do?’ he asked.
Stratton shrugged. ‘I’m inclined to agree with Victor. But then, I just got here.’
David nodded thoughtfully as he looked over at his commanders.
‘You’re an officer?’ Stratton asked.
‘No,’ David said, with a grin that displayed a full set of badly stained teeth. ‘I’m hardly a soldier. I’m a teacher.’
Stratton had not given the rebels much thought as individuals but the young man was a reminder that rebellions like this one were fought by ordinary people. ‘How long have you been with the rebellion?’
‘Only a few months,’ David said, looking down at his hands in thought.
‘Why did you join up?’
‘My father was accused of supplying the rebels with food. He was a farmer. They came one day and shot him . . . and then they shot my mother. Why they shot her also, I don’t know.’ As David said this it seemed to affect him deeply. ‘I had nowhere else to go, I think.’
‘How is it going?’
‘The rebellion? I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. We keep fighting, they keep fighting. We hope Neravista will one day give in to us . . . You will have to ask Neravista, maybe.’
The older Indian arrived at the crouch and reported to Victor who immediately appeared disappointed by what he heard. Marlo, on the other hand, became suddenly enthused and moved away to talk hurriedly with the men. David left Stratton to join his colleagues. After a quick briefing a couple of the men headed back to the column while the main group made its way to the crest.
The young teacher hurried over to Stratton. ‘The scouts report less than twenty soldiers. That was the number agreed between Victor and Marlo. If there were more we would let them pass. We will attack.’ He left again to catch up with his colleagues.
Stratton watched the ragtag group of individuals go. They wore expressions on their faces that ranged from unease to resolve as they checked their weapons and adjusted ammunition pouches. There was scant sign of any military expertise about them but they seemed determined enough.
Once again Stratton considered getting out of there. He was ready to leave but the motive to do so, the impulse that would push him over the edge and make him go, was not yet sufficiently compelling. He wanted at least to see the men’s preparations for the ambush.
He moved to where he could watch the rebels making their way down the steep slope as silently as they could. The tall trees that provided a patchwork canopy continued down the hill. The ground was stony with little undergrowth, making it advantageous to the ambushers on the high ground since it provided them with a clear view below. The slope would also make it difficult for the Neravistas to charge once the ambush had been sprung. So far the position looked good and Stratton decided to wait.
The men formed a line a short way down from the crest, lying or kneeling behind what little cover there was. Silence descended as they settled into position. Marlo moved along the back of the line, whispering words of encouragement.
Two men came over the crest from behind Stratton and made their way towards the far end of the ambush line. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders and they were each carrying one of the newly delivered 66mm- rocket launch tubes.
Stratton wondered whose idea that had been. As he understood it, the rebels didn’t know how to fire them. He looked around for Victor but he was nowhere to be seen. The two men moved out of sight beyond the trees and, unable to resist seeing what they might do with the rockets, Stratton followed them.
The two rebels joined the end of the ambush line, where Victor was craning his neck to see down the slope. On seeing the weapons he spoke to the men briefly. One of them extended his rocket tube, which readied it for firing. Perhaps he did know how to use it, Stratton thought. He seemed to have convinced Victor that he could because the Frenchman allowed him to take up a firing position.
Stratton took cover beside a boulder a few metres behind Victor who had gone back to looking for the enemy. The rebel leader suddenly jerked back behind his tree as if to hide. He made a hasty signal to those nearby that suggested he had seen something.
Down the slope Stratton saw the top of a tree move. He eased himself up in order to get a better look. A man in camouflage gear and carrying a rifle was leaning against the tree, digging something out of the top of his boot. He removed the offending bit of debris and continued on through the wood, more interested in watching his immediate footing than his wider surroundings. He was followed by another soldier and shortly afterwards half a dozen more men ambled into view. They chatted casually, rifles slung over their shoulders. More followed, one with a pack on his back that had a long whip antenna protruding from it. Their voices filtered up to the ambushers, each soldier clearly unaware that they were being observed so closely.
One of the rocket men lay on his belly, facing down the slope.The tube rested along his back and he pressed his cheek against its side so that he could look through the sight. The other man was having difficulties with the catch that had to be released for the tube to extend and he tugged at it in frustration.
Marlo had positioned himself in the centre of the ambush line and kept the men from firing until the enemy was in the kill zone. He raised an arm. When he dropped it he cried, ‘Fire!’ The sudden volley, a combination of single aimed shots and wild automatic fire, shattered the silence.
Victor moved back from the line a few feet: with just a pistol for a weapon he was not going to get involved. Stratton saw the imminent danger and leapt forward. He sprinted down the hill and as he grabbed Victor by the scruff of his neck and yanked him out of the way the rocket fired.
The missile shot out of the tube with a deafening roar as a long tail of fire erupted from its rear. The rocket struck the ground with a glancing blow, bounced skyward at a steep angle and hit a tree halfway up its trunk, which the massive explosion shattered. Burning wood splinters rained down. The top half of the tree, a large mass of heavy branches, came crashing down in front of the ambush line.
The bushes behind the man who’d fired the missile burst into flames - and so did his backside and the heels of his boots. He leapt up screaming, then fell to the ground rolling over and over furiously in an effort to put out the flames. The other rocket man immediately abandoned any plans to fire his own weapon - his partner’s fate was a dramatic warning.
Victor lay staring at a burning bush near where he had been kneeling and thought of the horrific consequences if Stratton had not pulled him out of the way.
A handful of guerrillas kept firing but most had left their positions because of the explosion and the falling timber.
The government troops returned a few rounds before they fled, shooting wildly behind them as they ran.
Marlo yelled at the few rebels who were still shooting to cease fire.
Victor got to his feet, shaking with rage as he looked for the rocket-firing rebel who had by now managed to put out the flames but whose clothing was still smouldering heavily. ‘You idiot!’ he shouted. ‘You told me you knew how to fire it.’
‘I did, but not how to aim it.’
Marlo stormed over, his face flushed with anger. ‘Who fired that rocket?’ he demanded, looking from Victor to the man.
Victor was not a vindictive person and although he was indeed angry with the rocket-firing man he wanted to protect him from Marlo who had a dark soul. ‘Shouldn’t we be more concerned about a counter-attack?’
‘The enemy have scattered!’ Marlo shouted. ‘But they should all be dead! Who fired the rocket?’
The smouldering rebel was beating his boot heels with his cap to stop them from bursting into flames again. ‘It was me.’
‘You damned fool!’ Marlo shouted, taking an aggressive step forward. The guerrilla, a proud peasant and former farmer with heavily muscled arms and shoulders, stood his ground and looked Marlo coldly in the eye.
‘It was my fault,’ Victor said, moving between them. ‘I am responsible. I said he could shoot the rocket.’
Marlo stared into Victor’s eyes. ‘Then
The Indian scouts arrived and Marlo faced them. ‘How many did we kill?’ he demanded harshly.
The old Indian held up three fingers as he looked at Marlo coldly. He obviously did not like the man’s tone.
