten feet square with two exits. A beam of light, head high, had stabbed at him out of one of the entrances. Miner’s helmet.

  That was better. He was thinking again.

  Ollivier was wearing a miner’s helmet and he was standing in one of the exits. The other exit had been piled with boxes … We hid our arms and equipment down there … I have a Sten gun - a gift from Britain thirty years ago. - Would a Sten fire after thirty years? Packed away in the dry down here, there was no reason why it shouldn’t work after a hundred years, damn it. And no reason why Ollivier should need to bluff him, either.

  He reached out to touch the plank wall in front of him.

  ‘Don’t move, Captain - please.’

  It had a strange springy feel, the wood, like sorbo-rubber. Probably unseasoned green timber when the Germans had brought it to the front, but a thousand times better than anything the British bothered to use. Panelled rooms and elecricity and telephones: all the comforts of home the Germans had built for -

  Mustn’t think of things like that. Must think…

  A fragment of something from above struck him lightly on the cheek. Nikki was coming down the ladder. He watched her legs out of the corner of his eye: lovely legs and a breath of that same perfume he had first smelt in the car yesterday - was it only yesterday?

  Nothing like those legs and that perfume - nothing like Nikki MacMahon - had ever been in this hole before. But that was another thought as useless as it was incongruous. The trouble was that his brain had already computed the chance of getting to where Ollivier stood in the tunnel and had rejected it as impossible.

  The Frenchman repeated his instructions to her, and his warning.

  ‘Call David now. Captain.’

  Their time and their chances were draining away. A sickening suspicion was growing inside Mitchell that there were not going to be any chances, that there never had been any, that Ollivier was too professional not to have calculated the thing exactly. Perhaps there was even a vestige remaining of the old friend who had shared a staircase at Cambridge with Audley and who didn’t relish cutting them down in cold blood: perhaps he was hoping that Audley would take his chance against Sorel and that Mitchell would risk his against the reliability of that thirty-year-old Sten - perhaps that was why he’d gone out of his way to challenge him with the weapon’s antiquity.

  But now even those non-chances had passed: he could hear Audley’s shoes scrape on the rungs of the ladder just above.

  The big man came down slowly, peering around the chamber and then catching his head with a dull thump on one of the supporting beams.

  ‘Easy, David,’ came the voice from behind the beam of light.

  ‘Easy? For God’s sake, I can’t even stand up straight!’ Audley brushed the cobwebs from his hair. ‘I can see why the Germans gave up wearing those spiked helmets.’

  His voice was only mildly angry, almost bantering.

  ‘Against the wall beside Mademoiselle MacMahon, if you please.’

  As Audley turned towards the wall Mitchell caught a glimpse of his face before it was lost in shadow. It was very different from his voice; it was stamped with an expression of ferocious danger quite unlike anything he had ever seen on it before. If Audley was frightened, as he ought to be, he gave no sign of it; what he was showing was the look that went with his words at the top of the shaft - I’ve been unpardonably stupid - the look of an arrogantly clever man who had allowed himself to be out-smarted and was almost incandescent with rage at the discovery.

  ‘That’s very good - you are all being sensible,’ Ollivier murmured encouragingly. ‘So now we will go for a little walk - just a few steps to start with, so that Sorel may join us without … without tempting you not to be sensible, shall we say? You first. Captain. Then Mademoiselle, and then you, my David, last but not least … Just remember to move slowly, Captain -remember that however fast you can move it cannot be fast enough.’

  Suddenly Mitchell was very frightened indeed, but more that Audley would explode and get them all shot there and then than that Ollivier would squeeze the trigger.

  ‘Come on, Captain. We can’t wait -‘ Ollivier bit off the end of the sentence. ‘Steady, my David - don’t try it.’

  It was as though he had picked up the vibration of Mitchell’s fear and Audley’s anger. But as he sensed the big man relax beside him Mitchell decided that some tell-tale movement must have betrayed the intention prematurely.

  ‘That’s just right…’

  The voice drew them one by one into the tunnel. The beam of light was blinding, but it was obvious that Ollivier was moving sideways, his back to the tunnel wall.

  ‘Now we’ve come far enough. Just sit down where you are and we will wait for Sorel in comfort.’

  The floor was uneven but not rough - smoothed by the passage of innumerable jackboots. Once they had left the chamber at the bottom of the entrance shaft they were surrounded by naked chalk, he had seen that much as he lowered himself out of the direct beam. It was over a yard wide and nearer six feet than five in height - more like the dimensions of the galleries the New Zealand tunnelling companies had cut, rather than those typical of the British and the German. And like those New Zealand tunnels it wasn’t shored-up either … But then it was for communication, not mining or counter-mining; there would have to be room for fully-equipped troops to pass each other in it. Ridiculous. Mitchell rubbed his eyes and blinked. He still couldn’t comprehend the reality of it. Everything that had happened to him in the last couple of days was a dream full of strange sharp images. Butler’s polished shoes catching the light in the Institute: It is Mr Mitchell, isn ‘t it? and then the dark cold water rushing up, engulfing him; his mother’s eyes wide with shock; his reflection - Captain Lefevre’s reflection for the first time - in the hotel mirror; the line of council houses at Elthingham and General Leigh-Woodhouse’s old manor rising out of the grass; Nikki’s red-gold hair and the swell of her breasts which neither Mitchell nor Lefevre would ever touch.

