by Jack Hamlyn
Marcus had already decided to himself that they would gain entry to a building that overlooked their vehicles on the road, for two reasons. Firstly, in the remote chance that there were any survivors from the destroyed SUV and secondly, if the insurgents came up to check or loot the abandoned vehicles, they could hit them from their vantage point.
They forced their way to a block of dingy dark apartments and began climbing the central staircase to the upper floors. Stu left Jim, balls still on show, and his driver, Paul, to cover the entry point with a machine gun while the rest secured the top two apartments.
There was no room for manners and politeness, and they barged through the doors with weapons raised, treating everyone as a threat until they were sure otherwise. The two families were herded in to one room and Stu, with his pigeon Arabic began explaining that they were safe and would not be hurt. The women were screaming and hollering at him, raising their arms and gesticulating to the heavens.
Ian brought in the clients and dumped them in the corner. Stu looked at him for help but Ian could only shrug his shoulders, “Don’t look at me mate, you're the hearts and minds guy. I can only ask for cigarettes in Arabic.”
Ian began seeing to Nick and his wound while Eddie and Yan took up fire positions at the window. Ian cleaned it as best he could and applied a clean dressing that basically held his jaw to his head. He had lost a lot of blood and needed to be evacuated as quickly as possible. Ian set up an I.V and began to replace some of the fluids he had lost.
By now, the family was quiet and between the team, they maintained an overhead watch on the road and the entrances into the building while Marcus called for help.
After a short conversation, he passed on the information to the rest of the team: that an American patrol had been sent to help and should be there within the next ten minutes. No air support was available; something else that was in high demand, but short supply. Marcus pulled his marker panel from his vest, ready to signal to the Americans his position and that they were friendly. The last thing they needed was to get shot up by their trigger happy rescuers.
“Hey guys,” it was Jim hollering from the stairwell in his distinct Texan drawl, “guys, can you ask the Jundies if they can spare me a pair of pants? My ass is freezing on these concrete steps.”
A minute later and Stu tossed him a black skirt.
“Sorry buddy, it’s all I could find.” Stu left Jim staring at the skirt in bewilderment.
Twenty minutes later the remains of the team were at the roadside as Marcus briefed the American commander on the situation. The rescue team, with APCs, pushed into the open area to the right of the road with the barrels of their armoured vehicles pointed toward where the attack had come from. They started to pound shells at likely enemy positions. Civilian safety and collateral damage wasn’t taken into consideration anymore, especially after a heavy attack involving Western casualties. A recovery team then moved up to extract the dead from Marcus’ team. Marcus insisted that he and his men help.
The charred and dismembered bodies of their fallen comrades were pulled from the wreckage. Marcus could feel his chest heaving and his eyes welling up as he dragged what was left of his friends into body bags laid out on the floor. Now and then he would recognise a piece of clothing or equipment, and he would realise which of his friends it was that he was carrying. They worked in silence, as the crescendo of the firing subsided from the APCs.
Once ready, the remaining vehicles had thermite charges placed inside them and were burned out in order to leave nothing for the enemy to use.
They returned to base as the damaged vehicles left behind burned and smouldered.
That night, Marcus hardly slept. As the commander, he saw it as his personal responsibility to secure and sanitise the equipment and personal effects of his three fallen comrades. Sasa, Joe, and Mike had all been good guys, good operators and good personal friends of his. With blurred vision through tears and cracked voices and choked throats, he and Stu went about doing what needed to be done.
The next day they had a chance to try and put themselves back together, to take a step back and decide what they were to do. The team was now four men short; with three dead and Nick severely wounded. They had no vehicles and had to wait until the company supplied them with new ones. And, inevitably, there would be at least one member of the team that would feel that it was time to move on and leave Iraq. On that occasion, it was Marcus.
Over the years he had lost too many good friends. He believed it was only a matter of time until his luck run out, and he had a family to think of. His wife Jennifer and two young sons, Liam and David, who needed him. He needed them just as much.
He had been clever with his money and invested in property and saved. It wasn’t as though he would go back home and find himself in a factory. His options were endless, but for now, he just needed to get back to his family.
When he informed his boss that he was resigning and wanted the next available flight, he had been caught off guard with the reply.
“Marcus, everybody wants a flight. I'm sorry but there’s a back log the length of the Suez Canal and the likes of us ‘mercenaries’, as we are looked at, are at the very bottom of the priority list.”
His boss, the Operations Manager named Mickey, leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head revealing dark patches of sweat in the arm pits of his shirt. “I'm sorry mate, but there’s not a lot I can do. I want out too, but HQ has said it’ll happen in due course and no one will be left behind. Iraq is gonna fold Marcus, and everyone is expected to just sit tight for now.”
Marcus felt his anger brewing, and checked himself before answering, “Roger that Mickey, let me know if anything gets said will you?” And he turned and left the office.
The last thing he needed to do was lose his temper now, to get arrested by the Americans for assaulting someone, and slung in to an Iraqi jail cell, where he would no doubt be forgotten about and left to rot. Besides, Mickey wasn’t a bad guy, and Marcus was sure that if he could, he would help him.
For the next three days all they could do was sit around and wait. During that time, Marcus decided to do his own checking up on the current situation. He learned that Iraq had pretty much been written off by the West, and even heard rumours that the troops in Iran were going to be pulled out.
Baghdad had an air of death about it, as though the population were just waiting to die. He saw reports about rioting and people attacking each other. New York, Washington DC, London and Berlin, the rest of America and Europe were having more than their fair share of unrest.
And he also learned that he wouldn’t be leaving Iraq any time soon.
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