Roskill started to count slowly, first to one hundred – with an extra ten because he had a feeling he'd jumped from seventy to ninety.
Then another slow hundred...
His eyes wouldn't open: his eyelids seemed gummed together.
Gently he eased his right hand towards his face and wiped them.
He tried again: there was a small beetle, shiny black, exploring a twig six inches in front of him, and beyond that a wall of green.
Somewhere close at hand a bird took flight, carrying its shattering alarm cry through the woods.
Roskill began to explore his body. The side was still numb, but he could twitch his toes inside his shoe. So far, so good.
With his right hand he began to feel gingerly down his back: it was soaked with blood – poor Yaffe's blood. As if the thought focused dummy2
his vision he saw just to his right the Israeli's feet sticking out from under the edge of the groundsheet. He didn't want to look any further ; Yaffe must have taken most of that burst of fire...
He felt the bitter anger swell up in his throat – after all the warnings he had had, to be chopped down –
The thought was cut off dead as his hand touched an enormous crater in the left cheek of his backside — Christ! He'd been shot in the arse!
He forced himself to touch the edge of the crater again. It couldn't be as big as his fingertips told him it was, but by the size of it, it had to be an exit wound. As he touched it he felt pain for the first time: his brain was telling him what his body wasn't yet ready to admit.
The question was – where was the entry wound?
Sudden fear drenched him again. It didn't matter where he was hit, but only that he get to hell out of here before they came back.
He wrenched the groundsheet back, scattering the bracken and sending arrows of pain up his left side from the mangled buttock.
He raised himself stiffly on his hands and looked around. He was still close to the edge of the wood – he could see the light through the trees – but down an incline away from the path. He lifted his head higher and took his weight on his right knee.
Still not a movement anywhere. Away to his left he could now see the sunshine bright in the meadow, beyond a steep, sandy bank –
there was a stream there at the meadow's edge.
He glanced down and caught his breath: he was covered in blood, dummy2
saturated in it, his shirt and trousers sodden. God! No wonder they hadn't looked twice at him — he was like a slaughter house!
The thing now was to get away fast. He stood up – and cried out in pain and surprise as he pitched forward.
His leg wasn't there at all!
No, blast it – he rolled desperately to protect his backside – of course it was there! But it felt as though it wasn't and whatever was wrong with it, he wasn't going anywhere on it.
Roskill pounded the soft earth in fear and anguish. He couldn't stay here, but he couldn't go far hopping or dragging himself. He felt thirsty and dizzy – two of the classic shock signs the squadron M.
O. had dinned into his heads. He was hurt worse than he'd thought.
Falling blood pressure, rapid irregular pulse; skin pale, cold, clammy and moist... he could remember Doc Farrell reciting the litany.
But there was something else Farrell was always preaching in his survival course – what was it?
'The sympathetic system overrides the central nervous system in emergency – the sympathetic reactions are directed towards the mobilisation of the resources of the body for the expenditure of energy in dealing with crises.'
Man — when you're in danger the adrenalin pumps and you work at a tremendous peak of efficiency. If you went on living like that you'd burn yourself out in no time. But if you don't panic while you're there on top, you're a superman!
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The superman wiped the blood-stained tears from his eyes and looked round him again.
The golf bag!
Trying not to look at Yaffe, Roskill slid the bag off the dead man's arm. The straps were stiff and slippery – like everything else the bag was blood-soaked.
The family heirloom: God, let it not be some ancient muzzle-loader!
He knew before he'd slid three inches of it out what it was: an old Lee-Enfield – the blunt terrier's muzzle, with the wooden stock and hand-guard, was unmistakable: the immortal S.M.L.E.
Bullets? He jerked back the bolt feverishly.
There was nothing there. But of course there was nothing there: Yaffe would never carry a loaded rifle in his golf bag. Not to panic; there had to be rounds in the bag somewhere ...
Unless he collected them at the Rifle Club!
Roskill fumbled with the strap on the ball pocket: small, stout cardboard boxes with metal edges. And nestling in the boxes lovely .303 cartridges, five in each of the little black chargers.
Thank you, God!
Remember how it was in the old A.T.C. days, when the Flight Sergeant forced them to learn the drill – and he had always found it easy to learn things by heart...
Draw back the rifle and hold it with the left hand at the point of balance . . .
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It was easy still – place the charger in the bridge charger guide.
Place the ball of the thumb on the top round just in front of the charger ...
The rounds went down smoothly in a clean sweep. Roskill took another charger, pressed the rounds home and closed the breech with one round up the spout – no practice this time, with that last round safe in the magazine. He stuffed two of the little boxes into his coat pocket for good measure.
Superman was armed now, anyway – Lee Enfield against Uzi!
But not here. This was Uzi country; the old rifle liked the open spaces best, not the woodlands.
The meadow.
They would be coming back across the meadow.
Roskill set off, propelling himself up the incline on his right hip with his right foot, the rifle resting painfully on his collar bone, his useless left foot dragging behind him. But before he'd gone three yards he knew he'd never make the distance back up to the path and then along to the meadow – not in the time that must be left to him now. Not even that pumping adrenalin could disguise the weakness and the spreading pain down his leg.
He veered off to the left, towards the stream.
Downhill, even on the uneven surface of the wood, the going was easier – it was no more than agonising. And the stream itself refreshed him: he lay in it, he dipped his face into it, and at the last he drank from it, watching the water redden as it washed some of the blood from him.
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The cattle, or whatever used the meadow, had used this point in the high bank to get to the water – there was a mud wallow, but beyond it a broad track worn to the top.
Leaving a slimy trail of blood and water behind him, Roskill inched his way up the track. He knew the effort was squandering his energy reserve as he crawled, anchoring each advance with the rifle butt. But the line of meadow grass at the top was the Promised Land; to fail to reach it now would be to lose everything.
At last he could peer over the top, between the tufts. For a moment he couldn't focus: the landscape swam before his eyes.
Then it became an empty field – a much bigger field than he had imagined, at least from this worm's-eye view, with a barbed wire fence marking its frontier with a low ridge of heathland and forest scrubland. And there in the far corner to his left was the stile which he and Yaffe should have crossed just a few minutes ago.
Yaffe....
The hay-makers had taken the first growth from the field, and it was trimmed to an even stubble. But they had left an awkward patch providentially close to where he lay, beside the stump of an old tree whose roots had been stretching down out of the bank towards the water.