The Steel Tsar by Michael Moorcock Page B

boat.”
    “But suppose—”
    “Shut up, Wilson,” I said. I was prepared to follow Nye’s lead. I felt I had little choice now.
    “Wait!” cried the engineer. “Let’s just stop and think for a minute. If we keep our heads—”
    “You’re about to lose yours to a samurai sword,” called Nye. “Now for God’s sake shut up, Wilson. Either stay where you are or come with us quietly.”
    “Quietly? I wonder what you mean to say when you say—”
    His droning voice was a greater source of fear than any bombs or bullets. We all put on an excellent burst of speed. By now machine-guns were going, both from the ground and from the rear. I have never prayed before for another human being’s death, but I prayed that night that somebody would take Wilson directly between the eyes and save us.
    The Japanese were all making for the camp. As a result we were lucky. They weren’t looking for escaped prisoners just yet. Even when we were spotted, we were taken for enemy soldiers. We were shot at, but we were not pursued.
    We reached the outskirts of the town. Getting through the streets unobserved was going to be the difficult part.
    Again we were lucky in that whatever was going on behind us was diverting all troops, all attention. It was Wilson crying: “I say, you fellows, wait for me!” that brought us the greatest danger. A small detachment of Japanese infantry heard his voice and immediately began to fire along the alley we had entered. Nye went down, together with a couple of others.
    I kneeled beside Nye. I tested his pulse. He had been shot in the back of the head and was quite dead. Another chap was dead, also, but the survivor was only slightly wounded. He got his arm over my shoulder and we continued to make for the harbour. By this time we were fairly hysterical and were yelling wildly at Wilson as Japanese soldiers opened fire again behind us. “Shut up, you damned fool! Nye is dead!”
    “Dead? He should have been more careful...”
    “Shut up, Wilson!”
    We got to the quayside and went straight into the water, as planned, swimming for the nearest boat, a white-and-red blur in the misty electric light from the harbour. I heard Wilson behind me.
    “I say, you chaps. I say! Didn’t you realize I couldn’t swim?”
    This intelligence seemed to lend me greater energy. Supporting the wounded man, I swam slowly towards the MTB. Some of the seamen were already climbing its sides. I was relieved to hear no further gun shots. Perhaps we had managed to surprise them, after all.
    By the time I eventually got to the MTB a rope ladder had been thrown down for me. I lifted the wounded man on to it, holding it while he ascended. I think I could still hear Wilson’s dreadful cries from the harbour:
    “I say, chaps. Hang on a minute. Can somebody send a boat to fetch me?”
    I hardened my heart. At that moment I must admit I didn’t give a fig for Wilson’s life.
    By the time I reached the deck I was gasping with exhaustion. I looked around me, expecting to see captured Japanese sailors. Instead I saw the white uniforms of Russian Navy personnel. A young lieutenant, his cap on the side of his head, his tunic unbuttoned, a revolver and a sabre in his hands, saluted me with his sword. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said in perfect English. He grinned at me with that wild, careless grin which only Russians have. “We both appear to have had the same idea,” he said. “I am Lieutenant Mitrofanovitch, at your service. We took this boat only twenty minutes before you arrived.”
    “And the airships back there?”
    “Russian. We are rescuing the prisoners, I hope, at this very moment.”
    “You’re using an awful lot of stuff for a few prisoners,” I said.
    “While the prisoners are on the island,” said Mitrofanovitch pragmatically, “we cannot bomb the fueling station.”
    One of the English seamen said. “Poor bloody Nye. He died for absolutely nothing.”
    I leaned on the rail. From the quayside I could