Andy McNab - Recoil

He shook his head. 'I need to know who they are. I'm not killing kids.'

He broke away from me and carried on crawling. There wasn't much I could do but follow. Tracer from our guys drifted high over our heads. The claps of thunder were so loud they drowned the enemy's gunfire, but I didn't have to hear it. We were so fucking close, I could smell the cordite.

7.62 from the fire group stitched along the ground just metres ahead. I could actually feel the ground tremors as our GPMG rounds slammed into the mud.

At last Sam seemed to get the message. He paused. Two bodies were suddenly silhouetted by lightning as they got up and ran to another stretch of cover not ten metres away. They held their AKs high and loosed off wildly in the direction of the fire group.

Finally Sam had seen what he needed. The silhouettes had been man-sized. We headed back.

The rain was a solid curtain, which was now no bad thing. We could hardly see our guys until we'd virtually crawled on top of them, which meant the enemy couldn't see us at all.

Everybody was in a line, facing the attack, wanting to know just one thing: was this the FAP? The answer was going to be no: we were too far away.

We moved to the middle of the line. I caught sight of some worried faces as they waited. I wasn't exactly jumping for joy myself but, fuck it, we had no choice but to get going.

Sam pulled the Very pistol from its holster, crouched low and began to move. The rest of us copied, like in a big game of Simon Says. No need for words or hand signals, just do what the commander does. If he stops, you stop. It was the best way to keep everybody together.

I changed mags on the move. As I pulled up my OGs, I could hear shouts ahead, the sounds of fear and excitement as we got closer. There was even a peal of nervous laughter; maybe the boys had been having a night on the ghat.

Sam stopped; we copied. He lowered himself to his knees in the mud; we did the same.

All random thoughts and sensations were binned from my head: the rain, the noise, the thunder. Even Silky ceased to exist.

Sam got down on his belly and began to crawl. The rest of the Simon Says crew followed, and I was soon swimming through a river of warm mud, working my elbows to keep the AK clear. Rain drilled into puddles inches from my face, making them boil. My head, back and thighs were lashed.

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.

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 help him. There aren't any panic buttons in the bush, and even if there were, no one with more than two brain cells would come and help you out at a time like this.

Crucial yelled into his face. Whatever the answer was, either it wasn't what Crucial had been wanting to hear, or there just wasn't enough of it.

He took another swing, this time not to the thigh and not with the flat of the blade. Three severed fingers dropped into the mud. The guy's legs collapsed beneath him, but he was held upright by the rope round his chest.

Crucial screamed into his face again. The assault team, who'd gone back to the fire-group area to retrieve their bergens, looked on as they returned. They didn't give a shit. It was brutal, but this was war. This was what happened. None of these guys, theirs or ours, would be rushing back to camp to play Scrabble or form a debating society.

Soldiers do what soldiers do. This poor fucker needed to tell us all he knew, and that would save lives. Crucial had used the perfect expression to describe the method I'd always used to try to stop it fucking my head up afterwards: Just wipe my mouth, clear out the bad taste, and move on.

At last Crucial got something worthwhile out of him. He turned away from the whimpering, begging body and chatted to Sam as if he was keeping him abreast of the weather forecast. There are just three pieces of information you need from a prisoner in the field: How many more of you are there? What weapons have you got? And what do you plan to do with them? This was the way to get them fast.