Where there could be no self.
Where yourself is only to be lost.
Then, from his losing of it, he heard Pilar say, "Sordo--"
"What?" he said.
"Sordo--"
"Yes," Robert Jordan said.
He grinned at her, a cracked, stiff, too-tightened-facial-tendoned grin.
"Forget it.
I was wrong.
I am sorry, woman.
Let us do this well and all together.
And the bridge _is_ blown, as thou sayest."
"Yes.
Thou must think of things in their place."
"Then I go now to Agustin.
Put thy gypsy much farther down so that he can see well up the road.
Give those guns to Primitivo and take this _maquina_.
Let me show thee."
"Keep the _maquina_," Pilar said.
"We will not be here any time.
Pablo should come now and we will be going."
"Rafael," Robert Jordan said, "come down here with me.
Here.
Good.
See those coming out of the culvert.
There, above the truck? Coming toward the truck?
Hit me one of those.
Sit.
Take it easy."
The gypsy aimed carefully and fired and as he jerked the bolt back and ejected the shell Robert Jordan said,
"Over.
You threw against the rock above.
See the rock dust?
Lower, by two feet.
Now, careful.
They're running.
Good. _Sigue tirando_."
"I got one," the gypsy said.
The man was down in the road halfway between the culvert and the truck.
The other two did not stop to drag him.
They ran for the culvert and ducked in.
"Don't shoot at him," Robert Jordan said.
"Shoot for the top part of a front tire on the truck.
So if you miss you'll hit the engine.
Good."
He watched with the glasses.
"A little lower.
Good.
You shoot like hell. _Mucho!
Mucho!_ Shoot me the top of the radiator.