Horne shrugged. “Why am I any place? Think I’m a fifth columnist or something?” He stared regretfully into the empty cup. “Well, I’m not. I ran a gun in the Chaco a few years ago; then they started to fight in China, so I went there. I was in the Spanish scrap with the Loyalists.
“Hung around in England long enough to learn something about that parachute business. Now that’s a man’s job. When you get down in an enemy country, you’re on your own. I was with the bunch that hopped off from Libya and parachuted down in southern Italy to cut off that aqueduct and supply line to the Sicily naval base. Flock of ‘spiggoties’ spotted me, but I got down to the water and hiked out in a fishing boat. Now I’m here.”
He looked up at Benton, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “From Kalgoorlie, I bet. You got the look. I prospected out of there once. I worked for pearls out of Darwin, too. I’m an original swag man, friend.”
“What’s a swag man?” Pommy asked.
Horne looked at him, smiling. Two of his front teeth at the side were missing.
“It’s a bum, sonny. Just a bum. A guy who packs a tucker bag around looking for whatever turns up.”
Horne pulled the gun over into his lap, carefully wiping the oil buffer clean. Then he oiled the moving parts of the gun with a little can he took from his hip pocket and slowly assembled it. He handled the gun like a lover, fitting the parts together smoothly and testing it carefully for head space when it was ready for firing.
“That a German shirt you have on?” Sackworth asked. His eyes were level, and he had his rifle across his knees, pointed at Horne.
“Sure,” Horne said mildly. “I needed a shirt, so I took it out of a dead German’s outfit.”
“Looting,” Sackworth said with scorn. There was distaste and dislike in his gaze.
“Why not?” Horne looked up at Sackworth, amused. “You’re a good kid, so don’t start throwing your weight around. This sportsmanship stuff, the old school tie, an’ whatnot—that’s okay where it belongs. You Britishers who play war like a game are living in the past. There’s nothing sporting about this. It’s like waterfronts or jungles. You survive any way you can.”
Sackworth did not move the rifle. “I don’t like him,” he said to Benton. “I don’t trust him.”
“Forget it!” Benton snapped. “The man’s all right, and Lord knows we need fighting men!”
“Sure,” Horne added quietly. “It’s just you an’ me are different kind of animals, kid. You’re probably Eton and then Sandhurst. Me, I came up the hard way. A tough road kid in the States, then an able seaman, took a whirl at the fight game, and wound up in Chaco.
“I like to fight. I also like to live. I been in a lot of fights, and mostly I fought pretty good, an’ I’m still alive. The Jerries use whatever tactics they need. What you need, kid, in war is not a lot of cut an’ dried rules but a good imagination, the ability to use what you’ve got to the best advantage no matter where you are, and a lot of the old moxie.
“You’ll make a good fighter. You got the moxie. All you need is a little kicking around.”
“I wish we knew where the Jerries were,” Ryan said. “This waiting gets me.”
“You’ll see them pretty quick,” Horne said. “There’s about a battalion in the first group, and there’s only one tank.”
Benton lowered his cup, astonished. “You mean you’ve actually seen them? They are coming?”
Horne nodded. “The main body isn’t far behind the first bunch.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Sackworth demanded. His face was flushed and angry. “We could have warned the troops behind us.”
“Yeah?” Horne did not look up from wiping the dust from the cartridges. “Well, we couldn’t. You see,” he added, looking up, “they broke through Monastir Pass two days ago. Your men back there know more about it than we do. This is just a supporting column to polish off any leftovers like us.”
“Then—we’re cut off?” Pommy asked.
Horne nodded. “You have been for two days. How long you been here?”
“Just three days,” Benton said. He studied Horne thoughtfully. “What are you? A Yank?”
Horne shrugged. “I guess so. When I joined up in Spain, they took my citizenship away. It was against the law to fight fascism then. If it was wrong then, it’s wrong now. But me, I feel just the same. I’ll fight them in China, in Spain, in Africa, or anywhere else.
