Another four paces. His hands began to draw in the slack on the firing lever, then the Lewis gun suddenly began firing. The noise was very violent in the still, silent room. Four of the horsemen fell from their saddles like badly stuffed dolls. The rest of the patrol was thrown into utter confusion. Horses reared. Men struggled to draw their revolvers and control the horses at the same time. The dust in the road swept up under the plunging feet and Holtz could hear the sharp crack of his men’s rifles as they began to fire also. He hastily shifted the gun a little and kept firing. Three horses went down in a screaming, kicking heap. The riders were thrown under the hoofs of the other horses and were kicked and trampled to pulp. Holtz drew his lips off his teeth and concentrated the murderous fire on the remaining eight men. These had recovered from their surprise and had thrown themselves off their horses and down on to the road.
As Holtz swept the gun-sights over them the Lewis gun suddenly stopped firing. A misplaced cartridge had jammed the feed. Feverishly, Holtz tugged and jerked, his fingers slippery with sweat. The cartridge was jammed tight. Jerking his revolver from his holster, he hammered at it with the butt and managed to clear it. All the time he was working he could hear the sounds of rifle-fire, and prayed that his men had achieved what he had failed to do. As soon as he had cleared the feed, he swung the gun up into position again. There were only five horses and seven men lying in the road, the others had disappeared. He stood up and yelled through the window to Castra. After a moment, Castra slid from cover and wormed his way across to the farmhouse. From the opposite side of the road, under cover of the thick desert shrubs, two rifle-shots rang out. Holtz saw little puffs of dust spurt up close to Castra, who sprang to his feet and darted into the farmhouse. Holtz swung the Lewis gun and fired a short burst at where the shots had come from. He could see the shrubs shudder under the hail of bullets, but there was no sound to tell him that he had hit anyone. There was now complete silence over the farmhouse and the road. They had all gone to ground and were waiting for each other to show themselves.
Castra came up the stairs and into the room. He saluted stiffly. “It was the horses,” he said; “eight of the patrol are over there in the thicket. We tried to shoot them down, but the horses got in our way. What shall we do now, Lieutenant?”
Holtz got up from the gun. “Take this over.”
Castra sat down behind the gun, looking at Holtz enquiringly.
“Where are the rest of our men?” Holtz asked aloud.
“Dedos is behind the barrel over there. Golz and Fernando are together behind that wagon. They have all a good view of the road, Lieutenant.”
Holtz wiped the sweat from his face with a soiled handkerchief. He was worried. “They had better all come in,” he said. “We are too small to be scattered. Pablo’s army may be here at any moment.”
Castra shrugged. “It would be dangerous to move them now,” he pointed out. “There is no cover for them to get to the house, Lieutenant. They may all be hit.”
Holtz knew that he was right. He cursed the Lewis gun savagely. “If that goddamned thing hadn’t jammed, we should have wiped out the whole patrol. As it is, we are in a difficult situation.”
Castra nodded. The expression on his face was very resigned. He was so used to Cortez’ misfortunes that this new difficulty had not surprised him.
A sudden volley came from the thicket and Holtz could hear the bullets smack against the walls of the house.
“They have automatic rifles,” he said, staring at Castra, who nodded again. “Blast them out of the thicket,” he went on. “It is the only way.”
Castra turned the sights of the gun on the thick shrubs on the opposite side of the road and swept it with a hail of lead. The noise of the gun set Holtz’s teeth on edge. Again the silence that followed did not indicate that anyone had been hit. Holtz stood undecided, staring out of the small loophole that had been made. He thought he saw a slight movement over to the right and, drawing his revolver, he sighted carefully and squeezed the trigger. Above the sharp crack of the gun a sudden wail came to them, and a man staggered up from the long grass, took two tottering steps forward and fell on his face.
Castra glanced at Holtz. There was a look of surprise and admiration on his face. “That was good, Lieutenant,” he said. “That was very good.”
“Seven more, unless they have withdrawn to get help.”
“I think not. The horses ran away from them. It is too hot to walk far. No, I think they all remain.”
A round, black object suddenly sailed up in the air. Holtz couldn’t be sure just where it came from. He watched it make a slow and graceful parabola and he shouted, “Look out, down there, look out.”
The hand-grenade must have been a very good one. It went off with a vicious explosion just by the cart behind which Fernando and Golz were sheltering. Two terrified yells followed the explosion and Golz came running out behind the cart, holding his hands over his ears.
Holtz yelled, “Get back, you fool! Get back, under cover!” But Golz was too frightened to listen. The automatic rifle barked twice from across the way and Golz fell backwards, clutching at his chest.
Holtz said, “The mad, undisciplined swine.” He peered through the loophole, trying to catch a glimpse of Fernando. He thought he could make out one of his boots just by the cartwheel, but he couldn’t be sure. “Do you think he’s been hurt?” he asked Castra anxiously.
“Stunned, perhaps,” Castra said, fiddling with the firing lever. “That was a very good bomb, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, yes, but Fernando—” Holtz took a step to the door and then paused.
Castra shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. You should not take risks. If he has gone, it cannot be helped.”
