were left in the crowding darkness with only the fading lurch of the motor.
Johnny ran forward with the single larch pole. Thirty-five strides to the fence. A yard short he stopped, panted, caught at himself for control.
Behind him he heard Otto Guttmann and Erica, coming more slowly because the burden of the ladder was greater. Johnny raised the pole to the level of the second wire. He couldn't reach over the very highest. He edged the pole forward inch by inch between the wires. A fraction to spare top and bottom. The muscles of his back rippled and shook with the weight of it. His wrists ached in pain. At last he reached the fence with his hands. The pole was clear through. He let the far end down as slowly as he could. As it dropped the last two feet to the ground his hands jumped, brushed, tickled the wire… not enough, you bastard, the pressure only of a sparrow. Reaching through the strands he manoeuvred the pole against the cement post. Erica took his place and held the pole firm. He turned to bring the ladder. She began to bind the larch pole in two places to the post. With Otto Guttmann Johnny lifted the ladder and they carried it upright to the fence and with infinite care lowered it against the single pole. The angle above the bound join of the ladder slipped tight against the pole tied to the fence post. Johnny rocked the frame lightly at first, then more fiercely, allowed it to slip, then find its hold.
Clear of those bastard wires, free of them, because a scientist had worked the calculations. A small, friendly, fragile gap between the bark of the larch wood and the taut length of the upper wire beneath.
Johnny went first. He spread his feet lightly on the supports, pivoted at the join high above the untouched wire, dropped easily to the ground, fell and rolled in the style they'd taught him as a young recruit.
Otto Guttmann next. He would climb more slowly. Erica came under the ladder, prepared to take its weight against her shoulders, to protect from the depths of her strength the wires above. He climbed and once the smooth leather of his shoe slipped on the birch wood and the ladder danced and Erica gasped and Johnny cursed, and the wire remained untouched. At the highest support of the ladder Otto Guttmann swung a stiff, unsupple leg over into the void above Johnny's shoulder. It was caught, guided down and Johnny's hands reached up and clasped him about the waist.
'Let go…' the hissed command.
Johnny swung Otto Guttmann to the ground, as a man lifts down a child, and they tumbled together on the grass.
Then Erica. Easier for Johnny. And his hands caught at the softness above her hips, and she was down.
Johnny's eyes darted at the watch face.
Onto Erica's shoulders. His shoes cutting into the material of her coat, his ears hearing her struggle, his legs feeling the steadying hands of Otto Guttmann. The pole bound to the cement post supported him as he heaved the ladder up from the far ground, hoisted it over the wire, threw it to the grass below him.
One over you, little bastard, one you didn't bloody trap, and the wire was still and the demi-light winked on its cold, untouchable surface.
Johnny jumped. Erica fingered open the knots at the post. Otto Guttmann dragged the ladder to the cover of the tree line.
Johnny on his feet, holding the pole, waiting for Erica to finish with the knots and at last lifting it back and free.
Indistinct as yet, far from them, the sound of the jeep engine.
He caught her by the arm, dragged her without ceremony away from the fence, trailing the last pole.
All on the ground, all married to the wet night grass, they watched the spreading halo of the jeep's lights. Its pace was constant, its progress uninterrupted. They watched its coming and its going.
Otto Guttmann chuckled. 'It was perfect… brilliant…'
'Well done, Johnny,' whispered Erica, and her hand rested easily, naturally, on Johnny's.
' I said there had to be silence… you've seen damn all yet.' But he allowed himself one sharp snigger of pleasure. Hadn't been a bad effort.
In front of them was a quarter of a mile of woodland, and then the final barricade, and the guns and the high fence. In front of them was what Charlie Davies, just one week ago, had breezily called 'the Chopping zone'.
At company headquarters in Walbeck village the new day's first shift had drawn their rifles from the armoury, signed for their ammunition and filed into the briefing room.
Heini Schalke stood at the front, close to the Politoffizier who had publicly congratulated him, close to the major who had praised him grudgingly, close to the sergeant who had queried his need to shoot and not spoken to him since. The other men with whom he messed had avoided him. He was not shunned, not ignored, only left in no doubt that his company was not wanted.
They never knew where they would be placed until the briefing. That was the way of the border. No man could take for granted that he would patrol the outer perimeter of the Restricted Zone, or the Hinterland fence, or lie up in a hide, or climb a watch tower, or ride in a jeep.
Many times in the day Heini Schalke had seen the fair sweeping hair that rolled in the headlights, and the young dead face of the girl. Ulf Becker was in his thoughts, too… Becker, who in the manacles of the captive met his eyes without fear. It was not possible for Heini Schalke to understand why the man who had slept four beds from him in the dormitory at Weferlingen would have come with his girl to the Hinterland fence.
'Corporal Schalke, you are with Brandt. The jeep run on the forward road from the Walbeck Strasse tower to two kilometres north.'
Two kilometres, backwards and forwards for two kilometres, four minutes up and four minutes down, and in between the pull off the patrol road and only Brandt, who was from the farm country of Mecklenburg in the north, to talk with. He looked behind him, saw Brandt, saw the grim resignation on the boy's face.
'A car has been found at Bischofswald, between here and Haldensleben. The car was stolen from near Magdeburg yesterday morning. It is believed that three persons are attempting an illegal crossing of the frontier. There are two males and one female. Battalion have called for especial vigilance from all personnel. I know you will do your duty if confronted by these criminals. I know the company will not be found wanting in the fulfilment of its responsibilities.'
Johnny held the stick that was stripped of leaves and their stems as a blind man walks with a wand. He held it loosely between forefinger and thumb and rocked it forward and back with a great gentleness in front of his legs.
By his estimate they were half way between the Hinterland fence and the final cleared cutting in the forest.
It had been cripplingly slow along the path, torture to their nerves, and now the stick's swing was blocked. The impediment was at knee height.
Three times he had swung the stick. To the right of his legs, to the left of them, to his front. Each time the thin stick stumbled against the obstruction. He had allowed Otto Guttmann and Erica to be with him for the last push, had reckoned there was a greater terror for them if they were behind and cut off from him. They wanted to be with him, close to the source spring of encouragement. He pushed Otto Guttmann softly back to avoid being crowded into error.
The stick was his guide in the darkness and his fingers found the contact point where it met the trip wire. They were not so sensitive, these wires, not like those on the Hinterland. A man's whole weight would activate the alarm, but not the impact of a running hare or a wandering fox. The wire was tight stretched, there for the unwary, there for the fool.
He reached out and coaxed Otto Guttmann forward and lifted him over the single wire, and Erica after him.
It pleased Johnny to have found the trip. If there was a wire on the path then there could be no foot patrols.
The wind played at his face because the tall trees were no longer around them. They were into the space that had been cleared and where only intermittent waist-high undergrowth had come to replace the pines.
He remembered the place as he had seen it from the far side, remembered the cover that stretched to the dull grey of the patrol road and the sandy earth of the ploughed strip.
Close to midnight, a good time for them to be coming. The time of the change of the Border Guard details. The time when some were cold and hungry and tired for their beds, when others had not accustomed their eyes to the night.
They had eaten the sandwiches, they had drained half the bottle, they had broached the coffee flask. The
