Birds took to the air in every direction as the shell shot out of the clearing and into the sky on its journey away from the earth. It reached its maximum height ten seconds and five thousand metres from the end of the gun before levelling out.
Had the gunner been able to see through the nose of the shell he would have enjoyed a view of a large portion of his country: the interlacing valleys and lush green forests; rocky outcrops and steep ravines; streams and rivers flickering in the sunlight and patches of manicured agricultural squares. As the shell began its descent he would have seen the many snaking trails criss-crossing the countryside and the system of plateaus that was home to the rebel brigades. As the shell dropped closer to the ground he would have been able to make out Sebastian’s camp, the cabins, the stables behind them, the patchwork of tents and campfires and the many tracks connecting them. He would have had to concentrate during the last few seconds because the image zoomed in rapidly as the shell seemed to accelerate towards an open piece of scrubland beyond the tented area.
It struck the ground where it exploded, kicking up a geyser of earth and sending fiery shrapnel in all directions, none of it harming a soul since nobody was within range of it.
Everyone in the camp heard the explosion and those on the outer defences looked back over their shoulders. They all had the same thought: the battle had begun. All rumours and speculations were resolved. The thought that followed immediately was whether anyone had been hurt. Those with family in the tented areas feared for them.
The men inside Sebastian’s cabin hurried out to look in the direction of the explosion. Most of them ran off towards their posts.
Louisa came outside to see. Sebastian stood in the doorway and she looked back at him. He did not react. The blast merely signalled the start of the next chapter in a story whose ending he already knew.
On a high point beyond the camp perimeter, the site of a rebel lookout post before the rebels had pulled back, a group of Neravista army officers surveyed the view through binoculars. Their saddled horses were held in the background by soldiers, some of whom were setting up a machine-gun emplacement.
One of the officers took the handset from a soldier carrying a radio on his back, its ten-foot whip antenna sticking vertically out of its top. ‘Drop five hundred,’ he said into it. ‘Right one hundred.’
Back at the artillery battery a radio operator relayed the message to the officer who passed it to his gun crew. The howitzer’s dial sights were adjusted and they looked up to see the commander with his arm raised again. As he brought it down they fired.
‘It’s away!’ the officer at the lookout post called out and the others watched intently for the landing point. The shell announced its arrival with an accelerating scream that came to an abrupt stop a split second before the boom of a crunching explosion.
In unison the officers aimed their binoculars at the detonation, like observers at a racetrack as the horses go by. The shell had landed somewhere beyond the stables and although they could not see the precise impact point the plume of white smoke was clearly visible as it rose into the sky.
‘Up two hundred,’ the officer said into the radio handset.
The next shell arrived thirty seconds later and struck the centre of the tented camp, blowing a shack to smithereens. Seconds later women and children ran screaming from the camp’s fringes.
‘Mark that as centre,’ the officer said casually into the radio. ‘I want a random pattern four hundred metres radius of centre. Commence firing at will.’
Within a minute the shells had started to scream in one by one, peppering the encampment within the perimeter. One struck close to the cabins and Louisa, still outside, was caught in a rush to find cover. She ran into the heavily sandbagged square on the edge of the courtyard clearing outside the cabins, along with a couple of men on their way through. As the dust settled she recognised the man preparing the machine gun in the emplacement that would defend the approaches to the cabins from the camp entrance. It was David.
‘It’s going to be a busy day, I think,’ David said as he helped his partner prepare the belts of ammunition.
The rebels who had taken cover with Louisa scrambled out and hurried on their way. Louisa peered over the top of the sandbags as the shells started landing everywhere.
Sebastian leaned on the table, looking down on the map of the encampment. He had made all the preparations he could think of. It was now up to his men to do the best they could. He expected the bombardment to continue for some time, hours perhaps. The Neravistas would soften up the place as much as possible. When they were satisfied that enough damage had been done, both physically and psychologically, they would send in the troops.The garrison’s only hope was that enough men would survive to repel the assault. In the back of his mind Sebastian hoped that Hector and the other brigades might have a change of heart at the last moment and attack the enemy’s rear. But deep down he feared it was a fantasy.
A group of riders galloped into the lookout position, Neravista’s battle commanders, Steel and Ventura among them. The general himself dismounted along with his immediate entourage and joined the officers watching the scene through their binoculars. The subalterns saluted briskly and stepped back to allow the general to survey the scene.
‘Some breakfast, I think,’ the general said, scanning the panorama through his binoculars.
One of his officers hurried off to check on the preparations. The general had decided to make a display of his confidence and sophistication by including caterers in the advance party at the outpost. They arrived with burros laden with stores and the cooks and waiters began setting up chairs and tables, spreading white tablecloths and unpacking silverware and hampers.
Dozens of trays covered with a variety of culinary delights were placed on the tables among plates and silverware, pots of coffee, overflowing bread baskets, bowls of fruit and platters of cheeses. Wine was served in silver goblets and a humidor offered a selection of fine cigars. Waiters fanned away the flies and provided service at the snap of a finger.
‘Where’s the band?’ Steel quipped as he accepted a cup of coffee and a selection of canapés.
‘There’s your music,’ Ventura replied, waving a hand as the artillery salvos maintained a continuous staccato of booms and crunches.
‘I gotta hand it to you guys,’ Steel said. ‘You do war in style.’
Laughter and conversation continued as men stuffed food into their mouths, washed down with coffee and wine, in between aiming their binoculars at the rebel camp that was now dotted with plumes of smoke.
The roof of Sebastian’s former cabin exploded and a wall collapsed as the inside caught fire. Another shell landed near the stables, frightening the animals. The white stallion reared up as it was led to its stall.
