Waging War To Shake The Cold

by Wild Wolf Publishing

  He liked the fact he could walk into any bar or any restaurant in certain parts of the city and he would be treated like royalty.

  He liked the fact he had a driver, not one of the mindless knobs that did his dirty work, but a proper bona fide chauffeur who washed and cleaned his car for him and was always there on call whenever he wanted him.

  He liked the expensive clothes, mostly tailored suits from Slater’s no less, which he could afford to buy on a whim.

  He liked having the women he could call on for sex whenever the notion took him, yet still having Mary at home to cook and clean for him.

  He liked being a member of select golf clubs, even though he could barely hit a ball.

  It all added up to a veneer of celebrity, if not respectability.

  In certain parts of town, of course, his very presence unbidden and unannounced could be seen as encroaching on another’s territory, so it wasn’t quite as comfortable or wise to make so bold with this profile everywhere. In that respect his world was more feudal than corporate.

  In the real sense of the word entrepreneur, of course, he made nothing, produced nothing, delivered nothing and contributed nothing. He only owned things: things like a patch of the city; a supply of drugs; people who had made unwise decisions.

  Like others of his ilk, his relationship with the place where he lived and plied his trade in was parasitic. He fed from the sweat of others and called it “doing a wee turn for somebody”. He greased the palms and generally paid off those who were charged or elected to control such activities and he considered those payments a legitimate business expense. His “clients” had no choice in the matter; there was no competition.

  The range of “business services” Big Davie offered were purely notional in any event, and because they were essentially unwanted and even in some cases undesirable by his “clients”, they often needed a fair amount of pressure in order to make them profitable. That pressure was normally violent in nature and that was where Squeak and his like came in.

  Squeak excelled at terror, mainly because he had a badly broken nose, teeth like an old neglected graveyard, and a fearsome set of scars, almost ritualistic and tribal in nature, criss-crossing his face. Looks like that tended to make people think twice before they talked back and Big Davie knew this well. He also knew how Squeak had gotten his arresting facial features. He had sculpted them himself, for Squeak was one of the guys who had beaten him up on Tam Delaney’s orders.

  He looked again at the figure in the chair, finally recognising him.

  “Hello Coco, long time no speak.” His tone was genial, still a little pissed off that it wasn’t Kats, but nonetheless pleased to have gotten hold of another thorn in his flesh.

  Criminal gangs are not the tight knit efficient operations they are popularly portrayed. In reality they are made up of troubled, often barely literate men from poverty stricken neighbourhoods. Gang bosses therefore have to spend most of their time keeping their teams in line, keeping them motivated, and even just making sure they showed up on time and did what they were supposed to do. In that sense, if in none other, Big Davie was very definitely fulfilling a management role like any legitimate small businessman would.

  Coco’s speciality was loan sharking and he had been a good earner. Big Davie gave him a substantial patch to work and he’d established a reputation for bringing in good money without the need for too much violence or intimidation. Coco was sly and cunning: he read people, read their situations and found ways to exploit them. A bit of blackmail here, a favour done there, it all added up.

  Overt violence too early in the process just brought too much attention from the police. It was only the serial defaulters who were made examples of: by then the word would have gone out and folk would know they owed big time and had it coming.

  The methodology was simple; it could even be called a business model. Coco would find someone who was down on his or her luck, single mums were always a great source of continuous revenue, and lend them a little of Big Davie’s cash at a steep interest rate.

  Then, after a few weeks, he’d demand it all back in one lump sum. Obviously it was impossible for the borrower comply with that so he’d offer to “restructure” the debt by lending them more to pay off the original loan plus the interest.

  He’d also charge late-fees of up to £20 a day. After a little while they’d demand the restructured loan back in full, and so it would go on. In some cases an original loan of £300 could escalate in just a few months to over £3000. The borrowers would usually have to resort to petty crime, drug dealing, or prostitution to meet the repayment schedule, hence the preference for single-mums. And, of course, they’d have to buy their drugs from Big Davie or pay him a pimping fee to work on his patch. It was good business and Coco had a real knack for it.

  Notwithstanding his earnings ability, Big Davie didn’t like Coco. In fact no-one liked Coco but he was tolerated because of the steady income he generated. Up until he’d missed a few of the necessary kickback payments to Big Davie that was, and then a summons had been sent out for him to come in and bring the money he owed. He’d ignored that request, and now he was about to pay for it.

  Boots and Squeak stood next to him blocking any potential exit, and both of them had grim smiles on their faces. They knew what was coming. There was only one punishment.

  Coco fretfully stared at them, and said, “Boss, I-ah-ah wis-winae hidin’ fr-from ye. Honest. I just go-got a bit w-w-w-wasted and forgot tae c-c-come in when ye s-said.” Coco had a fearful stammer.

  “An’ I suppose yer phone wasn’t workin’ either,” added Big Davie wryly.

  “Ah l-loast it, honest,” he said.

  “Aye right Coco, I’ll do the jokes eh? We’ll deal with you in a minute…Boots, c’mere in the back. I’ve a job for ye.”

  They went into the back room out of earshot and Big Davie said, “You still got that pal who’s a photographer for The Record?”