  The trench rifle. He had seen it two years before, fresh from the grave, and had never thought to see it again … never thought that it would be the death of him.

  Him. Not Lefevre. Lefevre was a joke. Colonel Butler had been right there.

  Mitchell.

  ‘Get up.’

  There was another light now, coming from behind. For an instant it threw the uneven walls of the tunnel into a jagged relief of white chalk and black shadow, framing the dark figure of Ollivier like a cyclops with a single glaring eye. Then the eye fixed its gaze on Mitchell and he was blind again.

  ‘Get up.’

  T
he politeness was gone from Ollivier’s voice now; with Sorel at their backs he had no further need for false courtesy.

  ‘Now we will continue our little walk. I will set the pace and when I say “stop” you will stop immediately. Captain. One step too far and I will fire, make no mistake about that. Do you understand?’

  The little walk was a nightmare.

  Nor was it a little walk. On the open ground above, the farm couldn’t be much more than a quarter of a mile from the edge of the wood. But underground, shuffling and stumbling at a snail’s pace and hypnotised by the light which never left his face, Mitchell lost all sense of distance. He knew only that he was being drawn on and on irresistibly, able to think of nothing coherently but the need to steady himself first on one wall, then the other.

  Sometimes his feet encountered unidentifiable objects which crunched as he trod on them or rattled as he kicked them out of his way. Once he nearly tripped on what he was sure was a steel helmet, a mishap which roused in him the sudden hope that Ollivier might trip also. But although he was virtually backing down the tunnel, the Frenchman was either exceptionally sure-footed or already knew the extent of the hazards.

  Mitchell wiped his face again with his free hand and was surprised to find it covered with sweat, yet clammy to the touch.

  He was still wasting his precious time on foolish thoughts: of course Ollivier knew the tunnel’s hazards. He had explored it for three days years ago, long before he had discovered a new use for it.

  But what use?

  That was irrelevant too. All that mattered now was that Ollivier knew what he was doing, where he was going, and they didn’t. All along he had planned what he was going to do if they had come up with the fatal answer. Now he was simply putting his plan into operation.

  They were as good as dead.

  ‘Stop.’

  Mitchell stopped so abruptly that Nikki stumbled into him, almost throwing him off his balance.

  ‘We take a little rest here,’ said Ollivier. ‘Just ahead on your left there is an opening. Captain - you will lead the way into it. It is only a short passage, seven or eight metres, no more. Then a dead end.’

  Dead end …

  ‘There is a place to sit. You will sit there. In a little while we will go on. Now - move.’

  Mitchell blinked into the light.

  ‘I can’t see a thing, you’re blinding me.’

  ‘Feel your way along the wall.’

  Mitchell turned half left and began to feel his way along the wall of the tunnel.

  Before his eyes had become accustomed to being out of the direct beam his right hand fell away into the emptiness of an opening in the wall. It was narrower and lower than the main passage, so that he was forced to stoop as he entered it. As he did so he felt a sudden contraction of fear in his chest: it was like entering total darkness and for all he knew there might be a bottomless shaft at his feet.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ he protested abjectly.

  For a moment he lost the left-hand wall, and then his hand touched something quite unlike the hardness of the naked chalk - it yielded to his fingers with a dry rustle. He recoiled in horror towards the opposite wall, striking his head on the low roof as he did so and crying out.

  ‘What is it?’ Nikki’s voice was shrill with fear also.

  ‘I don’t know - ‘

  ‘There are only a few old coats hanging on the wall. Captain.’ Ollivier’s tone was scornful. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’

  Old coats? Mitchell swallowed the lump in his throat. That yielding something had been tattered cloth and canvas: he had known that in the back of his mind instantly. What he had been appalled by was the thought of what might be inside it.

  ‘That’s far enough.’

  A measure of light illuminated the narrow passage. It came from behind and was largely blocked by their own shadows, but he could see that Ollivier had risked nothing by directing them into the opening: it petered out just ahead of him.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Mitchell peered about him. On his left a low bench-like ledge had been scooped out of the chalk; above it, on a line of spikes driven into the chalk, hung a line of coats faded and thick with the dust of ages, waiting for owners who had themselves been dust for two generations. He sat down carefully on the very edge of the ledge, unwilling to set his back against the rags.

