by Geoff Wolak
The sky darkened quickly, and I peered up, wondering just what the hell was happening, and I realised that dark clouds were replacing the lighter clouds. The forest grew dark, but from where I was lying I had only a partial view of the patrol.
‘Fuck it, I cursed.
I eased up and knelt next to the tree, still benefitting from a bush, and hoping that the tree would take the incoming fire for me.
I aimed, forced a breath, and wished I had stayed in the damn dark wood. There was nothing for it, they were twenty yards away and closing, so I hit the guy I thought was the patrol sergeant, top of the chest, getting a second man before they ducked. I waited.
No rounds came back, a few words being firmly shouted. Then silence.
That silence was broken by someone behind me peppering the trees above me. If they were not careful, they would hit the patrol, and I think the patrol knew that. More fire came in, and I could see trees near the patrol being hit.
I decided to be bold, and I stood next to the tree, immediately finding a face behind a log and hitting it. Back down, I waited, but rounds from the patrol never came in, just those from behind. One hit the tree I was next to, tearing out a large piece of bark, a sobering moment.
Lifting up again, I found a face, two men whispering comments, and I hit that face, instantly ducking back down. The sounds of men running through the woods panicked me, and I lifted up ready, only to see the remainder of the patrol legging it down to the dark wood in a hurry. I got one man in the shoulder, spinning him into a tree. The rest kept going, soon in the dark.
‘Bugger.’ Now they were in the dark, and I was out here and exposed. As if to reinforce that point, the bark above me splintered and something dug into the back of my neck.
Around the other side of the tree, and lying down, I practised my leopard crawl until I got between two bushes, a partial view now offered down to the darker wood. Pushing the rifle forwards very slowly, I adopted the sight and controlled my breathing, something hard under my groin digging into me and making this fire position damned painful.
Two minutes of staring through the sight produced a face, and I fired quickly, sure I hit him. Further in, the side of a face, and I fired, seeing the blood spurt. They ducked, all soon invisible, and ten minutes of straining my eye revealed nothing. I sighed. They were down there, I was up here, and ... I was exposed. But at least it was darker now, as well as getting damn wet everywhere.
Easing back slowly, a reverse leopard crawl, I turned and lifted onto my knees, crawling away. Beyond a convenient bush, I lifted up and ran bent double, soon back to the edge of the forest, and I could see wounded being attended to in the distance.
It was darker now, the rain outside the forest falling in sheets at an angle, but I had a partial view of them. I selected a fresh magazine, plenty of them available, selected automatic, and sprayed the area of the wounded, aiming at their heads with the hope of hitting their chests. Unsure of how many I had hit, I ducked back into the forest ten yards as the trees burst their bark again.
Surprising me, a round pinged off a tree and hit me on the side of the knee, causing me to cry out quietly. Squeezing, I prised it out, finding a bent 7.62mm round – bent from impacting the tree, and plenty of blood. ‘Fuck it.’
I lowered my rifle and scanned the area as I grabbed my first aid kit. Cutting the trousers with my scissors, I exposed the wound and wiped it, spread antibiotic cream around, and I placed on a large brown plaster that soon turned black with blood. It would have to do. With the first aid kit away, my head desperately checking all directions, I used black tape around my trousers to seal the gap I had cut.
Checking my watch, I noticed that it was 3pm, so a few more hours till sun down.
‘Then what?’ I whispered to myself as I lifted my rifle. Most of the Serbs were bunched-up north of me now, the dark wood occupied by a patrol. I was in the shit, big time.
The minutes passed, and I felt a chill, now damp in many places, but I would have to suffer, no change of clothing available, not that I could risk changing. I smiled as I consider being caught with my trousers down, or sat making a brew.
A blast brought me back to reality, a mortar landing a hundred yards to my left, followed by three more, and they were inching this way. Lifting my head, I considered a hole that I had spotted, certain that it had been made by an artillery shell earlier.
