The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (5 page)

              “I hear what you say.” Georgios approached the engine and threw a rock at the cab. He held his hands high to show he was unarmed when a man peered through the glass. The cab door opened and the fireman, followed by the driver, dropped to the ground.

              Georgios walked towards them, his hand held out ready to shake theirs.

              Bemused, both men shook his hand and were surprised when he offered a cigarette. They took one and waited. Georgios gave them a light.

              “Come,” he said in a soft tone. “As engineers, we eat and enjoy the day.”             

              They followed, smoking as they walked towards Costas.

              Georgios stepped to the side as two shots rang out. With a hole in their heads, the fireman and driver tumbled to the ground.

              “They died happy,” said Costas. “Get the train into the tunnel and start unloading. We have a fortune to store for when this war is over.”

              Savas clambered into the cab and opened the throttle. Exhaust steam belched from the chimney as the engine shuffled into the dark of the tunnel and stopped. Behind, a gang of men removed the points, rails, and sleepers and tossed them into the gorge.             

              Inside the tunnel, men formed lines and carried dozens of boxes into a cavern lit by oil lamps.

              Costas sat on a large wooden crate, stroked his black moustache and chain-smoked. Every so often, his section leaders reported casualties and the situation with the spreading fire on the hillside. He remained calm and told those not part of the unloading team to rest.

              A long roaring tremor told Costas this was an earthquake. He grimaced as tracks buckled, steel wheels rattled, and everyone stopped. In the dimness of the tunnel people glanced at each other. A few crawled under the wagons, prayed and waited.

              The ground shivered and the rough-cut walls shook. Fragments of rock dropped and shattered. Silence followed before someone shouted it was okay.

              Blood flowed from a cut on Costas’ head. He laughed and paraded the length of the train, his voice reassuring, “Hurry, we can eat, drink ouzo, make love and then sleep. Tomorrow we may have to fight another battle.”

              The rumble began deep in the mountains. It gathered momentum through the gorge. Rocks, boulders, and debris cascaded across steep slopes followed by a fog of dirt and dust. Those in the tunnel staggered and reached out for something to hold. Others tumbled to the ground and protected their heads. Oil lamps crashed to the floor, their flames casting macabre shadows on trembling walls.

Chapter Seven

Talos Vasco, a middle-aged man with his arm in a sling sat on the side of the mountain watched and waited. A stone struck the back of his head. He turned and saw the tree-covered slope buckle and twist. Terrified, he charged across the slope as the ground trembled. His eyes strayed for a moment at the wall of debris rising and falling. Adrenalin charged his pace as he took a diagonal path. He gasped for breath when he gained the shelter of an overhanging rock face. With one hand he clung to the rock and prayed. The dark enclosed him as the shifting mass slipped to the rail track and overflowed into the gorge. Fear gripped Talos; with his eyes caked in dust he slumped to the ground. From his pocket he pulled a clean rag, wiped his mouth, spat on it and cleaned his eyes.

              With watery eyes, images came into focus. As his vision cleared he glanced left and right. The rail lines lay hidden under a broad expanse of trees and boulders the size of houses. With caution, he stepped onto the slope and made his way to the rail tracks. He searched for the tunnel exit but could find no trace. Believing the entrance might have survived he trudged along the track until the path became blocked with tons of rubble. Stunned, Talos understood nothing made sense after a quake. He made the decision to return to their camp high in the mountains.

              As he clambered over rocks and forded streams, he realised only the women, old men and the children remained. The capture of the train required every man who could use a weapon. All had ended their lives sealed in an unknown tunnel.

              He continued along narrow rock-covered goat tracks surrounded by dense foliage until exhausted, he tumbled to the ground and slept. As the night sky brightened, Talos awoke, stretched one arm and sat on a rock. He glanced around, aware his camp remained a day’s walk. A small stream provided a face wash and drinking water. His muscles ached as he started walking but before long he entered the high forest. Hours later, he arrived in a narrow valley masked by pine trees. The path twisted and turned on the course of a stream.

              A woman’s voice rang out. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

              Talos shouted, “Joanna, it’s Talos.”

              From behind a boulder a young woman, wearing men’s clothing and holding a single shot rifle, appeared. “You are the first to return. Was the attack successful?”

              He stared at her and whispered, “Everyone’s dead. The earthquake closed the tunnel.”

              “There may still be a chance. Come and tell the old man what happened.”

              Talos grabbed Joanna’s arm. “I searched, the tunnel’s gone. Even if a hundred strong men were available, we could not shift the rock fall. Some are taller than a house.”

              She grabbed his hand and together they walked into the makeshift village. Women with babies in their arms watched.

              “Where’s my husband?” one shouted.

              “My two sons?” screamed another.

              A child ran to them. “When’s mama and papa coming home?”

              With his one good arm, he grabbed the child to him. The boy understood and cried. He pulled away and wiped his eyes before running back to his house.

              Misery surrounded Talos. The expressions on the women’s faces said everything; he didn’t have to tell them. The man with one good arm had survived.

              At the old man’s dwelling, they stopped and waited until he came out.

