My Enemy Came Nigh

by Richard Townsend Bickers

"He's got to make a report on what he's been doing, you know.''

  *

  But Foster was already worried about what he should omit from his report rather than what he should include.

  The dramatic arrival of Sgt. Zotig had spoiled what he had hoped would be a copybook ambush. And when Sgt. Golightly recovered consciousness to find himself under the kindly ministration of the fat German, instead of being hostile he was resigned to yet another bizarre incident engineered by Pilot Officer Foster. He recognised the stripes on Zotig's sleeves and mumbled "You and me both, mate; we're both lumbered with a right pair of twits. And I reckon your two squaddies are about as bloody gormless as my four."

  Zotig, who understood only five or six words, recognised the tone of voice and facial expression of yet another harrassed senior N.C.O., and beamed. In his soft Bavarian German, he admonished his patient: "Lie still a moment. We must make sure you're not concussed, and no ribs cracked." He ran a hand here and there over Golightly's chest and peered into his eyes. Clucking mildy, he turned his head up to Scheusal and said "The sergeant had a nasty bang on the head and he'll be stiff when the bruises come out. He needs to rest in the shade for a couple of hours."

  "What's he say?" Foster asked.

  Zdenka translated for him. She added: "He is not angry that your sergeant pissed all over him." The airmen cackled and she asked Foster why he was blushing.

  "Because we don't use that word in polite conversation."

  "What word? Angry?"

  "We usually say... wetted..."

  "Like hell we do," Jarvis was heard to mutter.

  "Forgive my bad English. You must give me lesson." She made eyes at him.

  "Jarvis, you and Evans move Sgt. Golightly into the shade. Then you can all fall out and have lunch. I’ll guard the prisoners." He asked Zdenka: "Did you bring any rations with you?"

  "Rations?"

  "Food."

  "Oh, yes, Also wine and beer."

  The airmen looked interested.

  "Tell the lieutenant you can all eat now."

  The British had brought bully beef, hard biscuits, an apple each and a few boiled sweets. Their water bottles, now that all the tea had been drunk, contained only water. Enviously they watched Klebrig and the other private unpack the Germans' ration box and spread smoked trout, caught on Mojat, ham from a Mojat farmer's pig, cold chicken and fresh goatsmilk cheese, with three litres of wine and a dozen bottles of beer. There were also fresh bread, lettuce and tomatoes.

  "Disgustin',"Evans pronounced. "They must be robbin' the Jugs something terrible."

  Zdenka said sadly "They take what they want."

  But the effect was spoilt by Scheusal making a gesture of invitation, accompanied by a smile, and saying, in halting English, "Please, you eat."

  Foster bridled. "We don't fraternise with the enemy."

  "Please." Zdenka was pleading with voice and eyes.

  "You will help me if you are not so... so... hard. I tried to explain to you. Please... Mr Foster... There is no harm."

  "All right then, we’ll pool all the rations and share them. They've got to have some of ours." He looked towards Sgt. Golightly and saw that he and Sgt. Zotig had made their own peace pact already and were toasting each other in Jugoslav Riesling.

  When, later, Scheusal fell asleep, with his head on his haversack, and the snores of the two sergeants grew deep and steady, the two German privates took out their pack of cards and winked at the airmen: the two not on sentry wandered over to join in the game.

  Zdenka, reclining on the grass near Foster, put her hand on the inside of his thigh and whispered "I must talk to you alone." She jerked her head towards the rocks that divided the beach from another small cove, then stood up.

  Foster rose and brushed grass and twigs from his uniform, straightened his belt, slung his Sten gun and faced the airmen. "Evans, you're in charge. All four of you, mind your weapons. Two of you are to be properly on guard at all times. Make sure none of the prisoners can get their hands on their firearms. I'm going with this lady, but I’ll be back in ten minutes..."

  "Half an hour. I have very much to tell you."

  Jarvis, watching them climb over the rocks and go out of sight; wistfully remarked that old Fearless was a lucky sod.

  "Officers' perqs, look you." Evans licked his lips.

