‘I have my reasons for going into the camp. You have yours,’ Stratton said. ‘But you should tell your friends not to go any further. This is no place for bows and arrows.’
Victor looked at the Indians.
‘I’m going to get a little closer,’ Stratton said, making ready to go but pausing to look back at Victor. He squeezed the man’s shoulder, expecting this would be their final farewell, slipped over the rise and moved down the slope in a crouching run.
The Indians looked at Victor inquiringly.
Victor stared back at them. The truth was that he had not given any thought to their taking part in this conflict because he had never really expected to go into the camp during the battle. He wanted to tell the Indians that they were all leaving together for the border. But before he could say the words they jammed in his throat. He couldn’t do it. This wasn’t over for him. Not yet. That was his revolution the rebels were fighting for. But it was much more than that.
He crawled towards them. ‘My friends,’ he began, searching for the words. ‘Listen to me.You cannot come where I must go this time. What I do now is not like any time before.You cannot come with me . . . It’s time to say our goodbyes. Do you understand?’ he asked.
Yoinakuwa looked at Victor thoughtfully.
‘Please don’t make this difficult for me,’ Victor went on. ‘We have had a long journey together. You have suffered more than anyone should. Your sons deserve their future.’
The old Indian read the sincerity in Victor’s eyes and finally shrugged as if he accepted the Frenchman’s words.
‘Good,’ Victor said. He held out his arms to each Indian in turn and embraced them awkwardly - he had never displayed such a level of affection towards them before. ‘Right,’ he said, feeling uncomfortable, almost as if he were deserting them. ‘Good luck. It has been an honour to know you.’
Victor climbed over the rise and went down the slope in pursuit of Stratton, resisting the urge to look back.
Stratton reached the bottom of the slope and found himself on the same level as the Neravistas a hundred or so metres away. The undergrowth was thick enough to conceal him.
The shrill metallic sound of whistles suddenly filled the air. When Victor realised it was the enemy’s signal to advance he broke into a shambling run to join Stratton.
The whistles were accompanied by shouted orders and every soldier got to his feet, rifle in hand.
‘Fix bayonets!’ an officer called out. The order was passed down the line.
The soldiers removed the blades from sheaths on their belts and attached them to the barrels of their weapons.
Victor dropped beside Stratton, out of breath. ‘I have to be honest with you. I was about to leave you. But it dawned on me that, well, the entire meaning of my life lies in the next few hundred metres. I realised that I’m not going to the camp for my brigade. I can’t help them. I’m going for myself. If I left now, the meaning of all these years would be lost. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Yes. It does.’
‘Good,’ Victor said. ‘I’m glad you think so.’
The order to advance echoed along the line and the Neravistas began to march forward, up the slope towards the trees.
‘At the risk of pointing out something obvious,’ Victor said, ‘we don’t have any rifles!’
‘We’ll have plenty to choose from in a while.’
The thought chilled Victor.
The vegetation grew taller as the Neravistas moved up the slope. Many of them disappeared within it, the swaying tops of the bushes the only indication of their continuing advance.
Stratton moved forward in short stages, then stopped as he pondered on the next phase of the battle.
‘What is it?’ Victor asked, sensing Stratton’s concern.
‘We’re going to be in the line of fire when our guys open up.’
‘I’ve noticed you have a habit of getting in the shit before you figure out the next move,’ Victor said.
‘Do you ever stop griping?’
‘I like griping. This might be my last chance to gripe about anything.’
Sounds from behind made both men look back to see the Indians approaching at a crouching run.
‘For God’s sake, Yoinakuwa,’ Victor hissed in exasperation. ‘I made such a farewell speech. Why are you here?’
‘Ask them,’ Yoinakuwa said.
Kebowa and Mohesiwa stared at Victor and Stratton, gripping their bows.
Stratton shook his head and looked towards the Neravistas’ advance.
When the shelling had ceased, the handful of experienced men among the rebels lining the perimeter shouted for the others to move into their positions. ‘The Neravistas will be coming,’ was the cry.
Most of the men had survived the artillery barrage and now prepared to defend their camp against the frontal assault. Many were dazed or wounded, though, and some were badly disorientated. A cry for help came from a man trapped beneath a dead body that had landed on him. Bits of flesh and severed limbs lay scattered around. A man dragged himself forward into his firing position, ignoring his missing leg which had been blown away below the knee. A comrade applied a tourniquet to the stump so that he would not bleed to death before the fighting began.There were no more stretcher bearers on hand to ferry the wounded back. Every able-bodied rebel was now there to fight.
Louisa suspected that the end of the shelling was an ominous sign. A feeling of helplessness began to overwhelm her and she handed the little girl back to her mother.
‘I have to go,’ she said to David. She left the cover of the sandbags and ran across the courtyard and down the muddy track towards the only place she could think of where she might be of use.
