by Geoff Wolak
‘No, sir, and no radio mention of a British patrol.’ They exchanged looks. ‘And, sir, there are sixty or more wounded Serbs on their way to hospital or the local morgue.’
‘That ... could be a political hot potato, since we denied there are any SAS in-country. Oh, you said artillery. Can they be hit from the air?’
‘Weather is terrible, sir, set to get worse.’
‘Bugger.’
Bob Staines at SIS received a call at home just as he was considering going to bed.
‘Up late, Bob?’
‘Pete, not like you to be calling. This a social call?’ he teased. ‘Do I finally get that beer?’
The other man laughed. ‘No, not a social call, there’s a problem with your buddy Wilco.’
‘Wilco? He’s ... in Bosnia I think.’
‘Yes, and his patrol were ambushed, all killed save him. He is apparently in some wood, cut-off and alone, but they’re saying he’s wounded more than a hundred Serbs.’
‘Crickey. I’ll get the overnight summary when I get in. Thanks, and don’t forget that beer – promises are for keeping.’ With the other man laughing, Bob placed the phone down, soon stood staring down his hallway, and considering far of places and deep dark woods.
Bradley stepped out and called Colonel Richards.
‘Hello?’ Richards answered.
‘You sound tired, sir.’
‘Hell of a day,’ Richards said, letting out a sigh. ‘Saw three families, kids an all.’
‘Not a pleasant task, no.’
‘Some news?’
‘The Serbs think that Wilco is a ten man team of Croatian bad boys, and they’re offering rewards for his nuts on a plate.’
‘Croatian?’
‘Yes, sir, they ... have no idea it was our patrol.’
‘That ... that could help with deniability.’
‘Hope so, because Wilco has downed more than a hundred.’
‘A hundred?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re sending in small patrols, but they not getting themselves back out.’
‘I’d be terrified to enter a dark wood with Wilco in there, if I was a Serb.’
‘Yes, sir. And his policy of Russian weapons, paying off now; he must be picking up ammo off the dead.’
‘Yes, and that camouflage of his must have helped some.’
‘Morale is better, sir, the lads are all glued to the radios. They can see that we’ve evened the score.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘I’ll call you in the morning, sir.’
‘Not too early, I’m bleeding knackered.’
Rizzo clanked down the steps and crossed to the dorm area, soon easing his boots off as Smurf’s expectant face turned towards him.
‘Any news?’ Smurf asked across the darkened room as he lay on his camp bed, now cosy inside his sleeping bag
‘They dropped ten tonnes of mortars, they sprayed the area with heavy machineguns, then they sent three patrols in, their best lads, and Wilco sliced ‘em up good. You know, the Serbs reckon that there are ten Croatian snipers in there, not Wilco.’
‘Maybe there are some,’ Smurf offered.
Rizzo considered that. ‘They’d have hit one by now, and identified the body, but no bodies have come out. Still, be nice to think that Wilco has some help from someone.’
Smurf lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘If we’d been on that patrol we’d be dead now, blown to pieces.’
Rizzo considered that. ‘Wonder what I would do if it was just me left.’
‘Steal the watches off the others,’ Smurf said, and they laughed.
I was not feeling tired, I was wide awake and determined, but the feelings going around in my head swung dramatically from a belief that I could slip away, to the feeling that I would be killed here, or worse - captured and tortured.
The wound in my side suggested that I might bleed out in here, or get an infection, so my mortality was suddenly an issue. The cold and damp was not helping.
Grabbing a field dressing, I tore it open as quietly as I could, dabbed in some antibiotic cream, and stuffed it inside my shirt, covering the wound. Judging by the blood, or lack thereof, I figured I was not going to bleed to death, and that I had been lucky.
Sniffing the blood on my hand, I could tell there was no bile or shit, so the intestine and descending colon had not been cut. I had been very lucky. Still, it hurt every time I moved, along with the shrapnel in my arse.
