Dive in the Sun (13 page)

He handed the cup back, and received some fresh tomatoes in return. He offered some of them back, but immediately the man shrank away, and shook his head decidedly.

‘All right, my friend, I’ll eat, and I only wish I could tell you just how I feel about being rescued, and about your kindness.’

The tomatoes were delicious, and he handed back the empty plate, a smile of satisfaction on his lips. He hoped that
would
make up for the lack of words, and he was rewarded by the lopsided grin and a low grunting.

Jervis wondered what would happen next, and stood up to look from one of the windows.

The effect was instantaneous. He felt the clawlike hands on his arms, and as helplessly as a baby he was dragged back to the couch. The wild figure shook his head and waved his arms about in a frenzy, and once, stood against the window, crucified by the sunlight, and shook his head so violently that Jervis thought he was having a fit.

Jervis nodded slowly and tried to smile. ‘All right,’ he murmured softly, ‘I get it. You’re trying to tell me it’s not safe to go out. So what’ll we do? Stop here till the war’s over?’ He lay back on the blanket, the throbbing in his head again taking control. Can’t think about it any more. Must rest. Must get my strength back. He watched through half-closed lids as his weird companion capered around the hut, his shadow looming and fading like a huge bat. He felt the strong fingers pulling off his battledress blouse and lifting his feet on to the couch, but he didn’t care any more. In some strange way he felt safe, and allowed some of his defencelessness to fall more as a mantle than a scourge.

When he awoke the sun had moved from the windows, and the squalid interior of the hut was deep in shadows. Jervis yawned and moved his aching head gingerly from side to side. He was once more alone, and for one instant he thought the meeting with the pathetic hermit had been part of a dream, but the stench of rags and the surrounding heaps of rubbish brought back his memory and made him wonder where his protector had gone.

His legs felt a little stronger, and after taking a few cautious steps around the hut, he went to one of the windows and peered through the cracked and grime-tinted glass.

He found that the hut was situated on the side of a gently sloping hill, which ran down to a wide span of beach, and which appeared to be completely deserted by both dwellings and trees alike. As he pressed his cheek against the blistered
frame
, he could just see the edge of a small village, two or three little white houses, slumbering against the grassy slopes of the neighbouring hills, their low walls bathed in deep blue shadows, as the sun passed slowly towards the horizon.

It must be late afternoon, he decided, as he gazed first at the sky and then at the strip of lighter skin across his wrist, where his watch had once been. I wonder if any of the others are safe, and whether he, or they, are waiting on the hill? He shook his head to clear away the throbbing pain. I must do something, or I’ll go as mad as that other poor devil.

He pulled the pistol belt from under the blanket and gingerly drew the automatic from its holster. He weighed the weapon in his palm, and remembered the little red-faced petty officer who had instructed him and the rest of his class by the side of a Scottish loch.

‘Now, gentlemen! All you ’as to do is point at ’is belly, an’ squeeze the trigger! Got it?’

It had seemed so remote and vaguely theatrical at the time that probably none of the young officers had really considered the true implications. But now Jervis pulled back the slide and heard the top bullet in the clip snap into the breech. He applied the safety catch, and once more stared out of the window. What should he do first, he wondered?

I’ll wait until my friend comes back and then try to make for the rendezvous. Suppose it’s empty? He shivered at the thought. He would be no better off than before. In fact, here at least he was safely hidden. But suppose one of the others
had
survived, and lay injured or sick somewhere out there on the beach, or up in the hills? His mouth tightened, and he slipped the gun into his trouser pocket. He knew he had to go. It might be the skipper. The thought of Curtis, and how he had surfaced the submarine to save him the agony of cutting another net, decided him.

A lorry revved its engine in the distance, and a flock of sleeping gulls rose in a white cloud from the beach, screeching and mewing.

Jervis crossed quickly to the door and pressed his eye against one of the wide cracks.

