My Enemy Came Nigh

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  To vary the operation and give his men more to do than they could by merely following him, Foster had, for the last half-mile, made them crawl forward in V formation. Sgt. Golightly was pointsman on the left, and Jarvis on the right. There was one man behind each of them and to the right or left, respectively. Their intrepid commander made the apex of the V, with the fourth aircraftman at his side, as runner. Where he would run, and why, was not clear; but officers leading patrols traditionally had runners, and by God! so was Foster going to.

  The dell lay obliquely across their path; so, while Jarvis had reached it, Sgt. Golightly was still some yards off it.

  "What is it?" Foster hissed.

  There was no reply, but a sudden stiffening of Jarvis's whole frame and a gasp that sounded like "Lucky perisher."

  Impatiently, Foster stage-whispered again "Report back, Jarvis." But Jarvis was apparently deaf.

  Foster remembered his runner and ordered him to advance. "Go and see what Jarvis is up to, Evans."

  Evans, who was of a curious disposition, shot off, crawling with the speed of a land crab scuttling after a morsel of dead mackerel. Foster watched him draw level with Jarvis, stretch his neck, gaze, stiffen, brush his hand across his eyes, and softly cry "Dhu!" But Evans remembered his duty. He turned, and, red-faced, scurried back.

  "Well?" Foster asked sharply.

  "It's bloody marvellous, sir... I mean it's disgustin', sir. I seen something like it beind the chapel once, after we beat Llanelli at rugby, and Gareth Griffiths was celebratin', like, with Blodwyn Meredith..."

  "Stop rambling, man. What are you trying to tell me?"

  "Well... well, sir... we're not alone: the island's inhabited."

  "What did you see? People? How many?"

  "Just t-two, sir."

  ''Armed?''

  Evans laughed nervously. "The man is, sir: and how!"

  "What sort of weapon? Automatic?"

  Evans began to choke. "In a manner of speaking, sir... A repeater, perhaps you could call it..."Without warning, he rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands to stifle his paroxysms of laughter.

  Angrily Foster said "Don't get hysterical, man. If there are only two of them, what are you afraid of?" He cupped his hands and in a loud whisper said to the two men immediately ahead, "Cover me while I advance."

  As he crawled off he heard a strangled "Oh, Gawd, give me strength" escape from Evans.

  Poor lad, thought Foster: he's scared; you never know what a man's really made of until you see him in action for the first rime. He flopped down near Jarvis and gazed into the shady depression where Scheusal and Zdenka were disporting themselves.

  Jarvis, aware for the first time of anything other than the rivetting Priapic display to which he was being treated, turned with a start. His eyes, changing focus, were glazed. His breathing was rapid and his mouth open. But Foster noticed none of this: his incredulous stare dwelt on a spectacle which wiped his mind clear of any emotion or awareness save indignation that the encounter with the enemy for which he had braced himself had turned out to be a lewd pantomime; disgust at the sight of a raunchy, paunchy, youngish man reclining on his back while a slim, big-breasted girl, her long, dark hair sweeping his loins, bent over him engrossed in a ministration about which Foster had casually heard but never expected to witness; wrath at Jarvis and Evans for their inarticulate embarrassment which had brought him to this equivocal situation. No one could accuse him of pomposity, but he did have a sense or the dignity proper to an officer, and he felt that the sharing of this outrageous scene with two of his troops, and the lascivious account of it they would certainly give, repeatedly, to their comrades, must reduce his authority in their eyes.

  He backed away fast and dragged Jarvis back with him; sat up, took off his steel helmet, and drew an arm across his sweaty face.

  He was not so foolish as to be at a loss for means of imputing blame for the whole thing to his subordinates. "Well?" He asked. "Had enough? Seen your fill of that filth, have you?"

  "S-Sir... Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Jarvis unhappily lowered his eyes, and his colour, which had returned to normal, became brick red again.

  "Fine point-man you turned out to be. Your job's to give instant warning of contact with the enemy, not to lie there and gloat."

  "But they're not the enemy, sir. They're a couple of civvies."

  "Don't split hairs. Anyone we meet on this island must be treated as the enemy. Go and tell Sgt. Golightly I want him."

