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"
Any
time
,
"
said
Sordo
.
"
They
should
have
come
before
.
"
"
Do
you
think
these
sons
of
the
great
whore
will
attack
again
?
"
"
Only
if
the
planes
do
not
come
.
"
He
did
not
think
there
was
any
need
to
speak
about
the
mortar
.
They
would
know
it
soon
enough
when
the
mortar
came
.
"
God
knows
they
’
ve
enough
planes
with
what
we
saw
yesterday
.
"
"
Too
many
,
"
Sordo
said
.
His
head
hurt
very
much
and
his
arm
was
stiffening
so
that
the
pain
of
moving
it
was
almost
unbearable
.
He
looked
up
at
the
bright
,
high
,
blue
early
summer
sky
as
he
raised
the
leather
wine
bottle
with
his
good
arm
.
He
was
fifty
-
two
years
old
and
he
was
sure
this
was
the
last
time
he
would
see
that
sky
.
He
was
not
at
all
afraid
of
dying
but
he
was
angry
at
being
trapped
on
this
hill
which
was
only
utilizable
as
a
place
to
die
.
If
we
could
have
gotten
clear
,
he
thought
.
If
we
could
have
made
them
come
up
the
long
valley
or
if
we
could
have
broken
loose
across
the
road
it
would
have
been
all
right
.
But
this
chancre
of
a
hill
.
We
must
use
it
as
well
as
we
can
and
we
have
used
it
very
well
so
far
.
If
he
had
known
how
many
men
in
history
have
had
to
use
a
hill
to
die
on
it
would
not
have
cheered
him
any
for
,
in
the
moment
he
was
passing
through
,
men
are
not
impressed
by
what
has
happened
to
other
men
in
similar
circumstances
any
more
than
a
widow
of
one
day
is
helped
by
the
knowledge
that
other
loved
husbands
have
died
.
Whether
one
has
fear
of
it
or
not
,
one
’
s
death
is
difficult
to
accept
.
Sordo
had
accepted
it
but
there
was
no
sweetness
in
its
acceptance
even
at
fifty
-
two
,
with
three
wounds
and
him
surrounded
on
a
hill
.
He
joked
about
it
to
himself
but
he
looked
at
the
sky
and
at
the
far
mountains
and
he
swallowed
the
wine
and
he
did
not
want
it
.
If
one
must
die
,
he
thought
,
and
clearly
one
must
,
I
can
die
.
But
I
hate
it
.
