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Chapter 18

           ThenheturnedhisheadwithoutlookingatRobertJordan.

           "Ihavenoorderstogothere,"hesaidsullenly.

           RobertJordanhadtakenhispistoloutoftheholsterandpushedthemuzzleofthepistolagainsttheleathercoatofthearmoredcardriver.

           "Hereareyourorders,"hehadtoldhim.Themanshookhisheadwiththebigpadded-leatherhelmetlikeafootballplayer’sonitandsaid,"Thereisnoammunitionforthemachinegun."

           "Wehaveammunitionatthebullring,"RobertJordanhadtoldhim."Comeon,let’sgo.Wewillfillthebeltsthere.Comeon."

           "Thereisnoonetoworkthegun,"thedriversaid.

           "Whereishe?Whereisyourmate?"

           "Dead,"thedriverhadsaid."Insidethere."

           "Gethimout,"RobertJordanhadsaid."Gethimoutofthere."

           "Idonotliketotouchhim,"thedriverhadsaid."AndheisbentoverbetweenthegunandthewheelandIcannotgetpasthim."

           "Comeon,"RobertJordanhadsaid."Wewillgethimouttogether."

           Hehadbangedhisheadasheclimbedintothearmoredcarandithadmadeasmallcutoverhiseyebrowthatbleddownontohisface.Thedeadmanwasheavyandsostiffyoucouldnotbendhimandhehadtohammerathisheadtogetitoutfromwhereithadwedged,facedown,betweenhisseatandthewheel.Finallyhegotitupbypushingwithhiskneeupunderthedeadman’sheadandthen,pullingbackontheman’swaistnowthattheheadwasloose,hepulledthedeadmanouthimselftowardthedoor.

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