Knelt there, cold and wet, the wind picking up, I considered my strategy, suddenly thinking of the artillery hole. Nodding to myself, I considered that I needed to hide as much as fight, or hide and fight, and move less in the open.
Circling around slowly, I could hear distant voices and moans coming from the last patrol I had fired at, and that was useful because it gave me a reference point for navigation. I found the hole eventually, by falling into it.
My knees made contact with empty magazines, so this was the same hole, and that gave me a good mental image of the surrounding area, studied earnestly before the available light had faded.
Sounds. Coming from the long avenue of trees north, maybe wounded moving around.
No, it sounded like a patrol coming in, and lots of them. I searched the mud with a hand, found a stone, and threw it down towards the wounded patrol below me, and it made a suitable noise. I followed up with a second and third stone, certain now that the approach patrol was easing itself east, and not on a course for my bolt hole. They were taking the bait.
Oddly enough, I could not hear any radio chatter through the dark, and I wondered if the various patrols were in contact with each other. Since someone had re-directed the mortars, at least someone was reporting out.
Searching around, I found an L-shaped small branch, and had an idea. I fetched out my fishing line as I listened intently through the dark, tied it to the branch, but then hesitated. What direction was best?
I considered that the area east, down the slope, was the best bet, and I threw the stick, the line running out between my fingers. The stick landed with a thump. Pulling it back in, it snagged on something, and I waited in the dark.
With the rain starting up again, and my bolt hole exposed to the elements, I was getting wet as I scanned the darkness.
Movement, twenty yards left. Oddly enough, when I stared right at the man I could not see him, but by looking slightly away from him I could, so I turned my head side-to-side like an owl looking for prey, then decided to yank the fishing line.
A sound, and odd sound was the result, and I tried to make out what it was. Again I yanked, and again the sound came, now a little louder, the patrol heading right for it.
Yanking harder, the sound grew, and it soon became clear that it was a human sound; I had snagged a wounded man. I shook my head, paused, and then gave an almighty yank, getting a louder moan. They opened fire, and I ducked down.
A tremendous volume of fire tore across the forest, and I figured on maybe twenty men, and whatever they were shooting at - it was not me. Easing up, I could see flashes from the right, where I had placed the grenade traps; the survivors there were firing back, and these two patrols were firing on each other, and at their wounded.
Easing the rifle forwards quickly as the bedlam continued, I sprayed the patrol to my left, the resulting cries indicating that I had hit many. Ducking down, I lifted my rifle high above my head and over the edge of the hole, firing one round every few seconds.
Suddenly the fishing line was yanked away; someone had tripped across it with a boot. Changing magazines quietly in my hole, I waited, my head near the top of the hole, but not exposed as the fire continued. Shouting, more shouting, coming from both sides; they had just realised their mistake and ceased fired.
Peeking over the rim of the hole, I could see movement in my 10 o’clock position and fired a burst, finding flesh. More shouts went up as I turned to the right and fired towards where I knew the other patrol was, a long burst.
They sta
rted to fire back, and in the fire came frantic and desperate calls - no doubt to cease fire - as I turned back to the left and sprayed the area again.
It eventually fell quiet, and those left moving around on the left pulled back. Reloaded, I waited, seeing movement back in the avenue of trees, and I knew the layout well enough now. I opened up till my magazine clicked empty.
Ducking down, rounds hit the ground above me and the trees near me, so someone was paying attention. Least I could do would be to return the fire, and I did, a full magazine, the final result of which was no movement, just a dozen calls for help, quiet moans or desperate pleas penetrating the dark.
I preferred the silence to this, and the men’s cries were haunting me, and I thought about the First World War and the infamous no-man’s lands. I considered that it must have screwed with their minds, as it was doing to me now.
Hearing someone stumbling around, I lifted up higher and peered down, finding a dark outline crawling towards me. About to fire, I waited, an idea forming, not least about grabbing a uniform. He kept coming, mumbling to himself as he did, and as he reached the end of my silencer I fired twice. He slumped, and I waited, my head down, a final breath issued from the body.
