Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  When waiting in an ambush, silence is golden, at all times!

  John-Luke had gone some hundred metres, or so, back down the trail, to close the ‘back door’ with yet more Claymores.

  When setting an ambush, or in general when ever attacking an enemy, it is always important to leave them an escape route – an ‘Out’. For if there is no hope of escape, it will make men desperate – and desperate men fight harder! Give them away out and you give them hope and, in exuberant abandonment of all caution, they will invariably take that first opportunity to flee – then, you can kill them at leisure as they rush headlong into yet another ambush!

  Maaka and Joshua had taken up position on our left flank, where it had been relatively flat, affording them perfect concealment in the thick vegetation. With rocks to take cover behind, their rears had been adequately protected by a deep ravine containing a fast flowing stream, some two metres behind them. Maaka had replaced the M60E3 machine gun’s lighter barrel, with one of the heavier spare barrels – better suited for sustained suppressing fire. He had positioned himself so the he could cover the whole length of the clearing with the 7.62 machine gun. Or, if required, for suppressing a frontal assault by the guerrillas, he could set it to fire at a fixed angle across the clearing, providing a curtain of fire that any such attack would have to charge through – with almost certain lethal consequences for the attackers. Joshua had been there to protect Maaka’s side, his M16 providing cover from any attempt by the FMLN guerrillas to overrun their position, in a flanking manoeuvre. Carlos had guarded our right flank, hidden up in the tree line of the steep valley wall, his elevated position enabling him to pick off targets, at will. I had taken cover on the left hand side of the trail, immediately opposite from Hughie and the sleeping infant, with Gaj and his M21 sniper rifle setting down close next to me, on my immediate left.

  “I would greatly appreciate it if was okay for me to take the first shot – I’ve got some serious payback due to me,” he had half whispered.

  “The Claymores will give you all the serious payback you want,” I had replied, also in a hushed tone.

  “I really need me some payback,” the American had repeated. I had turned to look across at him – there had been tears in his eyes. In a breaking voice, he had added, “It wasn’t just the women who fucked me!”

  I hadn’t expected that. “Fair enough, Gaj – you’ve got your shot,” I had willingly conceded – under the circumstances that was the least that I could do.

  All in all, it had taken us less than eight minutes to set up the ambush. All we had to do was wait.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Almost a good forty minutes later – there had been movement at the entrance to the clearing.

  Two guerrillas, AK-47s in hand, had cautiously entered the open space. Guardedly, they had made their way up the trail stopping, every now and then, to take a full 360 degree sweep of the area. Dishevelled, covered in dirt and mud, their badly fitting combat fatigues torn and ripped – both men had looked as if they had been in some serious fire fight. They had also looked to be very weary, as they had slowly approached our positions.

  They were getting close – a little too close!

  To the right of me I had detected movement. The little baby girl had been stirring, her short podgy arms reaching up into the air, almost as if she had been trying to reach out and touch the sharp point of the dagger that had been positioned over her throat. Then the infant had settled back down to blissful sleep, again. The look that had been on Hughie’s face had been one of complete instant relief, as he had lowered his commando dagger.

  But the two FMLN guerrillas were getting too close – any closer and we would have to take them ‘take down’.

  I had signalled across to Hughie, bringing the fingers of my right hand swiftly across my throat. He had clearly understood. From its sheath, above my right breast, I had quietly taken out my German combat knife. I had looked back across over at Hughie. He had been ready, his pointed double edged Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife in his hand, ready to stab directly into the throat of one of the men. Without saying, practical past experience would dictate that he would take the man on the right, and I the man on the left – but when? Timing had been critical. Make a move too early, and we could have lost the vital element of surprise – and they would have had every opportunity to use their weapons against us. Go too late, and they might have discovered our concealed positions – and again had every opportunity to use their weapons on us. And if that had happened, the gunfire would have given away our intent – and the ambush would have failed. I had drawn an invisible line across the trail, just a couple of metres in the front of me

  They cross that and they are dead! I had quietly thought to myself.

