Spider Shepherd: SAS: #1 (23 page)

The Hoplite crossed a ridge but then followed the slope down into a broad, shallow valley, meandering towards the sea. A sluggish river ran through it, draining the swamp that they could see in the distance. In the middle of the swamp was the island where the rebel arms dump was hidden amid a sprawl of dense vegetation, vivid green against the browns and greys of the dry hillsides in the far distance.

Jerzy put the helicopter into a hover and dropped them in some scrubland, a safe distance from the swamp. As he clattered into the air and swung away, back towards Freetown, the SAS men took stock of their surroundings before moving forward on foot towards the swamp. They walked in single file, with Shepherd as Lead Scout and Jock as “Tail End Charlie”, while Geordie and Jimbo watched right and left from the middle of the column.

The scrub thickened and became forest, its dense foliage reducing visibility to no more than a few yards. They used their other senses to compensate for the lack of vision, pausing every few yards to listen and scenting the air for any human trace.

Shepherd called a halt as he glimpsed the glint of water between the trees. ‘Silent routine from here,’ he said. They fanned out at the edge of the water and began to move through the swamp, so slow and stealthy that barely a ripple disturbed its surface. They communicated with each other only by sign language and faint clicks of the tongue that from more than a couple of feet away were lost among the buzz of insects and the calls of birds in the canopy above them.

Leeches hanging from leaves and stems twisted towards them as they sensed the heat of the SAS men’s bodies. A water-snake traced the sinuous course across the surface of the water in front of them and clouds of mosquitoes hovered everywhere, kept at bay by the insect repellent the patrol had plastered onto their exposed skin and clothing.

The water had been up to their chests at the deepest part of the swamp but the level was now falling and ahead of them Shepherd could now see the sloping ground at the edge of the island. He gave a caution signal to the others then inched forward, refocusing his eyes, trying to see through the screen of foliage. The rebel guards, bored and restless, gave their locations away by their noise and movement and the patrol were able to slip past them undetected.

They spent some hours checking out the area, locating the rebel huts and the arms dump, and identifying stacks of mortar bombs and artillery shells. There were also sacks of rice, salt, and other foods, bundles of clothes, and piles of bush knives, pans and possessions that must have come from the villages the rebels had looted and destroyed.

They found a place to lie up and waited until the small hours, sweltering in the suffocating heat, before slipping past the half-awake sentries into the arms dump.

While Jimbo and Geordie covered them, Shepherd used his newly-fashioned tool to unlock the nose cones on a succession of shells. He fitted the brass tool over each one, gave it a sharp tap with the wooden mallet and then turned it, the brass edges biting into the steel enough to give the tool purchase. Once he had unscrewed the nose cone, Jock used the brass lever to prise out the high explosive compound inside.

Jock spread the high explosive around the stacks of ammunition as Shepherd prepared the timer and detonators. They stopped when they heard a sudden shout. A rebel soldier, wandering out of his hut to relieve himself, must have caught a glint of metal or seen movement and raised the alarm. ‘Make for the RV,’ Shepherd shouted. ‘I’ll handle the detonation.’

Geordie, Jock and Jimbo melted away into the undergrowth as Shepherd hurriedly finished assembling the detonators and timer.  He heard shouts close by and set the timer for just ten seconds before turning and running into the jungle. A burst of fire ripped through the vegetation above his head. He counted the seconds off in his head as he ran and at the count of ten the rebel arms dump erupted in an inferno of explosions and flying rounds.  He kept his head down as he pushed his way through the undergrowth. After a minute he slowed and looked over his shoulder. The explosions were dying down though the lurid glow of flames still lit up the area. He slid into the swamp and moved away as fast as he dared. Eventually he crawled out of the water onto dry land, hurried on for another fifty yards and then dropped into cover as he heard the sounds of pursuit. Back-lit by the glow from the burning arms dump, he could see the scrubby trees in the swamp shaking as a group of about a dozen rebel soldiers pushed past them.

