Barely ten minutes out of Gulu – with the two vehicles moving one behind the other, about 300 feet apart – we suddenly became targets. Automatic fire sprayed both sides of the road. Neither car was hit in that first salvo, but it was close enough to see that the LRA were using green tracers. A short distance on there was more firing.

By now I was lying flat on the floor of the car directly behind the driver and being the hero I am, I urged him to put his foot down even harder.

We covered the 12 miles to the next town in about eight minutes: the longest journey of my life. All of the villagers, almost as a kind of welcoming group, were gathered on the edge of town to greet us. They could follow our progress along the undulating low hills through which the road twisted, and there was no missing the shots. A great roar went up once we reached the outskirts and for the moment we were safe.

Once we had reached Kampala we split up. I wasted no time and went overland by bus and taxi directly to the Kenyan border and crossed at Malaba early the next day, on foot.

The French crew managed to persuade a charter pilot to take them to the Kenyan capital the same evening. At least we got our film out…