Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  The light came up, very slowly, and the greens took on a rich colour. Another dog, the first lifting up to greet it, sniffs exchanged. A man, green camouflage clothing, a rifle; he was carefully watching the woods. I shot him in the throat, blood spurting out as he fell back. His dog ran off, the first dog following behind, and my facial muscles had not moved a millimetre, they were no longer capable of doing so.

  I walked into the woods, not even knowing why, and kept going, deeper and darker, till I found a pile of logs covered in moss, similar to the patrol den, and I eased inside. I think I just wanted to be warm. Sat there, I could have closed my eyes and just given up, but I was still somehow determined to carry on. With no regard for being spotted, and not thinking clearly, I got a brew on and opened a tin of meat.

  I managed half a tin of meat, but I felt so sick that it was hard work to swallow; each chunk of meat needed a complimentary sip of water. The tea was well received, and I savoured it, taking my time to enjoy the sensation. I had morphine, but I did not dare use it since it would send me to sleep. I wondered about a small dose, and would that make me sleepy. It probably would, and at the moment I could barely keep my eyes open.

  It was an amazing transformation, and just that one cup of tea improved my condition tenfold. I still felt like shit, but a better kind of shit, and my mind was rapidly becoming more lucid. With my kit away, I took a moment to study my fingers in torch light. They were black with dirt, but also cut-up in many places, many small splinters evident, as well as much dried blood.

  I put my gloves back on, buttoned up the face mask and eased upright, looking and listening around the forest. It was light compared to the deep dark forest, but dark enough to be a benefit to me, and I could see perhaps sixty yards in most directions.

  Dogs barking, close by. My heart sank, because I could not out run them, and unlike soldiers - I could not hide from them. I considered false scent trails, but then realised that I hardly had the energy to stand up, let alone burn up valuable energy on such a speculative venture. I took my magazine out and weighed it in my hand, soon adding loose rounds from another magazine that was almost empty. I made ready, my rifle now damned heavy, little energy in my arms.

  Remaining upright, I had logs up to my shoulders, green moss for cover and plenty of thin bushes around me, and my mind was on automatic. I had no plan, no strategy, and I had no idea what I would do next.

  Movement, a man, fifty yards away. I focused on him through the sights. He had a dog at his feet, no one else visible. I put a round through his upper chest, knocking him backwards.

  Silence.

  The dog suddenly appeared, stood up with its paws on a log, staring my way, its ears erect. I fired, and accidentally took its nose off, a horrible noise issued as it ran off. I watched it go, the oddly shaped dog shaking its head and leaving a blood trail. I reset my sight to 100 yards and checked that it was not damaged.

  Sounds. Movement. Off to the right.

  I peered through the sights, and the man was as clear as day, as if he were stood next to me. Behind him a man with a radio, now knelt down and talking. I hit the radio operator first, the shot probably passing through him and hitting his backpack radio. The first man spun around and knelt down.

  ‘No good,’ I said to no one in particular. ‘I can still see you.’

  I blew his face off.

  A dog appeared, sniffing the bodies, so I hit it mid-section, knocking it flying.

  Something moved from the corner of my eye, and I swung around. A dog stood there, peering up at me, its head turning to one side as if it could not make out what I was. I aimed, but then waited. Maybe it would just walk off. It barked, I pulled the trigger, and it flew backwards, somersaulting.

  I waited, listening. Ten minutes passed, and nothing.

  Then a herd of elephants made themselves known. They ran straight for the downed men. I waited patiently for them to appear, and I waited some more, and they were soon bunched up. I fired, my brain on automatic, and kept firing, my scope full of faces and uniforms, and it was like being stood next to them and shooting at them.

  They fired off in all directions at random, none aiming at me, and I was not that worried. I kept firing till they were all lying down, and with my magazine clicking empty I swapped it, now down to just six magazines, maybe eight, I was not sure.

