by Nick Ryan
Edge hesitated. He sensed he was being manipulated by the Polish Major. The man’s tone had become shrewd. But he shrugged and answered honestly.
“Yes.”
“Good!” Major Nowakowski slammed his hand down on the benchtop. “Then you will share your unique skills and knowledge with some of my troops.”
“Sir?” Lieutenant Parker cut across the brittle silence, his voice mortified. “There is no time for our scouts to coach your Company on the art of camouflage and ambush. The commander of 1st Cav Squadron is awaiting your arrival northeast of Norwid-Slowack. If we’re going to seize the bridge over the Sypitki your infantry must move out now.” Which wasn’t technically true, everyone in the tent knew. It was fifty miles to Norwid-Slowack. Even allowing for a circuitous cross-country route, the journey would take just a few hours.
“No!” the Major shook his head. “Until Sergeant Edge teaches at least two of my soldiers the skills of camouflage, we will not move out, and your army will not seize the bridge. My answer is final.”
Parker shot Edge a withering glare, his eyes hectic with flustered alarm. “Give me a moment, Major. I need to talk to Sergeant Edge – alone.”
Parker hobbled out into the daylight. Edge followed. Parker wheeled around, his face livid with outrage.
“Have you gone completely fucking mad?” the Lieutenant exploded in rare anger.
Edge said nothing.
Parker’s lips twitched and there was a froth of tiny bubbles at the corner of his mouth. He scraped his hand through his hair and then poked Edge in the chest. “Go back in there and apologize. Tell the Major you’re an ignorant ass. Tell him you were concussed. Tell him anything you bloody-well like, but make sure whatever you say includes the words ‘I’m very sorry’, understand?”
“No,” Edge said. “I won’t apologize.”
“Christ!” Parker exploded. He tried to appeal to Edge’s sense of logic. “Fuck your pride, Sergeant. An entire counter attack… an opportunity to swing onto the flank of the invading Russians hangs in the balance. A delay of even a day might cost us the chance to strike. There is more at stake than your fucking feelings.”
“I didn’t start this, Lieutenant. The Major did. All I can be accused of is telling the truth.”
“The truth?” Parker looked at Edge like the man was insane. “What has the truth got to do with it? This is politics you crazy bastard. Politics!”
“Yes, sir.”
Parker was not convinced by Edge’s sudden capitulation. “Don’t make me order you…” his voice dropped and became scathingly quiet.
“I want two hours.”
“What?”
“I want two hours,” Edge said with determination. “If I can’t teach a couple of the Polish soldiers the basics of camouflage by 1100 hours, I will apologize to the Major.”
Parker saw the stubborn resolve in Edge’s eyes. He glanced at his watch and stiffened.
“Sergeant Edge, you and I never had this conversation. Do you understand?” Lieutenant Parker said formally.
“Yes, sir.”
“In fifteen minutes, I am boarding a helicopter to Warsaw and then flying back to the States. I have been in my quarters for the past thirty minutes packing. I saw you for the last time this morning when I briefed you on the mission and then advised you to meet with Major Nowakowski. I have not seen you since.”
“Yes, sir.” The two men saluted and Edge wondered if he saw a trace of wicked amusement in the Lieutenant’s eyes before he disappeared towards the barracks building, crabbing awkwardly on his crutches.
Edge stepped back inside the tent. Major Nowakowski still stood, leaning over the bench.
“Two of your people, and I want two hours,” Edge said.
“Agreed,” the Major’s smile was thin with triumph. He glanced at his watch. “You have until 1100 hours to teach effective camouflage skills to two of my soldiers. If you can conceal their location from me, we will move with all haste towards Norwid-Slowack where your 1st Cavalry Squadron awaits our arrival. But if you fail, Sergeant Edge,” the Polish Major’s voice betrayed a gleeful anticipation, “you will issue a public apology, on the parade ground, to my entire Company.”
*
The two Polish militia reported to a leafy grove of scrubland where NATO troops practiced small arms exercises. Edge and Waddingham were waiting for them in the Stryker beneath a tree on the fringe of the clearing. One of the base Humvees was parked alongside.
