‘We’re pinned against the swamp,’ he told Lucas. ‘Some of the men are still on the far side of the thorn. It’s bad. We must push on or they will massacre us.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucas. It began to rain. Heavy droplets of it that burst with a tiny splash as they landed.
Paz wiped his glasses on his neckerchief. He said, ‘When they are all through the thorn there will be two blasts on the whistle. I’ll start moving forward. Follow me.’
‘What about the mules?’ Lucas asked, thinking about his baggage.
‘I’ve told them to unstrap their loads. If some of them have to be left behind we’ll come back for them.’
‘They must carry all the loads.’ Lucas said. ‘We need it all.’
‘They will do their best,’ Paz said. ‘These men don’t abandon supplies without reason.’ Then there was more firing. Lucas and Inez went flat. When they raised their heads again Paz was gone.
Paz stumbled off into the jungle. He almost fell on some tree roots but recovered his balance and kept running. He reached Rómulo, René the bullfighter and four other soldiers. Without orders they had unstrapped the baggage from one of the mules and were manhandling it forward. Paz looked at the men and then lifted the end of a leather pack to test its weight. The packs were very heavy. Without them the men would have a better chance of getting through. ‘We must have the stores, comrades. We must.’
The men nodded and slipped the straps over their shoulders. There was another echoing crash of a grenade and some single shots. Then came a loud scream that could not be placed even when it modulated to whimpering.
The enemy machine gun fired again. This time Novillo too recognized it was a Bren. He traversed his Hotchkiss looking for movement. Either the enemy had two Brens or they had moved fifty yards along the right flank. Another two hundred yards and they would be surrounded.
Inez heard it too. ‘Are they moving?’ she asked Lucas.
‘Sounds like it,’ he said.
Paz felt sure they were trying to get round the flank. He took two grenades from the bag that Nameo the Cuban always carried. Paz removed the pins, paused to count, and lobbed both of them into the spot where the Bren was first heard. ‘There!’ he called. ‘We’ll go through there.’
Novillo fired a burst that finished the clip. Then he unlocked the gun from its mount. It weighed thirty-four pounds. He’d always wanted to fire it from the hip but until now there had always been someone to say no.
There were two blasts of the whistle and then a muddle of gunshots from the right. Paz shouted, ‘Follow me! Go! Go!’ Santos took up the cry and shouted it in a dialect. Howling like savages the whole party moved forward. Their weapons and stores, and the uncertain ground underfoot, made their advance painfully slow. The enemy Bren fired again and someone fell with the short strangled cry of pain that is the mark of a mortal wound. There was a confusion of yells and shooting. The Bren fired the long bursts that usually mean the gunner can see his target. Two more men fell. One of them was Rómulo. He was carrying a pannier and went down with a shrill yell and a crash. It was enough. The rush faltered. The men scattered and went to ground.
Paz blew his whistle. ‘Go! Go!’ he shouted, but once a group of men go to cover under fire it is not easy to get them on their feet and moving into it again.
Paz looked to where Rómulo had fallen. It was a long way back. ‘It had to be there,’ he said. Rómulo’s pannier had tumbled into a swampy stream and there was a clear field of fire all round it, all the way back to the thorn.
‘I’ll go,’ Lucas called. He was already slipping the strap of the first-aid satchel on to his shoulder. Another sudden shower of rain swept across the swampy ground like grey mist. The rain was reducing visibility. Lucas decided that it was now or never.
‘Don’t go,’ said Inez.
‘All our morphine is in that pannier,’ said Lucas and was gone. As he ran, a machine gun tore pieces of twig and bark from the trees and single rounds whined across the clearing.
He ran faster than he would have believed possible. What was that joke that primitive man’s locomotion had been fear? Bullets came close enough to make his ears ring. He slid in the mud of the stream, lost his balance and toppled over, to end up sprawling alongside Rómulo and his stores.