Now it was covered in green leaves and small branches that had been dislodged from above. Another mortar, landing closer, made my mind up for me and I crawled forwards, soon side-slipping into the hole and getting comfy. It was five feet deep and about eight feet across, and made for a great fire position as well.
The mortars continued, and they crept slowly south, thump, thump, thump, always three of them, so there had to be three tubes set-up somewhere, probably to the east. I ducked down, taking the risk that someone could sneak up on me, someone not afraid of falling mortars. The next salvo blew dirt onto my head, and I found a mole in front of my eyes, dead or stunned, so I tossed it out of my hole and hunkered down lower.
The next trio started behind me and ended in front of me, my ears ringing, branches falling on me, as well a great deal of loose earth and mud. I was slowly getting buried. The following trio landed south ten yards, and the pattern kept moving south, past the old patrol den and towards the boy scouts camp that had been, which gave me the impetus to lift up and make ready, focusing on the dark wood.
A face, peering out, but I waited. A second man, nervously inching forwards. I frowned as he threw something, soon seeing a smoke canister burst on the ground between us, green smoke issued. ‘Cheeky.’ The men were soon obscured as the smoke spread out, a second canister thrown and soon hissing out red smoke.
Checking my magazine while I had the chance, I selected automatic, got ready, and waited. As the smoke cleared I could see men crawling forwards or kneeling down, and I let loose a full magazine, sweeping left and right, lingering on those men I could actually see, brass shells flying high and right.
Rounds came in, hitting the trees near me as well as the ground around me, but they struggled to pin-point my position. With an empty click I eased down and reloaded, plenty of magazines to play with.
I waited, and I listened. I could just about make out their moans, and what sounded like calls for help, as another three mortars hit, now two hundred yards south.
Unfortunately for me, someone reversed the mortars. Fortunately for me, they slammed right into the wounded men below, making me smile. I eased up, selected single shot, and quickly sniped at any movement or any slumped body that I could see.
Silence finally reclaimed the forest, just the wind rustling the high branches as I scanned the area below. Movement, hard left. I swung around, got ready in a flap, and focused on a patrol coming in along the line of trees that reached out to the north track. The men were around a hundred and fifty yards away, and moving cover to cover, and they were not stupid – they appeared terrified.
I focused on a face, and he appeared terrified, and I wondered if they had been forced in here at gunpoint. Pulling the trigger, I felt odd, because maybe they had been forced in. The young man went down, his colleagues all ducking, no one visible for a few seconds. I could see a body, its head behind a tree, so I hit him in the shoulder, a lethal wound, soon finding a leg behind a bush and hitting it high in the thigh.
The top of a head, covered in a green woollen hat, and I sliced the top of his head off. A rifle protruding, the body hidden, I hit the side of the rifle, the ricochet certain to wound the owner of that rifle. Another rifle, a hand holding it, I hit the hand, the owner of that hand probably a few digits light now.
Someone got up and ran off and I hit him before thinking. He had been running away, and I felt bad for him. But, they were here to kill me and, when I considered what they did to civilians, I recovered a bit.
A boot, so I hit it, and that would hurt its owner, just as a smoke canister was thrown, soon followed by a second. Red
smoke obscured my view of them, and the surreal red mist wafted slowly towards me. I selected automatic, waited and listened, gave them time to get up, then sprayed it around, a cry suggesting that I had at least hit someone. Slipping back into my hole I changed magazine, now considering that I should ease off spraying it around, at least till I fetched more magazines off the dead.
The red smoke passed over me, making me cough, and an eerily quiet forest presented itself as the rain stopped. Minutes passed, and I could neither hear nor see anyone, it was all ghostly quiet.
Fifteen minutes must have passed, then suddenly fire to my left peppered the ground around me and I ducked down. The fire continued, and then seemed to increase in intensity, and I was now certain that there were two or more heavy machineguns being brought to bear.
I was also certain that they did not know where my happy home was because they were spraying it around, even hitting the dark wood. Still, it would make moving around interesting.
