I’ve heard the phrase “war is hell,” but I’ve never really understood it before. Now I’m in the middle of that hell, with pain and death sweeping the field all around me.

A young Indian warrior running near me cries out and then collapses to the ground, holding his stomach. I break stride for a moment and glance down at him. Bullets have sliced his belly open like a melon, and his guts are spilling out onto the dust. As I start running again, I nearly trip on the thrashing, screeching body of a monkey that has had both its legs shot off.

There’s no safety here, no way to minimize the danger, no magic charm against this murderous, maiming barrage. The only two options open to us are to continue forward, into what seems like certain death, or to turn back toward the safety of the forest.

No one turns back.

Kidah holds his torch above his head as he runs. It makes him an easier target, but the sight of the flame gives us the courage to keep following. Now I understand why armies through the centuries always carried standards into battle. As long as the standard bearer lives, his bravery and momentum carry his army forward.

The freezing wind shifts so that it’s behind us, pushing us on toward the fence.

A laser weapon sizzles down at us and in seconds sets the grass on fire. I see an eagle streak through the white-hot beam and turn into a flying cinder.

Two helicopters appear as if from the dark side of the moon, and their guns join the deadly barrage.

There’s no possible escape. We’re being blasted from all directions at once, lit up with lasers and shredded with machine guns. Even if we tried to make it back to the trees, we wouldn’t get halfway there. Our army will be obliterated in seconds.

I know I’m going to die, but I still keep running forward, following the torch, shouting, “Chaaaarrrrrge!”

The helicopters swoop low to strafe us, pinpointing us with their own powerful searchlights. One of the lights finds me, and the helicopter flies right toward me.

I stop running and watch the copter come on, mesmerized by the bright light and the chance to watch my own doom unfold. The copters are now so close that their pilots and gunners are visible, taking final, deadly aim.

In the glare of the searchlights, I see a funnel-shaped black cloud rise quickly from the ground. It envelops and swallows both helicopters. I’ve seen such a funnel cloud once before, when P.J. and I were paddling with the Korubo chief.

Gnats. Tiny mites. Billions upon billions of them.

The copters’ guns fire wildly from inside the inky cloud, as if trying to shoot holes in an unknown foe. Then the guns fall silent as the two aircraft lose their bearings.