              The folds of skin on his face almost hid two bright eyes. He pointed to a chair. “You have carried a heavy burden. Rest before you tell us what happened.”

              Tears flowed from his eyes as he described the attacks on the trains. His voice dropped as he told of the quake. How rocks, trees and the earth descended as water into the gorge covering everything in its path. He gave the sign of the cross. “God saved me.”

              “We must gather our tools and go back. Some may be alive,” barked an old woman.

              “No one is alive,” roared Talos. “Do you believe if there had been a chance I would have returned? The mountain buried them and you need explosives and heavy lifting equipment and we have neither.”

              The old man’s expression changed, his eyes watered and his lips trembled. “This war is coming to an end but I fear another soon to start. Here we have food and water. The Germans set fire to our villages and murdered those they found. Here we are safe.” He looked at those standing in front of him. “Go, mourn your losses. Tomorrow we start again. Come, Talos we must talk.”

              The next morning two unmarried women and Talos began the trek back to confirm no survivors. With sufficient provisions, he led them along the narrow paths. They rested for the night and continued as the sun rose.

                In the early afternoon the three of them searched for an opening or a sign their friends or family might have survived. While she clambered over a huge boulder, one of the women, Kiki, slipped, Talos grabbed her hand and saved her.

              Exhausted they collapsed and slept in the open.

              On their return to the village, not a word passed between them. The old man waited outside his hut. “I see from your faces no one escaped. Talos, you are the man of the village. When this war is ended, you must go to Thessalonica and inform the authorities. They will know what to do.”

***

In
Gradisca’s
engine-room, the chief sat in a deckchair between the two triple expansion steam engines as they thundered and rattled every nut, bolt and steel plate.

              Klinger fixed his Italian-made binoculars on the dark line, which separated the sea from the night sky. In an hour, the sun would blast light over the area, once again making them a target for allied aircraft, submarines and surface vessels.

              “Bruno, go and wake our guests. I want them on this bridge in their uniforms, ready for inspection, in five minutes.”

              “With pleasure, sir.” Bruno scampered away.

              “Quartermaster, how long have we known each other?”

              “A few years, sir.”

              “If I gave you an order you considered wrong, would you obey me?”

              The quartermaster gave him a confused look. “You’re the Captain.”

              Klinger’s eyes narrowed. “In a few minutes I’ll know your answer.”

              The sergeant screamed at his men and formed them into a line across the bridge. He gave the SS salute. “My men are ready for your inspection, sir.”

              Klinger nodded to Bruno. “Take the wheel. Quartermaster, relieve these men of their weapons and ammunition. I need to see how fit they are.”

              Klinger stepped back as the SS handed over their machine pistols and ammunition. “Sergeant, with you leading, your men are to run at the double from the bow to the stern three times.”

              The sergeant glanced questioningly at Klinger and shrugged. “At the double,” he bawled.

              “Quartermaster, those weapons,” said Klinger pointing. “Toss them over the side.”

              Feet pounded along the metal deck. The sergeant charged onto the bridge.

                 Klinger sensed his change of attitude.

              “You bastard. You ordered our weapons be tossed over the side.”

              In a calm voice, Klinger said, “I could have you shot for insulting a senior officer.” He lifted his Knight’s Cross with oak leaves and swords. “I was awarded this for valour not for murdering men carrying out their duty. Sergeant, I’ll have a boat lowered, give you water, provisions and a compass, or, you operate the guns on the aft deck and die a hero’s death with the rest of us. You have a choice, make it the right one.”

              The sergeant licked his lips. “May I talk to my men?”

              “You have five minutes.”

              “Crete at Green one zero, sir.”

              “Thank you, Bruno.”

              The sergeant reappeared followed by his men. He saluted as a soldier not the SS. “We fight and die as soldiers, sir.”

              “Good decision. Go and prepare the guns for action. We may have made Crete but the Atlantic remains a dream.”

              Klinger stared at the tree-covered mountains, which stretched from one end of the island to the other.

              Two hours later, they entered Souda Bay, Crete, and tied up alongside the coaling barge.

              Klinger contacted the chief engineer. “You have until dusk to fill the bunkers. Then it’s non-stop to Germany.”

              “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

              “Bruno, I’m going for a shower.”

              “Do we have any air support, sir?”

              Klinger shook his head. “We’re on our own.” He smiled. “Maybe no one will bother sinking this heap of rust or perhaps a storm in the Bay of Biscay will save them the trouble. Whatever, we will sail and head home. The crew deserve a dash of hope.”

***

It seemed Klinger’s head had just touched the pillow when the bang on his cabin door woke him with a jolt. He gripped the side of his bunk. “Come in.”

              “Cup of coffee, sir,” said Bruno, whose dark-rimmed eyes gave clear evidence of little sleep. “Like you, I needed to catch up on my beauty sleep. The chief tells me he’s emptied the coal barge.”

              He sipped his hot coffee. “Have we enough?”

              Bruno lowered his gaze. “No, sir, but the chief believes if we travel at eight knots, there’s enough wood built into this ship to make up the difference.”

              He glanced at his watch. “Time we left. Get the ropes singled up. And no lights.”