by Geoff Wolak
I waited, and I waited, a good ten minutes, and nothing, he seemed to be alone. Still, I could not take the chance, and so I started down, moving slowly and trying to use the tree to shield me from the northwest. I made it to the last step when the bark split open. I jumped, landed, and dived down, soon crawling as rounds pinged off the trees above me, my back suffering two painful wood splinters.
Out of range, and deeper into the dark wood, I turned around and took aim. I was hidden by the darkness, and whoever it was that had fired was not. Retracing my steps, my back twitching with the pain, I studied the hits to the bark, getting a damn good fix on where he was; the fucker was next to my bolt hole, maybe even in it.
Moving left five yards, I took aim from a standing position, knowing that he was higher up than me, and I scanned the area around the bolt hole. No, he was not in it, but maybe near it. I found an oddly placed Holly Bush, and considered that I had not seen one here. Moving back to it, it seemed out of place to be growing there. I squeezed the trigger and the bush rolled over. He had been wearing the bush as a face mask.
A crack, and the dead body in front of me was knocked back. Fuck it, I let out; how many were there? That body, however, told a tale, because it had been knocked back at an angle, and I traced the angle. Ten minutes of hard study brought me to an oddly placed small bush, it leaves a little too shiny. I fired, and the bush altered its angle. I could see a rifle. I fired again, just to make sure, a spurt of blood glimpsed.
Was that it? Was that all of them. Being bold, or perhaps reckless and not caring, I climbed back up the tree, just in time to see a line of men spread right across the track, perhaps fifty of them, a patrol northwest of them as well. My heart skipped a beat and I swallowed. Had the snipers reported a kill, and was this the search party? Certainly they could not be so dumb as to approach like that?
I took aim and I started firing, two seconds per man, and I took down ten before they hit the deck and hid themselves. Reloading, I took my time, and hit legs, shoulders and boots, working up and down the line. Someone had screwed up big time, and these poor saps were paying for it. Some got up and ran, and I left them, now concentrating on the patrol northwest and hitting them as they fired off at random, but anywhere other than at me.
A bark, a dog bark, and I turned to see ten uncertain Alsatians wandering around to the south. Someone had sent them in to smoke me out. I spun around, and started picking them off as they got closer, a few winged and yelping, the last dog killed just ten yards from my tree.
Halting to breathe, and now a little perplexed, I noticed more dogs in the distance and started to pick them off, a few wounded and limping home, and one did so on just three legs. Turning back, many of the wounded and able bodied from the line of men were running away. I lifted my rifle, but then lowered it, letting them go, and I sipped water I found pooled on the leaves in front of me.
A knock on the glass window, and Major Bradley walked around to the Intel Room, many conversations going at once, the room now stuffy. ‘Report.’
Captain Harris offered a smile, and then shook his head. ‘A patrol or three were chopped up this morning, and then they sent in a few snipers, their best men by all accounts. They reported that they had killed a camouflaged sniper, a tall man, not a Serb uniform, so it had to be Wilco. So, believing that they had got him-’
‘They didn’t?’
‘No. But believing they had him they sent a hundred men in to fetch out the wounded and to do a sweep, and dogs apparently. Ten men made it back out, two dogs limping out. Many units are refusing to go in there.’
‘He shot the bloody dogs, sir,’ the SSM noted.
‘Better that than have them chew his balls,’ Bradley noted.
‘Sir, they put the wounded at over three hundred.’
‘Three hundred?’ the SSM repeated. ‘Bloody hell.’
With a phone call answered, and Admin clerk informed Bradley that General Dennet wanted to see him. And pronto. Everyone watched Bradley leave with the SSM.
Twenty minutes later, Major Bradley and the SSM saluted the General and then sat when told to, teas organised.
General Dennet took a moment to stare at them. ‘Assuming that it is Wilco, and not resistance fighters -’
‘We got confirmation this morning, sir. Tall man in camouflage clothing, but not a Serb.’
‘They got his body?’
