Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) Read Free Page A

man was trying to get out of the first truck. He made it and tumbled to the road. His coat was stained with blood, and he was making whimpering sounds and trying to crawl. His face and head were bloody.
    “Next time it’ll be tough,” Horne said. “They know now. They’ll come in small bunches, scattered out, running for shelter behind the trucks.”
    Rifle fire began to sweep over the cup. They were low behind the parapet and out of sight. It was a searching, careful fire—expert fire.
    Benton was quiet. He looked over at Horne. Officially in charge, he had yielded his command to Horne’s superior knowledge.
    “What d’you think?” he asked.
    “We’ll stop them,” Horne said. “We’ll stop them this time, maybe next time. After that—”
    Horne grinned at Pommy. “First time under fire?”
    “Yes.”
    “Take it easy. You’re doing all right. Make every shot count. One cinch is worth five maybes.”
    Pommy crowded his body down into the gravel and rested his rifle in a niche in the rocks. He looked at Mike Horne and could see a thin trickle of fresh blood coming from under his bandage. The wound had opened again.
    Was it deep, he wondered, or just a scratch? He looked at the lines about Horne’s mouth and decided it was deep. Horne’s sleeve was torn, and he had a dragon tattooed on his forearm.
    They came with a rush. Rounding the bend, they broke into a scattered line; behind them, machine guns and rifles opened a hot fire to cover the advance.
    They waited, and just before the men could reach the trucks, swept them with a steel scythe of bullets that mowed them down in a row. One man tumbled off the brink and fell into the ravine; then another fell, caught his fingers on the lip, and tumbled head over heels into the ravine as the edge gave way.
    “How many got there?” Horne asked.
    “A dozen, I think,” Ryan said. “We got about thirty.”
    “Fair enough.” Horne looked at Sackworth. The young Englishman was still resentful. He didn’t like Horne. “Doing all right?” Horne asked.
    “Of course.” Sackworth was contemptuous, but his face was drawn and gray.
    “Ryan,” Horne said, “you and Pommy leave the main attack to the machine guns. Watch the men behind the trucks. Pick them off as they try to move closer. You take the right, Pommy.”
    The German with the bloody face had fallen flat. Now he was getting to his knees again.
    Then, suddenly, three men made a concerted rush. Ryan and Pommy fired instantly, and Ryan’s man dropped.
    “I missed!” Pommy said. “Blast it, I missed!”
    There was another rush, and both machine guns broke into a clattering roar. The gray line melted away, but more kept coming. Men rounded the bend and split to the right and left. Despite the heavy fire a few of them were getting through. Pommy and Ryan were firing continuously and methodically now.
    Suddenly a man broke from under the nearest truck and came on in a plunging rush. Both Ryan and Pommy fired, and the man went down, but before they could fire again, he lunged to his feet and dove into the hollow below the cliff on which their pit rested.
    “He can’t do anything there,” Sackworth said. “He—”
    A hurtling object shot upward from below, hit the slope below the guns, rolled a few feet, and then burst with an earth-shaking concussion.
    Horne looked up from where he had ducked his head. Nobody was hit.
    “He’s got grenades. Watch it. There’ll be another in a minute.”
    Ryan fired, and a man dropped his rifle and started back toward the trucks. He walked quite calmly while they stared. Then he fell flat and didn’t get up.
    Twice more grenades hit the slope, but the man was too close below the cliff. They didn’t quite reach the cup thrown from such an awkward angle. “If one of those makes it—” Benton looked sour.
    Pommy was shooting steadily now. There was another rush, and Benton opened up with the machine gun. Suddenly another grenade came up from below, traveling an