in his hands.
'Where's Andre?' Bruce asked Haig as they met in the middle of the
truck.
'Up front. I think he's been hit.' Bruce went forward and found
Andre doubled up, crouching in a corner of the truck, his rifle lying
beside him and both hands covering his face. His shoulders heaved as
though he were in pain.
Eyes, thought Bruce, he's been hit in the eyes. He reached him and
stooped over him, pulling his hands from his face, expecting to see
blood.
Andre was crying, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyelashes gummed
together. For a second Bruce stared at him and then he caught the front
of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. He picked up
Andre's rifle and the barrel was cold, not a single shot had been fired
out of it. He dragged the Belgian to the side and thrust the rifle
into his hands.
'I'm going to be standing here beside you.' he snarled, If you do that
again I'll shoot you. Do you understand?'
'I'm sorry, Bruce.' Andre's lips were swollen where he had bitten them;
his face was smeared with tears and slack with fear. 'I'm sorry. I
couldn't help it.' Bruce ignored him and turned his attention back to
the aircraft. It was turning in for its next run.
He's going to come from the side again, Bruce thought; this time he'll
get us. He can't miss twice in a row.
In silence once more they watched the jet slide down the valley between
two vast white mountains of cloud and level off above the forest. Small
and dainty and deadly it raced in towards them.
One of the Bren guns opened up, rattling raucously, sending out tracers
like bright beads on a string.
'Too soon,' muttered Bruce. 'Much too soon; he must be all of a mile out
of range.' But the effect was instantaneous. The jet swerved, almost hit
the tree tops and then over-corrected, losing its line of approach.
A howl of derision went up from the train and was immediately lost in
the roar as every gun opened fire. The jet loosed its remaining rockets,
blindly, hopelessly, without a chance of a hit. Then it climbed steeply,
turning away into the cloud ahead of them. The sound of its engines
receded, was muted by the cloud and then was gone.
Ruffy was performing a dance of triumph, waving his rifle over his head.
Hendry on the roof was shouting abuse at the clouds into which the jet
had vanished, one of the Brens was still firing short ecstatic bursts,
someone else was chanting the Katangese war cry and others were taking
it up. And then the driver in the locomotive came in with his whistle,
spurting steam with each shriek.
Bruce stung his rifle over his shoulder, pushed his helmet on to the
back of his head, took out a cigarette and lit it, then stood watching
them sing and laugh and chatter with the relief from danger.
Next to him Andre leaned out and vomited over the side; a little of it
came out of his nose and dribbled down the front of his battle-jacket.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'I'm sorry, Bruce. I'm sorry, truly I'm sorry,' he whispered.
