The Triumph Read online

  Murdoch had also been impressed by the guerrillas’ fighting qualities, at least when resolutely led. They undoubtedly had an inferiority complex as regards the Germans, but this was hardly surprising: the British Army in Africa had apparently had an inferiority complex regarding the Germans until the Battle of El Alamein, news of which arrived just before Christmas and greatly enhanced his reputation. He knew it was going to take a good while to overcome this in Yugoslavia, because the Germans had the more men. the better weapons, the better training and discipline, and they had uniforms, which are always a great help to morale. They also had adequate medical supplies. He discerned that, as far as the guerrillas were concerned, these had to be his first objectives.

  He could contact Cyprus by the wireless equipment he had brought with him. Evans had been the telegrapher, and thus his loss had been more than merely a tragic one. But Captain Markham had also had some training with radio, and was able to take over. Thus Murdoch could send out his request for more and better weapons and ammunition, clothing and medicine. Sending and receiving were two different things, however. For one thing, as the Germans undoubtedly monitored his calls — even if he did not think they had broken his code — the wireless had to be sparingly used; he allowed himself only one call a month, and as soon as it had been made, the entire group had to move, fairly rapidly, to a new location. This did not make the wireless very popular with the guerrillas. For another, the dropping of goods into the mountains was no easy matter, at least, where the parcels could be found and not simply disintegrate. However, a trickle of supplies had started to reach them.

  With the first batch had come a command from the Prime Minister for Murdoch himself to return home. Churchill was even prepared to land an aircraft wherever flat ground could be found, in order to pick up his errant hero. Murdoch replied that he would obey as soon as he could, but that at the moment it was impossible for him to leave.

  This was only partly untrue. He still had not made contact with Paul, and he knew he was the only person who could do so with any hope of success. But equally, he was enjoying himself too much.

  It was some fourteen years since he had campaigned, in mountainous country, against a brutal and ruthless foe. And indeed, to compare the Mahsuds with the Germans was like comparing a pussycat to a tiger. The Germans did not mutilate their prisoners — at least visibly — but they did just about everything else; and they were far tougher fighting men. The odd thing was that the partisans did wish to mutilate their enemies, in revenge for what had happened to their country, their families and friends. How odd is life, Murdoch mused; the wheel had certainly turned full circle, and now he was the desperate guerrilla, fighting against the forces of an occupying country. How Chand Bibi must be laughing in hell. Where he had sent her.

  He had, in fact, been somewhat appalled the first time he had seen action with the partisans. It had been just before Christmas, and just after the first drop had replenished their store of arms and ammunition, which had suffered a heavy depletion during the escape from the German raid. The arms had, of course, been intended for the entire guerrilla army but Kostitch had insisted upon keeping this first load. He had been delighted with the new weapons, and had been anxious to use them. Murdoch had, through one of the guerrillas’ cousins, who lived in Sarajevo and claimed to be in contact with the Germans — had he been the one to give away the location of their headquarters? This uncertainty as to whom to trust had been something else new to Murdoch, brought up in the traditions of comradeship that obtained in the British Army — begun a tentative negotiation with Paul. He had not, of course, dared reveal his true identity. But he had allowed it to be known that a British agent sought a meeting with the German general providing adequate safe conducts could be exchanged. He had thus been a little hesitant about starting anything which might imperil his plans. On the other hand, no reply had been received to his overture, and it might just be useful to stir Paul up. Thus he had agreed, especially when the colonel informed him that he had learned that a truck convoy was going to pass along the road through a valley a few miles to their west, making for one of the German hill fortresses.

  ‘Christmas puddings for the Germans,’ Kostitch had grinned. ‘Why should we not eat them ourselves?’

  *

  Murdoch had still been learning this game; it had never been taught at Staff College or Sandhurst, at least in his day. Thus he was content to play a subordinate role; but he had no intention of missing the opportunity to see the partisans in action.

  The guerrillas had left their encampment the night prior to the expected convoy, and made their way over the mountains, forty-seven heavily armed men; Private Edmunds had wanted to accompany them, but Murdoch had refused to allow it.

  They had reached the road well before dawn, and chosen their position carefully, where there were already patches in the rutted surface. Two of these patches, some two hundred yards apart, had been dug up, and explosives planted, their leads taken away into the trees; the surface had been covered again. Then the guerrillas had lain beside their weapons, and waited. It was the most primitive plan Murdoch had ever seen, and for that reason he presumed it might work. Everything depended on how heavily the convoy was guarded.

  Daylight came, and found them huddled and frozen; the temperature had dipped below zero during the night. The sun warmed them a little, but they had no breakfast, not even a cup of coffee. ‘We will breakfast off the Germans,’ Kostitch growled.

  Murdoch and Markham rubbed their hands together and jogged on the spot to restore their circulation. Minutes later they saw a column of smoke rising from the next mountain. It might have been a farmer burning rubbish. But there was no farm up there.

