Sacred Mountain by Robert Ferguson Page A

was clustered together in a small natural amphitheatre where two valleys met. As the last rays left the mountain tops and a sea of stars appeared in the thin strip of visible sky, he saw Mingma hurrying towards him, fetched by his young brother, and holding aloft a hissing hurricane lamp.

Chapter 5
    Burma, 1943

It wasn’t going to come. Philip glanced around the faces of those nearest to him. Their eyes were intently scanning the small patches of sky that could be seen through the thick canopy, ears straining to hear the faintest drone of aircraft engines. He rubbed his eyes. They ached from fatigue and from staring up into the unaccustomed light for so long; the jungle had got them used to living in a constant twilight. It had been a tough day.
The burrif had arrived at camp just before first light to report that the villagers had been too scared to help Sergeant Gurung. They’d sent food and drink but wouldn’t take him in. He’d died just after midnight. Then the terrain on their march had been harder than he’d anticipated, the undergrowth so thick in places they’d had to detour to the south. It had rained the whole time, a tropical downpour that sliced through the canopy and meant every branch they touched showered them in water. They were still steaming now as the midday heat sucked the moisture from their still damp clothes.
Reaching into his bag he pulled out the dog-eared map and studied it, glancing up occasionally at the landscape laid out in front of him. There was the river and the two small hills behind. There was the confluence downstream of the small tributary. They were definitely in the right place. Bloody RAF. He turned as he heard somebody approach, his hand instinctively dropping to the butt of his holstered revolver.
A Gurkha appeared through the foliage and stopped by Philip. “Message from Corporal Prem, sir,” he said in a clear but accented voice. “Should he light the fires to guide in the pilot?”
Philip glanced out over the riverbed, hand running through the itchy stubble that covered his chin. He shook his head but before he could say anything caught his breath, ears straining. A faint drone intermittently drifted towards him. The sound of a plane.
“Yes please, Rifleman,” he replied, relief washing through him. “At the double.”
The rifleman scurried off, vanishing back into the thick vegetation. He turned and strained his ears again. It was closer, now a constant whine only a couple of valleys away.
Looking down towards the riverbed he watched two men running from the cover of the forest to crouch beside two small bonfires, one on each side of the confluence. After a few moments of fanning, smoke and some tall fingers of flames licked up into the air and the men darted back into cover, leaving the fires to leap skyward. It never ceased to amaze him how the Gurkhas could get anything to burn so quickly in this sodden jungle, but they were able to boil water and produce a cup of piping tea within minutes of a stop being called.
Smoke was now climbing into the sky, clearing the tree line and raising straight in the still, dank air. White against the lush green forest, Philip felt sure the pilots would be able to use it to guide themselves in for the drop.
He turned to listen to the plane again, angling his head to pick up its engine. It seemed to be taking an age to reach them. Normally when they heard engines the Dakotas would almost instantly roar overhead before banking round to return on a drop run. Perhaps they hadn’t seen the smoke and were flying up and down the neighbouring valleys looking for the signal. He listened again at the constant, steady hum.
“Shit!” Leaping to his feet he put his hands to his mouth. “Extinguish the fires!” he screamed down into the valley.
Instantly four men ran out, kicking the flames apart and throwing handfuls of silt onto the embers. It was too late. The pall of smoke still hung thick over them as a small spotter plane skimmed over