Free Hiroshima Joe by Martin Booth Page B

truck: don’t pass me. I’ll pay out line and, when I reach the end of the roll, I’ll wave to you and you give me a connector. There’s a box of them in the back behind the cab. Under the canvas. Got it?’
    He spoke sharply. There wasn’t all that much left of the night.
    ‘Sir!’
    ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’ He looked up and across to the west. Few of the clouds that were building appeared of any size. There should be enough sky light to see by for a bit. ‘Switch the lights off. You’ll see me better.’
    The truck crept along at the slowest possible speed, the driver keeping the revs low to prevent the sound of the vehicle travelling unnecessarily down the mountainside.
    On the way, the break in the line appeared where he was informed it would: a shallow crater, ten feet across at the side of the road, showed where an attempt had been made to sever the communications that Harlech Road offered. He couldn’t tell from the scorched earth and stripped trees whether it had been done by an air strike or fifth columnists.
    The thought of the latter suddenly made him nervous. He reached into his holster and checked the revolver. He made sure it was loose in the leather, like a western gunfighter checking his draw would be rapid and smooth.
    They reached the junction with Hatton and Lugard Roads within thirty minutes.
    It was too risky at this point to allow the driver to switch the masked lights on again. Their intelligence was poor but the meeting of the three roads was visible from Stonecutters Island which they knew had fallen. It was necessary to get the truck down Hatton Road and this meant negotiating a bend at the start of the road and another, a hundred-and-eighty degree twist, halfway down.
    ‘Move over once more, driver. I’ll take it from here – it’s a tricky stretch ahead.’
    Indeed, it was not easy and, at the sharp corner before the hairpin, Sandingham wondered if he were up to it. He had been putting himself to the test a lot of late, usually just getting by. The bend was tight and he was forced to make a six-point turn to get round. Once the oversized tyres, intended for maximum cross-country purchase, scrabbled on the rim of the tarmac, scrubbing the earth for a grip. The young driver would certainly not have managed it.
    Looking at the young man in the darkness, his face lit by the dashboard light, Sandingham could see he was petrified. God, he thought, if the boy’s scared of the lorry slipping off the metalling, what will he be like when the show starts in earnest? He wanted to touch the boy, to pat his thigh or, just once, stroke his wrist. To reassure him. But he was an officer and that added even more barriers to their communicating.
    The remainder of the downhill journey was easier and they soon reached the massive concrete gun emplacement, driving the Austin K30 into the central courtyard and tucking it in close to the wall for protection. A sentry had hailed them but no one else had been seen or heard. He sent the driver off to a room across the courtyard where the other ranks slept.
    With tired arms, Sandingham yanked down on the iron door handle and struggled to get the steel door open. He entered the fortified position with a momentary sense of security. A weak electric light briefly shone its beam on to the outside stonework, but it would be impossible to see it except from the air or the top of The Peak. And no sorties were being flown at night. There were too many mountains around.
    ‘You’re the signaller wallah, are you?’ asked a voice from the shadows cast by the dim bulb. ‘Damn glad to have you here: been out since the afternoon. Get through now, can we? Heard a bit of jingling on the line.’
    ‘It was me, sir,’ replied Sandingham, saluting a major in his late forties, evidently Indian Army, possibly attached to the battalion of 5/7th Rajputs. He was grey-haired with a spruce, gingerish moustache. ‘If I might try your phone now?’
    He stood by the field