  ‘Stand by,’ Kostitch told his men. He himself took his place by the plunger to explode the charges; his two machine-gun teams lay down, one on either side of the road. His tommy gunners crawled behind the nearest trees. Murdoch and Markham were also armed with tommy guns, in addition to their service revolvers, and joined them. It was the first time in more years than he could remember that Murdoch had gone into a limited action such as this under the command of someone else; he felt somewhat breathless.

  Despite the morning cold they kept absolutely still as the noise of the trucks seeped through the valley towards them. Then the lead vehicle appeared; an armoured car. Behind it was an open truckload of soldiers, and behind them again four trucks with flaps down. It could be a trap, Murdoch thought, and each of those trucks be filled with machine guns. But Kostitch was a cautious man, and no one had been allowed to leave the encampment since the plan had been devised. Besides, the convoy was certainly heavily enough protected in any event: behind the supply trucks were another troop carrier and another armoured car. That last would be the problem.

  Murdoch glanced at Kostitch to see if he would think better of the idea; there had to be at least sixty Germans in the convoy, as well as the two armoured cars. But Kostitch merely gave him a thumbs-up sign and a quick grin.

  The first armoured car reached the first repair in the road and drove over it. Now Murdoch was definitely holding his breath. He could see the faces of the German soldiers, laughing and talking; he could see the cabs of the trucks, and felt his heart constrict: in one at least there was a woman.

  Again he glanced at Kostitch, but now the Colonel was concentrating. The leading armoured car was just reaching the second road repair. Murdoch looked down the column; the first repair was between the last supply truck and the second troop carrier. He looked back at Kostitch, saw his arms go down.

  Columns of mud and earth shot upwards as the explosions echoed through the valleys, taking with them pieces of metal, and of men. The first armoured car had been blown on to its side, although its stout sides and bottom had resisted the dynamite very well; its machine guns were however uselessly pointing at the sky. Further back, the rear had been blown off of the last supply truck, which stood at a crazy angle, while the engine had equally been blown off the troop carrier,
which had burst into flames. Men hastily leapt from it, straight into a hail of tommy-gun fire, which scattered them like toys. The first machine gun was directed at the front troop carrier, and here too the execution was catastrophic.

  The second machine gun was aimed at the armoured car. This was a distracting operation, as the bullets merely clanged off the armour, while the German machine guns turned and sent a stream of lead back into the trees. But it served its purpose as one of the guerrillas, specially detailed, was enabled to leave the trees behind the car, run up to it, climb up, and drop a grenade through the hatch. The explosion was shattering, and flames belched from the windows.

  All of this Murdoch noted almost subconsciously, for he was leaning against his tree, his tommy gun against his shoulder, and firing at the cabs of the supply trucks. He desperately wanted to kill that woman, for her own good, but at the same time he could not risk hitting the petrol tank of the lorry, and losing what was inside. But the brief battle was already over. The Germans had been too surprised and the partisans’ shooting too accurate and sustained. Now grey-clad men either writhed on the ground in agony where they did not already lie still, or raised their hands into the air in surrender. Others climbed from the cabs of the supply truck. The first armoured car continued to lie helplessly on its side, and now someone opened the hatch and shouted ‘Kamerad!’ But one of the guerrillas ran forward, thrust a grenade into the opening, and slammed the hatch shut again. A moment later the men inside were dead.

  Those on the road now realized their mistake. But it was too late. They were already surrounded by the excited partisans, who stripped them of their weapons and their clothing under the watchful guns of their companions. Others raided the trucks, and began exploring the cases of food.

  Others dragged the woman from where she had been crouching on the floor of the truck. She wore a grey-green uniform tunic and skirt, and a forage cap. She was no longer laughing. She did not strike Murdoch as being terribly attractive, being mousily blonde and somewhat overweight; besides, her terror made her ugly, as she begged her captors in German.

  ‘What are you going to do with these people?’ Murdoch asked Kostitch.

  The Colonel grinned. ‘We cannot take prisoners, General. Besides, they do not take us prisoner.’

  ‘Sir,’ Markham said urgently.

  The men were stripping the woman; she had fallen to a kneeling position, but they were still tearing her clothing away, as small boys might have torn the wrapping paper from a toffee. She shrieked and wept, and her pale flesh was turning blue with cold.

  ‘Is that necessary?’ Murdoch asked Kostitch.

  ‘It is how they treat our women. You can have her first, if you wish, General.’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Murdoch said, and reminded himself that this was what would have happened to Monique Deschards, before she too was executed. Only Monique would also have been tortured. He turned away, watched the German men being herded into a group. One protested, and was jabbed in the belly with his own bayonet. Blood spurted, and he fell to his knees, while the machine guns opened fire again. The Germans, stripped to their under-wear, turned to run, and met more bullets, hailing at them. White flowed into red, and they fell in heaps. The last man had not ceased breathing when they were being dragged off the road.

  By that time there was a regular queue at the woman. She had stopped screaming and begging, and only moaned and gasped as each man took his turn.

