Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  Rooney had joined the Squadron from The Rifles six months earlier, and he was already a promising blade. He’d looked momentarily downcast when Carr had told him he was missing out on the assault.

  ‘Everyone has to step out to work with the HQ now and then, Wayne,’ Carr had said. ‘Your turn tonight.’

  Rooney was already in his seat, and Carr winked at him as he climbed aboard.

  ‘Alright, son,’ he said. ‘Ready to roll?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rooney, not yet comfortable with calling his Sergeant Major by his first name. The informality of the SAS, when compared with the line infantry, could be disconcerting at first.

  Carr thought about correcting him but decided against, on the basis that it might worsen the young trooper’s discomfort. Instead, he smiled, strapped on his Kevlar helmet, and grabbed his Diemaco C7 – a Special Forces M4 variant fitted with a heavy duty barrel, night-sight, and a flash suppressor.

  The vehicle moved forward, and each vehicle behind followed on.

  The time to target was twenty minutes.

  They picked their way north, past shuttered shops, burned-out cars, and fire-gutted houses. Before the war, Dora had been a predominantly Assyrian Christian neighbourhood, but in the chaos of the early occupation the lunatic fringe had moved in and begun a programme of religious cleansing. It seemed like every third house was daubed with symbols which had been used to identify their occupants as Shia, or Christian, or Mandaeists – whatever they were.

  The streets were deserted – you had to be crazy to be out and about at this time of night. But that meant that anyone on the streets was crazy, so the men manned their vehicle-mounted weapons and scanned the route for enemy activity as they progressed to the target area.

  As they passed the bloated corpse of a donkey, Carr looked at his map with the route marked on it.

  ‘Next left, Wayne,’ he said, glancing at the young Brummie.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Rooney.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Carr, under his breath. He shook his head and grinned: it was too far back to remember, but he’d probably been just as bad himself as a new trooper.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the FOB, the vehicles pulled over and went static at the LUP.

  The teams all dismounted and shook out into the order of march, ready to move towards the target, each man going down on one knee and scanning the immediate area for any threat, the pitch black turning green in their night vision.

  Carr walked over to Geordie and the Squadron Commander for a final brief.

  Everything was good, no issues.

  Carr keyed his radio mike, and sent one transmission. ‘All teams, move to final assault positions.’

  The men started to go forwards slowly towards the target. It was only two hundred metres, but it took a full ten minutes, moving quietly, carefully: they’d been in Dora enough times to know that the locals would react aggressively as soon as they worked out what was going on. Every man in the area owned a gun, and most would relish the chance to have a pop. They’d all wake up as soon as the explosive charges effected the breaches, but there was no sense in giving them a head start.

  Eventually, the assault teams were at their final positions, and awaiting the radio transmission for the show to commence.

  Carr carried out a check on the comms to confirm that everyone was ready to go.

  All team commanders confirmed.

  Carr gave the OC – Evan Forrest – a thumbs-up.

  Forrest keyed the pressel on his radio and uttered the words which had launched a thousand assaults.

  ‘Standby, standby… Go!’

  There were two deafening explosions, instantly followed by the wailing of car alarms activated by the pressure wave from the breach charges, and the assault teams were in.

  From where Carr stood, he could hear the immediate crackle of small arms fire coming from inside the villa.

  He fought the temptation to ask questions on the radio, to find out what was going on; the teams had to be allowed to get on with their task with no interruption.

  Instead, he turned to speak to Evan Forrest, and it was at that moment that gunfire erupted from a building directly opposite the target.

  It was wild and high, and the assault team at whom it was directed were able to take cover inside the walled compound of the grey villa.

  Carr watched as they began returning fire.

  ‘Fucking amateur,’ said Geordie, and he was right – the gunman had fired two long bursts, the first of which had illuminated his position in one of the upstairs rooms, the second of which confirmed he had not changed his position.

  But this was still very much not ideal: a number of Carr’s men were now engaged in a firefight inside and outside the target.

