‘Contact,’ boomed Adams over the net, and he promptly opened fire on the scrub at the end of the field. This was enough for everybody else to open fire, and the staccato noise hurt their ears as most of the Sergeant’s section let rip. Only the two friends opened up from Dashwood’s section, as they were the only two that far forward.
‘Sergeant Adams, situation report! Over,’ screeched Dashwood over the net.
Nothing was heard. ‘Sergeant, sit-rep. Over.’
After a second or two, Tommy heard, ‘Lance Corporal Jackson, situation report, if you will. NOW.’
Jacko stopped firing his rifle. ‘Sir, Private Daniels has been hit. He’s down but moving, and the Sergeant’s section is laying down suppressing fire on a suspected contact approximately one hundred metres to my front and right. Sir, I suggest me and Tommy try and recover Daniels while the Sergeant’s section keeps the contact’s head down. Over.’
Lieutenant Richard George Dashwood had dreamed of this situation since he was a small boy. All through his time at Eton and Oxford, he knew he was destined to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footprints, to taste and smell the theatre of war and give commands to men who couldn’t, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, and to be praised for his heroism in saving the day. But at this particular moment in time, it seemed his throat had no moisture in it and his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He started to feel the awful sensation of his bowels turning to water.
‘Sir, did you get my last? Over!’ Jacko shouted.
Silence.
‘Lieutenant, are you receiving? Over?’
Silence.
‘Right, screw this,’ Tommy shouted to Jacko. ‘Let’s go get the poor bastard.’
‘Sod it, come on then.’ And the two friends jumped up in a cloud of dust and started running across the field towards where Daniels lay.
Lieutenant Dashwood watched with indignation at the two soldiers running across the field. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ he screamed into his mike. ‘Get back in your positions right now, that’s an order.’
The two soldiers kept running.
‘I don’t bloody believe those two reprobates,’ he shouted to no one in particular. ‘I’ll have them on a bloody charge by tonight,’ he screamed.
‘Permission to help, sir,’ shouted Terry from Coventry, and without waiting for an answer, he sprinted after Tommy and Jacko across the field.
‘What the…?’ stuttered Dashwood, as he watched Terry’s large arse disappearing in the dust cloud he was creating. ‘Private Smith, get back here, now,’ he shouted again into his mike.
What the hell is going on? Dashwood thought. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be following his orders and saving the day and destroying the enemy with British gusto, with him in the lead, as hero.
‘Well, it seems to me, sir,’ came a voice with an Irish lilt, ‘that the radios might not be working too well today…but to be sure the lads have got it all in hand by da looks o’ things. I wonder, sir, if it might be best to move up and give them some covering fire?’
‘What? Err, oh yes, yes, move up you say, yes, covering fire, yes, that’s what we’ll do, right. Marvellous.’ With that he stood up and, like a World War Two movie star, shouted, ‘Right chaps, follow me!’ and, swinging his arm up and over his head and pointing forward, moved off across the field.
‘What a fuckin’ eejit!’
Tommy and Jacko had reached the injured soldier by this time, and they could both see I wasn’t good. The bullet had taken him in the side of his face, just below and to the left of his nose, removing part of his cheek bone, the bottom half of his left ear and what looked like part of his skull, although there was so much blood, it was hard to tell. Daniels was still conscious but in shock and was shaking badly. He stared desperately at Tommy as he leaned over him.
‘Up ya get, eh, lad,’ said Tommy. ‘What you doing, lying down on the job then, eh? The Arsehole will have your guts for garters, mate.’ Tommy smiled down at the young soldier, concentrating on the terrified eyes so as not to look at the terrible wound. Daniels tried to speak but part of his jaw may have been missing as well, for he could not open his mouth properly and just moaned loudly. When he tried to speak, some of his teeth fell out. Tommy picked these up and put them in Daniels’ top pocket. Well, thought Tommy darkly, they can do remarkable things with plastic surgery these days, can’t they.
Jacko moved up beside him and started to retrieve his first aid kit from his belt.
‘Jeeeeze,’ he said under his breath as he beheld the injury.
‘Right, me old mate, I’m gonna have to wrap your face up a bit, ok? I’ll try not to hurt you but just shout out if you need to, all right?’
