At the first crackle of gunfire a sense of opportunity had filled his veins. He had been waiting two miles down the valley in his Austin Champ and it took him less than fifteen minutes to arrive on the scene, covering the last few hundred yards on foot with a spring in his step. 'Report, Corporal Ross.'
The flies were already beginning to accumulate around the bloodied body of MacPherson.
'You allowed two boys and a donkey to contrive this,' Urquhart demanded incredulously.
'The bullet didnae seem to unnerstand it was being fired by a bairn. Sir.'
The two, Urquhart and Ross, were born to collide, one brought into the world in a Clydeside tenement and the other by Perthshire patriarchs. Ross had been burying comrades from the Normandy beaches while Urquhart was still having his tie adjusted by his nanny. The older man, a quiet hero of the Korean Peninsula, was being taken prisoner by the Chinese at a time when the other was taking nothing more hostile than exams and tea with fellow undergraduates. Proven ability versus pretentious academic.
And, only a year ago, Urquhart had been the fresh and officious little subaltern who had busted Ross from sergeant back down to private after the officers' mess had been torched at Tell-el-Kebir and Urquhart had been instructed to round up suitable suspects. Ross had only just been given back the second stripe, still making up the lost ground. And lost pay.
Urquhart knew he had to watch his back, but for now he ignored the other's insolence; he had a more important battle to fight.
The children had stumbled into a remarkably effective natural redoubt. Some twenty feet across, the scraping in the mountainside was backed by a picket line of boulders that effectively denied a clear line of either sight or fire from above, while the ground ran gently away on the valley side, making it difficult to attack except by means of a frontal and uphill assault, a tactic that had already been shown to be mortally flawed. Clumps of bushes hugged the perimeter providing still further cover, and a young pine had somehow managed to find a footing in the bare rocky floor of the bowl.
'Suggestions, Corporal Ross? We need a rapid solution.' Urquhart slapped the officer's Browning at his belt, but was not so naive that he failed to recognize the other man's value.
The corporal sucked a little finger as though trying to remove a splinter. 'We could surrender straight away, that'd be quickest. Or blow the wee bastards into eternity, if that's what you want, Lieutenant. One grenade should do the job.'
'We need them alive. Find out where they were headed with those arms.'
'They're weans. Be famished by breakfast time, come oot wavin' a white flag an' a fork.'
'Now, we need them now, Corporal. By breakfast time it will be all too late.' They both understood the urgency. EOKA supply drops were made at specified times; any more than six hours overdue and the hide was evacuated, the Greek eagles flown, putting the British back where they'd started. They needed short cuts; it made early capture essential and interrogation techniques sometimes short on patience. 'In life, Ross, timing is everything.'
'In death, an' all.' The Clydesider indicated MacPherson.
'What the hell's your problem, Corporal?' Urquhart turned on him savagely.
'To be honest, Mr Urquhart, I dinnae hae much stomach for the killing of weans.' But there was more, unspoken, in his eyes. He had a son not much younger than the boys hiding in the rocks. 'I'll do it, if I huv tae. If ye order me. But I'll tak nae joy fae it. You're welcome tae the medal.'
'I'll remember to include your little homily when I write to MacPherson's parents. I'm sure they'll be touched.'
But Urquhart had no more time for verbal hostilities. The great tangerine chariot of a sun was chasing through the sky more rapidly with every passing minute, splashing a glow of misleading warmth across the scene. Delay would bring darkness and probable failure for Urquhart and he was not a man for inaction. He took a Sten from the shoulder of one of his men and, planting his feet firmly in the forest floor, unleashed a fusillade of bullets against the unyielding amphitheatre of boulders at the back of the bowl. A second magazine followed, dust and sparks spitting from the orange-blonde rocks; the noise was awesome.
'You boys,' he shouted. 'You cannot escape. Come out, I promise no one will get hurt.' There was silence. He directed two other members of the section to empty their magazines against the rocks, and suddenly there was a youthful cry of pain. A spent bullet had ricocheted and caught one of the lads a glancing blow. No damage, but surprise and distress. 'Can you speak English? Come out now, before anyone gets hurt.' Silence.
'Damn them! Do they want to die?' Urquhart beat his palms with frustration. But Ross was on his knees, fiddling with a Mills grenade.
'What on earth…?' Urquhart demanded, but could not avoid taking an involuntary pace backwards.
The corporal had bent the pin so that it could not fall out, then with meticulous care and using the stock of a Sten gun for torque he proceeded to unscrew the top of the grenade, lifting it away from the dull metal body complete with its detonator. The powdered explosive poured out easily into a little pile on the rocks beside his boot. He now reassembled the harmless bomb, and handed it to Urquhart.
If this doesnae scare those rabbits out of their hole, nothing will.'
Urquhart nodded in understanding. 'This is your last chance,' he shouted to the rocks. 'Come out or we'll use grenades.' 'Eleftheria 'I Thanatos!' came the reply.
'The EOKA battle cry. Freedom or Death' Ross explained.
'They're only children!' Urquhart snapped in exasperation. 'Brave wee buggers.'
Angrily Urquhart wrenched the pin from the grenade, letting the noise of the spring-loaded firing pin drift out across the rocks, then threw the grenade with great accuracy into the bowl.
Less than two seconds later it came hurtling out again. And who could take chances? The reaction was automatic, the instinct for self-preservation overriding. Urquhart threw himself to the ground, burying his head amongst the pine needles and cones, trying to count the seconds. There came a muffled pop from the detonator, but nothing more. No blast, no ripping metal or torn flesh. Eventually he looked up to find towering above him, framed in menacing silhouette against the evening sky, the figure of Ross.
'Let me help you tae yer feet. Sir.' Derision filled every syllable.
Urquhart waved away the proffered hand and scrambled up, meticulously thrashing the dust from his khaki uniform to hide his humiliation. He knew that every Jock in the section was mocking and by morning the tale would have filled all four corners of the officers' mess. He had been stripped of respect, of his authority. Ross had exacted his revenge.
A rage grew within Urquhart. Not a blind rage that blurs judgement but a wrath that burnt and whose light brought clarity of understanding. He had come to a crossroads from which there was no turning back, not after this humiliation before the eyes of his men. His only choice was which path he might take. One path would be trodden with a stooped back, weighed down by fear of failure, with his sights set no higher than any other's and finding comfort amongst the mediocrity of the multitude. Dust in the desert. The other path would let him stand tall, allow him to grow; it was a lonely track and would make him a target of envy and, if he fell, would bring him tumbling from far greater heights. Yet while it lasted it would allow him to see quite beyond the ambitions of other men. Francis Urquhart had no doubt which he would choose.