Winter of the World

Where were the other units? Surely Lloyd’s platoon was not the only one involved in the attack? Perhaps others were advancing along parallel streets leading to the square. But a rush required overwhelming numbers. Lloyd and his thirty-five were obviously too few. The defenders had been able to kill and wound nearly all of them, and the few who remained of Lloyd’s platoon had been forced to take cover before reaching the church.

He caught the eye of Lenny, peering from behind the dead horse. At least he was still alive. Lenny held up his rifle and made a helpless gesture, pantomiming ‘no ammunition’. Lloyd was out, too. In the next minute, firing from the street died away as the others also ran out of bullets.

That was the end of the attack on the church. It had been impossible anyway. With no ammunition it would have been pointless suicide.

The hail of fire from the church had lessened as the easier targets were eliminated, but sporadic sniping continued at those remaining behind cover. Lloyd realized that all his men would be killed eventually. They had to withdraw.

They would probably all be killed in the retreat.

He caught Lenny’s eye again and waved emphatically towards the rear, away from the church. Lenny looked around, repeating the gesture to the few others left alive. They would have a better chance if they all moved at the same time.

When as many as possible had been forewarned, Lloyd struggled to his feet.

‘Retreat!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

Then he began to run.

It was no more than two hundred yards, but it was the longest journey of his life.

The rebels in the church opened fire as soon as they saw the government troops move. Out of the corner of his eye, Lloyd thought he saw five or six of his men retreating. He ran with a ragged gait, his wounded arm putting him off balance. Lenny was ahead of him, apparently unhurt. Bullets scored the masonry of the buildings that Lloyd staggered past. Lenny made it to the house they had come from, dashed in, and held the door open. Lloyd ran in, panting hoarsely, and collapsed on the floor. Three more followed them in.

Lloyd stared at the survivors: Lenny, Dave, Muggsy Morgan and Joe Eli. ‘Is that all?’ he said.

Lenny said: ‘Yes.’

‘Jesus. Five of us left, out of thirty-six.’

‘What a great military advisor Colonel Bobrov is.’

They stood panting, catching their breath. The feeling returned to Lloyd’s arm and it hurt like hell. He found he could move it, painfully, so perhaps it was not broken. Looking down, he saw that his sleeve was soaked with blood. Dave took off his red scarf and improvised a sling.

Lenny had a head wound. There was blood on his face, but he said it was a scratch, and he seemed all right.

Dave, Muggsy and Joe were miraculously unhurt.

‘We’d better go back for fresh orders,’ Lloyd said when they had lain down a few minutes. ‘We can’t accomplish anything without ammunition, anyway.’

‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea first, is it?’ said Lenny.

Lloyd said: ‘We can’t, we haven’t got teaspoons.’

‘Oh, all right, then.’

Dave said: ‘Can’t we rest here a bit longer?’

‘We’ll rest in the rear,’ Lloyd said. ‘It’s safer.’

They made their way back along the row of houses, using the holes they had made in the walls. The repeated bending made Lloyd dizzy. He wondered if he was weak from loss of blood.

They emerged out of sight of the church of San Agustin, and hurried along a side street. Lloyd’s relief at still being alive was rapidly giving way to a feeling of rage at the waste of the lives of his men.

They came to the barn on the outskirts where the government forces had made their headquarters. Lloyd saw Major Marquez behind a stack of crates, giving out ammunition. ‘Why couldn’t we have had some of that?’ he said furiously.

Marquez just shrugged.

‘I’m reporting this to Bobrov,’ Lloyd said.

Colonel Bobrov was outside the barn, sitting on a chair at a table, both of which items of furniture looked as if they had been taken from a village house. His face was reddened with sunburn. He was talking to Volodya Peshkov. Lloyd went straight up to them. ‘We rushed the church, but we had no support,’ he said. ‘And we ran out of ammunition because Marquez refused to supply us!’

Bobrov looked coldly at Lloyd. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

Lloyd was puzzled. He expected Bobrov to congratulate him for a brave effort and at least commiserate with him over the lack of support. ‘I just told you,’ he said. ‘There was no support. You can’t rush a fortified building with one platoon. We did our best, but we were slaughtered. I’ve lost thirty-one of my thirty-six men.’ He pointed at his four companions. ‘This is all that’s left of my platoon!’

‘Who ordered you to retreat?’

Lloyd was fighting off dizziness. He felt close to collapse, but he had to explain to Bobrov how bravely his men had fought. ‘We came back for fresh orders. What else could we do?’

‘You should have fought to the last man.’

‘What should we have fought with? We had no bullets!’