Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I eased up and stretched my back, twisted and stretched, bent and flexed my knees. Stood there, I could see no movement in the forest towards the old patrol den, everything a dark green-grey, and so I turned into the dark wood, finding it hard to see a damn thing, the day darkening around me. It forced me to move very slowly, my left boot acting like a mine detector and searching out stable footings, some of those footings squelching from the rain.

  Five minutes brought me to a particularly dark section, but a small clearing offered up some illumination in my 2 o’clock position, a shaft of grey that grew lighter as it rose, a huge display of horrid yellow mushrooms growing on a tree and making it appear as if the tree itself had grown an ear.

  Click.

  I froze, eased down, soon kneeling. I was in the dark, but so was someone else.

  Ping, came the sound, and I lay down quickly, my head down. A thump, a few trees away, then a blinding flash, my ears complaining about the blast.

  Quiet reclaimed the forest, but my night vision had been stolen away, not that I could see much in here before. And some fucker knew I was here, but not quite were I was. I, on the other hand, figured I knew where he was, roughly, but was he alone?

  I waited.

  Two minutes passed, and I found myself wondering if he had a night sight to use in here. No, if he had a night sight I would be dead, and he would not have thrown a grenade.

  Footsteps. One set to the right, my 2 o’clock position, one dead ahead, and I could not see a damn thing save that huge yellow mushroom, aware now that my knee was in annoyingly cold water. I held position, rifle pointing forwards, finger on the trigger, breathing quietly.

  Ping, came the same sound; a grenade clip. A thud, just to the right, and I inched lower and closed my eyes, the blast washing over me, a searing pain in my right shoulder, little choice but to just bear it with gritted teeth.

  But I figured it was not serious, just a small piece of shrapnel, and it had not dug deep or hit the bone. I flexed my right arm, still with full function, my fingers responding, so no real damage.

  I lifted up, now hearing a whisper. Unprofessional, I considered, and I remembered Sergeant Crab’s advice during my first few weeks.

  ‘Soldiers have no patience. If you have patience, you win and you kill them. If you think you’re spotted, sit still for half an hour. After all, what’s losing half an hour compared to getting shot? Most soldiers will think it was a mistake, or that you snuck out, they sure as hell won’t sit still for half an hour.’

  So I sat still, and I listened, I didn’t even bother to lift my head and look – there was no point, it was black as night. Water hit the back of my neck, making my facemask damp. Drip, drip, drip, and my wet right knee was now chilling me.

  More whispers. They were having doubts about me, about what they had heard or seen. So I waited.

  Five or six minutes passed, and I wished I had a grenade of my own, but they were never standard kit for us. And I was now sure that I could pinpoint these two, just the small problem of ten tonnes of wood between me and them; shooting them would be an issue.

  Remembering my pistol, I figured it would be more use than the rifle in here, but I had not cocked it, and cocking it here would be a big no-no. Still, I could cock it then fire, as I had done with the IRA. It was a serious option.

  Movement, they were walking. Twigs breaking. They were now in my three o’clock position, and circling around, not getting any closer. And they were approaching the giant yellow mushroom.

  I smiled. Could they be that stupid? Could I be that lucky?

  I lifted my head and twisted my body right, raising the rifle. Left of the clearing grew a big black tree, and just left of that I could make out individual leaves, some light penetrating the dense canopy above. I took aim, but not through the sight, that would have been a waste of time - not enough light.

  A face, peering off to the right, just about visible. I could have hit him, but I waited. He moved right, and towards the mushroom, seemingly dumb enough to move into the light. Well, dumb if he was 100% sure that I was here, and obviously they weren’t.

  A second face, back to the left, just a grey outline, but definitely a face, and that was why I had a facemask that distorted my features. People recognised other people by faces, and in the woods you recognised hands, boots and weapons first. I was the exception, and that exception was keeping me alive in here.

  I took aim at the trailing face first, confirmed where the first guy was, and fired twice quickly before ducking down.

