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We're all going to die, he thought.
But why else did we come here?
He turned back to his men, wondering what to say. He had to keep them thinking positively. "Just hug the sides of the street, close to the houses," he said. "Remember, the slower you go, the longer you're exposed--so wait for the whistle, then run like fuck."
Sooner than expected, he heard the three sharp chirrups of Major Marquez's whistle.
"Lenny, you're last out," he said.
"Who's first?" said Lenny.
"I am, of course."
Good-bye, world, Lloyd thought. At least I'll die fighting Fascists.
He threw the door wide. "Let's go!" he yelled, and he ran out.
Surprise gave him a few seconds' grace, and he ran freely along the street toward the church. He felt the scorch of the midday sun on his face and heard the pounding of his men's boots behind him, and noted with a weird sentiment of gratitude that such sensations meant he was still alive. Then gunfire broke out like a hailstorm. For a few more heartbeats he ran, hearing the zip and thwack of bullets, then there was a feeling in his left arm as if he had banged it against something, and inexplicably he fell down.
He realized he had been hit. There was no pain, but his arm was numb and hung lifeless. He managed to roll sideways until he hit the wall of the nearest building. Shots continued to fly, and he was terribly vulnerable, but a few feet ahead he saw a dead body. It was a rebel soldier, propped against the house. He looked as if he had been sitting on the ground, resting with his back against the wall, and had gone to sleep, except that there was a bullet wound in his neck.
Lloyd wriggled forward, moving awkwardly, rifle in his right hand, left arm dragging behind, then crouched behind the body, trying to make himself small.
He rested his rifle barrel on the dead man's shoulder and took aim at a high window in the church tower. He fired all five rounds in his magazine in rapid succession. He could not tell whether he had hit anyone.
He looked back. To his horror he saw the street littered with the corpses of his platoon. The still body of Mario Rivera in his red-and-black shirt looked like a crumpled anarchist flag. Next to Mario was Jasper Johnson, his black curls soaked in blood. All the way from a factory in Chicago, Lloyd thought, to die on the street in a small town in Spain, because he believed in a better world.
Worse were those who still lived, moaning and crying on the ground. Somewhere a man was screaming in agony, but Lloyd could not see who or where. A few of his men were still running, but as he watched more fell and others threw themselves down. Seconds later no one was moving except the writhing wounded.
What a slaughter, he thought, and a bile of anger and sorrow rose chokingly in his throat.
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 toward 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 l