The man’s name was Szymon. He was aged in his thirties. He had a voice as soft as a girl and an effeminate face, with big toffee-colored eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. He was slim and narrow-shouldered. He looked like a clerk.
The woman was named Kalina. She had a broad brow, a proud nose and a wide mouth. Her expression was serious, her features classically Slavic. She had dark boldly-arched eyebrows and her hair was drawn back severely from her face and tucked in a bun beneath her helmet. She was younger than the man; Edge guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. They squatted down in the grass beside the Stryker. Vince Waddingham appeared from inside the vehicle carrying what looked like two bulky coats made of straw. He laid them down on the ground.
“A day from now – if the planned attack on the Russians happens – both of you are going to be dead,” Edge began. “It won’t be your fault. It will be because you didn’t know better, and because you weren’t trained properly. All I can do is teach you the basics of camouflage and concealment, so pay attention. What you’re about to learn might save your lives, and it might give you the one thing you’ll need to live through a firefight; the advantage of surprise.”
He paused for a beat to let the magnitude of his warning sink in, then picked up a small olive-green cosmetics-like container that fitted into the palm of his hand. “This is camouflage skin paint. It’s like make-up for warriors.” He flipped open the box to reveal trays of colored cream in subdued natural tones and a small acrylic mirror set into the lid. “We use this to camouflage our faces, starting with the darkest color to paint the areas of your face that protrude the most.” He dipped his finger into the shade of loam brown then reached out and smeared a line down the length of the Polish man’s nose. Then he quickly painted the brow line, the cheeks and the thrust of his chin.
“Now the mid-tone.” He dipped his finger back into the paint and smeared color over the young woman’s left eye socket and across her right cheek, then kept working in lighter shades back and forth. “This is not a beauty contest,” Edge warned. “We’re not looking for perfection – we’re looking for realistic shades of light and dark that could be found in nature. The ultimate goal is to flatten your face and disguise its human form. That’s why we paint the protruding areas with the darkest colors.”
He showed them the results of his work in the small mirror and handed over the compact. “Normally we work with a buddy, and the whole process should take just a few minutes. You guys can work together to finish what I started – and remember to also paint your neck, ears and hands.”
Edge left the two Polish soldiers and went striding away into the grove of long grass and shrubs with Vince Waddingham at his side. The two scouts came back a few minutes later, their arms filled with twigs, leaves, tufts of long stringy grass and a handful of mud. Edge inspected the two soldiers and grunted, satisfied.
He picked up one of the straw-covered coats and showed it to the militia. “This is the jacket of a ghillie suit,” he said, turning it around in his hands. “There are pants as well. The purpose of the suit is to conceal the outline of your body and to help you blend into the local environment. This one,” he started pulling out the straw which was held in place by elastic straps and a layer of gauze, “was created for a covert mission in an area of dry grass. It will not help you today because the natural terrain here is different. The ghillie suit must be adapted to your environment, so each time you go on a mission you need to gather fresh camouflage from the immediate area you will be working in,” he pointed at
the weeds, leaves and twigs bundled at their feet. He dropped to his knees beside the Polish soldiers and began replacing the suit’s straw camouflage with some of the ground debris, working quickly until the coloring better reflected the foliage around them. Then he smeared sections of the sleeves with daubed mud. He shrugged the coat on. “Combined with the pants, a suit like this is your best chance to avoid detection,” Edge said. He handed the jacket to the young woman. “Now it’s your turn.”
The two militia worked studiously for ten minutes, bowed over the coats, their camouflaged faces frowned with concentration. Edge stood aside and watched. Waddingham came back to the Stryker carrying leafy twigs and more mud.
When the task was finished, the soldiers stripped off their uniforms and slipped into the ghillie suits. Edge and Waddingham fussed over them like a mother making final adjustments to her teenage daughter’s prom dress. They added extra twigs and leaves until experience told them the camouflage was complete. The outfits were topped off with floppy-brimmed hats, covered by a ragged veil of camouflage net.