  Jarvis thankfully doubled off, crouching low: it gave the impression that he was taking care to conceal himself, but in truth his vicarious excitement at what he had seen was as pronounced as Scheusal's at Zdenka's caresses, and he couldn't have run or walked standing upright.

  Foster lay on his front, propping his head in his hands, sweating.

  "Sir?" A voice in his ear announced the arrival of his sergeant.

  "Have a look, Sergeant."

  As Golightly wriggled forward, Foster turned to look back at his men. They had gathered in a knot, their V formation forgotten. All four of them were grinning from ear to ear and Jarvis and Evans were talking animatedly and gesturing obscenely. But Foster's attention was almost immediately distracted by a low moan from Sgt. Golightly: "Bloody hell! Talk about the soixante-bloody-neuf."

  "Sergeant!"

  "Coming, sir." So's that bloody Jug. peasant.

  "Go and sort the men out, Sergeant. Take two with you and send two back to come with me: we'll move round opposite sides of the hollow, and surround them. Keep the men well back, so that they can't see. When I blow my whistle, you and I’ll jump up together and advance on them. Got it?"

  "Right, sir."

  A moment later Jarvis and Evans, looking sheepish, joined Foster. He glared at them. "You two haven't exactly distinguished yourselves so far. Now move quietly, behind me, and stay well away from there." When they had all covered another twenty yards he motioned them to lie prone; then, kneeling, gave a blast on his whistle and leaped up, ran three paces forward, and stood five yards to the south-west of Scheusal's plunging, pallid buttocks. He saw Sgt. Golightly, Sten gun trained on the couple, ten yards away on the opposite side of the dell.

  There was a convulsive thrashing of arms and legs of a different kind as Zdenka screamed and Scheusal bellowed "Gott in Himmel! Was ist los? Was fehlt dir?"

  Zdenka screamed again, not a meaningless howl of surprise this time; she had the wit to register the British uniforms, to be aware that Scheusal had called out in German, and to shriek more loudly than he, in Serbo­ Croat, to drown and confuse his words. She knew very little about the British; but she knew well what her own people or the Germans would do in similar circumstances; open fire at the first sound of enemy language. If Scheusal were British and these strangers German or Jugoslav, they would both be dead now.

  Scheusal, no fool, understood, once he overcame his first shock, and fell silent.

  Zdenka, wriggling from under him, crossing her arms modestly across her breasts, called "Do not shoot. Friend… I am friend… We are friends... Welcome, Englishmen..."

  The sound of a woman's voice speaking English was too much for the young airmen. Four heads appeared as they rose from the grass, Jarvis and Evans wearing a superior seen-it-all-before expression, the other two openly leering, delighted that they were no longer the only ones in the party excluded from first-hand enjoyment of the performance which had been so graphically described to them.

  "Please do not look," Zdenka protested with the righteous aloofness of a nun interrupted without her wimple. "Turn your backs, please."

  "Yeah, and let you run away?" Sgt. Golightly challenged her.

  "No, and let us dress without your dirty looking."

  "You've got a nerve: who's the dirty one? Now I've heard everything."

  "If you're so modest," Foster told her, "you turn your backs on us. And hurry up about it: I want to ask you some questions."

  Zdenka tossed her head, turned away, pick
ed up her panties and glanced over her shoulder to smile at him.

  What a turn-up for the book, thought Sgt. Golightly sourly. She fancies Mr Fearless bloody Foster.

  Ten

  The sound of Foster's whistle carried to the ears of Sgt. Zotig. Although they were separated by half a mile, some freak of the ground caused an echo.

  He was lying in the shade, his old green hat tilted over his eyes, relaxed and about to doze off. The two private soldiers sprawled in the sun, improving their tan while they played cards and squabbled without rancour about their bets.

  Sgt. Zotig brushed his hat aside and propped himself on an elbow. "Hear that?"

  "What, Sergeant?"

  "Thought I heard a whistle."

  The two men shook their heads. "I didn't hear anything."

  "Nor me."

  "It wasn't loud. But I don't usually imagine things." He sat up. "Ought to have a look, I suppose."