  He made a quick decision. The team outside was Delta 18 Charlie, led by Steve Smith. Steve was a good man, and full of balls, and that meant that in a matter of moments he’d be over the wall and rushing across the street to take out the shooter.

  That was not the best way to deal with this threat.

  Carr keyed his mike. ‘Steve, it’s John,’ he said, calmly. ‘Stay put, mate, and keep suppressing that house. We’re in a blind spot to them so I’m going in round the back. Okay?’

  Smith’s reply came back a moment later. ‘Okay, John, got it. I think there’s at least three shooters in there.’

  ‘Noted, mate,’ said Carr. ‘Moving shortly.’

  He turned to the small group he was with. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Evan, you stay here with the scaley and Jedd, okay? Me, Wayne and Geordie are going to take them fuckers out.’

  The OC nodded.

  ‘You watch your back round here, Evan,’ said Carr. ‘Geordie, ready? Wayne, ready?’

  Rooney nodded. ‘Ready, John,’ he said, the effort to use Carr’s first name written all over his face.

  Carr grinned. ‘Good man. Right, let’s go.’ He pressed his transmit button. ‘Moving, Steve.’

  Smith acknowledged.

  Carr led Geordie Skelton and Wayne Rooney into the alley behind the shooters’ house, until they were level with it. As they reached a rear gate, in the shadow of an eight-foot back wall, he stopped.

  A sound, from the other side of the wall – low voices, and the click-clack of weapons being cocked.

  Carr raised his hand to stop Geordie, and put his finger to his lips. Wayne immediately took a knee and turned to cover their rear.

  Carr moved forward and looked through the gate.

  He saw four men, one of them placing an RPG7 warhead into its launcher, the others peering cautiously around the side of the building towards the target house where the assault teams were still engaged.

  Carr looked back towards Geordie.

  Gave a thumbs down – enemy – and held up four fingers.

  Geordie nodded.

  Carr removed a fragmentation grenade from his assault vest and showed it to Geordie, who nodded back and immediately brought up his weapon to cover him. Noiselessly, Carr removed the pin and casually lobbed the grenade over the wall, and moved back into cover.

  In the darkness, and amidst the cacophony from the firefight, the men neither saw nor heard the grenade land.

  Three seconds later it detonated, partially eviscerating the three to the side and leaving them moaning and writhing on the ground. Carr stepped through the gate, followed closely by Geordie. The RPG man turned, seeing only black shapes – though Carr saw him well enough, and saw his look of utter surprise – and opened his mouth to say something.

  Carr placed the barrel of his weapon into the centre of the man’s face and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash illuminated his head as it exploded from the impact of the high velocity round, and Carr was turning and moving before the body hit the floor.

  Geordie took care of the three on the ground and then they moved quickly to the back door of the house, ready to make entry.

  As they reached it, a burst of gunfire erupted from the window above, followed by shou
ting.

  Carr turned: Wayne Rooney had been following them through the gate, and had taken rounds directly into the chest and face; his body armour had absorbed the impact to his chest, but a round had just clipped his right temple. It might have been survivable, ironically, if it hadn’t been for his helmet. As it was, the bullet had bounced around inside the Kevlar, ricocheting through his brain and making mincemeat of it. An inch to the left and things would have been different.

  *

  But shit happens.

  The temptation was to run to help him, but that would have been suicidal, and pointless: Carr knew the young trooper was dead before he hit the ground.

  The only thing to do now was get into the house and kill everyone inside.

  Cursing, he opened the door.

  He and Geordie stepped into a darkened kitchen, and paused to listen. They could hear some movement upstairs, but nothing in the immediate vicinity. While Geordie covered an open doorway which led into a hall, Carr keyed his mike and transmitted. ‘Steve, it’s John. We’re in the downstairs of the house. Make sure no-one fires into the downstairs, okay?’

  He listened for a response.

  Nothing.

  He repeated the transmission.

  This time it was acknowledged.

  With rounds smacking into the upper floor, and rapid AK fire being returned, the two men quickly cleared the lower floor of the building.

  Carr got on the net again. ‘Steve,’ he said, ‘Downstairs clear. We’re moving upstairs. Stop firing.’

