A Bitter Wind, page 24
“It was the SS,” he gasped.
Chapter Thirty-Four
HOOFBEATS THUNDERED DOWN the trail as Flint’s confession hung in the air. Big Mike raised his M1, ready to meet the threat. I hurried to tie the rope to the branch, but Flint must’ve felt my grip loosen.
He bolted and leapt over the log where I’d been sitting. He darted into the woods as Big Mike and I knelt behind the log, weapons aimed at the trail. The thunder of galloping horses shook the ground, and, in seconds, Sanja burst into the clearing, pulled on the reins, and wheeled her mount to a halt. Two men, both with riderless horses in tow, followed. Guns were quickly drawn, and it took only a few words from Sanja to have them pointed away from us.
“Flint!” I shouted, and Mike and I took off into the woods, barely registering the look of surprise on Sanja’s face. First she’d heard a gunshot, then came hell bent for leather to our rescue, only to find us here, unexpectedly, with three horses, then witness our sprint into the forest.
Big Mike was by my side, and I signaled him to go left, where ten yards away a stone cliff face dripped water. I knew Flint couldn’t scamper straight up that, so I stayed close to the trail, figuring he’d veer out into the path to make better time. Bushwhacking is hard, worse than hard if your hands are bound. I thrust my way between trees, watching for what lay ahead while keeping an eye out for glimpses of the trail on my right.
Nothing. All I heard was Big Mike barreling through the pines and the sound of my own gasping breath. I jumped over a moss-encrusted log and skidded to a halt, listening for anything other than Big Mike’s footfalls. I moved around a thick pine, slowly now, since Flint had only a few seconds on us.
A shadow passed before me, and something pressed against my neck as I was yanked backward. Roughness tightened around my neck, and I lost my grip on the Thompson.
Rope. My hands clawed at the figure behind me. I wanted to scream but all that came out was a choking gasp. I tried to dig my fingers under the rope, but it was impossible. I stomped my feet, aiming for Flint’s shins, but he danced around my bootheels easily.
“Relax, Billy,” he hissed into my ear. “Just float downriver, it’s easy.”
I had to get at him or the rope, and I didn’t have long. His grip was strong. I tried to take a step, as if I were running away. His hands tightened as he leaned forward to pull me back.
Which was when I scuttled back and dug in my heels to put everything I had into it. Flint was a fraction off-balance, just enough to make him waggle his arms to regain his hold. But I continued to plow backward and forced him into the pine. The branches broke and snapped, making enough noise to catch Big Mike’s attention.
I rammed Flint back into the tree trunk, heard him grunt, and felt the rope loosen. I tried to call out. My voice came out in a low rasp, a strained and nearly silent cry for help. I worked one finger under the rope and felt my lungs draw air, but Flint pulled harder. He was trying to get to my .45 automatic, and I had only a second before he reached it. I threw myself forward, and flipped Flint over my shoulder. With the rope still around my neck, I went down next to him and scrambled to draw my pistol.
It wasn’t there. Flint didn’t have it, but at the same moment we both looked at my Thompson, five yards away on the ground. I grabbed the rope, still loosely wound around my neck, and pulled. His noose was still tight, and I heard him gag as I loosened mine and crawled to my tommy gun.
“Billy?” Big Mike shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here,” I gasped weakly, spinning around with the Thompson in hand.
Flint was gone.
“Here!” I tried again, and rose, working to sense which way Flint had gone. Big Mike shouldered his way through the pines, picked me up with one hand, and handed over my .45 with the other.
“Where’s Flint?” he asked.
“The trail, maybe?” I said as I rubbed my throat. Then, the sound of hoofbeats. I followed Big Mike, worried that Flint might attack Sanja and steal her horse. He was adept at using whatever he had handy as a weapon. I heard the skitter of stones on the trail, a thump, and a high-pitched whinny. I feared the worst as I tumbled onto the path, Big Mike close behind.
“We ran into Ripper,” Sanja said with a grin. She gave her mare’s neck a pat and looked at the body on the trail. “Flint, I mean.”
“Nice work,” I said. “He almost got away.”
