Medusa

He was like that for an instant, his eyes wide. Then they narrowed, and in the same instant he moved, an instinctive, almost reflex action, moved with extraordinary speed, so that Evans was quite unprepared, Lennie’s fist slamming into his face, knocking him backwards. ‘Out of the way, girl!’ He was moving after Evans and she just stood there in a daze, blocking his path.

It almost cost him his life. She moved, but too late, Evans pulling himself to his feet again and brushing past her in a crouching run. The knife flashed as Lennie lashed out at him, and the next thing I saw was the Australian staggering backwards, clutching at his face and blood spurting between his fingers.

The knife slashed again and he went down, a strangled screaming like a trapped rabbit. Then Evans turned and ran, dropping out of sight almost immediately as he made for the landing place. I didn’t shout. I didn’t go after him. My concern was for Lennie. I couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. He just lay there on a bed of wild flowers at the edge of the path, blood spurting from the loose flap of his cheek, where the knife had slashed it open, and a dark patch beginning to spread over his shirt as blood welled up from somewhere not far from his heart.

Petra moved to my side, her eyes wild as she grabbed at my arm. She was sobbing. But then she was suddenly silent, squatting down, her bare knee bent against a rock, still as a statue, horror-struck as she stared at the blood on Lennie’s face, the ghastly cheek flap. ‘Oh, my God!’ He was no longer screaming, his body quite still. ‘Is he dead?’

I shook my head. Blood was welling out over his shirt and I thought I could detect a slight movement of his chest. ‘You look after him,’ I said. ‘I’ll see if the ship will take him.’

It was then, as I rose to my feet, that I heard the outboard start, the sound of it rising as Petra’s inflatable shot into view, hugging the rocks. I glimpsed it briefly as Evans skidded it round the north-western bulge of the island. Then it was lost to view as he ran it under the beacon and into the narrows. I turned back to the ship then, and as I hurried up the path under the hospital walls, I met two naval ratings lugging a case of rockets. Others passed me as I ran to the frigate’s stern, shouting for the Captain.

Nobody took any notice of me for a moment. They had rigged a gangway from the stern to the top of a flat rock close by the path, the scene chaotic as almost the whole crew swarmed like ants from ship to shore, humping equipment from the hangar, listening gear and telephones, as well as rocket-launchers and ammunition. Orders were being shouted, arms issued, cases ripped open and ammunition got ready.

In the end it was Peter Craig who answered my call for help and, after some delay, he managed to find the medical orderly who finally got Lennie on to a stretcher and carried him on board. I wasn’t allowed to go with him. Craig was adamant about that. And when I asked for Gareth, he told me the Captain was in the Communications Office and there was absolutely no chance of my seeing him until the situation had clarified itself.

‘They’ll do what they can for him,’ he assured me. ‘We’ve no doctor on board. You know that, I think, but those two did a good job on John Kent. Looked after him until we could get him ashore. They’ll do the same for your man, and we’ll get him ashore and into the military hospital as soon as possible. That is,’ he added, ‘if any of us are alive by morning.’

He smiled at me a little uncertainly. ‘Remember what I said to you on the bridge that night, about the Captain carrying a weight of responsibility few of the officers realised. Well, now they do. We’re in the thick of it, and if you or I are around in the morning, then by God I’ll stand you a drink.’ He tried to smile again, to make a joke of it, but it didn’t work. Instead, he clapped me on the back before hurrying off up the gangway to continue supervising the unloading.

Back at the camp I found Petra busy preparing a meal. I think she was doing it more to distract herself from what was happening than from any want of food. ‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s alive,’ I said. ‘They’ll get him ashore when things have sorted themselves out. Some time tomorrow presumably. Meanwhile, I imagine they’ll stitch him up as best they can.’

She poured me some wine. It was good dark Rioja, the colour of blood. I drank it down at a gulp. ‘They’re a bit preoccupied right now,’ I told her, and at that moment, as though to emphasise the point, the lights that lit the outline of the frigate went suddenly out, everything dark again.

She nodded. All around us we could hear voices, the clink of metal on metal, the tramp of feet. ‘They’ve started to dig in,’ she said.