Warrior Brothers by Keith Fennell Page A

dewed soil.
    Pre-dawn, we were up again. We retrieved the mines and set off for the nearby river, which we also had to cross. Traversing it was more difficult than we anticipated, as the current was fast and the bottom deep. Charlie dropped into the river and was soon up to his armpits in the streaming current. We couldn’t see his eyes but they must have been pretty wide at that moment. He was laden with 50 kilograms of equipment, so swimming was not an option. He later told us that if the current had taken him another couple of inches he would have ditched his pack. As it was, he kept going and made the other side.
    I was keen to regain some credibility from the previous mud crossing and managed to locate a point that was no more than waist deep. Although shallow, the river here was at least 80 metres wide so we had to cross slowly. Mindful that the rising sun was rapidly exposing our position, we took advantage of the thick blanket of fog and crawled up the banks on the other side.
    Weaving through the vegetation, we were suddenly confronted by an alarming sight. There, in the clearing ahead, were several saddled ponies. We faded back into the bushes and waited, the sound of voices distinct and close. Quietly consulting the map, it was clear that while the major village was still some way off, between here and there was an almost constant track of smaller hamlets. The other noises we were hearing now made sense – a melodic group of goats, roosters and chickens on the well-populated path ahead of us. Remaining concealed would prove almost impossible.
    We continued as far as we could to the south-west before we saw that the village was coming to life. Tracks surrounded us on either side. We decided to try to seek shelter closer to the river but even that offered no respite. After narrowlyavoiding being seen by a woman washing clothes in the river’s shallows, we had to veer off again. At last we decided to bury ourselves in a small thicket, sitting tight while trying to remain concealed for the day. It was nerve-racking, lying so close to human activity, in constant danger of being exposed by the numerous village dogs that wandered across our path.
    As the sunlight grew stronger, our hiding place was closely passed by dozens of locals. Lying there watching their feet passing to and fro throughout the day was tense but also amusing. Despite our close proximity, the villagers remained completely oblivious to our presence.
    By midday the sun was splashing against our shoulders like torrents of hot water. Most of us were able to find some token level of shade but Jimmy, as signaller, was continually occupied sending and receiving messages. We all felt sorry for him, sort of, as we spied his increasingly red and sweaty face throughout the day.
    Through a series of signals G asked me how much water I had left. I held up my fingers to indicate that I still had about 9 or 10 litres. G furrowed his brow and held up four in response.
    The sun continued to scorch us, and streams of people passed by, singing, talking and laughing. We were compromised several times by goats, pigs and dogs. One pig meandered into the centre of our position, raised his head and locked eyes with me. Little piggy nearly shit himself and took off squealing. At another point, Steve was taking a piss when a dog crept in for a look. A carefully aimed rock was enough to get the message through that we didn’t want any extra attention.
    As the day cooled and things began to quieten down again, I asked G in a hushed voice how he was travelling for water. Through parched lips he gave me a grin: ‘Cool – I still have four litres left.’ He had spent the day baking in the sun and hadn’t consumed a single drop. I was concerned about hishydration levels, but we didn’t have the time to address it then.
    Jimmy had received word from the squadron that we had to ‘get eyes’ on our target by the next morning or a raid would