by Vance Huxley
“Yes. Nobody’s moving.”
“Good. I’m on the way up. I’m not up to walking, so will you nip over and get the rifle off the sniper?”
“What! Are you fucking crazy?”
“No, that’s you. That’s a good rifle and I don’t want anyone else shooting it at me.” The voice said Stones was closer. “Go on. I’ve got the scope now so if anyone wakes up I’ll flatten them. Now piss off.”
Harry would have argued, and should have argued, but he was still in a really odd frame of mind. So he stood up and walked through the bodies, through the rocks, and scrambled up the low bluff. His mind was going round and round because Harry was calming down and trying to fit not shooting at people with shooting the wounded through the head. Harry reached over the lip with a hand and heaved himself up, and was met by a startled yell.
One look at the bearded face crawling towards the sniper’s body and Harry threw himself over the lip, dragging his rifle round. The man coming onto his knees and raising the sword double handed was sort of déjà vu but from the wrong end. Harry got the rifle round across in front of him in time to block the strike. He thanked something that this bloke didn’t use the pointy bit and brought the barrel round.
The man flinched even as his sword came up, then grinned as Harry’s rifle simply didn’t fire. Harry pulled the trigger twice more and then threw the rifle up to block the next blow. As it landed Harry pushed forward, hard, and started swinging the barrel and butt double-handed into wherever he could.
One clear opportunity and Harry jabbed the barrel at the man’s face. The man jerked back and Harry dived after him, and then they were both rolling about. Harry used his knees and elbows and helmet as well and the sword flew free. Then Harry was hammering down again and again, and then the noises stopped. Or they did once Harry realised he was the only one yelling now.
“Oh shit.” Harry tried to be sick, but there was nothing there. He realised that he’d settled the argument. The plastic butt on the obsolete SA80 was strong enough to kill a man but it was messy, and didn’t do the rifle much good. Harry noticed the two big gashes in the metal of his rifle where the sword had gone through it. Crap. He hoped he wouldn’t be charged for it. There was noise again, shouting.
Stones was waving like a lunatic so Harry tried to wave back but his shoulder hurt like hell, and was bleeding. Harry used the other hand to wave. Then he collected the sniper’s rifle and ammo and brought both weapons down the bluff. It did occur to Harry that wrecking his rifle wasn’t a problem because the new one was a beauty. Harry trudged back to the wrecked lorry and the hole in the ground.
“You dumb bastard. I nearly shot you.” Stones grinned up at Harry. “I was just going to shoot him and up you popped.” Stones looked at Harry’s rifle. “Christ Harry, you’ve got to learn how to do this shit properly. Here.” Harry clambered into the hole and took a long drink of water, and Stones plugged up the hole in his shoulder. After a breather Harry climbed out and checked the rest of the soldiers, both drivers and passengers.
Five were breathing but Harry couldn’t do much more than try and tie up anything bleeding and put them in recovery position. Between four minutes and four hours later, difficult to guess because things got a bit blurry, a drone appeared and had a good look. Both Harry and Stones waved, then Stones passed out again. Five minutes later two trucks arrived and there were squaddies everywhere. One was trying to improve what Stones had done to Harry’s shoulder when Harry lost consciousness.
* * *
“Come on. It’s a surprise.” Stones was still limping and Harry’s shoulder was sore, but even hobbling wounded weren’t getting a lift home these days. Not as the Mullahs tightened their grip on Kuwait. Saudi Arabia had gone up in flames and internal strife so there wasn’t much left to stop the fanatics gathering to deal with the remaining Westerners.
Harry was apprehensive. Even more so when they headed into the gym. Stones had persuaded him in there a couple of times in the past to try and teach Harry how to fight. That didn’t work. If it got down to close and nasty Harry went to knees and elbows and head the same as he would in a pub brawl. The line of SAS lads with big grins didn’t help. “Hun.”
Attention was a joke since half of them were wounded and most were laughing. “Get up on there Harry.”
