Free The Odd Angry Shot by William Nagle

involuntarily, my eye feels better, and I take a long pull at the water bottle, rubbing the spilt liquid over my face.
    Thumbs up. Harry arrives, followed by Melford the signaller, then Pawlicki, then finally Rogers.
    â€˜We’ll make for the corner of the building nearest us,’ says Pawlicki, wiping his nose with his hand again.
    I notice my trousers and shirt. The crawl across the road has caused the red dust to adhere to my already sweat-sodden clothes and has forced a fine layer of mud from my neck to my hips and down the side of my left leg. I glance around at the four figures lying beside me. We are all the same, covered in red mud and sweat—filthy. I feel disgusted with my appearance.
    â€˜You always wear such nice clothes.’ Remember when she used to say that…If only you could smell me now, baby.
    â€˜OK. Here we go.’
    Pawlicki’s voice snaps me back to reality, away from the full-breasted, dark-haired girl I was with, how long ago? Five hundred years, maybe six. Remember how you stank…
    â€˜Go,’ yells Pawlicki, slamming his fist into Bung’s back. Bung takes off and heads straight for the corner of the building that looms and sparkles before us in the scorching morning sun. I wait until he has gone about ten feet and jerk myself into a run. The sweat pours down my face and I feel my sodden trousers cling to my legs as I tear after him. We reach the corner of the building and throw ourselves down in the dust beside the wall. Rogers is lying beside me, panting like a large dog. A trickle of saliva runs down his chin.
    Bung edges his way towards the front of the building and stops at the corner. The rest of us move along behind him, half crouched, our rifle butts fitted snugly under our armpits.
    We’ve reached the corner. I move up beside Bung.
    â€˜You ready?’ he asks, grinning and trying to hide his fears.
    â€˜Why not?’ I answer, terrified as I think of what may be waiting less than twelve inches from my nose.
    â€˜Go,’ yells Bung and flings himself forward, covering the distance from the corner to the steps at the edge of the front porch in better than Olympic time. I roll over and swing my rifle into line with the doorway.
    â€˜Nothing,’ whispers Bung.
    Harry and Rogers edge past me and around and past Bung who has now lit a cigarette.
    â€˜Bugger all,’ says Harry from the other side of the porch. Harry’s head appears from inside the doorway.
    â€˜Nothing in here either.’
    â€˜Nothing at all?’ asks Pawlicki. There is a definite note of disappointment in his voice.
    â€˜Nup. Nuffin,’ says Rogers, walking out onto the porch and slipping down on the steps.
    â€˜Just a few statues of Buddha. Nothing else,’ says Harry, leaning against the doorway and wiping his eyes with his hands.
    â€˜OK,’ says Pawlicki, ‘not much point in staying here. Move out.’
    â€˜Saved again,’ says Harry.
    â€˜Yes, whatever your bloody name is, there is a Santa Claus.’
    â€˜WHO’LL give me fives the spider? Eh? Jesus, fours then. Who’ll give me fours the spider?’ Bung is standing on a green forty-four gallon drum screaming odds at the engineers.
    â€˜Make it tens and I’ll talk to you,’ a drunken engineer with a mouthful of steak sandwich and a can of beer in every pocket of his clothing screams back at Bung.
    â€˜Who let you in here, you street urchin? Begone, you wretch or I’ll have you whipped,’ says Bung looking straight down his nose at the engineer.
    â€˜Piss orf,’ yells the engineer. He throws the remains of his steak sandwich at Bung, and then collapses against the drum.
    â€˜Drunken fool,’ shrieks Bung, ‘get away from the betting pavilion.’ Bung is enjoying himself immensely.
    The engineers have constructed an arena, consisting of a wooden floor surrounded by four large wooden planks. The bets have been duly laid. The