Recoil (39 page)

I ran over to Bateman’s trench. One of the cots was on the floor; four boys were standing on it, with two launchers. Twelve rounds were jammed between the cot and the front of the trench.

Sunday and his number two were one team, the Chuckle Brothers the other. I hesitated: the Chuckle Brothers were crying. I realized I wanted to hug the little fuckers and say it was all right; I wanted them not to have to do this. I wanted a lot of things to be different, but it wasn’t going to happen.

I stood between the two teams and squatted down against the front of the trench. ‘All right, mate?’ The Chuckle Brothers’ fear-filled eyes did everything they could to avoid mine.

I tried Sunday. ‘All right, Sunday?’

Crucial harangued the boys from the next trench. The number twos went through the drill of putting a round in.

I watched Sunday and the number one Chuckle Brother get their weapon on the shoulder, and wait for their number twos to come round behind them and create the platform. Sunday cocked the weapon once he was in position, and waited.

The Chuckle Brothers were wobbling. I raised my hand up and supported the front of the launcher while they sorted their feet out. They begged and implored me; they must have thought I was about to kick the shit out of them.

I tapped the forward pistol grip. ‘Cock it – cock it.’ I had to take a leaf out of Crucial’s book. I wasn’t helping them otherwise. ‘COCK IT!’ In the end, I resorted to sign language.

He cocked the weapon as best he could.

Crucial jumped into the backblast channel and grabbed hold of both launchers from the rear, pushing them down to get the right elevation and aim. Once he was satisfied with the angle, he bellowed at them and they gripped the weapons as if their lives depended on it.

He screamed the order to fire.

Both weapons clicked. The crews knelt down automatically and started the reload.

My teams resumed the fire position, and cocked both weapons this time.

Fuck it. I didn’t have time to drill them over and over. I left them to it.

I ran across the back of Sam’s fire trench. ‘I’m going down now, mate. Marker time.’

I picked up the end of the cable and the wooden crate top, and ran back into the tent. I was starting to feel dehydrated again. Everything was getting heavy.

I took big gulps from the jerry-can as I inspected their handiwork. Both the gloves were on Tim’s lap. The boy was still lying next to him. The floor was littered with discarded link, cases and bullet heads.

Silky handed me the first glove. ‘What’s it for, Nick? What’s going on?’

‘I need to ignite a drum of diesel down in the valley. The pilot needs something to use as a reference point so I can aim the guns for him.’

Tim held up the second glove as I knotted the wrist of the first. ‘Good luck, Nick.’

‘You got any surgical tape in that magic bag of yours?’

Silky scouted around and came up with a small roll of narrow white tape.

Crucial was still out there, screaming and shouting as the kids repeated the drills. It felt strangely quiet and safe on this side of the canvas by comparison.

I picked up the head of a round and placed the two firing-cable wires along it so that they were less than a millimetre apart at the pointed top. I started peeling back the roll with my teeth, then taped the two wires in place. I nestled the round gently among the cordite granules in the untied glove.

I wrapped the cable tight round the wrist of the glove, then lashed it with tape to make it as waterproof as I could, then laid both gloves on top of the crate, picked up my AK and left.

I’d say my goodbyes later on.

PART ELEVEN

1

I gave the firing cable a few feet of slack from where it disappeared into the glove, then a couple of turns round my left wrist to prevent it jerking loose, grabbed the plunger, then legged it to Sam’s trench. ‘Here, control this fucking thing.’ I dumped the firing device with the cable still attached. ‘Back soon.’

I opted for the direct route, a straight line downhill. I could just see the valley floor as a thin arc of dull light appeared above the treeline in the distance.

I skidded and slid, then fell on my arse and sledged the rest of the way, mud building up fast between my legs. I banged into a rock and fell sideways, but managed to hang on to the AK and the cable, keeping the crate top and gloves tight against my chest.

I staggered to the full oil drum and leaned against it for a few moments, fighting for breath. There was no time to hang around. I didn’t want to be caught out in the open once the sun was up.

I dumped the gloves on the crate top and floated it on the surface of the diesel, then unravelled the cable and ran to the store.

No glimmers of light in here. It was still pitch black.

I switched on the torch and scanned the floor frantically for slabs of PE. I found two. That was all I needed. Plastic explosive burns. I’d often used half a stick to light a fire, or heat water or food in a mess tin. It’s only dangerous if burned in quantities of more than twenty kilos. Then it generates enough heat to detonate.

Back at the drum, I sandwiched the gloves between the two slabs of PE, then secured the firing cable at the base of the drum with a rock.

When I pushed the plunger handle down, the spark from the cable wires would ignite the cordite in the gloves. It would burn like mad for five or six seconds then ignite the HE, which would burn furiously at a very high temperature, incinerating the crate top and igniting the diesel.

The resulting beacon would burn and belch smoke for hours.

2

The band of dull light thickened on the horizon ahead of us. It wouldn’t be long before the sun began to turn the eastern sky blue and work its way towards us.

All three guns were loaded and ready to go, the spare in the middle. If either of us had a stoppage, we could still keep the rounds going. When the barrel of the malfunctioning gun had cooled, we could deal with it.

Muzzle flashes sparked up on both sides of the valley entrance. No longer drowned by last night’s storm, the sound of their wild bursts of auto echoed around the hillside.

Sam got his gun into the shoulder. ‘Here we go.’

Whether he was speaking to me or himself, I had no idea.

They were probing us, trying to get us to return fire and give away our positions in the first-light gloom.

We held back and watched as the eight or so flashes inched slowly but surely into our killing ground.

Four hundred metres away, and closing.

