by A. J. Armitt
A whistling sound raced overhead, arching down a short distance in front of her, followed by a wall of noise, as a mortar exploded on impact with the scorched earth. A shock wave followed lifting her off her feet and flinging her backwards into the side of the tent.
Dazed and confused she lay crumpled in a heap for a moment, seeing stars dancing across her vision. She slowly rolled herself into a sitting position as her senses returned. She sat blinking, staring across the airfield as a Rocket Propelled Grenade shot across her field of vision, leaving a wispy trail of white smoke in its wake. It was followed by a loud whoomp, as the missile hit its target further down the airfield.
She staggered to her feet, and pushed wayward strands of her long, blonde hair behind her ear. Wriggling fingers and toes and counting limbs, she concluded nothing was broken or missing. She then looked around at the activity on the base as marines poured from their barracks, weapons loaded and searching for targets. The soldiers automatically fanned out as they raced across the open space of the airfield. One marine looked to be punched in the shoulder by an invisible fist, with a viscous cloud of red mist erupting behind him. His legs continued his forward momentum, rising off the ground as his torso lurched sideways, spinning backwards to the ground. A colleague stooped down to him and screamed out for a medic.
Lucy didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. Years of military and medical training took over as she sprinted across the open ground towards the fallen soldier. Her mind calculated the possible damage the 7.62mm round, spinning at high velocity, had caused to the internal workings of the man’s body. If it had hit a bone, then that too would have become part of the spinning invasive matter, reeking havoc as it travelled through the rest of the flesh. It would finally exit the body leaving a vacuum of energy pouring out behind it alongside a vortex of pain.
The marine lay on his side, dazed, as she reached him. Kneeling by his back, she grabbed the field dressing from her webbing and unfolded it, placing it across the gaping exit wound and stemming the flow of blood.
“Take it easy now, I’m Doctor Kent. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
“Fuck me! Easy, Ma’am, that’s me bowling arm,” muttered the marine. Lucy chuckled. It never ceased to amaze her, the humour these men could muster in the most unlikely situations. “Might improve me leg spin with a bit of luck, eh!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Corporal, but there are no bowling alleys around here!”
“Cricket, Ma’am. I’m a leg spin bowler, best in Plymouth… Actually you might like to come along one Sunday, you know, have a beer…go for a bite to eat afterwards? ”
“Corporal…are you lying there, bleeding all over me…and trying to chat me up?”
“Err…yes, Ma’am …I mean no, Ma’am.”
She laughed as two men ran over with a stretcher. “God help us. Get this one over to Colonel Smart, and when he’s finished with him get him a cold shower.”
As the men ran with their casualty towards the field hospital Lucy looked to where she would be most needed.
Automatic small arms fire crackled from the corner of the airfield where the perimeter fence hugged white washed houses of the local village. A tracked British armoured personnel carrier roared through the fence belching thick, grey smoke from its exhaust, and then on through a garden wall of the nearest house, followed by a squad of marines, loosing off double taps of automatic fire at anything that moved.
Lucy broke into a run, zig-zagging across the open ground until she came to the fence. Skidding to the ground, she came to a stop behind a pile of sandbags next to several soldiers.
“Any casualties, Sergeant?” She panted.
“None yet, Ma’am. And with all due respect, Ma’am, stay here and keep your fuckin’ head down, the rag heads just tried to break through. There’s bound to be snipers out there somewhere. Right boys, Smithy and Bones, you two stay here and lay down covering fire, the rest of you lazy bastards on me, we’re doing house to house clearance….go, go, go.”
The sergeant sprang to his feet; weapon tucked into his shoulder, pointing ahead. He scurried forward followed by eight more men. The remaining two poured automatic fire over the top of the sandbags.
Behind them the thunderous roar of the Hercules plane drowned out all other noise as it hurtled down the runway and slowed almost to a halt at the end, two hundred yards away. It turned slowly, taxiing around ready to refuel and take off again.
“Shit!” said Lucy under her breath. The noise of the huge engines diminished, as they slowed to idle.
“Pardon, Ma’am?” said Smithy.
“Oh! Nothing ... well that’s my transport home, I finish my tour this morning and …” she trailed off.
