naked and bewildered staggering through a doorway still drunk or half
asleep, chop him down with a single shot in the stomach, jump over him
and throw a grenade through the glass skylight of the
second bedroom, another through the third and kick open the door of the
last room in the bellow and flash of the explosions.
A man was waiting for Bruce across the room with a pistol in his hand,
and both of them fired simultaneously, the clang of the bullet glancing
off the steel of Bruce's helmet, jerking his head back savagely,
throwing him side-ways against the wall, but he fired again, rapid fire,
hitting with every bullet, so that the man seemed to dance, a grotesque
twitching jig, pinned against the far wall by the bullets.
On his knees now Bruce was stunned, ears singing like a million mad
mosquitoes, hands clumsy and slow on the reload, back on his feet, legs
rubbery but the loaded rifle in his hands making a man of him.
Out into the passage, another one right on top of him, a vast dark shape
in the darkness - kill him! kill him!
Don't shoot, boss!' Ruffy, thank God, Ruffy.
'Are there any more?'
'All finished, boss - you cleaned them out good.' 'How many?' Bruce
shouted above the singing in his ears.
'Forty or so. Jesus, what a mess! There's blood all over the place.
Those grenades-'
'There must be more.'
'Yes, but not in here, boss. Let's go and give the boys outside a hand.'
They ran back down the passage, down the stairs, and the floor of the
lounge was sodden and sticky, dead men everywhere; it smelt like an
abattoir - blood and ripped bowels. One still on his hands and knees,
creepy-crawling towards the door. Ruffy shot him twice, flattening him.
'Not the front door, boss. Our boys will get you for sure.
Go out the window.' Bruce dived through the window head first, rolled
over behind the cover of the verandah wall and came to his knees in one
movement. He felt strong and invulnerable.
Ruffy was beside him.
'Here come our boys,' said Ruffy, and Bruce could see them coming down
the street, running forward in short bursts, stopping to fire, to
throw a grenade, then coming again.
'And there are Lieutenant Hendry's lot.' From the opposite direction but
with the same dodging, checking run, Bruce could see
Wally with them. He was holding his rifle across his hip when he fired,
his whole body shaking with the juddering of the gun.
Like a bird rising in front of the beaters one of the shufta broke from
the cover of the grocery store and ran into the street unarmed, his head
down and his arms pumping in time with his legs. Bruce was
close enough to see the panic in his face. He seemed to be moving in
slow motion, and the flames lit him harshly, throwing a distorted shadow
in front of him. When the bullets hit him he stayed on his feet,
staggering in a circle, thrashing at the air with his hands as though he
were beating off a swarm of bees, the bullets slapping loudly against
his body and lifting little puffs of dust from his clothing.
