Dead Hand

1 SCOTLAND MARCH Unable to ignore the leg cramps that were reducing his pace to a painful limp, the solitary Welsh guardsman came to a complete stop. Like a hunted animal in distress, his eyes frantically darted about the bleak Scottish landscape in a desperate search for a spot where he could hide. He had to find a concealed nook, a place that afforded him sanctuary. He badly needed to collect his thoughts, catch his breath, and sort himself out. Nothing, however, seemed to fit the bill. Rather than offering safety, every rock outcropping and fold in the earth his eyes fell upon appeared ominous and foreboding, an ideal haven for his pursuers. Dejected, the Welshman drew in a deep breath before setting off again as quickly as his sore muscles would permit. In the process of covering the next hundred or so meters, he noticed the sky becoming lighter. Yet the coming of dawn brought little promise that his agony and suffering would soon be at an end. Instead of a friendly, smiling, sun to dry his clothes and warm his spirit, the night gave way to a dull, steel-gray sky crowded with low-hanging clouds heavily laden with moisture, which would add to his miseries and suffering. By the time it was clear enough to see the jagged ridgelines on either side of the valley, he was making his way through at a slow, laborious jog, Corporal John Jones's outlook was as bleak as the breaking day. Placing his hands on his hips and drawing in deep breaths that formed dense, moist clouds when he exhaled, Jones forced himself to press on along the rock-strewn valley floor. With growing regularity, he scanned the barren mountain crest up ahead that stood out against the ugly morning sky. Every so often, he glanced behind. His failure to detect any sign of pursuers, which had been a blessing the night before, began to concern him. His state of mind, molded by the physical and mental punishment he and his mates had suffered at their hands on previous occasions, had twisted a healthy respect for his foe into a gnawing paranoia that hovered over him every waking hour. By now, he no longer saw the men who were hounding him as being part of the same human race to which he himself belonged. Rather than suffer form the adversities that sapped his strength, Jones fancied that they were growing stronger and more vicious at the very time his own abilities were ebbing. It was, of course, foolish to think like this. Whether it was the hunger, the cold, or the overpowering exhaustion the like of which he had never imagined possible, the twenty-three-year-old Welshman was finally coming to the realization that he was fast approaching the end of his rope. It was growing more difficult for him to maintain his pace, his focus, and even worse, his motivation. Panting, he again slowed until the pain in his legs brought him to a complete halt. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the soldiers of the Rifle Brigade, fresh and unaffected by the rigors of the hunt, right there, ready to take advantage of his weakness. Capturing him would yield them a pass and put an end to his dream of becoming a member of the Special Air Service. When he did not see them, Jones was struck by an odd thought. Rather than feeling relived that they weren't there, the Welshman found that he was disappointed. He was almost sorry that no one was at hand to bring his suffering to an end. No sooner had that thought popped into his head than it was followed by a horrible realization. He had failed. It was all over. For the first time, he came to appreciate the brutal fact that he simply did not have what it took. Already broken in body, this failure of spirit was the last straw. Psychologically vanquished, he dropped to the ground and sat there, unsure of what to do next. With his elbows planted on his knees, Jones allowed his head, too heavy for his overtCoyle, Harold is the author of 'Dead Hand' with ISBN 9780812575392 and ISBN 0812575393.