Holtz yelled, “Get back, you fool! Get back, under cover!” But Golz was too frightened to listen. The automatic rifle barked twice from across the way and Golz fell backwards, clutching at his chest.
Holtz said, “The mad, undisciplined swine.” He peered through the loophole, trying to catch a glimpse of Fernando. He thought he could make out one of his boots just by the cartwheel, but he couldn’t be sure. “Do you think he’s been hurt?” he asked Castra anxiously.
“Stunned, perhaps,” Castra said, fiddling with the firing lever. “That was a very good bomb, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, yes, but Fernando—” Holtz took a step to the door and then paused.
Castra shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. You should not take risks. If he has gone, it cannot be helped.”
Holtz turned miserably back to the loophole. A large red stain had appeared by the cart-wheel. “Look, he has been hit. Look, he is bleeding to death.”
Castra said, “We cannot do anything.” His face had become very grim and hard. Two men in less than a half an hour. That was very bad.
Holtz said: “Watch very carefully. If they throw another grenade, fire immediately.”
Castra slouched lower over the gun. He swung its sights slowly backwards and forwards, covering the thicket, waiting.
A long silence ensued. Neither of the men spoke. They remained tense and watchful. Then, quite close to the road, away to the left, another grenade came sailing across to the farmhouse. Castra whipped the gun round and fired a long, raking burst. They had no time to feel jubilant as another of Pablo’s patrol suddenly sprang to his feet, only to fall over on his face, because the grenade struck the wooden planks they had nailed across the window and burst with a shattering roar.