As she approached the medical tent on the edge of the main living-quarters area Louisa slowed to a walk, an expression of utter horror on her face. The tent had received a direct hit. Bodies lay scattered everywhere. Many were those of women and children. Hospitals had an aura of sanctuary about them and, in the absence of a church in the camp, when the shelling had started many non-combatants had tried to take cover around its canvas walls. Shattered structures lay burning and smouldering. Cots had been pulverised along with the bodies that lay in them. A handful of women were attempting to deal with the carnage but they were dazed, emotionally overwhelmed and unequipped.
The sprawling living quarters had been largely destroyed. Smoke billowed from fires and large charred holes in the ground where homes had once stood. Moans and weeping filled the air. A piercing scream went up as a woman staggered from the smoking ruins carrying the limp body of a child.
Nothing in Louisa’s young life had prepared her for such a spectacle. She thought she had seen enough death and destruction at the bridge to harden her but now that had been utterly eclipsed by what had happened here. She didn’t know whether to cry or be sick or just drop to her knees and scream. But all she could manage was to watch in stunned silence.
Movement at her feet snapped her out of her trance and she looked down to see a little girl who was clasping her blood-streaked arm. The girl was not crying - she was simply looking up at Louisa as if to ask what it was all about. Louisa took a firm grip of herself and knelt in front of the child. ‘You’ll be okay. I’ll fix your cut. Where’s your mother?’
The little girl had no answer.
Louisa got to her feet. ‘Stay there and don’t move,’ she said and hurried into the charred remains of the hospital tent looking for anything that was usable. She found a box of bandages and grabbed as many other items as she could.
She returned to the little girl and picked her up. ‘Listen to me!’ she called out to the others. ‘Listen to me!’ she repeated for those too dazed to hear her the first time. ‘Bring all the children, bring the wounded and as many medical supplies as you can carry to the cabins. Get help. We must all help!’
She headed back along the track, calling out for others to follow. She hurried past various manned sandbag defences to the cabin use
d by Stratton and Victor and pushed open the door. She put the little girl in a chair and immediately set about preparing the room to accommodate the wounded.
Louisa threw wood on the smouldering fire, hung a pot of water on the cooking frame, cleared the table of pots and pans and took a moment to tend to the little girl’s wound.
A strange noise began to filter in from outside and she paused to listen. It sounded like whistles and Louisa wondered what it could mean.
The rebel commanders moved along their defensive lines, moving men to fill any gaps they found, ensuring that bayonets were fitted and each fighter had ample ammunition. The strategy from that point on was basic enough and everyone knew it. The Neravistas needed to punch a hole through the perimeter defence in order to stream into the camp and take it apart. The rebels’ mission was simply to stop them any way they could. Many still hoped that Hector would arrive to assist them. It was the only thing keeping some of them from running away.
A ‘beaten zone’ of open ground had been cleared along the front of the entire perimeter, something the men had complained about while they’d been doing it and now thanked God for. The zone was the width of a tennis court and it meant that the enemy would be exposed for the time it took them to cross it. During any such charge that the Neravistas might make the rebels hoped to kill as many of them as possible.
The line of Neravistas advanced ever closer through the forest, which for some meant hacking a path through it with machetes. Their commanders could be heard shouting at those who were too slow to speed up and at those who were getting too far ahead to hold their positions and keep the line.
The rebels brought their guns into their shoulders, adjusted the sights for close range, checked the positioning of their spare magazines - and moistened their dry lips.
Stratton was waiting for the battle to get started before he headed for the perimeter. It was the only way to avoid getting cut down by the rebel volleys. Another line of Neravistas appeared, running up the track, forty or fifty of them. They stopped to form up in several short lines, one behind the other, and the officers quickly ordered them to advance, one after the other, with a few metres’ gap in between each line.
‘That’s our way in,’ Stratton said.
‘Why is that?’ Victor asked.
‘Those men are extra support to ensure they punch a hole through the perimeter at that point. They’ll be doing that all along the line.’
Stratton made his way forward, keeping low, gauging his distance so as not to get too close. Victor followed. Unusually for them, the Indians brought up the rear.
Every rebel squatted behind his defensive position with his stare fixed on the foliage at the opposite side of the beaten zone. They could hear the Neravistas’ progress and expected them to break through and charge at any second. Then it would be the rebels’ turn to do some killing. The need to deliver a power ful blow at this point was paramount. ‘Kill a dozen each and we win’ were the words handed along the line.
Men fixed bayonets, tightened fingers on triggers and blinked their eyes behind rifle sights, waiting for a man to shoot and then move on to the next.
The rebels had placed M60 machine guns at intervals along the line, their ammunition belts laid out for quick usage, ammo boxes open around gunners and loaders.
Suddenly the Neravistas went silent, the sounds of their advance fading away. The government forces had stopped.
The tension soared.
‘They’re waiting to charge,’ a rebel commander whispered to the men either side of him. ‘Wait for them.’ The words were passed down the line.
Beads of sweat rolled down faces. Trigger fingers quivered. Breathing was ragged.
A rebel turned his head to one side, vomited and quickly turned back without wiping his mouth to look through his rifle sights.
Another urinated in his pants without taking his stare from the killing zone.