Daniels nodded slightly, so Jacko went to work on bandaging his face. A few moments later Daniels gave an almighty moan, which was probably meant as a scream but was the best he could manage.
‘Fuck it,’ said Jacko. He reached into his webbing belt and pulled out a morphine syrette and stuck it in Daniels’ thigh. After a minute or so his moaning subsided. ‘Thank Christ for that. That’s gotta to hurt.’
The Sergeant’s section was laying on short bursts at the suspected target, with the other section joining in a short time later. Terry skidded to a halt next to Tommy.
‘Fuck it, boys, this is no place to be. What’s the situation with the lad there?’
Tommy quietly and quickly briefed him on the extent of Daniels’ wound.
‘Shite,’ he said, more to himself that any other. ‘Right then,’ he keyed his mike, ‘Lieutenant, are you receiving? Over.’
‘Go ahead. Over.’
‘Sir, one casualty with serious wound to head, possibly life threatening. I suggest radio in for immediate heli evac. Over.’
Silence.
‘Why did we have to get lumbered with this dickhead?’ grumbled Terry.
The radio crackled then. ‘Received. Call being made now. What is the situation with contact? Over.’
‘Unknown at this time,’ Terry replied. ‘Suppressing fire seems to be doing the job but suggest two more able bodies with bivvy to remove casualty to a safe area. Over.’
‘Standby.’
Silence.
‘What a DICK!’
As Terry talked to Dashwood (and himself), Jacko bandaged Daniels’ face while Tommy took up a defensive position between his friends and the contact point. He was lying on his stomach, checking the area with his scope. There was nothing to be seen and the contact could either already be dead or had bugged out, but he kept his rifle pointing the right way just in case.
‘Right, here we go, transport,’ said Terry. ‘How close are you, Jacko?’
‘Ok, I’m done, and we best be quick. He’s just passed out and his breathing is proper shallow.’
Two lads from Adams’s section skidded to a halt and unpacked a bivvy. Used as a bivouac normally, today it would be used to stretcher Daniels to a safe area for evacuation.
‘Is he good to go, mate?’ said one of the soldiers, breathless.
‘Yeah, let’s get him on,’ said Terry, and they very carefully lifted Daniels onto the bivvy. Jacko, Terry and the two others each took a corner and raised him, and prepared to move out. Just at that moment, Tommy shouted out.
‘Contact from the front,’ and opened fire in short controlled bursts.
‘Get moving, Jacko, now!’ screamed Tommy, as multiple contacts engaged the platoon from different positions.
‘You had better be right behind me, Tommy,’ shouted Jacko over his shoulder.
‘I’m right on your arse, now fuck off!’
With the wounded soldier being moved quickly out of danger, Lieutenant Dashwood ordered the platoon to make a controlled withdrawal back towards the village whilst he called in for air support and gave the coordinates of the hostile contacts in a somewhat panicky voice. Tommy had heard the instruction from Dashwood while he watched the lads carrying the stretcher, run
ning as best they could whilst trying to keep their heads down. After they had gone about twenty yards or so, Tommy decided he had better make a run for it. With support from both sections of the platoon now laying down covering fire, he jumped up like a jack in the box and made like a whippet after the stretcher bearers, trying to zig zag on the way to make himself less of a target. He could hear Adams bellowing at his section for someone to open up on the bastards with the Gimpy, and a short while later came the heavy rattle sound of the general purpose machine gun as it joined in the staccato noise of the fight.
About bloody time, thought Tommy.
The stretcher bearers were slowing down, which was not surprising, really, since they were carrying dead weight, but they sped up a little when Tommy shouted breathlessly from behind, ‘Get a fucking move on, you twats!’
Just as he got within a few yards of the stretcher, the dust around the lads started to kick up like little explosions, and Tommy realised the enemy had a bead on them. Without a second thought, he skidded to a halt, turned and dropped to one knee. Looking through his scope, he attempted to track where the enemy fire was coming from. Within moments he had the image of a black-garbed, heavy, bearded figure firing what looked like an AK47 at his friends. Without hesitation, he opened fire on the figure and immediately saw that his shots were on target. The figure that had once looked like a man was turned into a great, black flying thing as it disappeared arse over tit. Brown hairy mannequin legs, wearing white Nike trainers by the look of it, followed behind. Tommy could have sworn, while later recounting the tale, that he saw meat and two veg as well. It’s unbelievable what the brain remembers even in the middle of a firefight.