Reaching over, I dragged him closer, turned him over and patted him down, the result of my treasure search being six full magazines and four grenades. The magazines were stowed, the grenades placed on the edge of the hole, in front of a small stump so that I knew where they were, and I was forming an idea – a plan of action.
Peering down, I could see another man crawling, little more than twelve feet away. Two rounds finished him. Leaving my rifle, pistol at the ready, I leopard crawled slowly and quietly down, pinched away four magazines and three grenades, but then I waited. My eyes adjusted, and crawling left ten feet I found another body, a poke producing no sounds. He unwillingly handed me three magazines - and a bag full of grenades.
Happy with my pilfering, I slowly leopard crawled back through cold wet mud, but just shy of my bolt hole rounds started to hit the ground near me. Turning over, pistol out, I caught the flash of a round fired, and I fired three rounds back after the soil next to my head spat out at me.
Nothing. No more rounds incoming through the dark. I turned over and crawled quickly back into my hole, sliding in from the rear, and here I planned on staying till an hour before dawn.
Taking a swig of water, I realised that I would have to ration it, then considered that some of these guys should have water, but patting down my last two bodies had not revealed a water bottle bottles. In my dark hole I sat and waited, and listened to the rustling of the branches above me.
Half an hour must have passed, and I shivered a little. Remembering my supplies, I dug around and fetched out a packet of glucose tablets and slowly let them dissolve on my tongue. I followed that with a packet of chocolate Rolos, a few sounds made by the wounded still penetrating the dark.
Was this the right strategy? I found that I was second guessing myself, wondering about getting through their lines now. But there were patrols out there, lots of them, and some of these guys were switched on and alert. No, I’d wait, and hope that my plan would pay off.
Lying there in the mud I felt sick, and I considered that it was the stomach wound. I also felt sick when I considered that most men my age were back in the UK, in bed, all warm and toasty with their wives and girlfriends, and here I was. I considered Kate, and being snuggled up to her right now was a preferable option.
Lying there, I considered myself a fool to be in this situation, when I could be back enjoying life if the UK.
‘Life, what life?’ I asked myself. ‘What would I be doing?’
Would I be married, have kids, a job in some office, a police officer maybe, fire brigade – that didn’t sound too bad. A fireman, respected and fit, a nice girlfriend, kids.
A fat wife, stretch marks, screaming kids, driving them to school in the rain, struggling to pay the bills I considered. Would I do any better than the rest? Would my life be better, or would I be getting divorced? Given my success rate with girls – yes, I’d be cheating and divorced, paying for kids and not raising them.
Another half hour passed before a sudden bright flash lit my world. Looking up, I could see a parachute flare drifting serenely down, the forest suddenly as light as day. I kept down, but then wondered about that flare, so I risked peeking over the edge just for a few seconds.
There, down in the dark wood, twenty pink faces stared out, and my dead friend at the rim of the hole also stared back at me, his eye glazed over, his face spattered with blood, a hole in his head, his hair glistening.
They were in the dark wood, and they must have figured that the flare would benefit them rather than me. Long shadows moved up the trees as the flare drifted south, and I got ready, since their night vision would be destroyed by the flare – mine with it. I placed a cold muddy glove on the four grenades to confirm where they were, lifting one ready.
The shadows climbed the trees, darkness returning, and finally the flare was just a distant point of light, and blackness reclaimed the forest. Pin pulled, I lifted up and threw hard, a twenty yard gap to cover, aiming so that the grenade would enter the dark wood at about six feet off the ground.
Back down, second grenade ready, the blast registered, a stifled cry following and I wasted no time, I threw the second grenade, this time left a bit, a hand on the third grenade as I slipped lower, throwing the third grenade a moment after the second bang, this time to my right, shouts echoing. For the fourth grenade I threw high, but this time I watched, peeking over the edge of the hole. It detonated ten yards inside the dark wood, and they must have wondered if I was behind them.