  But they didn’t cross the line.

  “Es claro mi amigo, nosotros tenemos el valle a nuestros seres – los perros que atacaron nuestro campamento han ido mucho tiempo,” had said the taller of the two rebels, who had been lagging at some distance behind his comrade. ‘It’s clear my friend, we have the valley to our selves – the dogs who attacked our camp have long gone.’ Having said that, he had turned and walked back down the trail, to where there had been a small boulder, set in the middle of the clearing. Apparently exhausted, he had sat down on the boulder, allowing his AK-47 to drop down on to the ground beside him.

  “Debemos verificar aún más arriba el rastro,” the other guerrilla, a short man, who had been nearest to us, had exclaimed in a whiney voice. ‘We should check further up the trail.’

  “Verifica donde jamás quiere – soy cansado y necesito un cigarillo,” the seated guerrilla had proclaimed. ‘You check where ever you like – I am tired and I need a cigarette.’ He had immediately taken out a battered cigarette from the breast pocket of his fatigues, and had lit it up, drawing on it deeply.

  “¡Pero el Capitán!” the shorter one had moaned. ‘But the Captain!’

  “Joda a nuestro Capitán valiente glorioso – debo descansar,” had come back the defiant reply, exhaled on a lung full of tobacco smoke. ‘Fuck our glorious brave Captain – I need to rest.’

  “Sí – soy cansado también. Los pies duelen, todo mí duelo,” the shorter one had said. With a shrug of his narrow shoulders, he had turned back and joined his comrade, sitting on the rock. ‘Yes – I am tired too. My feet hurt, all of me hurt.’

  “Iré y los llamaré – podemos tomar un descanso aquí. Entonces quizás podemos hablar a nuestro Capitán valiente glorioso en devolutivo acampar atrás,” the taller guerrilla had suggested, handing the dog end remains of his cigarette over to the other man to draw on. ‘I’ll go and call them – we can take a rest here. Then perhaps we can talk our glorious brave Captain into returning back to camp.’ Having said that, he had walked off down to the far end of the clearing and there he had yelled out, at the top of his voice, “Los camaradas – todo es claro – podemos descansar aquí – estamos a salvo,” he had cried. ‘Comrades – all is clear – we can rest up here – we are safe.’

  Just how wrong can you be!

  Tentatively, initially in twos and threes, the FMLN guerrillas had entered into the clearing, led by ‘Mr Red Bandana’, closely followed by his two Blue Bandana friends and a couple of young female guerrillas, still waving their red and white banners. Once in the clearing, the guerrillas had spread out, in a broad wide line…that had suited us down to the ground – the line that they formed had provided us with easy targets! As they had obligingly spread out over the width of the clearing, I had taken the opportunity to count the battered ramshackled force of guerrillas, facing us – a total of thirty-eight miserably forlorn looking individuals. They had obviously survived being ‘beaten-up’ by the Salvadorian military air strike and ground attack on them – but they had looked so thoroughly devastated and totally crushed by it. Mr Red Bandana had marched straight up to the short guerrilla, who had still been sitting on the boulder in the middle of the clearing, smoking the remains of the cigarette butt that h
e had been given. In a tirade of expletives, Mr Red Bandana had yelled at the man, slapping him so hard in the face that the short guerrilla had fallen back off the boulder – pure slapstick farce!

  Then, Mr Red Bandana had addressed the rest of his motley force of men and women. He had extolled the virtues of adopting a pure Marxist doctrine. He had told them that they were great and victorious…even in defeat; and he had urged them to quicken their chase of those: “¡Norteamericano capitalista decadente Persigue!” ‘Decadent capitalistic American Dogs!’ – or something that had sounded very much like that.

  Led by one of the Blue Bandanas, they had all then taken part in a collective chant and cheering session – extolling the virtues of Marxism and their heroic Captain.

