Recoil

4

I pulled another round from my shirt, slammed it into the launcher, cocked the weapon, aimed towards the valley mouth, raised it almost vertically, and fired.

The backblast went straight down into the reentrant. I hadn’t checked if anybody was below me – whatever, there was no one there now.

I reached back, loaded the final round, and kicked it off too.

The storm raged overhead. I lay in the mud, looking down at the mayhem on the valley floor. The claymores had inflicted a lot of casualties and the survivors were definitely moving back. We had won the first round.

The LRA fired on the move as they retreated towards the river, some still dragging captive women.

Dumping the launcher, I started to stumble to the next sangar. It had a gun in it: I’d seen the tracer.

The mass of rainwater hitting the hillside had carved out a series of fast-flowing streams. I lost my footing in one and was carried downhill several metres before I could claw myself out. I had to climb again to regain the high ground, and kept shouting to the sangar to let them know I was coming.

I could no longer see any muzzle flashes on the other side of the valley. There was no firing at all from either flank.

The sangar had been abandoned. There were two dead, slumped over the GPMG; the others must have legged it.

I prised the gun free and picked it up by the carry handle, still with about twenty link dangling from the feed tray, then gathered as much link as I could carry round my neck. Four, five belts, I wasn’t sure. They were slipping on my sweat as soon as I moved; I had to clamp my left arm over them to hold them to my chest.

On the way back I lost my footing several times, more out of desperation to get back now than from the treacherous conditions.

Things had sparked up again on the valley floor. They were firing into the air and even at each other in their confusion. They didn’t know what was happening and nor, really, did I. It was just fucking chaos.

Flicking down the gun’s bipods, I collapsed into the mud, barrel pointing down into the mêlée. Rain pummelled me. The link dug into the back of my head, making it almost impossible to look up and take aim. I dragged the weapon into my shoulder and kept it there.

I pulled back the cocking handle, to make sure the working parts were to the rear, then shoved it back in place. I grabbed the pistol grip, checked that the safety was off and, with my left hand holding the link almost horizontal to the feed tray and both eyes open at this close range, took aim at the bodies less than fifty metres below me.

I squeezed the trigger.

Three rounds, then again, and again.

The rounds were slow, which was good. I saved ammo and got better shots in.

Three more . . .

I dropped every adult who had a weapon.

They started moving back, but I followed them with the barrel, still using the lightning flashes to ID targets. I saw another woman being punched into submission and dragged away.

Fuck it. I couldn’t do anything about that without killing her as well.

All I could do, I was doing.