Are you still alive?

The watchtower, a makeshift structure of corrugated iron and rust-eaten pipes, groaned a low, mournful dirge with every gust of wind. Lynda and I hurried up the rickety wooden ladder, its planks protesting under our weight. We had just reached the platform when we saw it: a thick plume of dust rising in the distance. Three military-grade jeeps emblazoned with the Royal British Legion's crest of a silver wolf's head were slowly making their way along the mine's dirt track. The crunch of their tires grinding over the gravel was audible even from a hundred metres away. The convoy stopped fifty meters from our post. The door of the lead vehicle swung open and a soldier in dark green combat fatigues leaped out. A black beret sat squarely on his head and a standard-issue pistol was holstered at his hip. His boot-heels struck the cinder-block ground with decided authority. His eyes scanned the watch-tower, a cold, appraising sweep, and finally fixed on me. "Where is the person in charge here