Soldier I

by Kennedy, Michael

  I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and looked at the GPMG tripod. It's about time I got you ready for carrying, you bastard, I thought. I lifted the tripod so that the legs were vertical. I then gripped the tripod cradle between my thighs and unlocked both front leg-clamp levers. The legs swung forward into the high-mount position, and I relocked the clamp levers. I would now be able to carry the tripod on my shoulders with the front legs resting on my chest and the rear leg training backwards over the top of my bergen.

  When Jimmy returned he gave us a quick brief. There was nothing new. It was just as the green slime had said. From here it would be on foot to Mahazair Pools, our night staging post. It was time to saddle up. I was already wearing belt kit and the GPMG link. Next I dragged the heavy bergen onto my back, and finally Lou helped me locate the tripod on my shoulders. As I took the weight, the metal of the tripod cradle dug viciously into the flesh at the base of my neck. Lou said it looked as if I was being strangled by a black octopus. Christ, I inwardly groaned, I must have 130lb suspended about my person.

  As I paused to gain my balance, I was suddenly aware that the ghosts of relatives long since deceased were drifting through my mind. My father had told me the stories, many, many times. There was the story of my great-grandfather, who was reputed to be the strongest man in his home town. He worked for the local brewery and often, for a bet, he would pick up a barrel of beer – weighing all of 300lb – and put it on the back of a horse-drawn cart as if it were a bag of sugar. Huge dray-horses would regularly step on his feet and he would remain completely unconcerned, going about his business as if nothing had happened. He was a hard man, who thrived on the rigours of a tough working life. Coming home one day, he slipped and fell, breaking four ribs; his wife wanted to call the doctor but he refused, telling her to get a gallon of buttermilk instead. 'Blows you out, buttermilk,' he said, 'it'll soon push them back into place.' And then there was the story of my grandfather building a new garage by hand when he was seventy-two. Forty-two or fifty-two OK, but seventytwo! He tore a blood vessel in his heart in the process, but still lived another ten years afterwards. I had a tradition to maintain, family pride and honour. I took a deep breath, picked up my SLR and began to march.

  Leaving the convoy of Bedfords to make their way back to Midway, we strung out crocodile-fashion in teams and started to climb out of the wadi. Within seconds I was soaked in sweat. I wasn't sure the human frame could withstand such stress. There was so much pressure on all my moving joints that it felt as if my sinews and ligaments were about to snap, like rubber bands stretched too far. I feared my body would end up crumpled in a heap on the ground with the offending tripod on top of me. I staggered along like one of the Saturday-night drunks on Buchanan Street Jim had been talking about during our first meal in Hereford. My worst fears were confirmed when a signaller collapsed under the weight of his radio equipment, and one of the lads in Nine Troop suddenly doubled up, palms of hands on knees, spewing his guts out.

  I had just started praying for the enemy to appear so I could be released from the pain when we moved into a flat open area, which Jimmy informed us was Mahazair Pools, the night basha spot. Thank fuck, I thought, as I carefully eased the weight off my shoulders and unsaddled my bergen. I reached for my last water bottle. It was empty. My thirst was fearsome. Rifle in one hand, empty water bottles swinging in the other, I walked across to the pools. My body felt strange and disjointed, as if someone had taken me apart and reassembled me in the wrong order. Now that we had stopped, the strain I'd locked into my body was released in a gush of heavy perspiration.

  Isolation Ward

  The beads of sweat trickled over my pulsing temples, ran down my jaw and dripped from my stubbled chin onto my already-soaking shirt. It was now virtually dark. I could hardly see anything around me, but all was reassuringly quiet. So far so good. But the worst was yet to come: I was soon going to be facing a crucial trial.

