Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I dropped to a knee and started firing, and I dived backwards and lay down after five rounds and kept firing, spreading it around. Fire came back towards me, cracking overhead and peppering the ground around me, but as I kept at them their firing eased. The ground thumps I could detect suggested that whoever was left was running away.

  Swapping magazines, I selected automatic and sprayed through the swirling mist, cries suggesting that there was more than just the one patrol in this field. Rounds cracked overhead, orders were being shouted, and I got through four magazines before I got up and ran bent double up the slope. I had covered close to two hundred yards, no longer sure of just where the hell I was running, when I was rudely hit in the arse by something.

  I fell forwards, screaming in agony for a minute as rounds peppered the ground about me, but my angered determination made me get back up. Feeling a warmth filling my underwear, I ran as best I could, soon glimpsing trees through the haze – and soon heading for them, and soon tripping and somersaulting onto my back and crying out and something stabbed into me. Those damn felled trees; there were splinters everywhere.

  Forcing myself up, I leapt across the logs as they were hit and splintered, soon finding a tree at an angle and sliding under it. Beyond it the rounds falling became distant echoes, and as the smoke cleared I recognised the logging operation gone wrong, now registering a fresh wound on my right side above my hip.

  A blast knocked me sideways as six shells landed some fifty yards away. Leopard crawling as best as I could, battered and broken, I made slow progress under the fallen trees, the artillery still falling.

  Captain Harris found Major Bradley down stairs and eating. He sat. ‘They’ve brought up more artillery, and they’ve just dumped a hundred rounds into that wood.’

  The Major stared at this food, those in earshot shocked.

  Harris continued, ‘Their spotters are reporting that half the trees have been felled.’

  ‘Wilco will have a headache after that lot,’ the Major quietly stated.

  No one said anything for a minute, and Captain Harris got up and walked off.

  I woke to find it dark, a bad taste lingering at the back of my throat. I discarded the field dressing in my face mask, then immediately grabbed it and shoved it down the back of my trousers. I felt blood, but cold blood, so I was not bleeding out.

  Easing up onto my knees, I hurt all over, and I wondered how long I could survive like this. Poking my head up, it was an hour before sun down and all was quiet, very quiet, a ghostly mist lingering.

  Glancing around, it looked like some third world country after the loggers had cleared the forest. Everywhere there lay trees at an unnatural angle, those upright now missing branches, most splintered and looking like the pictures I had seen of Pacific islands after a naval bombardment during the Second World War.

  The Serbs had pounded the woods, no concern for their wounded, but I had been at the edge, and under cover. I had been lucky, but what about next time; the minute I opened up on a patrol the artillery would be return, and my luck was running out very quickly, the wounds accruing. It was time to go, but go where, which direction, and when.

  As the light faded I headed north, the only real answer, and I stayed just inside the dark wood. At the top track I found a wounded man staggering down the track; god knows how he had survived the artillery. As I observed him, no one shot at him, so I limped across the track after he had passed, and no one shot at me through the dark.

  Across the track I made my way up the slope, edging around artillery holes and fallen trees, till I was up beyond the original sniper positions. My thinking was simple; given the artillery, everyone had run away very fast and would not be coming back anytime soon. Neither would I.

  I covered another five hundred yards, but then sounds indicated movement, and patrols, lots of patrols. I had grenades, a few of them, and so I took one out, pulled the pin, and threw with as much effort as I could muster to the west, given that I wanted to head north.

  The blast caught men, shouts were issued, and I edged forwards bent double around trees and bushes, till I came to a track that was busy with men moving in both directions, even torches being used, the men chatting quite openly. I could hear dogs in the distance. Turning right, and keeping hidden, I followed the ant-like line of men, just darkened outlines most of them.

  The track dipped lower, cut into the ridge, but I climbed up the higher ground to see what was out there. My heart was racing, because I was ten yards from several hundred men. Cresting the rise, I peered down at fifty tents, most with lights coming from within, and I had to force myself to calm down.

