Vortex

“Red Rover One, this is Alpha Four The next Afrikaner mortar salvo fell squarely on target. One 60mm bomb landed barely five meters ahead of the British major and his radioman.

Time and space, in fact everything, seemed to vanish in a single, searing blast of white fire and ear-shattering fury. Farwell felt himself being tossed backward like an unwanted rag doll. Conscious thought fluttered briefly and fled.

He came to only seconds later, propped awkwardly against the trunk of a small, gnarled tree. Small, bloodstained tears in his battle dress and the pain stabbing through his right side told their own story-he’d taken a load of white-hot shrapnel across his ribs. His rifle was gone, ripped out of his hands and thrown somewhere out into the surrounding darkness.

Farwell tried to stand up, failed at first, and looked down to see why.

Christ. His signaler must have taken the full force of the explosion. The younger man’s mangled body lay across his legs, pinning him to the ground.

He rolled the corpse to one side and staggered upright.

More mortar bombs rained down on the slope-lighting up the tangled landscape in brief, deadly flashes. Dead and wounded Paras were scattered across the hillside in bloody heaps. Others, uninjured, lay prone behind fallen trees or half-buried boulders. Some were firing blindly, spraying bullets uphill toward the crest.

Farwell swore violently. His attack was breaking down, losing its cohesion and force. He had to get his men moving again or they’d all die under the Afrikaner mortar barrage. Ignoring the pain in his right side, he hobbled onward.

“Come on, A Company, on your feet! Close with the bastards! Close with them!”

A man rose from behind a splintered tree trunk and grabbed at his left arm.

“Are you all right, Major?”

Farwell recognized 2 Platoon’s senior NCO and yelled back, “I’m fine,

Sergeant!” He ducked as another mortar round landed close by. Fragments whined past.

“Where’s Slater?”

“Dead, sir.

Unbidden, an image of the freckled lieutenant rose in Farwell’s mind, momentarily blotting out the present. He remembered meeting an aging and widowed mother who’d been so painfully proud of her handsome young soldier son. He blinked the memory away. There might be time for sorrow later. If he lived.

He leaned close to the platoon sergeant’s ear.

“We must get the men moving. You understand?”

The other man nodded vigorously. The Paras either had to close with their enemies or admit defeat and fall back down the ridge.

“Right. Then take your platoon forward, Sergeant.” Farwell bared his teeth, camouflaging a sudden blaze of pain as a fierce, tigerish grin.

“Flush ‘em out, Bates. I’ll be right behind you with the rest of the lads. “

The new commander of 2 Platoon nodded once more and moved away at a steady lope-briefly silhouetted by another explosion. His bull-voiced roar could be heard even over the noise of the barrage.

“On your feet, you Terrible Twos! Come on! Let’s go kill those Boer bastards!”

By ones and twos, British soldiers rose from cover and followed their sergeant up the slope. To the left and right, other voices rose above the shelling, echoing his call. One and Three platoons were rallying as well.

Farwell knelt beside a dead Para, tugged the man’s assault rifle free, and hobbled after his men.

BLOCKING FORCE, NORTHERN NATAL COMMANDO

BRIGADE

Twenty meters below the ridge’s jagged crest line, Sgt. Gerrit Meer lay flat on his stomach, sighting down the length of his R-I rifle. At any moment now, he thought grimly, the verdomde English will come swarming over the top. For a few seconds they’d be silhouetted against the skyline—easy to spot and easy to shoot. The sergeant’s finger tightened on his trigger. He and his men would. cut the rooineks to pieces.

One of the wounded men they hadn’t had time to evacuate moaned softly behind him.

“Shut up. ” Meer didn’t take his eyes off the top of the ridge.

Another parachute flare burst into life high above the battlefield, turning night into half-lit day.

Something small and round flew through the air and thudded onto the ground beside his foxhole. It rolled on past and

came to rest against a fallen tree. Meer’s heart stopped.

“Grenade!”

He buried his face in the dirt.

Whummmphhh. A muted, dampened blast sent fragments whirring over his head. Other small explosions echoed from either side. Nothing more.

The Afrikaner looked up into the gray and swirling mist created by a volley of British smoke grenades. He moistened lips that were suddenly dry, peering frantically toward a skyline that had all but disappeared in the manmade fog.

Sounds were amplified by his inability to see anything clearly. Time slowed and finally seemed to stop entirely.

Damn it, where were they? Meer could feel his heart pounding again, feeling as though it might break out of his body with every separate beat.