  For the moment, though, my body was craving water to replace the fluids it had lost over the last few hours. I reached out, picked up the plastic beaker from the brown tray and greedily gulped the tepid liquid. It was Thursday night. I'd been here eight hours already. I had to face six days of the same monotonous routine, six days of swallowing mindbending green-and-pink torpedo pills. BET they called it – behavioural exposure therapy. The pills were meant to soften me up, to break down the barriers and allow the memories and traumas I had supposedly suppressed for all these years to come bubbling back to the surface where I could confront them, be exposed to them and so gain some kind of miracle cure. Six days of strictly supervised food-and-drink intake so that I could lie here detoxifying from any excesses I might have been indulging in. Detoxifying! That was a joke, when I was forced to take those pills which had God only knows what powerful chemicals in them. And six days of isolation – lying here all alone. They considered me a high-risk case, so they were monitoring my behaviour scrupulously and keeping me apart from the others. Only when I had passed this test would I be allowed into the general ward.

  I went over to the window and opened it. The cool November air streamed over my face, staunching the flow of perspiration. The sudden change of temperature cleared my head and shook me fully back to the present. Beyond the dark band in the immediate foreground, where I could just make out the vague shapes of occasionally rustling trees, the great metropolis spread out under a glowing halo of misty neon orange as far as the eye could see. And if you went to that distant point on the horizon, I reflected, it would spread out yet again as far as the eye could see, like a vast alien colony on some distant science-fiction planet. It was an awesome contrast to the tiny, remote native villages I was used to seeing on operations, and to my home in Hereford where, on a night like this, you could look out and see ranges of hills and mountains forming a natural backcloth to the cluster of houses under the floodlit cathedral tower.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a sonorous reverberation emerging from the background roar of the city. I looked up and watched as a 747 from Heathrow banked overhead and growled up into the night sky, the flashing navigation lights gradually getting fainter and merging with the stars. I thought back to those flights at the beginning of my career, in the C-130 from RAF Lyneham to Akroterion and on to Salalah, and in the Skyvan from Salalah to Midway. Had I changed? Was I disfigured by mental scars? Was I really so different from that eager young soldier, toiling his way up the Jebel in the heat of an Arabian night to face his first conflict all those years ago?

  I closed the window and sank back onto the bed. As I drifted off into a restless sleep, I was disturbed by faint sounds from a distant radio. Someone was slurring the dial through the channels, creating a weird collage of strident noises.

  Operation Jaguar

  'Allaaaahu akbar, Allaaaaahu akbar.' The eerie ululation of the muezzin calling the Firqats to prayer rose to a high-pitched wail and drifted through the failing light of the evening. The shamag-clad Firqats gathering at the night basha spot squatted on the ground in large circles. With their FN rifles upright, gripped between their knees, they responded in a unison of strange melodies. The holy month of Ramadan was due to begin on 20 October. During Ramadan, Muslims are not allowed to eat or drink between dawn and dusk, and obviously this could have severely hampered our movements – after all, an army marches on its stomach. But since we could not afford to wait until the end of November, the Firqats' religious leader had agreed to grant them the impunity permitted to Islamic warriors fighting a holy war. The prayers meant that the operation was about to begin.

  I glanced at my watch. Thirty minutes to go. We sat around in small groups, listening to the Firqats and watching the shadows lengthen. We talked in low voices. We fell silent. We dozed. We gazed at the stars. We thought of home. We ate. We drank mug after mug of tea, filling ourselves up with liquid like camels in preparation for the trek ahead. We checked our equipment. We cleaned and oiled our weapons for the tenth time. We filled our water bottles and we filled our
magazines. We thought of the task ahead and we felt the adrenaline begin to stir in our limbs. And we stared through the gloom at the great blackness of the Jebel plateau that loomed up in front of us, attempting to gauge the height we had to climb, the pain barriers we would have to surmount.

  The minutes slipped by as we waited for complete darkness. I did yet another mental check on my equipment. Was the GPMG 100 per cent serviceable? Would we have stoppages? Where was the spare-parts wallet? Did I have the rear mounting pin? I glanced again at the watch suspended around my neck on a length of para-cord. Ten minutes to go. I fingered the two syrettes of morphine that were attached to the paracord with masking tape just above the watch. Would I need to use them? Could I remember the medical drill? I recollected talking to Iain Thomson in Hereford. He told me he had taken thirteen syrettes after being ambushed in Borneo. It struck me as strange. We had been informed that more than three syrettes and you would be dead anyway. I made a mental note to get the full story from him one day.

