Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves

  The RAF train – in about one-quarter profile – profile gradually narrowing as they rode down towards the line – was showing no lights of its own. A glimmer here and there would be reflections of the headlamps’ beams. They wouldn’t have steam up, on that engine, so there’d be no power on the generator for lighting. They’d have oil-lamps, probably. And stoves in the passenger coaches, for warmth and cooking. In those respects they’d be comfortable enough.

  But you could imagine a carriage door swinging open, that sudden interruption of the flood of light: and snipers’ eyes instantly at their rifles’ sights, fingers tensing on triggers… The poor devil who’d made a break for it last night wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  Down into the dip of the lane, now. The ramp up to the line ahead of them was darkly shadowed. And that blackness halfway up the lane on the other side was woodland crowding its edges. They couldn’t have stationed lorries here. But Schelokov was right, they hadn’t needed to. This toy train with the light on it was, so to speak, the stopper in the bottle: and it wasn’t only blocking the line, any would-be escaper from the RAF train who might think of crawling out this way – out of the lorries’ floodlighting – would find himself speared on the searchlight beam.

  And then riddled.

  Not that it was really a searchlight, as such, with that very narrow beam. More like a ten-inch Aldis. Spotlight, more than searchlight.

  ‘Robert Aleksandr’ich.’ Schelokov leant towards him, spoke quietly over the backs of the horses between them. ‘I’ve developed this plan of yours a little. When we’re on the tracks there, you and I stop. Pass your nags over to Ibraim – now. He can go on up the road with them, up to those trees, and wait either until we join him or until I call him down to us. All right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He was giving Ibraim his instructions now. Bob pulled aside to let the Tartar ride up past him, closer to Schelokov, and as he passed handed over to him the reins of the two horses he’d been leading. Ibraim took Schelokov’s from him too, even before he’d got it all clear. Schelokov finished: ‘If I whistle—’ he demonstrated a whistle, very softly – ‘come back here on foot – no horses. Leave horses in the trees—’ pointing – ‘there… Ponimayesh!’

  ‘Ponimayu. But, vashe prevoskhoditeltsvoli, if no whistle—’

  ‘Stay there, and we come to you.’

  They let him and the riderless horses take the lead up the ramp. Then they were picking their own way up it and on to the railway track.

  ‘Go on, Ibraim.’

  Schelokov turned his horse between the rails, facing the dark loom of the engine ten or twelve yards away, with the diffusion of light beyond it – but no light here at all, you were right in its shadow – and dismounted. No challenge – yet… Bob slid down too. Enduring twinges of agony in the process. At this stage he’d no idea what Schelokov’s intentions might be. Watching him moving like a wounded crab – which was probably a lot better than he’d do, when he let go of this animal. He was hanging on to it still, with an arm up over the saddle. Fall flat, as like as not – have to crawl, hands and knees… The thought jolted his imagination, gave him – in conjunction with that thought of an escaper crawling out under the RAF train – a hint of what might be in Schelokov’s mind. Looking away to his right then, seeing Ibraim and the seven horses bunched around him rising out of the dip on that side, beginning the climb towards the trees. It struck him that in this instance what Schelokov had at some earlier stage referred to disparagingly as ‘instant bloody planning’ might not be at all bad. To any observer’s eye, that party moving so painfully slowly up the hill might be the same one that had come down from this other side a few minutes ago.

  Schelokov meanwhile had taken a quick look up each side of the train, and was now squatting close to its snowplough snout, getting his head right down to peer underneath, along the rails.

  ‘Bob – here.’

  He grunted, let go of the saddle. Agony in his hips and spine. ‘Jesus…’

  ‘Stiff, eh.’ Schelokov was getting to his feet. He whispered, ‘No lookout this way – right?’

  ‘Seems not.’

  ‘That’s point one. Point two – assuming it’s an armoured wagon with loopholes, sniper or snipers watching out of that end. How many of them in there, would you guess?’

  ‘Watching both sides of the train – say two. Keeping watches – and hour on, an hour off, say – makes four. Plus an NCO?’

