Lawrence Durrell - White Eagles Over Serbia

In half an hour he had put the sounds of the battle well behind him and the path at last petered out on the side of a hill made of rugged outcrops where climbing was again possible, and he was able to travel upwards towards the mountain-top along a narrow funnel. By the time he reached the top the sun had already risen and the mists were steaming up from the lowland meadows.

He had emerged on the crown of the mountain and could see, with a thrill of relief, that the scene of the ambush lay well to the west of his present position. As he crouched in a rocky hollow and ate some bread and cheese with a ravenous appetite he combed the country with his precious glasses. The battle was still going on among the cliffs of the mountain-top and he could see lines of infantry taking up position among the beech woods which crowned the range beyond.

In the valley below him he saw a long train of mounted troops deploying across the watershed they had crossed the previous day. The whole operation had been a masterpiece of planning and had caught the White Eagles at the most vulnerable point of the whole journey — the last defile which might lead them to Durmitor and safety. There was a small reconnaissance plane in the sky hovering over the scene of the battle. As Methuen watched and considered, his heart came into his mouth for he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs from near at hand; up the steep mountain path which had been hidden from him by a fold of rock came a cavalcade of troops in the familiar grey uniforms and forage-caps marked with the red star. Methuen flattened himself against the rock and held his breath.

They passed him without seeing him and clattered across the rough paths towards the battle — their weapons at the ready. Methuen drew a breath of relief as he heard their horses’ hoofs dying away among the rocky defiles, and he for his part made haste to take the path which would lead him back over the watershed and into the country where — how remote in space and time it seemed — the cave was.

Danger always gave one reserves of unexpected strength he had discovered in the past, and now the narrowness of his escape spurred him on. On the crest of the mountain the cover was not good though the path along which they had so laboriously marched was clearly marked. He forced himself to adopt a regular pace in order not to tire too easily, and every hour he took a three-minute rest during which he checked his course with the compass he had recovered from Branko. A fearful thirst was his only trouble and hereabouts there seemed to be no spring or rivulets; he investigated several ravines which looked as if they might have rivers running in them but without any luck.

Away to the east he could see the great mist-encircled massifs of the range which was crowned by the Janko Stone, and he steered for it, bearing right the whole time so that he could cross the foothills and avoid climbing the central range once more. In this way he hoped to find himself back once more in the valley from which he had started on his journey to contact the mule-teams.

The sun was hot now and he was tempted to shed his heavy coat and hat in order to make his march the lighter, but he thought it wiser to keep these articles for he did not as yet know where he was going to spend the night. At his present pace he calculated that he might reach the cave at dusk — provided he did not meet with any mishap. As far as he could see the countryside was more or less deserted. He caught a glimpse of several roads in the distance and could see the plumes of dust left by wheeled traffic, but it was too far to see clearly.

As far as he could judge the concentrations of troops were in the area he had left behind him, but he took no chances; before crossing each range where the cover was sparse he studied his route carefully. Once he was forced to make a long detour owing to the presence of some sheep and a group of shepherds who sat indolently under a cherry tree, playing on reed pipes — a strangely peaceful and reassuring sound to ears accustomed to the rattle and bark of machine-guns. Methuen listened to them as he crouched under cover in a fir forest and devoured the scanty remains of his bread and cheese.

His detour served a good purpose, too, for it led him to water; he found himself entangled in the debris of a recent forest fire — a steep bank clothed with fern and dwarf elder where the ground was covered with sharp splinters of charred and fractured rock, and where he had to scale high barricades of sooty timber in order to reach a cliff edge from where one could hear the distant ripple of a summer river. He slipped and skidded his way down and was delighted to find a shallow pebbled pool brimming with ice-cold water, and he plunged into it bodily, clothes and all, revelling in the icy sharpness of the water and feeling immediately refreshed.

It was here, while he was drying his clothes that a large and extremely savage sheep-dog spotted him from the hill-top and rushed down upon him, barking. Methuen scrambled for his pistol and covered the beast with it. He was standing in the middle of the stream on a rock, and he hurled a boulder at the animal as a warning to keep off. But it came on down the bank and showed every intention of attacking him. He shot it with great reluctance, for he knew how valuable dogs must be to the peasantry of this remote countryside. But he could not afford to take the chance of being given away; and lest the dog’s owner should be anywhere in the vicinity he gathered up his possessions and set about climbing the opposite hill in his squelching and waterlogged boots. It was a full two hours before his clothes had dried out on his body, and the sun by this time was baking. Despite his hunger and weariness he was encouraged to look at the distance he had covered through his glasses — the long shallow spine of the mountain range which backed the stony watershed.

Once or twice he saw small isolated patrols of grey infantry mounted on mules, but they were always a good way off and he was able to pass them by without being seen. Once or twice, too, he happened upon a long line of peasant muleteers carrying wood down to the valleys and was forced to hide in whatever cover was available. Much of the terrain hereabouts was planted with firs and beeches, and the dense growth of heather and fern made hiding easy.

By midday he had reached the second range of mountains which were crowned by the Janko Stone and he took half an hour’s rest. His feet had begun to hurt intolerably and despite every precaution he had managed to blister both heels. The flesh was raw and painful. But now he was on the great shelving meadow upland with its carpet of thick grass, like coarse brushed hair, and he started out to walk barefoot, carrying his boots round his neck, tied with string. This relieved him somewhat and as the going was all downhill he made good time along the range, his pulse quickening every time he came upon a familiar landmark pointing the way to the valley of the cave which he had begun to think of almost as home.

The long fatigue of the journey had begun to make itself felt and he found himself falling into a pleasant stupefaction as he walked; it was as if he had detached himself from his body and allowed it to walk on towards the horizon like an automaton, leaving his mind suspended up here on the windless pasture land which buzzed with crickets and shone with butterflies. This, he recognized, was the sort of state in which one became careless and unobservant and he did his best to remain alert and fully wide awake; but in vain. His mind kept wandering off on a tack of its own.

He thought of the Awkward Shop — the rabbit warren of corridors in some corner of which Dombey sat, turned green by his desk-lamp like a mandarin in stage-spotlight, brooding over his collection of moths; he thought of the companions who usually accompanied him on missions like the present one — the Professor with his absent-minded air, and Danny with his huge hands and yellow hair. And thinking of it all with nostalgia he cursed himself for a fool to have left it all behind, to have given way to an impulse. “If I get out of this,” he said aloud, “I’m turning up my cards,” and then he laughed aloud, for he remembered the many occasions when, in the face of strain and fatigue, he had made himself the same idiotic promise — a promise which he had never managed to keep.