‘No, sir, they got his boot up their arses. They claimed a kill, but it sounds like they winged him. Then they sent a large force in to police up the area, and less than a handful made it out, the dogs they sent in killed as well.’
‘I had a report this morning, and ... I’d rather not believe it, but it suggests that Wilco has wounded or killed over three hundred Serbs.’
‘About right, sir.’
‘That ... makes my life difficult, Major, since we have denied being there -’
‘As difficult as being cold and wet, alone, wounded and bleeding, and fighting for your life, sir?’
The General eased back. ‘Don’t take me wrongly, Major, but ... yes, Wilco has the right to survive, but ... there’s a hell of a political storm brewing, with the Russians accusing us of sending in a whole squadron of your lot, and of escalating the war and taking sides, rather than the being peace keepers we keep claiming to be.’
‘Yes, sir, I can see that,’ Bradley admitted.
‘We claim the moral high ground, and we claim to limit casualties, and ... we almost claim to be neutral in this, so ... we need to be seen to be a bit more neutral.’
‘We’re out of contact with him, sir, so it’s out of our hands till he either sneaks out of there, or is killed.’
The General nodded. ‘The rumour mill has been working overtime, and someone in the press back home has been asking questions.’
‘British Army, sir, right bunch of housewives when it comes to gossip,’ the SSM put in.
‘Indeed. So, it’s out there, but nothing has been confirmed, but today we will announce the loss of six men, missing presumed dead. And Fleet Street is already labelling them as SAS. So, be ready for some questions. Have all of the families been notified?’
‘Yes, sir, but Wilco’s parents believe him to be alive, but trapped behind the lines,’ Bradley informed the General.
From my lofty perch I peered across at the wounded men. I was shivering a little, I and wondered if they were too. Certainly, with a loss of blood, they would be cold and going into shock.
Those I noticed limping away I left alone, but when fresh patrols approached I killed the lead men and the rest ran off. After all, I could not afford to let them get close.
With the rain picking up again I eased lower, slipping on a low branch and sliding down with a muffled scream. Kneeling, and taking off my gloves, ten minutes of painstaking effort removed a dozen large splinters from my rectum, and from my left testicle, my eyes watering. I applied antibiotic cream, discounted using plasters, and pulled my trousers back up, cursing myself for having slipped in the wet.
Standing, I took a few paces, but winced with the pain, my inner thigh hurting like hell. It was just one more thing to piss me off on a cold and wet day.
Inside the dark forest shelter was easy to find, and I had little choice if I wanted to keep going; I got a brew on. I boiled the last of my water, but collected more from a steady dip off a tree, and I soon sat and savoured the tea, my first for quite some time. My ears were more use than my eyes in here, so I sat quietly, a tin of meat downed.
But no sooner had I eaten the meat than I felt sick, and I wondered about the wound in my side. I had been certain that the intestine had not been hit, but I could have been wrong. That or I had an infection.
I managed to keep the meat down without being sick, and sipping the tea helped. I felt a hell of a lot better, and warmer with it. With still plenty of brew-kit left I placed it carefully away, conducted an inventory of magazines – I had not yet used the rear bandolier – except as improvised body armour, and I decided
to clean my rifle. It was a risk, but I had my pistol ready, and in here the pistol was better suited.
Fifteen minutes passed and no one came close, my rifle assembled and quietly tested, loaded and checked ready. I was considering cleaning the pistol when I heard a soft noise. Easing up, I was suddenly snatched to the side, my wrist in a vice-like grip as some unseen monster growled and dragged me.
Panicked, I pulled back my arm as I slid though mud, terrified of the unseen monster, and thinking it a bear as it shook me like a rag doll. I reached for my pistol, but my hand made contact with the knife on my webbing, so I drew it.
Pulling my arm in as best I could, and crying out in pain through the blackness, I reached over as far as I could and stabbed down, getting back a whimper. I stabbed again and again, but the damn animal would not let go, and I thought it might take my arm off, the pain tremendous. I kept stabbing and the creature slumped, my wrist still held tight. I stabbed again, getting no response.