  Nothing, all was quiet save a bird calling out. Lifting up, I backed up, feeling my way, and I put several large trees between me and them. I was not about to go check the bodies, not in this darkness; they could be wounded and could pull the pin on a grenade.

  Five minutes later, and I had backed away a good fifty yards, beyond the range where they could see or hear me, or throw another grenade. Besides, I figured I had got them both. Holding my rifle upright and trying not to snag branches, I turned around and crept to the north side, tripping in a few places and cursing quietly.

  The track to the north became visible, the steep bank beyond it, but I could not see any of the snipers. Maybe they had left as well, I found myself hoping. Stopping, and placing my weapon down, I attending my shoulder. With my left glove off I tested the damp spot and assessed the bleed, put a small squirt of antibiotic cream on my finger and rubbed it into the hole in my jacket, no time to take the jacket off. It would have to do.

  Glove back on, rifle reclaimed, I peered ahead. There was enough light, so I got a comfy yet damp firing position and scanned the steep bank.

  A rifle barrel, and next to it a face, next to him a pair of binoculars. What was the point of binoculars in here, I found myself wondering, or maybe they were scanning the area towards the old patrol den. Not wanting to get caught out, I scanned as much of the bank as I could and spotted a second position, but from here that was all I could see.

  Looking over my shoulder, I made an assessment, and I inched backwards, trying to judge the line of shot. I penetrated deeper into the dark wood, but still maintained a line of sight with one of the sniper positions. Satisfied with a new fire position, I got comfy just as something growled at me and ran off.

  ‘Shit,’ I blew out, soon unzipping my jacket and reaching for my pistol. I cocked it quietly, and waited. Nothing. Whatever it was, bear - or demon troll from hell, it was more afraid of me, but my heart was still racing. ‘Fuck.’ I put my pistol in my jacket pocket, so that I could grab it quickly.

  Getting comfy again, my shoulder wound now stinging a little, I took aim, secure in the knowledge that pinning down my position would be impossible, even if they were looking right at me.

  I focused on the guy with binoculars, held my rifle down tightly against a log, and fired with a quiet crack. His head was knocked back. His buddy, or the side of his buddy’s head, came into my cross hairs, so I squeezed off another round, seeing his head explode with blood.

  ‘Two down.’

  I eased down and hid, wondering about the artillery. After six minutes I heard the whistle, followed by five thumps. Looking up, I was puzzled, then astonished, then smirking; the rounds had landed on the steep bank, and as the smoke lifted I could see three bodies. They had shelled their own men. Somehow, the wrong coordinates had been given, and the sender’s coordinates had been shelled, not mine.

  I smiled widely, rushed forwards, and through the lingering smoke I could see people staggering about, some without limbs. They fell to my fire, five of them, one other crawling away and being hit in the arse. I rushed back to the dark wood, and penetrated as far as I could without tripping, but I managed to bump my head a few times before I finally sat down and awaited the inevitable onslaught.

  It never came, and half an hour passed. Had they learnt their lesson about dropping artillery on an enemy that sat just a hundred yards from their own lines?

  Bradley stepped into the Comms room, many bodies now sa
t around or stood around waiting news, the room warm and cosy compared to its previous chill. ‘Report.’

  ‘Sniper section, sir, Serb special forces, north of the previous contacts.’ The officer listened in, a headset held to one ear, a sergeant at the controls of a radio, many red and green lights flashing.

  ‘The ones slung out in a line that Captain Tyler reported?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Two men down and wounded, they’ve been giving fire coordinates for artillery. Wait. Much shouting and screaming now, a lot of swearing, sir, some ... some odd calls and screams down the radio.’ The officer faced Bradley. ‘The Serbs just accidently dropped five artillery shells on their own lines, wiped out that sniper section.’

  The lads laughed and cheered.

  ‘And Wilco?’ the Major asked.

  ‘He got two of them before the artillery, sir.’ The officer raised a hand as he listened to the traffic with one ear. ‘A lot of swear words aimed at the senior officers.’

  ‘Wankers,’ Rizzo let out, getting a look from Major Bradley.

