by Geoff Wolak
He made a face and tipped his head. ‘They have no Geneva Convention, they are militias, town by town, only answering to the man in charge. So yes, it would have been unpleasant.’
‘First job of every soldier is to stay alive, is it not,’ I said, my voice going a little. ‘They were shooting at me, I shot back.’
‘This may cause problems, Serbs may want to hit back at NATO, the Serb populations fearing NATO attacks on them.’
I was starting to get annoyed, but controlled myself. I was also puzzled as to what I might have done wrong. But then I knew what I had done wrong: I had fought back and wounded a great many Serbs when we, the SAS, were not even supposed to be in the country, and NATO were supposed to be peace keepers. Well, peace keepers that bombed Serb artillery positions. As I sat there, feeling better physically, I wondered what the NATO powers were saying.
I lifted my head. ‘Do the Serbs have any bodies?’ He did not answer. ‘Do they have any evidence of NATO troops on the ground? We carried AK47s. Only some of the kit was British, and they have no bodies, so their own populations might think it Muslim rebels, not us. Is that ... not the case?’
He again made a face and shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But when they fight the Muslims there are always bodies, and captured men. Here ... only ghosts.’
As I sat there, shooting pains keeping me awake, but otherwise feeling a little better, I had to wonder if I was in trouble. And I had told Bradley that I would not surrender, in fact – I refused a direct order. I forced a breath. Fuck ‘em, I said to myself; they can court martial me. Again.
Grabbing a pair of scissors, I cut away much of the face mask, the upper portions glued to my skull by the blood and matted hair. Getting it off was going to be an issue, as would be getting my shirt off.
Thirty minutes later, and with the day clearing, the sat phone went; two Lynx helicopters on the way, RV to be a flat field some five hundred yards away. I slowly stood, wincing, and the lady fighter checked her weapon, stepping outside. I eased on my webbing and checked my own weapon, again wincing, thanking the old lady.
Outside, I squinted against the bright afternoon light, the cloud layer having lifted to around three thousand feet, the rain holding off, and we grouped at the garden gate. I shook the hand of the spy. ‘Thanks for all your help.’
‘It’s what I’m paid to do,’ he quipped, still not looking very happy.
He lifted his head as the sound rose, and two F16s arced past, banking hard as they passed overhead before coming around in a tight circle.
‘For you,’ he stated.
‘Doubt that,’ I said, and I meant it. I peered up, and they seemed to be Belgian or German by the markings. But they were circling.
‘You best go now,’ the spy told me.
I thanked him again, and we set off at a brisk pace south, away from the woods and across open fields, and I was soon hurting all over, and soon sweating. I may have felt a little better, but I was still critically wounded. Walking became an issue, and at one point and I slowed and stopped, the lady fighter grabbing my arm and encouraging me on.
The F16’s came back around ten minutes later, making me puzzle why they were there, and then figuring that maybe they were to protect the Lynx helicopters. That made sense.
At the designated field, the grass suitably grazed down by sheep and offering an excellent landing site, they pointed towards the centre and I plodded forwards alone another two hundred yards, badly exposed all of a sudden. At the centre of the field I simply stopped and waited, scanning the hedge line and stone walls.
With the sounds of helicopters registering I smiled, never having been happier to hear that sound. Lifting my weapon, I took out the magazine and stowed it, cocking the weapon a few times to clear it, safety set on. I unclipped the silencer and stuffed it into my webbing, then stood staring at the helicopters as they stalked in low.
Tapping my pockets, I checked for grenades, finding none and not believing I had any left. Finally, remembering my helicopter drills, I knelt down, ignoring the pain.
The first green Lynx circled around me as the second remained higher - gunners visible in the doors, and it soon flared, blowing grass at me as I shut my eyes. When I opened my eyes I was but six feet from the helicopter’s skids, two arms grabbing me and lifting me up; Rizzo and Smurf. They just about threw me into the back, and we took off in seconds.