Edge and Waddingham exchanged glances. Waddingham winked. “I’ve seen worse.”
The final step was to camouflage the weapons. The Polish were armed with the new MSBS/GROT assault rifle. Edge showed the militia how to disguise the lines of the barrel with strips of burlap and smears of camouflage paint.
Waddingham nudged Edge and showed the face of his watch. Time was almost up. Edge grimaced. There had been no opportunity to teach the recruits how to crawl with stealth, nor how to trail their spare equipment behind them in a drag bag.
Edge drove back to the parade ground to collect Major Nowakowski in the Humvee, and Vince Waddingham drew the two Polish militia aside for a final instructional talk.
“The secret of concealment is to find the right firing position. You do that by studying the ground,” Waddingham explained. “Look for areas with the most foliage and the most trap shadow. Look for locations that have a front drop of cover and a back drop of higher bushes. If you can find a firing position in that channel of light and shade, you will be between cover to your front and rear. That makes you damned hard to spot from fifty yards – provided you stay still and don’t do anything stupid.”
The Polish soldiers nodded, attentive and grim. Waddingham glanced towards the parade ground. There was still no sign of the returning Humvee, but he knew it would only be a matter of moments before the vehicle appeared.
“You have ten minutes to go and find yourself a firing position,” he said. “Sergeant Edge will bring your Major to the tree where the Stryker is parked. Don’t fuck this up. What happens next is up to you.”
*
The Humvee appeared a few minutes later and braked to a halt beneath the tree. Major Nowakowski clambered down from the vehicle and took a moment to vainly straighten his uniform and adjust the angle of his beret. He had a confident, cocky smile on his face. With him was a uniformed aide. The man fetched a fold out camp chair from the vehicle and set it down beside a fringe of green bushes.
“So, Sergeant Edge, tell me how your instruction went.”
“Fine, Major,” Edge said. “The soldiers you sent were good students.”
“Good enough to conceal themselves from the enemy?”
“I think so.”
Major Nowakowski smiled thinly. He had a pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck. “But not good enough to hide from my experienced eye. I am no Russian recruit, Sergeant Edge. I have been too long in the military to be fooled by casual camouflage.”
“You have five minutes, Major,” Edge declared. “That’s more time than any Russian spotter would have.”
The grove was on the fringe of a wooded stand, threaded with walking trails where exercising NATO troops practiced patrol skills. The area opened up onto a broad field of vehicle and mortar-churned ground, sprinkled with low shrubby bushes and stunted trees. The grass between the pockets of cover was long and lush, waving gently in the breeze.
“Agreed,” Major Nowakowski glanced at his watch. He looked over his shoulder and barked at the aide who carried two-way radios in his hand. “Cybulski, get out into the field, man, and listen for my directions. I’ll steer you right on top of them.”
With the Major calling instructions, the hapless aide was made to bound through the field of grass like a hunting dog, jinking left and right to each fresh instruction.
“No, you damned fool!” Major Nowakowski berated. “I said left!”
The minutes ticked by. Edge kept an eye on his watch, counting down the seconds. Vince Waddingham sidled up beside him. “How much longer?”
“Another minute,” Edge muttered.
Sensing the deadline approaching, Major Nowakowski leaped to his feet with the binoculars pressed hard to his eyes. The two-way was in his free hand as he guided the aide towards a suspicious clump of leafy ground a hundred yards directly ahead.
“More to your right… more… now left, Cybulski. There! Right there!”
The aide crouched down then rose slowly back to his feet. He shook his head.
“Damn!” the Major growled.
“Time!” Edge had counted down the last few seconds holding his breath. He let out a sigh of relief then cupped his hands to his mouth. “Okay, Szymon, you are clear to reveal yourself.”
A few seconds later the Polish man stood up. He emerged like an apparition from a patch of non-descript grass to the right, just seventy yards away. Major Nowakowski blinked in shock. The aide had never come within twenty yards of the firing spot. Even Edge was impressed.