He found that he could see right along the edge of the village and across the winding track which led away from the sea, and from which came the sound of yet another engine. As he watched, he saw the front of a heavy diesel lorry heave itself around the side of the hill, spewing thick dust and sand from under its fat tyres, and grind down the middle of the road. Another followed, and after a brief interval, two more. They were giants, their sides caked with old mud and their high canvas canopies torn and dirty. The engines whirred into silence, and from the cabs he saw the figures of uniformed drivers, they, too, dust-covered and worn, climb down and gather around their vehicles.

Italian soldiers, he thought, as he watched one stubble-chinned driver relieving himself at the side of the road. Didn’t look like a search party. They had obviously driven a long way, and looked anything but warlike.

Jervis watched them keenly, his eye watering against the crack, but oblivious to his cramp or the pain in his head. This was the enemy, and he felt neither elated nor frightened. The little grubby soldiers were as he had always imagined them to be when he had heard and read of them surrendering by their thousands to the Eighth Army in the desert, in that first, far-off flush of victory.

A few of the villagers had started to move up the track towards the lorries, but the drivers waved them back, and one of them even unslung a machine carbine from his shoulder, as if to emphasize the point.

The villagers, mainly fishermen and their wives, hung back in a curious, chattering group, while from between the packed bodies a few children squeezed through and gazed wide-eyed at the visitors. One of the drivers, a tubby little man with a short pointed beard, walked slowly towards the rear of one of the lorries, and on tiptoes peered over the raised tail-board. He was shouting at someone inside, and occasionally shook his head. The crowd was silent now, and Jervis could feel the tension rising like a wave. The Italian soldier, he appeared to be a corporal, stamped his foot and angrily turned his back on the lorry, and strutted back to his men, who were watching
disinterestedly
from the side of the road. They all seemed to be waiting for something, or somebody. An officer probably, Jervis decided.

There was a sudden flurry of movement from the first lorry, and before any one of the soldiers could move a pair of legs slithered over the tail-board, and a man staggered out into the dying sunlight. There was a gasp from the crowd, and the corporal stepped angrily forward.

Jervis had gone cold, and he could feel the hair rising on his neck as he stared at the lone figure which stood swaying in the dust, his eyes blinking and staring round at the watching Italians. His khaki battledress was torn and stained with long patches of dried blood, and one arm was completely hidden under a great wad of dressings and rough bandages. His young red face was racked with pain and anger, and he shook his unruly hair from his eyes and swallowed hard.

‘Fer Christ’s sake,’ his voice rose in a high cracked sound, ‘are yer just goin’ ter stand there?’ He waved his uninjured arm at the lorries, his face torn apart with sudden desperation. ‘My mates is in there! Some of ’em’s dyin’!’ The corporal had reached him by this time and pushed him roughly towards the lorry. A murmur of sympathy rose from the watching fishermen. The British soldier staggered against the tail-board, the fight already draining from his face. ‘They’re wounded! Don’ you understand, you Wop bastards? Fer Christ’s sake give us a drink of water!’ But the corporal seized him by the belt and jerked him over the tail-board, and followed him into the hidden interior.

Jervis sank back, stunned and sick. Hearing that pain-racked Cockney voice, and seeing the misery on the man’s face, had swept away his previous feelings and fears like a cold wind. He beat the dirt floor with his fist in impotent rage. A few yards from the hut were four lorries crammed with British wounded, and
he
had been worrying about his own plight. They must have been captured in the south, he thought wildly, and they had probably been driven non-stop, two hundred miles or so, to this miserable place. The swine! There were tears of rage running unheeded down his chin, as he thought
of
the horror such a drive would entail to wounded men fresh from the firing line. What were they doing here anyway? There had been no hospital marked on the submarine’s chart, just a godforsaken fishing village. Sobbing with rage, he pressed his eye back to the crack. A small khaki scout car had arrived, and the Italian soldiers had pulled themselves into some semblance of attention.

Jervis stared with sudden hatred at the slim, dapper officer in the polished boots and Afrika Korps cap who stood listening to the excited explanations from the corporal.