I found myself sat with my back against the pilot’s seat, four keen faces staring at me, and I handed Rizzo my rifle butt first. He checked it and handed it across and - knelt down - he inspected me, a look of abject shock and horror on his face, so too the others. I must have looked a mess.
Easing forwards, I took off my webbing and handed it over, soon unzipping my jacket, not sure why, but I wanted to take it off. Rizzo helped me, conversation difficult in the back of the helicopter. With the sleeves unbuttoned I eased off the jacket, my skin getting tugged in a few places and making me wince. With the jacket off, Smurf’s jaw dropped, and I looked down.
My green shirt was black with dried blood, hardly a spot of green left, many holes visible, an horrendous smell given off. It even surprised me. Noticing a particularly odd wet patch around my appendix, I lifted the shirt, Rizzo recoiling. There was a hole big enough to get my thumb in, the skin blackened, liquid oozing out, an odd light brown colour with an appalling odour.
Rizzo grabbed a first aid kit, but I held up a hand. I tapped my wrist watch, and then pointed towards the front of the helicopter, following by an ‘OK’ sign. He reluctantly lowered the kit, offering me water, which I sipped. Reaching across, I rubbed Smurf’s hair and smiled, and he smiled back, but his eyes revealed the fear he held for me.
Glancing out of the window, I could see how fast we were travelling, forest and fields shooting past in a blur. Well, the Lynx had set the speed record for helicopters; I guessed that the pilots were keen not to get shot at by Serbs.
Rizzo put on a headset and spoke to the pilot, and I could read his lips. ‘He’s in a hell of a fucking mess, big hole in his gut, big fucking holes everywhere.’
After listening, Rizzo lifted ten fingers, as if to say ‘ten minutes’. I nodded, and then wondered where exactly we were heading.
Towns and cities soon flew by, and I realised that were across the Croatian border. Zagreb’s distinct outline soon came into view, and we turned and slowed, and I remember that the NATO field surgical unit was here, lodged in an unfinished building adjacent to a hospital that they helped repair.
A tall white building came into view, tents laid out with large red crosses on them, jeeps and armoured personal carriers, and a bunch of people waiting just off the helipad – waiting for me, trolley ready, a few people in blue surgical gowns.
We hit with a bump, the doors flung open, and Rizzo jumped down, soon helping me as we stepped away bent double, and we straightened as we approached the perplexed welcoming committee, who had probably expected a soldier on a stretcher. I must have looked a mess, and a European military police officer gaped at me as I passed.
I held a flat hand to the people holding the trolley. ‘I can walk myself in.’ And with that Rizzo led me on, my four armed guards preventing any attempt to tie me down to the trolley. Two puzzled doctors followed behind, plus the trolley.
Inside, more of a reception committee waited, and I smiled when I laid eyes on Colonel Haversham, Kate’s uncle. Well, he was a senior consultant for the Army Medical Corps. I stopped in front of him and, despite him being a top surgeon, he gaped at me as well.
‘Dear god, man, how are you remaining upright?’ he asked.
‘Would be rude not to stand for a senior officer,’ I quipped.
‘This way,’ he beckoned, puzzled doctors falling into line as Rizzo and team flanked me. We turned left, passing more people offering strange looks, through a reception area, and then we entered what was clearly a triage area for the wounded, quite a crowd waiting, many in surgical blue, and I gravitated towards the first bed.
Turning, I could see Rizzo and the gang outside, staring through the windows as the colonel and his team closed in. The door was closed.
I held up a hand. ‘I know that you are all doctors and experts,’ I loudly began. ‘But this is my body ... and my life we’re talking about here, so I’d like to remain conscious for a little while longer and detail my wounds. That should make your jobs easier ... and speed up the operations.’
The colonel nodded, still staring at my bloodied appearance, a few noses crinkling at the smell.
‘Can I ask for a plastic sheet, paper towels for the mess,’ I loudly announced, the colonel echoing my words, the medics looking a bit stunned at the cheek of what I was doing. ‘Can I ask for warm soapy water - antibiotic soap, and scissors. Lots of water and scissors, because my clothes have four day old blood on them, and if you tug at them my skin will come off, and I may utter a few rude words. So please ... be careful, you will scar me for life!’