“He is still breathing,” Sanja pointed out. “Do you want him alive?”
“We need him alive,” I said. “And we need to talk.”
Big Mike roused Flint with a good kick to the ribs and got him vertical. We both checked the knots to be sure he hadn’t tampered with them and then led him back up the trail to the clearing. Flint was quiet. Perhaps stunned, perhaps plotting.
“Where did you get the horses?” Sanja asked as she dismounted and eyed the light gray mare. “I know this one.”
“First, you need to warn the people in Virovac,” I said. “The Germans are headed their way, probably SS and some Black Legion Ustaše.”
“You are sure of this?” she asked. I told her I was certain. She spoke quickly to one of the men. He jumped on his horse and rode out to give the warning. The other fellow made Flint sit on the ground and stood behind him, a pistol in one hand and the rope in another. Flint’s eyes had a dull sheen, and he was strangely silent. Maybe he was biding his time, but I hoped the fight was out of him. For now.
We sat and I filled in Sanja on our ambush of the Ustaše horsemen, how one of them had been wearing Flint’s clothes, and our friendly relations with the farmers from the other side of the road.
“They were happy to see the Ustaše dead and have a horse to butcher,” I said. “Not to mention stripping the dead.”
“A bounty in these bad times,” she said. “Why did Flint tell you of the SS?”
“I knew he was holding something back,” I said. “Big Mike put a round between his legs to loosen his tongue.”
“Right there,” Big Mike said, pointing to a bullet hole in the log where Flint had been sitting, his legs splayed wide. “He didn’t need any further convincing.”
“Well done,” Sanja said, with a brief smile and a glance at Flint before inclining her head in the direction of one of the horsemen. “Gricko can use his knife instead of wasting a bullet if he needs more convincing. Now, tell me. How badly has he betrayed us?”
I told her I didn’t think he’d said anything about Pranjani. It wasn’t in his own self-interest. But he had told the Germans about someone important being picked up by Americans in Virovac. My guess was the SS wanted him alive to confirm his story and identify us, so they’d had the Ustaše mounted troops bring him close to the village while they organized an attack.
“We may have a little time,” Sanja said. “The Germans patrol often, but not in large numbers. Not enough to attack the village if they believe our fighters are there.”
“How long, if they picked up Flint earlier today?” I asked.
“Tonight, maybe. Or the morning. The Germans like to see what they kill,” she said.
“Is Johnny Adler in Virovac?” I asked. It was time to focus on why we were here.
“Yes. He is safe. Another POW is with him,” Sanja said. “They are both exhausted and hungry. I thought it best to allow them to rest tonight.”
“Let’s go,” I said. “With any luck, we can get them out before the Germans surround the place.”
“Is that all you care about? It is your fault the village is in danger. This man wished you harm, and now the people in Virovac will suffer,” Sanja said as she cast a venomous glance at Flint. “If not for him, and you, there would be no danger.”
“She’s got a point, Billy,” Big Mike said.
“Adler is important,” I said. “For the war effort. We don’t want the Germans to catch him, and we need information only he has.”
“Virovac is important,” Sanja said. “It is why we fight. To protect our people.”
Both things were true. But if Sanja stayed to fight, we’d never get back to Pranjani on our own. We needed her.
“How many people in Virovac?” I asked. “Can they be evacuated?”
“Two hundred, I think. Some are old, others children. It would be very hard with so little time,” she said. “We must go now.”
“Let me go,” Flint said.
“He is useless,” Sanja said, without bothering to look at Flint. “Gricko can cut his throat and we will be done with him.”
“Let me go,” Flint repeated. He appeared livelier now, perhaps because he had a scheme to pitch. “I’ll tell the Germans whatever you want. Like a column of Tito’s Partisans hit us and I managed to escape. I’ve got the wound to prove it. And I’ll say you two were with them, and you already had Adler in tow. That’ll take the heat off Virovac, right?”
“Great story,” Big Mike said. “Too bad you can’t be trusted to deliver it.”
Sanja drew a finger across her neck and held my gaze.