  I checked the safety-catch on my SLR. Five minutes to go. I was beginning to feel anxious. What if they were waiting for us on the way up? What if the airfield was heavily defended? How would I react? Suddenly there was a noise from the Firqats' area: the sound of equipment being moved, the clink of link ammunition against a metal water bottle, a rifle falling to the ground, a low hum of conversation. Above, the sky was completely dark – no moon. All around, men were clambering to their feet, pulling on equipment, adjusting straps and webbing belts. At long last, I thought with relief, we're off. Jimmy had gone through the plan that afternoon as we sat around the pools of Mahazair, so every man knew exactly what he had to do. We pulled on our loads and joined the ever-growing crocodile of heavily laden figures ready to depart.

  The only noises now were the odd clink of a weapon, the whispers of the radio operators doing their final checks, a nervous cough. After a few minutes the radios crackled down the line. I knew this was the signal. Zero hour: time to move! Suddenly the crocodile shuffled forward as the Firqat guides up front led off into the darkness. I shifted the tripod on my shoulders into a less painful position and began carefully picking my way through the darkness. The death march had begun.

  We led off south-eastwards in single file. At first the ground sloped gently upwards, then, gradually, the gradient got steeper and the going got tougher. The weight of the tripod was digging into my breastbone and I was soon bathed in sweat. After an hour, word came down the line to 'take five' and the crocodile came to a halt. I removed the tripod and slumped to the ground with relief. Out came the water bottle and I drank greedily. We had been told by the Firqat guides that there was a well four hours' march from Mahazair where we could refill our water bottles, so I wasn't too worried about water discipline; three hours to go, three water bottles – no problem. Little did I realize that when it came to distance, speed or direction, the Firqats were notoriously unreliable in their estimates. After about five minutes the column struggled to its feet. I hoisted the tripod back onto my shoulders and plodded on.

  We moved onwards and upwards, halting every hour for a water stop. The night was hot and humid, and after four and half hours I had begun to feel very weary. I was down to less than half a water bottle, and still no sign of the well. 'Take five' – the words were a blessed relief. I lowered the tripod to the ground, sat down against a large rock and looked at my watch: 0100 hours. Out came the water bottle. I took a swig and it was all gone. That was it. I'd just have to suffer.

  We moved off and the pace became slower. The column was growing more and more fatigued and the going was getting even steeper. Then, after about a quarter of an hour, we suddenly came to an unscheduled stop. At last, it must be the well, I thought, and unhitched the tripod once again, sat down and eased the straps of my bergen off my shoulders.

  We sat for about fifteen minutes eagerly awaiting the water resupply. When there seemed to be some confusion up ahead, people talking and moving about, it didn't really worry me.

  I was enjoying this long break, feeling the strength seeping back into my weary limbs. Suddenly Jim the Jock, a trained medic, moved up the line and disappeared into the darkness. That was an ominous sign. 'What's going on?' I wondered. I was soon to find out.

  The radio just ahead crackled into life and I saw Lou whispering to the team leader. He turned to look at Sean and me. There was a grim look on his face. 'Ginge's collapsed with a heart attack,' he said. 'Apparently he was carrying too much weight.'

  'How much is too much?' I wondered, eyeing the tripod and my bergen with renewed suspicion.

  I moved forward to see if I could help. When I saw Ginge lying on his back over a rock, I realized immediately what must have happened. When we'd stopped for a break he must have rested his bergen on top of the rock to take the weight off his shoulders – he'd been carrying three large radio sets. The bergen had obviously slipped over the back of the rock, pulling Ginge with it, then wedged itself underneath the base. Spreadeagled over the rock, Ginge, weakened by the effort of the march, was completely paralysed, pinioned by the weight of the bergen, the straps biting into his chest and severely restricting his breathing. The shock had been too much for his heart.