Shells pummelled the main accommodation areas where women and children lay dead and wounded. Some survivors huddled in groups while others sought shelter in the woods.
A direct hit on the ammunition store caused it to blow up, creating a fiery display and prompting a round of applause from the officers at the lookout post.
Explosions peppered the perimeter and men lay in shell holes. A tree exploded, showering those below with deadly shrapnel and splintered branches. It seemed like there was no place to hide.
Rebel commanders moved down the line of men, calling for calm and telling them to prepare for the enemy’s inevitable charge. Stretcher bearers removed the seriously injured while women made their way along the lines looking for the wounded, doing what they could with limited medical supplies. The dead were left where they fell.
Louisa heard crying and looked over her sandbag wall to see a woman and several children running across the courtyard desperately trying to find somewhere to hide. A shell landed nearby. She hurried towards them and grabbed two of the children, yelling for the woman to follow with the others.
Louisa brought them back into the sandbagged position and the whimpering family huddled in a corner behind the machine gun. Louisa held one of the children in her arms in an attempt to console her while covering her ears against the deafening noise of the explosions.
‘How long will this go on for?’ Louisa asked David.
‘Could be hours,’ he replied, as another shell landed close to them, sending earth and shards of metal flying over their heads.
As Stratton walked fast along a goat track near the bottom of a valley he caught sight of movement on the ridge above him and dropped into the long grass.
He crawled carefully away and leaned up enough to take a look. Yoinakuwa was standing on a rock and looking down at him. ‘What is it with that bloke?’ Stratton muttered.
As Stratton got to his feet, Victor and the other Indians came into view. He could only wonder what they were doing.
Victor motioned for him to come up.
Stratton shook his head to himself and jogged up the slope.
‘Yoinakuwa knows a more direct route,’ Victor said as Stratton arrived a little out of breath.
It seemed that Victor had had a change of heart. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I think I’d be better on my own,’ Stratton said.
‘Great. You make me feel guilty so that I feel I have to come to the fight and then when I do you don’t want me. Hell, I don’t care. I’m going anyway.’
‘What are you going to do when you get there?’
‘Well, as my military guru once told me, I’ll plan backwards from my aim.’
‘What’s your aim?’
‘I haven’t worked that out yet.’
The Indians had sensed something.
Stratton heard it too. The faint sound was like distant thunder. ‘Artillery,’ Stratton said and set off at a brisk pace.
Victor did his best to equal Stratton’s speed. Kebowa and Mohesiwa ran ahead, past Stratton, to take the lead.
As they reached the top of the next rise not only had the sound of the shells exploding got louder but they could hear the screaming noise of their flight through the air.
By the time they reached the bottom of the plateau where there was a small brook they were breathing heavily.
‘Please. Let me take a little water,’ Victor begged, dropping to his knees and drinking thirstily.
The Indians did the same.
Stratton decided it was a good idea and took a quick mouthful and wet his hair to help himself cool down. The sun had fully risen now and was heating up the air, intensifying the humidity after the night’s rains.
‘The shelling could mean they’ve not started the main attack yet,’ Stratton said. ‘I doubt they’re accurate enough for anything more complex. Let’s go.’
He moved swiftly up the hill and the others followed, Victor wiping his face with a handkerchief that he had doused in the water.
The stream of shells screaming overhead seemed endless.
The group made good progress up the hill, pausing at every little rise to make sure that the enemy was not the other side. Stratton felt sure they were near the final rise before the perimeter. When he saw the Indians flatten themselves on the ground short of the next crest he hoped that was it.
He crept forward alongside them to take a look.
His hopes were rewarded. The camp perimeter was the other side of the dip in front of them. But there was no sign of the government forces he expected to see lined up ready to attack.
A shell landed just outside the camp perimeter. That was why the government troops were not yet in position. They had no confidence that the gunners could keep their deadly firepower aimed accurately so that their shells landed within the rebel camp.
‘What do you think?’ Victor asked as he crawled up beside Stratton.
‘That’s the perimeter there, right?’ Stratton asked, making sure.
‘Yes. That’s it.’
Stratton looked all around to double-check for the presence of the enemy. ‘You ready?’
‘You want to go into that? Now?’ Victor asked anxiously, as a shell exploded on the edge of the perimeter in front of them.
‘When that stops the assault’ll begin and that’ll be even more dangerous for us.’
Stratton was about to get to his feet when Kebowa touched his shoulder and pointed to the extreme right of their position. Stratton had to move forward in order to see what he was indicating.
A line of government soldiers came into view, marching in single file along a track that ran parallel with and below the line of trees that concealed the rebel camp perimeter. Each man carried an assault rifle and had bulging ammunition pouches slung around his waist. Their number grew as they marched into view. By the time the column came to a halt Stratton estimated there were about two hundred of them. A runner made his way down the line and each soldier he passed turned and faced the slope that led up to the perimeter, stepped off the track and walked into the undergrowth for a few metres before sitting down.
‘They’re forming up,’ Stratton decided. ‘The shelling will stop soon.’
Another company appeared, marching in file along the same track. They carried out the same manoeuvre beyond the first company, with each man facing the rebel camp and moving a few metres off the track before getting down. Yet another company of soldiers appeared and marched past the second company to repeat the procedure.
‘Have you seen enough?’ Victor asked.
‘Of what?’ Stratton asked, studying the Neravistas.
‘To put you off ? You can’t get through those men.’
‘I told you, Victor. You don’t need to come.’
Stratton’s comment irritated the Frenchman. ‘How do you expect me to join my brigade if I can’t see how to get through those troops to them?’ Victor hissed, allowing his fear and frustration to surface.