  Easing back up, I re-acquired the patrol, and found two crawling away, both hit in the arse, but from this angle the rounds would have passed up through the intestine and into the chest; they were lethal wounds. A face popped around a tree, obscured by a bush, but I had the outline and I fired, a quiet cough, the crack of the round, the clanking reload.

  A burst of fire came my way, and I wondered why my arm was on fire. I looked at it as rounds pinged off the logs. Blood. I turned back, took aim, and spotted a muzzle flash. I fired five times around the muzzle flash, and the incoming fire ceased. I waited.

  Moans; two, maybe three men still alive. Something tricked down my face, and I had to blink to clear it. It got annoying, so I wiped it with a gloved hand, finding blood. I had been hit, but I had not felt it.

  Sounds, another herd of elephants, coming from the left. I could not stay here, so I eased out and walked brazenly up to the patrol, but at least I walked quietly. Reaching them, I finished off three wounded men, knelt down in great pain, and pinched away ten magazines and four grenades, and a chocolate bar hanging from a pocket.

  Glancing back, I could not see the elephants yet, but I needed to head away from them. I turned, stopped, turned back, and knelt again. Pulling the pin on a grenade, I placed it under the radio operator, a second under the team leader that was, and then legged it as best as I could – which was slowly.

  Fifty yards on, and finding a thick cluster of trees, I hid, aiming back towards the patrol. Hearing it before seeing it, a dog came into view, the animal puzzling my cluster of trees. The patrol came into view, so I held off killing the dog, just wishing it would go away. It turned around and focused on the patrol, and started towards them, glancing back at me. Good job dogs don’t talk, I considered.

  The patrol surrounded the bodies and took up a defensive position, and – judging by the way they were analysing the body positions, they pegged me as still being in the pile of logs. They opened fire, a racket created, so I opened fire, their fire suppressing the sounds of my own fire. I killed four men quickly, and they were now certain that I was in the pile of logs. I considered legging it away.

  The blast took me by surprise, but not half as much as the patrol. They all got a piece of hot metal, and I almost felt sorry for them.

  Movement, off to my right, a larger patrol racing in, running almost. They ran to their colleagues, first aid a priority, and joined the fire-fight, the one-sided fire-fight, because I was not there. Four men were dragged back, then a shout, men diving down, followed by a second blast, a few people caught by it.

  With a burst of fire towards the pile of logs, I hit two men in the face, and since they were facing the logs I hoped it would work. More men appeared from the right of me, so I ducked down, turned and legged it as fast as I could go, which was not very fast. I stopped to be sick again, the meat wasted, and I found myself peeing into my trousers without any control over it, the warm piss dripping down my legs.

  Finding another pile of logs, I slipped in, and waited. I had no idea what I was waiting for, or a plan, but I was now at least four hundred yards from the action. Sounds, a truck. I was near that tarmac road again.

  A blast echoed around the forest, and I considered that they were assaulting my previous pile of logs.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, I just sat staring at the peaceful green forest, and I spotted a few birds, and a weasel of some description; the animals were going about their daily lives. I felt drowsy, and I knew that sleep meant death, so I fought it as best I could.

  With my eyes closing I stood, knowing full well that death was next, and that I should keep moving, that I should keep
awake.

  Why bother, I asked myself as I started plodding along, not sure what direction I was going in.

  I found the road, and an odd optical illusion. It had rained, and now a shaft of sunlight caused the road surface to glisten, but I was on its axis, looking down five hundred yards of near-straight road. It dropped away at the end, and I was elevated where I stood, perhaps twenty feet higher than the road, and beyond the end of the road was a truck floating in thin air. I figured it to be on the road, the shine causing the road to look like sky.

  I found a branch at five feet, eased in and peered through my sights. I noticed several old grey trucks, people moving around, a camp set-up, perhaps six hundred yards away. An idea struck me, that I should try and make them believe I was down there, not up here. I focused on a man stood with a brew in hand, and fired, hitting him in the foot.