‘Let’s look at you,’ said Lucas, bedside manner intact. There was blood everywhere. A couple of rounds had taken Rómulo’s lower jaw off. He was twisting about in the mud trying to scream but the blood spurting up his throat was drowning him. Lucas bent over him and put a knee on his chest to hold him still. He brought out his sharp knife. While clamping his left hand on Rómulo’s forehead he slashed his throat. He turned the knife point in the windpipe to enlarge the hole. The blood frothed like spilled beer. Into the foamy mess Lucas pushed the piece of tubing that he’d taken from his satchel. He forced it down the throat towards the lungs. Rómulo wasn’t struggling so much now. Lucas wiped the bloody knife and the boy moved gratefully as his lungs found air and the convulsive panic subsided.
‘You are all right,’ Lucas told him firmly. ‘You are all right.’ The words came out like an order.
Rómulo groaned and some single shots cracked and whined above their heads. Lucas didn’t give morphia. There would be others worse than this.
Two other men – René and one of the Indian mule drivers – skidded and fell to the ground beside them. ‘Carry him forward,’ Lucas ordered. He rummaged through the mule pannier to find some medical supplies and then closed it again.
Lucas would have to remain unburdened if he was to aid the casualties. The first-aid satchel was burden enough. Between them, René and the Indian would have to carry the supplies and their own burdens and the semiconscious Rómulo too.
Now Paz jumped up and ran forward so that they all saw him. He was jumping about like a man demented. He wanted to set them an example, and he certainly did that. ‘Go! Go! Go!’ he shouted once more. As if in response more firing broke out. A grenade exploded in dense vegetation near him and he disappeared into a green snowstorm.
24
THE JUNGLE. ‘You may be running a fever.’
It was not an ambush. The two parties had blundered into each other as drunks might meet on a dark street corner. Disoriented by the meandering river and its swamps, deprived of fixed-point bearings by the jungle overhead, both groups of men had been trying to correct an enforced easterly detour. Paz and his men – deeper into the swamp than those coming towards them – had brushed right flanks with the men searching for them. And like suspicious drunks, neither doubted the hostile intentions of the other.
Mike O’Brien, graduate of Harvard and CIA station head in Tepilo, was in charge of this hastily assembled combat team that had been airlifted to get Singer out of the jungle. He was with Alpha Section, his scouts, when Santos and Rómulo encountered them. Santos fired, and those first shots pinned Bravo Section down behind a big clump of jungle fern. They had just finished chopping their way through a bamboo thicket to make way for Charlie Section – fire and assault – which was bogged down in a deep and extensive mud basin.
O’Brien used his radio: ‘Charlie Section. Shanghai Leader to Charlie.’ There was no reply. They were still worrying about how deep the mud was. One man was in it almost up to the waist. It was beginning to look as though they might never be able to get him out.
‘Bravo here, Mike …’ ‘Pablo’ Cohen’s transmission ended as a burst of gunfire echoed through the bamboo. They took cover. They were crouched low when two explosions shook the whole jungle and rang in their ears. Mud slopped over O’Brien and it rained pieces of wood and a confetti of green vegetation.
‘Jesus, Mike. They’re all around us,’ said Pablo.
‘Take it easy, kid. Just take it easy and tell me what you see.’
‘Firing off to my right … Smoke! Holy Moses, pink smoke. They are calling in air, Mike!’
Like Singer and Lucas, Mike O’Brien was calling upon all of his combat experience to interpr
et the sounds of battle and assign them priorities. But newly graduated warriors, like newly graduated physicians, over-prescribe. And over-diagnose too. Novillo’s slowfiring Hotchkiss – obsolete before O’Brien was born – sounded to him like the big half-inch guns he’d seen chop trees and demolish walls. To O’Brien it was an awesome sound. He was almost prepared to see the outline of an armoured personnel carrier emerge from its direction. The grenades exploding in soft mud he mistook for a five-centimetre mortar. He wondered if they’d been lured on to a skilfully prepositioned enemy force. The pink smoke grenade confirmed these fears. He interpreted it, as did Bravo Section, as a targetmarker for some sort of heavy fire.
O’Brien rolled over and over on the ground to seek shelter. He dragged the Sterling ammunition with him, cursing the night-action telegram from Washington that had deprived them of good modern guns. No US Army weapons: it was like fighting with one hand tied. Cautiously O’Brien got to his feet, using the tree as cover. Ants swarmed over his boot and started up his leg. He kicked at the tree to dislodge them. He shuddered and looked up to the branches above him, in case there were snakes there. From the corner of his eye he saw a movement in the trees to his right. He took a snap burst at it. The vegetation made a loud noise as the movement of air rocked it. He’d fired too high. Some shots came back in his direction but he could not see the enemy. He couldn’t see anything except mud and vegetation.