Dropping the knife, I tried hard for five minutes to prize my wrist from its jaws, eventually pulling free. Pistol in hand, my left wrist buzzing, I grabbed my torch and turned it on. It was an Alsatian.
‘Fuck,’ I blew out, just as a pair of eyes were highlighted by the torch. I aimed and fired, a whimper coming from the dog as it ran. I quickly checked all around through the blackness, panting hard, not seeing any other dogs close by.
Easing off my glove and unbuttoning my jacket sleeve, I could not see any blood, but my wrist was red raw and black and blue, and hurting like hell. I pulled down the glove and buttoned up, little more I could do, and I eased up, grabbing my rifle with my left hand.
Now I had the added worry of dogs in here, maybe lots of dogs. And the way I stank they’d had no problem finding me. Life just got ten times worse, because how the hell could I sneak around here with dogs barking at me or attacking me.
I returned to the tree, and carefully negotiated its wet branches, soon sat in a cold breeze and getting wet again. I scanned the area diligently, finding three dogs, and I quickly sent them to doggy heaven. With the three legged dog still wandering around, I aimed and fired at more than a hundred yards, but just managed to take its nose off. For a dog, it now looked very odd, making a horrible noise. I fired again, hitting it in the hind quarters. Now it was dragging its immobile back legs along,
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I cursed.Firing again, it went down after rolling over several times.
Turning back north, there was now little movement, still a few wounded crawling around, and having finished off the dog I took pity on them and killed three with head wounds, holding my rifle now a chore because my left wrist was damaged and aching. I figured on tendon damage from the dog, pleased that its teeth had not punctured my sleeve.
A cold and miserable hour passed in my uncomfortable perch, a slight drizzle ever present, the wind picking up. I stopped staring at the trees to take a piss, but when I did so it burnt, making me think of a sexually transmitted disease, but I had not been near any ladies for many weeks. It brought a morbid grin to my face for a moment.
Another damp hour and I was getting stiff, so I headed back down, very conscious of the possibility of dogs. Sticking close to the edge of the dark wood, I sloshed through the mud very slowly, pistol in hand, and finally reached the track leading through the dark tunnel. There I found a dog sat staring at me; it must have wondered what the hell I was, but its nose would have labelled me as man. It looked a bit lost.
‘C’mon, boy,’ I said without thinking, and it walked slowly forwards, not snarling, and I knelt down, soon patting it. It looked cold and wet, and as pissed off as I felt. For a moment I wondered if I could make use of it; after all, its ears were better than mine. No sooner had I considered that than it turned and looked at something, so I turned and looked, and I peered down the dark tunnel at a group of dark outlines. ‘Good boy,’ I whispered.
Kneeling, and wincing - my legs stiff and aching, I took aim, the damn dog just sat there staring at me. Through my sights I could see the movement and the dark outlines, but no features, so I simply started firing, getting four, others running off. I let them go.
Easing up, I wondered if there were more, and were they trying to flank me somehow. I scanned the wood with a renewed interest, and I studied the dog as he studied me, hoping he would point his moist nose towards someone creeping up. I pointed towards the track. ‘Go on. Go on,’ I encouraged, and he walked across and stopped, looking back. He sat down, looking cold and lost.
Hell suddenly erupted.
Lifting up off my back, I shook my head, dazed, my ears ringing, wondering if it had been a grenade. I felt no specific hits, just a dull ache all over. Peering around, the forest was shrouded in smoke, the white veil drifting slowly south through the trees, and as it moved I realised what they had done; there were now a hell of a lot less trees, many on their sides and splintered.
The men down the tunnel had attached explosives to the trees on both sides and had blown down dozens of them. Now, the deep dark tunnel was a brightly lit logging operation gone wrong, some twenty yards wide and stretching down to the open ground.
It took several minutes to get my bearings again, and to shake off the effect. Turning to the track, I saw the dog, a piece of wood through its abdomen, the animal now quite dead. So much for my little helper.