  ‘Okay, John.’

  Carefully, John Carr and Geordie Skelton headed up the marble staircase. They cleared the rear rooms of the house – whoever had shot Wayne Rooney had obviously returned to the front – and came to the final two doors, which faced the target building.

  Both doors were closed.

  Carr pointed at the first and held up one finger.

  Geordie understood that he was going to be the first through the door.

  He nodded and took up position.

  Carr pressed the door handle and pushed it open.

  Geordie stepped through.

  Directly in front of him, an insurgent began to turn, lifting an AK47 and swinging it around.

  Geordie fired two quick shots into his face, and the man was punched backwards and straight out of the open window.

  To the right, a second insurgent turned to engage the SAS man, who beat him to the shot and pulled his trigger…

  Nothing.

  It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

  ‘Shit,’ screamed Geordie. ‘Stoppage!’

  He began to drop into the kneeling position, reaching for his pistol, knowing that he would not have time to draw it and take out the threat, knowing also that Carr would hear and respond.

  The big Tynesider felt the impact of the round in his mid-thigh at the same moment that he heard the report of Carr’s weapon sounding over his head.

  The shooter was flung backwards against the wall; just to make sure, Carr stepped forward, put the barrel of his weapon to the man’s forehead, and shot him again.

  Then he turned to Geordie. ‘You okay?’ he said.

  ‘What do you fucking think?’ said Skelton, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been fucking shot, you daft twat. Fuck me, it hurts.’

  ‘It’s only a flesh wound, you big girl,’ said Carr, with a sniff. ‘Sort your weapon out.’

  Geordie nodded, cleared the stoppage, and stuck in a new magazine.

  It was as the mag was slapped home that Carr looked down, and immediately saw that it was far from a flesh wound.

  Geordie’s leg was sticking out at an unnatural angle, indicating that the round had hit bone; Carr knew that he could bleed out quickly from a shot to the femur, especially if the femoral artery was damaged.

  ‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said. ‘Right, Geordie. I’m going to pull you over to the wall over there and prop you up. Keep an eye on the doorway, okay?’

  Another nod.

  Sweating, Carr dragged Skelton the ten or twelve feet over to the side of the room. It was a bastard – he weighed more than 270lbs with all his kit, and he couldn’t help much, and Carr felt horribly vulnerable, especially when he had to turn his back to the door to sit him up.

  Once that was done, Carr pulled the tourniquet from his chest rig.

  ‘Keep watching that fucking door,’ he said, feeling for the entry point on Geordie’s leg.

  He found it, and then located the exit wound on the back of the thigh. It was large, and wet with blood, and full of bone splinters.

  Shit, he thought. But at least the artery appeared to be intact.

  ‘Okay, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. I’m going to put this on, yeah? It’s going to hurt a bit.’

  Carr applied the tourniquet and pulled it tight.

  Geordie let out a low moan of animal pain; he was a hard man, and Carr knew he must be in something near agony.

  ‘That’s done, mate,’ he said, wiping his bloodied hands on his combats. ‘Now listen, I need to go and clear that last room. Anyone but me comes through that door, you kill them. Got it?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Geordie. ‘You can’t do it by yourself.’

  He tried to stand, but fell back down.

  ‘Ah, shit,’ he said. ‘That does fucking hurt. Give me a hand up.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Carr. ‘Stay here.’

  Geordie gave him a thumbs-up with his left hand, his right wrapped round the pistol grip of his Diemaco, which was aimed at the doorway.

  Carr smiled, returned the thumbs-up, and stepped out and back into the hallway.

  Looking at the door to the last room, readying himself to step through that breach.

  And then the handle started to move, and the door began to open.

  Carr moved to the wall, flush to the door, and took aim.

  A bloodied hand gripped the side of the door recess, and then a man of sixty or so stepped out, unarmed, hands cradling his belly. His white shirt was stained red with blood from a gunshot wound to the stomach, and when he looked at Carr the Scot saw shock but no fear in his eyes.