They moved, fired, and moved again, deeper into the valley. I began to see movement along with the flashes, then shapes became more distinct. Nearly every one was small.

They kept firing, kept looking for that response. Rounds from an uncontrolled burst thudded into the ground in front of us. I gave Sam a glance. He shook his head. We’d keep our position covert until we absolutely had to go noisy. Sam would give the order; it was his call.

3

Butt in the shoulder. Both eyes open. Finger on the trigger. Just now and again, even though I knew there was no fucking need, I moved my left hand to check the rounds were OK, the sights were at 400, the weapon cocked.

I took deep breaths, preparing myself.

Adult voices drifted up to our position, shouting orders in French.

‘Like Crucial,’ I muttered. ‘Only deeper.’

‘They’re gripping the kids,’ Sam said. ‘Putting the fear of God into them.’

I saw his hand move, making sure the sight fairy hadn’t come and interfered with them since the last time he’d checked a minute ago.

‘Remember, short and sharp for now.’

A burst of rounds thumped into the knoll no more than a couple of metres from our faces.

Diminutive figures shuffled towards us in the gloom as the first sliver of orange light peeked over the edge of the valley.

A hundred and fifty away, and counting.

‘OK, stand by . . . short and sharp . . . over their heads.’

Another couple of rounds pounded into the mud and Sam finally kicked off.

I squeezed my trigger in three- to five-round bursts. The single tracer round in each arced well over the muzzle flashes and on towards the valley entrance.

My bursts were a bit slow: I’d adjust the gas regulator when I had the chance.

We put down maybe twenty rounds each then stopped and looked. They’d returned fire at nothing in particular, but now ran back towards the river.

They’d found out what they needed to know. They’d be back.

4

The gas regulator on a GPMG is located beneath the barrel. As a round is propelled by the expanding gases, it controls the pressure with which the working parts are pushed back to load and fire its successor. The less gas that’s allowed to pass through the regulator, the slower the rate of fire.

I turned the metal dial until it was fully closed, then counted back six clicks. That should give me a good 800 rounds a minute; any more and it would be hard to control. When these fuckers came back, it would be in strength. I wanted as many rounds as possible to land in the weapon’s beaten zone from now on.

‘Silky, Tim and the boy. We’ve got to get them into cover, Sam. They can take my trench.’

He nodded and scrambled towards the tent while Crucial kept covering. I grabbed my AK and spare mags and followed.

There was no argument. Silky started gathering their gear while Sam grabbed the bottom end of the cot and I took the head. ‘One, two, three – up.’ We lifted Tim and the boy and started to shuffle them out.

We lowered them into the backblast channel with a bump that made the boy cry out. Good, he was still breathing, still feeling pain.

‘That’s me back on the gun,’ Sam said. ‘Quick as you can.’

I shoved the AK at Tim. ‘You know how to use one of these?’

He managed a smile. ‘I’ve been here long enough.’

I lobbed the two extra mags on to the cot. ‘Just in case.’

He checked the safety lever, not as fluently as one of us three would, but he knew what he was doing and that was good enough.

The injured boy wasn’t happy at all. He stared at the weapon, transfixed, as terrified as if it was aimed at his head.

‘What am I supposed to do with this from down here, Nick?’

‘If the shit hits the fan, Silky’ll have to drag you up into the backblast channel.’

Tim laid the weapon the other side of the boy. ‘Nick . . .’

I stayed where I was for a moment. ‘Yep?’

‘Thanks.’

‘For what?’

‘Just thanks.’

Silky hobbled out of the tent. I jumped out and grabbed her hand. ‘Drop the gear.’

I dragged her towards Sam’s trench and pointed to the plunger. ‘When I give the word, untwist the handle, pull it up, then push down for all you’re worth, OK?’

High-velocity cracks sounded ahead and to the right of us.

‘Get in the trench!
In the trench!
’

Crucial was already bellowing orders to his two teams. I gave her a shove, and jumped in next to Sam. ‘You see ’em? Up on the lip there?’

He was still aiming down the valley. ‘Hold your fire.’

Two RPGs kicked off almost vertically into the air, and even this far from Crucial’s trench I could feel the warmth of the backblast on my face. A cloud of acrid smoke engulfed us and my nostrils filled with burned propellant.

Crucial was already legging it to Sunday and the Chuckle Brothers as the rounds dropped and soft-detonated. Anyone below them would have been blasted with shrapnel.

Butt back in the shoulder, both eyes open, I watched the valley as the next two RPGs kicked off in quick succession.

5

The RPGs weren’t slowing the rate of fire coming from the lip. Rounds ripped into the mud around us. They were a fire group, trying to pin us down so the rest could attack from the front.

‘The phone!’ I screamed to Sam. ‘Give me the phone!’

He whacked it into my outstretched hand, his weapon never leaving the shoulder.

I ripped off the Prudence and powered it up.

The sky in the distance was about to turn blue, but behind us it was still dark. I crouched further into the trench, finger in my ear, but still kept my head above the parapet.

The phone was answered and I heard the drone of engines. ‘It’s kicking off here, mate. We need you.’

‘Fifteen minutes. How’s the cloud cover?’ He sounded like he was putting in a routine request to land.

‘Clearing.’ More rounds came down from the lip and slammed into the mud on either side of us. I had to shout to be heard. ‘Fifty per cent visibility and clearing. You still coming in east?’

‘Straight up the arse, man.’

‘The beacon will be a burning oil drum, just like the ones at the airstrip, OK?’

‘Roger that.’

‘We’re at the west end of the valley – repeat, anything west of the marker is us, OK?’