  ‘It is a great victory,’ Kostitch said. ‘And we have lost only two men. You have brought us much good fortune, General. As you brought us the arms we need to win. Now we have German arms as well. Come along,’ he shouted at his men. ‘Enough of that. We must get these trucks closer to home.’ He climbed behind the wheel of the first truck himself, grinning out through the bullet-shattered wind-screen. ‘You ride with me, eh, General? We shall have a good Christmas.’

  Murdoch looked at the woman. As the men had finished with her, someone had thrust a bayonet through her throat, pinning her naked body to the ground. She choked, and bled, and cut her fingers on the blade. And died.

  ‘By God, General,’ Markham had muttered. ‘Thank God you didn’t let Edmunds come. We seem to have fallen amongst wolves here.’

  ‘It takes wolves to beat wolves,’ Murdoch reminded him, and climbed up to sit beside Kostitch.

  *

  Thus, as the Colonel had promised, they had had a good Christmas. It had been slightly delayed, as the hills to the west had been swarming with German soldiers out to avenge their comrades, and for that time thy had literally to hibernate, in a cavern high in the mountain, huddled together for warmth as it was snowing outside and they dared not light a fire. But eventually the Germans had gone home and the partisans had been able to celebrate their victory.

  ‘It sounds tremendous, sir,’ Edmunds said. ‘I wish I had been there.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ Murdoch told her. ‘It was pretty grim. These people don’t take prisoners.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘And there was...’ Markham began.

  ‘Forget it,’ Murdoch told him, as he ate his Christmas pudding.

  And thought of home. Of Lee. He thought of her regularly; she alone was on his conscience. But they would have been separated had he been given the fighting command he wanted, and she would understand.

  *

  And perhaps at last he might be close to achieving something. There had been little activity during January and February; it had simply been too cold, and movement in the snow left too easily discernible tracks for the aircraft which often swooped low over the mountains in an effort to spot the guerrillas’ location. Yet the RAF transports had continued their monthly drops.

  Mikhailovitch had himself come for the second of these, the news of Kostitch’s successful foray having spread through the mountains. ‘One convoy,’ he remarked contemptuously. ‘Were we to be given enough weapons we would do better than that.’

  ‘Just be thankful for what you have,’ Murdoch said, and to Kostitch’s disgust allowed the Chetnik General to take all the new gear.

  The following month another group of men had appeared. ‘Do not deal with these, General,’ Kostitch warned. ‘They are Communists. They are hiding further to the south, in Montenegro. They are not of our kind.’

  ‘If they are fighting the Germans, they are of our kind,’ Murdoch pointed out.

  ‘They are destroyers of all that is good in life,’ Kostitch argued. ‘Worse than the Germans. Do you not know that people say, the Nazis will take your bodies, but the Communists will take your souls? I know the leader of these men. His name is Broz. He has been a Communist all his life. He fought with the Communists in Spain, and he has been trained in Russia. Now he calls himself Marshal Tito. Not general, mind you. Marshal! Ha! That is because he dreams of ruling Yugoslavia after the war.’

  ‘Well, that is something we must keep an eye on,’ Murdoch agreed. Tut Colonel, my mission is to arm and equip every man in this country who is willing to fight the Germans. Communist Russia is our ally in this struggle. Therefore Communist Yugoslavs are also our allies.’ He gave the men the guns and ammunition, and they dis-appeared into the trees.

  In between drops, the partisans had spent most of their time in their caves, trying desperately to avoid frostbite. Before long Edmunds had moved into Markham’s sleeping bag, and indeed Murdoch was the only one of them who slept alone. He would then have welcomed a companion, but his apparent uninterest in sex had been noted, and he felt it was important to preserve some distance between himself and the guerrillas. So he thought of Lee instead. Or of Monique Deschards. He felt he had at last done something to avenge her.

  He had heard little of Mikhailovitch since Christmas; the Chetnik leader had apparently decided that the British mission was not up to much. Nor had the Communists contacted them again. But Murdoch was content with this also: he wished to keep a low profile until he had contacted Paul.

  For which purpose he had continued to
put out feelers, and at last he was being rewarded. The cousin in Sarajevo had met with a positive response, thus he and Kostitch, and their men, and Private Edmunds — for her fluent German —were waiting on this snow-covered hillside. And a German was approaching.

  A wolf, into a den of wolves. Kostitch had given safe conduct, but would he be able to hold his men?

  The German had come by car, which was parked on the road in the valley; the partisans had sighed as they had watched it, alone, in their mountains. Now the man climbed the hill as he had been instructed to do, and stopped, as he realized he was surrounded. He spoke in German, and Edmunds translated. ‘He wishes to speak with the English officer,’ she said.

  Murdoch stepped out into the pale moonlight. The German wore the uniform of an officer beneath his greatcoat, and now he saluted. Murdoch did likewise.

  ‘General von Reger is willing to meet with you,’ Edmunds interpreted. ‘He is waiting for you now. He has promised you safe conduct to and from the meeting.’

  ‘He is in the car?’

  Edmunds spoke with the officer. ‘No, at a place some miles from here. It is a private place. You are to accompany this man, sir.’

  Murdoch nodded.

  ‘I will come with you, sir,’ Edmunds said. ‘You will need a translator.’