The Final Cut

'Fetch two jerry cans of petrol from the Champ,' he instructed. A soldier went scurrying.

'What are you intending to do, Mr Urquhart?' Ross asked, the triumph evaporated from his voice.

'We need information or examples. Those terrorists can provide either.'

Ross noted the change in the boys' status. 'Examples of what?'

Urquhart met the other man's gaze; he saw a weakness in it, fear, but not for himself. Urquhart had regained the advantage. Then the jerry cans arrived.

'Corporal, I want you to get around behind them and use the cover of those rocks to empty this petrol into their hide.' 'And then what?' 'That will depend upon them.' 'They're nothin' but bairns…'

'Tell that to MacPherson. This is a war, not a tea party, and those two have decided to join it. So they can come out in one piece or with their tail feathers scorched. Their choice.' 'You wouldna burn them out.'

'I'll give them far more chance than EOKA would give its own victims.' They knew the bloody truth of that, had both seen the blackened and mutilated carcasses, hands stretched out like claws in charred agony, fathers and sons often dragged out of church or from the desperate clutches of their families, burnt, butchered. As examples. 'And the message will get round, serve as a warning to others. Make it easier for us next time.' 'But, Sir…'

Urquhart cut him short, handed him a jerry can. 'We'll give you covering fire.'

Ross took one step back, shaking his head. 'Ah'll no' burn them oot. I dinna fight that way. Against bairns.'

There was an audible stirring of support from the section's other members. Ross was able, experienced, some of the men owed their lives to that.

'Corporal, I am giving you a direct order. To disobey is a court-martial offence.' 'I hae lads of my own.'

'And if you don't follow my orders I'll make sure you're locked up for so long they will be grown men by the time you next set eyes on them.'

Agony had carved deep furrows across the corporal's expression, but still he refused the jerry can. 'Rather that, than never being able to look my boys in the eye again.'

'This is not me ordering you, Ross, it's your country.'

'You do it then. If you hae the stomach fer it. Or will you lie down on yer belly like a frightened woman once again?'

The challenge had been struck. Urquhart looked around the others, five men in all, and saw that they had each sided with Ross. He knew he couldn't court-martial the entire section, it would reduce him to a laughing stock. Ross was right; if it were to be done, he would have to do it himself.

'Give me covering fire when I'm round behind them.' He eyed the corporal. 'No, not you Ross. You're under arrest.'

And he had gone. Ducking low, pacing rapidly through the trees, a can in each hand, until he was well behind the hide. He signalled and one then another of the troops opened up, sending barrages of sound across the scene. Quickly and as quietly as he was able, Urquhart edged up to one of the taller boulders, a great drum almost the height of a man which stood directly behind where the boys were hiding. The cap was off one can, he stretched and, without exposing himself to reprisal by either the boys or his own troops, he tipped the can across the top of the boulder so that all four and a half gallons of stinking fuel began to spill down the rock face and into the bowl. The next four and a half gallons followed immediately, they were still vomiting from the neck of the can as he beat his retreat.

'You have thirty seconds to come out before we fire the petrol!'

Within their rocky hide, George and Eurypides' faces spoke of their dread. As fast as they tried to crawl away from the swamping fuel, they were forced to duck back beneath the blanket of ricocheting bullets. What was worse, the fuel had begun to make the elevations of the rocky bowl slippery, the nails on their boots finding little purchase on the smooth stone. The inevitable result in such a small place was that their clothes became soaked in foul-smelling petrol. It made them retch. 'Fifteen seconds!'

'They won't do it, little brother,' George tried to convince himself. 'But if they do, you jump first.' 'We mustn't tell. Whatever happens, we mustn't tell,' Eurypides choked. 'Five!'

It was longer than five. Considerably longer. Urquhart's bluff had been called and he was not ready for it, hoping that the next action could be avoided. Yet he had set out on his path, there was no turning back. He had retained a rag half-soaked in petrol; this he tied around a small rock so that the fuel-impregnated ends hung free. He brought out his cigarette lighter, snapped it into life, and touched the rag.

Events moved rapidly from that point. The rag burst into flame, almost engulfing Urquhart's hand, scorching the hair on his arm. He was forced to throw it immediately; it performed a high, smoky arc in the sky above the rocks before plunging down. Ross shouted. There was a crack. Hot vapour danced above the hide like a chimney from hell. Then a scream, a terrified, violent, boyish shriek of protest. Two heads appeared above the bowl, then the tops of two young bodies as they scrambled up the side. But as the soldiers watched the smaller one seemed to lose his footing, to slip, stumble, he disappeared. The older boy froze, looked back down into the ferment, took a last look at the forest beyond, cried his brother's name and sprang back in.

It was impossible to tell exactly what was happening in the bowl, but there were two sets of screams now, joined in a chorus of prolonged suffering and death.

'You miserable bastard,' Ross sobbed. 'I'll no' watch them burn.' And already a grenade had left his hand and was sailing towards the inferno.

The explosion blew out the life of the fire. And stopped the screaming.

In the silence that followed, Urquhart was conscious that his hands were trembling. For the first time he had killed – in the national interest, with all the authority of the common weal, but he knew that many would not accept that as justification. Nothing was to be gained from this. Ross stood before him, struggling to compose himself, his fists clenched into great balls which might at any moment strike out. The other men were crowded round, sullen, sickened.

'Corporal Ross, this was not what I had wanted,' he started slowly, 'but they brought it on themselves. War requires its victims, better terrorists than more like MacPherson. Nor do I wish to see you ruined and locked away as a result of a court martial. You have a long record of military service of which you can be proud.' The words were coming more easily now, his hands had stopped trembling and the men were listening. 'I think it would be in everyone's interests that this incident be forgotten, we don't want to give EOKA any more martyrs. And I don't want your indiscipline to provide unnecessary work for the Military Provosts.' He cleared his throat of the remorse that seemed lodged there like bile. 'My Situation Report will reflect the fact that we encountered two unidentified and heavily armed terrorists who were killed in a military engagement following the death of Private MacPherson. We shall bury the bodies secretly in the forest to prevent any unnecessary outbreak of hostility or desire for retaliation amongst the local villages. Nothing more. Unless, that is, you want a fuller report to be lodged, Corporal Ross?'

Ross, the large, lumbering, caring soldier-father, recognized that such a full report might damage Urquhart but would in all certainty ruin him. That's the way it was in the Army, pain was passed down the ranks. Anyway, for Urquhart the Army was nothing more than a couple of years of National Service, for Ross it was his whole life. He wanted to scream, to protest that this had been nothing less than savagery, but he would be the first to be condemned. That knowledge weighed more heavily than his hate. His shoulders sagged and his head fell in capitulation.