The colonel organised four nurses, and I stepped onto the plastic sheet as they started to dampen me down with soapy water, the shooting pains making me wince.
‘Does someone have a paper and pen, body diagrams?’ I asked.
‘Here,’ several people called.
‘Colonel, I’d like to list my injuries while I can,’ I said, and he nodded. ‘Gunshot wounds to the left frontal lobe, and on two occasions I lost consciousness, don’t know how long for. My right eye has an eclipse, possibly brain damage from the left lobe. My left eye is occluded. Skull cracked on the right side as well.
‘Left foot, gunshot wound, no feeling for two days. Try and save it if you can, please.’ The nurses started cutting up my sleeves, but were not having much luck; my shirt was stuck to me like glue. ‘Left testicle – I removed in the field, it had gangrene.’
‘You removed your own fucking testicle?’ a man asked.
‘Had to, it was the size of an apple and black.’ They exchanged looks, several taking notes. ‘Several gunshot wounds, can’t remember just where, and about thirty bits of grenade shrapnel, which you’ll have to find.’
‘We have a good x-ray machine here,’ the colonel pointed out. ‘And small hand held scanners like metal detectors.’
I nodded as a nurse lifted my shirt.
‘Sir!’ she gasped.
A stern-faced doctor closed in and knelt. ‘Jesus. Gunshot wound through the appendix, infected, peritonitis in the third stages, possibly gangrene.’
‘Yesterday I injected myself with antibiotics, two sets of 5ml twelve hours apart,’ I told the man.
He straightened. ‘Well that might just have saved your own life, you should be dead by now. You’re medically trained I understand.’
‘To a high level, yes sir,’ I replied. ‘Oh, when I take a shit I bleed badly. And, just to make things difficult for you, I have dozens of wooden splinters under my skin, slowly getting infected. You need to get them out, some antibiotic cream in. I know it’s your job and what you do, but I’d like you to give priority to fighting the infection.’
‘Makes sense,’ the colonel conferred.
Much of my upper body was now exposed, my skin black with dried blood, and where the nurses cleaned it my skin was black and blue from bruises, or red from infection.
‘I’d suggest that you leave my headgear to last, it’s fused with my hair and skin. Yank it off and you’ll take my scalp with it.’
The stern-faced doctor was not happy. ‘We should put him und now, I need to get that appendix out and the infection under control.’
‘Let’s see what we’re dealing with first,’ the colonel insisted, four people cutting away what was left of my shirt and now starting on the trousers.
With the trousers falling away, the stern-faced medic closed in, studying my hacked-up testicle. ‘The testicle you removed does not look infected.’
‘I used antibiotic cream, sir.’
He made a face and glanced at the colonel, as if he admired my handiwork.
A man stepped forwards with a camera, and glanced at the colonel. ‘Sir?’
‘For the records, Wilco,’ the colonel suggested, and I simply made a face and nodded, my body snapped from several angles.
With the trousers off, I eased back onto the bed, dripping wet now in most places, and they cut away my boots.
‘Any chance of a broken ankle?’ they asked.
‘I walked twenty miles this morning at the double, so no.’
They exchanged looks.
With my left boot off I was surprised; my foot looked normal apart from the hole in it.
My stern-faced medic examined it. ‘This foots still has a blood supply, it’s warm.’
‘It does?’ I asked, astonished.
He examined my leg. ‘There’s a wound to your leg that might have damaged the nerve, it’s in the right spot.’
‘I won’t lose that foot?’
‘No,’ he said as he straightened. He eased me back upright. ‘Call off the wounds,’ he ordered.
A nurse began, ‘Left lower leg, anterior, entry wound, two of them.’
‘Right lower leg, calf muscle, three small entry wounds, front of leg two entry wounds, at least one clipping the bone – are those ... teeth marks? Right knee, entry wound aside the kneecap.’
‘Left thigh, front, three small entry wounds, one large entry wound, two scrapes.’
