“Jimmy” told this story one night, sitting in a bar after we had all gotten tired of playing darts.

We were a scratch crew, put together from some guys who were hanging around in a bar that had a bit of a reputation as a “mercenary” hangout, looking for whatever they could pick up to make a their next rent check or pay off their bar tab. The job sounded dodgy as can be, but my wallet was empty and so was my stomach, and the offer was for enough to get me back home with something to spare, enough to get by for a few weeks any way.

I don’t know if the guy hiring us was from some government agency somewhere or if he was from some dodgy corporation. Could even have been some kind of criminal syndicate. Personally, I suspect it was syndicate, but don’t bite the hand that’s feeding you, you know.

The story was that there was a boat hauling contraband on a river a ways over the border, guns and munitions that were going to either a drugs and slaver gang or to a bunch of rebels. He wasn’t real forthcoming on that. It was important that the boat and cargo be stopped or destroyed. Not sure why the local authorities or military couldn’t or wouldn’t do the job, but whatever, it was cash in hand.

I knew and had worked with a couple of the guys before, “Dieter” and “Stretch”.

Dieter claimed to have been in the French Foreign Legion. He was very good with an automatic rifle or light machine gun. He had quite a few knife scars on his body. One ran from his lip to just below his ear, pulling his mouth into a permanent snarl.

Stretch’s story changed every time he told it. One time he said he had been in the SBS (Royal Marine Special Boat Squadron), another time it was the Paras, once it was in the South African Army 32^nd Battalion in Namibia. For all I know, he may have been kicked out of all of them. He was very good with explosives though. He said he learned from his father who was a safe breaker.

The rest of the crew were the usual dodgy bunch, the kind who will maybe do the job all right or maybe cut your throat and make off with your gear. Anyway, Dieter, Stretch and I agreed that we would watch each other’s backs.

“Colin” and “Mac” were going to fly the helicopters that would get us part of the way to the target area. They didn’t have the range to get us real close; at least that’s what they said. We would have to bush walk for 30 km or so after they dropped us off. The birds were small, French I think, and could only carry 4 of us per bird. We were not sure if we could find someplace safe to land, so we were prepared to abseil in if we had to.

We got geared up. I had a para model FAL, and Dieter carried a BAR that he had gotten ahold of from somewhere. Stretch had a Stirling. We had about 50 kg of TNT and various ways to make it go bang. Stretch and I divided the TNT between the two of us.

Stretch, “Cheesey”, “Marty” and “Call me Fred” were in Mac’s helicopter. Dieter, “Hoppy”, “Ox” and I were in Colin’s.

After about an hour’s flight, Mac put his bird in a hover over a tiny opening in the trees, and the guys abseiled down to the ground two at a time. When Mac pulled away, Colin brought us in over the opening. Hoppy and Ox went out opposites sides of the bird and slid to the ground. Dieter and I had just dropped out of the doors and were hanging below the bird for a second, stabilizing ourselves so we wouldn’t yank the bird out of the sky, when several tracers flew past the cockpit canopy. Colin pulled pitch and started to leave.

Dieter and I dropped as fast as we could, til we got to the ends of the ropes. I got hung up for a second on a bit of a tangle, so I pulled my knife and cut the rope. I hit the ground just before I would have been dragged through a tree, landing on my butt and my Bergen. I felt like I had been struck by lightning and it was a few seconds before I could breathe. (Side note: my back has never been right since.)

Stretch ran up and helped me stand up. A few meters away, Hoppy and Ox were standing next to Dieter’s body. He had been dragged into a tree and his back and neck were broken. He kind of looked at us for a few seconds, then he stopped breathing and his eyes went empty.

Cheesy and Marty came up. Marty was carrying a rusty old AK.

“It was just some drugged up idiot,” he said.

We split up Dieter’s gear and scratched out a shallow grave under the tree that had killed him. We put him into the hole and filled it in.

Stretch recited: “Ich hatte einen Kameraden, einen Bessern findst Du nicht.”

Leaving Dieter to his mercenary’s pension, we loaded up and tabbed out, heading for the river.

We were now seven, but the Magnificent Seven we surely weren’t.