Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 44
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The red flashes of the black powder were long and dull and smoky and
ineffectual against men in entrenched positions; they served only to
intensify the ferocity of the Italian attack.
Now the surge of uncontrolled, panic-stricken humanity slowed and
eventually ceased. The unarmed women who still survived gathered their
children and covered them with their robes, crouching down over them as
a mother hen does with her chicks, and the men crouched also, firing
blindly and wildly up the slopes of the valley at the muzzle flashes
that were fading now as the sun rose and the light strengthened.
Twelve machine guns, each firing almost seven hundred rounds a minute,
and three hundred and fifty rifles poured a sheet of bullets down into
the valley. Minute after minute the firing continued, and slowly the
light strengthened, unmercifully exposing the survivors in the valley
below.
The mood of the attackers changed. From panicky, nervously strung out
green militia, they were transformed.
The almost drunken elation of victorious attackers gripped them, they
were laughing triumphantly now as they served the guns. Their eyes
bright with the blood lust of the predator, the knowledge that they
could kill without retribution made them bold and cruel.
The miserable popping and flashing of ancient muskets in the valley
below them was so feeble, so lacking in menace, that not a man amongst
them was still afraid. Even Count Aldo Belli was now on his feet,
brandishing his pistol and shouting with a high, girlish hysteria.
"Death to the enemy! Fire! Keep firing!" and cautiously he lifted
his head another inch above the parapet. "Kill them! Ours is the
victory!" The valley floor, as the first rays of sunlight touched it,
was covered with thick swathes of the dead and maimed.
They lay scattered singly, piled in clumps like mounds of old clothing
in a flea market, thrown haphazardly on the coal pale sandy earth or
arranged in neat patterns like fish on the slab.
In the centre of the killing-ground, there was still life movement.
Here and there a figure might leap up and run with robes flapping, and
immediately the machine guns would follow it, quick stabbing spouts of
dust closing swiftly until they met and held on the running figure,
when it would collapse and roll on the sandy earth.
The warriors who still crouched over their ancient rifles, with their
dark faces lifted to the slopes, were now providing good practice for
the riflemen above them. The Italian officers" voices, high-pitched
and excited, called down fire upon them, and swiftly each of these
defiants was hit by carefully aimed fire and fell, some of them kicking
and twitching.
The firing had lasted almost twenty minutes now, and there were few
targets still on offer. The machine guns traversed expectantly, firing
short bursts into the heaped carcasses, shattering already mutilated
flesh, or tore clouds of dust and flying shale from the rounded lips of
the deep water holes, from the cover of which a sporadic fire still
popped and crackled.
"My Colonel. "Castelani touched Aldo Belli's arm to gain his
attention, and at last he turned wild-eyed and elated to his Major.
"Ha, Castelani, what a victory what a great victory, hey? They will
not doubt our valour now."
"Colonel, shall I order the cease fire?" and the Count seemed not to
hear him.
"They will know now what kind of soldier I am. This brilliant victory
will win for me a place in the halls-2
"Colonel! Colonel! We must cease fire now. This is a slaughter.
Order the cease fire." Aldo Belli stared at him, his face beginning to
flush with outrage.
"You crazy fool," he shouted. "The battle must be decisive, crushing!
We will not cease now not until the victory is ours." He was
stuttering wildly and his hand shook as he pointed down into the bloody
shambles of the valley.
"The enemy have taken cover in the water holes, they must be flushed
out and destroyed. Mortars, Castelani, bomb them out." Aldo Belli did
not want it to end. It was the most deeply satisfying experience of
his life. If this was war, he knew at last why the sages and the poets
had invested it with such In glory. This was man's work, and Aldo
Belli knew himself born to it.
"Do you question my orders?" he shrieked at Castelani.
"a) your duty, immediately."
"Immediately," Castelani repeated bitterly, and for a moment longer
stared stonily into the Count's eyes before he turned away.
The first mortar bomb climbed high into the clear desert dawn, before
arcing over and dropping vertically down into the valley. It burst on
the lip of the nearest well. It kicked up a brief column of dust and
smoke, and the shrapnel whinnied shrilly. The second bomb fell
squarely into the deep circular pit, bursting out of sight below ground
level.
Mud and smoke gushed upwards, and out of the water hole into the open
ground crawled and staggered three scarecrow figures with their
tattered and dirty robes fluttering like flags of truce.
Instantly the rifle fire and machine-gun fire burst over them, and the
earth around them whipped by the bullets seemed to liquefy into a
cascade of flying dust, into which they tumbled and at last lay
still.
Aldo Belli let out a hoot of excitement. It was so easy and so deeply
satisfying. "The other holes, Castelani!" he screamed. "Clean them
out! All of them!" Concentrating their fire on one hole at a time,
the mortars ranged in swiftly. Some of the holes were deserted, but at
most of them the slaughter was continued. A few survivors of the
shimmering bursts of shrapnel staggered out into the open to be cut
down swiftly by the waiting machine guns.
The Count was by now so emboldened that he climbed up on the parapet,
the better to view the field and watch the mortars fire on the
remaining holes, and to direct his machine gunners.
The hole nearest the wadis and broken ground at the head of the valley
was the next target, and the first bomb was over, crumping in a tall
jump of dust and pale flame.
Before the next bomb fell, a woman jumped up over the lip and tried to
reach the mouth of the wadi. Behind her she dragged a child of two or
three years, a naked toddler with fat little bow legs and a belly like
a brown ball. He could not keep up with the mother and lost his
footing, so she dragged him wailing along the sandy earth. Straddling
her hip and clutched with desperate strength to her breast was another
younger infant, also naked, also wailing and kicking frantically.
For several seconds, the running, heavily burdened woman drew no fire,
and then a burst from a machine gun fell about her and a bullet struck
and severed the arm by which she held the child. She staggered in a
circle, shrieking dementedly and waving the stump of the arm like the
spout of a garden hose. The next burst smashed through her chest, the
same bullets shattering the body of the infant on her hip, and she fell
and rolled like a rabbit hit by a shotgun.
The guns fell silent again and remained silent while the naked toddler
stood up uncertainly.
He began to wail again, standing solidly at last on the fat dimpled
legs, a string of blue beads around the tightly bulging belly and his
penis sticking out like a tiny brown finger.
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