“Listen… can you hear that?”
As the plane came to a standstill facing back down the runway, the engines died completely and two re-fuelling tankers rolled up to its wings. Ground crew scurried over the giant behemoth readying it for the return flight, as the rear of the aircraft’s huge belly slowly yawned open. Soldiers poured out and scurried to the main hanger opposite.
“I thought I heard something...” repeated Lucy as the whole world fell silent.
“Can’t hear a thing, Ma’am,” replied Bones. Sporadic gun fire littered the silence along with the occasional bang from a stun grenade, the sounds drifting further away as the marines cleared each house. “Fuck me, Ma’am, you need to get yourself on that plane now! If your times up then get the fuck out of Dodge!”
Lucy smiled at the marine, God, he was so young. “Beautifully put, and you’re right. I can’t wait to see my little boy agai… wait!…there! Did you hear that? It sounds like a child.”
A soft wail permeated the quiet.
“Jesus, you’re right, I hear it too. Sounds like a kid crying!” said Smithy. “It’s coming from over there, where the wall’s collapsed.”
Lucy’s maternal instincts took over, and she popped her head over the sandbags.
“Smithy, come with me,” called Lucy as she leaped up and sprinted over to the wall, slamming into it with her back. She edged closer to the gaping hole made earlier by the armoured personnel carrier as Smithy caught her up.
“I’ll go first, Ma’am, you never know what’s round the corner over here...”
Smithy leaped through the hole, his weapon held into his shoulder, scanning the large empty garden. He crossed to the single story house and peered through the back door. “Clear, Ma’am.”
Lucy stepped through the hole and picked her way over the rubble. Blocks were strewn in piles either side of where the tracked vehicle had rammed through leaving a trail of destruction along the back of the gardens. Lucy cupped her ear, and heard a faint moan to her right. In amongst the dust and rubble, a young Afghan boy lay whimpering. Lucy crossed over to him and squatted down. One by one, she gently lifted off the heavy blocks that pinned him down, slowly uncovering him. He was no more than eight or nine years old, the same age as her son, David. Thank the heavens he was safe at home in England. In a few hours, she would be able to join him. Her heart leapt with anticipation.
She deftly checked the boy’s arms and legs, head and chest, examining him where he lay. She brushed his matted, dark hair across his forehead and looked into his dark brown eyes. He was barely conscious. She smiled down at him as Smithy jogged over to them and squatted beside her.
Gun shots rang out nearby, followed by machine gun fire.
“We need to get you out of here now, Ma’am, the fighting’s getting closer, it’s coming back this way. How bad is he?”
“It’s not good... his legs have been crushed, he’s losing a lot of blood, lacerations to the head and arm and I think he’s broken some ribs. I need to get him to the field hospital and fast. There’s no time to lose.” She gently pushed her arms under him and lifted him into her chest. The boy opened his eyes slightly and smiled at her, as a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. God, he reminded her of David.
&n
bsp; “Jesus... poor little bugger. You go, Ma’am, I’ll cover you.”
Lucy scrabbled back over the rubble, carefully holding her precious bundle. She darted across the road and through the fence as the gun fire crept ever closer. Her heart pounded in her chest as she jogged away from the sandbags. Staccato gunfire echoed out behind her as she ran on, carrying the boy back across the airfield.
She steeled a quick glance at the plane. “Nearly finished refuelling” she thought. “Just get this little angel to Colonel Smart and I’m out of here.”
*****
Lucy burst through the tent flaps into the surgery. She was breathing hard after the long run, and the thought of missing the flight home to her own son had nagged at her constantly. The massive engines had started up and the plane had started to taxi around. But she couldn’t leave this little one to die, she had to give him a chance of life first, and if she was quick she could still make it.
“Colonel, quick, this boy’s been crushed.”
“What the hell! Lucy, why aren’t you on the plane?”
“I’m sorry Colonel, but I had to help him. He’s just a boy.” Lucy carefully laid the injured child onto the table, and gently stroked his face. He rewarded her with a half smile. His bottom lip quivered as he pulled a pin from the grenade, which had been hidden in the folds of his stained kameez. He was trying to say something. Lucy leaned closer to him. She could feel his warm breath tickling her ear.
