MacConnachie said, ‘Look.’

A single file of men had begun to appear from behind the height below. The leading Goon brought them round hard right, and led them towards the ridge. Ansell said,

‘That’s jolly.’

‘They won’t come up here. They’ll move left or right in extended order. The question is, which?’

Twenty men in all appeared in the first column, and when the leading man had satisfied himself that the last man had emerged, he held up his hand and the file halted.

‘That can’t be the lot.’

‘Not a chance.’

A second file appeared, this time wheeling hard left and marching away from them, until a further twenty men had attached themselves to the end of the first column. The entire line then turned to face towards MacConnachie and Ansell’s right.

‘Thank God for that.’

The extended formation moved off, working their way conscientiously forward, poking into every patch of brush with fixed bayonets. The advance party had also risen and, as the searchers progressed below, they kept pace with them along the top of the ridge. At the end of twenty minutes, three columns of forty men each had appeared and moved off in the wake of the leading line, sweeping up. All they could see now of the advance party was an occasional isolated figure negotiating one of the bumps along the ridge.

‘Just so long as they keep going in that direction.’

‘They’re bound to turn eventually.’

‘We’ll be across the valley by then. That’s Little Ridge, today’s objective. This is Big Ridge. Let’s eat and move.’

They had half a tin of meat for breakfast, and made another unsuccessful attempt to defecate.

‘I wanted to half an hour ago.’

‘It’ll come.’

‘I wish it would hurry up,’ said Ansell wretchedly. He had been troubled by bouts of dizziness brought on by constipation, which he hated. He was an orderly man, and this was part of order. He saw, too, that MacConnachie was filthy, pale faced and heavily grown with beard. He must look the same. He probably smelt as well. It was the first time since his imprisonment that he had thought of his appearance and yet, although by nature neat and scrupulously clean, he was not so disconcerted by their squalid condition as he would have expected. On the contrary, it made him feel tougher, more competent, closer to MacConnachie.

Inspecting his hands in extension of these thoughts, he turned them over and caught sight of his finger-nails. Not one remained unbroken. Some were torn off more than halfway down. Others were split vertically to the cuticle. His stomach stirred uneasily at the mixture of blood and dirt encrusted together, but he felt no pain. He said,

‘Should we do something about our hands?’

MacConnachie inspected Ansell’s fingers with gentle impatience, and then his own. He grinned.

‘Leave ’em. If we wash ’em, they’ll hurt. Anyway, the dirt will protect them.’

MacConnachie packed the half-tin of meat they hadn’t eaten, and roped up the case while Ansell checked the gun. They then had a mouthful of water apiece, and set out once more.