Recoil

12

It wasn’t hard to find a site. Every inch of the place had been dug into at one time or another. I started humping the bags myself, following a route that took me past Silky and Tim, past the mound and on to the entrance. The dugout was six or seven metres up the hillside, and only a little smaller than the one I’d already prepped.

Crucial bellowed at the ANFO boys in the valley to start shifting more bags and metal up to me. No one looked too happy at the prospect.

I screwed up my eyes and hoicked another bag on to my back. It wasn’t my aching body I was worried about – the adrenalin would take care of that – it was the constant banging inside my head.

Fuck the LRA, fuck child soldiers, fuck everyone. I was in my own little world too. I just wanted this over and done with, and to be out of here.

Next time I came down, Crucial was standing over Tim and Silky.

Tim was ready to be shifted.

I nodded at Crucial. ‘Let’s get him up to the tents.’

‘No, Nick.’ Silky got to her feet. ‘We want to go back to the villagers.’

Tim’s voice came in at ankle level. ‘I can still help them.’

‘Silky . . .’ I looked down at Tim. ‘And you . . .’ I pointed past the growing pile of ANFO bags. ‘Very soon there’s going to be a ton of shit pouring through that gap. You need to be up by the tents with us.’

Silky was shaking her head even before I’d finished. ‘We understand what might happen, Nick. That’s why we’re not going to leave these people.’

Sam appeared at the run with four squaddies, all gulping oxygen and sweating. ‘What do you think this is? A debating society?’ He glanced at Tim. ‘OK?’

Tim nodded.

‘Up to the tents, then. What good are you to anyone down here? Any casualties will be brought up to us. Your arms are still working, so you can sort them out up there. Both of you, no questions.’ He pointed at me. ‘And you get those devices in, soon as.’

‘Standish here yet?’

‘Aye, just.’ He pointed at Crucial. ‘Give him a hand. I’ll sort these two out.’

The two of us set about hauling the ANFO up the slope on our own.

The bags weighed a lot more than their original fifteen kilos, once the diesel had been added, and each seemed to weigh a bit more than the last. Crucial was on autopilot, shouldering bag after bag, but I knew what was on his mind.

‘Have you thought about staying, Nick?’

‘Fucking hell, mate, I haven’t had time to shit, let alone think. Besides, now’s not the time. Let’s get on with this.’

We got to the dugout and dumped the bags in layers, as before.

‘You know what, Nick? It’s always the right time to talk about doing some good.’

We could stack them maybe three high – if we used the time and he stopped waffling. ‘Let’s get on with this, eh? We ain’t got that long, mate.’

We scrambled back down the slope. All this pious talk was really starting to get to me. ‘Mate – you talk about good, but you know what’s being mined here. Do these fuckers even get paid?’

‘Of course – two dollars a sack.’

‘Not bad for something that sells for four hundred.’

Crucial bristled. ‘Hey, listen, if this was an LRA mine they’d get nothing. They’d be working at gunpoint, and they’d get shot if they weren’t working hard enough. That doesn’t happen here. These guys get to feed their families. Sam and I had to fight to make that happen.’

‘Another Standish cost-cutting initiative?’

We hefted another bag each. Even with fifteen kilos plus on his shoulder, he managed a shrug.

We attacked the hill once more. ‘But doesn’t it make you angry? These people living in shite while fat bastards like Stefan rack up millions?’

‘I just worry about the kids, Nick. I know what’s happening to them. I know what they’re going through. The rest of it, I can’t do anything about. All I can do is what I’m doing. I can’t change the world, but I can do something for this bit of it.’

I didn’t think I had any more fluid in me to sweat. I leaned against the stack of bags and gulped air. There were about thirty-five of them now, and it would be last light soon. We had to get a fucking move on.

Crucial’s sermon hadn’t improved my headache, and I had to wipe white foam periodically from my lips. He and I looked like a couple of rabies victims. We needed fluid urgently, but not as urgently as we needed to finish the claymore.

We started to shovel, but Crucial wasn’t giving up on his pitch. ‘I was like Sunday. I was taken from my village, used and dehumanized, Nick. Turned into a killer.’

‘Sunday tell you that?’

‘He’s not talking yet. His mind’s too numb. We get the kids to draw pictures to start with – it’s the only way they can express themselves. Most of them draw the same thing. They draw the LRA attacking their village, then they draw themselves being taken away. Sunday has drawn his hut being burned, and then being forced to shoot his parents.’

‘You kill yours?’

He held his shovelful of mud in mid-air for a moment, but said nothing. It was all the answer I needed.

‘What about the kids coming in tonight? How do you feel about hosing them down?’

He nodded slowly. ‘I know you’ve killed children, Nick. I was there, remember? It was a very big thing for Sam, also. That’s why he’s here now. It tested his faith. How could the Lord let such a thing happen?’

This God stuff wasn’t what I was after, and he knew it.

He lifted his crucifix and kissed it. ‘If I have to kill to save life, then I must. But it is not easy for me, man. The worst thing of all is condemning a child to death through no fault of his own. I will have to live with that until I meet my God. Then it will be between Him and me.’

I carried on shovelling. Part of me envied his certainty about the pearly gates. I wouldn’t be seeing them. My ticket was for totally the opposite direction.

There was a lull in the waffle, but I knew he still hadn’t finished. ‘Nick, the only thing you can do is what Sam and I do. Help us to help them. Then maybe, God willing, you’ll be at peace.’

I let my spade do the talking for a moment or two. The kid’s shot-away face flashed through my head and the prospect of doing it again tonight made it stay there a few seconds longer than I would have wanted. ‘Listen, mate, if we don’t get these fucking claymores done, you’ll be having that meeting a whole lot quicker than you want . . .’