Part 34 (1/2)
”If anybody so much as breathes heavily,” said Julian, ”my nervous companion will shoot you all down. You stay absolutely still, do you hear? Absolutely still.”
They waited, almost frozen in the dicey intensity of the moment. Outside the firing seemed to rise, and then there was a banging at the iron door to the blockhouse.
”What's going on, d.a.m.n you? Fire, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, get those machine guns spitting.”
”Easy lads,” said Julian. ”Just hold it still as little mice and maybe you'll see tomorrow.”
”English f.u.c.ker,” said one of the Germans.
Julian shot him.
”Who's next?” he said. ”I'll shoot each and every man here if I must.”
The firing outside had ceased. The pause seemed to last forever, and then there was a hoot or yelp of sheer giddy joy, and Florry heard the thunder of hooves as the air seemed to fill with dust. A few more shots sounded, until at last someone else pounded at the door.
”Ingles! Dios te ame, ven aca!”
Julian went swiftly to the iron door and unlocked it. Portela, looking like some kind of buccaneer in a cape with crossed bandoliers on his chest and a long-barreled Mauser automatic, ducked in.
”Get these b.a.s.t.a.r.d out,” yelled Julian.
Florry backed off and let the Germans file past him. When the last man had vanished, he himself climbed out.
”Go on, run, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,” yelled Julian in English, firing a shot in the air. The Germans began to flee across the bridge.
”G.o.d, Stink, look at them run!” yelled Julian joyfully. ”Christ, old sport, we b.l.o.o.d.y pulled it off.”
”They'll be back,” said Florry darkly, for he knew the Germans would recognize in minutes and take the offensive. Yet even as he spoke he was astounded by the strangeness of what was happening. The bridge seemed to swarm with an astounding crew of gypsy brigands, all in leather and dappled with an a.s.sortment of bullets, bombs, daggers, strange obsolete weapons, incredibly colorful costumes, all of them stinking evilly of sweat and garlic and horses. Their leader, a hideously ugly old man swaddled in the most absurd of all the outfits, a voluminous dress under his leather coat, immediately threw his arms about Florry and hugged him violently, and only when Florry felt b.r.e.a.s.t.s big as any wet nurse's under the leather did he realize she was a woman. Her face seemed carved from ancient walnut, though her eyes were bright and cunning; she had nearly half her teeth.
”Ingleses, me permiter a verles. Que bravos. Que cahones estos hombres tienen. Mira los heroes, cobardes,” she crooned into his ears, her breath flatulent with garlic. she crooned into his ears, her breath flatulent with garlic.
Florry had no idea what she was saying.
”Pleased indeed,” he said.
”Gad, what a spectacle,” said Julian. ”What an extraordinary woman. Is she not a woman, Stink? She reminds me rather too much of Mother.”
”Let's not chat,” said Florry. ”Let's blow this b.l.o.o.d.y thing and get quit of this place.”
”Yes, let's go,” called Portela, already shed of jacket and preparing to monkey climb down the bridge's new scaffolding to plant his charges.
”Where's the b.l.o.o.d.y dynamite?” said Florry.
”La dinamita esta aqui!” screamed the old lady, and one of her men came ambling over with a scabby horse laden with crates. screamed the old lady, and one of her men came ambling over with a scabby horse laden with crates.
”It's very old,” said Portela, ”from the mines. But when she goes, she'll go with a bang that'll be heard in Madrid!”
”Yes,” said Florry, unnerved by the old stuff, when he'd been expecting gear somehow more professional and more military, ”well, let's get b.l.o.o.d.y cracking.”
”Stink, old man, I've found a wonderful toy,” said Julian. Florry looked to him to see that he'd just climbed from the blockhouse with one of the German light machine guns. He'd chucked his Condor Legion tunic and wrapped himself with belts. ”Light as a feather. b.l.o.o.d.y German genius for engineering. I'd say the perforations along the barrel housing keep it cool from the air.”
”Perhaps you'd best take some chaps down the bridge and watch for Jerry,” said Florry. ”I think I'll help with the poppers.”
”Good show, old man,” said Julian, who dashed down the bridge, the oily belts clinking and jingling as he ran.
”La dinamita!” yelled the old lady. yelled the old lady.
”Yes, splendid,” said Florry, and he grabbed the reins of the horse and tugged him to the bridge. ”Here, Portela?”