  Having considered that his troop had been sufficiently motivated, shouting out a suitable war cry: “¡Los camaradas para disfrutar adelante!” ‘Comrades onwards to glory!’ Mr Red Bandana had waved them on up the clearing – straight into our ambush!

  It had been Hughie’s call as to when he would detonate the Claymores, waiting for the very last moment – so as to maximise casualties.

  With Mr Red Bandana and his two Blue Bandana friends in the centre, the guerrillas had marched in a loose ragged formation up the clearing, shouting and singing the popular FMLN marching song: ‘Himno de la Unidad’ – ‘Hymn of the Unit.’ “El Pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido.” ‘The people, united, will never be defeated.’

  Methinks they sing too soon!

  Next to me, I could hear Gaj slowly ‘breathing’ the sights of the M21 on to a target. Normal practice for a sniper to do when shooting at a distance, but it all had seemed a little bit excessive overkill in this instant – the nearest of the guerrillas had only been less than twenty metres away from our position! So close, you could have hit them accurately with a thrown rock! In fact, the whole formation of the group of guerrillas had now placed them in an ideal position to ‘max’ them out, with the Claymores. I had just been about to give the ‘Go’ signal, to Hughie, when, accompanied by the muzzle blast and the distinctive crack of its supersonic round, Gaj’s M21 had spat out its deadly projectile.

  Instantly, Mr Red Bandana had let out an ear piercing high pitched scream, and had clutched at his lower abdomen, with both hands.

  The M21 had cracked again – and one of the Blue Bandanas had collapsed screaming to his knees, also shot low down in the gut.

  Once more, the M21 had cracked – and the other Blue Bandana had staggered backwards, wailing, grasping at his crutch.

  The three shots, in less than a second and a half, had taken everyone by surprise.

  Hughie had reacted quickly, yelling out the warning: “FIRE IN THE HOLE,” as he had squeezed down on the handle of the M57 Firing Device, detonating the M18 Claymore mines.

  With an explosive barking noise, very much akin to those that shotguns make, the Claymore anti-personnel mines had detonated – each mine sending out seven hundred steel balls, cutting a swathe through flesh and bone, alike. For the briefest of moments, the group of startled guerrillas had remained standing completely transfixed, as if totally mesmerised – then they had disappeared from view, enveloped in a clouds of expanding dirty grey smoke. Not all of the FMLN guerrillas had been caught up in the blast, though. Those who had been at the very far end of the clearing, a group of about twelve, had appeared to have been left unscathed. They had turned and tried to run away, but most had been cut down by a sustained burst of fire from Maaka’s M60E3 machine gun – only three, four at the most, had escaped. Close to my own position, three of the guerrillas had stagger towards me – but I had cut them down with short bursts from my 5.56 M4 carbine. From the centre of the clearing, where the Claymores had inflicted most of their casualties, there had been the cries and screams of the injured FMLN guerrillas – but no return fire.

  No point in taking chances – “PHOSPHORUS!” I had shouted out the order to use phosphorus grenades.

  In situations where the enemy has gone to ground out in the open, we have, and still do, use White Phosphorus hand grenades to ‘stir them’ up. The use of White Phosphorus is often considered by some to be barbaric and inhumane, but I am not one of them.

  “PULL,” I had given the command to pull the safety pin from the grenades, followed immediately by the command: “THROW!”

  With a bursting radius of some fifty to sixty feet, it had been vitally important to throw the grenades a bit further than that.

  In a slow graceful arc, the four grenades had been lofted high into the air. The grenades from Carlos and Joshua had been intended to cover the far end of the clearing – the ones from Hughie and myself, landing about thirty metres away from our positions.

  With a large ‘puff’ of white smoke, the four grenades had detonated almost simultaneously, sending white phosphorus erupting upwards and outwards, igniting immediately on contact with the air. And then, in a soft gentle cascade, the glowing phosphorus had dropped back down to earth in a white hot shower of burning particles.