  Easing back, I altered my sights with a quiet curse, and set six hundred. Aiming again, I could see people knelt over him. I aimed at the cab of the truck, a man sat there peering out, and I hit in the chest. People dived down, or knelt down. I fired six rounds quickly, hitting a few men, but then concentrated on the rear of the truck and its canvas cover. I fired till I clicked empty, men seen tumbling out the tailgate.

  Reloading, I turned my back on the road, and plodded slowly off in the exact opposite direction, figuring that they would have me down as being in that wood, the section closest to the trucks.

  As I walked, three trucks passed me, heading that way, and I neared the edge of the woods.

  A soft thump sound registered too late. The blast did not knock me down, but I fell into a tree, screaming quietly, my eyes screwed shut, my legs alive with a burning sensation, my back and my arms issuing shooting pains.

  I fell forwards, landing as the second blast hit, my left foot alive with a burning sensation. I forced myself to crawl forwards, and made five yards before the trees were shredded with heavy fire, splinters impacting me. Crawling under a bush, I suddenly found myself sliding down a wet muddy incline – and head first, my rifle trailing behind me as I turned over onto my back and slid further.

  I ended up in the kneeling position after tumbling backwards, now wet and muddy all over, and I rolled to the side quickly. Scrambling into a thicket, I made ready as sounds echoed, and I aimed up the bank. A black balaclava appeared, then a second, and I killed both men before they could duck, my shots taken without my telescopic sight, which was now covered in mud.

  I scrambled up onto my feet whilst screaming quietly in agony, and ducked through the thicket, now aware that I was at the side of the road. As I ran bent double, a truck passed me little more than ten feet away but it did not stop. I kept going, desperate to get away.

  Finding open fields ahead, I decided against the forest and followed a hedge, soon sloshing through a stream. Slipping onto my arse, I found a dark tunnel with a light at the other end, a culvert under the road. I scrambled towards it through icy water, the culvert big enough to negotiate on my knees, my rifle scraping the concrete as I progressed and creating an odd echo.

  At the far side I was panting like a dog, and sweating now, my legs soaking wet. I peered back down the culvert, and no one was following, so I spun around and crossed an area of long grass and made it to the tree line. Off to my right, in the open field, was a patrol some four hundred yards away. But had they seen me?

  I checked my rifle and cleaned the sights as best I could, and I checked that there was no mud down the barrel. In excruciating pain, I stumbled through the forest, my shoulders impacting trees, and I fell to my knees a dozen times. Pushing onwards, I found the forest getting darker, the trees taller and closer together, and it started to remind me of the dark wood to the south.

  Penetrating deeper, I considered that I had gone 300 yards or more, and the going was getting tougher. I moved left and around large tree roots, then back the other way, losing the available light.

  Tripping, I dropped to my knees of soft soil and stopped. This was the end. I let my rifle fall, and eased off my webbing and just knelt there, hearing my own breathing, my sweat cooling.

  I did not know why, but I took out my first aid kit, and I squeezed out enough antibiotic cream to cover myself head to toe. I dabbed where it hurt, everywhere it hurt, and I even placed a hand inside my shirt and inside my trouser legs, fighting to stay awake.

  Grabbing a cigar case, I fumbled with muddy hands for the syringe and needle, and injected myself in both legs, no idea on the dosage. Pulling my rolled up poncho from the back of my webbing, I shook it out, a gasp issued at the pain.

  A mouthful of water swallowed, the bottle dropped, I slumped forwards, lifting the poncho over me light a shroud. The lights went out.

  Between dead and alive

  I woke in a panic, not knowing where I was, and ten minutes later I was still lying there in a cold sweat of terror, just a tiny shaft of light for reference, and I studied the pale brown mushroom I found, the tree it hung to, a worm crawling along.

  I wondered what genus it was, the mushroom, but could not remember, if I had ever known, and I could not identify if it was edible or not. A small flying insect landed, and I observed it at length as it hunted around for something to eat. A larger insect landed, right on top of the first one, and started munching on it.

