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.

"All the windows blown out on this side and the woodwork torn a

little, he muttered. "But a lucky escape all the same."

"What a miserable comic-opera war this is," grunted Mike Haig. "That