  ‘They are ... banning all further artillery use, sir.’

  ‘Gives Wilco a fighting chance,’ Rizzo added.

  ‘Against five hundred men?’ Bradley snapped.

  ‘Nine hundred, sir,’ the Intel officer stated. ‘More arriving.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Rizzo said as he stood and kicked a cabinet. ‘What chance has he got!’

  ‘A slim one, but he does have a chance,’ Bradley stated as he stepped out.

  I sat smirking. They had shelled their own men, and now the way north was clear, at least that small section was clear, the one obstacle to my escape removed. Should I try it now, I wondered, before anyone filled that gap, and what lay to the north?

  Given the men around the east and west, there was no way that they had just the one platoon to the north. No, those damn woods would be crawling with men, pouring in from that road we crossed when we got here, stopping for a brew-up at that clearing no doubt.

  The minutes passed, and I was not unhappy to just sit here, because it would get dark around 6-7pm. Then I would have a chance, and there were dead Serbs to grab uniforms off; if they thought I was one of theirs they would hesitate about shooting me. And I could shoot anyone that moved, because it was just me in here. Nodding to myself, I considered that I had the advantage, and I remembered the two men in the dark interior.

  Easing up, I slung my rifle and took out my pistol, soon testing the ground with my boot as I progressed, slowly, back towards the men. It took fifteen minutes, and I almost missed them, but the giant yellow ear stood out. I took my bearings, and came at them from a different angle. Taking out my torch, I peered around a tree and illuminated them, finding them both lying stiff, and quite dead.

  Moving forwards, I grabbed magazines from the first man, then tapped a brown sack. Puzzled, I found a dozen grenades inside, and I smiled to myself. The second body offered a few magazines, which I pinched away, but no more grenades. Standing upright, I fixed the grenade bag to my webbing, on my left hip, and considered taking a peek to the east, half an idea that maybe they were withdrawing in disorder.

  Ten minutes of slow stumbling meant a gradual increase in the illumination, and the forest thinned a little. Still, it was slow going.

  A crack, and I was on my back staring up at the canopy, rain hitting my eyes through the facemask. I let out a low moan, and wondered just what the hell had happened, before I realised that I had been shot high in the chest. I got a hand to my chest where it was hurting, and tested my ribs, soon finding that I was not only alive, but breathing clearly. Taking my right glove off, I tested the area and found no blood, soon finding a bent magazine, the top one. Whoever had shot me had hit the magazine, and it had saved my life. They would be a hell of a bruise, but I would live.

  Voices, whispers, movement.

  I considered my pistol, but then remembered the grenades, soon fumbling to open the bag, a grenade soon in hand. Lifting my head, I zeroed in on the sounds and movement, pulled the pin quietly, and threw, easing back down and reaching for another grenade.

  The blast resulted in two men screaming, and screaming as if red-hot metal fragments had hit them somewhere sensitive, their cries filling the forest. A second pin pulled, and I threw further, just as a name was called. I heard the grenade hit a distant tree, then the blast, now a third man screaming.

  Easing up, pistol now in hand, rifle in my left hand, I got to the kneeling position just as a man stumbled towards me holding his gut. I fired twice in quick succession, top of the chest, and silenced him. Despite the loud screams, I could not locate the other men, and so did the only thing I could do; I lobbed another grenade and ducked down.

  The screams became moans, and the moans grew soft with the passing of time, my thoughts now focused on the herd of elephants charging my way. There had to be at least ten men, and they had no intention of being stealthy, some were even using torches.

  Easing behind a tree, I lowered my rifle and opened the grenade bag with my left hand, pulling a pin with the little finger of my right hand as I gripped the pistol. Throwing as if tossing a frizzbee, I threw with my left hand as far as I could in my 10 o’clock position and ducked down as I grabbed a second grenade.

  The blast seemed to catch at least two judging by the resulting shouts and screams. Orders were being issued by someone, and rounds slammed into the trees above me, something catching me above my left eye, another splinter, just as I lobbed the second grenade.

