Toll for the Brave
From the first name in heart pounding thriller fiction.Ellis Jackson woke up hugging a twelve-bore shotgun. In the next room, his mistress and his best friend lay naked on the bed, their heads blown to pulp. Back in England at last, Ellis Jackson had finally cracked.Active combat, a Viet Cong prison camp and the callous treachery of his lover and interrogator, Madam Ny, had taken their toll. Ellis Jackson was out of his mind. Or was he?Maybe it would all have been easier to take if he really had been mad
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Toll for the Brave
Jack Higgins
TOLL FOR THE BRAVE was first published in the UK by John Long, London, in 1971 under the authorship of Harry Patterson. The author was, in fact, the writer familiar to modern readers as Jack Higgins. Harry Patterson was one of the names he used during his early writing days. The book was later published in paperback by Arrow – under the authorship of Jack Higgins – but it has been out of print for several years.
In 2004, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back toll for the brave for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
Table of Contents
They were beating the Korean to death in the next room, all attempts to break him down having failed completely. He was a stubborn man and, like most of his countrymen, held the Chinese in a kind of contempt and they reacted accordingly. The fact that Republic of Korea troops had the highest kill ratio in Vietnam at that time didn’t exactly help matters.
There were footsteps outside, the door opened and a young Chinese officer appeared. He snapped his fingers and I got up like a good dog and went to heel. A couple of guards were dragging the Korean away by the feet, a blanket wrapped about his head to keep the blood off the floor. The officer paused to light a cigarette, ignoring me completely, then walked along the corridor and I shuffled after him.
We passed the interrogation room, which was something to be thankful for, and stopped outside the camp commandant’s office at the far end. The young officer knocked, pushed me inside and closed the door.
Colonel Chen-Kuen was writing away busily at his desk. He ignored me for quite some time, then put down his pen and got to his feet. He walked to the window and glanced outside.
‘The rains are late this year.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say in answer to that pearl of wisdom, didn’t even know if it was expected. In any event, he didn’t give me a chance to make small talk and carried straight on, still keeping his back to me.
‘I am afraid I have some bad news for you, Ellis. I have finally received instructions from Central Committee in Hanoi. Both you and General St Claire are to be executed this morning.’
He turned, his face grave, concerned and said a whole lot more, though whether or not he was expressing his personal regret, I could not be sure for it was as if I had cut the wires, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly and I didn’t hear a word.
He left me. In fact, it was the last time I ever saw him. When the door opened next I thought it might be the guards come to take me, but it wasn’t. It was Madame Ny.
She was wearing a uniform that looked anything but People’s Republic and had obviously been tailored by someone who knew his business. Leather boots, khaki shirt and a tunic which had been cut to show off those good breasts of hers to the best advantage. The dark eyes were wet with tears, tragic in the white face.
She said, ‘I’m sorry, Ellis.’
Funny, but I almost believed her. Almost, but not quite. I moved in close so that I wouldn’t miss, spat right in her face, opened the door and went out.
The young officer had disappeared, but a couple of guards were waiting for me. They were hardly more than boys, stocky little peasants out of the rice fields who gripped their AK assault rifles too tightly like men who weren’t as used to them as they should be. One of them went ahead, opened the end door and motioned me through.
The compound was deserted, not a prisoner in sight. The gate stood wide, the watch towers floated in the morning mist. Everything waited. And then I heard the sound of marching feet and St Claire came round the corner with the young Chinese officer and two guards.
In spite of the broken jump boots, the tattered green fatigues, he still looked everything a soldier ever could be. He marched with that crisp, purposeful movement that only the regular seems to acquire. Every step meant something. It was as if the Chinese were with him; as if he were leading.
He had the Indian sign on them, there was no doubt of that, which is saying something for the Chinese do not care for the Negro overmuch. But then, he was something special and like no man I have known before or since.
He paused and looked at me searchingly, then smiled that famous St Claire smile that made you feel you were the only damned person that mattered in the wide world. I moved to his side and we set off together. He increased his pace and I had to jump to it to stay level with him. We might have been back at Benning, drill on the square, and the guards had to run to keep up with us.
