With all the drills fresh in people’s minds, everything seemed ridiculously simple. Nevertheless, we took all sensible precautions. Only once during our recce did we set foot on the road, and then we all crossed it together, brushing out our tracks behind us.
After scarcely an hour we were back at our bivouac site, and Joss again made careful models in the sand to brief his men. Then he took the commanders forward for their own recce, and Pavarotti helped them plan a cut-off barrier of claymores, with trip-wire triggers, in the bush on the south side of the track, to catch anybody who tried to break in that direction. We’d agreed that the SAS would take no direct part in the ambush itself, but that we’d be there close behind, in the background, to advise if anything went wrong.
Our best policy was obviously to leave our vehicles where they were, under guard, well out of the way, and move into position on foot. At 1630, after a meal, I gave everybody the same kind of bollocking as before, but tougher, telling them that this time the action was going to be for real, and they couldn’t afford any NDs or general faffing about.
‘The sky’s clear,’ I told them, looking up. ‘That means it’s going to be a fairly light night. The convoy will probably be driving without lights. If the wind gets up, we may not hear the engines until the last minute. So everybody needs to be on full alert. Your aim is very simple: destroy every enemy vehicle, and make sure no one gets out alive.’
With that, everybody tabbed forward, with three Kamangans humping the gun, spare barrel and tripod of their .50 machine gun, and two other guys carring spare ammunition.
Before the sun set at 1740 the whole party was in position. To keep things simple, I’d assigned the same back-ups as in the exercise: Pav behind the left cut-off, Andy behind the right, Genesis with the rear, Mart with myself and Whinger in the centre. We’d lent Joss one of our covert comms sets so that we could keep in touch with him, and we were close enough to talk to the rest of our lads, who stayed back with the vehicles, ready to move up as and when we called them.
Night fell as quickly as if a black curtain had been drawn down over earth and sky. Apart from the background chorus of crickets, not a sound disturbed the silence. I kept thinking about the big owl that had swooped over the village, expecting to hear that low
hoo-hoo
any minute – but if owls were flying, none called near us.
Whinger and I were lying at a comfortable angle – heads up, feet down – on a sandy bank that gave good protection from the front. If anyone started firing in our direction, we’d only have to lower our heads to be in dead ground. Also, we were far enough back from the Kamangan line to be able to talk in whispers without being heard. Not that we had much to say to each other at that point: we were both weary, and hoping the convoy would arrive early, rather than wait till four in the morning to put in an appearance.
Time dragged. To hurry it up I tried to imagine the map of Africa, fitting in all the countries like the pieces of a jigsaw. South Africa, at the bottom, was easy enough. Next up on the left came Namibia. I’d spent a week there once, and knew most of it was barren desert. Next up again was Angola, scene of one of the longest-lasting civil wars. Inland, beside Angola, was Botswana. I’d been there, too, and had spooky experiences in the Tsodilo Hills, where one of our guys had been killed falling off a mountain. I remembered how the RAF had flown a Hercules over the spot and how, when they tried to throw a wreath out the open back door, in tribute to the dead man, it had blown back into the aircraft three times, an uncanny fluke that left the crew twitching.
It was Andy, on our right, who heard the noise first.
‘Green Two,’ said his voice in my earpiece. ‘Something moving ahead.’
‘Vehicles?’
‘Pass. Sounds more like people on foot, coming through the bush.’
‘Has your squad heard it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Wait out, then.’ I listened intently for a few moments. My watch was reading 2155. As I watched, a shooting star hurtled down the sky towards the south. Then I called, ‘Green Three? Any noise in your sector?’
‘Negative,’ came Pav.
‘You heard Andy?’
‘Roger.’
‘Green Four?’
‘Definitely,’ said Genesis. ‘There’s movement up ahead.’
‘Green Five, you heard that?’
Joss took a moment to answer, maybe feeling for his pressel switch. Then he came up with: ‘Roger. We’re ready.’
‘All stations, stand by.’
We listened, straining to catch the slightest sound. The air was completely still. The moon was well up, casting a black shadow behind every silver-grey bush and tree, pitting the land with inky patches. I held my breath and uttered a silent prayer that none of the Kamangans would open fire prematurely.
As I let my breath go, I felt wind on my right cheek, that sudden, curious night wind, starting again. Quickly a surge built up, gusting from the north, sighing through the scrub. But this little squall never reached the intensity of the one that had blown up during our exercise. In a couple of minutes it died away again, and silence returned, the huge, all-embracing silence of the African night.
Maybe, I told myself, it was only an eddy of air that the guys had heard. But soon, when nothing else happened, I got a different idea. I began to wonder if the breeze had betrayed our presence to rebel scouts, moving ahead of their convoy. Had they got our scent and quietly turned back? Surely none of the Kamangans could have been such an idiot as to light a cigarette? Most of them stank like polecats, and BO on its own might have been enough to raise the alarm.
‘What d’you reckon it was?’ I whispered.
‘Animals, I expect,’ Whinger murmured. ‘Probably an antelope.’
He’d hardly spoken when, somewhere beyond the killing ground, a branch snapped. I knew instinctively that the crack was too loud to have been made by an impala or a puku. Antelopes are delicate animals that nibble at leaves and twigs; except when running for their lives, they do not break thick branches by treading on them.
‘All stations,’ I said again, ‘stand by.’
I was expecting – hoping – to pick up the rattle of a truck travelling slowly, or the grind of engines turning steadily at low revs. The next sound we got was almost mechanical, but utterly different: a huge, raucous intake of air, like a giant snort.
‘Firekin ’ell!’ went Whinger out loud. ‘Elephants!’
Before I could hit my pressel again, the night split apart in a blinding flash and the shock-wave of an explosion buffeted us in the face.
