He didn’t say what would happen to the Biafrans tomorrow, and nobody asked. After water and bread had been passed around and some of the most severely affected and youngest children given as much treatment as the plane’s first-aid kits could provide, some semblance of normality began to take hold. Guided by Gunner’s skilful diplomacy, the Biafrans started to talk. One of the Nigerians recognized one of them from his schooldays, and soon they were comparing the fates of friends and family members. As the atmosphere warmed up, I told them how something similar had happened in the First World War - or ‘the Kaiser War’, as they knew it - when British and German troops had played football together in No Man’s Land one Christmas Eve. It wasn’t the same, of course - the men of the group were deserters, and had stayed in the bush when the town, which they told us was called Aba, had fallen months earlier. They had been trying to live off the land since. The field we were in had contained cassava, but it had long gone. But, despite the differences, my historical comparison went down well, and made everyone feel better for a moment.

It didn’t last. A few minutes later, as everyone began preparing to bed down for the night, there was a loud banging on the rear door of the plane.

Everyone went quiet and listened to the sound. A few of the men quietly reached for their machine guns.

The banging came again, a dull but insistent thudding.

Gunner walked over to the door and stood a few inches away from it. ‘Who goes there?’ he shouted. Everyone tensed: fingers gripped around triggers, shoulders hunched and all eyes fixed on the door.

‘This is Colonel Bernard Alebayo of the Third Marine Commando Division,’ called out a familiar voice. ‘Who goes there?’

XV

XV

Alebayo stood at the front of the plane, his back and shoulders parade-ground straight. Although our encounter in the belly of Lagos Airport had been less than twenty-four hours earlier, it seemed much longer ago than that, and my image of him had changed in the interim. I was surprised at how small he seemed, and how young - with his short sleeves and slight frame, he looked more like a cadet than the most feared and celebrated commander of the war. But as he stood there, motionless, it was almost as though he were waiting for his presence to ripple around the cabin, and within moments I was remembering just how unpleasant he had been.