Chapter one

He lay flat on the brown floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees. Below he could see the dark of the road going through the pass. There was a stream alongside the road and far down the pass he saw a mill beside the stream.

“Is that the mill?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He spread out the military map and looked at it carefully. The old man looked over his shoulder. He was a short and solid old man in a black peasant’s smock and gray trousers and he wore rope-soled shoes. He was breathing heavily from the climb and his hand rested on one of the two heavy packs they were carrying.

“Then you cannot see the bridge from here.”

“No,” the old man said.

The young man took his binoculars from the pocket of his khaki flannel shirt and looked at the mill.

“There is no sentry.”

“There is smoke coming from the millhouse,” the old man said. “I see it but I do not see any sentry.”

“Perhaps he is in the shade,” the old man explained. “It is hot there now.”

“Probably. Where is the next post?”

“Below the bridge.”

“How many men are here?” He pointed at the mill.

“Perhaps five.”

“And below?”

“More. I will find out.”

“And at the bridge?”

“Always two. One at each end.”

“We will need a certain number of men,” he said.

“Do you wish to study it now?”

“No. Now I wish to go to where we will hide this explosive until it is time.

I would like to have it hidden in utmost security at a distance no greater than half an hour from the bridge, if that is possible.”

“That is simple,” the old man said. “But now we must climb a little to get there. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” the young man said. “But we will eat later. How are you called? I have forgotten.” It was a bad sign to him that he had forgotten.

“I am called Anselmo,” the old man said.