I"ve been hit. Jack inspected the wound. A spent bullet had slammed into his thigh on precisely the same spot that a stake had injured him in Burma a decade previously. The skin was hardly broken, yet when Jack tried to stand, the leg would not take his weight.
I"ve been hitHe slipped, swore and began to slither back downhill again with his arms flailing to help him try to regain his balance.
"Sahib!" A very young Sikh ran across the slope, eyes full of concern. Speaking in rapid Punjabi, he took hold of Jack"s arm and hauled him to his feet, deliberately placing his body between Jack and the Bunerwal"s fire.
"Thank you," Jack spoke in Urdu. "What is your name?"
"Ishar Singh, sahib." The Sikh stood to attention despite the Bunerwal bullets that pattered down.
"Thank you, Ishar Singh.