  Scrambling down the far side of the rocks that hid them from sight, Zdenka, who had been as sure-footed as a mountain goat for the previous several hours, stumbled, squealed with apparent pain; and clutched Foster for support. Automatically he put an arm round her waist. She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned hard against him, one breast squashed into his chest.

  His pulse racing, Fearless Foster asked "H-Have you h­ h-hurt yourself b-badly?"

  She lifted her eyes and mouth to within a few inches of his. "It will be all right in one minute, if we stand still." She continued to look up at him expectantly. They stood still.

  "I think we should sit down, so that you can rest your ankle."

  "Is better now. I think better we go more far from the others. Please help me to walk." He still had an arm around her and his hand on her waist. She clamped her hand on top of his, and they started forward again slowly.

  "Why do you want to go so far away?"

  "To make sure nobody can hear us."

  "But my men won't let the Germans leave the beach."

  "Silly boy." She nuzzled her face against his neck.

  "There is a nice place, under the bushes. But first we have a swim."

  "I didn't bring my trunks."

  "Trunks? That is like suitcase?"

  "No, it also means swimming costume."

  She laughed gaily. "Silly boy! I am not nervous virgin."

  Foster admitted to himself that she had given ample evidence of that the first time he saw her. Her twisted ankle seemed to be miraculously healed, for she skipped away towards the shady patch under the trees, was out of her clothes in a flash and had his shorts down to his knees before he found the breath to protest that he could undress himself.

  "I am sure you can... What is your name?... Tom... but is more fun if I help."

  It was even more fun after she had helped him undress, as he found out when she initiated him in a variation of aquatic activity entirely novel to him. Facing each other, up to the shoulders in buoyant water, their arms around one another and her legs about his hips, her mouth glued to his, Foster entered a world which had been shut to him for too long.

  Lying drowsily on the sand, when all was accomplished, he felt her fingers and her mouth on his body and was so far gone along the road to corruption, perdition, or surrender, that he was not shocked to find himself entertaining the heretical thought that this was a hell of a lot better than any route march, masculine comradeship, homespun philosophy, esprit de corps, or even community singing. As Zdenka got seriously down to work, he gave a galvanic squirm and told himself: Whoops! Here we go again.

  *

  As Foster and Zdenka, hand-in-hand, approached the beach where they had left the others, they heard sounds of hilarity, catcalls and cries of exhortation.

  "What the hell are they up to? was Foster's first thought. Immediately replaced, in his still somnolent mood of satiety, by what the hell does it matter?

  They stood on top of the rocks, looking down on a carnival scene.

  Stones had been piled to mark two goals, one guarded by the corpulent Sgt. Zotig, the other by Sgt. Golightly. The two German soldiers and two of the airmen dribbled, tackled, passed and shot at goal with the R.A.F's soccer ball, while Leutnant Scheusal refereed. Evans and Jarvis, their Sten guns in hand, kept guard and divided their support for the two teams.

  Zdenka, who had talked a lot to Foster, as well as titillating him, said "You see, I was right. They have forgotten the war. If you let us return to Mojat, I will be able to continue my work for the British and Scheusal will want to come back here without saying anything about today. But you must also be very careful what y
ou say." She added seductively "I want to see you again."

  "What's the score?" Foster called.

  The game stopped. "Ten - one, to us, sir," one of the airmen called back.

  Scheusal shouted something to Zdenka, which she translated: "He says next time we must play volleyball and they will beat you."

  "Taken. Whenever he likes. The sooner the better. Why not tomorrow?" He beckoned Scheusal over. "Tell him I don't want to offend him, but I must make sure he doesn't try any tricks: I can't let him have his weapons back until after we've gone. So they've got to come with us to where we've left our boat. Once we've left, they can come back here, pick up their guns and you can all go back to Mojat. As far as I'm concerned, Sprot is neutral territory and as long as he plays fair with me I'll play ball with him..."

  "Yes, yes, volleyball..."

  "I mean I won't play any dirty tricks on him. If I can meet you here and take messages from you, and give you any help I can, it will justify what we are doing. We will make him think this is just a lark..."

  "What is that?"

  "A bit of fun."