  In order to get to the north I would have to cross that track and pass through those men. All it would take is one question about who I was, and that was it. Kneeling down, I surveyed the vast tented army and was tempted to open up on them, but that would have been suicide.

  Having spent five minutes surveying the enemy encampment I eased back, and was about to leave when shouts and screams caught my attention. Had they spotted me? I made ready, for all the good that would do.

  A fire, something was on fire on the south side, maybe forty yards away. Some silly sod had set fire to his tent. Men were running, and men near the track had stopped to look and listen. No, it was not a tent, the tent had caught because a car was on fire. Someone lifted the bonnet as the shouts continued, and the flare lit the surrounding tents, all a bit too tightly packed together. Would this be enough of a distraction?

  I stood, being indecisive, since the track was still being heavily used. But the car was now well alight. An idea formed, and I would take the risk because I was desperate and out if ideas. I grabbed a grenade, placed down my rifle, pulled the pin and threw as hard as I could, right at the burning vehicle. There was confusion and panic near it, but not half as much as when the grenade detonated about their feet.

  The shouts became screams, calls for help. I grabbed my rifle and turned, just as two men came towards me. They called out, probably asking what was going on, and closed with me quickly. There was nothing for it. I hit the first man on the chin with a heavy right hook, knocking him cold, and repeated that on the second man as he went for his rifle, now wondering if I had broken my hand. Grabbing my rifle, I rushed left and zig-zagged back to the track, to where it was level with the forest.

  Men were running down it, heavy boots impacting the loose chippings. A man came out of the wood next to me, not having seen me, did up his fly and asked what was going on. They informed him, and he followed. I followed him. After six paces I turned left behind a tree, and then sprinted for twenty yards, breaking left into denser trees and straight into a dark figure.

  He stopped and cursed, I stopped and hit him in the nose, knocking him down before stamping on him several times. Someone called out, and I ran, bumping trees and making a racket. I forced myself slower and broke west, steady careful steps, being as quiet as I could. I turned northwest and kept going, and I soon came to the tarmac road which we had crossed that first day. A convoy thundered past.

  I knew exactly where I was, and I had a short distance to get back to the drop-off point. And then what, I stopped to consider. I needed another distraction. Moving left, I used up half an hour to follow the road, stopping and listening as I progressed. I reached where the road dipped, but did not follow it down, because down there were open fields. I would consider crossing the road and pushing north.

  Trucks. I turned around and got down as their headlights lit the forest, and ten trucks eased to a halt, tailgates clanking open, men jumping down. They formed a long line, listened to an officer, and then moved north into the woods.

  So much for north, I considered; I now had a hundred men sweeping the area. Now, those open fields were tempting. The trucks moved off, down the slope, and I shielded my eyes, protecting my night vision.

  Knelt there, I wondered why they were still looking; surely they believed me dead by now? Obviously not, was my conclusion. Either that, or t
hey were being very thorough.

  Moving east again, away from the men to the north of me, I walked right up to a man sat against a tree without noticing him. He asked me a question, I kicked him in the face twice, then stamped on him. Kneeling, I froze. Was there anyone else? After two minutes no sounds came, so I pinched a few magazines, two grenades, then found a pouch. In the pouch were ... pistol flares. I was not sure what use I could make of them, but I had them away and I pushed on east, re-tracing my steps.

  At the edge of the woods I could see down the slope and could make out another tented camp. It was best avoided. I walked across the tarmac road and up the bank the other side, and tried to follow the edge of the wood as I progressed, and after half an hour I was beyond where we had originally been dropped off by helicopter.

  Following the wood, I burned up an hour without contact, and I was starting to feel lucky, it was just the hot flushes and shooting pains that were the issue, and my belief that I could pass out at any time.

  Negotiating a difficult patch of wood, and tripping a few times, I found a steep drop-off down to a road, and as I skirted along the edge I found two trucks halted, their men sat about a fire and making a brew. Judging by the tone of the voices below they were not a happy bunch, and not happy to be out here on a cold damp night instead of being at home, all warm and toasty with their wives.