Holtz turned miserably back to the loophole. A large red stain had appeared by the cart-wheel. “Look, he has been hit. Look, he is bleeding to death.”
Castra said, “We cannot do anything.” His face had become very grim and hard. Two men in less than a half an hour. That was very bad.
Holtz said: “Watch very carefully. If they throw another grenade, fire immediately.”
Castra slouched lower over the gun. He swung its sights slowly backwards and forwards, covering the thicket, waiting.
A long silence ensued. Neither of the men spoke. They remained tense and watchful. Then, quite close to the road, away to the left, another grenade came sailing across to the farmhouse. Castra whipped the gun round and fired a long, raking burst. They had no time to feel jubilant as another of Pablo’s patrol suddenly sprang to his feet, only to fall over on his face, because the grenade struck the wooden planks they had nailed across the window and burst with a shattering roar.
Holtz felt the rush of air as bits of wood and shrapnel flicked past him, and the violence of the explosion threw him on his knees.
He heard the Lewis gun crash over on its side and Castra rolled over on his back, his face a spongy mass of blood. He lay there moaning.
Holtz crawled over to him, feeling horribly sick. Castra had received the full force of the splinters from the shutters as well as bits of shrapnel from the grenade. His face looked as if it had been crushed by a heavy weight.
Holtz knew that he couldn’t do anything, but he took Castra’s hand in his. “I am here, Sergeant,” he said, “have courage. I am with you.” Futile words, but what else could he say?
Castra drew in a shuddering breath and gripped Holtz’s hand hard. “The gun,” he whispered. “Watch out they don’t throw again. Those grenades are very good, Lieutenant.”
Holtz pulled off his white tunic and made a little pillow of it for Castra’s head. “I am quite near to you,” he said. “But I must right the gun.”
Castra released his hand. “I have lost my eyes,” he said, “I can’t help you any more, Lieutenant. I have lost my eyes.”
“No, no, don’t say that,” Holtz said, jerking the gun upright. The grenade had torn a large hole in the wooden shutters, and as Holtz stood up to put the gun int
o position he heard a rifle crack and a bullet whizzed very close to him, flattening itself against the wall behind him. He ducked down, swearing softly. No wonder Pablo was winning this revolution if all his soldiers were as good as these, he thought.
Keeping flat, he manoeuvred the gun into position and then ran back to Castra. He knelt by his side. “Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?” he asked, taking his hand again.
Castra showed his teeth in a horrible effort to smile, which made Holtz feel very bad. The big, even teeth were bright red from the blood that filled Castra’s mouth, and as he lifted his lips, blood ran out of the side of his mouth on to his soiled white tunic. “Don’t let these bastards beat you, Lieutenant,” he said in a thick, choked whisper. “Avenge me.”
Holtz could not bear to look at him any longer. He went back on hands and knees to the gun. He wondered where Dedos was. There was no sign of him behind the barrel. He lay flat, his hands on the firing lever, waiting.
There was a long silence and then, cautiously, from behind a tree one of the patrol appeared. He stood looking up at the farmhouse, his long, automatic rifle held stiffly at the ready. Before Holtz could fire at him, a rifle barked just beneath and the patrolman staggered back behind the tree. Holtz was fairly certain that he had been hit.
So Dedos was still alive, he thought with satisfaction. He had managed to get as far as the farmhouse. Perhaps he would get inside. He dare not go down to let him in. Any moment Pablo’s men might try to rush the house.
Again a grenade was thrown. This time it was obvious to Holtz that it was aimed at Dedos below. Holtz heard his yell of terror as the grenade exploded, and the whole house trembled with the force of the explosion.
Holtz fired a furious burst through the thicket and then shouted down to Dedos, but no one answered him. “I think they have Dedos too,” he said to Castra. “It is well that Pablo’s army didn’t attack in the first place. These men are very good.”
Castra didn’t hear him. He had died very quietly just before the grenade had exploded. Holtz turned his head to look at him, and as he realized that Castra was dead the sound of something falling at his feet made him jerk round.
A long, black grenade lay close by him. It had been very skilfully thrown through the hole in the shutter and now it lay there within a few feet of him. He had no time to flatten out or make any effort to protect himself. The word ‘Nina’ came to his lips, but he hadn’t time to say the word before the grenade exploded.
He was conscious of a bright yellow flash and a lot of noise. Then he sat up on his elbow and stared at the Lewis gun that had fallen over on its side again. He had been thrown right across the room and his hand rested on the spongy pulp that had been Castra’s face. Shuddering, he jerked his hand away and tried to get to his feet. As he moved, a wave of pain lurched into him, cutting his breath and bringing a scream fluttering in his mouth.
He held himself very still. Down the front of his tunic he could see a number of blood-stained little holes and he knew that his chest had been riddled with small splinters of shrapnel.
He lay on his elbow, waiting for the pain to go away. As he lay, he said in a low, sobbing whisper, “Look what they have done to me, Nina.” Then, because he was alone, hurt and rather frightened, he began to call to Nina as if she could hear him.
