Looking at the map, Lateef made a decision to go towards a village about two miles to the west of us. One of the other men dissented, saying that he had heard that in the town three miles beyond this village was a Nationalist Forces headquarters. He said he would be happier if we detoured around the town either through villages to the north or to the south.
For a while we discussed it, but finally Lateef overruled us. He said that our primary concern was food and that because of the number of farms near the village we would stand the best chance there.
As we approached the village we saw two or three farms securely barricaded and defended.
By an unwritten law of the countryside, refugees were allowed to traverse or camp in fields lying fallow, on condition they stole no food nor attempted to enter the farmhouses. In all my time on the road, I was subconsciously aware of this rule, and like everyone else I tried to work within it.
For a short time some refugees from East Anglia had joined Lateef’s group, but they clearly adopted the attitude of each man for himself, and Lateef had separated us from them.
We passed the farmhouses, therefore, and headed for the village.
As was our custom, Lateef walked at the head of our column with three other men, immediately behind them came the handcarts containing our possessions, camping equipment and goods for barter, and the rest of the group followed on behind.
Because of my rifle, Lateef told me to walk alongside the leading cart, secreting the weapon in the false bottom in which we normally concealed unacceptable materials during searches or interrogations.
By this I could detect a slight reversal in Lateef’s attitude towards the rifle. Whereas before he had maintained that it was better to be unarmed as a form of self-protection, I saw now that he acknowledged the need to defend ourselves even if that defence was not itself apparent to potential aggressors.
We came to the village along a minor road that ran across country from the town on the far side of this village until where it joined a major road some eight miles to the east of us. Again, it was from experience that we knew it was better to come to a strange village along a road rather than across the fields. Though we felt immediately more exposed, we believed we were establishing a better basis for the coming barter by doing so.
According to the map the village had no actual nucleus, but was more a straggling collection of houses along two narrow roads: the one we were on and one that crossed it at right angles. From one end to another it was probably more than a mile long — typical of the villages in this region.
We passed the first house in silence. It had been abandoned and its windows were all broken. The same was true of the next house, and the one after, and of all the houses for the first two hundred yards leading into the centre.
As we rounded the bend, there was an explosion in front of us, and one of the men at Lateef’s side was thrown backwards.
We stopped. Those near the handcarts crouched down behind them, the others took what cover they could find at the side of the road. I looked down at the man who had fallen. He was on the ground five yards from where I crouched. The bullet had struck him in the throat, tearing away a large chunk of his neck. Blood spurted fitfully from his jugular vein, and though his eyes stared skywards with the dull glaze of death, he continued to make faint rasping noises from what was left of his throat. In seconds, he quietened.
Ahead of us a barricade had been erected across the road. It wasn’t the kind of barricade to which we had grown accustomed — an untidy barrier of paving-stones, old cars or masonry — but had been designed purposively and built with bricks and cement. In the centre was a narrow gate through which pedestrians could pass, and on either side of this were two protective raised sections behind which I could just make out the figures of men. As I watched one of them fired again, and the bullet smashed into the wood of the front of the handcart not two feet from where I was. I crouched down even lower.
“Whitman! You’ve got the rifle. Shoot back.”
I looked over at Lateef. He was lying on the ground with two other men, trying to shelter behind a low mound of earth.
I said: “They’re too well protected.”
I saw that the houses to each side of the barricade had been similarly defended with a wall of concrete. I wondered whether it would be possible to enter the village by going across the fields and coming to it from the side, but the inhabitants were so obviously hostile that there would be little point.
Reaching into the false bottom of the handcart I slid out the rifle and loaded it. I was aware that every member of our group was watching me. Still attempting to keep as close to the side of the cart as possible, I aimed the rifle towards the barricade, trying to find a target I would be reasonably certain of striking.
I waited for a movement.
In the next few seconds a variety of thoughts passed through my mind. This wasn’t the first occasion on which I had been in possession of a lethal weapon, but it was the first time I had ever taken deliberate aim with the knowledge that if I was successful I would kill or injure somebody. It is at times like this that one would try to rationalize all one’s actions if it were not for the immediate need for direct participation.
Lateef said quietly: “What are you waiting for?”
“I can’t see anyone to aim at.”
“Put a shot over their heads. No … wait. Let me think.”
I let the barrel sink. I had not wanted to fire. As the next few seconds passed I knew I would not be able to fire it in this premeditated way. Thus, when Lateef told me to return it to its hiding-place, I was relieved. A direct order from him to shoot would have created a situation almost impossible for me to resolve.
“It’s no good,” he said, not just to me, but to everyone in earshot. “We’ll never get in there. We’ll have to retreat.”
I think I had known that from the moment of the first shot. I realized that to Lateef this decision meant a lot as it was in some ways an abrogation of his authority. The man who had told Lateef about the Nationalist garrison was near him, but he said nothing.
There was a white sheet over the top of the handcart. We had used it on several occasions in the past when wishing to underline our neutrality. Lateef asked me to pass it to him. He stood up, unfolding the cloth as he did so. No one at the barricade fired. I had to admire his bravery; under the same circumstances of leadership I would have risked anyone’s life but my own. When I am in danger I have found that my capacity for self-honesty overrules all my thoughts.
After several seconds Lateef told us to get back in the road and to move away slowly. I stood up myself, crouching down behind the bulk of the handcart. Our little convoy began to move back the way we had come.
Lateef stood between us and the hostile village. He held the white sheet at arm’s length, as if to provide cover for the rest of us. Slowly, carefully, he stepped backwards, obviously uncertain what would happen if he turned and walked with the rest of us.
The handcart was half-way round the bend that would take us out of the line of fire, when the last shot sounded. Although some of the men not actually hauling on a handcart scattered to the sides of the road, the rest of us broke into a sprint until we were round the curve in the road. When we were all out of the line of gunfire we stopped.