Sacred Mountain Read Online Free

pride was replaced by a wave of hunger, followed by a weakness that threatened to take his legs away from under him. They hadn’t had a food drop for five days and he’d already put the men on half rations. They’d managed to buy some rice from a local village a few days before, storing it in their spare socks, but with so many men to feed it was soon eaten. He reached into his chest pocket and took out a packet of acid drops. He hated them. His face winced as he popped one in his mouth, its sourness making his mouth tingle painfully, but he felt some strength return as the sugar ran down into his stomach.
The streambed was now down to single file, and turning a bend he saw one of the scouts standing at the foot of a small waterfall. He held up his hand to halt the column and the men disappeared instantly into the undergrowth on either side.
He looked up at the waterfall. It was about twenty foot high, its rock face rounded and polished from the flow of water that must rush down it from the hills at certain times of the year. Now only a gentle trickle fell from its lip, which seemed to have vanished in a fine spray by the time it reached the bottom.
Philip drew a deep breath and momentarily closed his eyes. It seemed endless. Rivers, swamps, impenetrable jungle, mountains, snakes and insects. Whenever they seemed to be making progress something always stopped them and that didn’t even include the enemy who harried them constantly.
“Is there a way around?” he asked, his eyes wearily sweeping along the low cliff.
The rifleman nodded. “Yes, sir.” He pointed. “If we follow the ridge north for 100 yards we can get up.”
Philip wiped the sweat from his face, squashing a mosquito and rolling its body between his fingers. He turned and signalled the men. They re-emerged and walked wearily forward. Philip looked at his watch. It seemed to be getting dark but was impossible to be sure under the thick jungle canopy. It was time to make camp if the men were to have time to find fodder for the mules and firewood for themselves. He turned to Prem who was at his shoulder.
“Follow the scouts up and then make camp at a suitable place up stream.” He nodded towards the waterfall. “This’ll give us some protection if we’ve been followed. Station a sentry up there tonight.”
The Gurkha nodded and moved out, signalling the platoon to follow. Philip watched as they passed. He could see hunger and fatigue etched on their faces, and yet many smiled as they passed before disappearing into the undergrowth.
At the rear came the mules, driven on by their handlers who walked silently behind. They were sorry looking creatures, heads down and little more than skeletons. They hadn’t had any hay for weeks, surviving on freshly cut bamboo when it was available and foraging for anything else they could find. At least their weakness had solved one problem. In the beginning their angry braying had constantly threatened to give away their position to Japanese patrols. Now they were silent, trudging resignedly along behind the men.
Once they’d passed, Philip stood for a few moments looking back down the streambed. It all seemed quiet. The sound of the crickets and frogs had returned, and looking up he could see a small patch of evening sky just starting to glow orange as the hidden sun sank lower.
He turned and felt his spirits sink as he was swallowed once more by the damp, darkness of the jungle. The six weeks they’d been there felt like a lifetime; slashing through the undergrowth, lacerated by branches and bamboo. Uniforms so rotted by the humidity that pieces are left hanging on brushing twigs. The constant smell of corrupted flesh and loose bowels, flies swarming on open sores and mosquitoes and ants tormenting their nights. He sighed, wishing again he was at home, on a crisp, winter morning, walking over frosted meadows with the dogs playing and friends laughing. God it would be good to feel cold.
It only took a few minutes to