Recoil (18 page)

It wasn’t to be. There’d been such an exodus from the British Army that anyone applying for PVR (premature voluntary release) found themselves up against a brick wall. No one could leave the battalion, we were told, because we were going to Northern Ireland and you couldn’t quit before operations. It was bollocks, of course, but we fell for it. And now, looking at the faces across the table, I realized it had been for the best.

Bateman took a swig of his brew. ‘Miles was just saying how Sam was always trying to convert you.’ Before I could answer he added, ‘All that children of God stuff – I tell you, man, it’s a waste of time. Blacks will just take and take and then fuck off back into the bush.’

Tooley picked up a slab of dark red meat in both hands and ripped off a chunk with his teeth. He talked while he chewed. ‘I tell you, man, the best way to deal with these boys is cut off their hair and tell them you’re keeping it. If they don’t do what you want, tell them you’ll give it to the
kindoki
bitches to put a spell on them.’

Bateman nodded in approval, and Standish chuckled politely. Bad news, as far as I was concerned. Tooley warmed to his theme, swinging the meat from hand to hand to emphasize each of his words of wisdom.

‘Back in Rhodesia, Nick, the black boys knew their place. Now they’ve got diamond studs in their fucking teeth and the light of fucking redemption in their wide, staring eyes.’

They seemed to have mistaken a nod and a bit of a smile for a like mind. I raised an open palm. This kind of stuff had to be nipped in the bud. ‘Hey, I don’t care whether people are red, green or blue, rich or poor, Muslim or Christian, you know what I mean? I’m not into all that shit.’

They looked at me, and then at each other, not really understanding what the fuck I was talking about. Standish remained unmoved. I had no doubt what he’d have been doing down on the plantation in another life.

I went and helped myself to some large lumps of whatever it was that was sizzling on the
brai
, and an iced tea from the fridge, then headed for Sam’s tent. A beer would have been nice, but not just before a patrol, and in charge of a weapon. Old habits die hard.

7

I spent the next twenty minutes sorting out kit in Sam’s tent, the first ten trying to get the fan to work. I pressed everything; I pulled the plug out, checked the fuse, then followed the lead all the way out to make sure it was plugged into the genny. I even spun the blade, thinking it might spark up like a First World War fighter, but eventually gave up.

I checked what Sam was taking with him to make sure I duplicated. As I went through his stuff, I listened to Standish and the RLI boys muttering again. Sam’s and Crucial’s names were definitely in the mix. Mine was there too, but only when it came to bringing back the ‘slops’. It was hard to tell what that was, given their accents. They sounded like bullies in a schoolyard.

This kind of work always seemed to encourage this kind of behaviour, and I could never work out why. There isn’t a professional soldier alive who doesn’t think his way is best – but as long as you’re being paid, why not just get on with it? Not for the first time I felt pretty fucking pleased I’d never got involved in any of that shit, and always done my own thing. If it turned out right, fantastic; if not, I was in the shit – but at least I felt like I was in charge of my own destiny.

It wasn’t long before I heard Crucial’s high-pitched laugh from over by the runway. He really needed to chew a few pounds of gravel.

Sam burst into the tent, clutching an AK and chest harness. ‘We leave in fifteen.’

‘You got any Deet?’

Sam thumbed behind him. ‘Anything like that, see Jan, the guy doing the
brai
.’

I couldn’t do without the stuff, the stronger the better. Some commercial brands contain only fifteen per cent, which is crap. One hundred per cent is more the mark; the problem is, as well as keeping the mozzies away, it can melt plastic. It could probably even detonate high explosive, if you got the mixture right. I’d seen contact lenses melt when Deet-fuelled sweat ran into some poor bastard’s eyes.

He handed me the AK. ‘It’s unloaded.’

The weapon was soaked in gun oil and had blanket hairs all over it. By the look of the almost-white wood furniture and lack of Parkerization, it had already spent quite a few years out in the sun.

Sam turned back to his bed and pushed the fan blades up on their axle – and of course it started working immediately.

I carried out NSPs (normal safety precautions). I pushed down the safety lever and pulled back on the cocking handle to bring the working parts to the rear so I could check inside the chamber. He wasn’t wrong: unloaded. I let go of the cocking handle and the working parts shot forward. My face got a light sprinkling of gun oil as they slammed home. I squeezed off the action.

Sam was still close by, so I nodded in the direction of the muttering. ‘What is it with those guys? You and Crucial aren’t exactly on their hot-date list, are you? And it’s not just the kids, is it?’

He sighed. ‘They’ve been like that since I brought Crucial in on the job. It started out with just the four of us, and they don’t like our cosy little white set-up being disturbed. They didn’t even mind the church at first. It actually helped recruitment – a lot of the guys already have religion.

‘But when Standish had to start staying back here to do the bean counting, someone else had to be brought in for the patrols and camp protection. They wanted one of their RLI cronies. I chose Crucial. He’s completely professional, speaks nearly every language going – and we’ve got Rwandans, Congolese, Ugandans, you name it. Tooley and Bateman can barely speak English.’

‘He’s just the wrong shade for them, right?’

He shrugged. ‘They live in the old world.’

8

Sam pulled out a sat phone and pushed it towards me. ‘Go on, give yourself a treat . . .’

The offer was too good to miss, but not because I wanted to whisper sweet nothings to her; I wanted to warn her about the threat from the north, and get her to move to the mine right away.

Sam picked up his gear. ‘I’ll see you outside on the strip.’

I scrolled the phone’s menu to find how to block the outgoing number. I didn’t want Silky seeing twelve digits and wondering why I was suddenly on a sat phone instead of my cell. If she thought I was in-country, it might push her even further away.

These things had come a long way since the eighties, when Standish had had to set up a dish to make contact. This one was small enough to fit into my pocket. The sat phone’s number had been written down its side with a permanent marker so the team always knew which phone was which.

I didn’t have that problem with Tim’s number – I’d memorized it. I tapped in the first few digits. ‘Who is this?’ He sounded English, middle-class and very abrupt. ‘Tim? It’s Nick, Silky’s friend. Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s not here until this evening. Étienne told me you want her to call, and she will. Please don’t use this phone for social calls. It’s emergency use only.’

‘Tim, you’ve got to—’

Too late. The phone was dead.

Shit. Maybe her mobile had a signal. I tried it, but got nothing. I connected with my mobile’s voicemail. The automated response told me I’d received no calls.

Fuck it. I called Tim’s number again.

Straight to voicemail. I told him about the LRA, and advised him to move to the mine. Then I hung up. There was nothing more I could do. I wiped both numbers off the history, picked up my party gear and headed out of the tent.

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.