Another scream.
‘Jesus, man!’ objected Ollie. His face was red with anger as he looked across at Wallace.
Maksim was struggling violently, and so was Dan, both men trying desperately to free themselves from their captors so they could rush to Chris’s aide. Maksim briefly broke free, but he only ran three yards before three huge, beefy soldiers brought him crashing to the ground, pummelling him with their fists. Slowly, he was dragged back to the line, whilst only a few yards away, they could hear Chris choking back the pain from the freshly opened wounds.
‘He’s a professional soldier, just like you,’ growled Ollie, still looking at Wallace. ‘This is no way to treat a man.’
‘He’s Afrikaans scum,’ spat Wallace. He turned back towards the soldiers standing over Chris. ‘Now the legs,’ he shouted.
Chris was kicking violently, but he didn’t have the strength to match the two soldiers who grabbed hold of his right leg, and pinned it hard to the ground. Again, a third lifted his gun, twisted it slightly so the bayonet was perfectly angled, then thrust it down. It struck Chris just above the ankle, splintering the bones with a sickening crunch, then slicing through the flesh and digging into the ground below. With a swiftness that suggested the Sixth Brigade men were well practised in administering this punishment, they did the same to the left leg. Chris’s cries of pain were getting fainter each time, and yet, as the volume and strength of his lungs started to weaken, there was also more despair in them.
Wallace stepped up to inspect the body. Chris was splayed out on the ground like a starfish, all four limbs bayoneted into the ground. His back arched up in agony, yet as he did so, his flesh stretched into the blade cutting into him, making him scream in pain, and emptying fresh trickles of blood onto the parade ground.
With a curt nod of his head, Wallace thanked the soldiers and dismissed them.
He walked the ten paces back to where Ollie and the rest of the men were standing. ‘Apparently some of the revisionist historians say that crucifixion wasn’t so bad,’ he said, pulling out a fresh cigar from his breast-pocket and wafting it under his nose to enjoy its smoky aroma. ‘But it looks bloody painful to me.’
Ollie remained silent.
‘We’ll leave the bastard out for a few hours, and let the flies and the cockroaches have a bit of a chew at him,’ Wallace said conversationally. ‘And we’ll bring you boys out later tonight to take a look at him. Then I’ll give you a simple choice. You can start making those confessions I want from you. Or else you can draw lots for which one of you fuckers is going to be next.’
He nodded towards the soldiers.
The prisoners were marched back towards their cell, Chris’s howls of pain still fresh in their ears.
The heads of the men were down, noted Ollie.
We’re about to find out how much punishment we can take, he told himself grimly.
Thirty-Seven
NOT MANY PEOPLE WENT OUT in Ibera at night, not any more. Most of the bars and restaurants had closed down, and those that were still open were short on customers. Police and Army patrols roamed the streets at night and shot people on sight for any minor infringement of the law. Those that weren’t shot got shaken down for bribes Most evenings, a deathly silence fell over the place by ten. With few lights left working, it was a city shrouded in darkness and fear.
When Steve climbed out of the back of the Hyundai, his limbs were stiff, and his back ached in a dozen different places. Ian and Nick followed, looking exhausted. They’d pulled into a suburban side street on the northern edge of the city, full of solid detached 1950s and 1960s houses that had been built by people trying to recreate the Home Countries.
Except no one was trying to kill you in the Home Counties. At least, not with AK-47s. Not yet anyway.
‘Where the hell can we go now?’ Ian asked.
‘I know a place,’ said Sam. ‘There’s a backpacker’s hostel close to the centre of the city where three scruffy-looking white guys aren’t going to attract too much attention to themselves.’
Steve glanced at his watch. It was just after ten at night.
‘Then let’s go,’ he said tersely. ‘We haven’t much time.’
Ollie could smell the alcohol on the breath of the soldiers who pushed them roughly up the stairs and out onto the parade ground: a mixture of beer and rum - a combination that could make men wild with fury. Wallace is giving them the booze for a reason, he calculated. He’s expecting something nasty to happen. And soon.
A drunk soldier is a brutal soldier. Every commander knows that simple rule.
Ollie exchanged a worried look with David. It was clear he’d had the same thought.