‘Have that, you fucking bastard!’ shouted Tommy gleefully. ‘Woohoooooo.’
‘Tommy!’
He thought he heard someone shouting his name as he continued to scan the edge of the field. Bam! Another target.
‘Right, you fucker,’ he said to the beardless skinny teenager trying to reload an old rifle. That was the gun, he thought, that took Daniels’s face.
Crack, Crack, Crack.
His SA80 rifle spat at the target. Again, he did not miss, and with the shocking realisation that he was enjoying this, he saw the head of the youth disappear in an explosion of blood, bone and grey matter. Tommy moved a few paces forward, desperate to get another target and avenge young Daniels.
He could hear the rattle of the heavy machine gun, spitting death in a wide arc towards the contact, the Crack, Crack sound of the combined SA80 rifles of his comrades, and Adams bellowing commands as the platoon drew back to a safer area. Tommy finally understood why he had wanted to be a soldier, and this was it. The adrenalin-pumping, hard-on–giving, mind-boggling simplicity of taking the life of an enemy. This was better than sex, better than anything he had experienced before. He was a god!
‘RPG,’ someone screamed from the Sergeant’s section.
THUMP.
The ground about twenty feet away erupted in a fountain of gravel, sand and shit, spattering all over Tommy. He blinked the dust away and, still on one knee, searched for the culprit who had just fired at him.
You’re a shit shot mate, he said to himself. Ahoy there, my little bearded beauty. And where do you think you’re going, hey? He spotted the figure that had fired the RPG running away, carrying the now-expended weapon. He felt confident enough to take a head shot, but just as he was about to fire the figure turned its head to look back, and he realised it was a woman.
‘Oh well, when in Rome,’ he muttered.
CRACK.
‘Tommy, you fucking idiot,’ screamed Jacko. ‘Move your arse.’
He turned and realised that in the time it took to dispatch three human beings, the rest of the section had reached cover and safety. Now his radio was starting to get through the fog of battle, and he heard the last bit of a transmission from Dashwood.
‘Stop being the fucking hero and get your arse back here, pronto!’
With reluctance, he turned and started to make his way back to the rest of the section. He was still zig zagging and dropping to check for targets. This was the first time he had engaged the enemy properly, and he found that it wasn’t so hard. It would be a while before he would be able to describe in clear detail every part of the boy’s face that he had killed, or the woman, who would invade his dreams, looking over her shoulder and smiling.
‘RPG,’ shouted Terry.
Tommy looked over his left shoulder as he ran as an object moved extremely fast in his direction.
‘Well bugger me,’ was the only thing he could think of, and he threw himself forward towards the ground.
BOOM.
He didn’t so much hear the explosion. He felt it.
It was like the time he fell off the top board at the swimming baths, trying to show off for the girls, and he had the sensation of flying in slow motion. The world became a Monet painting, an impression; he couldn’t focus on anything while he was spinning through the air.
With a thump, bounced off his head and landed on his back, and he found he couldn’t breathe properly. It was as though somebody was sitting on his chest. It had gone strangely quiet and he couldn’t hear any gunshots; he couldn’t hear anything, actually. Not voices, not birdsong nothing. He was staring up at a clear blue sky and he realised he was going to die.
Bugger! This is going to be hard on Mum and Dad, he thought, and little Amy, even if she is a teenage bitch. He could see it now, the coffin draped in the Union flag as it’s carried off a Hercules transport, a big procession down the main street in town, flags flying, the regimental colours at the head. There would be people everywhere, crying and throwing flowers on the big black cars; Mum crying and blaming Dad for encouraging him to join the Army. ‘You’ll have a terrific time, boy,’ he had said at the time. He’d be crying as well, and blaming himself too, most likely.
