Behind Mt. Baldy

by Christopher Cummings

  “Are you some sort of special squad?”

  The partisan nodded. “We are what you would call ‘commandos’. Our platoon got the job because we all speak English and some had been to Australia.”

  Prince Peter stepped out from behind a pine tree and asked: “Were you sent because you knew the plans of the Royalists?”

  The partisan stared at Prince Peter with frightened eyes. “Yes. We.. er...,” he stammered. The man licked his lips with obvious uncertainty, unsure whether he had been wise in surrendering to this group. “There have been many rumours sweeping Kosaria that the king was about to return. The people are in a state of ferment. It has even been said that Peter Dragovitch would return with the Thigh Bone of St Joris. The peasants believe that; the superstitious fools!”

  “So you were sent to murder Prince Peter?” the Prince asked.

  The partisan licked his lips nervously and nodded. “Y... yes.. er.. s.s.sir,” he croaked, his voice quavering with fear.

  Prince Peter held himself erect and opened his jacket to reveal his badges. “I am Peter Dragovitch.”

  The partisan’s eyes opened wide. His mouth gaped open.

  “S-s-sir, Sire. I... I.. Your M-m-aj...” He clicked his heels to attention and bowed his head. His body trembled.

  Prince Peter stepped forward and asked in a steely voice: “Where is the Princess Mareena?”

  “Sir...Sire...Highness. I.. We... She is our prisoner. She is being guarded by the other half of the squad from here. I can show you where.” The partisan looked up at Prince Peter in awe and swallowed nervously. Roger could see that strong emotions were gripping the man.

  Prince Peter nodded grimly. “You had better. Has she been harmed?” he asked, icicles in his tone.

  The partisan shook his head. “No! No Your Royal Majesty. She is being guarded in a hut till the Special Interrogators arrive.”

  “Special Interrogators?”

  “KOSPUSS men Highness. A major from the Embassy in Canberra. He is due this morning.”

  Inspector Sharpe cocked an eyebrow. “KOSPUSS?”

  “Secret Police. Like the KGB was,” Prince Peter replied. He turned back to the now ashen faced partisan. “You say this morning? What time this morning?”

  “I do not know Sire. He and his team had to fly up from Canberra.”

  “And you know where she is? Where?” There was anguish in Prince Peter’s voice.

  “Yes Your Majesty. She is in the hut at this end of the Rifle Range down there in the valley; the hut where they keep the targets.”

  Prince Peter snatched the map from Stephen’s hand. Graham moved over beside the Inspector with his map.

  “How many men are guarding her? Where are they?” Prince Peter snapped.

  “Five Highness. A Comrade Squad Leader and four riflemen. I do not know their exact positions. They have put up a sign on the road into the rifle range warning people away and there may be one on guard at the entrance,” the partisan replied.

  Prince Peter looked at his watch. “It is ten thirty. We must hurry. We must rescue her. We must!”

  Inspector Sharpe tugged at his chin. Even Roger was aware that if this incident was handled wrong it could wreck the policeman’s career. “We will try. What is the quickest way?”

  Graham spoke: “If there are men at these road junctions we have no chance of sneaking past without wasting hours, or making big detours. The track to Mt Baldy is still our best bet. That puts us above the Rifle Range.”

  Inspector Sharpe nodded. He asked the partisan: “Are any of your men along this road?” He pointed on the map and then to the east.

  “No Comrade..er..sir. Definitely none.” The partisan now looked very frightened.

  “Then Mt Baldy it is. Let’s start moving. Go fast, but keep the noise down.”

  Peter murmured to Roger: “Aren’t we lucky. Mt Baldy! But we don’t have to climb all the way up from the front. We can sneak in from behind.”

  “Bugger Mt Baldy!” Roger grumbled, getting to his feet. But he did not care how high the mountain was. He just wanted to move fast. He wanted to run. An intense desire to rescue the princess gripped him.

  Graham led off at a brisk walk. The partisan sergeant followed, with Inspector Sharpe behind him, then Prince Peter, DS Crowe, Hauptman Ritnik, Stephen, Peter and Roger.