The Neravistas’ front line stood still in the forest, their comrades in the next wave kneeling a few metres behind them. They could see the rebel perimeter beyond the sunlit gap they had to cross. It was difficult to see the rebels themselves in the relative shade of their positions but occasional movements reminded the government soldiers that they were there and waiting for them. Few had really believed their officers who had tried to convince them that the artillery bombardment would kill most of the enemy.
Those Neravistas in the front line were the most scared. They were the ones who would step into the light first. But they had one weapon to aid them, to give them some confidence, a surprise for the rebels that, as their officers had insisted, if they could use it to full advantage would mean they could make it to the rebel positions without a scratch.
A Neravista officer made his way along the rear of the lines, ducking between branches and over logs as he reassured the men. ‘The grenades will clear the way,’ he reminded them. ‘Let your grenades do the work. They will clear what is left of the rebel line.’
Each man in the front line held a grenade tightly in one hand, his gun in the other. They had already pulled the rings and were holding the striker levers against the grenades’ casings, ready for the order to throw.
A rebel veteran saw the foliage opposite him move. He knew the Neravistas were there, waiting for the order to charge. He saw something beyond the outer branches, a pair of legs in camouflage clothing. He pulled his rifle tightly against his shoulder and rested his finger on the trigger as he aimed.
The enemy’s legs shifted position. The rebel was sure that the man was about to charge.
He adjusted his sights to where the man’s chest should be and squeezed the trigger.
His gun went off. The Neravista dropped out of the bushes and fell face down into the dirt, dead.
‘Hold your fire!’ a rebel commander yelled.
An instant later the grenade the soldier had been holding slipped out of his hand, the lever flew off and after a few seconds it exploded.
Several Neravistas nearby were hit by shrapnel. One of them screamed in agony as he fell.
‘They have grenades!’ a rebel shouted. ‘Grenades!’
The implications spread along the rebel line like wildfire.
The commander was unsure what to do at that second. He had made up his mind to fire only when the Neravistas charged. But now things were different.
The realisation of the new danger struck many of the rebels far more quickly. They knew that they had to act first.
‘They have grenades!’ one of them shouted again. ‘FIRE!’ he yelled and the rebel front line erupted in a thunder of guns.
Dozens of Neravistas were cut down inside the forest. Explosions shook the ground as the grenades they had been holding went off.
The government soldiers reacted in desperation and many in the front line threw their grenades. Many were shot as they emerged from cover to ensure that their devices flew freely into the rebel positions.
The Neravista officers realised they had lost the element of surprise and knew they had only one option left to them. ‘Charge!’ they yelled repeatedly, running behind the lines and firing their pistols into the ground behind the heels of their men.
The Neravistas burst into the open. Many were cut down immediately but a fair number of grenades were thrown and succeeded in silencing the rebel guns long enough for the government forces to cross the gap.
The Neravista soldiers screamed as they came, leaping over fallen comrades, rifles held out in front of them, the points of their bayonets leading the way. They pulled their triggers repeatedly, firing at anything and everything confronting them.
The rebels had the advantage of being defenders behind cover but although they killed an enormous number of Neravistas the far larger force overwhelmed them.
Rebels caught changing magazines were killed before they could reload. Bayonets plunged into throats and chests. The sound of metal upon metal joined the gunfire as men parried lunges and skewered bodies. Rifle butts slammed across face
s. The screams of the impaled and of those doing the impaling joined the cacophony. Soldiers gouged eyes, sunk teeth into flesh. They smashed skulls and shot faces.
All along the rebel line, Neravistas charged through gaps.
‘Fall back!’ came the order from rebel commanders but for many it was too late.
The line of rebels began to thin. Gangs of Neravistas set upon individuals, who were stabbed and shot from all sides. They battered, slashed and blasted the wounded where they lay or crawled.
Stratton and the others had listened to it all. The sounds of death and battle had not helped their morale any. If Stratton had stayed behind the others would gladly have done the same.
They watched the last of the Neravistas head into action.
‘Now,’ Stratton said as he hurried forward.
Victor gritted his teeth and followed closely behind, feeling utterly vulnerable and not just because he had no weapon. This is madness, he thought.
The sound of gunfire grew louder as they made their way up the slope and into the undergrowth where visibility dropped to a few metres. The fighting seemed to rage all around them.
A bullet zinged through the air between Stratton and Victor, and more slapped into the leaves and branches above. Victor crouched as low as he could without actually crawling on his belly and stretched a hand out in front of him, almost touching Stratton as if afraid of losing contact with him.
Bullets raked the ground close by and Stratton checked behind to see if the others were okay. Kebowa had suffered a nick across an arm but otherwise the team seemed to be unscathed.
They came across their first dead body, a Neravista with most of his head blown away. Stratton snatched up the rifle beside him and cocked it to ensure it was loaded. A few metres further on lay another body and Stratton relieved the dead man of his magazine sack. Victor grabbed up his weapon, eyes wide as he looked ahead.
They pushed on at a steady pace, Stratton aware that they had to avoid getting too close until the way was clear.
Mercenary Page 25