  While two men hoisted the bergen back up, Jim the Jock gently eased Ginge out of his straps and laid him down on the ground. With the first two fingers of his right hand feathering his neck, he felt for Ginge's jugular pulse. He couldn't find anything. He felt the other side of Ginge's neck. Still no pulse. Emergency measures were required, and quick! Jim began unceremoniously thumping Ginge's chest and giving vigorous mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  Come on, Ginge, for fuck's sake. I was silently willing Ginge back to the land of the living as much for the squadron's sake as for his own. A death or critical medical incident would seriously compromise the operation, requiring a casevac chopper to evacuate the casualty, thus giving away our position to the Adoo.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Ginge's body jerked under the blows like a comatose psychopath receiving electric-shock treatment. Three minutes had passed and still there was no sign of life. Jim the Jock was getting desperate. He put his hand on Ginge's forehead. It was extremely hot, seemingly at boiling point. As a last resort, Jim decided to try and bring his temperature down. He undid his water bottles and splashed the remains of his precious supply liberally over Ginge's head, face and chest. Five minutes had now gone by. Jim prised Ginge's mouth open and forced the last half-pint down his throat. To everyone's immense relief, Ginge suddenly spluttered back into life, raising his head in bewilderment. We split all his kit up and spread it out amongst the other team members, ready to move off again. That poor bugger Ginge, I thought, virtually dead one minute and having to resume this ordeal the next. The death march was beginning to live up to its name.

  Jim would pay dearly for his generous action by nearly collapsing with heat exhaustion himself two hours later. He had started off the march already half-dehydrated, having contracted some kind of bug at Mahazair Pools that had him vomiting violently two or three times. Seeing how much the other lads were suffering from the heat, however, Jim had decided not to ask any of them for water – they seemed to be in as bad a state as he was. Strict water discipline was part of SAS training and it went against the grain to ask anyone else for any. When Jim began to fall behind the rest of the crocodile under the combined weight of the GPMG, 600 rounds of link, spare barrels, working parts and rations, Arthur Hormby – who was later to make a bid to be the first man to row the Pacific Ocean single-handed, and die in the attempt – came to encourage and remotivate him. He also helped Jim in a more direct way: he took over the GPMG, and Jim carried Arthur's SLR.

  The women of Hereford would be mightily relieved to know that Jim had survived this particular ordeal. Small and stocky, he was not one of the six-foot-six Greek-god iron-pumping brigade. He was, however, not at all perturbed by his lack of height. Quite the opposite – he felt it was a positive advantage: there was less for the enemy to aim at.
What he lacked in stature, he more than made up for in impish schoolboy charm. With bright eyes, ragged brown hair the colour of ten-year-old malt whisky, an engaging grin and soft Edinburgh burr, he had the local ladies lining up, curious to know him better. And, being a gentleman, of course Jim was always more than willing to satisfy their curiosity.

  It was 0200 hours before we got under way again. As we tunnelled through the night, I did a time appreciation. It would be getting light around 0530 hours; that only gave us about three hours to get into position for the final assault. Looking ahead, I could just make out the dark mass of the plateau against the sky. The cold metal of the tripod cradle dug deeper into my neck, my mouth and throat felt as though I'd been chewing hot ashes, and my knee joints ached and throbbed. But the thought of the Kalashnikov assault rifles waiting up ahead kept me going.

  We stumbled on, the stops becoming more frequent. We had to be on that plateau by first light. Maybe they would hit us even before it got light. The Adoo knew the terrain well, and could move over it tactically in complete darkness and in total silence. I tensed at the thought and became more alert. My imagination went into overdrive. I began to perceive outcrops of rock as crouched Adoo waiting in ambush; the rustle of a night animal as an enemy scout scampering back to the main group to report on our movements; vague shapes in the sand as fresh Adoo footprints. I could now understand the reports I'd heard of patrols firing at phantom enemies.