With my face hurting, I opened the face mask and touched it, finding many splinters, ten minutes spent prising each one out. I grabbed the antibiotic cream because I knew that the wounds would get infected quickly, and I was soon putting on the cream like it was sun tan lotion. With the face mask closed again and buttoned up, I studied the logging operation as the smoke dissipated.
Nodding to myself, I stood tall behind a tree branch, took aim, and now that I could see out seven hundred yards I sniped at vehicles in the distance, smashing windows and downing men, two full magazines fired over a period of fifteen minutes. They had opened the up the view, so I had used it.
Another blast knocked me down; they had felled more trees, but on the far side of the dark wood, and I could not just let them keep doing that. Still, the fallen trees made for excellent fire positions.
I ran across the track and turned left on the other side, soon clambering under, over, and around fallen trees whilst staying low. I got to within fifty yards of the edge of the dark wood, not so dark any longer, and found a great fire position, custom made and fresh. I could see out, I had solid logs around me, and they were exposed in the distance, down the slope.
About to fire, I noticed a boot. Easing down and peeking under a log I found a body, so I pinched away two grenades, four magazines and a water bottle, plus a tin of ‘Corn Beef’. I think it was meant to say ‘Corned Beef’, but it had lost something in translation. Magazines stacked on a tree, a convenient seat for me to use, I got as comfy as I could considering that everything ached, and for ten minutes I sniped at people up to seven hundred yards out, creating a large no-go zone.
‘Pop, pop, pop,’ came the sound, and I ducked, safe and secure and surrounded by thick trees. The mortars landed behind me, well away from me and with no chance of injuring me. Getting back into the fire position, my face now sore and flushing hot, I had half an idea where the mortars were. Without seeing them, but seeing a truck and some men darting about, I fired a full magazine into that area.
‘Pop, pop,’ came the mortars. Had I got one of the mortar lads, I considered as I ducked down. The mortars landed well away from me. I slapped in a new magazine and fired again, right where I thought they may be, beyond a cluster of bushes.
No mortars came back in for half an hour as I continued to snipe at distance, and it was a hope that the mortars would now be re-positioned.
With nothing left to shoot at, I considered walking out that way and trying to make a break for it. There were woods half a mile away, and I might reach them with some luck. Unfortunately, there were many trucks near those woods. In frustration, I aimed high and fired towards the trucks
, not sure if I hit anything.
Negotiating the assault course, it took fifteen minutes to get back to the dead dog, and I sat staring at it for a while.
That whistling sound caused me to turn and dive down under a tree, three distant thumps registering. They were back to artillery. I reversed my previous assault course scramble in desperate haste till I was almost to the edge of the dark wood, and I squeezed under a tangle of large trees as the next salvo hit, closer this time, back near the old patrol den in my estimation.
And they kept coming, soon the mortars picking up. Nothing landed close to me, but those landing closest were like a kick in the ribs, and I was starting get shell shock, wondering if my ears would be permanently damaged. For half an hour I lay in the foetal position on the wet floor, hands over my ears, and wondering if at any second I would be blown to pieces.
Finally lifting my gaze from my safe spot, I could see a tall tree getting sliced up after each blast, and after half an hour the tree looked like it had been given a haircut with a chainsaw, hit many times by shrapnel.
When I thought they had finished they were in fact just having a brew, because they soon started up again, now six in each salvo, and I had an appreciation for what the lads went through in the First World War. I had just suffered half an hour of it and I was considering ending my own life here, each salvo rattling me like ten big men kicking me. I was not sure how much more I could take; my insides felt like rubber.
Lifting up, and considering legging it, the smoke suddenly offered me a reprieve; it was drifting slowly east, thick and dense. I stuffed a field dressing - damped down with water - inside my face mask, and I set off through the smoke. Could I make those woods?
Finding open grassland under my boots, I picked up the pace down the slope, making my own swirls in the smoke. After two hundred yards I heard a cough, and got ready, nothing but haze all around me. Ten feet on and I walked right into a patrol with the same idea as me; they were using the smoke to approach, respirators on.