“You promised you’d do it but at first we didn’t really think it was you. We thought it must have been that damn fool in Damascus,” chuckled the tall hawk faced man as he reminisced.
“We kept it pretty quiet and clipped their wings pretty good too, that’s for sure,” said his equally tall and substantially bulkier partner as he looked at him through his thick glasses.
The Saudi King and the Israeli Prime Minister sipped from their coffee cups and smiled at each other.
—End of the Book -
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Martin respectfully requests your favorable review on Amazon if you enjoyed this book. He can be reached at [email protected] if you have questions or suggestions.
Readers may also enjoy Martin Archer’s other action-packed military novels. They follow the life and experiences of a young soldier who stays on active duty and becomes a professional soldier fighting and serving from Vietnam to the Middle East and in the coming war between China and Russia. This is the fifth book in the saga. The first book is entitled Soldiers and Marines.
Martin Archer is also the author of the award winning The Archers saga which follows the life of a young English serf who joins a company of archers and fights for himself and his men in medieval England during the days of King Richard and King John.
All of Martin Archer’s novels are available as Kindle eBooks. Search for Martin Archer books on your Amazon website.
Sample Pages
SOLDIERS AND MARINES
by Martin Archer
Dust and gravel periodically sprayed out from behind the jeep’s tires as it slowly backed up towards the top of the low ridge. The early morning sun was already bright and hot, and the periodic sound of thunder rising and falling to the north had been coming closer for several days.
Three men were in the slowly backing jeep as it moved over the abandoned farm land and up towards the ridgeline. The passenger sat impassively almost as if he were in a trance. The gunner on the mounted machine gun was crouched down behind it and squinting down the barrel into the sun as he constantly moved it to the left and right. He was chewing furiously on a mouthful of gum.
Everyone in the jeep was trying to be as quiet as possible. But it wasn’t working because of the engine noise and the periodic burst of sound each time the jeep ran over a deep rut or a patch of rocks. Each of the men was terribly anxious without saying it out loud.
The sky was partially cloudy and the flat field of the upward sloping rocky farmland was empty of life and crops. There were great towering white clouds to the north, but at the moment the men were travelling in bright summer morning sunshine. It was dusty and hot on the rough track across the abandoned farm.
The mud ruts from a previous rain were baked hard and the men in the jeep didn’t know what they would find when they got to the top of the rise they were slowly approaching. They were highly visible as they slowly bounced over the uneven ground and seriously worried about it. Little puffs of dust trailed out behind them. There would be a lot more dust if they went faster.
“Careful, goddamn it, careful,” the passenger hisses in an unnecessarily low voice as they slowly approach the summit. He was twisted around and trying to see over the crouching gunner behind the gun mount. The driver was slowly backing the jeep upwards towards the top of the rise. He had a cigarette stuck behind his ear.
Damn the man in the passenger seat thought to himself as he tried to stand so he could see better, and just when I was about to rotate back home for a new assignment. He is about six feet tall with close cropped gray hair, about 190 pounds, and, although he never did really think about it, he his daughters would never be called to serve.
He’d picked up the driver’s carbine ten minutes ago, checked its banana clip to make sure it was full and had a round in the chamber, and clicked its fire selector from single shot to automatic. The carbine had ridden wedged between him and the driver until they reached the start of the gradually rising farm land a couple of miles back. Its safety was on.
Now, holding the wooden stock of the carbine in his right hand like a pistol and trying to keep his balance by holding onto the edge of the lowered windshield with his left hand, he was standing as high as possible in the bouncing and rocking jeep in an effort to see around the gunner and over the top of the ridge.
The passenger was a fairly tall and chunky man wearing the dress shoes and summer uniform of a garrison officer instead of boots and battledress. His pants were filthy and ripped, but that’s what he’d been wearing when the war started and he hadn’t taken them off yet.
There was a colonel’s badge pinned to the summer soft cap he’d grabbed off the bedroom table and jammed on his head when he’d gotten the 3am call about the invasion.
Brown hair streaked with white poked out from under the colonel’s cap. It was cropped short and neat when the war started, but it hasn’t been cut or combed for weeks. He was forty-two years old and desperately in need of a shave and something to eat. He’d been the commander of a tank battalion in Germany during the big war and knew trouble when he saw it.
What happened? Why weren’t we ready? Even bouncing along in the jeep he can’t get the disbelief out of his mind. Once again the United States and the United Kingdom and their allies have been caught flat footed and ill-equipped.
The jeep lurched to a stop at his whispered order. He hoisted himself on the barrel of the carbine and slowly raised himself up as high as possible.
Damn, still not far enough to see what’s on the other side.
The colonel wasn’t taking any chances. He’d quickly learned in Germany that it was really stupid to show yourself on a ridge line until you are damn sure you know what’s on the other side.
He hadn’t slept for days, his clothes are filthy, and he was totally exhausted. Being worried and backing slowly up a hill in a jeep brought back fleeting memories of the earlier war. He almost smiled at the memory. He was a professional.
