Sacred Mountain by Robert Ferguson Page B

the ridge and flew straight through the cloud. Banking hard to the right, it circled overhead, its pilot starring down onto the riverbed as the soldiers dived for cover. The cockpit glass gleamed in the sun as it made another pass before flying over the ridge on which Philip and his men were standing. As it flashed overhead Philip saw the burning red markings of the Japanese Air force.
He turned to one of the riflemen. “Tell the corporal to gather his men and return here immediately.”
The man nodded and ran off down the slope.
Philip brushed the rotting leaves from his legs, his heart pounding. Glancing up, he saw the men looking at him. “Stand down everybody,” he ordered. “There’s not going to be a drop now.”
Philip could feel the disappointment. Tense bodies sagged, eyes were downcast. It’s was no wonder if they were as hungry as he was. He picked up the map from where it’d fallen. While waiting for the plane he’d marked the compass bearing that would lead them back towards India. Near this route lay a large, isolated village and their only real chance of finding food if he couldn’t organise a new drop. Christ, he hoped there was some life left in the radio batteries. No more than three inches on the map. Perhaps fifteen miles as the crow flies, more like twenty-five through the thick vegetation and skirting mud-sucking swamps. They had, he estimated, half-rations left for another two days.
He looked up as the rest of the men started returning through the trees. Soon they were all gathered and he turned to face them.
“We need to move out. That was a Jap plane and they’ll have seen us down here.”
And he’d just ordered two large fires lit to show them. “There must’ve been a problem with the drop. Most likely the plane got intercepted by fighters, poor sods.” He glanced around the men, looking them hard in the eye. “Which means that the Japs now know exactly where we are so we need to get going.”
He held up the map and pointed to a place on it. “First we need to put some distance between us and here. There’s a decent sized village a couple of days march away. We’ll head towards there and if it looks clear, we’ll buy food.” He didn’t mention the radio, not wanting to raise hopes.
The men looked up, some nodded, some smiled, relieved at the prospect of food.
“Corporal,” Philip continued, looking over at Prem, “form up the men and send out scouts. We’ll leave in two minutes.”
Philip watched as the men prepared themselves, tying loose kit and water bottles to their battered Everest frames before pulling them onto their backs. He shoved the map back into his bag, checked the bearing once more on his compass and dropped down to the edge of the riverbed. He couldn’t see the scouts but knew they were there, keeping his ears alert for any signal they might give.
Behind him he could hear nothing but knew he was being followed by the men. It was unbelievable how quietly the Gurkhas moved over rough terrain, a legacy of childhoods spent living in the Himalayan foothills. The river course swung westwards and he continued due north, plunging into the thick undergrowth. Without needing to say anything two soldiers walked past him and started wielding their khukris to clear a path.
Bloody idiot, he thought to himself. Rule one of air supply. Identify aircraft before giving any ground signals. If he hadn’t lit those fires so early there was no way they’d have been spotted. Now they’d have the whole bloody Japanese garrison chasing after them. He shuddered, despite the heat. He was uneasy. They’d been too lucky over the last few weeks. Three times they’d blown up rail tracks and each time had managed to slip away before the Japanese could reach them. This time felt different. The Japanese knew they were trying to get back to India and therefore which way they were heading. They’d be able to set an ambush and simply wait for them to walk into it.
Two more soldiers took