by Andy McNab
I pulled up the left sleeve of his coveralls to expose the six-inch band of tubigrip on his forearm. Underneath that was the catheter, already inserted in a vein before we moved on the target. You'd have to be mad not to; a bit of anticoagulant in the catheter to stop the blood from clotting and it will last for a good twenty-four hours. You are a bit sore afterward, but it will save your life. It's hard to get a vein up to insert a catheter once you've lost fluid, especially under fire and in darkness.
Reg 2 had nearly finished packing the thigh wound. It would have been no good just piling bandages on top, because the muscle underneath was still going to bleed. You have to really pack the cavity, keeping direct pressure on the wound, and that, in turn, will stop the bleeding. That done, he now needed fluid.
Glen's breathing was very rapid and shallow, which wasn't a good sign.
I felt the pulse on his neck; same problem there. His heart was working overtime to circulate what fluid was left around his body.
Shots were now being fired at us from about a hundred meters away but all my attention was focused on Glen.
Reg 2 shouted at Sarah.
"Watch him and tell us if his breathing starts to slow down. Got it?" She nodded and started to take notice.
I pulled the plasma expander from his belt kit, a clear-plastic half-liter container shaped like a liquid soap bottle. I ripped it out of its Israeli plastic wrapper and threw that on the ground. I bit off the little cap that kept the neck of the bottle sterile. Fuck hygiene infections could be sorted out in hospital. Let's keep him alive so he can get to one first.
By now I also had his IV set out of its protective plastic coating, and was biting off the cap to the spearhead connector and jabbing it into the self-sealing neck of the bottle. I undid the screw clamp, took off the end cap and watched as the fluid ran through the line. I heard it splash onto Glen's face. He didn't react. Bad sign. Rolling the screw clamp on to stop the flow, I wasn't concerned about air bubbles in the line; a small amount doesn't matter certainly not in these circumstances. Let's just get the fluid in.
There was more gunfire from the target area, too close for comfort, and for the first time since we'd been in the trees our blokes fired back. The Syrians had found us.
Reg 1 was still in command. He was down at the tree line waiting for us to sort Glen out.
"How much longer up there?"
Reg 2 called back.
"Two minutes, mate, two minutes. I need your fluids."
As he jumped up with his weapon to collect the kit I unscrewed the end cap of the catheter and screwed the IV set into it.
Sarah was still plugging the hole. I could hear her breathing quickly in my ear as she leaned over Glen.
"Nick, listen to me. Let's leave them to it, let's go."
She was right, of course. The two of us would stand a far better chance on our own.
I ignored her and carried on working on Glen, gently squeezing the bottle to get the fluid into him. She whispered, a bit more urgently, "Come on, we need to go now, Nick. Remember, this is what they get paid for.
And you are paid to protect me."
Glen had to be dangerously low on fluids, but he was still conscious just.
"Sarah, pass me your fluid, quick."
She used her free hand to pull the bergen straps off her back to get to it.
The first bottle was now empty. I turned off the IV with the screw clamp.
Sarah had her fluid in her hand. I said, "Open it."
I heard her ripping the plastic with her teeth as I pulled off the empty bottle. She handed it over. The sound of gunfire was still very much in the background.
Reg 2 came back, packs of fluid pushed down the front of his jump suit, panting as he collapsed on the ground next to us. I jabbed the new bottle into the set and opened up the screw cap. Reg 2 was studying Glen.
All of a sudden he shouted, "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" and leaned over, grabbing Sarah's hand and lifting it.
There was a sound like a rush of air escaping from the valve of a car tire and a fine geyser of blood sprayed in all directions. The round must have pierced his lung, and as he breathed in, the oxygen was escaping from the lung and going into the chest cavity. The pressure had built up so much in his chest that his lungs hadn't been able to expand and his heart couldn't function properly. That was why Sarah had to watch and listen, because the pressure on the heart and lungs would make him breathe much slower than he needed.
Reg 2 went ballistic, still gripping her arm.
"Fucking bitch! Fuck you.
Do it right! What are you trying to do? Kill him?"