  "The leutnant told us not to go further than here, Sarge."

  "You lazy bugger. All right, but just you both keep an ear cocked."

  The two card-players exchanged grins and one of them said "If there's any cocking to be done, leave it to the leutnant: and it's not his ear he's doing it with."

  The sergeant pretended not to hear, lay down and covered his face again.

  All three of them were thinking of the food and cool beer that awaited them back at the spot where they had landed, and the beach where they could refresh themselves in clear, calm water. They were impatient for Scheusal to return. Sergeant Zotig, recumbent under his old Tyrolean hat, was thirsty. The interruption had dispelled any hope of sleep, and after a few minutes he sat up again. "I'm sure that was a whistle I heard." It was a plausible excuse for disobeying orders, anyway. "You two get off your bums and have a look around."

  "What are we supposed to be looking for, Sarge?"

  "The leutnant. He may have had a fall and injured himself. That whistle could have been a signal for help."

  "I didn't know he carried a whistle."

  "Don't argue. Go and find him. But go carefully. If it wasn't him whistling, it means there's someone else around."

  "A whistling goat?"

  "Don't be funny. Find him, tell him we heard a suspicious noise..."

  "You heard a suspicious noise, Sarge."

  "Yeah, because I wash my ears. Tell him I sent you to warn him there may be strangers about."

  "That should make him get a move on: with luck, we'll be opening the beer in twenty minutes."

  Sgt. Zotig grinned at them. "Get moving, then."

  *

  While Zdenka put on her few garments Foster turned his head aside, to set a good example, and Sgt. Golightly and the airmen stared.

  Talking without looking at her, Foster asked "Who is the man with you?"

  "A friend."

  There was a coarse guffaw from Sgt. Golightly, quickly suppressed.

  Scheusal, also dressing, was watching the British party sullenly. He knew little English and less Serbo-Croat; he wondered how he could play the role of Jugoslav peasant convincingly. That damned English sergeant was looking at him with suspicion already.

  Zdenka spoke to him: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday." She said the words with an inflection that appeared to give them meaning. She knew the limitations of Scheusal's Serbo-Croat, but he could count and recite the days of the week and say a few simple sentences (such as "get 'em off" and "let's try it this way").

  Without hesitation he replied "Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday," also as though the gibberish had some meaning.

  They were both dressed by now and stood facing their captors.

  "What are you saying?" Foster asked.

  "I told him you are English and he said he is surprised to see you."

  "One, two, three, January, February," Scheusal confirmed.

  "What's that?"

  "He asks where you come from."

  "That's none of his business. What are you doing here?"

  "We live on Mojat; that is a bigger island, over there." She pointed.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "My father has a herd of goats here..."

  Sgt. Golightly said "And your friend's come to join them, has he?" He laughed vulgarly again.

  "That's enough, Sergeant. You didn't seem to me to be herding goats, young lady."

  "We were resting."

  Jarvis was heard to giggle. "Resting! Wonder what they do for an encore..." Foster glared at him.

  "Have you found your goats?"

  "Not yet."

  "Are there any Germans on Mojat?"

  She took two steps forward. "No." She had half-turned away from Scheusal, who was slightly behind her to her right. With her left eye she winked at Foster. Sgt. Golightly saw it, too.

  Foster hesitated. "Any Germans on this island?"

  She shook her head.

  "Permission to speak, sir?"

  "What is it, Sergeant?"

  "This chap looks more like a Gerry to me than a Jug, sir.”

  Zdenka said "I do not understand."

  "My sergeant thinks your... friend... looks more like a German than a Jugoslav."

  "Good morning, sixty-one, September, seven, eight, Christmas and Thursday afternoon," said Scheusal. With a touch of indignation, to Zdenka. Foster looked at her questioningly.

  "He says we should go and look for our goats. He says he is glad to see you here, but please let us go now."

  "We'll come with you."

  "Twenty-six, thirty-seven, how d'you do and where is your sister?" Scheusal asked.

  "They are coming with us," Zdenka told him slowly, with pretended exasperation, hoping he would understand. She faced about and began to walk towards the place where Sgt. Zotig and the others were waiting for them.