The incoming fire lasted ten minutes, and they must have wasted a hell of a lot of ammo. Easing up, I wondered about their strategy. Had they used the opportunity to move people into place, or where they just trying everything to dislodge me – and did they know there was just the one of me?
Peace reclaimed the forest and dark clouds claimed the sky above me, and the light faded with each passing minute. Considering my hole, and its benefits and position, I remained put. Where was better, I asked myself.
Soon it would be dark, and then ... then I would try and sneak out - after getting a Serb uniform. If I got caught they would shoot me as a spy, but not getting caught was key to my strategy, definitely key.
I could not tell at which precise moment it grew fully dark, it was a slow process over an hour, but now that it was dark I felt a chill, and not just from the cold and the damp. They would come in, and they would hunt me down like a dog. So I would have to be a smart dog, and not give them the chance.
Crawling out of the hole I moved south, back towards the old patrol den, knowing where some of the Serbs had fallen earlier. I found the first man easily enough, and pinched away four full magazines as I knelt over him, but I also got four very useful grenades. Inching slowly down the slope on my belly I chanced across the second body, three full magazines pinched, four grenades, making me wonder why they had not thrown them earlier.
Now where were the others, I puzzled? There were bodies in the dark wood, and now that it was fully dark anyone left in there would not have the advantage.
A slight whistling sound was the only warning I got, but I was already face down, so I just ducked my head as three mortars landed in quick succession, little more than fifty yards north. I used the opportunity to jump and run down towards the dark wood, and I almost made it.
A flash, a crack, and I was hit in the stomach, and I knew it was serious. Firing from the hip, I fired at where I knew the round had come from, and a cry claimed a hit. I slid behind a tree, my side hurting, pulled the pin on a grenade and I threw it to where I figured the man was, ducking back behind the tree.
With my head around the tree, I kept my eyes open, and the x-ray flash of the grenade highlighted two men for me, none closer than twenty yards. A second grenade, pulled in a hurry whilst their night vision was gone, was thrown with force, and the blast resulted in a desperate scream. One left.
Taking off my glove and putting it my pocket, I lifted my shirt and jacket and revealed a warm wet patch, a lot of blood, and I found two holes; the round had passed through. Considering what to do, three mortars landing forced me down, and gave me something else to think about - a sliver of hot shrapnel in my arse cheek.
I cried out, fighting the pain, a hand to my arse as the burning sensation slowly faded. There was nothing I could do, so I leopard-crawled down towards the dark wood, soon up and running and inside.
Then I just froze, stopping to look and to listen, everything pitch black, just a few grey areas above for reference. Not hearing anything, I considered trying to treat the wound in my side, but no sooner had I considered that course of action than another herd of elephants made their presence known.
With a hand, and the end of my silencer, I tapped nearby trees and got a 3-d image in my mind of the layout of those trees close to me.
Placing down the rifle and taking out my pistol, I reached in and grabbed my second 9mm magazine, stuffing it down my right sleeve ready, a grenade grabbed with my left hand, the pin pulled with my teeth. I lobbed the grenade high, as hard as I could with my left arm, and heard it bounce off a tree as I ducked down.
I didn’t see the blast, but they felt it, screams rising up, panicked orders being shouted as I readied the second grenade. I pulled the pin with my teeth, lobbed it and got down, but my grenade’s blast was echoed by a second blast some six feet to my left; they had an idea where I was.
The third grenade I threw into my 2 o’clock position, certain I knew where the layout of the trees, and again I got down, the blast eliciting cries for help and shouted instructions. I was fumbling for another grenade when someone ran right out, my hearing telling me where they were rather than my eyesight. I fired three times, the impact sounds and the resulting moan indicated three hits before the body slammed down, his head hitting my knee.
Turing him over in a hurry, I patted him down as he gurgled, getting four magazines - which I simply placed between my knees, but no grenades. Grabbing his AK47 an idea hit me, and I cocked it, set automatic, and lifting it above my head I sprayed the forest. Clicking empty, I ducked down, reloaded and sprayed again, going quickly through all four magazines.
