Recoil - Andy McNab [55]
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