dropped the handle of the panga and ran towards the body of the
gendarme. He needed that rifle.
Before he could reach it the naked body of a Baluba rushed at him.
Bruce ducked under the sweep of the panga and grappled with him. They
fell locked together, the man's body slippery and sinuous against him,
and the smell of him fetid as rancid butter.
Bruce found the pressure point below the elbow of his knife arm and dug
in with his thumb. The Baluba yelled and his panga clattered on the
floorboards. Bruce wrapped his arm round the man's neck while with his
free hand he reached for his bayonet.
The Baluba was clawing for Bruce's eyes with his fingers, his nails
scored the side of Bruce's nose, but Bruce had his bayonet out now. He
placed the point against the man's chest and pressed it in.
He felt the steel scrape against the bone of a rib and the man redoubled
his struggles at the sting of it. Bruce twisted the blade, working it in
with his wrist, forcing the man's head backwards with his
other arm.
The point of the bayonet scraped over the bone and found the gap
between. Like taking a virgin, suddenly the resistance to its entrance
was gone and it slid home full length. The Baluba's body jerked
mechanically and the bayonet twitched in Bruce's fist.
Bruce did not even wait for the man to die. He pulled the blade out
against the sucking reluctance of tissue that clung to it and scrambled
to his feet in time to see Ruffy pick another Baluba from his feet and
hurl him bodily over the guard rail.
Bruce snatched the rifle from the gendarme's dead hands and stepped to
the guard rail. They were coming over the side, those below shouting and
pushing at the ones above.
Like shooting a row of sparrows from a fence with a shotgun, thought
Bruce grimly, and with one long burst he cleared the rail.
Then he leaned out and sprayed the piles below the bridge. The rifle was
empty. He reloaded with a magazine from his pocket. But it was all over.
They were dropping back into the river, the piles below the bridge were
clear of men, their heads bobbed away downstream.
Bruce lowered his rifle and looked about him. Three of his gendarmes
were killing the man that Bruce had wounded, standing over him and
grunting as they thrust down with their bayonets. The man was still
wailing.
Bruce looked away.
One horn of the crescent moon showed above the trees; it had a gauzy
halo about it.
Bruce lit a cigarette and behind him those gruesome noises ceased.
'Are you okay, boss?'
'Yes, I'm fine. How about you, Ruffy?'
'I got me a terrible thirst now. Hope nobody trod on my pack.' About
four minutes from the first shot to the last, Bruce guessed. That's the
way of war, seven hours of waiting and boredom, then four minutes of
frantic endeavour. Not only of war either, he thought. The whole of life
is like that.
