Recoil

6

The firing had stopped, and so, at last, had the rain. The runners had run; the dying were dead. The valley was silent, and bathed in a ghostly, blue-grey light as the clouds retreated.

I got up and, bracing the link with my left arm, headed back towards the launcher.

I saw small figures gathered in the re-entrant. From this distance, they looked like hobbits, waiting for the talking trees to come and get them out of the shit. The four of them stood stock still; a couple had blankets draped over their heads and shoulders. Around them, the dead lay where they had fallen – men, women, Sam’s kids, LRA, you name it – half submerged in the mud, limbs splayed at impossible angles.

I left the launcher where it was and slid down the hill. The nearest child gawped at me, his skinny little legs shaking.

I grinned. ‘Hello, mate.’

I held my weapon up on the hip, facing forward, about fifteen link dangling over my wrist.

I looked around. One of the Mercy Flight guys had collapsed not far behind them. His head looked like a boiled egg with the top sliced off.

More were staring at me.

I passed them and headed along the re-entrant, checking to see if there were any more of the little fuckers.

Two had been zapped. They’d virtually fallen on top of each other just outside the dugout, as they’d tried to run. They weren’t alone. More bodies lay inside. I moved forward, weapon still on the hip.

Three heads peeped out at me from under blankets.

I smiled. ‘Mr Sam?’ I nodded towards the knoll. ‘Mr Sam? Mr Crucial? Mr Sam?’ They gazed at me blankly, eyes like saucers. ‘Mr Sam? Uncle Tom Cobbley? For fuck’s sake, get out here.’

Nothing.

Beckoning to them, I stepped over their two mates at the entrance.

‘Mr Sam and Mr Crucial, yeah?’

I pulled one of the blankets. The kid got up and another followed.

‘All right, mate? Come on, outside. Mr Sam, yeah?’

I used the side of the GPMG to coax them into the re-entrant to join the others. ‘Mr Sam? Monsieur Sam? Monsieur Sam?’

I now had seven, and not one was responding to my Mr Sam routine. I lifted the blanket from a head. ‘Listen, Mr Sam . . . We’ve got to see Monsieur Sam, yeah?’

I grasped a wrist, skinny as a broom handle, and felt a huge jolt go through my system. It was like I’d been taken back twenty-odd years and Crucial was dangling below me. I grabbed the kid’s bony hand and encouraged him to hold one corner of the blanket across his shoulders. I lifted it, gave it a twirl, and managed to persuade his mates to hang on to it at intervals. Before long, we had ourselves a seven-truck convoy.

I tightened my grip on the far end. ‘Mr Sam, yeah? We’re going to see Mr Sam, Mr Crucial.’ With the GPMG in my right hand and the launcher under my left arm, I led my little band up to the knoll. I felt like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and wondered if I should sing a song to keep their spirits up. Only I didn’t know any.