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When
the
shooting
started
he
had
clapped
this
helmet
on
his
head
so
hard
it
banged
his
head
as
though
he
had
been
hit
with
a
casserole
and
,
in
the
last
lung
-
aching
,
leg
-
dead
,
mouth
-
dry
,
bullet
-
spatting
,
bullet
-
cracking
,
bullet
-
singing
run
up
the
final
slope
of
the
hill
after
his
horse
was
killed
,
the
helmet
had
seemed
to
weigh
a
great
amount
and
to
ring
his
bursting
forehead
with
an
iron
band
.
But
he
had
kept
it
.
Now
he
dug
with
it
in
a
steady
,
almost
machinelike
desperation
.
He
had
not
yet
been
hit
.
"
It
serves
for
something
finally
,
"
Sordo
said
to
him
in
his
deep
,
throaty
voice
.
"
Resistir
y
fortificar
es
vencer
,
"
Joaquín
said
,
his
mouth
stiff
with
the
dryness
of
fear
which
surpassed
the
normal
thirst
of
battle
.
It
was
one
of
the
slogans
of
the
Communist
party
and
it
meant
,
"
Hold
out
and
fortify
,
and
you
will
win
.
"
Sordo
looked
away
and
down
the
slope
at
where
a
cavalryman
was
sniping
from
behind
a
boulder
.
He
was
very
fond
of
this
boy
and
he
was
in
no
mood
for
slogans
.
"
What
did
you
say
?
"
One
of
the
men
turned
from
the
building
that
he
was
doing
.
This
man
was
lying
flat
on
his
face
,
reaching
carefully
up
with
his
hands
to
put
a
rock
in
place
while
keeping
his
chin
flat
against
the
ground
.
Joaquín
repeated
the
slogan
in
his
dried
-
up
boy
’
s
voice
without
checking
his
digging
for
a
moment
.
"
What
was
the
last
word
?
"
the
man
with
his
chin
on
the
ground
asked
.
"
Vencer
,
"
the
boy
said
.
"
Win
.
"
"
Mierda
,
"
the
man
with
his
chin
on
the
ground
said
.