  A couple of minutes walk brought them to a wall of jungle along a small creek. Pine trees could be seen beyond it.

  Graham pointed to the left. “Go round. Be quicker than going through,” he said. He turned left and headed up the slope on the edge of the pine plantation, trampling weeds and small bushes as he went. The others followed as fast as they could walk. Roger began to sweat and pant but barely noticed. He wanted to run. He cursed his unfit body. ‘We must save the princess!’ he told himself.

  Five minutes walk brought them to the end of the pines on the edge of a wide, grassy ridge top. The vegetation on their left was open forest with a scattering of large eucalypts; on their right rainforest. A rough vehicle track plunged down slope into the rain forest. With barely a pause Graham stepped out onto the track and turned right.

  The partisan inclined his head towards the open ground. “Our base camp is along there. It is a place called ‘Tardents Lookout’.”

  They all looked that way but no-one was visible so the group continued walking fast in single file. In a less than a minute they were safe inside the jungle. Roger was sweating inside his jacket. He saw that the clouds had gone and that the sun was blazing down. On their left the ground dropped very steeply into a large valley. At the far end of it, only a few kilometres away, the sunlight glinted on house roofs.

  Atherton! Roger’s heart leapt. Not far now! Would they make it in time? He sucked air into his wheezing lungs and began to pump his legs determinedly up a long muddy slope.

  The road wound its way on up through thick rainforest. It seemed to go on and on. False crest succeeded false crest. At each bend Roger hoped to see the top. His heart hammered in his chest cavity. His breath came in hot gasps. His vision went hazy. His muscles became one impatient ache.

  The group went up the mountain with barely a word, other than a few muttered curses at the mud or when some dangling wait-a-while tendrils snagged them. After ten minutes they reached a crest, still in thick jungle. Roger noted that the area had been deeply rooted by wild pigs but he simply did not care about any risk from them. To his disgust the road went steeply down a churned up and muddy slope through more jungle.

  They slithered and slipped from time to time. The partisan fell twice, unable to save himself with his hands tied behind his back. Inspector Sharpe hauled him to his feet each time.

  The radio began to talk. Inspector Sharpe called back to Peter: “Give that thing to the prince. Do not answer it Your Highness. Just tell us what they say.”

  The partisan spoke. “They are calling for me,” he said.

  “Answer them, and no tricks,” Inspector Shape replied. He held the radio close to the partisan’s face. The partisan nodded and Inspector Sharpe pressed the transmit button. The partisan spoke, watched anxiously by a glowering Hauptman Ritnik. A short conversation followed. Hauptman Ritnik translated, the gist of it being that the platoon commander wanted to know where the partisan was. The partisan replied that he was on his way back to the base camp and would be there in a few minutes after checking the sentries. The radio fell silent.

  Inspector Sharpe shrugged, passed the radio to Prince Peter, and resumed walking.

  Open country!

  Roger cried out with relief. The track emerged onto a razor-back ridge, open timber on the left and jungle on the right. On his left he could see across the valley to more hills to the north. The forced march continued; up a small rise, then down a long slope with loose gravel and eroded runnels. The massive bulk of a feature loomed ahead through the trees.

  Roger realized it must be Mt Baldy. It looked much bigger than he had expected. He fished out his map to check. Yes. It was M
t Baldy. He realized he had not studied the map carefully enough. He had not noticed the jungle covered peak they had just come over. With a groan he gritted his teeth and pushed himself on.

  The track plunged into jungle again, then abruptly went up a very steep pinch and out onto open country. It led diagonally up around the side of the mountain on a badly eroded bench-cut. Roger found himself falling behind, gasping for breath. He felt sick in the stomach and his feet felt like lead. Grimly he plodded on.

  Abruptly he caught up. Hauptman Ritnik had collapsed.

  “Leave me! Leave me! Go on. You must save Princess Mareena,” the Hauptman gasped.

  Peter hauled him to his feet. “Help me Steve. Roger, you take this rifle and keep on going. It’s on safe.”

  Roger paused to take the AK47. The whole world seemed to sway and whirl. It occurred to him he was going to faint. To stop it he leaned on a tree and steadied his breathing. For a few moments he stood there sucking in air. Then he resumed a slow plod up the slope.

