Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  “Good man,” I had congratulated him. Then turning to Burl, I had asked what the flight status of the Huey had been.

  “As far as I can tell, without firing it up, Boss – it seems good to me. I’d bet on it,” he had replied, but in reality, even hailing out of Las Vegas, Nevada – he had not been a betting man. “Won’t know precisely until we fire up the bird and get those rotor blades turning,” he added.

  “Okidoki – let’s get this mission back on the road,” I had announced to them all.

  “Pardon me – don’t you mean back up in the air,” John-Luke had wisecracked.

  “It’s a figure of speech, my French friend,” I had answered straight back to him. “As long as Burl, here, knows what I mean – then that’s cool.”

  “Where to, Boss?” Burl had asked, strapping himself into the heavily blood stained pilots seat.

  “Where we were heading for, in the first place,” I had replied, adding. “We owe it to these three good buddies of ours to finish off what we started,” silently indicating to the body bags, neatly laid out on the cabin floor.

  Time to go…Onwards and Upwards – so to speak.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We had waited for what had seemed to be an age for the rotors to spin up, the battered body of the Huey shaking and vibrating, as it had tried to diametrically resist the torsional down force of the blades.

  I had sat up front with Burl, the wind whistling through the bullets holes in the lower Perspex of the cockpit. Burl had given us a bit of height; so that we could take bearings and check against map references – no GPS back then! A small stream, cutting a meandering swathe through a stand of young green bamboo, had indicated the eastern boundary of our target area, the compound being only a couple of clicks due west of it.

  “I can’t see any viable landing area to come down in,” I had shouted above the din of the rotor blades. Beneath us, as far as the eye could see, had been a mixture of bamboo stands and dense forest.

  “No probleemo, Boss – I’ll make us one,” Burl had shouted back as he had brought our forward motion to a hover, gradually reducing height as he had done so. “You better brace yourself – it could be of a bit mother fucker,” he had added, shouting the warning back to John-Luke and Merl, in the main cabin.

  Beneath us, through the badly cracked and damaged Perspex, I could clearly see the tops of the young bamboo slowly reaching up to us. With long drawn out scratching noises, Burl had eased the Huey into the stand of bamboo, springing the young wood out to the sides of the helicopter. Then, as we had continued our drop in height, the rotor blades had begun to cut into the bamboo, chewing it up and throwing out shards and splinters of the young wood out in all directions. Then, apart from the sound of the rotor blades, all had become quiet again as the skids of the Huey had touched down on to solid firm ground.

  “Outstanding!” I had praised Burl, in genuine admiration of his masterful flying. “Absolutely outstanding.”

  “Thanks, Boss,” he had replied. “You want me and Merl to sit tight as usual, while you go out and do what you’re good at.”

  With all extractions, it had been usual practice for me to leave the team with the bird – I moved quicker and quieter on my own. “Yep – sure thing, you guys stay here and mind the office,” I had replied. “If I’m not back by dusk – you get back to base. And, if you come under fire, you get sorry arses the hell out of here.”

  “Roger that, Boss,” Burl had confirmed and had then asked. “You taking Frenchie along with you?”

  “You betcha. Can’t leave him with you guys – he’ll jaw you both to death.”

  “Yep, Frenchie can sure talk,” Burl had grinned and then, after some thought, had added. “Good luck, Boss – hope you draw a Straight to the Ace.”

  “I hope I do, as well,” I had replied, getting out of the co-pilots seat and making my way into the main cabin. From the packing case that had contained the team’s weapons, I had taken out my M3 carbine, complete with its scope and suppressor fitted – time to get busy.

  With John-Luke cradling my Colt Commando – Cookies treasured CAR15 carbine had been placed in his body bag, alongside him – we had struck out west, pushing our way through the tall thin stands of the young bamboo, until we had hit the stream. There we had paused briefly; the compound had only been about half a click away. It had been a little after 1330 hours, and I had wanted to wait another half hour before making our way to the compound. At that time, the captors guarding the POW’s would hopefully have been taking their afternoon siesta, making our assault all that much easier. I had also used the time to study the effect of the wind on the thinner stands of bamboo, trying to determine its direction. But there had been little wind, so I had torn up some strands of grass, throwing them up in the air, observing where they had fallen.

