Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Antarctica

Full night had fallen on the bay, and Banks stood immediately outside the door for long moments, taking time to appreciate the view of the expanse of sky above and the cold blue bay with the ice seeming to twinkle back at the stars.

At first, he thought all was quiet, but the longer he stood, the more the sound came to him, a quiet hum, like a far-off generator. He knew what it must be without having to go looking for it. The saucer was still powered up, and he saw it in his mind, hovering inside the circles in a golden glow that filled the hangar.

Once more, the dance of the stars called to him, the urge to lose himself in the vast blackness.

“Dhumna Ort!” he muttered, and to his relief the hum, and the urge, both faded.

But they did not disappear completely. Suddenly, the sky overhead had lost its charms, and now seemed to lower over him like a dark drape, one that was getting heavier with every passing second. He went back inside, but the distant hum came in with him, and seemed to ring and reverberate in his skull. He went and stood by the stove. Hynd raised an eyebrow in a question, but Banks ignored him and started warming his hands at the grate.

“Dhumna Ort!” he muttered, and the hum faded into the background again, but still did not dissipate completely. It stayed somewhere near the back of his skull, calling relentlessly.

“Dhumna Ort!” he muttered again.

“You okay, Cap?” Hynd said.

Banks nodded and tried to smile.

“Just wishing there was something a wee bit stronger than tea available. I need a drink. I need a lot of drink.”

“You and me both, Cap,” the sarge replied. “The relief will be here soon, right?”

Banks nodded again, although this time he wasn’t able to smile with it, and when Hynd nodded back, there was no smile in reply. When the sarge stepped back over to the card game, Banks stayed at the stove. The image of the hovering saucer was big in his mind, and the hum kept up its call. He turned his back to the table so that the squad wouldn’t see him, and muttered the words, almost continuously, his only talisman against the calling.

“Dhumna Ort! Dhumna Ort!”

It kept the monkish chanting and the beat of the dance at a far enough distance for it to be manageable.

For now.

Everything was quiet for several hours, and Banks started to believe the worst might be over, and that they’d be given enough respite to make it through to the arrival of their relief. But all such hopes were dashed when it was time to change shifts and Parker went over to the bunks to wake Wilkes and Patel.

As soon as Wilkes got up out of the bunk, and as if something had been waiting for just that moment, a voice called out from outside, somewhere distant, but loud. It was Hughes — dead Private Hughes — and he was singing at the top of his voice, bellowing in his immediately recognizable off-key shout, somewhere out in the night.

There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier, who wandered far away, and soldiered far away. There was none bolder, with good broad shoulder, he fought in many a fray and fought and won.

“What the fuck kind of bollocks is it this time?” Wiggins said.

“It’s Hughes,” Wilkes said. “He’s alive.”

The private stepped forward, heading for the door. Hynd stood to get in his way.

“Dinnae be daft, lad. You saw him. We all saw him. His neck was broken, and he had been dead for hours when we left him back in the hangar.”

Wilkes tried to push Hynd aside.

“Aye, we left him. And that was a mistake, wasn’t it? The poor bugger has woken up all on his lonesome.”

Hynd spoke.

“That’s not how it happened, lad. And you bloody know it.”

Wilkes shook his head.

“You’re right. I thought he was dead. But maybe he’s back. Like that Jerry officer.”

The singing continued outside.

Because these green hills are not Highland hills, or the island hills there not my lands hills. And as fair as these foreign hills may be, they are not the hills of home.

Hynd put a hand on Wilkes’ chest to stop him.

“If he’s anything like that Jerry officer, then you don’t want anything to do with him. Use your head, lad. Your pal’s long gone. You know that.”

It was Patel, not Wilkes who replied. He had moved to the door when everyone’s attention was on Hynd and Wilkes.

“Aye. But he’s our pal. I owe it to him to make sure he’s okay. Would you leave one of yours out there on his own?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the door and walked out into the night before anyone had time to move to stop him.

The squad only moved once Patel had gone outside. Banks reached the open door first. He hadn’t even been aware of doing it, but he had his weapon unslung from his shoulder and was aiming straight ahead, anticipating any attack. He called out.

“Patel, get your arse back in here right now. That’s an order.”

There was no reply, no sound at all now from outside. Hughes — if it had been him — had stopped singing, and there was only a soft whistle of wind. He felt its cold bite on his cheeks as he reached the doorway. He only got two steps outside, then stopped, although he didn’t lower his weapon. The reason Patel had not complied with his order was immediately obvious.

The tall oberst, back in his pristine black uniform, peaked cap, and both pale eyes staring, stood on the path that led to the jetty, with serried ranks four wide of the dead behind him. They all faced the doorway of the hut and the officer had Patel in a half-nelson grip. Banks knew that a simple, sudden movement would be enough to break the man’s neck. He looked for Hughes among the frozen ranks, but didn’t see the dead man. He heard him again though, the song coming clear across the cold slope from higher up, from the direction of the hangar.

And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier, who wandered far away and soldiered far away, sees leaves are falling, and death is calling. And he will fade away in that far land.

Banks had always previously thought of that particular song as being almost jolly, a tune to bind Scots together during New Year’s Eve festivities back home. But hearing it sung by a dead man, as a dirge at almost half speed, it sounded as mournful as any bagpipe lament and it had the same effect, tugging directly at his heart. He had a tear in his eye that he had to brush away to pay full attention to the scene in front of him.

The German officer was still looking straight at Banks. He lifted his free left arm and pointed up at the hangar, at the same time tightening his grip on Patel’s neck. Patel’s throat was too constricted for him to speak, and Banks saw the pleading in his eyes clear enough. And the oberstleutnant’s meaning was clearer yet.

Get back to the hangar. Go into the saucer, or I will kill this man.

Banks was of a mind to comply — he’d lost men in the call of duty before, but always when he knew what he was fighting for. This current situation had him so conflicted he scarcely knew what to do for the best, but he knew he couldn’t just let Patel be a pawn in the bigger battle. He was about to nod to give his assent, but Private Wilkes had other ideas.

“Let him go, you wanker,” the private shouted and barreled out of the door, knocking Banks aside in the process. The oberst hardly moved, but as Wilkes ran forward and aimed the butt of his rifle at the frozen head, the officer made two movements almost simultaneously. The first was with his right arm, and the crack of Patel’s neck breaking echoed around the still night air of the bay. The second, with his left arm held out stiff, hit Wilkes in the chest like a sledgehammer. The private’s ribs caved in under the blow, then Wilkes was off his feet and hurtling away, limbs sprawled, to smash, just a bundle of bloody wet flesh now, against the wall of a neighboring hut. Banks had two men downed in as many seconds.