“Piss off. What’s this about?” Harry wasn’t getting up on a box to make a better target.
“We can do it here.” Harry stared at Tez. Tez had his arm in a sling but was smiling. “We’ve got a present for you. Sort of a prize for shooting.”
Harry stared blankly and another voice spoke up. “My arse has healed but the ribs are still strapped up so I get to do this. It hurts when I laugh so I’ll stay serious.” The smile wasn’t serious as Ferdy held out a thick wooden stick with a big brass knob on one end. He turned it and pointed to the end. “That’s a pen and an inkpot for the heathens who can’t speak Latin.” Ferdy turned the stick to show engraving around the boss. “This says Stilus Gladio Fortior, which means The Pen is Mightier than the Sword.” Laughter echoed in the hall.
Stone produced a similar stick from behind a vaulting horse. “Mine has the dagger and that on the top of course, but the same words round the outside. Just to remind us not to be so fucking full of ourselves.”
“So has mine.” Tez waved it. “The seven of us that made it home chipped in for yours but me and Stones bought our own. Sort of penance.” He grinned. “But although the pen is mightier than the sword?” He raised the stick like a baton to the rest and they chorused “if you also have a sword?”
Stones nudged Harry. “Here, look, si tamen habes in gladio, which actually means But if you also have a Sword? Better still we’ve fixed up some lessons so you can use this. Three of our lads threw up after clearing up your bodies so you need more finesse.”
“Stop taking the piss.” Harry was bemused. The bloody sticks were real enough and actually he really liked that inscription. “How much do I owe you? Because I really do like that thing.” Especially with that inscription.
“Depends on how many lessons you take. The stick is a freebie because the lads reckon they’ll make it back in free drinks when the story gets round.”
“Story?”
“Not the real one, not quite, but enough so you’ll be on TV. Or at least an Army picture so nobody will ever recognise you.” Harold accepted the stick. “Now come for a pint with us so we can have a laugh.” Harry realised that this lot were having fun but he was inside the joke, not the target. Anyway, Harry really fancied a pint and a laugh.
“Isn’t this thing illegal?”
“Our lot say they’ll square it somewhere, so don’t worry about it. One of them knows your CO. They probably went to the same poncy school.” Stones used his stick to limp to the door and so did Tez despite having no limp, so Harry smiled and pretended to limp after them.
Chapter 2:
Homecoming
“Forget that shit, Miller, get to the plane.”
Corporal Harold Miller CGC (Conspicuous Gallantry Cross) stared at the CO (Commanding Officer). Not only did the CO never use that sort of language, but that shit was the pay records for the units based here. Here being Camp Bastille because the French UN troops built it before the UN pulled out of Kuwait. “But…”
A corporal and two squaddies came through the door with jerry cans and started spreading petrol about, and the CO waved a grenade. “Phosphorus, Harry, now get the hell out. They’ll string me up if I lose the most famous pay clerk in the British Army.”
Harry winced about that bit because what he did really hadn’t warranted the medal. He had been frightened and angry, and very, very lucky. Now Harry was paraded like a prize bull for any visiting brass and dignitaries. Though that pop star had been dead impressed and she… Harry snapped to attention. “Yes sir!”
“Don’t forget your rifle, or that.” The CO waved at Harry’s walking stick, a thick length of wood with a brass end, and a big round brass boss on the
top. Harold scooped up both, and his pack, which was sitting by the rifle as per the standing orders. Orders instituted when the Mad Mullahs decided that Kuwait was suddenly on their to-do list and sent in the fanatics.
“You might need that rifle because they’re through the fence. We can’t stop them now.” The corporal wasn’t joking. If the mad bastards were through the fence there weren’t enough men left here to stop them. Not after the numbers who had been sent home already. The base was huge, with buildings and machines and heaps of stores scattered over several square miles. “If you get to the plane, try to keep them off the runway until the rest of us join you. Don’t worry, we won’t be far behind.”