  John-Luke had smiled across at me, his brow creased in a puzzled frown, “What exactly are you doing – Môn Ami.”

  “Checking wind direction, we need to approach the compound from downwind,” I had explained.

  “But why?” he had then queried. “You have fed me laxative and indigestible dried meat; forced me to wash with an abrasive soap that was made to remove clinkers; taken away my divine Gauloises and stopped me from humping my bone. And for what – no man alive is going to catch my scent – because I don’t have one, anymore.”

  “Yes, you are quite right, no man alive will catch your scent – but their dogs will.”

  John-Luke’s mouth had dropped open slightly as he had taken in what I had said. “Ah, I see – point taken, Môn Ami,” he had almost apologised. “I hadn’t thought about dogs.”

  John-Luke was to get further confirmation of what I had said as we had neared the compound.

  “Christ – what in God’s name is that awful smell?” he had asked, screwing his nose up.

  “The POW’s.”

  “Shit!”

  “Precisely,” the smell that had been brought down to us on the slight breeze had been truly dreadful, a combination of fresh and stale urine, faeces, sweat and rotting decay.

  Approaching the edge of the bamboo stand, we had carefully crawled forward, still maintaining cover. The compound had been typical of the many that I had seen before. A large cleared area; on one side, it had housed a hut with closed walls, which would be used as sleeping quarters for the captors. Next to it had been a much smaller hut, built up on stilts, with open sides – this is where they would cook and eat. At the far end of the clearing, as far away from the other huts as possible, had been a tall fence of woven bamboo and sharp pointed stakes surrounding a solitary hut – this is where the POWs had been kept.

  Bringing the M3 carbine up to my shoulder, I had started to search the area through its telescopic sights.

  “What are you looking for – Môn Ami?” John-Luke had whispered into my right ear. “There is only the one guard that I can see – and he’s sitting on the veranda of that hut,” To emphasise what he had been saying he pointed to the large hut to our right. “The others must be inside sleeping – so what are you looking for?”

  “The dog,” I had replied.

  “Excusez-moi, Môn Ami– I was not thinking. Have you found the mutt?”

  “Yes, he’s sleeping under the chow hut.”

  “Have you a shot.”

  No – I had not. The small cream dog, with a large light brown patch on its back, had been sleeping with its rump towards me – hardly the ideal shot! Still, we’ll see.

  Supporting the stock of M3 carbine in my right hand, I had gently tapped it with the edge of my wedding ring.

  Once – Twice…but nothing.

  Once – Twice, again…still nothing.

  Once – Twice…this time the short stubby tail of the dog had wagged slightly.

  Once – Twice…still half asleep, the dog had raised its head up out of canine curiosity and had looked in the direction of the sound. The silenced shot had been clean, quick and completely humane…I quite like animals – its
people I don’t much care for!

  “Man – that was some shot,” John-Luke had whispered. “That gun is definitely more than just a pea shooter.”

  “Well, that’s the hard bit done – let’s get on with the easy stuff,” I had said, starting to rise up on to my knees but, before I could get fully up, John-Luke had placed his hand gently on my arm.

  “May I go in first?” he had politely asked, almost as if he had been endeavouring to talk his way to the front of a queue outside a Bangkok brothel. “One of the POWs is one of ours – and I would like to liberate him, personally, if possible, Môn Ami,” he had gone on to explain.

  “Okidoki,” I had agreed, taking the Beretta from its shoulder holster, I had screwed the long suppressor on to its threaded muzzle adaptor. “You had better take my ‘hush puppy’ with you,” I had added, offering him the butt of my automatic.