  A hundred metres ahead Graham, the partisan, Inspector Sharpe, Prince Peter and DS Crowe rounded the shoulder of the mountain and vanished from sight. Roger gritted his teeth and kept on walking, the two rifles being carried at the ‘trail’. Sweat ran into his eyes. Thirst developed anew. He stopped to allow his heart to slow down. The rifles were put down and he peeled off his field jacket. A cool breeze made him shiver.

  A glance behind showed Peter and Stephen half-carrying, half-dragging a stumbling Hauptman Ritnik between them. Roger took several deep breaths, picked up the rifles and continued on. The road was just a badly eroded track suitable only for four wheel drive vehicles. It curved to the right up a steep slope into a patch of rainforest on a small knoll, then left and up again.

  Roger again stopped to allow his hammering heart to slow down. He bent over thinking he was going to be sick but his stomach was too empty. While his breathing eased he rubbed sore muscles. Then he put his head down and continued his dogged plod up the slope.

  Bugger Mt Baldy!

  And he was on top.

  The track levelled out to a clearing of short grass on the very summit. The wind buffeted at him. He tottered forward to where the others lay or sat and flopped down. After a minute he raised his head to look.

  It was a most impressive view.

  Roger looked left, back up the valley towards the pine forest, then slowly turned. Rugged mountains ran off northwards. He could see for a hundred kilometres in that direction, beyond Mareeba to the dimly outlined mountains behind Mossman. He picked out Black Mountain up near Port Douglas, the Lamb Range and Lake Tinaroo. The distant waters of the lake twinkled in the sunlight. The Danbulla State Forest lay beyond them, the jungle appearing black with the distance. ‘It seems like weeks, not days, since we started this adventure there,’ he thought.

  The eastern edge of the Tablelands showed clearly. Roger identified Walshs Pyramid and Mt Bellenden Ker. Mt Bartle Frere, highest mountain in Queensland, stood up on the far side of the Tablelands like a dark blue cardboard cut-out. Further right Roger could see out over the rolling farm land of the East Barron area down towards Millaa Millaa.

  Then he picked out their route past Wongabel and across the base of the Herberton Range. The line of the old railway was just visible and led his gaze to the Pass, then back over the jungle covered peaks they had been struggling over for two days. It was the grandest panoramic vista he had ever seen. ‘What a fantastic view!’ he thought.

  And there, at the foot of the mountain below him, was their objective:- the Rifle Range. It was a long clearing in the open forest with several huts beside it. A belt of timber separated it from the town of Atherton. Only a couple of kilometres to go. Thank God!

  Graham, crouched behind a small tree, called to him: “Well done Roger. You’ve made it up Mt Baldy. Here, have a drink.”

  Roger took the water bottle and had a big drink. As he finished Peter and Stephen arrived, still supporting an ashen-faced Hauptman Ritnik. Roger took the water bottle to him. The Hauptman was eased to the grass.

  Peter straightened up and looked around, then whistled. “Whew! What a view. I can see why Captain Conkey wanted us to climb up here.”

  “Bugger Captain Conkey! He’s a sadist,” Stephen grumbled, wiping condensation from his glasses.

  “Who is Captain Conkey?” Hauptman Ritnik asked.

  “The OC of our army cadet unit. We were going to have to come up here anyway as one of our clues,” Peter answered.

  “Clues?”

  Peter explained their 100km expedition.

  Graham stood up. “We’d better push on. That took us nearly forty minutes. It is ten past eleven.”

  “Clue!” Peter cried. “You start. We will give Hauptman Ritnik a rest and look for our clue. Come on Steve.”

  “Bugger the clue! You look,” Stephen said, flopping down on the grass.

  “Roger?”

  “Yeah. OK.” Roger looked around. Over to his right were a few bushes and a small tree. The crown of the bare hilltop was ringed by gnarled and wind-bent trees.

  Graham walked over and took the Royal Guard rifle. “You lot follow us. Go down this foot track along the ridge and we will meet you at the bottom. We will do a recce. If we aren’t there when you get to the bottom stop and wait. Keep away from the Rifle Range.”