“In Spain when everything was busting up, I heard about this guy Koska. One of his men was with us, so when he went back, I trailed along.”
“They’re coming,” Sackworth said. “I can see the tank.”
“All right,” Benton said. He finished his coffee.
“Did you fight any Germans in Spain?” Pommy asked.
“Yeah.” Mike Horne brushed invisible dust from the gun and fed a belt of cartridges into it. “Most of them aren’t much better than the Italians. They fight better—the younger ones try harder—but all they know how to do is die.”
“It’s something to know that,” Sackworth said.
“Nuts. Anybody can die. Everybody does. And dead soldiers never won any battles. The good soldier is the one who keeps himself alive and fighting. This bravery stuff—that’s for milksops. For pantywaists. All of us are scared, but we fight just the same.”
“The tank’s getting closer,” Sackworth said. He was plainly worried and showed it.
“I got the .50,” Horne said. He settled himself comfortably into the sand and moved his gun on the swivel. “Let it get closer. Don’t fire until they are close up to us. I’ll take the tank. You take the first truck with the other gun, I’ll take the second, an’ so on. Get the drivers if you can.”
They were silent. The rumble of the tank and heavy clank of the tread drew nearer. Behind them rolled the trucks, the men sitting in tight groups. They apparently expected no trouble.
“I’d have expected them to send a patrol,” Benton said, low voiced.
“They did,” Horne replied.
They looked at him, startled. His eyes were on the gray-green column. He had sighted the fifty at the gun aperture on the tank.
“All right,” he said suddenly.
His gun broke into a hoarse chatter, slamming steel-jacketed bullets at the tank. Then its muzzle lifted suddenly and swept the second truck. Soldiers were shouting and yelling, spilling from trucks like madmen, but the two first trucks were smashed into carriers of death before the men could move. The Germans farther back had found their enemy, and steel-jacketed bullets smashed into the parapet. Pommy felt something like a hot whiplash along his jaw.
They were above the column and out of reach of the tank. Mike Horne stood up suddenly and depressed the gun muzzle. The tank was just below. The gun chattered, and the tank slewed around sideways and drove full tilt into the rock wall as though to climb it.
Horne dropped back. “The older ones have a soft spot on top,” he said.
The men of the broken column ran for shelter. Some of them tried to rush the steep path, but the fire blasted them back to the road, dead or dying. Others, trying to escape the angry bursts from the two guns, tried to scramble up the walls of the pass but were mowed down relentlessly.
It had been a complete and shocking surprise. The broken column became a rout. Horne stopped the .50 and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He winked at Ryan.
“Nice going, kid. That’s one tank that won’t bother your pals.”
Ryan peered around the rocks. The pass was empty of life. The wrecked tank was jammed against the rock wall, and one of the trucks had plunged off the precipice into the ravine. Another was twisted across the road.
A man was trying to get out of the first truck. He made it and tumbled to the road. His coat was stained with blood, and he was making whimpering sounds and trying to crawl. His face and head were bloody.
“Next time it’ll be tough,” Horne said. “They know now. They’ll come in small bunches, scattered out, running
for shelter behind the trucks.”
Rifle fire began to sweep over the cup. They were low behind the parapet and out of sight. It was a searching, careful fire—expert fire.
Benton was quiet. He looked over at Horne. Officially in charge, he had yielded his command to Horne’s superior knowledge.
“What d’you think?” he asked.
“We’ll stop them,” Horne said. “We’ll stop them this time, maybe next time. After that—”
Horne grinned at Pommy. “First time under fire?”
“Yes.”
“Take it easy. You’re doing all right. Make every shot count. One cinch is worth five maybes.”
Pommy crowded his body down into the gravel and rested his rifle in a niche in the rocks. He looked at Mike Horne and could see a thin trickle of fresh blood coming from under his bandage. The wound had opened again.
Was it deep, he wondered, or just a scratch? He looked at the lines about Horne’s mouth and decided it was deep. Horne’s sleeve was torn, and he had a dragon tattooed on his forearm.