  “Aye.”

  “Right. I want some photies taken of this wee burd.” He handed Boots a name and address. “Ah’m lookin’ for some dirt right? I want her followed when she goes out on the town and a want tae know whit she does and who she does it with okay? But most of all I want photies. And if she disnae git up tae anything then slip a mickie in her Bacardi Breezer and one way or another git me the photies I want. I need them for next week. Right?”

  “I’ll get on it right away boss.”

  At that they heard a crash and a scuffle. They sprang to the door just in time to see Coco legging it up the stairs and Squeak who had been left on guard scrabbling after him.

  “Fuck!” shouted Boots as he gave chase. “Get out the fuckin’ way ya wanker!” he shouted at Squeak, knocking him over in his rush to catch up with Coco.

  “Ye canny git the fuckin staff these days, nair ye can.” grumbled Big Davie shaking his head.

  Chapter 11

  “Contact, two hundred yards left, coming from that boarded up shop. Sounds like an AK and there’s only one shooter,” yelled Kats, the detail coming naturally from weeks of similar contacts, detail that was necessary to save lives and stay in control.

  The patrol had started well enough without any incident, but as they’d turned away from Kadeem al Muallimin they detected that imperceptible change in atmosphere which signalled to the seasoned soldier: heads up, here we go lads. Kadeem al Muallimin was a very pro-insurgency residential area and it was also where many of the mortar base plates were located in the town, hence the need for regular patrols.

  It was usually quiet enough when a patrol went through but today the quiet was ominous. All the tell-tale signals were there: no casual passers-by, no street sellers, no children, the only people around were youths who looked sullen and menacing. So the contact, when it finally came, came as no big surprise.

  As happened in most cases, thankfully, the insurgents hadn’t a clue how to either set up a proper ambush or fire their weapons with any degree of accuracy, so the first sh
ots went wild.

  The shooters were mostly kids anyway, paid $50 a day by the Office of Moqtada Al-Sadr, OMS for short, to fire at any soldiers they saw. The OMS were the real enemy, but wisely they paid others to take the fire head-on.

  Guns were freely available anywhere in Iraq so it was not unusual to see even old ladies wandering down the street with an AK47 slung over their shoulder. For most of the shooters it was a kind of deadly kid’s game and a way of earning money at the same time.

  Post-war unemployment levels were near ninety percent and money was tight, so Kats could easily imagine himself doing the same were he in their shoes. Except that the OMS paid out a hefty bonus if they took down a British Soldier and the rounds were live so it wasn’t considered a game to the Battle Group: the Toms killed every one of the insurgents they could, within the rules of engagement, without hesitation.

  It didn’t bother Kats, nor as far as he was aware did it bother anyone else in the regiment, that they were killing young men, probably young men not unlike themselves. This was war; people died and as long as people were going to die it was fine by Kats that it wasn’t him or his mates. There was no time to worry about the mother or the father or the son or the daughter or the wife or the life unfulfilled when all you saw was a guy spraying bullets at you. There was only time to take cover, aim and fire.

  Although they knew who they were for the most part, and they even knew some of their mobile phone numbers, there was no love lost between the Toms and the OMS fighters. There was barely even respect since the OMS weren’t even real soldiers; just petty ambushers and hit-and-run terrorists, much like most of the so-called IRA freedom fighters were nothing more than small time crooks and gangsters.

  Once you’d seen one of your buddies blown to bits by an IED and the locals, men and women, boys and girls, laughing and applauding or throwing stones as you tried to recover pieces of his body, you soon lost the idea that you were there as a liberator.

  The politicians’ noble fantasies that you were there to help the Iraqis reconstruct the country and build a democracy could be dissolved instantly in half a kilo of well placed semtex. The enemy refused to play by any recognisable rules of combat; out there on the streets it was a story of blood, bravery, and brute-force. May the best man win and the best men were the British Army.

  Pete was driving one of the Warriors they habitually took into the most dangerous parts of the town and was just ahead of Kats when the first rounds came in. He positioned the light tank in such a way to give cover to the troop and also to return fire from the M242 Chain Gun on top. An Iraqi youth with an AK47 started to run across the road ahead shooting from the hip Rambo style, because the kids think that it’s not cool to fire like a proper soldier, from a prone and secure position, which obviously makes their aim highly inaccurate and themselves very conspicuous.

  The Warrior opened up with the heavy chain gun and the kid did the dance of death, jerking and body popping in time to the bass of the terrifyingly efficient weapon, finally falling to the ground almost cut in two. Small arms fire started to come in on them from all sides immediately he fell in an outrage of high velocity rounds and most of the troop was now pinned down in whatever cover they could find, a confusion of contact reports coming over the radio continually.

  Kats got his head up and started to return fire on where he suspected the source of the main incoming was. Standard Battle Group tactic was that you gave out lots of suppressing fire to keep the enemy shooters’ heads down so that more and more of the patrol could join in and then progressively you could break the hold they had on you allowing you to move. Fire and move, always. To stay put invited death. Besides, ammo was heavy and the more you fired off the faster you could run. Kats knew the drill, just like everyone else in the patrol. They went to work like a well-oiled machine.

