The Contract

First the twin beams of the head lights, then the following shadow of the jeep. Fifteen miles an hour. In its own time. Johnny covered his eyes to save his vision. The jeep passed within thirty yards of them and there was a murmur of voices beside the engine noise. It sank away out of their sight and the arc of light was lost, and they were left in the crowding darkness with only the fading lurch of the motor.

Johnny ran forward with the single larch pole. Thirty-five strides to the fence. A yard short he stopped, panted, caught at himself for control.

Behind him he heard Otto Guttmann and Erica, coming more slowly because the burden of the ladder was greater. Johnny raised the pole to the level of the second wire. He couldn't reach over the very highest. He edged the pole forward inch by inch between the wires. A fraction to spare top and bottom. The muscles of his back rippled and shook with the weight of it. His wrists ached in pain. At last he reached the fence with his hands. The pole was clear through. He let the far end down as slowly as he could. As it dropped the last two feet to the ground his hands jumped, brushed, tickled the wire… not enough, you bastard, the pressure only of a sparrow. Reaching through the strands he manoeuvred the pole against the cement post. Erica took his place and held the pole firm. He turned to bring the ladder. She began to bind the larch pole in two places to the post. With Otto Guttmann Johnny lifted the ladder and they carried it upright to the fence and with infinite care lowered it against the single pole. The angle above the bound join of the ladder slipped tight against the pole tied to the fence post. Johnny rocked the frame lightly at first, then more fiercely, allowed it to slip, then find its hold.

Clear of those bastard wires, free of them, because a scientist had worked the calculations. A small, friendly, fragile gap between the bark of the larch wood and the taut length of the upper wire beneath.

Johnny went first. He spread his feet lightly on the supports, pivoted at the join high above the untouched wire, dropped easily to the ground, fell and rolled in the style they'd taught him as a young recruit.

Otto Guttmann next. He would climb more slowly. Erica came under the ladder, prepared to take its weight against her shoulders, to protect from the depths of her strength the wires above. He climbed and once the smooth leather of his shoe slipped on the birch wood and the ladder danced and Erica gasped and Johnny cursed, and the wire remained untouched. At the highest support of the ladder Otto Guttmann swung a stiff, unsupple leg over into the void above Johnny's shoulder. It was caught, guided down and Johnny's hands reached up and clasped him about the waist.

'Let go…' the hissed command.

Johnny swung Otto Guttmann to the ground, as a man lifts down a child, and they tumbled together on the grass.

Then Erica. Easier for Johnny. And his hands caught at the softness above her hips, and she was down.

Johnny's eyes darted at the watch face.

Onto Erica's shoulders. His shoes cutting into the material of her coat, his ears hearing her struggle, his legs feeling the steadying hands of Otto Guttmann. The pole bound to the cement post supported him as he heaved the ladder up from the far ground, hoisted it over the wire, threw it to the grass below him.

One over you, little bastard, one you didn't bloody trap, and the wire was still and the demi-light winked on its cold, untouchable surface.

Johnny jumped. Erica fingered open the knots at the post. Otto Guttmann dragged the ladder to the cover of the tree line.

Johnny on his feet, holding the pole, waiting for Erica to finish with the knots and at last lifting it back and free.

Indistinct as yet, far from them, the sound of the jeep engine.

He caught her by the arm, dragged her without ceremony away from the fence, trailing the last pole.

All on the ground, all married to the wet night grass, they watched the spreading halo of the jeep's lights. Its pace was constant, its progress uninterrupted. They watched its coming and its going.

Otto Guttmann chuckled. 'It was perfect… brilliant…'

'Well done, Johnny,' whispered Erica, and her hand rested easily, naturally, on Johnny's.

' I said there had to be silence… you've seen damn all yet.' But he allowed himself one sharp snigger of pleasure. Hadn't been a bad effort.

In front of them was a quarter of a mile of woodland, and then the final barricade, and the guns and the high fence. In front of them was what Charlie Davies, just one week ago, had breezily called 'the Chopping zone'.

At company headquarters in Walbeck village the new day's first shift had drawn their rifles from the armoury, signed for their ammunition and filed into the briefing room.