They came with a rush. Rounding the bend, they broke into a scattered line; behind them, machine guns and rifles opened a hot fire to cover the advance.
They waited, and just before the men could reach the trucks, swept them with a steel scythe of bullets that mowed them down in a row. One man tumbled off the brink and fell into the ravine; then another fell, caught his fingers on the lip, and tumbled head over heels into the ravine as the edge gave way.
“How many got there?” Horne asked.
“A dozen, I think,” Ryan said. “We got about thirty.”
“Fair enough.” Horne looked at Sackworth. The young Englishman was still resentful. He didn’t like Horne. “Doing all right?” Horne asked.
“Of course.” Sackworth was contemptuous, but his face was drawn and gray.
“Ryan,” Horne said, “you and Pommy leave the main attack to the machine guns. Watch the men behind the trucks. Pick them off as they try to move closer. You take the right, Pommy.”
The German with the bloody face had fallen flat. Now he was getting to his knees again.
Then, suddenly, three men made a concerted rush. Ryan and Pommy fired instantly, and Ryan’s man dropped.
“I missed!” Pommy said. “Blast it, I missed!”
There was another rush, and both machine guns broke into a clattering roar. The gray line melted away, but more kept coming. Men rounded the bend and split to the right and left. Despite the heavy fire a few of them were getting through. Pommy and Ryan were firing continuously and methodically now.
Suddenly a man broke from under the nearest truck and came on in a plunging rush. Both Ryan and Pommy fired, and the man went down, but before they could fire again, he lunged to his feet and dove into the hollow below the cliff on which their pit rested.
“He can’t do anything there,” Sackworth said. “He—”
A hurtling object shot upward from below, hit the slope below the guns, rolled a few feet, and then burst with an earth-shaking concussion.
Horne looked up from where he had ducked his head. Nobody was hit.
“He’s got grenades. Watch it. There’ll be another in a minute.”
Ryan fired, and a man dropped his rifle and started back toward the trucks. He walked quite calmly while they stared. Then he fell flat and didn’t get up.
Twice more grenades hit the slope, but the man was too close below the cliff. They didn’t quite reach the cup thrown from such an awkward angle. “If one of those makes it—” Benton looked sour.
Pommy was shooting steadily now. There was another rush, and Benton opened up with the machine gun. Suddenly another grenade came up from below, traveling an arching course. It hit the slope, too short. It rolled free and fell. There was a terrific explosion.
“Tough,” Ryan said. “He made a good try.”
“Yeah,” Horne said. “So have we.”
Hours passed. The machine guns rattled steadily now. Only at long intervals was there a lull. The sun had swung over and was setting behind the mountain.
Horne straightened, his powerful body heavy with fatigue. He looked over at Ryan and grinned. Ryan’s face was swollen from the kick of the rifle. Benton picked up a canteen and tried to drink, but there was no water.
“What now?” Pommy said.
Horne shrugged. “We take it on the lam.”
“What?” Sackworth demanded. “What does that mean?”
“We beat it,” Mike Horne said. “We get out while the getting is good.”
“What?” Sackworth was incredulous. “You mean—run? Leave our post?”
“That’s just what I mean,” Horne said patiently. “We delayed this bunch long enough. We got ours from them, but now it doesn’t matter anymore. The Jerries are behind us now. We delayed them for a while. All around through these hills guys are delaying them just for a while. We’ve done all we could here. Now we scram. We fight somewhere else.”
“Go if you want to,” Sackworth said stubbornly. “I’m staying.”
Suddenly there was a terrific concussion, then another and another.
“What the deuce?” Benton exclaimed. “They got a mortar. They—”
The next shell hit right where he was sitting. It went off with an earsplitting roar and a burst of flame. Pommy went down, hugged the earth with an awful fear. Something tore at his clothes; then sand and gravel showered over him. There was another concussion and another.
Somebody had caught him by the foot. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”
They broke into a stumbling run down the slope back of the nest, then over the next ridge and down the ravine beyond. Even then they ran on, using every bit of cover. Once Pommy started to slow, but Horne nudged him with the rifle barrel.
