Part 19 (1/2)
”Yes. I'll just be a while.”
He began to creep forward edgily, feeling his way with his hand in front of him. He advanced for what felt like hours in this fas.h.i.+on-it was more like fifteen minutes-while the odd shot popped overhead and the odd bomb exploded in the far distance. He had begun to feel like a Nottingham miner in the deepest, loneliest shaft. He imagined he could hear the groaning of the walls and smell the dust heavy in the air as the cave-in threatened.
d.a.m.n you, Julian, where the devil are you? Why Why do such a foolish thing? do such a foolish thing?
At one point something moved just ahead, and Florry brought his pistol up; it was a rat, big as a cat, with filthy rotten eyes and quivering whiskers. It perched on its hind legs barring the way. Florry hated rats. He felt about on the gummy trench floor for a rock, found one, pried it free, and hurled it at the beast. The throw was off and the thing just stared balefully at him with what seemed to be Oxbridge arrogance. A university rat, eh? A b.l.o.o.d.y Trinity College rat. Finally, bored, it ambled haughtily off.
Florry was surprised to discover himself breathing hard at the ordeal. Gathering his nerves back in a tight little bundle, he proceeded along, adding rats to his worries. He clambered over a broken timber. A body lay nearby but Florry could make out nothing of it in the dark, so coated with mud as it was; it was like a sack of sodden rags. He went on farther. There was no movement and the only sound was the splas.h.i.+ng of the drops into the puddles.
”Julian? Julian?” he whispered.
There was no answer. A fusillade sounded above, and then an angry reply. The Fascists were getting ready to counterattack. At the same time, a mist rose to cling to everything, a kind of ghastly soup lapped everywhere in the trench.
”Julian?” He thought Julian was probably back by this time, full of marvelous stories and having appropriated a flask of Fascist brandy and treated the troops to a sip. d.a.m.n you, Julian, so like you! And here I sit out on a b.l.o.o.d.y limb.
”Julian!” he whispered again. How far out was he? How close to their position? The urge to retire grew heavy and tempting. It was almost an ache. But he knew somehow that he could not. He could not abandon Julian, not here. He was bound to him in peculiar ways.
He squirmed ahead a few more feet, tripping through the mist. He reached another zigzag in the trench. He eased around it.
”Shhh! G.o.d, they're right ahead, Stink.”
”Jul-”
”Shhh! Do you know I heard you the whole way? It's a good thing they're not paying attention.”
Julian was crouched in a niche in the wall.
”Thank G.o.d you're all right. Come on, Mowry says they'll attack any moment.”
”Of course they will. Now listen here, they won't come through this trench because it zigs and zags so furiously and because they'll a.s.sume we have it covered. They'll be above, moving through the mist. When they go by-”
”Julian!”
”Just listen, chum. They'll go by and we can squeeze ahead another few yards or so. It's not far off. I was almost there. And I'll chuck a bomb into that Maxim gun.”
”Julian, no. Christ. Listen, Mowry says the attack is all fouled up. We may be out here all by ourselves. The Germans never jumped off. We're out on a limb.”
”Well, if that doesn't just prove you can't get good help any more. The cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”
”Come on, we've-”
But Florry was stunned into silence by the awkward shambling noise of a large body of men beginning to move up ahead. Julian pulled him back into the niche and they lay in the mud, enwrapped in each other. Florry could barely breathe. He felt his heart throbbing and his chest aching. He pressed himself into Julian's chest and sensed the heart pumping madly. They could hear the low squish-slip of boots moving through the mud close by, but Florry was too scared to focus. Whispered commands in Spanish flew softly through the mist like sparrows. There was the jingle and clink of equipment, the occasional harder clack of a bolt being thrown.
Each second Florry knew they'd be discovered. Wave after wave pa.s.sed by. They must have gotten reinforcements. A whole army seemed to be creeping by above them through the mist.
”Get ready,” Julian commanded, at last disconnecting himself from Florry. He began to slither down the trench with the bomb in his hand. Florry followed, c.o.c.king the Webley.
A sudden spatter of shots announced the beginning of the attack. Florry heard the pop and snap of rifle bullets and the bursting of bombs. With the cover of the noise, Julian rose and began to close the distance to the main trench with manful strides. Florry hurried after him.