  He set off, followed by the partisan sergeant, Inspector Sharpe, Prince Peter and DS Crowe. Roger got to his feet and moved slowly around looking behind rocks and in easy places. Peter walked across to the small tree and cried out: “Here it is!”

  He bent and removed a rock and picked up a plastic bag with the familiar piece of yellow cardboard in it.

  “What does it say?” Roger called.

  Peter turned it so he could read:

  BUTTS SHED

  ATHERTON RIFLE RANGE

  “Who is Butts?” Roger asked.

  “Roger! Stop Butts; the earth mound at the end of the rifle range that stops the bullets.”

  “That is where the princess is!” Roger cried.

  “Suits us. We have to go there anyway,” Peter replied.

  “Come on. They might need us. We’ve got one of the rifles and we might still be in time,” Roger cried. He scooped up the rifle and started down a narrow and rough foot track which went down the eastern spur of the mountain towards Atherton.

  Stephen swore but then helped Hauptman Ritnik to his feet. The Hauptman gritted his teeth but made himself walk. Peter handed him a stick to use for support and they followed.

  Roger quickly found that going down was not so easy. All his muscles were thrown into reverse and the pain was sharper than on the upward slog. Graham’s group had already vanished from view. The track was easy to follow but they had to watch carefully where they put their feet so as not to slip on loose pebbles, or trip on a rock or log. The slope was clothed in knee high grass and open timber and as they went down they could see the entire Atherton Tablelands. From time to time they could see part of the Rifle Range.

  Roger paid particular attention to this and the moment the Butts Shed came into view he stopped. The shed was an unpainted corrugated iron building, set in behind the concrete retaining wall which supported the mound and the target frames. A dirt road circled in to it through a belt of trees from another road which ran along the far side of the range clearing. This road continued on west, up the valley. A check of the map confirmed it was the main timber road which they had crossed near Tardents Lookout at the pine plantation.

  Roger strained his eyes. Yes! There was a person there. Two people! His pulse quickened. ‘Perhaps we will still be in time?’ he thought hopefully. He turned and looked back up to see where the others were. They were fifty paces back. He caught their attention and pointed. Peter gave a thumbs-up. Hauptman Ritnik nodded grimly and increased his pace.

  Roger resumed the descent. Leg muscles began to stretch and cramp. His right knee started to hurt; a sharp, hot pain, on every second step.

  ‘If I
can see them, can they see me?’ he pondered. ‘No. Not unless they are watching very carefully.’ There were too many trees obscuring the view he decided. Then a curve in the ground hid the shed from view and he did not see it again.

  The spur seemed to go on and on. Sometimes it flattened out for short stretches. The track snaked on through the grass. Most of the time the slope was so steep there was a constant need for care to avoid slipping or stumbling.

  After about fifteen minutes walking the ridge levelled out. This was about in line with the Butts. A short detour confirmed this. After about 200 paces the track dropped down over a steep, rocky section before finally ending at a low saddle down among the tops of the surrounding forest. A fence ran at right angle across the spur. The foot track joined a rough vehicle track.

  Roger went left along this for fifty paces until he could just see the open grass of the Rifle Range a few hundred metres away through a belt of She-Oaks. He was at the height where the tree canopies obscured most of the view. He stopped at a wire gate at the bottom of the slope and looked around. No-one was in sight. He was quite alone. He fingered the AK47 nervously, then settled himself in the grass beside the track and slipped off the safety catch.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE RIFLE RANGE

  Roger sat in the long grass and looked at his watch. 11:42. It had taken 27 painful minutes to come down Mt Baldy. He felt pleased with his achievement but was acutely aware that the morning was slipping away. Thirst bothered him. His stomach kept grumbling, making him keenly aware that he had now missed four meals. He had never felt so tired and sore in all his life.

  Ten minutes later Peter, Stephen and Hauptman Ritnik joined him. The Hauptman looked terrible. His unshaven face was very pale, making the beard stubble more noticeable. His face was grimed and streaked with dried blood, and his eyes were sunk deep in dark-ringed sockets. His wounded arm appeared badly swollen. The group sat down.