She said nothing as the air gush subsided. Then, very calmly, she reminded him who was boss.
"Let go of my arm at once and get on with your job."
Reg 2 placed Sarah's hand back over the wound. Glen was just about conscious but still losing blood internally. Reg 2 got right up to his face, "Show you can hear me, mate ... show me ..." There was no reply.
"We're going to move you, mate. Not long now before we're out of here. OK? OK?" All he got in reply was a low moan. At least there was a reply.
Reg 2 had to turn him to check the leg dressing. Blood started to run out of the hole and down Sarah's fingers. She looked at me, pissed off, as another fluid set was being connected. She wanted out of here.
The others were rolling into the FRY out of breath and confused about what had happened.
"Is everyone here?" Reg 1 counted. He came over to us and looked at Glen.
"Is he ready to go?"
Reg 2, still looking at the casualty, said, "I think we're just about to find out." Using one of the large safety pins that came with the field dressings, he pinned Glen's tongue to his bottom lip. Glen was out of it; he couldn't feel a thing. The danger was that, in a state of unconsciousness, his tongue would roll back and block his airway.
I turned to Sarah as they sorted their shit out for the next phase and whispered in her ear, "Our best chance now is with these boys. If you don't want to come, that's fine, but you leave the bergen. I'll take it back."
The look on her face said she knew she had no choice. She wasn't going to leave; she couldn't do it without me.
Reg 2 placed one of the ripped plastic coverings over the wound to seal it better and instructed Sarah, "Get your hand back on that." He and another Reg picked up the casualty. Reg 2 kept the bottle high for the fluid to run freely by holding the hanging loop in his mouth.
It wasn't a tactical move to the wagons, it was a case of getting out of there as fast as we could, bearing in mind the weight of the casualty and his comfort. I didn't know what was going on behind me, back at the target area, and I didn't really care.
We reached the vehicles about thirty minutes later. I grabbed Sarah and took her to one side. There was no point getting involved in what these blokes were doing; we were just passengers. That wasn't good enough for Sarah.
"Come on," she hissed, "why aren't we moving yet?"
I pointed at the rear Previa. They had got the back door open and were pulling the seats down to create a flat space for Glen. Looking beyond them I noticed that the town was still dark. I was right, the industrial units must have had emergency power.
The driver of our vehicle retrieved the key, opened the door and motioned us inside. Another of the team got in the front. He leaned back toward us.
"As soon as they're ready we're going to move to the ERV (Emergency Rendezvous)."
We were sitting in darkness, the driver with his NVGs on. There was tension in the air; we needed to get going. If not, it wouldn't just be Glen who'd be in the shit. I didn't talk to Sarah; I didn't even look at her.
At last, the other vehicle started to move off slowly and ours maneuvered in front of it and took the lead. It wasn't long before we hit the metal led road. Behind us headlights came on, and Sarah took this as her cue to get out her laptop. A few seconds later she was going shit or bust on the keyboard. The screen glowed in the darkness, lighting up her sweat
y, dirty face. My eyes moved to the maps, diagrams and Arabic script in front of her, none of which meant anything to me, and then down at her well-manicured fingers that were tapping away furiously on the keys and smearing them with Glen's blood.
We drove like men possessed for twenty minutes. Then, after an NVG drive into the desert with IR filters on the wagons' lights for another ten, we stopped.
Apart from the engine gently ticking over and the noise of Sarah's fingers hitting the keys and her mumbling the Arab script she was reading, there was silence. A beeping noise came from the laptop. She muttered, "Fuck it!" Her battery was running out.
There were shouts from the other Previa. Somebody was working hard on Glen, yelling at him, trying to get a response. Silence was obviously out of the question now. It's hard to be quiet when you're fighting to keep a man alive.
The driver looked at his watch after about five minutes. He opened the door and shouted, "Lights!" then started to flash the wagon' sIR light between dipped and full beam as he hit the Firefly and stuck it out of the window. Even as this was being said, I started to hear a throbbing noise in the distance, and less than a minute later the sky was filled with the steady, ponderous beat of an incoming Chinook. The noise became deafening and stones clattered against the windshield and body work as the Previa rocked under the downwash from the rotor blades. The pilot wouldn't be able to see the vehicles or the ground now due to all the sand and crap his rotors were throwing up.