The Maxim opened fire from quite nearby: its clatter was tremendous. It poured bullets out into the night at an incredible rate and seemed to Florry like some industrial instrument for the manufacture of wickets or camming gears, sparking and laboring mightily in its moorings. He could see Julian pluck the first pin from his bomb and then begin to slide toward the gap that marked the intersection between their trench and the larger enemy one.
What happened next happened fast, particularly after the long, slow miner's descent toward it. A youth appeared as Julian stepped into the trench and pointed his rifle at him. Florry, just behind Julian, shot the young man in the face.
”Good show!” shouted Julian, bounding ahead and pulling the second pin, as he lobbed the bomb underhand toward the sound of the machine gun. In another instant he was back, knocking Florry flat. The burst, so close, lit the sky with burning fragments and hot wind and hurt their ears. The Maxim quit abruptly.
”Come on,” yelled Julian, clambering past him. Florry rose. There seemed other dark shapes coming from the Fascist position at them and he fired his remaining five chambers of four-five-five at them, driving them back, and turned to race after Julian.
”Come on on, Stink,” screamed Julian, pulling him along. He was delirious with joy. ”Good Christ, man, but that was b.l.o.o.d.y marvelous marvelous, that was more b.l.o.o.d.y fun than old Julian's ever ever had! Blast, you potted him right in the b.l.o.o.d.y snout!” had! Blast, you potted him right in the b.l.o.o.d.y snout!”
But Florry felt only queasy and ashamed. He'd seen the boy's face in the spurt of flame and he knew he was perhaps fifteen, with a vague sprig of mustache. The bullet had smashed into his brain, that huge four-five-five, heavy as the Liverpool Express, shattering the whole upper quadrant of his face. He lay in a slop of mud and blood, utterly defunct. Christ, why couldn't it have been a Moorish sergeant or a German colonel, why a silly, dim little child?
Julian was yanking him along savagely. Explosions and gunfire seemed to be coming from every direction in the dark. Weird illuminations lit the horizon. The trench seemed endless. Bullets pranged into the dirt or thunked against the sandbags, making a peculiar hop-hop hop-hop sound. Julian suddenly leapt back, pinning him to the ground. He heard, besides the thumping of Julian's heart, the heavy sound of a ma.s.s of men running through the mud. It must have been the attacking party, unsupported since the destruction of the Maxim gun. sound. Julian suddenly leapt back, pinning him to the ground. He heard, besides the thumping of Julian's heart, the heavy sound of a ma.s.s of men running through the mud. It must have been the attacking party, unsupported since the destruction of the Maxim gun.
”Listen. We'll never make it back. I think there's a party of them up ahead in the trench.”
”Ah! The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”
”Yes. Unsporting of them, eh? Why don't we crawl about a hundred meters or so out on the left. If we stay low, we should be all right. When they pa.s.s on by, we can return to our own lines. All right?”
”You clever chap.”
”Brilliant Julian, always thinking. Come on, then.”
Julian pulled himself out of the trench and pivoted to offer Florry a hand. Florry, thus a.s.sisted, scrambled out. Julian s.h.i.+mmied away, and Florry began to- It was as if he were at the center of an explosion. There was no pain, only the stunned sense of a tremendous blow to the throat knocking him down, filling his eyes with light and drama. He fought for strength but could find none; he put his hand to his wound and was further stunned to discover his fingers were wet and black.
G.o.d, he'd been shot. He lay, waiting for death. The blood flowed over his tunic. The numbness and incoherence spread.
Julian appeared, inches from his eyes.
”I'm dying,” Florry said.
”Can you move?”
”I'm dying. Go on, get out of here.”
”Ah, rot, Robert. I'm the hero here, I'll I'll make the dramatic suggestions, the glorious sacrifice, all right? Lord, you're a mess, Stinky. You look worse than when you p.i.s.sed yourself up in fifth form.” make the dramatic suggestions, the glorious sacrifice, all right? Lord, you're a mess, Stinky. You look worse than when you p.i.s.sed yourself up in fifth form.”
Somehow Julian got him turned over onto his belly and aimed in the proper direction. Florry floundered along ineffectively and Julian shoved him on, half-pus.h.i.+ng, half-pulling him. Above them, bullets tore through the night, occasionally popping with a rude sound and a cloud of spray into the wet ground. They seemed to move groggily for the longest time, but at last they reached a less barren area, where gullies and thick brush offered them some protection and Julian got him up and stumbling along.
Behind them, another machine gun opened up.
”d.a.m.n them, they've brought another gun up. Come on, Stinky.”
But Florry was at last spent.