‘Make a job of it,’ Baird went on, watching him. ‘If you throw them high in the air, they won’t spot where they’re coming from.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Get going. We’ve got half a minute to twelve.’
Rico began to climb down the tree. His breath was laboured, and once or twice he had to stop while he tried to control his trembling. Baird watched him, his face set.
‘Get on with it!’ he snarled. ‘What are you scared about? Nothing’s going to happen to you.’
Rico finally reached the ground. He leaned against the tree trunk, his legs buckling under him, then he made an effort, and began to move forward, completely screened by the tall saw-grass.
From his perch Baird could watch his progress through the bush, but the guard on the bridge of the dredge was not in a high enough position to see him. From time to time Rico stopped and looked up at Baird to get his direction. Baird waved him on, and he turned and continued through the saw-grass, stumbling over the swampy ground until he was within thirty yards of the big dredge. Baird signalled him to slow down. He focused his glasses on Rico’s face.
‘The little rat’s nearly dead with fright,’ he mut ered to himself. ‘If he fal s down on this, we’re all sunk.’
Rico again looked over his shoulder. Baird made a signal telling him to go on more slowly still.
Another ten yards brought Rico to the edge of the saw-grass. He could see the bridge of the dredge now, and he hurriedly ducked back, dropping on one knee.
He and Baird had rehearsed what he had to do again and again during the morning. He had to remain just out of sight until Baird gave him the signal to throw the bombs. He opened the canvas sack and took out one of the bombs. It immediately became slippery in his sweating hands and he put it back and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.
He looked up at Baird. He had to stare for some seconds before he could see him. Baird was aiming the Winchester now, covering the guard at the machine-gun.