  "Yes, yes, I understand, fun. But really we are being too clever for him, yes?"

  "That's right. It's not just fun, it's deadly serious; for us. "

  They set off towards the other side of the island, two airmen in the lead, the Germans and Zdenka behind them, and the rest of the R.A.F. patrol at the rear. Scheusal carried his haversack.

  "He says he has saved a little surprise for you, as a farewell gift," Zdenka explained to Foster. "He has one bottle of iced wine, still."

  "Tell him I'll bring him a bottle of whisky next time, to repay him for all the food and drink."

  She repeated the offer and Scheusal smiled and nodded.

  When they were ready to board the boat, Scheusal passed his last bottle of wine around and each took a swig, wiping the neck of the bottle for the next man.

  The R.A.F. party laid their weapons on the bottom of the boat and paddled off towards deeper water where they could start the engine without danger from rocks to the blades of the propeller.

  When the boat had gone a few yards, Scheusal put his hand into his haversack and pulled out the two grenades he always carried. He lobbed them into the boat one after the other and Zdenka, with a scream of horror, saw them burst, scattering limbs, heads and entrails in a bloody mess over the reddened water, as the boat disintegrated and disappeared completely.

  Twelve

  Two hours after full dark, Anstey was worried. "They must be in trouble," he said.

  Tindall agreed. "Too right. Fearless is such a gannet, he's always first in to any meal. And after a day on haversack rations, he must be starving."

  They had delayed dinner by an hour for the benefit of Foster and his men, but now their own appetites and those of the troops were too sharp to deny.

  Anstey had already sent a coded signal to Afrona to report that the patrol had not returned, and been told not to take any action. At 10 p.m. he signalled again, to announce his intention of flying a search as soon as it was light enough to see, and to send a boat party to the island as well, and was given permission.

  Middleton, with the R.A.F. Regiment corporal and four airmen, embarked in a rubber dinghy in time to make a cautious approach and stay concealed until Anstey had searched the island from the air.

  It was a restless night for everyone, and Middleton was glad to get going long before dawn. Tindall, seeing him off, grumbled at not being allowed to accompany him in the six-man boat instead of one of the airmen.

  "If Gerry is on the island, we don't want to lose a valuable navigator," Middleton told him.

  "That's true! Pilots are ten a penny."

  Anstey, watching them disappear into the darkness, remembered Foster's enthusiastic departure twenty-four hours earlier and hoped he was not about to lose another officer and five men.

  As soon as the sun came up, he took off with Truscott and flew slowly up and down Sprot, but found no sign of life on it. Going low around its coast, they spotted a few fragments of yellow rubber around the fringes of the rocky cove where Foster and his patrol had died. It was only four hundred yards from the inlet where Middleton was waiting for their signal.

  Anstey dived over Middleton's boat, headed for the cove and did a flick roll over it. Turned, came back, did it again, and dived once more to waggle his wings at Middleton; who waved back and made at once for the cove.

  Middleton returned to Bardoc with four identity discs, a few pieces of rubber boat, and a wedding ring he had found on a hand which had been washed up on the beach. The tattoo on the forearm identified it as belonging to Sgt. Golightly. He thought it best to leave the half-dozen human fragments they found.

  *

  At about the time that the British and Germans were picnicking together on Sprot, Nürnberg sent a signal to say she was turning back with engine trouble and would put in to the nearest Jugoslav port.

  Cracker Beale tugged angrily at his moustache and said "Damn." He spent the rest of the day thinking out another suitable sortie for the Bardoc detachment and decided that they should, anyway, reconnoitre the southern Adriatic in practice for the day when there was a ship to search for. The group captain, his backside and his recollections euphorically aglow from another brisk encounter with Matron, agreed. Sqdn. Ldr. Grimes opposed the operation on principle, but gave way on condition that his crews would .not be required to stay in the area hunting.

  The disappearance of Foster's patrol forced a change of plan, and the group captain, wing commander, squadron commander and Rev. Parry-Jones, the last-named standing in the pilot's cockpit, behind Wg. Cdr. Beale, all arrived at Sprot within an hour of receiving the signal sent by Anstey on Middleton's return with the remains he had scooped up in a bucket.