”It will do,” said the officer.
Florry shot the horse in the head; it bucked once, then sank on its knees, its great skull forward. Florry pried a case from its harness with some difficulty, then beat it open with the b.u.t.t of his Webley grip. The dynamite lay nestled inside, waxen and pale pink, looking like a batch of fat, oily candles. It smelled peculiar.
”G.o.d, it looks ancient,” ancient,” he said to no one in particular. he said to no one in particular.
”This is a detonator,” said Portela, producing something similar to a cartridge from the pouch at his belt. ”You press it into the end of one of those sticks. Then you wire up the leads and run it back to the box. Then you prime the box and push the lever and send the spark over the wire. Then you get your big bang.”
”And who's to lash the stuff to the bridge? This fat old lady?”
”I'll rig the one side,” said Portela. ”Perhaps Comrade Florry could help on the other. We must have two two charges for the great destruction.” charges for the great destruction.”
Somehow this was a detail that Steinbach had neglected to mention. ”And I suppose those guerilla boys wouldn't be able to wire it up?”
”Alas, no.”
”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Well, then, let's get going, eh?”
At that moment, the first sniper's bullet struck near the bridge, followed by two more.
”Christ,” said Florry, as the old lady rose, selected a weapon from her bewildering a.s.sortment-a broom-handle Mauser-and fired off across the bridge into rocks near the treeline. Shots opened up from all around. Florry heard Julian's machine gun begin with that absurd, fast, ripping yelp.
He lugged the box to the railing and slung himself over it. For just a second, he thought he'd gone too far; he almost lost his grip and could see himself hurtling down, screaming for Sylvia as he fell, until he was smashed to pulp on the stones below. But then he had himself and hung for just a minute, gathering his breath. The old lady, her eyes dark with love, touched him on the hand.
”Bien hecho, ingles,” she said, and laughed, showing her black stumps.
Christ, you beauty, was all Florry could think, would you be my last vision? But he lowered himself onto the ab.u.t.ting structure of steel, reaching foot by foot, finding a grip and then lowering himself again and again by the same laborious, experimental process, trying all the while not to look down or believe those actually were were bullets whanging against the metal or kicking into the old stone of the bridge with a bang and a puff of dust, until at last he found himself perched like some grubby ape in a monkey house on a gym apparatus, surrounded only by bars and s.p.a.ce. He clung tightly to the girders with his legs, hoping the sweat-he had begun to perspire wretchedly-would not run into his eyes. He was now in a forest of German iron and the word bullets whanging against the metal or kicking into the old stone of the bridge with a bang and a puff of dust, until at last he found himself perched like some grubby ape in a monkey house on a gym apparatus, surrounded only by bars and s.p.a.ce. He clung tightly to the girders with his legs, hoping the sweat-he had begun to perspire wretchedly-would not run into his eyes. He was now in a forest of German iron and the word KRUPP KRUPP darted before his eyes. A shot banged off the metal. Up top he could hear heavy firing. He tried not to look down. darted before his eyes. A shot banged off the metal. Up top he could hear heavy firing. He tried not to look down.
”Dynamite!” he screamed.
”Eh, ingles?”
”Dynamite, d.a.m.n you!” he screamed, and in his urgency forgot his vow not to look down. Far below the stream seemed like a green, sc.u.mmy ribbon of tin foil breaking over pebbles strewn by a child. He felt the vertigo buzz through him. He clung more tightly than ever. A bullet ricocheted nearby with a metallic clang.
”Aqui estan los cachivaches.”
Something swung blurrily before his eyes: it was a peasant's basket on a cord. Weakly, with one hand, he plucked at it, pulled it close, and pinned it to his body with an awkward elbow. He reached in to find two bundles of six waxy sticks of the explosive. He pulled one out and wedged it into the nearest joint in the girders he could find. He jammed the other bunch in atop it and wrapped it tight into a ligature with some long strands of electrician's tape somebody had thoughtfully included in the basket. It looked dreadfully sloppy, the tape wrapped in a messy sprawl about the uneven nest of sticks.
”Hurry!” someone else under the bridge called. He looked over to see the fat Portela similarly astride a girder on the other side, working just as desperately as he was.
What the devil does he think I'm doing? he wondered, bewildered and flooded with bitterness.