“Come out, Kalina!” Edge called again. He let his gaze sweep the open field, expecting to see the young woman reveal herself.
A sudden squeal of fright broke the silence. Major Nowakowski’s eyes were wide with fear, his face frozen, mouth agape. He was making a pitiful mewling sound – because there was a hand wrapped around his ankle.
A woman’s hand.
The Polish girl had concealed herself in the bushy shrub right beside the Major’s chair, not five feet away from where he had stood.
“Gówno!” the Major swore vehemently. He kicked his leg free of the woman’s clutches and flushed with anger and humiliation. Then he rounded on Edge and his eyes were terrible, his voice shaking with rage. “You are too clever, Sergeant Edge. Too clever for your own good.” The Major’s tone dripped menace and foreboding. He looked like he had more to say but instead he bit his tongue and stormed off, barking for the aide to follow him.
Edge checked his watch. “My Platoon of Cavalry scouts are leaving this training area in thirty minutes, Major. If you want us to screen your column’s advance north to the 1st Squadron, I suggest you make immediate preparations to move out.”
*
The four Strykers of 2nd Platoon, ‘Outlaw Troop’ moved out in a staggered column formation, the vehicles dispersed as protection against any threat of a possible Russian air attack. Edge stood in his command hatch in front of Vince Waddingham who was pulling rear air guard in the open hatch behind him. Their headsets were plugged into the vehicle’s internal comms.
Both men’s expressions were hidden behind the dark lenses of their Revision goggles – but Waddingham didn’t need to see his Platoon Sergeant’s eyes to know what he was thinking.
He had seen Edge this way before; deep in pensive contemplation after a mission, when he would withdraw from everyone around him to reflect on the events, and to ask himself whether he had handled the conflict to the best of his ability.
The brooding could make Edge a morose, miserable bastard sometimes, Waddingham acknowledged – but he supposed it was what also made him a good leader of men. Though why he was dwelling on the sharp exchange of words with the Polish Major had Waddingham dumbfounded.
He wondered then if maybe Edge was still fretting over the outbreak of war, and his home life. Waddingham simply could not understand why any man would want to marry and start a family. For him life was much simpler; women were plentiful,
and every day was an adventure meant to be experienced – and you couldn’t do that tied down by domesticity. Waddingham liked to live dangerously… because there wasn’t any other way to really live. He was a free spirit, without a care in the world.
“Wanna talk about it?” he leaned across the Stryker’s gunners mount and spoke above the relentless revving noises of the vehicle’s engine and the wind in their faces.
“What?”
“Whatever’s on your mind.”
Edge said nothing. He swung his head round and watched the rest of the Platoon’s vehicles coming on behind them. Closer to the horizon he could see the billowing dust cloud thrown up by the Polish KTO Rosomaks trailing in their wake.
“Are you worried about the Polish Major?”
“None of your concern, Sergeant,” Edge said harshly.
“Okay,” Waddingham nodded without any intention of relenting. The two men were friends; a bond formed in combat during the Afghanistan campaign, and the relationships formed during battle were more enduring than those between casual acquaintances. They had seen each other scared, seen each other on the point of despair. They had shared hardships and the frustration of countless ‘hurry up and wait’ situations.
“Major Nowakowski is a pimped-up fuckin’ peacock if you ask me,” Waddingham offered his opinion blithely.
“I didn’t,” Edge became surly.
“Didn’t what?”
“I didn’t bloody ask you.”
Yet despite himself, Edge felt his silent concerns bubbling to the surface. He understood what Vince Waddingham was doing – encouraging him to speak his mind – and in a way he appreciated it. Suddenly everything weighing on him spilled out in a rush.
“Nowakowski might be a useless peacock, but he’s got influence,” Edge said. “The Lieutenant told me he was some kind of politician. So he can make things difficult. And on top of that I don’t know how much pull he’s going to have with the Lieutenant Colonel,” Edge frowned and then admonished himself. “I should have just shut my fucking mouth. I had nothing to prove. I could have just walked away from his challenge and left his dignity intact. In twenty-four hours he would have been out of our lives.”