Harry crammed his helmet on, left the office and started running. There was nothing of his in the barracks worth dying for, so Harry headed straight for the runway. Sure enough a big old Hercules was sat there. Engines warmed up, and the tail ramp down, and there were figures in Army kit running that way from all directions. A few fell and not all got back up. Now that he was outside Harry could tell that the shooting was coming nearer from the south. He legged it across the tarmac.
“Corporal, throw your pack in there and pick a place. Shoot any raghead that shows. Forget all the identification shit, kill the bastards.” The sergeant stopped and took a double-take. “You!” He turned to a corporal laid on the tarmac, looking along the runway.
“Give me that.” The corporal looked up in surprise as his rifle with its big scope was snatched away.
“What the… Sarge?”
The sergeant turned to Harry. “Get up to the nose wheel and keep them off the runway. If anyone blocks it, we’re all dead.” Harry checked the weapon and accepted the extra clips. Déjà vu. Just in case it really was, Harry took his stick.
Behind him the sergeant was talking to the corporal. “Use his rifle and back him up. That’s Miller, the pay clerk. Yes, that one.”
Luckily for his peace of mind, Harry didn’t have to shoot very many tribesmen. Apparently frightened and confused worked as well as getting angry, since he shot anyone going for the runway. After the first three who ran out of the buildings dropped in their tracks, none of the others fancied it. Then one of the attackers found a Jeep but Harry shot the driver, and then the front tyre when the vehicle kept going with a dead foot on the pedal. The Jeep flipped and rolled, ending up on its back short of the runway. The corporal shot the two surviving passengers as they staggered to their feet.
Harry tried very hard to pretend they were all just paper targets, but paper targets didn’t crumple like that. Though since he shot them properly neither did they thrash about or scream. One of those the other corporal shot did move afterwards and needed a second burst, which spoilt Harry’s mental games.
“Oy, you two. Miller, Menzies, get your arses back here or learn Ayrab.”
“About bloody time.” Harry agreed with the other corporal but saved his breath for running because the engines on the Hercules were winding up. He didn’t fancy being blown down the runway to meet all those maniacs with guns. The pair swung round the end and jumped onto the ramp, which had already started to lift.
“Here, give me that back.” The corporal swapped rifles. He grinned. “Else some pay clerk will take it out of my meagre earnings.”
Harry smiled back, because there was no sting in the words. “Doubtful. The CO just torched the records.”
“Shit. That’s about it for Kuwait then.”
“Kuwait, Iraq, all the sandy bits I reckon. Not that it’ll make much difference now because every bloody oil well and pipeline is a bonfire.” The squaddie who had chipped in didn’t look all that sorry.
A mystery voice sounded from in the crowd. “Is that why we’re leaving? Because the oil is gone?”
Another voice answered. “Either that or we forgot to pay our rent.” The laughter was probably more relief than anything, relief at actually getting out. It died as the aircraft banked steeply and men tumbled.
“What the hell?”
“There’s a tank or some sort of armour. Something’s shooting at us from the runway.” The man was clinging to the side and peering through a small round pane. Harry clawed his way up to look through the one above him and sure enough a squat shape had come out of the buildings. “Who left them a working.. Shit!”
Harry knew that was because a tongue of flame had suddenly sprouted from the shape, though the rest would have no idea. The Hercules continued turning and climbing so the shell had missed. “It missed.”
“Where are the Yanks? They’re supposed to shoot the shit out of any armour.”
“Not this time, because the Gerry is in trouble.” Everyone shut up and looked at the speaker, a private.
“You do mean the Gerald R Ford, the flattop?” Someone asked the question everyone was wondering. Wondering and hoping the answer was no, because that was the only offensive air power left in the region. Apart from a few Tornados dug out of some aircraft mothball programme, the ground based aircraft had left or been shot down.
“Yes. It was on our comms. There’s been hundreds of suicide boats and missiles trying for the ships and something big got through. From the screaming on the radios it must have been on the bottom and come nearly straight up because it blew a big hole underneath. She’s losing way, and the list is getting worse. Kiss goodbye to air cover.” The man’s grin was ghastly. “God help anyone left behind.”
