Recoil

10

I was in a world of my own. My head was empty, my eyes focusing on the man in front of me, lying on his back, arched like he was attempting some weird yoga position. His right leg looked a mess.

I slid the last few yards like a baseball player going for base. I hit him in the side and he cried out in agony. That was a good sign. He was still feeling pain, and could breathe.

But he didn’t move after the initial jerk, and that was bad. The boy was in shit state. It would have been much better if he was kicking and screaming. At least he’d be getting some oxygen down him.

I could see now why his back was arched. He had a large green sail bag strapped over his shoulders, with half a ton of contents.

I lay flat behind him and made sure his body was between me and the treeline. He’d already been zapped.

His right leg looked like freshly chopped burger. The sat phone in his map pocket didn’t look too healthy either, shattered by the same single round that had fucked him up. His eyes were shut tight, his face screwed up in a silent scream as he tried to take the pain. Then he mumbled, ‘I never thought . . . I never . . .’

We weren’t talking walking wounded here. I pulled at the bag strap to see if there was a clip. I found it, some fancy karabiner arrangement, and undid the fastener. I pulled at his body and he rolled off the bag. He groaned loudly as he sank into the mud. I knelt next to his chest, tried to lift and turn him so I could get him on to my shoulders in a fireman’s lift. I needed his help. ‘Grab me. For fuck’s sake, grab hold and hang on.’

I got down on my hands and knees with him slumped over my back and shoulders and tried to get up out of the mud so I could grab hold of his legs and start moving. But it wasn’t working. I didn’t have the strength to un-suck myself.

The guns kicked long bursts into the treeline as I tried to crawl with him draped over me instead. But the mud was halfway up my arms and I couldn’t lift my knees. I started to drag myself, my chin less than a foot from the ground. I gulped air, my throat so dry it hurt. I could feel white foam round my mouth again, but fuck it – it would all be over soon. I just had to keep going.

I heard mumbling on top of me. ‘Bag! The bag!’ He tried so hard to grab on to it that he almost fell off me.

I half turned, pivoting as far as I could so he could get hold of the fucking thing by the strap. He wrapped it round his hand and I turned back.

The sail bag was as heavy as a fully loaded bergen. I couldn’t budge their combined weight. I was getting disoriented. Dizzy. I tried again.

I inched along with him draped over my back, his hand dragging the bag, his good leg trailing in the mud, the injured one dangling against my arse. He screamed each time we moved and the bones bounced against each other.

I looked up to see a black figure bombing it alone down the track towards us. Moments later, Crucial’s boots planted themselves in front of me with a splash. He bent down, and I could hear his laboured breathing as he lifted the weight off my back.

He turned and headed back the way he’d come. I got up out of the mud, grabbed the bag, redid the karabiner, and hoisted it over my shoulder as I ran.

By the time I collapsed behind the mound, Crucial was already at work. He pulled his shirt down over his hands before he touched Tim. There was no panic from him, but there certainly was on the other side of the valley entrance. Silky was up on one leg, well out of cover. I couldn’t hear what she was screaming: the guns above us were too busy firing at fuck-all.

Crucial was bent over the casualty. I didn’t need to ask him what condition Tim was in. I could see the gore for myself. Crucial didn’t turn, but I knew he heard me cough and puke some bile and a little rice. There was fuck-all else in there.

I rolled on to my back to recover.

‘You OK, Nick? You hurt?’

I waved at Silky to stay where she was.

The guns above us gave another burst.

‘Stop! Stop! Save ammo!’ I kept doing the cut-throat sign at them, trying to get their attention. Sam was right – the LRA fucks were probably just probing patrols, assessing our defences, maybe drawing little sketch maps to make it easier for them to plan tonight’s big event. Maybe I was giving them too much cred, but I’d survived this far by assuming always that my enemy was better than me.

I pulled out my kangaroo: 120 minutes till last light.

I stayed on my back, still trying to get my breath, keeping one eye on Silky, holding up my hand to stop her moving.

‘Tim! Tim!’

‘Wait! Wait there!’

We were never going to hold a long and meaningful conversation across the chasm of the valley entrance.

Crucial straightened the rag-doll leg and brought it in line with the good one. Tim howled like a dog. They could probably hear him on the other side of the river. He gasped short, sharp breaths as he tried to fight the pain.

Crucial spoke soothingly. ‘It’s OK, it’s all right, take it. There’s nothing we can do here. Just take the pain.’

There was something Tim was more concerned about than pain. ‘The bag . . . the bag . . .’

I moved my hand behind me, feeling for the strap. ‘Crucial, we’ve got medic kit here.’

Crucial didn’t turn. ‘I need surgical gloves – find some.’

Tim’s screams had been too much for Silky. She was well out of cover, hobbling across the valley floor. ‘No! Stay there! Stay there!’

She wasn’t listening.

There was no time for a debate. I got up and started running as fast as she could with her bad foot trailing.

‘Fire! Fire!’ I screamed at the guns.

My head was going at a hundred miles an hour but my legs were only doing fifty.

I held a hand out as I ran. ‘Come on! Come on!’

She was nearly halfway before they worked out what I wanted and the rounds started hitting the treeline again.

I stopped with my hand outstretched, like a relay runner waiting for the baton. I got hold of her hand, pulled it towards me, bent down and hoisted her cleanly over my shoulder.

I staggered back to Crucial on adrenalin power.