Recoil - Andy McNab [60]
Soon I smelled cordite again. Two adult male voices muttered to each other just five metres ahead then everything got lost under the thunder and an exchange of fire.
Sam wiped water from his eyes before pointing at the ground and making a circle with his hand. It was all they needed to know. They copied Sam’s field signal along both sides of the line so everyone knew they were at the FAP – just as they’d been trained.
We lay motionless for what seemed like hours before Sam got up on his knees, held up the Very pistol and fired. As the flare arced up into the sky the men boomed the same roar I’d heard on the airstrip.
The magnesium burned out and the fire group ceased firing.
Sam jumped up, screaming, ‘That’s us! That’s us! That’s us!’
I followed a couple of steps to his right as he charged the enemy position. The left side of our line followed; the right stayed static, on their feet, and gave covering fire.
Screaming at the tops of our voices, we stopped after three or four metres and fired into the positions, aiming at anything that moved. The right of our line took the cue to run three or four metres past us – then went static and laid down fire while we made our next bound. We were firing and manoeuvring, firing and manoeuvring.
Lightning flashed across the sky. Some of the enemy were firing in confusion, others running away or on their knees begging.
We stopped again, fired at anything that moved. I dropped two guys; one runner, one who’d stood his ground and fired.
It was gollock time. There was no time to change mags: guys couldn’t afford to get left behind, we had to keep the momentum going. Rebel screams competed with the thunder as we charged. It was carnage, but we had to keep moving.
I squeezed the trigger at shadows ahead of me and got the dead man’s click. ‘Stoppage!’
On the ground I started to change mags, but I was too slow. Our team was on the move again.
I drew my gollock, but there was a yell from Sam. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’
We’d done it – we were through the position.
‘Stop! Stop!’
Now came the hard part, trying to control guys who had their blood up. I joined him as he ran up and down, my arms open and waving. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’
Gollocks slashed at the wounded. Sporadic shots were fired into dark shapes in the mud.
Crucial and his fire group came forward to join us. Sam was busy dragging two guys away from some bodies they’d been gollocking big-time, so Crucial and I concentrated on trying to regain control and getting the rest of them to search bodies for magazines and ammo.
A jubilant shout echoed in the darkness. Someone had been discovered hiding. They dragged him out from under a body.
He wore a red spotted scarf wrapped round his head like he was king of the rappers.
3
The porters gathered slowly. No one knew how many of them were dead, injured, or had just done a runner. I wasn’t even sure if Sam knew how many there had been to start with, or had a list of names. I somehow thought not.
The ones who were there knew the score, and started collecting bodies. The final count was fifteen enemy and four of ours. Sam was right: they really did have a high man-hour-per-kill ratio.
Sam squatted by the feet of the rapper, who was tied up with his back against a tree. Rain splashed down his now naked body. His eyes were wide and jumpy. He knew he was about to be handed a one-way ticket to Mud City, and he begged for mercy. No matter what language is used, begging is always easy to understand.
‘What now, Sam?’
‘We stack the bodies and the next turnaround buries them.’
‘I mean this guy.’
Crucial came up behind us, AK slung, gollock in hand. He’d obviously taken a shine to the rapper’s headscarf, because he was now wearing it.
Sam stood out of the way. Crucial took an almighty swing and hit the guy on the thigh with the flat of the gollock.
The only thing louder than his screams was the next clap of thunder. But those screams weren’t going to