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

arching course. It hit the slope, too short. It rolled free and fell. There was a terrific explosion.
    “Tough,” Ryan said. “He made a good try.”
    “Yeah,” Horne said. “So have we.”
    Hours passed. The machine guns rattled steadily now. Only at long intervals was there a lull. The sun had swung over and was setting behind the mountain.
    Horne straightened, his powerful body heavy with fatigue. He looked over at Ryan and grinned. Ryan’s face was swollen from the kick of the rifle. Benton picked up a canteen and tried to drink, but there was no water.
    “What now?” Pommy said.
    Horne shrugged. “We take it on the lam.”
    “What?” Sackworth demanded. “What does that mean?”
    “We beat it,” Mike Horne said. “We get out while the getting is good.”
    “What?” Sackworth was incredulous. “You mean— run ? Leave our post?”
    “That’s just what I mean,” Horne said patiently. “We delayed this bunch long enough. We got ours from them, but now it doesn’t matter anymore. The Jerries are behind us now. We delayed them for a while. All around through these hills guys are delaying them just for a while. We’ve done all we could here. Now we scram. We fight somewhere else.”
    “Go if you want to,” Sackworth said stubbornly. “I’m staying.”
    Suddenly there was a terrific concussion, then another and another.
    “What the deuce?” Benton exclaimed. “They got a mortar. They—”
    The next shell hit right where he was sitting. It went off with an ear-splitting roar and a burst of flame. Pommy went down, hugged the earth with an awful fear. Something tore at his clothes; then sand and gravel showered over him. There was another concussion and another.
    Somebody had caught him by the foot. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”
    They broke into a stumbling run down the slope back of the nest, then over the next ridge and down the ravine beyond. Even then they ran on, using every bit of cover. Once Pommy started to slow, but Horne nudged him with the rifle barrel.
    “Keep it up,” he panted. “We got to run.”
    They slid into a deeper ravine and found their way to a stream. They walked then, slipping and sliding in the gathering darkness. Once a patrol saw them, and shots rattled around, but they kept going.
    Then it was night, and clouds covered the moon and the stars. Wearily, sodden with exhaustion, they plodded on. Once, on the bank of a little stream, they paused for a drink. Then Horne opened the old haver-sack again and brought out the remnants of the sausage and bread. He broke each in half, and shared them with Pommy.
    “But—”
    Pommy’s voice caught in his throat. “Gone?” he said then.
    Horne nodded in the darkness. “Yeah. Lucky it wasn’t all of us.”
    “But what now?” Pommy asked. “You said they were behind us.”
    “Sure,” Horne agreed. “But we’re just two men. We’ll travel at night, keep to the hills. Maybe they’ll make a stand at Thermopylae. If not there, they might try to defend the Isthmus of Corinth. Maybe we can join them there.”
    “But if they don’t? If we can’t?”
    “Then Africa, Pommy, or Syria or Suez or Russia or England. They’ll always be fighting them somewhere, an’ that’s where I want to be. It won’t stop. The Germans win here, they win there, but they got to keep on fighting. They win battles, but none of them are decisive. None of them mean an end.
    “Ever fight a guy, kid, who won’t quit? You keep kicking him, and he keeps coming back for more, keeps trying. You knock him down, but he won’t stay down? It’s hell, that’s what it is. He won’t quit, so you can’t.
    “But they’ll be fighting them somewhere, and that’s where I want to be.”
    “Yeah,” Pommy said. “Me, too.”

 
     
    T HE D ANCING K ATE
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    For those interested, the reef in this story is Pocklington, and its location has been described in the story itself .
    Misima Island is one of the Louisiade Archipelago, an extensive