The blast threw Bruce over backwards. He fell and rolled, clutching desperately at the smooth roof, but as he went over the edge his fingers caught in the guttering and he hung there. He was dazed with the concussion, the guttering cutting into his fingers, the shoulder strap of his rifle round his neck strangling him, and the gravel of the embankment rushing past beneath him.
Ruffy reached over, caught him by the front of his jacket and lifted him back like a child.
“You going somewhere, boss?” The great round face was coated with dust from the explosions, but he was grinning happily. Bruce had a confused conviction that it would take at least a case of dynamite to make any impression on that mountain of black flesh.
Kneeling on the roof Bruce tried to rally himself. He saw that the wooden side of the coach nearest the explosions was splintered and torn and the roof was covered with earth and pebbles. Hendry was sitting beside him, shaking his head slowly from side to side; a small trickle of blood ran down from a scratch on his cheek and dripped from his chin. In the open trucks the men stood or sat with stunned
expressions on their faces, but the train still raced on towards the rain storm and the dust of the explosions hung in a dense brown cloud above the forest far behind them.
Bruce scrambled to his feet, searched frantically for the aircraft and found its tiny shape far off above the mass of cloud.
The radio was undamaged, protected by the sandbags from the blast.
Bruce reached for it and pressed the transmit button.
“Driver, are you all right?”
“Monsieur, I am greatly perturbed.
“You’re not alone,” Bruce assured him. “Keep this train going.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Then he switched to the aircraft’s frequency.
Although his ears were singing shrilly from the explosions, he could hear that the voice of the pilot had changed its tone. There was a slowness in it, a breathless catch on some of the words. He’s frightened or he’s hurt, thought Bruce, but he still has time to make another pass at us before we reach the storm front.
His mind was clearing fast now, and he became aware of the complete lack of readiness in his men.
“Ruffy!” he shouted. “Get them on their feet. Get them ready.
That plane will be back any second now.” Ruffy jumped down into the truck and Bruce heard his palm slap against flesh as he began to bully them into activity. Bruce followed him down, then climbed over into the second truck and began the same process there.
“Haig, give me a hand, help me get the lead out of them.” Further removed from the shock of the explosion, the men in this truck reacted readily and crowded to the side, starting to reload, checking their weapons, swearing, faces losing the dull dazed expressions.
Bruce turned and shouted back, “Ruffy, are any of your lot hurt?”
“Couple of scratches, nothing bad.” On the roof of the coach Hendry was standing again, watching the aircraft, blood on his face and his rifle in his hands.
“Where’s Andre?” Bruce asked Haig as they met in the middle of the truck.
“Up front. I think he’s been hit.” Bruce went forward and found
Andre doubled up, crouching in a corner of the truck, his rifle lying beside him and both hands covering his face. His shoulders heaved as though he were in pain.
Eyes, thought Bruce, he’s been hit in the eyes. He reached him and stooped over him, pulling his hands from his face, expecting to see blood.
Andre was crying, his cheeks wet with tears and his eyelashes gummed together. For a second Bruce stared at him and then he caught the front of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. He picked up
Andre’s rifle and the barrel was cold, not a single shot had been fired out of it. He dragged the Belgian to the side and thrust the rifle
into his hands.
“I’m going to be standing here beside you.” he snarled, If you do that again I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry, Bruce.” Andre’s lips were swollen where he had bitten them; his face was smeared with tears and slack with fear. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.” Bruce ignored him and turned his attention back to the aircraft. It was turning in for its next run.
He’s going to come from the side again, Bruce thought; this time he’ll get us. He can’t miss twice in a row.
In silence once more they watched the jet slide down the valley between two vast white mountains of cloud and level off above the forest. Small and dainty and deadly it raced in towards them.
One of the Bren guns opened up, rattling raucously, sending out tracers like bright beads on a string.
“Too soon,” muttered Bruce. “Much too soon; he must be all of a mile out of range.” But the effect was instantaneous. The jet swerved, almost hit the tree tops and then over-corrected, losing its line of approach.
A howl of derision went up from the train and was immediately lost in the roar as every gun opened fire. The jet loosed its remaining rockets, blindly, hopelessly, without a chance of a hit. Then it climbed steeply, turning away into the cloud ahead of them. The sound of its engines receded, was muted by the cloud and then was gone.
Ruffy was performing a dance of triumph, waving his rifle over his head. Hendry on the roof was shouting abuse at the clouds into which the jet had vanished, one of the Brens was still firing short ecstatic bursts, someone else was chanting the Katangese war cry and others were taking it up. And then the driver in the locomotive came in with his whistle, spurting steam with each shriek.
Bruce stung his rifle over his shoulder, pushed his helmet on to the back of his head, took out a cigarette and lit it, then stood watching them sing and laugh and chatter with the relief from danger.
Next to him Andre leaned out and vomited over the side; a little of it came out of his nose and dribbled down the front of his battle-jacket. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry, Bruce. I’m sorry, truly I’m sorry,” he whispered.
And they were under the cloud, its coolness slumped over them like air from an open refrigerator. The first heavy drops stung Bruce’s cheek and then rolled down heavily washing away the smell of cordite, melting the dust from Ruffy’s face until it shone again like washed coal.
Bruce felt his jacket cling wetly to his back.
“Ruffy, two men at each Bren. The rest of them can get back into the covered coaches. We’ll relieve every hour.” He reversed his rifle so the muzzle pointed downwards. “De Surrier, you can go, and you as well, Hendry.”
“I’ll stay with you, Bruce.”
“All right then.” The gendarmes clambered back into the covered coaches still laughing and chattering, and Ruffy came forward with a ground sheet and handed it to
Bruce.
“The radios are all covered. If you don’t need me, boss, I got some business with one of those Arabs in the coach.
He’s got near twenty thousand francs on him; so I’d better go and give him a couple of tricks with the cards.”
“One of these days I’m going to explain your Christian monarchs to the boys. Show them that the odds are three to one against them,” Bruce threatened.
“I wouldn’t do that, boss,” Ruffy advised seriously. “All that money isn’t good for them, just gets them into trouble.”
“Off you go then. I’ll call you later,” said Bruce. “Tell them I said “well done
I’m proud of them.” “Yeah. I’ll tell them,” promised Ruffy.
Bruce lifted the tarpaulin that covered the set.
“Driver, desist before you burst the boiler!” The abandoned flight of the train steadied to a more sedate pace, and Bruce tilted his helmet over his eyes and pulled the ground sheet up around his mouth before he leaned out over the side of the truck to inspect the rocket damage.