screened from the Italians, and ten paces from where Gareth Swales was
sitting holding the Ras's frail body on his lap.
'Gary!' yelled Jake, sticking his head out of the hatch, and
Gareth looked up at him with a startled unbelieving expression. He had
been so deafened by shell-bursts that he had not realized that Jake had
come back for him. Jake had to shout again.
'Come on, damn you to hell,' and this time Gareth moved with alacrity.
He picked up the Ras like a bundle of dirty laundry and ran with him to
the car. A shell burst so close that it almost knocked him off his
feet, and stones and clouds of earth splattered against the armoured
steel.
However, Gareth kept his feet and handed up the Ras to the willing
hands and loving care of his grandson.
'Is he all right?' Greg demanded anxiously.
'Hit by a stone, he'll be all right,' Gareth grunted, and leaned for an
instant against the side of the car, his breathing sobbing painfully in
his throat, his hair and mustache thick with white dust,
and the sweat cutting deep wet runners down his filth-caked cheeks.
He looked up at Jake. 'I thought you weren't coming back,' he
croaked.
'It crossed my mind.' Jake reached down and took his hand. He boosted
him up the side of the car, and Gareth held his hand for a second
longer than was necessary, squeezing slightly.
owe you one, old son.'
'I'll call on you, 'Jake grinned.
'Any time. Any time at all.' At that moment, Priscilla the Pig roared
heroically, then abruptly backfired in opposition to the Italian
shell-bursts.
Her engine spluttered, surged, farted despairingly, and then fell
silent. 'Oh, you son of a bitch!' said Jake with great and passionate
feeling.'
'Not now!'
'Reminds me of a girl I knew in Australia,-'
Later, 'Jake told him. 'Get on the crank handle.'
'My pleasure, old boy,' and a near miss burst beside them and knocked
him off his precarious perch on the sponson.
Gareth picked himself up and dusted his lapels fastidiously as he
limped to the crank handle.
After a full minute at the handle, spinning it like a demented
organ-grinder with no effect at all, Gareth fell back panting again.
'I say, old chap, I'm a bit bushed,' and they changed places quickly.
Jake stooped over the crank handle, ignoring the tempest of bursting
shells and swirling dust clouds, and the thick muscles in his arm
writhed as he spun the crank.
'She's dead, Gareth shouted after another minute. Jake persevered, his
face turning darkly red and the veins in his throat swelling into thick
blue cords but at last even he released the handle with disgust and
stepped back gasping.
'The tool kit is under the seat, 'he said.
