by Luke Duffy
“Tell the boys to get out of here,” he grumbled as he reached the doorway and continued into the building and along the corridor. “Save whoever you can, and get out of here, Gerry. That’s my final order to you.”
“But,” Gerry tried again. “But, sir…”
The man was no longer listening. He headed back into the bowels of the command centre and away from the gut-wrenching cries of the wounded. Passing the operations room, he stopped and watched for a moment as men and women ran in all directions, trying to make sense from the floods of contact reports coming in from all over the island. He turned away and continued along the corridor. There was nothing he could do. He continued towards his office and the top drawer of his desk.
Thompson closed the door and dropped down into his chair. He ran his fingers through his lank thinning hair and sighed heavily. He stared at the wall for a long moment, his eyes focussing on nothing in particular, and attempting to blot out the noise of the battle as his wandering mind began to spiral away from him.
He could not help but think of happier times, and before long and without meaning to, he began to reminisce on the years of his life. As he had always heard, when the end is just around the corner, the mind seeks comfort in favourable memories. Long forgotten but now lucid visions of his childhood wafted through his thoughts like the falling leaves from a tree in the autumn winds. As his mind drifted, he was suddenly smothered by an avalanche of recollections that he had long forgotten over the years, but now he could see them as clearly as though they had happened only yesterday. The sights, sounds, and even the smells seemed real, and a contented smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes and savoured the tide of memories.
He could see his mother, standing with her hands on her hips in front of the large oven and smiling down at him while she baked. She sang along to the music blaring from the radio as he and his brother played with their toys on the tiled floor of the huge Victorian kitchen. Even the maid, an old battle-axe of a woman who had a face that seemed to be set like stone was there, glaring at them with her perpetual expression of disapproval.
The scents of summer fruits and hot pastry drifted into his nostrils, almost making his mouth water with anticipation. His mother always seemed happy. She sang endlessly and never failed to see the upside of any situation, regardless of how serious. She showered her boys with love and affection, and never passed on the opportunity to remind them of the joy that a life filled with love can bring.
Images of his father wandered in, too. Alfred Thompson had been a tall man, very much like himself, but with a friendlier face and milder manner. Having returned from Korea and had his fill of army life and watching the horror that war brings, he retired shortly afterwards. His family were rich and came from a long line of political and military players, and his father soon stepped into a role within the government as a civil servant on the staff of the Ministry of Defence. From then on, they saw much more of their father, always there to guide them through life and steer them in the right direction. Thompson could even remember him buying their first family car and taking them for long summer drives along the winding roads of the southern coast. He could almost feel the wind blowing through his hair and hear the excited squeals of his mother as his father pushed the accelerator to the floor.
Then there were the fond memories of his early twenties, joining the army as a young officer and becoming a Platoon Commander, leading a bunch of tough and experienced men with whom he had to earn his place and gain their respect. He had loved every minute of it, regardless of the hardships. His first operational tour was in Northern Ireland at the start of the troubles, and he had even been involved in the Bloody Sunday incident in Londonderry in 1972. There had been many conflicts since that he had been a part of, and he had relished each and every day as he played his part in modern history. He had travelled the world and experienced things that most men would not believe possible. His life had been complete and fulfilled even up to that point, but there was much more to come.
The voice of his wife floated into his ears. Her soft and sweet tones, as always, helped to soothe him and put him at ease. They had fallen in love almost instantly when they met in the spring of 1975. It had been at a ball laid on at the Officer’s Mess, and he could clearly picture the dress that she wore on the night they had first met. It had taken him a few hours and a great deal of whisky before he plucked up the courage and asked her to dance with him. He had been a little unsteady and clumsy with his feet, but she had understood and helped him along, smiling up at him as they danced for the first time.
From then on, they were inseparable and remained completely in love throughout their whole marriage. They had been through a lot together, and she had stood by him through thick and thin, understanding that she had married a career soldier and not a man who worked respectable hours in a normal job. He missed her dearly, but at that moment, he felt closer to her than he had done for a long time. Even the smell of her favourite perfume seemed to linger in the air around him. The recollections were so vivid he could almost touch them.
“Nearly there,” he whispered as the memories faded and were once again replaced with the sound of war and the screams of its victims. “I’ll be there soon, dear.”
The room juddered endlessly with each impact as the explosions steadily reduced the town of Newport to rubble. He could feel the violent vibrations travelling up through the ground and along his legs. Crumbling plaster fell from the ceiling and walls as large cracks appeared in the brickwork, and the foundations were shook to their core. Pictures crashed to the floor, and doorframes buckled under the ferocity and close proximity of the incoming ordnance. The building was slowly disintegrating around him. However, the command centre had been spared by any direct hit up until that point, but he was beginning to wish that a shell would come ploughing through the roof and put an end to it all for him.
Another teeth clattering bang rocked the building, causing his desk and chair to leap from the floor and a large piece of masonry to fall from above the doorway. The panic stricken screams of the dying filled the space between the explosions, adding to the misery of the situation, and leaving him under no illusion that the battle was lost from the moment it had begun. He could hear their long drawn out cries from inside the building, tearing at his soul as he sat feeling helpless to do anything for the men and women under his command.
