John Robb - Zone Zero

It would be a divine act of providence if they managed to snatch the pistol from the guard. But surely the Divinity would not intervene twice!

Non , it would fail. And some would die with slugs in their bellies. Just as the Russian had died. But it would be worthwhile. In fact, those who were shot would be lucky. Better to go that way than to be trussed like cattle and await the explosion.

And why should he, D’Aran, worry? He had nothing to live for.

That safe in the orderly room… it would surely be opened by now. And he would be branded a thief. A cheap little upstart. A disgrace to the uniform of France.

Lucinne…

Dieu ! He hadn’t thought of her for days! Yet she had possessed him once. Held his whole body and mind in serfdom. And now… now he could think of her with cold indifference. He could see her for what she was. Well, what was she?

A tramp!

Oui , a tramp in rich clothes! And Lieutenant D’Aran had been a piece of garbage she had picked up, then tossed aside!

He started to laugh. A low-pitched but hysterical laugh. It stopped when Legionnaire Keith Tragarth whispered: “You all right, mon officier ?”

So the Englishman was awake, too!

Legionnaire Tragarth would die tomorrow—or was it today? He would either die at dawn when their bonds were unfastened, or at 15.00 hours in the afternoon…

But Tragarth would die honourably. Like a man. Tragarth did not know the agonising humiliation of hating oneself.

Ah out , lucky Legionnaire Keith Tragarth!

Damn you, you’re yellow! Keith told himself.

You always were yellow. Didn’t you shake your pants off when the creeping barrage started at Alamein? Oh yes; you got through all right! You managed to fight it down and you got a Mention in Despatches. Plus a nice spray of laurel leaves to stick on your medal ribbons. But God, no one knew how scared you’d been!

The same in Italy.

Before the first bloody attack on Monte Casino you got down on your knees and prayed when no one was looking. Yes, prayed! Pleaded for a little guts!

And hadn’t you been glad when you got a gun-shot wound in your leg!

It meant safety in a base hospital while better men were being blown to bits.

You were glad, too, when you were sent back to England. On leaves between assault training you were able to walk amid the peace of Devon again. And hope that perhaps the invasion of Europe would never come. But it came. And you, Keith Tragarth, were quaking in one of the first tank landing craft. You fought your way up the beach in a blank daze.

You were in a daze all the way across France.

Then you quit! You turned and ran!

“I’m a gutless swine,” Keith whispered. “I deserve to be haunted by the men I betrayed in Germany. The men who fought and died while I was skulking away…”

He heard a laugh.

It came from D’Aran’s bunk. Keith collected himself and murmured: “You all right, mon officier ?”

D’Aran became quiet after muttering something.

And Keith thought: “So he can make a joke of it all! He’ll die tomorrow, but he’ll die like a man. He won’t hate himself.

“Ah, lucky Lieutenant D’Aran…”

Full daylight.

But no heat yet in the sun. It directed pale shafts of light on the bunks and on the bound men.

There was a strange lack of movement among those legionnaires. Almost as if they were corpses.

And there was but one sound—the droning of the sand-flies as they darted from man to man getting their morning fill of salty sweat. It was a good day for the flies. No bodies were contorted to throw them off. They bit and they sucked at leisure. For the legionnaires scarcely noticed their presence.

Then, from beyond the locked door, footfalls. They echoed dimly as they approached. Each separate impact between boot and stone seemed to say, “ soon , soon , soon …”

It was a signal for a relaxing of the tension. Simultaneously, all the legionnaires eased against their constricting ropes. There was an automatic flexing of muscles. A simultaneous licking of dry lips. The sand-flies lofted angrily to the ceiling. The footfalls had almost reached the door.

Soon , soon , soon …

They stopped. A clink of keys. A rasping insertion into an old and massive lock. The turning of the mechanism, which was a mere mass of mechanical agony.

And the door was open.

Six guards entered, all holding Lugers. They paused on the threshold, making a swift preliminary inspection. Satisfied, two of them advanced to untie the bonds so that the legionnaires could eat, drink, and attend to the other needs of nature. The four others remained just inside the door.

It was a long tedious process, that freeing of the ropes, for they were always knotted with skill. The two guards progressed along at either side of the room, taking nearly two minutes to each man.

They did not appear to notice that as each legionnaire was released he spent more time than usual in massaging life back to his painful limbs. Nor did they attach much importance to the fact that there was less talk than normal. Men facing death are not usually loquacious,

After nearly half an hour, the final rope was lifted away from the last wrist and ankle.

And one of the guards jerked his thumb towards the door.

By now that was a familiar signal. It meant that Sergeant Vogel and Legionnaire Keith Tragarth were to go through the normal process of collecting the morning rations. When they returned—and not a moment before—the others would be allowed out two at a time to visit the adjacent wash-house.

The guard, who was pock-marked, said to Keith and Vogel: “You’ll have coffee today instead of water. And there’s a double issue of pemmican biscuits.”

Keith tried to appear casual as he asked: “Why the sudden charity?”

“It’s no charity,” the guard assured him with a humourless smile. “We’re building up your strength. We want all of you to be alive when the explosion comes.”

Keith did not answer. The pock-marked guard followed them as they moved out of the room. The five other guards stood against the wall, Lugers still held ready.

Like everything else in Fort Ney, the cookhouse was a dismally inadequate structure. It was a small square place situated between the bunk room and the officer’s quarters.

The water storage tank lay under the floor. Being fed by a natural artesian spring, it maintained a constant depth of rather more than nine feet. Access to it was gained by lifting one of the large flagstones.

A small oil stove stood against one wall and above it

.hung a miscellany of antiquated cast-iron cooking utensils. The rest of the space was taken up by deep shelves on which various dried foods were stored, several sacks of flour and chicory-laden coffee, and a small wood table.

Two tall pitchers in which water for immediate use was kept, stood in one corner.

The guard spat on the floor. Then, posting himself just inside the open door, he said: “We want coffee also. Make plenty of it. And make it fast.”

Keith thought: “The coffee’s a bit of luck. It gives us extra time… they’ll think we’re making it…”

While Vogel went to one of the coffee sacks, Keith picked up the stone pitchers. As was usual at that hour, one was empty and the other nearly so.

Keith crossed to the well flagstone. He prised up the rings in the centre. With an effort—for the stone was heavy—he lifted it clear.

Black water was revealed beneath.

Meantime Vogel had emptied coffee beans into a pan. He now turned his attention to one of the shelves. He took down a large lead-plated case. This contained the pemmican bisuits.