  ‘Five. There might be only one sniper on the job and one sleeping, but – say five. Next point – they have sliding doors both sides, these wagons. And since they aren’t expecting to be attacked, chances are the doors won’t be fastened. May be on one side, mind you… But equally – same reasoning – if they were bolted, and I banged on the side, gave them some load of eyewash—’

  ‘They’d open up.’

  ‘Exactly. And there you have it. Five of them, three of us, and we’ll have the advantage of surprise. We’ll crawl under – you’ll have realized, I dare say. See any snags I’ve overlooked?’

  ‘After we’ve done this – what, we crawl along the track?’

  A nod… ‘Down the middle.’

  ‘But in that beam – are you so certain—’

  ‘That they can’t see anything beyond the engine of the train – yes. They’ve got their lights on its sides, but the front of that engine’s as much dead ground to them as this is – and all the searchlight does for them is blind them.’

  ‘You don’t think we’d show up against it?’

  ‘No. We’ll keep low – right down on the sleepers, between the rails… All right, Bob?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He slid his right hand into his coat pocket, to the Webley. All it had shot at so far had been wolves. Schelokov had turned to face up the hill; cupping his hands round his mouth, he let out a high, thin whistle to bring Ibraim down. Bob asked him as he turned back, ‘What about these horses here?’

  ‘Let ’em wander. Nothing else we can do.’

  ‘And the farmcart – could be here any minute?’

  ‘If it’s coming, it’ll come. Last thing they’d want is trouble… I’m sorry about the horses, they’re sure to attract attention. Sorry for them too, but—’ He’d checked himself. ‘Listen – one very important thing. We’re not so far from the posts at the other crossing there, and we can’t risk alerting them. So – no shooting, eh?’

  Staring at him, through about three feet of semi-darkness. Thinking – what, bare hands? Swords, for God’s sake? Schelokov’s hand closed on his arm, then: ‘It’s them or us, Bob. Remember that. Always remember that.’

  20

  Ibraim – a stooping, ape-like figure in the dark lee of the engine – unslung his rifle and laid it down beside the other two, between the rails. He’d led the horses off the road into the trees and removed their bridles, he’d told Schelokov. He was a good man with horses, did what was best for them without having to be told: Schelokov had commented on this and expressed approval, before embarking on a rapid, pidgin-Russian exposition of what had to be done now.

  Rifles would have been an encumbrance, from here on. Unfortunately – from Bob’s viewpoint. Other considerations apart, the rifle was his weapon, not this fancy-dress item – which was all the sword in its scabbard on his left hip had been until now. He’d never thought of actually using it – except once, on that hillside with the wolves, when he’d thought of it retrospectively for cutting twine, and been glad not to have had the idea sooner, feeling that out of sheer ineptitude he might have cut an arm off. On ceremonial occasions in the Navy one had worn a sword, of course, but only as a decorative object – symbol of authority, naval tradition and so forth. No resemblance whatsoever to this weapon, which had an edge like a razor’s, a point like a needle’s and a weight of steel to carve through a man and the saddle under him – or so Schelokov had claimed, in that period of reminiscence earlier in the day.

  Schelokov had finished his briefing of the Tartar.

&nb
sp; ‘Bob. When we’re under there, I’ll check whether I can see which side they’ve been using, which side the door’s likely to be open. But also, I think it’s preferable not to burst in with weapons in our hands. Trojan horse routine – get in there first. Then when we’re inside—’

  ‘I’ll take my lead from you.’

  ‘Yes. Good man.’ He grasped Ibraim’s arm, pointed at Bob. ‘You follow him, eh?’

  ‘Khorosho.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ He turned away, got down on his hands and knees and crawled around the side of the snowplough, into the low, dark void behind it. Bob pushed his own scabbard back out of the way – as he’d seen Schelokov do, rather like a man flipping back the tails of a morning coat – and followed him.

