I met more men, learned from them that the general, with less than a dozen men, was still fighting the car. I repeated the advice I had given the other men. My informants went down to join them. I went on up.
A hundred yards farther along, what was left of the general’s dozen broke out of the night, around and past me, flying downhill, with bullets hailing after them.
The road was no place for mortal man. I stumbled over two bodies, scratched myself in a dozen places getting over a hedge. On soft, wet sod I continued my uphill journey.
The machine gun on the hill stopped its clattering. The one in the boat was still at work.
The one ahead opened again, firing too high for anything near at hand to be its target. It was helping its fellow below, spraying the main street.
Before I could get closer it had stopped. I heard the car’s motor racing. The car moved toward me.
Rolling into the hedge, I lay there, straining my eyes through the spaces between the stems. I had six bullets in a gun that hadn’t yet been fired on this night that had seen tons of powder burned.
When I saw wheels on the lighter face of the road, I emptied my gun, holding it low.
The car went on.
I sprang out of my hiding-place.
The car was suddenly gone from the empty road.
There was a grinding sound. A crash. The noise of metal folding on itself. The tinkle of glass.