few wells that existed had been deliberately wrecked, and others had been polluted with the dead bodies of animals or humans thrown down them, so that once again everybody depended on rivers or springs, and people thought nothing of walking three or four kilometres in each direction to fetch water every morning.
As we went further south, the air grew steadily hotter. With only short breaks we drove right through the first afternoon after Bakunda’s departure, and on through the night. A couple of hours before dawn we came out on to a ridge commanding a big sweep of country, across which – according to our maps – ran a main road leading from the border in the direction of Gutu. So we stopped under a grove of sausage trees to get a good look at what lay ahead of us. Our vehicles deployed and cammed-up, with the heavy weapons sited in all-round defensive positions, and everybody got their heads down in turn.
When the light came up, we were disappointed to find that the ground in front consisted of a featureless sea of bush, dipping gently until it rose again to another low ridge in the distance. There were open patches of grassland between the trees and shrubs, but if the road was there, we couldn’t see it and continuous observation revealed no movement of any kind. The only development before midday came at about 1130, when a column of smoke went up from beyond the far ridge, to our left.
‘Bush fire?’ I asked Joss, who was standing with me.
‘I don’t think so,’ he answered. ‘Smoke’s too concentrated. A bush fire would be more spread out. Looks like somebody’s burnt a village.’
It was Jason, the skinny tracker, who raised the alert. He was on stag in one of the forward OPs when he gave a sudden call.
I looked across, saw him pointing, and hurried over.
‘What is it?’
‘One man.’
‘Where?
‘Two tall trees, over there.’
‘Got ’em.’
‘To the right, open space.’
‘Yes.’
‘One minute, he come out.’
I glued my binoculars to the small, stony plain, not wanting to put Mabonzo down, but hardly believing that a single man could be moving on his own through that huge wilderness.
But hell, the tracker was right.
A tiny figure struggled into view, an African, bareheaded, in rags, limping heavily, leaning on a stick, dragging himself forward a step at a time, four or five hundred yards from us. He was heading vaguely north, on course to pass to our right.
‘Hey, Whinge,’ I called. ‘Look at this.’
‘The poor bugger’s hurt,’ said Whinger immediately. Then suddenly he shouted, ‘No! For fuck’s sake!’
One of the Kamangan sentries had brought his AK47 up into the aim.
‘Don’t shoot!’ said Whinger fiercely. ‘This guy may be some use to us. He’s tabbed it from the direction of the enemy. Hey, Joss!’
The distant fugitive must have heard Whinger’s first yell, because he’d stopped and looked around.
‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘He’s going to do a runner.’
‘Like hell he is,’ said Andy, who’d appeared beside me. ‘He couldn’t run to save his life.’
‘Let’s get down to him, then,’ I went. ‘Andy and I’ll go with Joss. The rest of you keep still and cover us.’
We watched for a couple of minutes to make sure the man was on his own. In the end, unable to identify where the sound had come from, he started lurching forward again, and Andy and I set off towards him, together with Joss and a man called Kaingo, who could speak several tribal languages besides his own. As we moved I kept a patch of thick bush between us and our target, so that he didn’t see us, because I was afraid he might take fright and try to sheer off. The result was that when he finally came in view of us, he was only twenty metres off.
The sight of four armed guys in DPMs, two black, two white, gave him a horrible fright. He jumped backwards, tried to run, fell over, and then raised his hands in a pathetic gesture of surrender. By the time we got to him, he was on
As we went further south, the air grew steadily hotter. With only short breaks we drove right through the first afternoon after Bakunda’s departure, and on through the night. A couple of hours before dawn we came out on to a ridge commanding a big sweep of country, across which – according to our maps – ran a main road leading from the border in the direction of Gutu. So we stopped under a grove of sausage trees to get a good look at what lay ahead of us. Our vehicles deployed and cammed-up, with the heavy weapons sited in all-round defensive positions, and everybody got their heads down in turn.
When the light came up, we were disappointed to find that the ground in front consisted of a featureless sea of bush, dipping gently until it rose again to another low ridge in the distance. There were open patches of grassland between the trees and shrubs, but if the road was there, we couldn’t see it and continuous observation revealed no movement of any kind. The only development before midday came at about 1130, when a column of smoke went up from beyond the far ridge, to our left.
‘Bush fire?’ I asked Joss, who was standing with me.
‘I don’t think so,’ he answered. ‘Smoke’s too concentrated. A bush fire would be more spread out. Looks like somebody’s burnt a village.’
It was Jason, the skinny tracker, who raised the alert. He was on stag in one of the forward OPs when he gave a sudden call.
I looked across, saw him pointing, and hurried over.
‘What is it?’
‘One man.’
‘Where?
‘Two tall trees, over there.’
‘Got ’em.’
‘To the right, open space.’
‘Yes.’
‘One minute, he come out.’
I glued my binoculars to the small, stony plain, not wanting to put Mabonzo down, but hardly believing that a single man could be moving on his own through that huge wilderness.
But hell, the tracker was right.
A tiny figure struggled into view, an African, bareheaded, in rags, limping heavily, leaning on a stick, dragging himself forward a step at a time, four or five hundred yards from us. He was heading vaguely north, on course to pass to our right.
‘Hey, Whinge,’ I called. ‘Look at this.’
‘The poor bugger’s hurt,’ said Whinger immediately. Then suddenly he shouted, ‘No! For fuck’s sake!’
One of the Kamangan sentries had brought his AK47 up into the aim.
‘Don’t shoot!’ said Whinger fiercely. ‘This guy may be some use to us. He’s tabbed it from the direction of the enemy. Hey, Joss!’
The distant fugitive must have heard Whinger’s first yell, because he’d stopped and looked around.
‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘He’s going to do a runner.’
‘Like hell he is,’ said Andy, who’d appeared beside me. ‘He couldn’t run to save his life.’
‘Let’s get down to him, then,’ I went. ‘Andy and I’ll go with Joss. The rest of you keep still and cover us.’
We watched for a couple of minutes to make sure the man was on his own. In the end, unable to identify where the sound had come from, he started lurching forward again, and Andy and I set off towards him, together with Joss and a man called Kaingo, who could speak several tribal languages besides his own. As we moved I kept a patch of thick bush between us and our target, so that he didn’t see us, because I was afraid he might take fright and try to sheer off. The result was that when he finally came in view of us, he was only twenty metres off.
The sight of four armed guys in DPMs, two black, two white, gave him a horrible fright. He jumped backwards, tried to run, fell over, and then raised his hands in a pathetic gesture of surrender. By the time we got to him, he was on
Similar Books