‘Jesus!’ I shouted. ‘They’re in the trip-wires!’
Boom!
went another claymore. Violent screams burst out, as harsh and loud as if giants were tearing up sheets of corrugated iron. One, two, three, four – primeval cries of fear and alarm ripped out all over, building into a chorus of panic. Another booby trap exploded, setting fire to the bush in the background. All across our front the Kamangans opened up, pouring rounds into the killing area.
‘
Stop!
’ roared Pavarotti. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’
His words were lost in the uproar. From being dead quiet, the night had turned crazy with noise. Like the elephants, the Kamangans had gone hyper. They were firing bursts often or twelve rounds, half of them high into the sky. The heavy hammer of the .50 was continuous. Two RPGs went scorching into the bush and exploded in brilliant flashes. A fourth claymore detonated, then a fifth.
Why the hell hadn’t Joss switched on the ambush lights? Why hadn’t he fired a flare? He had the shamoulis. I’d hardly had time to wonder what he was doing when I realised that hefty black shapes were hurtling towards us like tanks – not three or four, but dozens – crashing headlong through any scrub in their path as they charged across the killing ground.
One of them was coming straight for me and Whinger.
‘Watch this fucker!’ I yelled. But before we could move it veered to its left and swung off in a circle, like a truck with a punctured tyre. I knew it had taken rounds and was disabled. Another went down, head over heels, and rolled to a halt like a seven-ton truck with all four wheels seized. The rest of them kept coming.
At last a rocket soared up and a flare deployed, yet the sudden illumination only increased the chaos. Presented with a clear view of fifty charging elephants, the Kamangans leapt to their feet and ran in all directions, back, sideways, forwards, loosing off wildly. Human yells merged with the louder animal noises. The effect was to increase the general panic and accelerate the stampede. Huge creatures thundered forward, ears raised, trunks up, screaming all out in a rolling cloud of dust. My instinct was to get up and run, or join in the firing, but I knew that any movement would expose us to still greater risk of getting trampled or knocked over.
‘Keep down!’ I yelled.
Whinger and I clung to the earth, on the back of our little mound. I felt the ground tremble as the nearest elephant hurtled past, three or four yards to my left. With it came a hot, fierce, animal smell, like that of cows, but more intense. Spurts of warm liquid sprayed on to us. In a few seconds the whole herd was through our position and past us, crashing away into the distance along the line of the road.
When the firing died down, I found myself shaking from a massive charge of adrenalin, and my finger trembled as I hit the pressel of my radio.
‘Come in, all stations.’
There was a pause before Pav answered, ‘Green Three.’
‘You okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘Okay. Green Four?’
‘Roger,’ went Genesis.
‘Five?’
‘No problem.’ Joss’s voice sounded high and strained.
‘Get the fucking lights on,’ I told him. ‘Keep the shamoulis going. We need maximum illumination. Two, then. Come in, Green Two.’
I waited, tried again. No reply. Andy. It was possible his radio had gone down. It might have fallen out of its pouch if he’d had to move quickly. But deep down I knew at once something bad had happened.
I’ve seen the shit hit the fan often enough, but never as messily as that. Dead or dying elephants were scattered over the killing ground, some roaring and groaning as they struggled to get up. The Kamangans’ discipline had gone like the night wind. Men had abandoned their positions and were running all over the place, putting bursts into the crippled beasts, already whacking into the dead bulls with machetes and commando knives as they started to cut out their tusks. It seemed highly unlikely that there could be an enemy force in the vicinity; if the convoy had been close, it would have turned tail by now. Just as well, because our party was wide open to attack.
‘Fuck it!’ I shouted to Whinger. ‘It’s not down to us to get these bastards back under control. I’m going to find Andy.’
Together we ran towards the spot where he’d taken station, behind the right cut-off group. ‘Andy!’ I yelled. ‘Where are you?’
In the distance the claymore explosions had ignited several bush fires, but the crackling flames only made our immediate surroundings seem darker. The last shamouli had floated off to the west, so that its flare was filling every dip in the ground with black shadow, and we had to check each inky patch individually.
It was Whinger who found him. He gave a sudden yell of ‘Here!’ and stood still, with his torch-beam pointing straight downwards.
In a second I was beside him. Andy was lying on his back, head turned to the right, with his eyes shut and a trickle of blood oozing from his mouth. It was obvious what had happened, because his chest was almost two-dimensional, only two or three inches from top to bottom, crushed flat by a tremendous weight. An elephant must have knocked him down and put a foot right on him, or rolled over him. Kneeling beside the body, I ran my hands up its sides and touched the ends of snapped ribs jagging out under his smock. I saw his 203 lying in the dust a few feet away.
I felt choked. Andy, just married. My mind flew to the day of the wedding. All the blossom had been out in an orchard next to the churchyard. I looked down at his body and thought, ‘Why in a godforsaken place like this?’ I knew we’d had our differences, but he never deserved this. I thought of Penny, a bride of only two months. Now the Families’ Officer would have to call on her. I remembered how they’d broken the terrible news about Kath’s senseless death to me.
‘Jesus!’ I went. ‘It’s that fucking witch doctor. This is his number one, the first of ten.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Whinger. ‘It was just bad luck. I bet the silveries have taken casualties as well.’
‘The more, the better,’ I said savagely. ‘Stupid bastards. Why the hell can’t they control themselves?’
‘This wasn’t their fault,’ said Whinger, doggedly. ‘It wasn’t them who cracked it off. It was the claymores that panicked the elephants.’
I knew he was right, but that didn’t make things any easier. I stood up, getting hold of myself, and used the radio to call our remaining guys together. I couldn’t help feeling irritated when Genesis started to recite a short benediction, commending Andy’s soul to the Almighty, and I shouted at him to shut up.