“Right shoulder arms . . . Present arms.”
Obediently I swung my AK-47 into the firing position, jamming the butt of the rifle into my shoulder. It would be just like shooting targets, but now the targets were men. But wait. How could I think that way? Was it the magic powder? Had being here in this crazy camp stripped me of everything Papa had taught me about being good and honorable?
But I had to obey, or I would be forced to play the land mine game, or worse.
My breath was shallow. I lined up the sight.
“Ready . . . aim . . . fire!”
Our rifles exploded. The prisoners screamed and danced like jumpy monkeys as the bullets hit them. I pressed my trigger, the rifle banging my shoulder again and again. A smoky smell filled the air. Red dots covered the men’s bodies. The bullets kept flying even after the men fell down.
I had fired above the targets. I just couldn’t make myself fire into human flesh.
“Halt.” Oba walked over to where the prisoners lay on the ground. The man dressed in uniform was still moving. Oba took the dagger from his belt and stuck the blade into the man’s chest. The twitching stopped.
“Drag the prisoners to the fire pit and burn them,” he ordered.
The boys hefted the dead bodies and marched off with them. My feet felt like concrete blocks.
“Mzungu.” Oba’s voice made me freeze. “Come here.”
My throat felt tight. I made myself put one foot in front of the other. I held my breath. Did Oba know that I hadn’t shot the men?
CRACK SHOT
I was starting to forget home. Papa’s lessons, Thea’s smile, my friends—all were becoming blurry in my dreams. I lived and breathed war. Oba had us practice ambushing, sniper-crawling, shooting—lots of crazy combat stuff.
Oba was very hard on me, kicking me and hitting me in the stomach with his rifle. He knew I’d chickened out at the firing line. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could turn into a Greek god like Zeus or Apollo so I could save myself. I’d given up on anyone rescuing me. The jungle was too thick. No one could see us from the sky or land. If I wanted to leave, I’d have to find my own way out.
I was cleaning my gun when something smacked into my shoulder. Ouch! I looked down. Blado had thrown a rock at me. “Come on, Mzungu, you lazy idiot. Oba wants us.”
I wanted to punch him, but it was too dangerous. Big Blado was the leader of our troop, and we had to do what he said. I stood, picked up my rifle, and followed him. He headed to the garbage area where we practiced shooting. I pinched my nose. The stink was horrible. I tripped over an empty Coke can.
Blado pushed my chest with both his hands. “What kind of soldier are you when you can’t even walk straight?”
I wanted to push back but stopped myself. “I’m better at shooting than walking.”
He made a fist, winding up for a punch. Footsteps sounded. Blado dropped his hand. “Jambo, sir.”
Oba and Kofi walked toward us. Kofi carried a paper target in his hands. “Time for shooting drills.”
Kofi hung the target on a tree about sixty feet away. Oba pointed to me. “You’re first. And there’s a prize. Whoever shoots better will lead the troops.”
Heat rushed to my face. This was my chance to be Blado’s boss. I could do better than the older boy if I stayed calm.
Oba took off his bandanna and wrapped it around my eyes. The cloth stunk, but I kept my body still, wanting to hit that bull’s-eye. We’d practiced shooting blindfolded so we could learn how to reload and fire in the dark. There was talk of nighttime raids, and Oba wanted us ready. We had to close our eyes and keep our feet in the same spot, doing it over and over again until we could hit the target from ten feet, then twenty, then thirty. It was amazing how good we got without even seeing the target.
“Prepare to fire.”
I dug my feet into the dirt, then lifted the rifle.
“Fire.” Oba’s voice echoed in my ears.
I held steady and pressed the trigger. Boom, boom, boom. After firing all five shots, I lifted the bandanna. I’d hit the small circle on every shot, but a little to the right. Not good enough. Blado smiled.
“Not bad. I’ll give you one more try.” Oba turned to Kofi. “Post a new target.”
This was my last chance to beat Blado. I would be a better leader of the troops. Fear didn’t earn loyalty—good leadership did. Papa said so.
Kofi pulled down the old target and kept it to compare with Blado’s shooting. After he posted the new one, I lined up my feet and reloaded my rifle.
Last time, my shots went right. Not again.
When Oba blindfolded me with the bandanna, I stayed still and waited for his command.
Scuffling footsteps. A soft cry. Probably Blado trying to distract me. No way would the bully win. I entered the shooting zone, picturing the target. I could do this.