The gunner was mumbling something under his breathe through clenched teeth. He was a short little private who smoked incessantly. A cigarette hung out of the side of his mouth and every so often he mouthed it into position and puffed furiously. His name was Antonio Berra, he was from Cleveland, and he desperately needed to take a piss. The guys all call him “Yogi.”
“Need another five yards.” They all want to look over the rise and see what’s on the other side. And all of them were deathly afraid of what they’ll find.
The driver carefully shifted his feet on the pedals and backed up a few more feet. “Careful goddamn it. Another ten feet.”
The unnecessary order was spoken in a whisper as the jeep’s lurched and began to creep upward again. The colonel almost lost his balance as one of the rear wheels came over a big rock and the rear of the jeep jerked as it slid off to the right.
Once again the passenger slowly raised himself up as high as he could go. And, after a pause, he let out the deep breath and handed the carbine to the driver as he stepped out of the jeep without taking his eyes off the valley in front of them. He had been holding his breath without realizing it. So had everyone else.
What they were looking down at is hardly a valley at all, just a gradual down slope of gray and rocky farmland until it reaches a dirt road that runs east and west through the middle of the valley below them. A little beyond the dirt road the uneven farmland began to rise again more steeply towards the top of a ridge line about a half mile or so beyond the road.
There seemed to be some kind of rocky pile in the middle of the distant ridge, maybe an old ruin, and a short and broken stone fence running all along the ridge about a hundred feet or so below the top. The stone fence was only a couple of feet high at its highest.
Men were scrambling over the top of the distant ridge. The three watchers instantly recognized it for what it is—a panic stricken effort to flee. They could see the helmets some of the men are wearing and the way the
y are moving. They are soldiers for sure.
There were refugees on the dirt road and some of them stopped for a moment to watch the running soldiers as they pour off the ridge and run towards them, and begin to rush across the road. Then, almost as if a signal had been given, the refugees began walking faster and faster, all the while looking to their left at the distant stone fence and the men pouring over the ridge line behind it.
There were hundreds of refugees on the road, maybe thousands, carrying bedding and children and pushing overloaded carts and bicycles.
******
Within minutes the first of the fleeing men dashed through the line of refugees on the road and started up the slope towards them. The first man to reach them didn’t have a weapon or helmet and just rushed on past without slowing down or saying a word. Dusty tear marks ran down his face.
A few minutes later more and more men began to reach the waiting jeep. Enlisted men. Mostly privates but also a sergeant and a couple of corporals. They came up and over the slope on both sides of the colonel’s jeep. Not all of them had helmets and weapons. Many of them had been running carrying their helmets in one hand and their weapons in the other.
The colonel, those that are close can see he’s a colonel by the insignia on his soft cap, waved the fleeing soldiers to a stop as they came up the rise. They stopped but no one saluted or even acknowledged he was there. Then, one after another, the fleeing men begin to collapse to the ground in exhaustion.
Some of the men leaned over with their hands on their knees while they tried to catch their breaths; but most just down sat or flopped on their backs breathing hard. One who had obviously wet his pants took off his helmet and laid it across his lap so no one could see.
The men appear totally exhausted and beaten, and every one of them was staring intently at the distant ridgeline.
There was little talking and that which did occur was subdued. The men were scared shitless and more than a little embarrassed by the presence of the colonel, unwilling to even look at him for fear they’ll catch his eye. They know they did wrong by bugging out even though their lieutenant told them to run.
In the end only the first man to reach them didn’t stop. Some of those who’d come over the rise further away from the jeep followed him like sheep for a few steps until they saw the jeep and the rest of the men flopping down. Then they too stopped and flopped. They are all more than a little frightened and they look it.
After a bit, most of the fleeing men began to stand up and, one after another, they unbuttoned their pants and pissed.
They’re exhausted and frightened. Wonder what happened?
One of the men was clearly wounded. He was holding his arm with a grimace as an ugly little soldier with a battered and bloody uniform, clearly a medic even though he was carrying a carbine, ripped open his sleeve and began putting on a field dressing.
How did he pass the peacetime physical? Probably a holdover from War Two when ability counted more than appearance.
At the tail end of the gaggle of men came a jeep carrying wounded. It came through an opening in the distant fence, bumped across the road full of refugees trailing a cloud of dust, and had trouble with the last few feet of farmland as it approached the top of the rise and the colonel’s jeep. But then with a bit of bucking and spewing gravel and dust behind its wheels the jeep and its wounded passengers made it to the top of the ridge.
The jeep and its bloody cargo and plume of dust came almost straight at the colonel and might have even hurtled on by if he had not roared out a huge “whoa” and raised his right arm with his hand flat out in the ageless signal to stop. It stopped.
Then, as the colonel watched, four more men, and finally a fifth, came over the distant rise, jumped the low rock terrace fence, and ran through the refugees towards the fleeing men.
Okay, here comes the rear guard.
The last man fell and rolled over after he jumped the fence. But he didn’t stay down. He got up instantly and continued running.
“Gas,” the driver of the jeep with the wounded screamed as he jumped out of the jeep and ran towards them without turning off the jeep’s engine.