“Not yet,” I said. I wouldn’t have minded not having Flint to drag around, but dead, he was worth nothing. Alive, there was a chance he could serve a purpose. If not, Gricko looked ready and willing to solve that little problem. “Let’s get to Virovac and lend a hand.”
We mounted. Gricko tied the end of Flint’s necktie around his wrist and rode beside him. Sanja led the way and Big Mike kept one eye on our rear. I glanced at Flint a few times and saw his eyes dart around, looking for any way out. He’d snapped out of whatever shock he’d endured from Sanja’s horse barreling into him. If it hadn’t been an act.
“How many fighters are at the village?” I asked Sanja as I brought my horse close to hers.
“Ten,” she said. “But we have the radio and will call for more.”
“I hope a lot more. We need to be back the day after tomorrow. Early, for the last flight out,” I reminded her.
“If we live, we shall ride all night. There will be enough time,” Sanja said.
If we lived. Not always a certainty, especially in these parts. Not if Flint, the SS, or the Black Legion had anything to say about it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE TERRAIN GREW gradually steeper until we came out from the forest trail and onto a plateau overlooking gently sloping fields. It was strange being out in the open after being under the cover of the pines, and I kept swiveling my head, searching out potential threats. But soon the well-trodden path descended lower, and we didn’t stand out for all to see as we had when we rode along the highest point.
“Here,” Sanja said. She halted her horse and dismounted. Big Mike and I followed suit while Gricko kept Flint on his short leash. She took a few steps to the high ground and pointed to the village below. “Virovac.”
In the fading light, I could see rooftops spread out in a narrow valley below. One road came in from the south, a narrow S-bend where a bridge led to what looked like a mill. At the north end of the valley, the road ascended a steep hill and disappeared into the woods. On the far side of the valley floor, a river churned over jumbled rocks.
“Not a bad defensive position,” Big Mike said. “Narrow entry and exit points, and a river on the flank.”
“Yes, and we have the high ground here,” Sanja said. She pointed downhill from where we stood. “These are grazing lands. Open except for trees and stone walls. If the Germans mean to surprise us, they will come this way.”
“Or if they have tanks, they come straight in down there,” I said. The Chetniks didn’t have much in the way of anti-tank weapons, but on the winding road any armored vehicle would be vulnerable.
“They could draw our attention down there,” Big Mike said. “Distract us as they sneak over this ridge and hit us from behind.”
“It would be a good plan,” Sanja said. “If they have no tanks, they will send Ustaše to attack the mill crossing. Then the SS will come down from here while we are busy killing the Croats.”
“It seems quiet,” I said. Parts of the valley were already in deep shade as the sun dipped lower to the horizon. “Wouldn’t we hear something if the Krauts were close?”
“Tanks we would hear. Men walking through the forest, no,” Sanja said. As she shielded her eyes against the rays of the setting sun, I wondered who might be hidden in the trees below, watching us and waiting for darkness. “I told Tomas to radio for reinforcements. They may already be on their way.”
“Looks like we beat the Krauts,” Big Mike said.
“I hope so,” she said. “And I hope our men get here soon. Now come meet your Johnny Adler.”
About damn time. It was only a few days ago at St. Margaret’s at Cliffe that Sally had told us that Johnny knew the secret behind the stolen equipment. It felt like months, and here, deep in Yugoslavia, the concept of electronic warfare seemed like something out of a Buck Rogers comic strip. Finding Johnny had never been a sure thing, and now that he was only minutes away, I was having a hard time grasping it was really going to happen.
We rode downhill through fields to the road that ran along the valley floor. There wasn’t any center to this village, just houses with tile roofs and curling smoke rising from the chimneys dotting the landscape. We headed to one of the larger houses, close to the mill by the river. A sturdy barn stood to the rear, the lowing of cows telling me Virovac had avoided the worst of what had befallen other villages.
Men spilled out of the house, followed by two young boys and a girl who took the reins of our horses. I dismounted and looked for a guy in RAF flight clothes while Sanja spoke with one of Chetniks. As the kids led the mounts to the barn, I spotted him. Fleece-lined leather jacket, heavy sweater, blue wool pants, and sensible hiking shoes.
