arm round his neck in a judo hold and stretched his chin up. There was a muffled crack as his neck broke, and he died immediately.
I could feel hot, sticky blood all down my front. There hadn’t been a sound. Now I had two bodies to dispose of. To leave them where they were would let everyone know I was there. But if they just went missing, the chances were that nobody would raise the alarm for a few hours at least.
Luckily the river was less than a hundred metres off, and a gentle slope covered by small, loose rocks led down to it. Luckier still, the bank was screened by a stand of tall grass. Each body made a scraping, rattling noise as I dragged it over the rocks; but I got both to the edge of the water, one at a time, without anyone seeing me. Then I loaded them up with stones inside their shirts, dragged them into the water and let them go.
Knowing my bottles were full, I didn’t bother to drink any of the dirty water in the river. I was on high alert, and it had taken an hour to get rid of the bodies.
I
CHAPTER 12
Over the Border
Moving silently, I worked my way up to a road. Under it I found a culvert, and I thought I’d crawl into it for a look at my map. But as I came to the end of the tunnel, I heard a kind of growling. Thinking there must be some animal under the road, I tiptoed forward and peered into the pitch darkness. I couldn’t see a thing. Suddenly I worked out what the noise was: it was some local, snoring. I felt slightly annoyed that an Arab had already nicked the hiding place I wanted. He was probably a soldier, and supposed to be on lookout duty. Lucky for me, then, that he’d decided to have a kip. Creeping back out, I climbed up on the side of the road and crossed over.
As I did that, I heard a shout from down by the houses where I’d heard people talking. I didn’t think the yell had anything to do with me, but I ran across the road, made about fifty metres into the rocks and dropped down.
A man came running up the road, which was raised about two metres above the ground. He stopped right opposite me and stood staring in my direction. Evidently he couldn’t see anything, and he ran back. A moment later, a blacked-out Land Cruiser roared past, its engine screaming in second gear, straight up the road to the junction with the main supply route, and disappeared.
For nearly half an hour I lay still, letting things settle. I felt drained of strength, but I couldn’t stay where I was, so I began to work my way round the rocks. On my left was a run of chain-link fencing, quite high. So that side of the complex was protected, anyway.
Coming to a corner of the barrier, I went up onto the main supply route and crossed over. As I did so, I looked to my left and saw three guys manning a vehicle control point. Dodging back up a wadi, I peeped over the side and saw a line of anti-aircraft positions facing towards the Syrian border.
I pulled back again, stuck. The ground there was almost flat. I couldn’t go forward, and I couldn’t go back. Dawn was approaching. My only possible hiding place was another of the culverts under the road. I found three tunnels, each about the diameter of a forty-five gallon drum and maybe ten metres long. The first looked clean, and I thought that in daylight anybody looking in one end would see straight through it. The second seemed to be full of dead bushes and rubbish, so I crawled in and lay down.
In the confined space, I realized how badly I was stinking. But my surroundings were no better: there was a powerful stench of decomposing rubbish and excrement.
I was desperate for a drink. But when I went to compress the plastic clip that held the buckle on my webbing pouch, I found that my fingers were so sore and clumsy that I could scarcely manage the simple task. Gasping with pain, I used all my strength to force the clips together.
Then came a horrendous disappointment.
Bringing out one bottle at last, I opened it and raised it to my lips — but the first mouthful made me gasp and choke.
Poison!
The water tasted like acid. I spat it straight out, but the inside of my mouth had gone dry, and I was left with a burning sensation all over my tongue and gums. I whipped out my compass-mirror, pointed the torch-beam into my mouth and looked round it. Everything seemed all right, so I took another sip, but it was just the same. I remembered that when Stan had collapsed during the first night on the run I’d put rehydration powder into my bottles, to bring him round, and I wondered if the remains of it had somehow gone off.
I tried the second bottle. It was exactly the same. I couldn’t make out what had gone wrong. Whatever the problem, the water was undrinkable, and I emptied the bottles out.
I was in a really bad state.
It was eight days since I’d had a hot meal, two days and a night since I’d had a drink.
My tongue was completely dry; it felt like a piece of old leather stuck in the back of my throat.
My teeth had all come loose; if I closed my mouth and sucked hard, I could taste blood coming from my shrunken gums.
I knew my feet were in bits, but I didn’t dare take my boots off, because I feared I’d never get them on again.
As for my hands — I could see and smell them all too well. The thin leather of my gloves had cracked and split, from being repeatedly soaked and dried out again, so that my fingers hadn’t had much protection. I’d lost most of the feeling in the tips, and I seemed to have got dirt pushed deep under my nails, so infection had set in. Whenever I squeezed a nail, pus came out, and this stench was repulsive.
I wondered what internal damage I might be suffering, and could only hope that no permanent harm would be done. With the complete lack of food, I’d had no bowel movement since going on the run, and I couldn’t remember when I’d last wanted to pee.
I yearned for food, of course, but more for drink — and when I did think about food, it was sweet, slushy things that I craved. If ever I found myself back among ration packs, I would rip into the pears in syrup, ice cream and chocolate sauce.
I felt very frightened. First and most obvious was the danger of being captured — the fear of torture, and of giving away secrets that might betray other guys from the Regiment. Almost worse, though, was the fact that I could see and feel my body going down so fast. If I didn’t reach the border soon, I would be too weak to carry on.
Twisting round in the cramped space of the drain, I got out my map and tried for the hundredth time to work out where I was. It was now the morning of Wednesday 30 January. What options were left to me? Already light was coming up, and whatever happened, I was stuck in the culvert for that day. When dark fell again, I could try to sneak back down to the river, cross over and go along the other side — but it seemed a far-fetched hope. In any case, I was terrified of going anywhere near the river. Every time I’d tried it, something had gone wrong. One more attempt, and I might easily be captured. How long could I hold out? I just couldn’t tell what my body was still capable of.
First, I somehow had to get through eleven hours of daylight — eleven hours, when every waking minute was agony. At least I was out of the wind, and less cold, so that I could drop off to sleep.
I started dreaming, usually about the squadron. I was with the rest of the guys. They were all around me, talking and laughing, getting ready to go. We didn’t seem to be in any particular place, but their presence was completely real. Then suddenly, maybe ten minutes later, I’d wake up, shuddering violently, hoping against hope that my mates were still there, and fully expecting that they would be. Then I’d open my eyes and realize that I was alone in the culvert with no one to talk to. It was a horrible letdown.
I wasn’t worried by the occasional rumble of a car going past above me, but soon I began to hear other movement: scurrying, scuffling noises, as if troops were running around. I thought,