A few seconds later a figure loomed out of the dust storm, bent double, his flying suit whipping around him. He flashed a red light at us and the driver shouted, "That's it, let's go."
Our vehicle edged forward. We drove for several yards into the maelstrom of wind and dust before things started to calm down. Red and white Cyalume sticks glowed around the open ramp and the interior was bathed in red light. Three loadies wearing shoulder holsters, body armor and helmets with the visors down were beckoning to us urgently with a Cyalume stick in each hand. As if we needed any encouragement.
Our Previa bumped up the ramp as if we were driving onto a cross Channel ferry, and one of the loadies signaled us to a stop. The other vehicle lurched in behind us, and as soon as it had cleared the ramp I could feel the aircraft start to lift off its hydraulic suspension. Moments later, we were in a hover.
We swayed to the left and right as the pilot sorted his shit out and the toadies lashed down the tires with chains. Hertz was going to be one very pissed-off rental company.
We were no more than sixty feet off the ground when I felt the nose of the Chinook dip as we started to move off and turn to the right.
Chaos erupted inside the aircraft. The Regs spilled from their vehicles, shouting at the loadies, "White light! Give us white light!" Somebody hit the switch, and all of a sudden it was like standing on a floodlit football field.
The inside of the other wagon looked like a scene out of ER. Glen was still on his back, but they'd ripped open the front of his coveralls to expose the chest wound. Blood was everywhere, even over the windows.
Reg 2 ran over to a loadie who was still at the heli ramp checking it had closed up correctly. He shouted as loudly as he could against the side of the guy's helmet and pointed to the rear wagon.
"Trauma pack! Get the trauma pack!"
The loadie took one look at the bloodied windows, disconnected the intercom lead from his helmet and sprinted toward the front of the heli.
Everybody had a job to do; mine was simply to get out of the way. I left Sarah sitting in the back of our Previa sorting out her laptop, and moved to the front of the Chinook. I knew where the flasks and food would be stowed and, if nothing else, I could be the tea lady.
As I moved to the front of the aircraft I met the loadie on his way back with the trauma pack, a black nylon bag the size of a small suitcase. I stepped to one side and watched him open the bag as he ran, bouncing off the front wagon and airframe as he momentarily lost his balance.
At that moment Sarah jumped out between us with the laptop and power lead in her hands. She was shouting at him, "Power! I need power!"
He went to push her aside, yelling, "Get out of the fucking way!"
"No!" She shook her head angrily and put her hand on him.
"Power!"
He shouted something back at her; I didn't know what because he was now facing away from me, pointing toward the front of the aircraft.
She moved quickly past me toward the cockpit, so bound up with her own obsession that she didn't even see me. I continued on, heading for the bulkhead behind the cockpit. I picked up one of the aluminium flasks, which was held in place by elastic cargo netting, and started to untwist the cup. Coffee, not tea, and it had never smelled so good.
As I turned and started to walk down toward the rear Previa, flask in hand, I could hear them, even above the noise of the heli, shouting with frustration. Two drips were being held up and a circle of sweaty, dusty and bloodstained faces was working on him. As I got closer I could see they were rigging him up in shock trousers. They're like thick ski pants that come up past your hips and are pumped up to apply pressure to the lower limbs, stemming blood loss by restricting the supply and so keeping more blood to rev up the major organs. It was a delicate procedure, because too much pressure could kill him.
Reg 2 looked as if he was on the case big time. He was holding Glen's jaw open, breathing into his mouth with the safety pin still in place. I was close enough to see his chest rise. Someone had his hand over the chest wound, ready to depressurize. Once Reg 2 had finished inflating his lungs a few times he shouted, "Go!" Another was astride him, both arms outstretched and open hands on top of each other on his chest.
"One, two, three..."