  Easing up, my poncho fell away, and something glass broke under my hand. Sitting there in the dim light, propped up by a locked elbow, I took in the tops of the trees and the sky, and half an hour passed. My memory was back. Lifting up whilst using my rifle as a crutch, I peed into my trousers, no control over it. I started walking.

  In the light now, I stopped because of the pain in my groin, and I pulled out my cock and testicles. My left testicle was black and swollen. Gangrene. I put it away. What did it matter now?

  Each step I took was unintentionally measured and slow, very slow, not least because I had lost the feeling in my left foot. I could not remember if that loss had been down to being shot in the foot or the lower leg, or to grenade shrapnel embedding itself in my foot. What I did know, what I was resigned to, was the fact that I would lose that foot.

  I was annoyed for the briefest of moments, the thought of the loss of my left foot, of becoming an invalid, and I carefully and purposefully placed down my left boot, no feeling registering. It made navigating through a dense and uneven forest hard, very hard.

  I paused to stare down at my camouflaged boot, past the end of my rifle’s camouflaged silencer. I’d lose the foot, but that was the least of my worries; I would not be leaving this forest. I lifted my gaze towards the nearby trees, a mist hanging as the dawn slowly appeared, a cold wet and miserable day to die alone in a strange land.

  Taking another step, it felt as if someone had removed my skin, doused me in sand, and then replaced the skin. Each movement of muscle, of skin, or any movement at all, caused a scraping feeling.

  Four days I had been here, four days since the fighting had started, since we entered the woods by helicopter – our ‘insert’. I gave up a brief moment to consider the rest of the patrol, all now dead.

  It was just me.

  A twist of fate, a few yards separation, falling artillery – I had lived on to fight a three day running battle without rest. Shot six times or more, grazing shots, the wounds now stung, more so when I stopped to think about them. My left testicle was the size of an apple, and black with gangrene, and it made walking even harder.

  The grenade shrapnel in my legs registered with every muscle twitch, and I stopped to consider how many pieces may be inside me. It had to be thirty. Four days now, and my clothing was glued to my skin by my blood, and as I moved the wounds were cruelly tugged at by the cloth - and cruelly re-opened.

  My eyes were forced shut by the headache, that ever-present headache. Opening them again, the mist cooling my face a little through my facemask, I considered my skull, and the mess that it must be in. I had a day at most, the massive infection now causing shooting pains, my joints aching. And I c
ould smell my own dead flesh necrotising; I could smell the infection that would surely kill me if the Serbs failed in that now very simple task.

  Why was I still alive, I considered. I should be dead by now, but fate was cruelly dragging this out. My end would not be quick, and my stomach now fired out a pain that was worse than any diarrhoea that I had ever experienced.

  I desperately wanted a bowel movement, but any attempt to squeeze was too painful, and previous attempts had just resulted in warm blood filling my underwear and trickling down my legs. If I squatted to take a dump, I figured I would bleed to death quickly. So whatever wanted to come out of its own accord could do so, and did, the stickiness just one more area of discomfort.

  I heard a groan, a wounded man. If he had been alert and unwounded I doubt that I would have stopped him from shooting me; I had considered turning my rifle on myself a hundred times these past two days, since death would be a sure release from the fatigue and the pain.

  I had seen the films as a kid, a man injured in the jungle, no hope, a gun turned on himself. I had always considered that it was best to struggle on. You do, till you smell your own dead flesh, till you are so tired that death seems like a welcome release.

  I stepped slowly forwards, placing down my left boot carefully in case I trip. If I did trip, I doubted that I would ever get back up; where I fell would probably be my final resting place, my flesh becoming food for scavenging birds and forest animals.

  Ten steps and I reached the Serb, the man about twenty three years old in my estimation. He was wounded, and that would was down to me, maybe from two days ago, certainly not from yesterday. He had his own infection to deal with, a stomach wound, and I was surprised that he was still alive. Barely alive.