White Eagles Over Serbia by Lawrence Durrell Page A

rock-tunnels each of which was closely guarded by pickets. Methuen saw the diminished figures of these guards walking along the stone parapet, stopping to gaze down curiously at the car as it passed. Each section of tunnel had its own patrol, and the soldiers lounged in the sun on the stone balconies, idly smoking or tossing pebbles into the swift waters of the Ibar below.
    â€œWhat about them?” said Methuen, and Porson said quickly: “The part where you jump is completely enclosed with greenery. They can’t see. Only when you climb the hill you’ll have to keep out of sight. Look, a train!”
    They heard a series of muffled shrieks and a heavy rumbling across the river. The guards came to life and took up position. The rumbling increased in volume and finally an absurdly toy-like train emerged from the rock-tunnel with a puff of grey smoke—as if it had been fired from the mouth of a gun. It rolled slowly across the balcony-like parapet, trailing a long banner of sooty dust and smoke, and with a catarrhal whistle plunged once more into the rock, its wheels making a hard resonant noise, as of a billiard ball being rolled across a stone floor. Sixty yards later, before the tail of the train had come into view on the first parapet, the engine emerged once more with another cough. “In and out of the rock,” said Porson, “like a needle in cloth.”
    â€œHard work cutting that railway,” said Methuen with mild professional interest; the river looked too strong for any swimmer. “It’s well guarded,” said Porson, “though one good burst in a tunnel.…”
    They rolled onwards between the flickering crowns of the trees which reached up at the road from the river bank. Behind them the yellow cloud of dust volleyed away down the road reducing visibility to nothing. Yellowhammers and magpies frolicked in the trees, and here and there the stem rock-faces to their right stood back and fanned away into dome-like mountains, steeply clad with beech and fir, and showing small pockets of cultivation. A crumbling Frankish fortress dominated one height and Methuen caught the flicker of sunlight on something which might have been the barrel of a gun at the eastern corner. He had a small but powerful pair of glasses in his kit but there was no time to train them on this tempting target. “There’s a company of soldiers up in the fort,” said Porson. “They supply the pickets for the railway. Two machine-guns. Nothing heavier.”
    He was gradually reducing speed and the great car rolled effortlessly along the beautiful river road, in and out of the shadows thrown by the trees. They turned a corner and the fort was swallowed; and here the trees grew in great clusters, chestnut and eucalyptus raising their dusty crowns to the sky. “We’re coming to it,” said Porson; round the next corner there was a white milestone by a ruined signalman’s hut which was their marker. “All set,” said Methuen quietly and gripped his bed-roll as he let down the massive window of the car. “Do you see it?” The milestone climbed out of the mauve shadows of the rock-face and came towards them like a pointing finger. “Let her go. Good luck!” cried Porson. Methuen gave a heave and tossed his bed-roll into the ditch; then opening the door he plunged out after it into the deep grass, slipping and sliding to the bottom as the great car gathered speed and covered him in a cloud of pungent dust. Porson gave a hoot on the klaxon which echoed like the wild cry of some solitary bird among the rocks.

CHAPTER NINE
    The Lone Fisherman

    M ethuen lay against the steep bank, his face pressed to the moist grass for what seemed hours. The noise of the Mercedes died away gradually and was replaced by the roaring of the Ibar in its stony bed. The cloud of dust thinned gradually and began to settle, while out of a neighbouring tree came the clear fluting