  Skirting around them would not be too difficult, but as I considered the nasty steep drop down to them a convoy approached, perhaps twenty trucks in all, and they all came to a loud halt in a line below my. My heart sank as they started to unload men and dogs.

  I don’t know why I flipped, maybe it was the pain, the belief that I would not get out of here, or the sight of that many men blocking my escape route, and dashing my chances. But I flipped.

  I took out the grenades, dropped my rifle with a clatter, and threw the grenades as hard as I could at the men sat about the campfire. The first grenade detonated ten feet off the ground, and everyone got a piece, the second grenade a little lower, but the effect was the same. The screams rose up to me.

  Taking aim, I fired at the lines of men below me till my weapon clicked empty, and then fired again, on my third magazine before rounds pinged off the trees near me. I edged back a little, but I no longer cared too much, and I swapped magazines quickly, firing at the backs of the trucks, men seen falling out. With a crescendo of rounds hitting the ground near me I eased back and turned, a ricochet hitting me in the head. It was a serious wound, but I ignored it.

  I no longer cared.

  Making my way to the east, I was not sure why I was headed that way, and fifteen minutes of negotiating the dense wood and colliding with a few trees I found an open field sloping down. To the left, some two hundred yards away, trucks were pulling up. I needed to put some ground between me and them.

  Stepping out onto the grass, I turned away from them, now due south, and started walking quickly. That quick walk became a jog, and soon I was running, and sweating profusely, finding it damn hard to get into my rhythm, my legs stiff and aching, in fact everything was aching.

  Forcing away the pain, I tried to pick up the pace, feeling as if I might pass out any moment, and just then my groin felt wet, and I was certain that my anus had opened up. Ignoring the feeling, I ran on, making more of an effort than for any marathon.

  Figuring I had crossed two hundred yards, edging along the forest, I could hear dogs, lots of dogs. I picked up the pace, certain that any dogs could see me, hear me, and definitely smell me.

  At four hundred yards I was ready to flop, and the dog barks were keeping me going, but I had finally had enough. I stopped, turned, and vomited on the grass. Lifting up, and spitting, I could see the field as a dark grey, black blobs crossing it, a dozen dogs racing towards me.

  Remembering the flare pistol, I fumbled for it, cocked it, and fired towards the dogs. Soon, I wish I hadn’t. There had to be twenty dogs, and fifty men behind them. I ducked into the trees, got ready and took aim, but then waited, the sprinting dogs damn hard to focus on despite the drifting parachute flare.

  With the first dog getting near, I aimed and fired, and the damn thing somersaulted, glanced at by the dogs near it. Aiming at them, I hit one side-on with a yelp, a second killed instantly with a lucky head shot. Aiming behind them, I fired twice to hit the next dog, but it was just wounded and seemed to be crawling on its belly. The second dog I hit performed a nice cartwheel, the next dog losing a leg to a high velocity round.

  Changing the magazine quickly, if not frantically, I aimed at the closest dog, now little more than thirty yards away, and fired twice to stop it, a single shot to a dog that had paused to reflect. Another dog, now panting heavily and sniffing his mate, went down with a round between his shoulder blades, and the last dog turned and ran. I lifted my aim just as the flare died, and fired off ten rounds at the men in the distance.

  They knelt down and returned fire instantly, well aimed fire, and I ran into the woods a few yards before I paralleled the field. Walking as fast as I dare around the dark trees, I tripped as a pair of fangs sank into my calf muscle, and I screamed out.

  Hitting the floor, I rolled over and kicked out several times, reaching for my pistol, a good six seconds to get it as I struggled, the pain intense. I fired, hitting the dog in the back, but he did not let go, a second shot to the head. It slumped, and I again had to prise the jaws open.

  Lifting up, I was knocked right back down, jaws clamped on my upper arm, the arm holding the pistol. I rolled over, my body weight on the dog, as if trying to suffocate it, and I punched hard into its exposed stomach. Grabbing the pistol with my left hand, I frantically placed it again the dog’s abdomen and blasted it through the heart. This time its jaws were not locked on me.

