‘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 faces. 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.