The pain that kept lurching in and out of his chest finally brought him to his senses, and he suddenly remembered the patrol outside. They would be coming to the farmhouse in a moment or so, to make sure that they had killed him. He must get the gun into position and settle them once and for all.
He knew that it would hurt if he moved, but he mustn’t mind a little pain, he told himself. Come along, he said to himself, come along. Now, move your arm. Sit up slowly. That’s right. Hell! It does hurt, doesn’t it? Hell! Hell! Hell! He began to cry, but he got his body upright and turned on to his hands and knees. Blood began to drip from his chest on to the floor. He remained like that for several seconds, his head hanging, almost touching the floor. Then he crawled slowly over to the gun and sat down heavily beside it.
The pain took hold of him with steel fingers and ripped into him savagely. A feeling of nausea brought him out into a cold sweat, but he took hold of the gun and dragged it into position. The movement made him lean over the gun and vomit. He was aware only of thinking how glad he was that Nina couldn’t see him now. How shocked and horrified she would have been. He pulled the gun carefully round so that the sights covered the road, and then he eased his body against the gun. Sooner or later they would come. If they waited until dark, it didn’t matter, because Cortez would be too far away. If they came now, he would be able to stop them. Yes, it was going better than he had hoped.
How are you, Nina? What are you doing now? You really mustn’t worry about me, because I am quite all right. You might not think so, if you saw me, but I am really. It is dying alone that frightens people. To be left quite alone. I can understand it, can’t you? But I am not alone. I have never been alone since I met you. You are here in my head and my heart and I am not afraid to die. It is you that I grieve for, because you will be left. If you have loved me as I think you have, you should not be alone either. I shall be with you long after I have ceased to walk and talk and laugh with you. Nothing can really part us, not after the things we have done together, and the nights we have spent together.
I hope the General is kind when he tells you. That will be the worst moment, but when you are alone again, you mil find that there is no pain that is too great to bear. You will have courage because if our love has meant anything at all it will be as a shield in your hour of need.
You won’t have regrets, will you? I don’t think you will, but I should be very unhappy if you did. No, there must be no regrets. We must be satisfied that we were happy and we have always been kind to each other. That is so very important, isn’t it? You can look back on our life together without any reproach. You have denied me nothing, and I know that I also, so far away from you and so soon to die, have been steadfast to you. I hope you don’t hear about the gun, but that is the way of war. You die so seldom for what you are fighting. War is made up of errors and pride and rashness. If Generals are proud or make mistakes, they have tomorrow to try again. So I hope you don’t hear about the gun, which was very silly to die for.
I know you will be lonely. That is a very sad word. I know how I should be if you were taken from me, but that is the price you have to pay for the past, which was so lovely.
And, Nina, thank you for everything. Yes, really thank you. I am so grateful for what you have given me, and this I promise you. There will come a time when we shall meet again. It may be years and years, but it will come, and we shall be together again. We shall be able to take up our love again. We shall find that our love has not rusted even from your tears. And when we meet again, let life be free from war and hate and uncertainty and distrust. You will not find me changed. So be patient, and although the wait may be long, it will come right in the end. I know it will come right, and because I am so sure, I am not frightened any more.
Two of Pablo’s men appeared cautiously from the thicket and looked up at the farmhouse. Holtz watched them through a haze of pain. Come along, he said softly, all of you. Not just two, but all of you. It is quite safe for you because we are dead in this house, so come quickly and keep very close together.
Three others seemed to materialize out of the ground and the five of them stood hesitating, their rifles advanced, staring up at the shattered window. Still Holtz sat there, holding on to the gun and breathing with great difficulty. This time there must be no mistake. He willed them to come to him, exerting his mind as the blood continued to drip from him, with an irritating sound, on to the floor.
They finally made up their minds that it would be safe to approach, and in a body they began to move. Holtz waited until they were in the middle of the road, then, with his remaining strength, savagely, and with deadly precision, he cut them to pieces.
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sp; WALK IN THE PARK
The park stretched away into distant flower-beds, trees and heavy shrubs. Near the main gates was a large boating-pond. A number of brightly painted boats rested at anchor in the middle of the pond. Tennis-courts to the right of the pond were deserted. The nets hung slackly, and the white lines stood out sharply against the green grass.
It was early. If it had been a Sunday, no doubt even at that hour, the park would have been crowded, but it was only Thursday, and there was work to be done.
So, for over an hour, the park was very peaceful, and the only sign of movement was from the birds that sang in the sunshine, and flew from branch to branch, or suddenly swooped to the ground. Then two young men walked through the main gates and moved down the centre avenue. They looked very much alike. They were both dressed in shabby blue suits, pinched in at the waist, and very baggy in the trousers. They wore pointed shoes that they hadn’t bothered to clean, and black, slouch hats worn tilted on the bridge of their noses. Cigarettes dangled from slack lips, and their hands were thrust deeply into trouser pockets, hunching their shoulders.
Although they were shabby, there was a rhythmic smartness in their movements. Their walk and their balanced poise was similar to the movements of a tiger treading softly through a dense thicket.
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