“Come on, you bastard,” he growled up at the ceiling. “Come on. You know where I am. Come and get me, you bastard.”
Another heavy shock. The lights flickered, casting him in complete blackness for a few seconds before they came back on and illuminated the hopelessness of the situation once more. Thompson had given up. He no longer cared about his own life and surviving. He did not seek shelter or attempt to escape but remained exactly where he was, unyielding in his resolve and as stubborn as always. He knew that the end of his command had arrived, and he wanted to meet it on his terms, not sitting in a crater or bombed out building somewhere, clinging to life for a few more precious minutes.
“What are you waiting for?” he barked again.
He jumped up from his chair and shook his fist at an invisible enemy who seemed to be hovering just above his head and beyond his reach. His face twisted with anger, and his eyes burned fiercely. He knew who it was that had done this to him and his soldiers. He could clearly picture the despicable man’s face; those same rodent like features that he had always found to be a clear indication of the man beneath. The man held no reservation in stepping over the bodies of his comrades in order to get where he wanted to be. He treated everyone as an obstacle or a mere pawn along his path towards personal glory and high status. He was ambitious and ruthless, with no love for anyone but himself. Thompson had never liked him from the moment he first met him all those years ago when Thompson had been the Battalion Commander. He also knew the reasons why they were being attacked, and he hated the man all the more for it.
“Come on
,” he roared up at the ceiling again in his deep gravelly voice. “I know what it is you want, so come and get them, you blood thirsty bastard. Come and get them, and finish what you’ve started.”
He howled and ranted, pounding his fist against the walls as he unleashed a torrent of abuse against the man that had attacked them. Eventually, he ran out of steam, and his arms dropped to his sides. He stared down at the floor and let his head sag for a moment before slumping back down into his chair.
He sat and stared at the framed picture of his wife. She had died five years earlier from breast cancer at the age of fifty-eight, and he had mourned her every day since. He knew that his long wait would soon be over, and he would be joining her again soon, wherever she was. He smiled, the lines of his face forming deep and dark creases that stretched across his ashen cheeks. His red-rimmed eyes that usually burned with menace had softened somewhat as he looked down at the smiling face of his beloved wife. Tears began to blur his vision, but at that moment he was unsure whether they were tears of sorrow or happiness. Instead, he labelled them as the result of years of pent up stress and anguish suddenly being released after having lost all reason and desire to hold onto them any longer.
“I’ll see you soon, Linda,” he said aloud, and gently caressed the photograph with his long slender fingers. “It’ll all be over soon, my dear. Not long now.”
He placed the picture back onto the desk and opened the drawer to his left. Reaching inside, he instantly found what he was looking for. He held up the brandy bottle and studied it for a few seconds. There was enough left for one final and extra-large glass. He reached in again and fumbled about before his fingers made contact with the second item on his agenda. The cigar, Cuban and hard to come by, would be a very welcome addition to his concluding drink. He rolled it between his fingers for a moment and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply and appreciating its rich scent. He poured the brandy and snipped the end from the cigar. Next, he struck a match and began to puff away, sending up clouds of blue-grey smoke to mix with the floating plaster dust that seemed to be filling the entire room. Sighing with plumes of the cigar smoke drifting out from between his lips, he leaned back in his chair, blotting out the sound of the raging battle outside the four walls as he savoured the warm glow of the brandy and the luxurious taste of the cigar. He lifted his legs and rested the heels of his boots upon the desktop as he took another large sip.
Another fearsome explosion caused the room to jolt, but Thompson paid it no attention. He merely adjusted his balance to prevent himself and his chair from toppling over while he continued to enjoy his closing drink and smoke. He could hear the heavy thud of helicopters growing louder and recognised them as troop carriers. The enemy soldiers were about to land and would soon be storming the town, rolling up the positions and searching for him.
Machineguns continued to rattle outside from the close air-support as they covered the disembarking soldiers. It appeared that the ground preparation phase of the assault was complete, and now the infantry would begin their move in, sweeping through the buildings and eradicating any remaining resistance.
First they would have targeted the main defences, such as the ships and any heavy weaponry, including the aircraft stationed at the airfield. Next, the enemy fighter jets and gunships would turn their attention to the lines of communication, key defensive positions, and troop concentrations.
Finally, the ground forces would arrive, surrounding their objectives, and slowly reducing the remaining pockets until all enemy resistance was eventually eradicated and the area secured. He knew this because it was exactly what he would have done.
“Here we go,” he sighed as the walls vibrated with the sounds of the beating rotor blades and thumping motors.
He reached down to the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out a bundle of files. Destroying them would be his final act as the commander. He placed them onto the desk and stared at them for a short while. He hated the things and the information that they contained. He always had done. Even during the height of the Cold War he had viewed such measures as abhorrent and potentially disastrous to the whole of humanity. However, he despised them even more now since they had caused the deaths of so many of his soldiers and the destruction of the towns and villages on the Isle of Wight. The files and their content disgusted him.