  There was a low murmur from the opening to the main tunnel: Ollivier and Sorel were co-ordinating the last phase of their operation. Operation Dead End …

  ‘Paul…’

  Audley had no inhibitions against pressing himself back against the coats. As he whispered Mitchell’s name a small cascade of dust and tiny pieces of chalk rained down on him.

  ‘We’ve got to jump them,’ Audley hissed. ‘There’s no alternative. Listen -‘

  But Mitchell was no longer listening. Every sound, every sight, had been blotted out by the hardness of the thing which had pressed into his spine as he leant back to catch Audley’s words.

  Very slowly he twisted his left arm behind his back to explore the object.

  Folds of material … buttons … the harsher, stiffer feel of canvas … He rumbled along the outlines of the object, his fingers searching -

  Jesus Christ!

  Mitchell’s hand froze, one finger trapped in a ring of metal. He felt his chest expand into another wider band of metal which held him in a straitjacket of panic. His death was not only out there in the tunnel, it was here under his hand an inch from his spine. His finger was hooked through it: absolute, shattering, irrevocable death.

  His whole body was bathed in sweat. He could feel it standing out on his face and dripping from his armpit down the side of his body like blood from a wound. He mouthed the one word, very softly, staring past Audley at the single light shining down the passage towards them.

  ‘Cover me,’ he whispered. ‘Take his attention.’

  Audley’s face was in deep shadow and there was no sign for a moment that he had understood. But then he turned away, looking straight ahead, and leant forward to block out the light.

  Slowly Mitchell withdrew his finger from the metal ring. He concentrated his thought fiercely: if it had been sensitive to a touch, then it would have already happened. But if it hadn’t happened it might never happen … Mustn’t think of that … must pray that someone long ago had done his job properly, knowing that other men’s lives depended on his care.

  And must remember that it was dry down here - dry, dry, dry.

  Besides, there was nothing left now to lose. That was the lonely advantage they had over Ollivier: they had nothing to lose which wasn’t already forfeited.

  Audley cleared his throat.

  ‘M’sieur!’ he addressed the light at the end of the passage. ‘M’sieur, excusez-moi … mais … j’ai envie de pisser.’

  Without waiting for an answer he rose from the ledge, facing the light and blocking it entirely from Mitchell’s sight.

  ‘J’ai envie de pisser, mais pas en face de mademoiselle,’ Audley hissed in an embarrassed tone, taking a step towards the light.

  Mitchell pushed aside the stiff folds of the ancient German greatcoat to get at the thing behind it, forcing his fingers to move slowly. Even if Sorel found Audley’s delicacy surprising he could hardly expect his prisoner to pee sitting-down, for God’s sake.

  It was a carrying waistcoat, as he thought it would be; a carrying waistcoat of the sort British raiding parties and assault troops used, with ten pockets. Nine were empty - but the canvas webbing was stiff with age and his fingers were clumsy. He could feel the drops of sweat racing down his face like insects running for safety.

  It wouldn’t move, it wouldn’t move !

  ‘Asseyez-vous!’ snarled Sorel.

  No more time for delicacy. Push with the left hand - pull with the right.

  Suddenly it was heavy in his hand. He straightened, hugging it under his left armpit, his eyes tightly closed.

  Five seconds.


  He counted them with heartbeats.

  ‘Sit down, David,’ he croaked. ‘You’ll get us all shot.’

  Audley subsided back on to the ledge, grumbling under his breath.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he mumbled out of the side of his mouth, making it sound like a final complaint at not being allowed to finish what he had started in decent comfort.

  Mitchell opened his eyes. He could hear Nikki breathing faster next to him. She must have heard what he had said, but either she was a young woman of iron nerve or she didn’t fully understand the extent of the risk. For her peace of mind he hoped it was the latter.

  He shook his head slowly from side to side without turning towards Audley. For better or worse the thing was his. He’d found it - and they’d want him out of the passage first. It was a simple matter of common sense.

  He stared at the chalk wall in from of him. The last man to sit on this ledge had been a German soldier, maybe one of the ill-fated 450th Reserve Regiment who had defended the wood with such courage. He would have sat here and wondered if this was the day when his bullet was being loaded, or his shell was being carried from its dump.

  ‘Captain Lefevre.’ Ollivier’s voice sounded far away. ‘We go on now.’

  As Mitchell stood up, crouching under the low roof of the passage, the direct beam of Sorel’s light vanished, leaving him in almost total darkness again. Only the main tunnel was illuminated now: obviously Ollivier and Sorel had drawn back from the passage entrance, one on each side, waiting to take up their positions again at the front and rear of their prisoners.

  The bastards weren’t taking any chances. But then they’d never taken any chances, not with Charles Emerson, not with Paul Mitchell walking home from work, and not with poor old George Davis walking home from his evening pint at the pub.

  ‘Paul!’ said Audley urgently.