I was standing in the Angolan bush, along with a group of UNITA rebels. They were cleaning up after a firefight – which meant leaving the enemy bodies where they had fallen, but stripping them of their weapons, uniforms and supplies. Everything would be washed, cleaned, repaired if necessary, and reissued to new owners, who would use it to kill more of the enemy. Among the dead were two very young Cuban conscripts, some of the tens of thousands of troops sent by Fidel Castro to prop up the brutal pro-Communist regime in Angola. They were probably well under 20 years old. They hadn’t even finished growing; they still had that gangling, slightly disjointed look of late adolescence. Both looked as if they didn’t yet need to shave every day. They never would, now. Their AK-47’s were still half-slung. They hadn’t even managed to raise them to a firing position before the RPD bullets found them.