  It was more a matter of wriggling than crawling, once you were underneath. In places you couldn’t raise your head more than inches: particularly not wanting to renew damage to the back of it. Not being exactly a shrimp, either, didn’t make it any easier, nor did the stiffness from something like eighteen hours in the saddle. Although one’s arms and shoulders took the brunt of the effort; in fact after some experimentation it devolved mostly on the right arm alone, since the left one was needed for keeping the sword-scabbard out of the way. If you let it drag, it clattered. Right forearm flat, therefore, dragging oneself forward in steps of about six inches over snow-covered cinders, stones, intervening sleepers. Keeping the head right down out of harm’s way, but also having to watch out for Schelokov’s boots – and telling himself meanwhile that this was something that simply had to be got through. The only way forward – out. And, as Schelokov had reminded him, Them or us…

  But even accepting the necessity – which is what it was, no question about that – he was appreciating for the first time that aiming a gun and squeezing a trigger was really child’s play, in contrast to what he imagined the next few minutes were going to be like. Pull a trigger – finish. Or at sea – the best of all worlds – fire a shell or a torpedo, and whatever the result it would as often as not occur literally miles away. He’d had a conversation with Sam Scott on this subject, he remembered. Scott had asked him whether he’d ever killed a man face to face, and he’d told him yes, he had. In that business at Enotayevsk. Scott had been surprised: and then, later, critical: Got to hand it to this guy. Knifes one, breaks the other’s neck. Both times from behind…

  If Scott was on that train, he’d have some new stories for him now. Or – by then… Except – on very brief reflection – that one wouldn’t much want to tell any of it. To Scott or to anyone else. Never, probably, to anyone at all. But in any case, as far as Sam Scott and that train were concerned – well, you weren’t there, yet, and it wasn’t by any means a certainty that you ever would be. For instance, this business of being limited to the use of swords: if they had pistols in there, and their wits about them?

  They would have pistols. And certainly did have rifles.

  *

  Schelokov pushed his head and shoulder back under the wagon. Lying parallel to the rail, sort of rolling over it, swivelling in. He’d been out there checking by sight and feel for tracks, indentations by men’s boots under the surfacing of new snow. ‘Out this side, Bob. Ibraim…’

  Very cautiously. You were right under them here. And there were steel rails for scabbards to clink against.

  Emerging – beside Schelokov, on the west side of the wagon, the side they’d had in view when they’d come down the hill. You were in some shelter here from the falling snow, which swirled overhead in a fall-out of brilliance from the spotlight. Ibraim also out from under now, on his right. The three of them close together, flattened against the planking, with the light up to their left and about half the wagon’s length away, throwing its thin beam down the track at the other train.

  The thought of crawling out there – eventually, after this – crawling out along the track, effectively in that beam…

  Forget it. For the moment… Schelokov, on Bob’s left, had waited to see Ibraim emerge, was now reaching up, groping for the iron handle on the door. He’d found it: was checking below the door now for the step. One only, quite high off the ground: pointing it out now, wordlessly, to the others. Then glancing down at his left side, easing his sword an inch or so out of its scabbard then pushing it back. Glancing along at the others again – seeing they were ready, watching him…

  He reached up again, grasped the handle, thumped on the door with his free hand.

  ‘Comrades, visitors here! Permission to enter?’

  He was up on the step by that time, putting his weight on the door and sliding it back with its runners squealing. ‘Sorry to disturb you, comrades…’ There was a glow of soft light from inside: and he was in it, in silhouette on the threshold for a moment and then in. Bob following, Ibraim scrambling up behind, and a man’s voice telling Schelokov, ‘Welcome, comrade but who – if I may ask…’ The hot smell of a coal stove, and its warmth in the dim lighting from an oil-lamp, that voice demanding, ‘Christ, how many more of you? Look, shut that bloody door, whatever—’

