The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [278]
“You see, you lucky bastards, you’re leading a charmed life,” the sergeant says to raise his men’s spirits.
Day is beginning to break, and in the dim light the feeling that the nightmare of the shooting in the dark is over, that now they’ll be able to see where they’re setting their feet down and where their attackers are, brings a smile to his lips.
The last stretch is child’s play by comparison to what has gone before. The mountain spurs of A Favela are very near, and in the glow of the rising sun the sergeant can make out the first column, some bluish patches, some little dots that little by little turn into human figures, animals, wagons. There seems to be vast disorder, enormous confusion. Frutuoso Medrado tells himself that this piling up of one unit on top of another is also scarcely what is laid down in the Official Rule Book. And just as he is remarking to Captain Almeida—the squads have regrouped and the company is marching four abreast at the head of the battalion—that the enemy has vanished into thin air, all of a sudden, out of the ground just a few steps away, amid the branches and bushes of the scrub, there pop up heads, arms, barrels of rifles and carbines all spitting fire at once. Captain Almeida struggles to remove his revolver from its holster and doubles over, his mouth gaping open as though gasping for air, and Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado, his thoughts racing in that big head of his, realizes almost instantly that throwing himself flat on the ground would be suicide since the enemy is very close, as would turning tail, since that would make him a perfect target. So, rifle in hand, he shouts to his men at the top of his lungs: “Charge, charge, charge!” and sets them an example by leaping in the direction of the trenchful of Englishmen whose opening yawns wide behind a little low parapet of stones. He falls inside it and has the impression that the trigger of his rifle is jammed, but he is sure that the blade of his bayonet has sunk into a body. It is now stuck fast in it and he is unable to pull it out. He tosses the rifle aside and flings himself on the figure closest to him, going for the neck. He keeps shouting “Charge, charge, fire away!” as he hits, butts, grapples, bites, and is caught up in a milling mass of men in which someone is reciting elements which, according to the Official Rule Book of Tactics, constitute a properly executed attack: reinforcement, support, reserves, cordon.
When he opens his eyes, a minute or a century later, his lips are repeating: reinforcement, support, reserves, cordon. That is the mixed attack, you sons of bitches. What convoy are they talking about? He is lucid. Not in the trench, but in a dry gorge; he sees in front of him the steep side of a ravine, cacti, and overhead the blue sky, a reddish ball. What is he doing here? How did he get here? At what point did he leave the trench? Something about a supply train rings in his ears again, repeated in an anguished, sobbing voice. It costs him a superhuman effort to turn his head. He then spies the little soldier. He feels relieved; he was afraid it was an Englishman. The little soldier is lying face down, less than a yard away, delirious, and the sergeant can barely make out what he is saying because the man’s mouth is against the ground. “Do you have any water?” he asks him. Pain stabs the sergeant’s brain like a red-hot iron. He closes his eyes and tries his best to control his panic. Has he been hit by a bullet? Where? With another enormous effort, he looks at himself: a sharp-edged root is sticking out of his belly. It takes him a while to realize that the curved lance has not only gone straight through him but has pinned him to the ground. “I’m run through, I’m nailed down,” he thinks. He thinks: “They’ll give me a medal.” Why can’t he move his hands, his feet? How have they been able to carve him up like this without his seeing or hearing? Has he lost much blood? He doesn’t want to look at his belly again.
He turns to the little soldier. “Help me, help me,” he begs, feeling