  The blast halted the advance, more screams issued - some making me wince, and as I lifted up someone came charging towards me from the 2 o’clock position. I hit him in the high chest and throat and he dropped his weapon, his hands to his neck as if trying to strangle himself.

  He slumped forwards and landed little more than six feet from me, and movement caused me to swing my pistol left thirty degrees and fire two rounds, someone knocked backwards, a second figured fired at twice.

  I held still, counting my expended rounds, and with my left hand I grabbed a grenade, soon pulling the pin with my teeth and lobbing it forwards, to where the men had fallen. The blast elicited further screams and cries, someone turning and running, and I put a round into his shoulder, spinning him as he fell.

  Fumbling for another grenade, I again pulled the pin with my teeth, the pistol held high, and this time threw left, my 8 o’clock position, just in case I was being flanked, the blast catching someone, a cry issued as rounds peppered the trees above me.

  Five grenades later, and I was out of grenades, but the attacking patrol was out of luck, and those still able to move were crawling or stumbling away. I could hear them, but not see them.

  Staying low, and bent double, I lifted my rifle and headed away from them, back into the centre of the dark wood. So much for them withdrawing, I considered as I went.

  Reaching my previous position, I took my right glove off and felt the warm blood down the left side of my face. I wiped it, applied antibiotic cream, and stuck on a dark brown plaster. It would have to do, and I pulled down my facemask to cover it.

  A blast caught my attention, coming from the direction of previous entanglement. A third and a fourth blast labelled them as probably 20mm mortars, and they were creeping closer. I turned west, towards the old patrol den, and legged it away.

  I reached the less-dense forest as the mortars were landing within twenty yards, and I ran, right up past the old patrol den and to the track, now feeling exposed compared to the dark wood. The mortars ceased, but around thirty had been fired, and my luck was running thin.

  Deciding that I needed to take a look, I moved cautiously across to the old OP, and peered down through the rain. Beyond the copse where the Serb patrol has stopped for a cuppa, I could see a long snaking line of men moving into the woods north of me, beyond where the snipers had been. So much for sneaking out to the north. Still, they were in a long line.

  Kneeling down and taking aim, aiming high since they were at five hundre
d yards and the rain was pelting down, I fired off the entire magazine, losing sight of most of the men as they hit the wet grass. But I was certain that I had hit many.

  Rounds hit the ground near me as I ran into the interior, the trees splintering, so I dived behind a log, wondering all the time about artillery. And my play area was shrinking rapidly, the dark wood now targeted by those mortars.

  Bent double, I headed back down towards the dark wood, but sounds from the north caught my attention. I moved that way, a fresh magazine selected, but I was in two minds because of the possibility of artillery, or of more mortars.

  Peering around a tree, I had a lucky break in the way the trees had grown, and an uninterrupted view out some three hundred yards, now glimpsing the path I had walked down to get here yesterday, the path where I had first spotted the snipers.

  Close to thirty men were knelt down either side of the road, a half-decent defensive position take, wounded being carried out. I lay down behind a bush, a small stump making for an excellent rest for my left arm as I took aim. To the right of me was a log, certain to help if more mortars came in, and I had the benefit of distance; I knew what their response would be.

  Taking aim, I hit the officer first, knocking him off his feet before opening up on the parallel lines. They returned fire, firing at the trees that sat fifty yards ahead of me, and they dived into cover.

  I kept firing, at any and all fuzzy green outlines I could see, and they were surprised by my accuracy, and puzzled as to where I was, rounds pinging off the trees and throwing up dirt, but none close enough to worry me.

  Changing a magazine quickly, and glad that I had practiced it so much, I kept at them till they either hid themselves or had run off, soon little to aim at. I glanced over my left shoulder, checked and listened, then glanced over my right shoulder, suddenly terrified to see a ten man patrol behind me. And they seemed to have half an idea as to where I was, but had not spotted me yet.

  Grenades would have been useful, but they were all gone. I crawled as quickly and as quietly as I could over the stump and turned around, my arse now exposed to the previous incoming fire as I took aim, wondering if I should run.