“Keep it up,” he panted. “We got to run.”
They slid into a deeper ravine and found their way to a stream. They walked then, slipping and sliding in the gathering darkness. Once a patrol saw them, and shots rattled around, but they kept going.
Then it was night, and clouds covered the moon and the stars. Wearily, sodden with exhaustion, they plodded on. Once, on the bank of a little stream, they paused for a drink. Then Horne opened the old haversack again and brought out the remnants of the sausage and bread. He broke each in half, and shared them with Pommy.
“But—”
Pommy’s voice caught in his throat. “Gone?” he said then.
Horne nodded in the darkness. “Yeah. Lucky it wasn’t all of us.”
“But what now?” Pommy asked. “You said they were behind us.”
“Sure,” Horne agreed. “But we’re just two men. We’ll travel at night, keep to the hills. Maybe they’ll make a stand at Thermopylae. If not there, they might try to defend the Isthmus of Corinth. Maybe we can join them there.”
“But if they don’t? If we can’t?”
“Then Africa, Pommy, or Syria or Suez or Russia or England. They’ll always be fighting them somewhere, an’ that’s where I want to be. It won’t stop. The Germans win here, they win there, but they got to keep on fighting. They win battles, but none of them are decisive. None of them mean an end.
“Ever fight a guy, kid, who won’t quit? You keep kicking him, and he keeps coming back for more, keeps trying. You knock him down, but he won’t stay down? It’s hell, that’s what it is. He won’t quit, so you can’t.
“But they’ll be fighting them somewhere, and that’s where I want to be.”
“Yeah,” Pommy said. “Me, too.”
The Cross and the Candle
When in Paris, I went often to a little hotel in a narrow street off the Avenue de la Grande Armee. Two doors opened into the building; one into a dark hallway and then by a winding stair to the chambers above, the other to the café, a tiny bistro patronized by the guests and a few people of the vicinity.
It was in no way different from a hundred other such places. The rooms were chill and dank in the morning (there was little heat in Paris, even t
he girls in the Folies Bergère were dancing in goose pimples), the furnishings had that added Parisian touch of full-length mirrors running alongside the bed for the obvious and interesting purpose of enabling one, and one’s companion, to observe themselves and their activities.
Madame was a Breton, and as my own family were of Breton extraction, I liked listening to her tales of Roscoff, Morlaix, and the villages along the coast. She was a veritable treasure of ancient beliefs and customs, quaint habits and interesting lore. There was scarcely a place from Saint-Malo to the Bay of Douarnenez of which she didn’t have a story to tell.
Often when I came to the café, there would be a man seated in the corner opposite the end of the bar. Somewhat below medium height, the thick column of his neck spread out into massive shoulders and a powerful chest. His arms were heavy with muscle and the brown hands that rested on the table before him were thick and strong.
Altogether, I have seen few men who gave such an impression of sheer animal strength and vitality. He moved in leisurely fashion, rarely smiled, and during my first visits had little to say.
In some bygone brawl, his nose had been broken and a deep scar began over his left eye and ran to a point beneath a left ear of which half the lobe was gone. You looked at his wide face, the mahogany skin, and polished over the broad cheekbones and you told yourself, “This man is dangerous!” Yet often there was also a glint of hard, tough humor in his eyes.
He sat in his corner, his watchful eyes missing nothing. After a time or two, I came to the impression that he was spinning a web, like some exotic form of spider, but what manner of fly he sought to catch, I could not guess.
Madame told me he was a marin, a sailor, and had lived for a time in Madagascar.
One afternoon when I came to the café, he was sitting in his corner alone. The place was empty, dim, and cold. Hat on the table beside him, he sat over an empty glass.
He got up when I came in and moved behind the bar. I ordered vin blanc and suggested he join me. He filled the two glasses without comment, then lifted his glass. “À votre santé!” he said. We touched glasses and drank.
“Cold, today,” he said suddenly.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 28