| I could not bring myself to look over the parapet.
I knew that they had a machine-gun trained on our position. It was
stalemate. I looked around at the small group of half-starved, ragged,
so-called soldiers, squatting dejected in the shallow trench.
I knew it was my responsibility to organise a continuation of the attack or somehow, extricate the platoon from this crazy cul-de-sac we were in. I had not sufficient courage to lead a frontal assault and in my bones I knew the longer we delayed, the more likely our only escape route would be cut off. I involuntarily started stroking my moustache. This was one of my comfort processes but it also, sometimes, brought inspiration. I considered surrender, only to remember the reported fate of prisoners taken in this phase of the war. Finally I decided, I counted our remaining grenades, nine in all. Then I called for volunteers. NEXT |
| I estimated that the machine-gun post was just out of
range of a very strongly thrown grenade. Have two good throwers hurl
our remaining eight grenades towards them, two at a time, one after another
very quickly, like a barrage, with the pins being pulled for them by other
nervous hands.
Although they would fall short, the rapidly exploding grenades would still generate an element of surprise, a lot of noise, smoke, blast waves and shrapnel. Under cover of this initiative, I had to roll out of the trench and run diagonally to try to deliver the last grenade at close effective range. My whistle was in my hand. I quickly explained the plan and that the whistle was a signal for them to run. Forwards, on attack, if I blew two blasts. Back, towards Bilbao, in desperation if I only managed one blast -- or nothing at all. TOP |