A burst of light and I slid down, another parachute flare gliding south over the forest canopy, a trail of smoke left behind, and much chatter coming from the dark wood. I kept down.
With the long shadows again climbing up the trees I got ready, fetching out the three grenades from my webbing. The instant that the flare died I threw, and the three grenades resulted in shouts and screams. Then the idea hit me. I lifted my rifle, got ready, and waited, listening to their movement and chatter.
Three minutes later, and the dark night turned to a brilliant day. I found a face straight away, and at this distance his brightly-lit face filled my telescopic sight, and I blew the back of his head off. Panning right, I found a man peering after my first victim, and I hit him in the ear, quickly moving on to the right, firing at anyone I could see, and I was sure I had hit ten before they got the message and all hid.
The arrival of the long shadows timed my withdrawal, and I slipped down, leaving my rifle up top. The flare died and night returned, a silence returning with it.
Ten quiet minutes passed, and no additional flares were fired. Maybe they had given up on that idea, I considered as I sat in the cold mud.
Half an hour passed, and I cooled down, needing my jumper, but it was in my Bergen. Somewhere.
Movement. I lifted up and listened through the dark. Behind me, maybe twenty yards, back towards the initial OP. Not much cover over there I considered, a few fallen trees, a few tree stumps.
Lifting the grenade bag, I counted eight grenades. Taking out two and pulling both pins I lifted up, placed my hands as far behind my head as I could, and threw hard and high, soon ducking down. The blasts registered almost together, the screams and cries a moment later. By the sound of it I had wounded six or more men.
Someone opened fire, and my tree was hit, bark flying off and landing on me I as cowered down. I pulled the pin on the next grenade and threw harder, to the left, the blast catching a number of men, more rounds digging up the ground around me as I threw a fourth grenade, this time off to the right. I high lob, I timed it so that it would go off above ground, scattering around its red hot metal fragments.
Footsteps, men withdrawing, bushes being brushed against.
A flicker of light, and a torch searched out for me. A burst of rounds, and I thought
they had spotted me, but as the rounds came in I realised that the body next to my hole was getting hit. Poor guy, good job he was dead, he must have taken ten rounds.
The torch illustrated the poor fella as I pulled a pin – and waited. Hushed voices came through the dark, the torch switched off. I threw high, very high, almost straight up, before putting my arms over my head.
The blast rocked me, my ears protesting, but not protesting half as much as the guys caught out in the open. Their moans indicated that they were in a bad way. Grabbing my rifle, I checked the magazine, weighing it in my hand, reloaded, and I fired off at any sound or any movement for ten minutes.
I could hear men crawling away, dragging others, moving through the bushes, but they were all at least twenty yards away now, and I had no direct line of fire. I slipped lower.
Half an hour passed, the rain coming on then easing, then coming on again. At least the leather in my face mask was keeping me warm and dry.
I had a thought. Reaching up out of the hole, I found twigs of a suitable size and dug them into the soft soil so that they helped to camouflage my hole. Ten minutes of earnest labour, and I was more comfortable about the appearance of my bolt hole, certain that I could peek out now without being spotted too easily.
Sat shivering, I was damn glad of the extra leather padding on my knees, elbows and arse; it was helping. I had done the jacket right up, and the facemask and gloves were coming in useful. I was even tempted to get a brew on.
A twig snapped, and it was close. I left my rifle and readied my pistol, inching up over the edge of the hole, benefitting now from my extra camouflage. Movement, a black outline against a dark grey background, little more than ten feet away. It lifted up, and I fired twice, a burst coming back my way.
I woke afraid, no idea where I was. Blackness, a cold wet blackness all around me. Suddenly the world turned white, a brilliant white light above me and I peered up, blinded by it. Something floating. Trees. Looking down, I could see mud, leaves, twigs, magazines, a rifle. My rifle, on its side, camouflaged. Thoughts came back to me, but very slowly.