  The Warrior was taking a hammering from a heavy machine gun somewhere ahead, Kats thought it sounded like a Russian made Dshke which spelled very bad news for the foot soldiers if the OMS had one of them in the area, but Warriors were built to take a hammering from worse.

  Kats and the others knew they would be vulnerable without the support of the heavily armoured vehicle, even if it was more than a little uncomfortable to use in the desert heat having been designed for a campaign against The Soviets in colder climes and colder wars. Temperatures inside could reach 120 degrees in a firefight and there was no air-conditioning. But without that armour to ensure a safe extraction, should it get too hairy out there, they could easily be massacred.

  “Mortars!” yelled Nugget beside him, as they heard the first crump followed with a whoosh that went overhead to explode in a building behind them. Kats opened up on where he thought the position was and called in the contact to the HQ while Nugget continued to put down rounds.

  “Can’t you get some sniper cover going?”

  He could hear the snipers talking back to HQ that they could see the spotter but not the mortar position. The current rules of engagement did not permit them to shoot spotters, universally referred to as dickers, because they were not armed. The sniper team had to look on helplessly as the dicker used his binoculars to see where the rounds landed and then radioed back to the mortar position so they could adjust their targeting onto the Warrior. They heard another crump and this time the round just missed, covering Kats and Nugget in dust. That was close enough for Pete and he started to reverse the cumbersome armoured vehicle back up the road.

  “RPG! RPG!” was all Kats heard as out of the corner of his eyes he saw a man launch the missile at the Warrior’s armoured track and score a direct hit.

  The men inside would be okay but it looked like drive had been lost on one side. Kats immediately dropped the RPG guy with a short burst from his SA80, the rounds spinning him around and throwing him limply to the ground, blood seeping into the dust as his body twitched.

  “Shit. They’re sitting ducks now!”

  “Pete – get yourself out of there,” yelled Kats into the radio. The rear door opened and the Warrior’s gunner and Commander jumped out at the run as another round of mortar shells dropped, exploding right at the rear door and sending up gouts of flame, smoke, and dust.

  “Pete!” shouted Kats running forward, rounds zipping past him. Smoke filled the inside of the Warrior and Kats could see a pair of legs sticking out. He grabbed them and heaved. Pete’s inert body tumbled into the street and Kats scooped him up, flung him bodily across his shoulder, and ran.

  Rounds were flying everywhere, pinging off the ground by his feet and whiffling past his head as the other guys in the troop poured suppressing fire into the street behind them.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Kats made cover and bent over to dump Pete roughly onto the deck. He felt a solid thump as he did so and was knocked on top of Pete’s prone body. A searing pain shot through his back.

  “I’m hit!” he screamed.

  Nugget grabbed him and stuck his arm inside his kit, feeling under his body armour.

  “You lucky bastard!” he said retrieving the red-hot round from the top of Kats’ vest where it had lodged in the webbing. “It must have burned your skin as it went up the inside of your vest! You’re not even bleeding mate.”

  “Fuck me.” was all Kats could say.

  Chapter 12

  He woke up with a start, initially unsure of where he was.

  The dreams.

  They never left him and almost every night one or other of his firefights was replayed in his mind. Free cinema for life, all with a single theme: how I cheated death in Iraq.

  Almost every day of his tour he’d been in contact. It wasn’t that he was scared of a firefight, or even a full scale battle for that matter, but day after day after day they left the compound at CIMIC House and never knew whether or not they would all come back. He’d been sent to the post in the city of Al Amarah in June and at first it had been pretty quiet. The main regiment in residence was The Princess of Wales Royal Battle Group and Kats and his Black Watc
h troop were there as additional reinforcements.

  By August it was hell.

  The camp CO, Major Justin Featherstone, refused, quite rightly in Kats’ opinion, to concede the base and continued patrols throughout the intense siege mounted by the OMS.

  It was there that Kats really came to understand the universal soldier’s truth: the only thing that matters is your mates and without them you are nothing.

  The bond starts in the training camp through ritual, routine and habituation to pain; it begins as an individual’s personal responsibility to avoid the collective punishment of the group for any of his failings, and is slowly welded into a unified determination not to let anyone else in the team down. Fear of failure slowly but surely replaces fear of death or injury.

  That bond grows, becomes ever more unique in terms of human relations, so that in the heat of battle when every man must look to the man at his left and the man on his right for survival, no-one will let the other down. And if one was to fall, they know they will not be left behind.

  All the petty disagreements and personal conflicts, normal in any group of men drawn from disparate backgrounds, and indeed the kind of tensions necessary in a Battle Group whilst at rest in order to foster competition and excellence, are forgotten in combat. There is only life in the moment; there is only you and your mates.

  And when it’s all over, when the dust of battle settles and the soldiers are finally shipped back home, what then? Are they just expected to integrate themselves back into a grateful society, satisfied to have done their duty for Queen and country, to have preserved the freedoms for a thankful population but to bear that thanks anonymously and with dignity? Are they just to become the quiet wise men of the nation; men who have seen and done things that those around them could not comprehend and who could use these unique experiences for the good of the communities they return to?