  Ianto Parry-Jones conducted a service at the water's edge which depressed the remainder of the R.A.F. Regiment section but found a response in the morbid streak which was present in F/Sgt. Tucker and some of the others who enjoyed nothing better than a good funeral. Led by the padre, there was a spirited bit of hymn-singing which Lord John Grimes endured with stoical distaste and in which Beale joined resonantly. The rest of the day was taken up by the routine of an enquiry into the violent demise of Pilot Officer Foster and his force, which put paid to any flying until nearly sunset.

  It was not until almost last light, therefore, that four Beaufighters lifted off from the temporary runway on Sprot.

  None of the pilots or navigators was happy about this excursion. They were glad enough to be flying after 48 hours of inactivity and as a release from the sombreness of that day. But the thought of a night landing by gooseneck flares on a barely adequate runway was not uplifting. There was going to be a full moon, which made some sense of the mission and would mitigate the landing problem; a little: but everyone felt it was more a bad-tempered, if understandable, gesture of aggression prompted by events on Sprot than a useful contribution to the war. It could certainly have stood over until first light the next morning.

  Ten minutes after taking off they had all settled into the peculiar state of beatific calm which is part and parcel of night flying in a single-seater or two-man aeroplane. In their separate cockpits, pilots and navigators began to revel in their isolation and the calmness of the dusk and the brightening moon. The ripples of phosphorescence on the water gave an air of enchantment that was quite false, for it was too close for safety in the event of an engine faltering. They felt cosy and yet tingled with alertness: the conviction that they would not encounter the enemy had something to do with their contentment.

  They flashed past a string of small islands, skirted a couple of bigger ones without provoking enemy fire, and Anstey called over the radio "Ship at eleven-o'clock." They all saw her.

  She looked to be about 10,000 tons and her silhouette seemed familiar.

  "Can't be the Nürnberg," Anstey radioed. "They'd have briefed us if she was out."

  Everyone was charged with adrenalin now, calmne
ss and euphoria turned to tension and the quick lust for battle which instantly banished their earlier mood of thankfulness that this was going to be an uneventful operation.

  Anstey led them up to a hundred feet and they flew two on each side of the ship, from stern to bows. Hundreds of faces were turned up to watch them.

  "She's loaded to the gunwales," Middleton said to Tindall.

  "Yes, that's no hospital ship: never seen a fitter bunch of Krauts in my life."

  "You must have X-ray eyes." For at their height and speed, in the gloom, it was impossible to discern detail.

  "She'd be empty, if she was going up to Venice or Trieste to fetch wounded."

  Anstey took them into a turn and down to twenty feet to fly back the length of the ship. They saw the Red Cross markings.

  "She must be the Nürnberg," Anstey called. He took them up to five hundred feet and radioed Afrona.

  The controller on duty came back definitely: "There is no hospital ship reported out at all."

  "Shall we attack?" Anstey asked.

  *

  U987 had come safely to harbour. von Trampel was on the quayside to welcome her. All day he kept looking at the submarine through his office window or strolling down to stand on the quay and regard her with proprietorial pride and affection. He suffered mildly from claustrophobia and sometimes even had to force himself to shut the door when he went into a very small room, however pressing the need for privacy; but despite this he had enjoyed being invited aboard that morning and was even hoping that he could go to sea in U987 if she ventured a very short sortie against British shipping in the Adriatic.

  Her captain was a young lieutenant-commander with an air which von Trampel regarded as raffish and more suitable for a Luftwaffe pilot than a naval officer. Perhaps U987's commanding officer had seen too many Pinewood and Hollywood films about submariners and too many German newsreel shots of U-boats returning, covered with glory, to Kiel, Lorient and Brest; for he smiled constantly, wore a cap, squeezed into a rakish shape, on the side of his head, affected freshly laundered white (ersatz) silk scarves and went around accompanied by the tinkle of decorations. He was tall, very fair, heavily built and coarsely handsome in the style of a skiing instructor. Even his name suggested that he was playing a role: Helmuth Stutzer.