  ‘Bob, watch the door?’ Schelokov turned back to the lit interior. ‘Comrade, it’s like this. When the time comes to storm that train—’ Ibraim was inside, Bob slid the door across to bang shut, turned with his hand on his sword-hilt – slamming his mind shut too – just as Schelokov grunted, ‘Sorry, comrade,’ and the one who’d been on his feet – with a revolver in his fist, but the fist opened and it dropped now – bearded, bald, capless and coatless in this warmth – the bald head lolling sideways, Schelokov’s sword – in one sweep, rasping out of the scabbard and the steel’s swift glittering arc terminating in the angle between neck and shoulder on the man’s right side, virtually separating head and neck from the torso, the stubby body as it were draped in a scarlet fountain as it folded. Initial shock had exploded into a bedlam of screams and shouts by then, the wagon was a seething crush of men straight out of sleep into – this… One rushing at Bob – or at the door – screaming for help – God’s, anyone’s… Bob’s sword still only half up took him on its point, thrust on in – through – the boyish face in close-up in the lamplight, eyes rolling white and the mouth wide open in a scream of agony that was lost in the surrounding noise and a gush of blood. The sword had gone in at an upward angle, probably into his heart; he had difficulty extracting it as the body collapsed close against him. His impression at that moment was of about a dozen men fighting to escape and most of them screaming: a sword swinging up, reflecting light, swinging down, the thud and a crunch of bone, and from the end – where Ibraim was – a howl of ‘I surrender! I surrender!’ He’d have died, on that word. All of this happening in what felt like a lengthy but also compressed period of time: in fact, something like half a minute at the most. He’d wrenched his sword out of the boy he’d killed and seen a man crawling towards him out of the thick of it, other bodies – crawling over one and dragging himself this way – towards the door – then as Bob lifted his sword he saw him, twisted half over on to his side, had a revolver in the hand he’d been using to pull himself along with and was slowly lifting it – struggling to, having barely the strength to tilt its barrel upward. His other arm was clamped across his belly – ineffectually, blood gushing out around it. All of this in one picture – sepia and scarlet, and as it might have been in the flash of a single magnesium flare – as Bob moved towards him but also out of the line of fire. The man must have been blind by then, had had a sight of him a second or two earlier but was aiming only vaguely at where he had been when the sword smashed down to finish it.

  Whimpering…

  It was the only sound, other than men’s hard breathing. One’s own included – gasps almost like sobs. The screaming must have finished very suddenly: he hadn’t noticed the actual cessation. Well – two or three seconds could have passed since it had ceased, and now there was only this whimpering – which could have been a child’s. A soft impact, then, and it stopped. Ibraim straightening – at the far end of the wagon, w
here the snipers would have been – wiping the blade of his knife on the other sleeve. His sword was in that hand, and the knife in his right. Beyond him one rifle was still propped with its barrel out through one of the loopholes, and the other was clutched in the arms of a boy who’d been decapitated. Ibraim sliding his sword into its scabbard – left-handed with the knife still in the other hand. He had blood all over him: slitted eyes shifting around – looking for movements, obviously – but his face as mask-like as ever, utterly without expression. Schelokov said, panting, ‘There were seven of them. Seven, for God’s sake.’ He’d been well blooded too. Staring at Bob now: ‘Well. Earned your butcher’s apron, by the look of it.’

  *

  The essential was to move fast. Move now.

  Nothing on the outside looked any different. Peering out through the loopholes the snipers had used, one saw the floodlighting around the train down there exactly as it had been – no change, and no movement anywhere.

  Seemed – uncanny. As if there should have been some sort of reaction to so much noise. Even though it had lasted hardly any time at all.

  Schelokov had just suggested – having his problems, Bob guessed, in getting his thoughts together – ‘Might even get the train moving out tonight – possibly? Need to shift this one, obviously, but – look, your friends’ train might push it, shunt it off somehow?’

  ‘They won’t have steam up on that engine, Boris Vasil’ich. Any more than this one has. Take an hour or two to raise steam, I imagine. Might, I suppose – but there again—’

  ‘Let’s get over to it, anyway. Before we get other visitors here.’

  He was right – others might come. Change of watch, or a commander checking – whatever… But this business of the transit from here to the other train was a major problem now. Schelokov was convinced that the spotlight would blind those snipers to movements between here and the RAF train’s engine, while Bob felt equally certain that to appear even for a moment out there would be suicidal.