Is the sky lower? Amy might be there too, maybe with that pierced fucking layabout she called a boyfriend, and probably only there because they wanted to get on TV. Thought it was summer, but it’s freezing. He would miss Pippin though. Great dog but a little yappy sometimes. When Tommy really thought about it, he actually couldn’t give two shits for the colours. In fact, he didn’t want to be here at all, bleeding out in some Third World shithole.
What’s with the fog? Tommy couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and they felt as heavy as lead. Perhaps a little nap’s in order; it’s been a long day. He turned his head to the side, and just as his vision was darkening he saw the old man from the village, squatting on his haunches at the side of the field, smiling and nodding at Tommy. Well, at least someone’s happy, he thought, and he closed his eyes.
Chapter 3
Senses
Pain.
Butt-clenching, teeth-grinding, stabbing bloody pain. He could not remember a hangover ever being this shit. Except that New Year’s party when he was fifteen and had vomited in the back of his uncle’s car – and that was after telling his wife she had a perfect pair of tits.
Hang on though, if I’m in pain, then I’m alive. Isn’t that what they say in the movies? ‘Pain’s good for ya, boy, it lets you know you’re alive.’ Typical bloody Yank, I bet he never felt this crap. Hang on, if I am alive and the pain is this lousy then…oh shit! Perhaps I’ve lost part of my head! That’s what the pain is! Shit, how the hell will I get a shag with half a head? Mind you, Kerry down the lion will shag anything after a vodka ‘n’ coke. She did Davey Bull and he’s only got one bollock!’
And what’s with all the bloody noise then? Loud bloody noises, too. Piss off, will you, and let me wallow in self-pity with half a head. Inconsiderate shits, all of you. I’m a hero, don’t ya know. Saved me pals, I did, from an army of ragheads. With machine guns and mortars and tanks! And I think there were enemy planes, too. But I held them off, I did, on my own, wearing a bandana and firing a .50 cal from the hip! Alright, that was old Sly, not me. But I was just as brave as him and better looking, even with half
a head.
And what the hell is that smell? Is it Bonfire Night? Used to love Bonfire Night when I was a kid, making mountains out of everybody’s crap. Penny for the guy (or we shove dog shit through yer letter box and make life hell for your cat). Fireworks! Rockets, Catherine wheels, star bursts and other shite that cost a fortune, and then just fizzled out in your back garden. Dad always brought some home after work and Mum would make the jacket spuds, and sometimes if we were lucky, sausages. Talking of bangers, now they were fireworks. Can’t get them anymore though, can you? Not surprising though, as they were just grenades for kids. I remember I put a lit one in my cousin’s trouser pocket once, a dodgy thing my mate’s elder brother got from France, and it nearly blew his knob off! I fell over, I was laughing so hard. Reckon that was a banger them ragheads threw at me, knocked me right on my arse, it did! Bet my cousin’s laughing now, twat that he is.
Urrgghh, what the hell is that under my hand? Oh no, I think I’ve shit myself. How can a bloody hero with half a head who saved all his mates shit himself? Heroes don’t shit themselves, do they? I mean, they haven’t gotten any shit to shit, have they! They’re shitless ain’t they? Sort of. I can smell shit too, real smelly shit. It can’t be mine, can it? I mean, I shit roses don’t I, being a hero and all that. Perhaps half a head isn’t the only injury I got from that raghead’s banger! Perhaps half my guts are hanging out; perhaps my intestines are splayed out all around me like a big bloody, pink, shit-smelling octopus. This ain’t good, this ain’t good at all! Best have a feel and see what’s what. Mm… well my head’s in one piece by the feel of it. Shame, I was starting to look forward to getting around the back of the Lion and showing Kerry my half a head! Wish this banging would stop though. I don’t dare open me eyes. What is that fucking noise? Eh, up, my stomach’s still there; no octopus. But what the hell is wrong with my uniform? Why is it so bloody itchy? And it feels like bloody cardboard. Dried blood? Dried shit, maybe? And has someone stolen my webbing? Robbing bloody ragheads, I’m not dead yet, you know. Right, that’s it, I’m gonna open my eyes. Right now. Anytime now. Come on, hero, there’s nothing to be scared of now, is there? Hero, me, anytime now.
Forever the Colours Page 3
