‘OK, here’s the drill, Nick.’ Crucial looked like an air steward pointing out the emergency exits. ‘Two launchers in each trench. The first trench, both of them fire on my command. Then the next trench does the same while the other one reloads. Got it?’
I wondered if he’d been watching Zulu. It was like Michael Caine’s boys at Rorke’s Drift, one rank firing while the other loaded. I nodded.
‘Good. I want you to stay in the second trench. Make sure they’re doing their drills right. They keep forgetting to cock the weapon.’
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.