A kind of hush was the result of the firing, a few distant moans, so I eased up, grabbed my rifle and moved south, feeling my way quietly. Thirty yards on I paused to listen, two grenades flashes indicating that they had thrown them to where they believed I had been.
The stomach wound was now throbbing, the arse wound stinging, and I knew that I was in trouble. Walking out of here would not be so easy now.
Finding the track, I pulled out my fishing line and scissors, and gave some thought to thinning them out a bit. I set a grenade trap between two trees, followed by a second at the next tree, then a third and fourth, some ten minutes used up.
Running south, I made plenty of noise, no rounds incoming as I moved towards the old boy scouts camp. Circling around, I headed east as quietly as I could, returning to a point where I would be close enough to the grenade traps to open fire.
My night vision was improving, and now the trees were black lines on a dark grey canvas, the track distinct as a lighter grey horizontal line. I made ready, and I waited, thinking about applying some first aid to my wounds, and whether they would be the last wounds accrued this night.
Sounds, getting closer, a patrol, six or eight men. Movement, indistinct black images moving against a dark grey background, twigs breaking, hushed voices. They were in the open, and I had a tree covering my left side, so I got ready.
‘Jebem!’
Two seconds later the flash lit them up, most getting a piece of hot metal; grenades were not selfish creatures. My eyes had been closed, but now I opened them and sprayed the patrol, a full magazine used up as I swung the barrel back and forth at the mayhem and shouts. A second grenade detonated, and I caught a piece in the chin, cursing my own stupidity as I ducked behind the tree. Still, it was a tiny piece.
Rounds came in and hit my tree, but also hit a wider area, so I was reasonably sure that they could not see me. Reloaded, I pushed the rifle around the tree and fired blindly whilst I hid, spraying it around.
With an empty click I reloaded, soon up and running whilst using the tree as cover. Rounds hit the ground near me, someone still functioning, but I was soon sliding down a bank and beyond their aim, circling around left and aiming to get back to the dark wood.
Major Bradley stepped into the Comms room, still twenty people present, Rizzo nursing a coffee. ‘Well?’
The Intel officer turned around, still with one ear listin
g to the Serbs. ‘He’s still alive and fighting, sir. They mortared the area pretty good, then tried heavy machineguns, now sending in small patrols, but the three patrols they’ve sent have all been wiped out, just a few wounded making it back out.’
‘What chance they got against Wilco in a dark wood?’ one of the lads pointed out.
‘They have the men,’ Bradley pointed out. ‘And the stupidity to keep sending them in. One will get a lucky shot.’
‘He can sneak out tonight,’ Rizzo said.
‘Doubt that,’ the Intel officer said.
Rizzo stood, and angered quickly. ‘You what?’
The captain glanced at Rizzo, but continued to address the Major. ‘The man in charge was sacked, and the man now in charge is offering a year’s salary to any man that gets one of the snipers.’
‘One of the snipers?’ Bradley repeated.
‘They think that ten rebel snipers from Croatia are in those woods, sir.’ He focused on Rizzo. ‘And they are damn sure that they’re going to get them, road blocks everywhere, concentric lines around the wood, a thousand men.’
‘They don’t know he’s one of ours,’ Bradley realised.
‘No, sir, but they’re mad as hell ... and wanting blood. Oh, and the estimated wounded is way over a hundred, sir.’
General Dennet was at his desk despite the hour, his adjutant knocking and entering. ‘Yes?’
‘Wilco, sir, he’s not dead.’
‘Wounded?’ the General puzzled.
‘Unknown, sir. What we do now is that the Serbs are throwing a lot of artillery at those woods, mortars, the works, and taking heavy casualties from a sniper.’
‘How do we know it’s him?’ the General pressed.
‘We can’t be sure, but the fighting is at the exact coordinates of the last known position of that patrol.’
‘Have the Serbs recovered bodies or kit?’