  A rustle, a growl, and I lifted the pistol just in time to shoot the next dog down the throat as he bit towards the hand holding the pistol. The pistol clicked empty and I tossed it away, no more ammo for it. Scrambling for my rifle, I lifted it and waited, breathing like I had run a marathon.

  Nothing.

  I got up and ran back to the edge of the woods, where it was clearer, and I kept going. Finding a hedge that would block me from the men behind, I risked the grass again and ran as best I could, hobbling along and sweating profusely.

  After three hundred yards I heard something, and so ducked back into the wood, and another ten minutes brought me back to that tarmac road. My efforts had achieved little, and I was a mess, and I knew that I was in trouble.

  I dropped to my knees and took a minute to recover as best I could, taking the time to pull a few magazines from my rear bandolier and place them in the front. At least I was warm now, despite the chill night air.

  Seeing a vehicle approach I eased back, but then changed my mind and eased forwards, taking up a fire position as if the truck had already passed. As it did pass I could see men in the back smoking, a second before I fired, and I kept firing till I clicked empty. The truck trundled on some four hundred yards before it pulled over, before the driver realised what had happened in the rear.

  I reloaded and waited, observing the truck. The driver got back in and sped off, leaving a body in the road, someone who had fallen over the tailgate. A second truck could be heard, and I waited, and as it passed me I again fired, not even sure why I was fighting on.

  This truck, however, was unfortunate to have several paraffin lamps going in the back, and ten seconds of being on the receiving end resulted in some of the unlucky occupants set alight. The truck slowed before the body in the road, burning men jumping down, the driver getting out of the cab.

  I crossed the road and waited, staring dispassionately at the truck and not even knowing why I had done it.

  A convoy, three trucks. I changed magazines and waited, my rifle held level with the ground at my hip, finger on trigger. As the truck passed I fired into the canvas, ten rounds, so to with the second vehicle as it slowed, again with the third. The last vehicle squeaked to a halt little mor
e than twenty yards from me, men jumping down and diving into the woods.

  I turned south, not a clue where I was going, gunfire echoing around the woods, but I no longer cared. Finding a dense area, many fallen logs, I took up a fire position towards the road, and could see flashing lights in the distance, a few men silhouetted. I fired at them for a minute.

  I woke in the dark, wondering where I was. I could hear distant sounds, and easing up I felt a rifle, and I examined it as if I was blind and it was a novel in brail. My memories came back. Standing, I could hear shouting, the occasional shot fired. I touched the left side of my head, finding it damp, and very tender to touch; it felt swollen, and I had been hit by something, a glancing blow.

  Feeling my way around the fallen logs, I staggered off, for how long I was not sure, and I found myself in a field, sitting next to a stream. Taking out my water bottle I filled it, and drank through the face mask, the cold water tasting good. With the water bottle tucked away, I sensed that it was getting lighter, and I thought I could see a cow. Using my rifle as a crutch, I pushed myself up and stared at the dark forest, suddenly feeling like I wanted to be sick.

  Lifting my rifle, I stared at it for many seconds, finally ambling very slowly towards the trees, but I did not enter the dark wood; for some reason it frightened me. I skirted along the edge for ten minutes, certain now that it was getting lighter. Somewhere, loud bangs were going off, thump, thump, thump, but I had no idea where. Stopping, I sipped more water, and finding a log I sat down.

  Without knowing quite why, I pulled out my first aid kit, opened it, and took hold of a plastic cigar tube. From it I pulled a syringe and attached the needle. Extracting clear liquid from a vial of antibiotics, I injected myself in the leg, both legs, then the wrist, discarding the needle and cigar case. I put the first aid kit away, and sipped my water again, soon sat staring ahead at the dark green landscape.

  A dog, its nose to the floor, moving this way. It approached, but I just stared back at it. It stared at me, then lowered its head and trotted off, and I watched it go. A man, dark green outfit, a rifle held. I took aim and fired, my facial muscles incapable of forming an expression. The man dropped, and the dog went and sat next to him, staring my way.