There was obviously no pulse and Glen wasn't breathing. He was technically dead. They were filling him up with oxygen by breathing into his mouth, then pumping his heart for him, while simultaneously trying to make sure that no more of his fluid escaped from any of the holes he had in him. Glen's chest was just a mess of blood-matted hair.
The team was going to be too busy to drink coffee, so with nothing useful to do I pulled up my left sleeve and peeled back the tubigrip. Ripping off the surgical tape holding the catheter in place, I carefully pulled it out, pressing down on the puncture wound with a finger until it clotted.
I looked around for Sarah. She was in a world other own, sitting near where the coffee flasks were stowed. She'd found the power point and an adaptor that fed a two-pin plug, and her fingers were tapping frantically at the keyboard once more.
I looked back at Glen. There was still lots of shouting and hollering going on in there; I just hoped that whatever was on that computer was worth it.
I looked out of one of the small round windows and saw lights on the coastline. We had a bowser inside the Chinook, feeding extra fuel. It looked like this was a direct flight and that we were on for tea and toast in Cyprus later that morning. I took a sip of coffee.
As we crossed the coast and headed out to sea, I stared out of the window, my mind starting to focus on the deep sound of the two big rotors throbbing above us. I was cut out of the daze by a despairing shout: "Fuck it! Fuck it!"
I looked up in time to see the bloke who'd been astride Glen's chest climbing down slowly onto the deck, his body language telling me everything I needed to know. He swung his boot and kicked the vehicle hard, denting the door.
I turned my head and stared back out of the window. We were flying low and fast across the water. There wasn't a light to be seen. My ear was hurting. I reached into my pocket and checked around for the lobe. I sat there toying with it, thinking how strange it was, just a small lump of gristle.
Hopefully they'd stitch it on all right--but what did it matter how bad I looked? I was alive.
I stood up and went over to Sarah. It was my job to look after her, and that included keeping her informed of what was going on. She was still immersed in her laptop.
I said, "Sarah, he's dead."
She carried on tapping keys. She didn't even look up to see me offering her a flask top of coffee.
I kicked her feet.
"Sarah ... Glen is dead." She finally turned her eyes and said, "Oh, OK," then looked straight back down and carried on with her work.
I looked at her hands. Glen's blood had now dried hard on them and she didn't give a shit. If it hadn't been for her fucking about and not telling us that the job wasn't as straightforward as we were first told, maybe he'd still be here, a big fucking grin on his face. Maybe Reg 2 was right, maybe she had been trying to kill Glen at the FRY She knew that I would have binned the patrol and gone with her if he wasn't still in with a chance.
The team were sitting against the wagon, opening flasks and lighting up, leaving Glen exactly as he was. We'd all been doing what we got paid to do. Shit happens. This wasn't going to change their lives, and I certainly wasn't going to let it change mine.
As Sarah carried on hitting her computer keys I drank coffee and watched the line of the Cyprus coast appear, trying to work out what the fuck I was doing here.
Three gallons a day, that's your lot," the bosun barked.
"But two gallons have to go to the cook, so there's one gallon--I'll tell ye again, just one gallon--left over for drinking, washing and anything else ye need it for. Anyone caught taking more will be flogged. So will gamblers, cheats and malingerers. We don't like malingerers in Her Majesty's navy!"
We were lined up on either side of the deck, listening to the bosun gob bing off about our water ration. I was trying not to catch Josh's eye; I knew I'd burst into a fit of laughter that Kelly wouldn't find amusing.
There were about twenty of us "new crew," mostly kids, all dressed in the standard-issue sixteenth-century sailors' kit: a hessian jerkin and shirt, with trousers that stopped about a foot short of the trainers we'd been instructed to bring with us. We were aboard the Golden Hind, a fullsized reconstruction of the ship in which Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the globe between 1577 and 1580. This version, too, had sailed around the world, and film companies had used it as a location so often it had had more make overs than Joan Collins. And now it was in permanent dock serving, as Kelly called it in her very American way, as an "edutainment" attraction. She was standing to my right, very excited about her birthday treat, even if it was a few days late. She was now nine, going on twenty-four.