  “Thank you, but I have my very own petite faire taire des pus – I have my very own little hush ‘pussy’, Môn Ami,” he had softly replied.

  Reaching inside the folds of his tunic, John-Luke had pulled out the wide curved blade of a Jambiya – an Arabian dagger. Its short, curved, double sided blade had been about six inches long and as wide as two inches, at the hilt, with a ridge running along the centre of the blade, from the handle, to its point. Both edges of the evil looking blade had looked to be razor sharp.

  So that’s what happened to fat sailor’s ears! I had thought to myself. “Bonne chance,” I had wished him. “I will cover you with my pea shooter.”

  “Merci, Môn Ami– but you take care where you point your pea shooter, I don’t want to end up like the poor little doggie, do I?” With that, taking off his ammunition belt and shoulder holster, John-Luke had laid down the Colt Commando, before moving silently off to the right, carefully threading his way through the bamboo.

  It had taken John-Luke about five minutes to make his way through the bamboo, flanking the hut in a shallow crescent, slowly emerging out of the forest about twenty metres to its rear. Inching out, he had remained motionless for a moment and then, still crouching, he had loped across the mud of the compound in a low bounding gait. Warily, he had moved up along the side of the hut, to the veranda and the armed guard sitting there. I had brought the scope of the M3 up to sight in on the guard, but he appeared to have been in a deep sleep, slumped back into something akin to a crudely built deck chair, an AK-47 resting precariously on his lap. John-Luke had lifted himself up on to the veranda and then, almost in slow motion, shifting his weight carefully from one leg to the other, he had crept up on the sleeping guard – the blade of his ‘hush pussy’ glinting in his hand. Finally, standing immediately behind his intended victim, he had reached down and taken a hold of the man’s AK-47, with his left hand – and with his right, he had brought the concave side of the Jambiya’s blade swiftly across the sleeping man’s throat. With my heightened senses, even twenty metres away, I could clearly hear the sound of metal momentarily grating on bone and, within seconds, had caught the distinctive sweet salty smell of blood on the light breeze. With his left hand, Jean-Luke had gently placed the AK-47 down on the wooden floor of the veranda. Pausing long enough to look back over at me to grin, he had then had disappeared out of view, into the interior of the hut. After no more than a couple of minutes, copiously covered in blood, he had emerged out on to the veranda again. This time, when he had looked back across at me, his grin had turned into a beaming smile. And then, as if he had been a performer on the stage of an old Edwardian music hall; throwing his right arm up and out to his side, the other held tight into his abdomen, he had bowed flamboyantly, low and deep – just as well really. For it had meant that I had a clear shot of the man coming out of the interior of the hut, immediately behind John-Luke, holding a short wide bladed machete high in the air above his exposed back. That had wiped the smile off John-Luke’s face. Still almost double, he had turned on the spot, staring down at his would be attacker. He had carefully stepped over the man’s body, back into the hut, pausing just long enough to run his hush pussy over the corpse in an attempt to clean the blade. This time, he had been gone for slightly longer and, when he had re-emerged again, there had been no flamboyant bowing or posturing.

  I had changed over the magazine on the M3, swapping the fifteen round box magazine, that I used primarily for sniping, with a curved thirty round magazine – which, when used in conjunction with its full auto capability, had changed the role of the M3 from being a sniper rifle into that of a small assault carbine. But I had left the suppressor in place, though – ‘silence is golden’. With my left hand coiled around the grip of the M3, I had picked up John-Luke’s ammunition belt, shoulder holster and Colt Commando, and had joined him on the veranda of the hut. In silence, we had then crossed over the compound to the bamboo and wooden fence that had surrounded the prisoner’s hut. No sophisticated lock here, just a short length of thick bamboo pushed through a loop of coarse rope, which had been attached to the gate. The rickety door to the hut had been secured in a similar fashion and had easily opened – allowing the vile foul stench of the interior to leap out and assail our senses. Instinctively, John-Luke had put his hand up over his nose in attempt to mask out the corrupt fetid odour. I had turned to look at him, shaking my head as I had done so.

