‘Ja, take a good look,’ Skeletor said, even though the villagers couldn’t hear. ‘This is what happens when you support the bad guys.’

Thomas wanted to tear off his uniform and cover his face in shame.

Outside the village lay a rubbish dump strewn with plastic, bottles, bones and other waste that couldn’t be recycled as building material. This was where their driver chose to stop.

Skeletor and three others jumped out and untied the terrorist. Thomas stayed in the Buffel, watching from the window while they dragged the shirtless man to a patch of oily sand and doused him with fuel from an orange canister. A match was thrown. Prongs of brilliant yellow stabbed at the sky, followed by sooty smoke, a fire that could easily be seen from the village.

Even from inside the Buffel, the smell of charred meat was strong, reminding Thomas of the farewell braai his dad had thrown the night before he reported to Natal Command. He dropped his head between his legs and tried not to breathe.

‘You missed a beautiful bonfire,’ Skeletor said when he came back, troopies chuckling like naughty schoolboys around him.

Thomas didn’t look up until the side panel slammed shut and they started moving, their hearts-and-minds tour of the village complete.

When the Buffel stopped next, its complement of troopies shot from it like fizz escaping a shaken Coke bottle. Thomas stumbled out last and instead of following the tide of soldiers going back to barracks, took a moment to steady himself. Maybe he was more stoned than he had thought.

He was in the vehicle depot, surrounded by sleeping trucks, jeeps and armoured cars. Branching out from this dusty square were wide, well-lit streets that led to the hard-packed sand walls of the base. In every street he saw brown-uniformed soldiers rushing to inspections, the mess hall or the post office, or simply running because an officer had told them to.