Shepherd could clearly see their faces, framed by rough, matted dreadlocks into which they had woven fragments of broken mirror glass and brightly coloured threads and ribbons. Each of them had an amulet on a string or leather thong around their neck, the juju emblem that they believed gave them immortality. They looked hot-wired and amphetamine-fuelled, jerking and twitching, eyes never still. They showed no fear or hesitation and made no attempt to conceal themselves as they emerged from the swamp and began to move towards his hiding place in line abreast. None of them looked older than ten or twelve but all carried AK-47s at the ready.

Shepherd’s finger tightened on his trigger but he couldn’t bring himself to fire. They were murderous killers high on drugs and they would kill him without hesitation, but they were still children. He lay down and pushed himself down against the ground, burying himself in the vegetation. He held his breath and tried to stay calm but his heart was pounding fit to bust. He heard them crashing through the undergrowth and then they were gone.

He got to his feet and moved to the left, his mind racing. He had intended to make for the RV but that now wasn’t an option, not with the rebels ahead of him.  His only sensible option was to try to make his own way back to Freetown, but that was a lot easier said than done.

He heard more searches behind him and upped his pace. The faster he moved the more trace he left of his passing, and the rebel group stayed on his trail. An hour before dawn he looped his track, lay up in the cover of a thorn bush, and waited. There were six of them, five boy soldiers and an adult, a stick-thin figure with dreadlocks tied back into a ponytail. He was obviously their commander but he took care not to lead from the front, urging them on from behind while using the partial cover they provided. Shepherd squinted through the site of his rifle drawing a bead on the man’s left eye as he moved slowly forward in three-quarter profile to him. He took a deep breath and as he exhaled, he squeezed home the trigger. He allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction as the man’s head exploded. The boys looked around trying to work out where the shot had come from but Shepherd had already moved on. Shepherd discarded everything but his weapon and ammunition and belt kit to increase his speed over the ground. He had no food and could move safely only at night, for once he had left the forest and begun to cross the savannah, he was dangerously exposed by day, visible for miles under the pitiless sun.

For two days and nights he moved on and then, exhausted, semi-delirious and now completely without water or food, he was stumbling through a patch of scrub when his eye caught a slight movement from the base of a thorn bush. As he looked at it, he saw an eye staring back at him. He swung his weapon up but in that instant, he heard a voice crying ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ and an African man crawled out from under the tree and stood up, raising his hands over his head.

‘It’s all right, you can put your hands down,’ said Shepherd. ‘Why were you hiding?’

The man grinned. ‘English?’ he said. ‘You’re English, aren’t you? Look at this!’

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small, cracked and crumpled book with a sun-faded red cover. Shepherd took it from him and read the title: “Soldier’s Service And Pay Book.”

The man’s smile had become even broader. ‘It belonged to my father, Thomas Tucker,’ he said. ‘He fought with the British West African Field Force in the Second World War. He told me many stories of fighting with the Chindits in Burma. I am named after him: Thomas Tucker, Junior.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Shepherd said. ‘I’m Dan, but why were you hiding?’

‘Because the rebels are here. The RUF. If they find me they will kill me.’

‘I hear you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Looks like we have something in common.’

‘But you have a rifle. You can fight them off.’ He paused, eyeing Shepherd narrowly. ‘You are making for Freetown? We can travel together.’

‘I’m sorry Thomas, I can’t take a passenger.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘I won’t be a passenger. You protect me - be my bodyguard - and I will show you a safe route into Freetown. Very few people know it. And,’ he said as his gaze took in Shepherd’s cracked lips and the empty bottle dangling from his belt. ‘I know where there is water too.’ He held out his own bottle. ‘Go on, drink. There is water nearby.’

Shepherd took the bottle gratefully and took a long pull on it. Almost at once he felt some of his strength and sharpness returning. He looked at Thomas for a moment and then nodded. ‘All right, you’ve got yourself a deal.’