O’Brien switched on his radio: ‘Bravo Section: watch the treetops.’ He saw a movement in the greenery and fired into the bushes. Someone tossed a grenade in the same direction. As it exploded he heard a loud scream that stopped suddenly. He reflected how feminine were the voices of some of the Indian tribesmen. Back home, a yell like that could have come only from a woman.
‘Jesus! Here they come!’
They seemed to be moving forward while firing. Cohen remembered his Marine Corps days and a demonstration of ‘marching fire’. It was a devastating method of attack that left little in its wake. How many were there?
‘Bravo to Shanghai Leader.’ Cohen’s voice was very calm.
‘Shanghai Leader: do you read me, Bravo?’
‘Company strength, I’d say. Coming in real fast.’
‘Charlie Section. Charlie Section.’
‘Take off, Bravo Section. Move out!’
O’Brien called again. There was no reply. He heard Bravo Section firing and guessed they had heard him. O’Brien’s number two – Billy Ovcik, a ‘jungle expert’ sent from Florida – also heard the order. He was close behind Mike O’Brien. Now they saw Novillo lugging the enormous Hotchkiss through the brambles. Behind him there seemed to be many more: bearded, dirty men with torn jackets. Their faces were covered in sores, their eyes bulged and there was the blood of dysentery on their legs. They were coming and they were shooting.
‘Mike! Mike!’ Ovcik called loudly, but he didn’t look towards O’Brien; he couldn’t take his eyes off these devils. Novillo’s burst of gunfire, discharged from the hip, slashed through the jungle, and more screams rang out. Ovcik didn’t wait to see Novillo thrown on to his back by the gun’s recoil. He scrambled through the bushes, ran, slipped and went deep into the swampy mud.
O’Brien saw what happened. He saw Novillo thrown backwards, and saw him get back on to his feet and pick up the gun. O’Brien, using his Sterling gun, fired first. The burst removed the top of Novillo’s skull. In a red mist of atomized blood Novillo slid down out of sight. Santos ran across to him. He wrenched the Hotchkiss from Novillo’s jealous clasp and pulled the trigger at about the same time that O’Brien aimed again. O’Brien’s Sterling jammed. He swore and was still struggling with its bolt as one of Santos’ rounds hit the body of the gun. The impact sent a pain up O’Brien’s forearm, and broke off enough of the cocking lever to sever two of his fingers at the middle joint. He flung the gun aside and ducked into a bush of bright yellow flowers. He bound a handkerchief tight around his hand. He half expected a spurt of arterial bleeding, but only the finger veins had gone.
‘What’s the use?’ O’Brien asked himself aloud. Two more grenades exploded nearby. He switched on the radio but it didn’t work. As he was juggling the switch he saw a thickset black man staggering through the blinding rain. Over his shoulder he carried a slim figure. Covered in mud, its eyes closed, his burden’s face was smooth and attractive, like a woman’s. They passed almost close enough for O’Brien to reach out and touch them, but without his gun he could do nothing but stare.
O’Brien shook the radio viciously and it suddenly buzzed back into action. ‘Move left,’ he called into it. ‘Everyone move left.’
‘We have casualties,’ the voice of Cohen said with studied calm. O’Brien sighed. ‘Move left,’ he called out. ‘Move! Move! Move!’
Singer had been moving forward carrying a box of rations. He went slowly and cautiously. Then he heard a scream of pain and recognized Inez’s voice. He stopped and wondered whether he should go back for her. Lucas did not hear her cry of pain. Lucas was busy cutting Rómulo’s throat. Paz was fifty yards away trying to get his men moving again. Singer heard more shots and then a grenade exploded too near for comfort. He flopped to the ground and took a deep breath to help him collect his thoughts. Then he heard Inez call again.