“Are you Flight Sergeant Johnny Adler?”
“That’s me, Captain. You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?” Adler spoke the King’s English with only a faint hint of his childhood tongue. He had dark wavy hair, a scruffy beard, good looks, and a ready smile.
“All the way from RAF Hawkinge, Johnny,” I said. “I’m Captain Billy Boyle and we’ve been through hell and high water looking for you. We need to talk.”
“Talk is fine, Captain, but don’t we need to get a move on?” Johnny asked. “The Nazis are headed our way. I hear you’re my personal escort, so isn’t it time to escort me the bloody hell out of here?”
“Our departure is delayed,” Big Mike said. “Now let’s chat inside. Got any grub around here?”
“I’m not moving until you explain yourself, sir,” Johnny said, his eyes locked on mine. “What do you know about the base at Hawkinge?”
“Enough to know you have valuable information in that head of yours,” I said. “About radios and thefts at the air base.”
“All right,” Johnny said. “You’ve got me curious enough. But let’s put some miles between us and the Nazis first. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”
“We’ve got Germans and Ustaše all over the place, Johnny,” I told him. “We can’t head out until the coast is clear. Sorry.”
Johnny was clearly disappointed at the news but gestured for us to follow him into the house.
“I’ve got to check on Flint, I’ll just be a minute,” I said. Behind us, Flint complained loudly as Gricko, none too gently, pulled him out of the saddle.
“That’s one of yours?” Johnny asked. “Why’s he dressed up like a Ustaše?”
“He’s in custody,” I said. “The Black Legion grabbed him, swiped his uniform, and left him that getup. We’re bringing him back to stand trial.”
“You’re busy chaps. I’m sure our Chetnik friends could circumvent the need for a trial,” Johnny said. “I have to say, I was surprised to see anyone wearing that black jacket alive in this village, even tied up.”
“The offer has been made,” I said. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Gricko hauled Flint into the barn, his grip tight on the rope. Flint grimaced and looked at me, as if I might care to intervene. I followed and found Sanja still engrossed in conversation with one of the fighters as the kids rubbed down the horses.
“Do you have a safe place to keep him?” I asked as Gricko led Flint up steep wooden steps.
“Yes. Tomas has a room for special guests,” Sanja said, and introduced us.
“Good room,” Tomas said. “No leave.”
“You speak English? Very good,” I said, then waited to see if there was more.
“I learn from British. They go. Now I learn from Americans. But they go too, yes?”
“We’re here,” I said, for what it was worth. “Can I see the room?”
“Come, come,” Tomas said, eager to show off his special accommodations. We took the steps to a level high above the main floor. At the far end, bales of hay were stacked. Closer to the stairs, two doors stood open. The first room held old barrels, rusted tools, a wooden chest, and the usual dusty debris gathered over decades. In the next, bales of hay were stored up against the wall. Gricko was busy securing manacles on Flint’s wrists. The iron handcuffs looked a couple of centuries old.
“Are you handing me over to these people?” Flint asked. I wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted or not. I also wanted to remind him he’d just tried to kill me, and I might not be up for polite chatter. But I knew it would be meaningless.
“For temporary safekeeping,” I said. Gricko moved a hay bale away from the wall and exposed a U-shaped iron bar with both ends bolted to the wood. He ran the chain through that, then connected the links to the cuffs. He pushed the bale back in place, shoved Flint down on it, and produced a knife from his belt. I enjoyed seeing Flint’s eyes widen, even if all Gricko did was cut away the knotted cords around Flint’s wrists. He loosened the noose and pulled the rope away from Flint’s neck, quickly, leaving a line of torn, bleeding skin. Gricko laughed, and Flint spat in his face. Tomas spoke to Gricko sharply and pointed to the door.
“Room is good,” Tomas said as Gricko left. “Hay for sleeping. Chains keep him. We lock door, guard outside.”
“He will try to trick you,” I said, and watched Tomas to be sure he understood. He nodded and Gricko returned with two buckets. One filled with water, the other empty. He set them down within reach of Flint and tossed a small loaf of bread on the floor.
