gzag. Speed counted most here.

Gunfire shook the hill. The Belderkans couldn't see them but they
knew what was going on and they fired systematically into the
smoke.

Bullets ploughed the ground beside him. He raised his head and
found the dim silhouette of the tank. He tried not to think about
bullets ploughing through his flesh.

A bullet slammed into his hip. He fell on his back, screaming.
"Sarge. _Sarge._"

"I'm hit, too," Rashid said. "Don't stop if you can move."

_Listen to him. What's he got, a sprained ankle?_

But he didn't feel any pain. He closed his eyes and threw himself
onto his stomach. And nearly fainted from pain. He screamed and
quivered. The pain stopped. He stretched out his hands, gripping
the wine bottles, and inched forward. Pain stabbed him from
stomach to knee.

"I can't move, Sarge."

"Read, you've got to. I think you're the only--"

"What?"

Guns clattered. Bullets cracked.

"Sergeant Rashid! Answer me."

He heard nothing but the lonely passage of the bullets in the
mist.

"I'm a UN man," he mumbled. "You people up there know what a UN
man is? You know what happens when you meet one?"

When he reached the tank, he had another bullet in his right arm.
But they didn't know he was coming and when you get within ten
feet of a tank, the men inside can't see you.

He just had to stand up and drop the bottle down the gun barrel.
That was all--with a broken hip and a wounded right arm.

He knew they would see him when he stood up but he didn't think
about that. He didn't think about Sergeant Rashid, about the
complicated politics of Africa, about crowded market streets. He
had to kill the tank. That was all he thought about. He had
decided something in the world was more important than himself,
but he didn't know it or realize the psychologists would be
surprised to see him do this. He had made many decisions in the
last few minutes. He had ceased to think about them or anything
else.

With his cigarette lighter, he lit the rag stuffed in the end of
the bottle.

Biting his tongue, he pulled himself up the front of the tank.
His long arm stretched for the muzzle of the gun. He tossed the
bottle down the dark throat.

As he fell, the machine-gun bullets hit him in the chest, then in
the neck. He didn't feel them. He had fainted the moment he felt
the bottle leave his hand.

The copter landed ten minutes later. Umluana left in a shower of
bullets. A Russian private, the