Inez was not Singer’s responsibility. She was one of these Marxists Singer despised. She had killed the sentries and God knew who else … Oh well, perhaps he must … Singer abandoned his box of rations. He turned and, bent low, crawled back towards the fighting. He moved carefully from tree to tree. He saw Novillo come into sight lugging his Hotchkiss and grinning fit to burst.
Singer saw some guy in fatigues come round a tree and fire the burst that took Novillo’s skull away. Had it not been for Novillo taking all the stranger’s attention Singer would never have got to Inez alive. The little clearing through which Paz had led his charge was now buzzing with gunfire. Singer saw her and ran. He literally threw himself into the gully beside Inez, ending his leap in a roll that knocked the breath out of him.
Singer bent over her to see what was wrong. There was no blood on her but she was only half-conscious. He pulled the Lee Enfield from her grasp and tossed it aside. Then he grabbed her and threw her body on to his shoulder like a sack of flour.
It was Santos – brandishing the Hotchkiss – who saved Singer and his load from being shot to pieces. Singer loped forward, looked into the eyes of a stranger in khaki fatigues, and staggered on past him. Then Santos opened fire with the big gun and there was a whinny of pain and a curse that was truly American. The last thing Singer heard as he gained the cover of the jungle was a gabble of noise over a radio. American voices.
Over on the right another grenade exploded, and from behind the drifting smoke came more screams. Lucas went groping into the smoke and found another casualty. ‘Mamá mamá mamá mamá,’ shouted Nameo. Even in cries of pain his slurred accent was evident. Lucas tried to grab him but Nameo struggled violently and rolled away. ‘Mamá, mamá,’ he shouted again, more softly this time, for his leg had been blown off. Half-severed at the hip the joint was visible and his guts were spilling out in spite of his hands trying to press them back into the bloody mess.
Lucas had the morphine ready. He tried to get hold of the big muscular arm to press the needle into it. It was a waste of morphine but Nameo couldn’t be left to scream and suffer. More gunfire sounded and Nameo scrambled about as if trying to get back on to his feet.
‘Steady,’ said Lucas. He felt Nameo’s body go limp as the big Cuban slumped face-down in the mud. The exertion had cost him every calorie he possessed. Again Lucas felt for the vein. It was difficult to see it in black skin but Lucas had to hit a vein; an intramuscular injection would waste at least ten minutes before taking effect.
There was a pounding of feet and then Angel Paz arrived, brandishing the big Luger. He crouched down alongside Lucas and said, ‘What’s happening here?’
‘Where is Inez?’
‘She was hit, but Singer
has her.’
‘Hit. My God!’
‘Singer has her,’ said Paz again, and by this time he took in what Lucas was doing. ‘What are you trying to do here, you old fool?’ He brought up his pistol and at point-blank range shot Nameo through the base of the skull. The man’s body was wrenched from Lucas’ grip by the force of the shot and they were both sprayed with blood.
For a moment Lucas could not find words. ‘You young bastard,’ he spluttered.
‘Don’t waste morphine on goners. Keep your morphine for the others. It’s not that kind of war. Get moving forward. We’ll need you badly tonight.’ Paz pushed Lucas viciously. ‘Get going, I said.’
Suddenly Lucas caught sight of Singer with Inez thrown over his back and everything else was forgotten. He chased after Singer worried that he might lose sight of him.
O’Brien also looked again at Singer carrying his human burden, but he did not follow. He was not interested in blacks and Indians. His instructions told him to look for a CIA agent: O’Brien had a clear preconception of what a CIA man looked like. He pushed his way through some greenery in which thorn was concealed. He came out cursing and lacerated. He decided that the enemy intended to pinch out his machine-gun team while trapping his advance party in what he now guessed to be an ox-bow of swampland. O’Brien needed another go at it. ‘Re-form,’ he called over the radio. ‘Re-form all sections.’
Of the fifty-three men that both parties comprised, only nineteen had fired their weapons during that first clash. Of these, only twelve had seen a target and only seven had scored hits. The two groups had moved apart without any of them truly understanding where they were in relation to the rest of the action. A few more scattered shots were fired at, and by, stragglers; a burst from a Bren sent everyone to ground for a few minutes. But within twenty minutes of the first shots being fired, the parties had totally lost contact. Few of them could have found their way back to the battleground.