Harry looked through the window again in time to see that flame lick out of the squat shape once more. Still a miss and the Hercules was getting higher. Lower to the side a small executive style jet came out of the hangars and didn’t piss about with the runway. The pilot already had the throttle pinned back and the small plane clawed its way off the taxiway and shot across the camp. As it gained a little more height the jet came around to follow the Hercules, low down and jinking and weaving in ways the manufacturer probably never envisioned.
A streak of smoke shot across Harry’s view and the armour turned into a bonfire. “There’s somebody still out there on our side. They’ve nailed that tank.” Cheers burst out. A Tornado came into view and another line of smoke went into the buildings and something exploded. Then the plane was twisting and climbing, shedding flares as lines of smoke leapt from the ground and closed in. Surface to Air Missiles, a lot of them. “Crap, they’ve got SAMs.”
Too many. Before the SAMs struck the aircraft steadied and volleyed every missile it had towards the abandoned camp. Several dots fell away and then the Tornado came apart in mid-air. There was no parachute because aircrew no longer ejected over enemy positions. They preferred being blown up to being caught, after the videos of captured pilots came on the internet. The deaths were slow and horrific. Moments after the Tornado died, flame blossomed among the buildings as the napalm landed.
Harry couldn’t speak, but someone else was relaying the view. Then he stopped as well, for a moment, before continuing. “Time to bend over and kiss it goodbye lads. I reckon they saved the SAMs to catch the Tornado. They’ve got plenty left over for us and the bastards just launched.”
There was cursing, scuffling and some praying behind him, but Harry was held by the view. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the eleven lines reaching up and curving towards him. Flares fell away or arced out to the sides and no doubt below, but they didn’t seem to be having any effect. Then five of the lines curved away after decoys, but that wasn’t enough.
All six remaining missiles drove in much too close then twisted in the air and moved towards something to the left, out of sight. Not out of sight for long. The small helicopter came into view, dropping down past the Hercules between the transport and the missiles. A Puma, usually a scout copter but now heading into harm’s way and shedding a continuous storm of flares. Not out to the sides as decoys, the flares were bursting all around the craft as it fell towards the missiles and then led them off to the side.
The Puma never had a chance. Harry didn’t think the pilot thought so either because there was no re
al attempt at evasion. The pilot just concentrated on luring the missiles away from the Hercules. Whoever was in there wanted every missile in the sky chasing him and it worked. By the time the latecomers went through the cloud of smoke and debris and looked for an alternate target, the Hercules was clear.
The mood in the hold was sombre, and stayed that way as Camp Bastille dropped further behind. There was little celebration even when a trio of Viper Helicopter gunships spread flame and devastation and huge plumes of smoke rose over the distant buildings. Four American Lightning II fighters with long range tanks, probably from the doomed Gerry, took position around the Hercules.
Another Hercules moved in alongside and the pair were joined by an AWACs (Airborne Early Warning and Control) plane. Then a mid-air refuelling tanker arrived followed by another four large planes, all of them transports. Another four Lightning IIs arrived as well.
“Hun!” There was a scramble as everyone made it to their feet and got organised.
A second voice spoke up. “I won’t beat about the bush. That’s it. We are the last troops out of Kuwait unless the Americans can pick some up in their surface craft. That isn’t likely because the last sorties have left the Gerald R Ford. Once they ditch or head for friendly skies there’ll be no air cover. The Gerry’s list will prevent her retrieving or launching more aircraft and she will be destroyed after the crew are evacuated. Those sailors will take up most of the space on the surface vessels, which will then fight free of the Gulf.”
Harry was stunned. Firstly by an officer admitting just what was happening, and then by the scale of it. A storm of queries and protests rose but a sergeant, that voice had to be a sergeant, re-established order. The officer continued. “We will be flying straight home and there will be a proper briefing there. Please make yourselves comfortable. There will be water and rations later.” Then he was gone.