The German nodded briefly and glared round at the soldiers and the villagers. He pointed at the lorries and waved his arm angrily over the village. Still nobody moved, until with a sudden crash the officer banged his fist on to the bonnet of his car. With a jerk everyone started moving at once, and Jervis saw the women passing jugs of water and fruit to the soldiers, who in turned carried it into the lorries.

It was at that moment that Jervis saw his new companion trotting vaguely along the side of the hill towards the hut. In the fading light, and set against the background of bustling villagers, he looked even stranger than before. But Jervis closed his eyes and groaned aloud, as he saw the German officer pause impatiently in the middle of his orders, to glance sharply at the passing figure. The strange, capering scarecrow was the same as before but for one thing. Over his smock he now wore Jervis’s blue battledress blouse, the gold lace shoulder straps glinting and reflecting in the dying light.

The German frowned and turned as if to continue with his task, and none of the villagers seemed to take any notice of what was obviously a familiar figure, until with a jerk the officer flung up his arm and pointed excitedly, while his mouth struggled with the right words of Italian.

For a moment the soldiers gaped at him, but as the officer pointed again, they ran after the slow-moving figure, their boots clashing on the loose stones, and their faces both angry and mystified.

Within twenty yards of the hut, one of the soldiers overtook
their
quarry and pulled roughly at the man’s arm. He and the soldier skidded to a breathless halt and stood staring uncertainly at each other. Jervis watched wildly as the German, followed by his own driver, came slowly up the hill to the waiting group, while the idiot gave his lopsided grin and stood beaming at each man in turn. The German pointed to the tunic with an impatient gesture, and one of the Italians reached out to pull it from the gaunt shoulders. Impatiently he shook the groping hand free and clutched the tunic more closely to his body with childish defiance. His eyes were screwed up with anxiety, but the grin remained, as if its owner was unwilling to believe that anyone could want to deprive him of his new possession.

The officer was obviously getting completely exasperated. Now that he was so close, Jervis could see the sharp, pointed features beneath the long-peaked cap, and the lines of irritation about the man’s thin mouth.

He spoke sharply to his driver, a slow-moving giant of a man in grey tunic and dusty jackboots, who stepped forward with casual ease and drove his fist into the idiot’s face. Like a puppet, he fell on his back, while the big German trooper bent laboriously over him and stripped off Jervis’s jacket, as if he was undressing a stubborn child.

He handed it to the officer, who searched rapidly through the pockets and examined the shoulder straps eagerly, while the other soldiers looked from him to the still figure on the ground and shuffled their feet uneasily.

The Italian corporal shouted from the bottom of the hill and pointed to the hut.

Jervis chilled, as all the eyes turned up towards his hiding place. It was as if they could already see him through the crack in the door.

The officer tossed the tunic to the ground and slipped open the top of his long leather holster. Ignoring the Italians, and never taking his cold eyes from the hut, he jerked out his Luger and pointed it towards the door.

‘
Guck mal, ob da noch jemand drin ist!
’ he ordered, the sharpness of his voice falling on the human air like a knife.
His
driver snatched the machine carbine from the Italian corporal, and started slowly towards the door.

Jervis’s eyes widened as he saw the man walking calmly, yet with obvious alertness, towards him. The grey uniform blotted out the other faces, and as he drew even nearer Jervis could see his fat, heavy face quite clearly, and the little beads of sweat which trickled from beneath the grey forage cap.

He shivered violently and groped for his own pistol. He stood back from the door and raised the gun slowly in front of his body. It seemed to be of terrible weight, and his hand shook, until he gripped the butt with such force that his wrist ached and his knuckles were white against his tanned skin.

Nothing happened, and he ground his teeth together to stop himself from shivering. He could feel the sweat running down the small of his back and was conscious of the great stillness which seemed to hang over the hut and beyond.

The crash of glass which shattered the silence made his body leap, and the sour taste of vomit pause in his throat as he spun round on the floor, his eyes seeking blindly, the pistol waving from side to side. He felt all the strain of the past day exploding in his brain, as he looked at the long black muzzle which lay across the sill of the small window.