  The stench had come from the human beings held inside, and they would have no comprehension, what so ever, as to how disgusting they had smelt – so why cause them unnecessary hurt and humiliation?

  John-Luke had suddenly realised what I had been silently gesturing and had quickly removed his hand away from his nose.

  It was time to be compassionate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I never knew exactly what I would find in these so called ‘prison huts’ – they had all varied tremendously, one to the other. Yet, the filth, squalor and abject degradation had always been the same – had always been ever present.

  The methods that were used to restraint the POW’s had been uniquely dependent upon the inventive ingenuity of their captors. Some would be secured by large wooden rail sleepers, which had been fashioned out into crude legs stocks, where the POWs would lie side by side, restrained by their ankles. With dysentery and other bowl and bladder disorders being rife in these compounds, this had meant that the hapless prisoners would not only have to lie in their own filth – but the filth of their companions, as well! In the tradition of the ancient Chinese, others would have large square yokes, about a metre square, fastened around their necks – these enable limited movement but prevented a prisoner from lying down, or being able to sit up properly without having to support the weight of the board. Other POW’s would be chained to one another, in pairs or groups – when one had wanted to relieve themselves; then the others would have to go, too. Some POW’s were caged in small cramped uncomfortable bamboo crates, or wire mesh cages, where they could neither lie down nor sit up fully, for hours…or even days at a time – no Geneva Convention here!

  The POWs that we had come to extract had all been secured by means of chains, fastened to a large thick tree stump, in the centre of the hut. Three dreadfully emaciated men, wearing filthy soiled rags, caked in human grime. Two Americans and, gauging from his soft accent, a New Zealander. The New Zealander had been in a very bad way. Judging by his violent shivering and high fever, he had been suffering from a severe bout of malaria. At first, the two Americans, while appearing to be fully alert and cognitive, had seemed very indifferent to our sudden appearance. Indifference that had then turned into frowns of incredulity and disbelief – and then quickly into tears of joy and loud whooping cheers. A finger, placed to my lips, had all that had been needed for them to regain their composure. While John-Luke had picked open the rusty restraining padlocks, I had succinctly identified ourselves to them, and had confirmed their names and ranks…that is, of the two Americans – the New Zealander had been far too delirious to respond coherently. Of the French Secret Service man – there had been no sign. According to the two Ame
rican POWs – who had been completely oblivious of the French agent’s true identity – they had been under the impression that he had been liberated just a few days before.

  “Freed by some white guys,” they had proudly informed us both - the Soviets had obviously got there first.

  At this news, John-Luke had merely shrugged his shoulders. “Such is life,” he had said, philosophically.

  The next thing that we had to do was to get the POWs cleaned up, as best we could. While carrying out the briefest of medical checks, on the two Americans, I had sent John-Luke out to see what he could scavenge in terms of clothing. He had returned minutes later with the bloodstained shorts and shirts that he had stripped from off the dead guards. This had brought instant smiles to the gnarled faces of the two American POWs, as they had recognised their captor’s clothing. Adjacent to the chow hut, raised up on a tall wooden frame, had been a water butt, a tap crudely brazed to its base. It was to this water butt that we had led the POWs, the two Americans carrying the New Zealander, between them. From my pack, I had passed out bars of medical soap, and had directed that they should strip completely off and wash themselves down. I had also asked them if they would clean and wash the sick New Zealander, as well. Commendable to both of them, before taking care of their own needs, they had taken care of their stricken companion, first. Undressing him, they had gently bathed and washed his skeletal filth covered frame, with a reverence that only those who have gone through the same hell can extend to one another.

  “Have I got time to place a couple more of these about?” John-Luke had asked, taking out a couple of rectangular whitish grey blocks from his pack.

  “They will see the trip wires a mile off,” I had warned him, nodding to the two blocks of C-4 plastic explosive that he had held in his hand.