house.
“They have automatic rifles,” he said, staring at Castra, who nodded again. “Blast them out of the thicket,” he went on. “It is the only way.”
Castra turned the sights of the gun on the thick shrubs on the opposite side of the road and swept it with a hail of lead. The noise of the gun set Holtz’s teeth on edge. Again the silence that followed did not indicate that anyone had been hit. Holtz stood undecided, staring out of the small loophole that had been made. He thought he saw a slight movement over to the right and, drawing his revolver, he sighted carefully and squeezed the trigger. Above the sharp crack of the gun a sudden wail came to them, and a man staggered up from the long grass, took two tottering steps forward and fell on his face.
Castra glanced at Holtz. There was a look of surprise and admiration on his face. “That was good, Lieutenant,” he said. “That was very good.”
“Seven more, unless they have withdrawn to get help.”
“I think not. The horses ran away from them. It is too hot to walk far. No, I think they all remain.”
A round, black object suddenly sailed up in the air. Holtz couldn’t be sure just where it came from. He watched it make a slow and graceful parabola and he shouted, “Look out, down there, look out.”
The hand-grenade must have been a very good one. It went off with a vicious explosion just by the cart behind which Fernando and Golz were sheltering. Two terrified yells followed the explosion and Golz came running out behind the cart, holding his hands over his ears.
Holtz yelled, “Get back, you fool! Get back, under cover!” But Golz was too frightened to listen. The automatic rifle barked twice from across the way and Golz fell backwards, clutching at his chest.
Holtz said, “The mad, undisciplined swine.” He peered through the loophole, trying to catch a glimpse of Fernando. He thought he could make out one of his boots just by the cartwheel, but he couldn’t be sure. “Do you think he’s been hurt?” he asked Castra anxiously.
“Stunned, perhaps,” Castra said, fiddling with the firing lever. “That was a very good bomb, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, yes, but Fernando—” Holtz took a step to the door and then paused.
Castra shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. You should not take risks. If he has gone, it cannot be helped.”
Holtz turned miserably back to the loophole. A large red stain had appeared by the cart-wheel. “Look, he has been hit. Look, he is bleeding to death.”
Castra said, “We cannot do anything.” His face had become very grim and hard. Two men in less than a half an hour. That was very bad.
Holtz said: “Watch very carefully. If they throw another grenade, fire immediately.”
Castra slouched lower over the gun. He swung its sights slowly backwards and forwards, covering the thicket, waiting.
A long silence ensued. Neither of the men spoke. They remained tense and watchful. Then, quite close to the road, away to the left, another grenade came sailing across to the farmhouse. Castra whipped the gun round and fired a long, raking burst. They had no time to feel jubilant as another of Pablo’s patrol suddenly sprang to his feet, only to fall over on his face, because the grenade struck the wooden planks they had nailed across the window and burst with a shattering roar.
Holtz felt the rush of air as bits of wood and shrapnel flicked past him, and the violence of the explosion threw him on his knees.
He heard the Lewis gun crash over on its side and Castra rolled over on his back, his face a spongy mass of blood. He lay there moaning.
Holtz crawled over to him, feeling horribly sick. Castra had received the full force of the splinters from the shutters as well as bits of shrapnel from the grenade. His face looked as if it had been crushed by a heavy weight.
Holtz knew that he couldn’t do anything, but he took Castra’s hand in his. “I am here, Sergeant,” he said, “have courage. I am with you.” Futile words, but what else could he say?
Castra drew in a shuddering breath and gripped Holtz’s hand hard. “The gun,” he whispered. “Watch out they don’t throw again. Those grenades are very good, Lieutenant.”
Holtz pulled off his white tunic and made a little pillow of it for Castra’s head. “I am quite near to you,” he said. “But I must right the gun.”
Castra released his hand. “I have lost my eyes,” he said, “I can’t help you any more, Lieutenant. I have lost my eyes.”
“No, no, don’t say that,” Holtz said, jerking the gun upright. The grenade had torn a large hole in the wooden shutters, and as Holtz stood up to put the gun into position he heard a rifle crack and a bullet whizzed very close to him, flattening itself against the wall behind him. He ducked down, swearing softly. No wonder Pablo was winning this revolution if all his soldiers were as good as these, he thought.
Keeping flat, he manoeuvred the gun into position and then ran back to Castra. He knelt by his side. “Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?” he asked, taking his hand again.
Castra showed his teeth in a horrible effort to smile, which made Holtz feel very bad. The big, even teeth were bright red from the blood that filled Castra’s mouth, and as he lifted his lips, blood ran out of the side of his mouth on to his soiled white tunic. “Don’t let these bastards beat you, Lieutenant,” he said in a thick, choked whisper. “Avenge me.”
Holtz could not bear to look at him any longer. He went back on hands and knees to the gun. He wondered where Dedos was. There was no sign of him behind the barrel. He lay flat, his hands on the firing lever, waiting.
There was a long silence and then, cautiously, from behind a tree one of the patrol appeared. He stood looking up at the farmhouse, his long, automatic rifle held stiffly at the ready. Before Holtz could fire at him, a rifle barked just beneath and the patrolman staggered back behind the tree. Holtz was fairly certain that he had been hit.
So Dedos was still alive, he thought with satisfaction. He had managed to get as far as the farmhouse. Perhaps he would get inside. He dare not go down to let him in. Any moment Pablo’s men might try to rush the house.
Again a grenade was thrown. This time it was obvious to Holtz that it was aimed at Dedos below. Holtz heard his yell of terror as the grenade exploded, and the whole house trembled with the force of the explosion.
Holtz fired a furious burst through the thicket and then shouted down to Dedos, but no one answered him. “I think they have Dedos too,” he said to Castra. “It is well that Pablo’s army didn’t attack in the first place. These men are very good.”
Castra didn’t hear him. He had died very quietly just before the grenade had exploded. Holtz turned his head to look at him, and as he realized that Castra was dead the sound of something falling at his feet made him jerk round.
A long, black grenade lay close by him. It had been very skilfully thrown through the hole in the shutter and now it lay there within a few feet of him. He had no time to flatten out or make any effort to protect himself. The word ‘Nina’ came to his lips, but he hadn’t time to say the word before the grenade exploded.
He was conscious of a bright yellow flash and a lot of noise. Then he sat up on his elbow and stared at the Lewis gun that had fallen over on its side again. He had been thrown right across the room and his hand rested on the spongy pulp that had been Castra’s face. Shuddering, he jerked his hand away and tried to get to his feet. As he moved, a wave of pain lurched into him, cutting his breath and bringing a scream fluttering in his mouth.
He held himself very still. Down the front of his tunic he could see a number of blood-stained little holes and he knew that his chest had been riddled with small splinters of shrapnel.
He lay on his elbow, waiting for the pain to go away. As he lay, he said in a low, sobbing whisper, “Look what they have done to me, Nina.” Then, because he was alone, hurt and rather frightened, he began to call to Nina as if she could hear him.
The pain that kept lurching in and out of his chest finally brought him to his senses, and he suddenly remembered the patrol outside. They would be coming to the farmhouse in a moment or so, to make sure that they had killed him. He must get the gun into position and settle them once and for all.
He knew that it would hurt if he moved, but he mustn’t mind a little pain, he told himself. Come along, he said to himself, come along. Now, move your arm. Sit up slowly. That’s right. Hell! It does hurt, doesn’t it? Hell! Hell! Hell! He began to cry, but he got his body upright and turned on to his hands and knees. Blood began to drip
