Recoil - Andy McNab [56]
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.
The patrols began to file past the women, who were still chanting and dancing. Trancelike, they held up the bowls for each of the boys to dip his hand in then smear the blood over his face. Even the crucifix wearers joined the queue. I didn’t blame them. In this shit-hole, you needed all the help you could get.
I followed Sam to the front, flanked by two GPMG gunners. They’d thrown the link over the top of the weapons so it didn’t get caught in the undergrowth.
I could see lightning in the west. Three or four seconds later thunder rumbled towards us. The sound was almost immediately drowned by what sounded like a chainsaw in the command tents. Jan appeared, a swing-fog in his hands, pumping out anti-mosquito smoke. It smelled a lot like diesel fumes. With any luck, the Rhodesians would choke to death on the stuff.
Sam checked the line, then raised his hand and gave the signal to move out. It was greeted by another roar of approval. They really loved this guy.
Reeking of gun oil, I fell in behind Sam.
I was happy to be on the move. From now, every step I took was one closer to Silky.
10
The track was wide and well worn, but the jungle each side was solid green.
I much preferred primary jungle to this secondary shit. In primary the canopy is much higher and thicker and the sun finds it difficult to penetrate to ground level so there’s a whole lot less vegetation – which means less cover for anyone lying in wait to kick your arse.
I soon developed a searing pain between my shoulder-blades. It had been quite a while since I’d carried anything heavy on my back, but it wasn’t the first time I’d wished someone could invent dehydrated water and weightless rounds. I had two-hundred link for the guns in my pack, and the only way to make it comfortable was to jump on tiptoe every few paces and jolt it higher up my back. To top it all, the heat and humidity were overpowering for someone who wasn’t acclimatized.
We patrolled west for nearly three hours and I checked my compass regularly to get the route into my head. The golden rule in jungle is to trust your compass, no matter what your instincts are telling you when the batteries on your sat nav have run down or the fucking thing just won’t work.
We’d entered DRC a while back, but I only knew that because Sam had said so. There were no signs saying Democratic Republic of Congo Welcomes Careful Drivers – but, then, there were no roads, and the DRC wasn’t a welcoming sort of place.
You could see it easily enough on the faces of the patrol. Heads moved from side to side as if powered by batteries, trying to spot trouble ahead before it spotted us. There had been a bit of gunfire in the distance. It had got the porters spooked, but we couldn’t do anything except crack on, and that was fine by me.
We stopped for ten minutes each hour. The patrol got in all-round defence, making sure there were eyes and weapons covering every arc. The porters would look for any dip in the ground and curl up in it for protection while they took their rest.
Sam had hardly opened his mouth, which I interpreted as ‘Shut the fuck up, I’ve more important things to do right now.’ He checked the watch hanging round his neck and got the patrol up and moving once more as the sun started to lose itself below the horizon. Very soon it was dark.
Sam halted again where the treeline thinned. The rest of us copied. He took the two gunners about ten metres further ahead, and put them on stag at the edge of the canopy. I could see the next phase was going to be an open plain of chest-high brush and grass, with the odd clump of trees.