“We need gas” he shouted as he rushed to the jerry can strapped on the back of the Colonel’s jeep and began trying to unfasten it.
“It’s empty,” the colonel’s driver said, looking towards the colonel and shrugging. The jeep driver stood there dumbly for a moment, as if he’d been pole axed.
Finally, after tapping on the side of the can and putting his hand on the cap as if to unscrew it, he turned away and a few seconds later was back at the wheel of his jeep. He didn’t say another word but he didn’t need to. He clearly wants to drive as far as he can and then start running.
The colonel was already at the arriving jeep. There are six wounded men crammed into it, five sitting slumped in various positions in the back. He spotted an officer he recognized, a captain, among the wounded in the back. His shirt and pants are soaked in blood from a chest wound and maybe another in his stomach.
“You’ll be okay Dick,” he said. No you won’t, he thinks, not with those wounds. But I sure as hell won’t tell you that.
The captain’s resigned reply was almost dreamy and relaxed.
“No I won’t. They got Tom you know.” Who the hell is Tom? Then the captain coughed and made a visible effort to pull himself together.
“We only got away because of Roberts. He held us together. Got to get him recognized, you know. Only one. Good man, Roberts. Really good … smart… Got to…” and then his eyes rolled back and he sagged back against the side of the jeep and his legs began trembling. After a bit his legs stopped shaking as he bent to one side and began sucking in great gasping breaths of air.
One of the other wounded nodded toward the captain.
“Roberts had Doc, he was our other medic before he got hit,…. fill him up with morphine; the rest of us too.”
“Where’s Roberts?” Who’s Roberts?
“I dunno. Last I saw him, he told everyone who hadn’t already bugged out to head up here. Said he’d slow’em down. Last time I seen him he was still shooting gooks.”
“There were fucking thousands of them. Lieutenant Gerard’s dead you know.” Said a glassy eyed corporal crouched in the back of the jeep with a bloody arm that looked like it had gone through a concrete mixer.
“Thank God,” said one of the wounded under his breath, as the last man off the distant ridge began to scramble up the slope towards them. He had two carbines slung on his back. “Here comes Roberts.”
“Who for chrissake is Roberts?” the colonel wondered to himself. “I don’t know any Roberts.”
******
I was running for my life. Literally. Every second I expected to feel a bullet punch into my back. Once I stumbled on a rock just as I jumped over a little stone fence a couple of hundred feet below the top of the ridge—and tumbled right on over in a somersault until my feet get under me again and I could keep going almost without missing a stride.
This is no way to spend a hot summer morning. Through the sweat clouding my eyes I could see the men running ahead of me. Yes, they’re stopping at the top of the rise. Yes.
It was almost like I was standing to one side and watching in slow motion as a dusty and sweaty soldier with a ragged uniform and two carbines slung over his shoulder rushed towards the small group of men waiting about thirty feet away. But that’s me.
When I reached them I leaned over with both hands on my knees, gasping in deep rasping breaths.
This can wear a guy out and no half way about it. And the tumble I took after I jumped the little stone wall sure as hell didn’t help.
Okay I can breathe.
“Sergeant Murphy, get the men dug in on the other side of this rise. Get control of yourself. Another deep breath and I announced loudly. “Good spot. This’ll work.”
Probably won’t. But what the hell, they need to believe something.
“We’ll cut’em down
as they come up the slope,” I told the men. “Piece of cake.” Some of the guys were looking at me a little funny. I didn’t know it but a fragment had sliced the back of my scalp and I was bleeding. The fall hadn’t helped and it must have looked a lot worse than the scrape it feels like.
Later I find out that head wounds are often like that—you bleed like a stuck pig but it doesn’t mean much. Probably happened when I stood up and shot the gook officer. Didn’t even really feel it until I got over here and saw the men staring at me. That’s when I felt the wetness on the back of my head and finally realized I must be bleeding.
I was just feeling my head when a colonel came into focus a few feet away. Jeez, where did he come from?
“Sorry sir. Didn’t see you; thought it was just us up here.”
“Glad to see you too Lieutenant. Looks like you’re getting your guys organized pretty good. I’m glad you’re here.”
Christ he’s been hit. Probably not too badly the way he’s functioning. Good leader though. The men are getting up to do what he tells them.
“Sorry sir,” I said between more deep breaths as I continued leaning over with my hands on my knees. “Not an officer. We only had one left after the Captain got hit. He started crying and told the men to run while I was down checking out the gook casualties.”
“Well, you’re an officer now. You’ve got the company. I’ll try to get reinforcements and ammo up to you.”
What luck he got them here. He’s right; this could be a pretty good position. Maybe these poor bastards can hold them for a couple of hours while I get the brigade reorganized. Schultz will have to take over the 2nd battalion. Wonder what happened to the other companies.
—End of Sample Pages—
The sample pages are from Martin Archer’s epic Soldiers and Marines. There are more exciting Martin Archer novels available on Kindle. Please go to Amazon and search for Martin Archer books.
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