Andy McNab - Recoil

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.

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.

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. In the far distance – west – I could make out high ground. It was taking the brunt of the lightning, which was heading our way fast. There was almost no gap now between the flashes and the bangs.

I leaned my arse against a tree and eased off my daysack. Sam came up close. 'This is a twenty-minute rest. There'll be no more until we've crossed the plain and are back in cover.'

Wiping the sweat from my face, I heard the world around me clack, click and buzz once more.

The porters were subdued as they drank from their old plastic bottles. I was hot, out of breath and gagging for fluids. I slapped my face yet again to zap whatever had buzzed in to say hello.

I drank as much as I could before giving myself another dose of Deet. It made my lips numb, but it was pointless trying to rinse the stuff off; the damage was done.

A gust of wind made the trees sway at the edge of the canopy. It wouldn't be long before the rain was with us. Thank fuck for that.

Sam sparked up his sat nav after shoving it down his shirt to hide the display.

'We leaving the track?'

'Not unless we have to.' He pointed towards the high ground. 'This is the start of the dodgy bit. Those hills have eyes.'

'LRA?'

'Aye.' He closed down the sat nav again and I passed him my bottle. 'Standish likes to call them rebels because it glosses over the fact that we're fighting kids out there.'

Thunder reverberated across the plain, then there was silence. It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath. Two seconds later, the rain beat a tattoo on the trees and the first splashes hit my face. It felt great.

'Standish using kids – it's all about money, right?'

Lightning cracked and sizzled, bathing Sam's face momentarily in brilliant blue light. I'd never seen him look more serious than when he handed me back the bottle. 'We'll need just over three thousand bayonets on the ground to do the job correctly. He's worked out we can get a thousand ten-year-olds for the price of a hundred adults.' He shook his head wearily. 'It might keep Standish's invisible man happy, but it's sick. Simple as that. That's why we have to stop it.'