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them, was Adwana, and these bandits had been terrorising his village for a very long time. At least, that was the impression Nelson got from the gestures Adwana made with his arms and hands, stretching them out to show a long length of time, accompanied by the clicking noises and almost singsong rhythms of the native language.
    ‘You understand all this?’ Nelson asked Mitch.
    ‘Most of it,’ replied Mitch. He turned back to Adwana. ‘We’re here to help Joseph Mwanga,’ he said, using the same mixture of tonal sounds and clicks.
    Adwana nodded. ‘We heard there were strangers coming to save Mwanga,’ he told Mitch. ‘The bandits said so.’ Adwana spat on the ground to show his disgust at the word ‘bandits'. ‘They wanted to know if we had seen anyone dressed like you. Like soldiers. American. British.’
    So they did know we were coming, thought Mitch.
    Mitch and Adwana talked while Nelson listened. Nelson hadn’t a clue what either man was saying, but he could tell by the body language, the way they were using their hands to explain themselves, that the conversation was going well. Adwana was keen to give as much help as he could to the men who had saved his hand, and his people.
    At one point Adwana turned and called another man over. Nelson gathered that this man was called Oba, and soon Mitch, Adwana and Oba were engaged in a three-way conversation that went on for some time. Mitch gently asked questions, listening and nodding as Adwana and Oba replied.
    A couple of times Nelson noticed that Mitch seemed puzzled by an answer, and when that happened he frowned and repeated what either Adwana or Oba had said, with a few additional questioning words in Igbo himself, until he had made sure he’d understood the answer correctly. Then, Mitch would smile, nod and move on.
    By the time Mitch seemed satisfied, and the conversation had ended with smiles and handshakes all round, the light was fading.
    Nelson smelt food cooking, and noticed that the women of the village were preparing something in a pot over a fire.
    ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘It’s supper time.’
    Mitch nodded. ‘And we’re the honoured guests.’ As Mitch saw Nelson’s eyes stray to his watch and his mouth open to argue, Mitch added hastily: ‘It would be rude to refuse. Eating with an invited guest is very important to these people. We’ll be seriously insulting them if we leave now – and we need their help.’
    Nelson hesitated, then nodded.
    The sounds of the other village men and soldiers approaching made them look up.
    ‘All tidied up,’ said Tug. ‘We can move on.’
    ‘It seems we can’t,’ said Nelson. ‘Local tradition says we have to eat.’
    Two Moons grinned. ‘No argument from me,’ he said. ‘That food smells great. A lot better than our emergency rations.’
    ‘What have they told you?’ Benny asked Nelson.
    Nelson jerked his thumb at Mitch. ‘I’m hoping that’s what Mitch is going to tell us while we eat,’ he said. ‘And I hope they ain’t just been talking about the weather and crops.’
    By now night had fallen. As always in the tropics, it happened quickly. One moment it was daylight, the next, following a very brief period that could have been described as dusk, it was dark.
    The men of Delta Unit joined the villagers sitting on the ground near the fires that sent showers of sparks into the dark sky, and onwhich the food was cooking.
    Benny picked a piece of food from his wooden bowl and sniffed it, before popping it into his mouth.
    ‘Smoked fish,’ he said. ‘It’s good.’
    ‘It’s what everyone here eats,’ Mitch told him. ‘That, and monkey meat.’
    ‘Mitch, can we move on from this gourmet-chef stuff and get on with what these guys told you?’ asked Nelson, a touch of impatience in his tone.
    Mitch nodded. ‘The group holding Mwanga is led by a warlord called Justis Ngola,’ he said. ‘For good measure, it just so happens that the bandit chief with the gold headband we just