Recoil

9

Sweat poured off me. The Deet I’d only just applied was already running into my eyes and mouth. It tasted incredibly bitter and stung like hell. I’d doused every bit of exposed skin with the stuff, as well as my hair and clothes. Malaria still killed more people than Aids around here, and even the LRA couldn’t compete.

The airstrip had become a parade ground, and two squads shimmered in the heat haze. As we approached them, Crucial shouted a command in French and they roared some kind of greeting at Sam.

I’d hung a two-foot gollock from my belt with a length of para cord. I’d also anchored the old prismatic compass in my pocket. Survival in the jungle is down to cutting and navigating, and if you lose the means to do either, you’re well and truly fucked. I wouldn’t have minded tucking away Sam’s sat nav for good measure. With the longs and lats for the strip and the mine already set, I’d be able to get to Silky on my own if the shit hit the fan.

I’d swapped my jeans for a pair of Sam’s OGs (olive greens) and tucked a long-sleeved thick cotton vest well into them. I’d even tied off the bottom of both trouser legs as part of my anti-malaria campaign.

I could hear a low rumble in the distance. A storm was brewing away to the west. Invisible birds called from high up in the canopy. One sounded like a slowed-down heart monitor. I hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Sam addressed the two squads in a loud, clear voice and pointed at me with an open palm. ‘This is my friend, Nick.’

Crucial translated over the ambient racket of cicadas. French was the one language that everyone seemed to share.

‘Just like you, he is a warrior,’ Sam went on. ‘We’re lucky he’s coming with us tonight.’

Crucial did the business again, and every man thumped his chest. I felt I should be standing to attention.

‘OK,’ Sam nodded to Crucial. ‘Let’s get them checked.’

Crucial gave the command. The twenty or so guys lifted their weapons and pulled back on the cocking handles with resounding clunks.

The sergeant-majors moved down the ranks, checking each chamber. Sometimes they just looked; sometimes they stuck in a finger if the weapon was in shadow. At the same time, each soldier had to exhale, to make sure no one had cracked into the Cutty Sark.

They were made to open their chest harnesses next, to demonstrate that no one had forgotten their comms cord, their mags had rounds in and were facing the right way. A right-hander needs to house his AK mags so the wide outside curve is to the left – then he can just grab a fresh one when he’s shitting himself under fire, and stick it straight on the weapon without looking. There’d be a lot of fumbling otherwise, which really fucks the weight of fire.

I could hear the sound of steel on steel, then a series of clicks as each man got the all-clear, working parts were released and the action squeezed off.

Sam beckoned me over as he waterproofed the sat phone with a couple of Prudences.

‘They like you two, don’t they?’ I said. ‘Just as well, I suppose.’

Sam checked the flap of his Very pistol holster, which hung alongside his gollock. ‘You don’t get loyalty out of these guys if you don’t show them respect and look after them. Money and drink are all well and good, but ultimately they’ve got to feel that they’re part of something, that they’re being thought about. That’s part of the problem with the terrible twins. They don’t get it.’

Crucial gave the sergeant-majors an order and the two squads spread out on the strip in single file, weapons in the shoulder. They then table-topped their contact drills. In the Regiment, we always did a walk-through, talk-through before a patrol, and a full rehearsal in slow time. Everybody needs to know exactly what to do if there’s a contact, and what everybody else around them will be doing. When the shit hits the fan, those are the only things that really matter.

These guys couldn’t just shoot and scoot. They had to keep punching forward to the mine. They’d have to turn towards the fire and take the threat head on. I understood now why all the weapons had been checked first for rounds in the chamber. They were pointing in all directions as the guys went through the motions for contacts right, left, front and rear. A negligent discharge could have gone almost anywhere – hit another soldier, a kid playing football, even one of the porters – and that would mean four hundred dollars less in the back of Lex’s aircraft.

The dogs seemed to like it: they raced around, barking up a storm. A group of tiny kids copied the contact drills from a distance, and Sam sent one of the sergeant-majors to shoo them off the runway. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of five-year-olds playing soldiers. The sight that had met us outside the gates all those years ago would never leave my memory either. He caught my eye and nodded: he wanted me to know he wasn’t going to give up.

Six or seven women gathered beside the strip, dragging three pigs behind them on ropes. Low, rhythmic grunts and groans filled the air as they shuffled round in a circle and the pigs’ squeals got louder and more intense. One of the women took a bayonet swiftly and efficiently to each of their throats. The others caught the blood in plastic washing bowls, then clapped and chanted like they were auditioning for a gospel choir.

The patrols were brought back together and twenty magazines clicked into twenty weapons. Everyone kept his right hand on the cocking handle. Crucial hollered again and the heavy working parts were pulled back and released. The 7.62 short was pushed home.

I followed suit and pulled up on the safety lever.

The porters knew the score. They started to get to their feet and shoulder whatever they’d bought or were going to take back with them. Some carried the bags of fertilizer, others the yellow and lime-green jerry-cans. I saw one or two loading up a few more big boxes of Prudence. I couldn’t help wondering where they ever found the time or energy to use them.

The patrols began to file past the women, who were still chanting and dancing. Trancelike, they held up the bowls for each of the boys to dip his hand in then smear the blood over his face. Even the crucifix wearers joined the queue. I didn’t blame them. In this shit-hole, you needed all the help you could get.

I followed Sam to the front, flanked by two GPMG gunners. They’d thrown the link over the top of the weapons so it didn’t get caught in the undergrowth.

I could see lightning in the west. Three or four seconds later thunder rumbled towards us. The sound was almost immediately drowned by what sounded like a chainsaw in the command tents. Jan appeared, a swing-fog in his hands, pumping out anti-mosquito smoke. It smelled a lot like diesel fumes. With any luck, the Rhodesians would choke to death on the stuff.

Sam checked the line, then raised his hand and gave the signal to move out. It was greeted by another roar of approval. They really loved this guy.

Reeking of gun oil, I fell in behind Sam.

I was happy to be on the move. From now, every step I took was one closer to Silky.