  He smiled at Carr and nodded – as if he was acknowledging a stranger in the street, on a nice summer’s day. But then another man, much younger, stepped out behind him.

  The second man looked at Carr for a split second, yelled ‘Allahu akhbar!’ and raised his hand.

  Carr was diving back into Geordie’s room when the suicide vest detonated, and the force seemed to propel him even quicker.

  Momentarily stunned, he came to a few moments later, lying in a heap in the floor, his ears ringing, covered in plaster and dust, and coughing and choking.

  From outside, somewhere across the street, he could hear a voice shouting, ‘John! John!’

  He sat up and looked around himself.

  His hearing became clearer, and he realised that the shouting was coming from Geordie.

  ‘Jesus man,’ said Skelton, his own pain momentarily forgotten. ‘Fuck me. You okay?’

  Carr patted himself down, and stood up. ‘Motherfucker,’ he said. ‘That was close.’

  He could feel the heat before he saw the flames.

  ‘Geordie,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got to get out. The place is on fire. I’m gonnae have to help you up. It’s going to hurt, bud.’

  Skelton shot him a withering look. ‘Just get on with it,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I can fucking hang around, is it?’

  Carr keyed his radio. ‘Steve, house clear. We’re coming out the front. Get some guys over here to pick up Wayne, he’s down at the back.’

  He helped Geordie to his feet, and they made their way quickly down the stairs, the injured man hopping on his good leg and cursing as he went; the flames were confined to the top floor, close to where the guy had detonated, but still the heat drove them on.

  Outside, the assault teams had cleared the grey villa, and they were now starting to regroup, ready to move out.

  In the di
stance, one or two shadowy figures were flitting across the road – locals, roused by the firefight.

  As yet they’d not been contacted.

  But it was only a matter of time.

  They needed to get moving.

  Geordie was starting to falter, the adrenalin waning.

  Carr laid him on the ground, as gently as he could.

  ‘Medic!’ he shouted. ‘Medic! Quick!’

  One of the team medics rushed over and took in the situation.

  ‘Has he had morphine, John?’

  ‘No mate, nothing. The tourniquet’s only been on couple of minutes. Soon as you get a drip in him, get him back to the vehicles and call into the Ops room. Casualty requiring immediate surgery, get the medevac stood by at the FOB.’

  For a moment, he’d considered bringing the medevac into Dora, but he didn’t think the injury was life-threatening, and he wasn’t going to risk a heli and its crew, even for his best mate.

  With Geordie handed over, he looked at his watch: from the first explosion until now, only six minutes had elapsed.

  He jogged over to the OC. Forrest was standing talking to the primary assault team leader, and Carr picked up the tail end of the conversation.

  ‘Definitely dead?’ Forrest was saying.

  ‘That’s right, boss.’

  ‘Fuck me. We’re going to be popular now.’ He looked at Carr. ‘Did you hear that? Joker’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Carr. ‘Good news.’

  ‘It’s not fucking good news, John.’

  ‘Hey, boss,’ said Carr. ‘We’ve got Wayne down round the back there, and Geordie’s took a bad one to the leg. So you’re right, it’s not good that he’s dead. It’s fucking great. Now, we need to get the fuck back to the FOB.’

  2.

  SIX MONTHS LATER – nineteen years after he’d passed Selection and walked into Stirling Lines in Hereford for the first time as a young blade – it was all over.

  Carr had spent the time since getting back from that last tour on gardening leave, getting ready to leave the Army.

  It wasn’t easy – the military was all he’d known since his early adulthood – and his marriage was collapsing. Not many lasted in his line of work: the longest period he and Stella had spent together since he’d joined the Regiment was three weeks, and being thrown together – with all the comedown of a demanding trip to Iraq, and the emotion of leaving... They weren’t at daggers drawn, but she didn’t know him anymore, and he didn’t know her, and neither of them cared too much. She was talking about taking the kids back home to Bangor, the County Down town where they’d met and courted. He wasn’t too keen on that – his little girl, in particular, was happy and settled in a good little school near Hereford – but he wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight her.