Thomas led Shepherd away, at a tangent to the bearing he’d been following. A couple of miles away, half-hidden in a hollow, was a large baobab tree. ‘Give me your water bottle,’ Thomas said. He climbed its bulbous trunk, hauled himself up and then leaned forward into the crook of two branches. A few moments later, he dropped the bottle down to Shepherd; it was now full of water. Thomas beamed at the look of surprise on his face. We call these trees “the tree of life”. They store water from the wet season.’ He moved out along the branch and leaned down to pull a fruit that looked like a gourd from the underside. He grinned down at Shepherd. ‘They feed us, too.’

He climbed back down and used a bush knife to cut through the hard skin, exposing its white, powdery pulp. He dug some out and handed it to Shepherd. Shepherd ate it greedily; it was the first food of any kind he’d seen in two days. It tasted like a cross between a pineapple and a melon with a tart, citrus tang.

They moved off again and Thomas led Shepherd even further from the route he had been following, crossing a dry river valley and climbing onto a low ridge. He pushed his way through some scrub bush then turned to Shepherd and smiled. They were standing on what appeared to be a narrow pathway running straight as a die into the distance. Although it was flanked on either side by dense scrub, the ground underfoot felt stony and the way itself was mainly grass-covered, burned brown by the sun with a few stunted bushes. ‘It’s an old railway line,’ Thomas explained. ‘It’s been closed for many years, but it’s so dry and stony that almost nothing can grow on it. We can make fast time now.’

To Shepherd’s surprise they arrived at the fringes of Freetown within 24 hours, where the railway track ended, petering out among a sprawling shantytown of crude buildings and lean-to shacks. The stench was overpowering and the watercourse that ran through the area was as foul as any Shepherd had ever seen, yet he saw women scooping drinking water from it. The stink of sewage, refuse and decay mingled with the smoke from cooking fires, and there were clouds of flies everywhere.

As they peered out from cover, they saw a barrier across the road, guarded by rebel soldiers, and patrols moving through the shacks and houses. They waited until after midnight before they moved on. Shepherd still had the scarf around his neck that he’d used to keep the dust from the Harmattan wind out of his nose and mouth. ‘Wind your scarf around your head,’ Thomas said. ‘You’ll need it. There is disease in the air.’ Thomas had a black and white checked scarf around his neck and he pulled it over his mouth and nose.

He led Shepherd into the shantytown, past shacks built from scrap wood and packing cases, their roofs made from rusting corrugated iron or palm fronds. They moved through a maze of alleys and passageways, the stench growing ever stronger. A few mangy dogs growled or barked at them, and one or two figures appeared briefly but the sight of Shepherd’s powerful figure and the rifle he carried was enough to send them melting back into the shadows. Lower on the hillside, where the ferocious heat of the night was unbroken by even a trace of breeze, they reached a dumpsite, where even during the hours of darkness, a mountain of reeking refuse was being picked over by ragpickers moving like ants across its surface. Everything, even the people, was so smothered in grey dust that when they stopped moving, the rag pickers seemed to disappear from sight, merging into the heap on which they stood.

Shepherd’s white skin was blanketed in dust in an instant and he was gagging on the stench, but Thomas urged him on. ‘There are no rebels here,’ he said. ‘There is nothing for them. No food to eat, nothing worth stealing, no women worth raping and no boys to conscript to do their killing. But the dump reaches almost into the heart of the city. It is a highway for us to follow.’

They reached the far end of the dump two hours before the dawn. They slipped across the road, passed through another warren of side streets and passageways and emerged almost in the heart of the city, near the Cotton Tree roundabout. ‘You can find your way from here, I think,’ Thomas said.

Shepherd nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘My brother’s house is not far away. I’ll be safe there.’

Shepherd took out all the money he had and tried to give it to Thomas, but the man shook his head. ‘I did not do this for money. We were comrades in arms. I was the guide, you the bodyguard.’

‘You saved my life,’ Shepherd said. ‘Is there nothing I can do for you?’

‘Say a prayer for my father when you get home. In an English church. That will be more than enough for me.’