  White Phosphorus burns at temperatures of 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit, so intense the heat; the ignited particles will melt their way through most combustible materials – including human tissue.

  The screaming from the FMLN guerrillas had immediately intensified. Those who could get to their feet – or those who still had legs and feet to get on to – had suddenly shot up out of the burning smouldering grass. With flaying arms, they had all done a wild, crazy frantic dance and jig – as they had desperately tried to brush off the phosphorus particles, which had been progressively melting into their heads and bodies.

  Maaka had been quick to put most of them out of their misery, his M60E3 machine gun grunting away as it had chopped them down. The M16’s, of Carlos and Joshua, had taken care of the rest.

  From some distance off, further down the trail, had come the distinct ‘rat a tat, tat’ – ‘rat a tat, tat’ – ‘rat a tat, tat’ of John-Luke’s unsuppressed M4 carbine – the fleeing guerrillas had obviously reached him!

  The little baby girl had been screaming her tiny lungs out, so I had directed Hughie to go and calm her down – her high pitched screams had started to grate on my hearing. My next priority had been to check for casualties amongst the FMLN guerrillas – for the intention was not to leave any!

  No prisoners! – No survivors!

  I had taken Gaj with me, handing him my Browning Hi-Power, warning him about it being cocked and locked. “Flick the safety off and it’s good to go,” I had informed him.

  Carlos and Joshua has covered us – watching our backs from their respective vantage points.

  The effects of the Claymores, whose ideal optimum range had been twenty metres so as to maximise the spread of the projectiles, had been more severe on the edges of the narrow clearing. Here, the steel shot, still tightly compacted together and yet to fully expand in spread, had literally torn large ‘chunks’ out of its victims. In the centre of the clearing, where the hundreds of steel balls had been able to spread, the guerrillas lying there had displayed typical multiple wounds. As well as the blast and penetrative injuries from the Claymores, and the obvious gunshot wounds from the M60E3 and M16’s, all the guerrillas had clearly displayed the tell tale ‘melt’ wounds of white phosphorus, where it had burnt irregular shaped lesions, deep into the flesh. There had not been much for Gaj and I to ‘finish off’ – most of the FMLN guerrillas had been killed in our initial onslaught. Having finished off the few wounded surviving guerrillas that there were, we had come across one of the ‘Blue Bandanas’, who, remarkably, had still been alive. Kneeling in an upright hunched position, leaning forward over his legs and knees, the man had been pretty much left as Gaj’s rifle had left him…effectively castrated.

  “Your shot,” I had offered, stepping back and extending my left hand out to Mr Blue Bandana, who had been softly whimpering away.

  “Thanks – but I’d rather leave this mother fucker to the rats, if it’s all the same to you,” the American had rep
lied.

  From away back down the trail, the sound of someone whistling had prevented me from replying. Instantly, Gaj’s M21 had been raised up into his shoulder, as he had fixed his gaze into the rifles telescopic sight.

  “It’s cool,” I had advised Gaj, placing my hand on the long barrel of the M21, getting him to lower it. “Only John-Luke can whistle as badly as that.”

  And, sure enough, a few moments later, to the tune of ‘Whistle while you Work’, John-Luke had whistled his way back into the clearing.

  “Môn Ami – what are you doing to me?” he had grumbled, pouting his lips as he had done so. “You send me down there to set up ambush with Claymores – I wait bloody hours, being eaten alive by insects and midges – and for what! Just three miserably pathetic guerrillas that is all you sent me – Môn Ami! Next time, I stay with you – where the fun is at.”

  Fun, at the end of the day, is open somewhat to interpretation and personal opinion.

  ***

  When we had gotten back to Tegucigalpa, the first thing that we had done was to give a very hungry, and very smelly, little baby girl to our very much surprised CIA contact.