The tempo of the fire outside suddenly increased, sounding as though a fierce defence had somehow been organised. Long bursts of machinegun and rifle fire seemed to go on forever as the opposing troops slugged it out. His soldiers, despite the overwhelming force being thrown against them, were valiantly fighting on. The noise was getting louder as the battle drew closer, and he considered rushing outside to join them one final time.
Don’t be ridiculous, you old fool, he thought to himself. What good could you do? You’re past that, and you would only get in the way.
Thompson sat forward, clutching the cigar between his teeth and reaching into his pocket, retrieving the Browning pistol. He looked down at it and then pulled back on the top-slide, chambering a round and making the weapon ready to fire. He grabbed the book of matches, and as he turned his attention back towards the files, another explosion rippled through the building. This time, however, it seemed that the command centre had taken a direct hit. He could hear floors and ceilings collapsing and the sounds of people screaming from deep within the complex as they were buried beneath piles of debris. The walls juddered viciously, and a cloud of dust plumed into his office from beneath his door. He silently prayed for another bomb to land directly on top of his office.
He could now hear gunfire within the building as their reports echoed through the rooms and along the corridors. The distinct low thuds of hand grenades blasting down doors and smashing walls and followed by automatic fire resounded again and again as the battle closed in on him. He was too late. He had missed his opportunity to destroy the files and deny the enemy of their ultimate objective. He cursed himself and pounded his fist against the desk, angry that he had not taken action sooner. He began to frantically fumble with the matchbook, trying to strike them all at once so that he could burn the files.
“You fool,” he hissed. “You stupid fool.”
He held his pistol pointed towards the door of his office as he listened with growing alarm to the new rhythm in the battle. They were closing in on him, fighting their way through the rooms. Amongst the rattling sound of gunfire, he heard the frantic shouts of men getting louder as they advanced through the building. Soon, he could hear footsteps, and for a moment he was sure that someone was calling his name. He gripped the pistol tighter and reached for the files, tucking them under his arm so that his enemy would need to pry them from his dead hands.
“Come on, you swine,” he growled, keeping his pistol pointed at the entrance.
With a loud thud and a crunch, the door was suddenly flung open as a forceful kick collided with it from the other side. It crashed against the wall as Thompson’s finger snatched at the trigger of the weapon in his shaking hand. The pistol jerked in his grip and boomed loudly, sending a bullet slamming into the wall of the corridor outside. The bang of the shot sounded amplified in the small space of the room and caused his ears to pop and ring. From the doorway, nobody screamed out as they were hit by the 9mm slug, and in fact, no one had even appeared. Again, from amidst the insanity, he began to hear his name.
“Don’t shoot, General,” the fear laden voice called out from the side of the doorframe. “It’s me, Gerry. Don’t shoot.”
Thompson’s eyes narrowed as he tried to understand why he would suddenly be hearing the voice of the Operations Officer after having ordered him to get out of the area. For a few seconds he did not reply, wondering whether he was actually hearing the voice at all. He kept his pistol aimed at the door and considered putting a round through the wall where he believed the man to be standing, just out of sight.
Another voice began calling out to him. It was more familiar to his mind than the first and strang
ely comforting in spite of its harsh and unarticulated sound. A figure appeared in the doorway and stepped into the room. The General’s eyes squinted as he attempted to focus and identify the newcomer through the dust and smoke that was rapidly filling the corridors. The figure appeared to be dressed as a soldier, covered in dirt and blood, and clearly having been through a lot to reach the command centre. His pistol continued to point at the man, but his finger had released its tension from around the trigger.
“Stan?” Thompson asked, unsure if the man standing in front of him was actually there. “Is that you, Stan?”
“Yeah, it’s me, sir. We’ve come to get you out of here,” he replied, stepping further into the room and approaching the desk. “The town won’t hold out much longer, and enemy forces have already landed to the north. We need to move now before they completely cut off any chance of escape.”
A huge dark shape emerged from around the doorway as Bull stepped into the room, looking grim and as bedraggled as his team commander, and dragging Gerry with him. He pushed the Operations Officer into the corner and out of his way before turning and taking up a defensive position at the door. He stooped and raised his rifle, covering the corridor. He too looked as though he had been through hell and back.
Bull glanced over at Thompson and nodded, his eyes burning and his face contorted with anger, before turning his attention back to the dark hallway.
“How did you get here? I thought the town was cut off by now.”
“It will be soon, boss,” Stan replied. “We slipped through just before they closed in from the west, but I think we can still make it out before they strengthen their positions and consolidate. We need to move, sir. Now.”
Thompson shook his head and sat back in his chair, taking a long swig from his brandy, smacking his lips, and then picking up his cigar from the ashtray and sucking on it until it began to glow brightly again. He was making it perfectly clear that he had no intention of going with them. He blew out a long plume of smoke and then turned to Stan who was still standing in front of his desk, waiting patiently while the building continued to shake and judder around them.