‘Right thigh, outside, three small entry wounds, inside, two scrapes, infected, and ... teeth marks.’
‘Dogs bit me several times,’ I mentioned.
‘Left testicle removed, no signs of infection. Left hip, entry wound, bone damage, left lower abdomen, through and through, right lower abdomen, through and through, appendix area entry wound, massive infection. Central abdomen, extreme bruising, possible internal bleeding -’
‘I bleed when I pee,’ I mentioned.
‘Sternum ... cracked. Ribs, left side, four and five seem broken, scrape and two entry wounds.’
Doctor Stern-features got his stethoscope on my chest. ‘Partial collapsed lung, some fluid.’ As they called out the injuries to my arms and upper body, he grabbed a large syringe with no needle and poked it into my appendix wound, looking to see if I would wince. But I could not feel it. Drawing back the plunger, he removed an oddly coloured liquid, some of it white, some light brown, some darker brown and black. Squirting the liquid into a bed pan, he extracted another three syringes full. ‘That’s good,’ he said.
‘What is, sir?’ I asked, and I noticed the lads still peering through the windows, along with a dozen other faces. It seemed that I was quite the attraction, or that they just did not have much going on today.
‘Getting the puss and body waste out – is good, in this case better out than in, less hassle later, less chance of spreading the infection.’ He prepared a small needle and injected me in the stomach in three places, soon removing more liquid as the nurses continued to wash me down and call out injuries.
I then winced as an attractive nurse pulled out an inch-long splinter from my arm.
Doctor Stern-features examined it. ‘Get as many of these out as you can, five minutes, then we put him under.’ He faced the colonel. ‘The cracked skull is serious, but secondary to that stomach wound.’ The colonel nodded. ‘I’ll do that first, then we x-ray him top to toe, then have a look at the skull, because if he is walking and talking then there is not too much wrong with his brain.’
‘Sir,’ I called, and he met my eyes. ‘When you take off my headgear, be very careful, because it will take my scalp away.’
‘We’ll soak it first, and use scalpels to cut it away, but ... you may have patchy hair afterwards.’ He shrugged. ‘Part of getting shot in the head, I’m afraid.’
The colonel closed in. ‘I’ve spoke to Kate every day, and I’ll call her now.’
I nodded, not that fussed what she did.
‘Had the general on the phone earlier, keen to ... see that you make it.’ I could tell that there was something else, hidden in the words, and
I wondered again if I was in trouble.
Doctor stern-features eased back, as if appraising my body. ‘I’ve not seen muscles like that on an enlisted man before, and maybe that’s why you’re still alive, Wilco. You run marathons, so that helps with the body’s general repair of itself. How far did you run, during the medical tests for QMAR?’
‘Around forty miles a day, every day.’
He nodded. ‘And the furthest?’
‘Two hundred miles.’
Eyes widened.
‘You went four days without sleep, fighting each day.’ He waited.
‘Not quite true, sir. On the third evening I collapsed, and woke up sixteen hours later, that being this morning. So I got a good night’s kip last night.’
‘Four days with those wounds is a miracle,’ he stated, shaking his head. ‘Amazing.’
‘Before you put me under,’ I began, ‘you need to note my odd physiology.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have a resting pulse of forty-two, and when I sleep that drops to twenty.’
‘Twenty!’
‘Yes, sir, and sometimes I suffer from Sleep Apnoea, and my heart stops for thirty seconds. I also breathe shallow, ten a minute or less. So don’t get worried about it. Might I suggest adrenalin to keep my pulse above sixty, sir.’
‘Good job you told us, or we’d have the defribulators out. Jesus.’
I lay down on the bed, waved at the guys through the windows, and the anaesthetist took over. The lights went out, robbing me of any further thoughts about my mortality. Truth was, I was very glad to be on the trolley, and very glad of the fuss they were making over me. It was preferable to that fucking forest.
Not out of the woods yet
I woke to find a bright light above me, and that I seemed to be stuck. My arms were restrained, my legs tied down, and head seemingly in a vice of some sort, and for a moment I panicked.