  Scheusal pointed to the eastward. "There."

  She stopped. "What?"

  "There." He set off briskly. She understood: he didn't want Sgt. Zotig and his two other men to be seen. If he led the British in this other direction, they would see the British and be warned. She damned her luck.

  Five minutes later, Scheusal was cursing his.

  His two lazy soldiers, casting carelessly around for a sight of him and Zdenka, found themselves at the tarn set in a grassy basin of which Foster had earlier spoken as a good place for a cool bathe. It sparkled invitingly in the sun, limpid, translucent, fed by a stream which rose from a spring somewhere on the heights. It was irresistible and, without discussion, they stripped off their clothes and plunged in.

  Scheusal, breasting the slope which ended as the rim of the bowl, saw them, stepped back and changed direction to walk around the bowl, out of sight.

  He was too late. Sgt. Golightly and Pilot Officer Foster, keeping close to him, also saw the two naked men in the pool.

  "Bloody nudist colony, that's what it is, sir," the Sergeant said. "Come back, you." This was addressed to Scheusal, who did not heed him. But he did when Sgt. Golightly fired a warning shot over his head.

  "Coo!" Exclaimed LAC Jarvis.

  "Hold your fire," Foster shouted. It was a command he had long wanted to utter: often had he imagined himself restraining his eager troops until they could see the whites of the advancing enemies' eyes. The exhortation was unnecessary, for Scheusal stopped so suddenly at the sound of the shot and ducked with such vigour to avoid the bullet that hummed ten feet overhead, that he stumbled and fell. Scrambling up, he slouched back to rejoin the others.

  "Good night, ninety-nine, August, September, up, down," Scheusal muttered.

  "What's all that about?" Foster wanted to know.

  Zdenka said "He says they are friends."

  "Why does he want to avoid them?"

  She smiled at Foster and winked again. "I will tell you after."

  "You mean you're afraid to speak in front of him? Does he understand English?"

  "He has been sailor," she improvised. "Sailors learn a little of many languages."

  "If he's your friend," said S
gt. Golightly, "why are you afraid of him?" He turned to Foster. "May I have a private word with you, sir?"

  "Certainly, Sergeant. You men keep them covered." Foster moved a few paces aside with his sergeant. "What is it?”

  "I know a Gerry when I see one, sir. I've shot enough of the bastards, in France." This latter declaration would, he knew, strike a responsive chord in Foster. "This bloke's no Jug. He's a German, sir."

  "But the girl doesn't speak English with a German accent; or look like one."

  "No, sir, she's Jugoslav all right. And those two in the pond: I can't imagine a couple of Jugoslav peasants, supposed to be goatherds, taking time for a swim; I don't suppose they go much on water, anyway. But the Gerries, you know what they're like, Strength Through Joy and bags of outdoor life: show a Gerry a nice, cool pond like that and he'd be in like Flynn."

  Foster regarded his sergeant thoughtfully and felt an inner glow. This was what he had always hoped for: a seasoned, commonsensical senior N.C.O. to give him respectful guidance. Life did turn out to be like a dream sometimes, after all.

  "Well, you ought to know a Hun when you see one, Sergeant, I agree. But that makes the girl a collaborator." He didn't fancy the idea of Zdenka in front of a firing squad.

  "Not necessarily, sir. She's given us two obvious hints that she's got something to tell you."

  "I thought..."

  "You thought she was just giving you the old green light, sir. I reckon she wants to talk."

  "Right." Foster wheeled to face his men. "Jarvis, Jones: get down there and fetch those men out of the water. You others take this one down there," he pointed to some rocks "and keep him out of sight. Double!"

  "Are you going to shoot him?" Zdenka looked anxious. If the positions were reversed, the Germans probably would and her own people certainly would.

  "Of course not. We don't shoot prisoners. I've sent him away so that you can talk to us. That's what you want, isn't it?”

  "Oh, yes." She moved close and clutched his forearms.

  The contact had an unsettling effect on Foster. "W-W­We know he's a German, and so are the two we s-saw in the water. Why did you lie to us?"