“What did you say, Sweetheart?”
“Allah Akbar...” he whispered. “God is great.”
With a gentle click he released the safety clip, which sprung away, cart wheeling across the tent. Lucy glanced up and traced the trajectory of the spinning metal as it hit the canvas wall and fell to the floor. Her confusion cleared as she realised the identity of the object and stared down at the boy in disbelief.
She was frozen in shock, as death cloaked in an angelic face, stared her in the eye.
In those final, brief seconds of her life, Lucy Kent thought of her own son, and the extreme mental pain he would now have to endure. The pain of her love and sorrow for him hit her stomach, at the same time as the explosion ripped through her...
***
Paul Murphy lives near Brighton, with his wife and four children. He is currently finishing an historical fiction novel "Wolf of Rome", the first in a series of action adventures set around the time of the Emperor Augustus.
Happy Anniversary
By Robert Brooks
I awoke to find myself sitting in darkness as viscous as oil. I tried to orientate myself but there were no surfaces within touching distance and as I reached out I fell, my face colliding with the damp, concrete floor. Pain arced through my head and I fought the urge to vomit as dizziness clouded my already disturbed senses.
I shivered as a cold breeze played with my skin and, with a start, I realised I was naked. I ran my hands up and down my torso, thankful for the first time in my life for the hair that covered it in thick, black curls. At least I would retain some warmth in my body.
My mind tried to connect with where I was but failed, the memory dissolving like smoke as I tried to hold it in place. I felt like a fog was covering my synapses, dampening them every time they tried to fire. It was like being trapped in between sleep and wakefulness and it was fading too slowly for my liking.
Deciding not to wait any longer, I lifted myself onto my hands and knees and started crawling towards no particular destination. I was moving for the sake of it, but at least it got the blood pumping around my body and some heat flowing around my limbs.
I must have travelled no more than a few feet when I felt it. Something warm trickling down my cheeks. I wondered if I was crying unconsciously but the logical part of my mind accepted that this could not be true.
And then it rolled across my lips, seeping through my teeth to rest on my tongue where I registered the metallic taste. It tasted the same way the air smelled, like copper or like lightning charged air. My brain took a while to register the taste, and when I realised what it was, I wondered whether I had cut my head on impact with the floor after my earlier fall.
Sitting on my haunches, I reached up and with tenderness felt across my forehead, waiting to discover a bump and a gash. The bump I found, just above my right eyebrow but there was no cut, no wound of any description that could explain the dripping blood.
Confused, I felt the bridge of my nose and squeezed as I pulled my fingers down to the septum, but again I felt no dampness there. Deciding that the metallic taste must have been something else and that the drip must have been coming from above me, I sat back further onto my heels and ran my fingers through my hair, the way I do every morning when awaking to my alarm.
My heart started beating faster as more rivulets of liquid rolled down my cheeks and with a trepidation borne of real fear; I probed my fingers towards my eyes with an instinctive reluctance. My fingers felt below my eyes but there was numbness to the bottom of my eye sockets.
A keening sound escaped from my lips as my fingers finally found what they had been looking for, but not what they should have found.
“My eyes!” I screamed and I finally remembered.
The Opera. I had gone to see it with my wife, an anniversary present to her. We had been married 10 years, a happy marriage between two career focused individuals who still found the time to enjoy each other’s company. I was a financial analyst and Lizzie, an agent for a music company and we both earned enough money to maintain a nice lifestyle. When we weren’t working we were together, doing things that we both enjoyed. We were THAT sickening couple.
I remembered flagging down a black taxi in a drunken haze as I groped her and she kissed my neck; the disturbed looking cabbie that I did not think to question. The smoke, scented like incense, that filled the back of the cab and then waking to find myself tied to a metal chair in an abandoned warehouse, my wife strapped to a massage table opposite me.
I tried to take in my surroundings, hoping that against all odds I might be able to escape and direct the authorities back here. I remembered reading crime novels by Jeffery Deaver, my favourite author, and looked at all of the levels of my environment. The floor was dark concrete, covered in oil and stagnant water and there appeared to be some sort of fungi growing in patches. I stored that fact in my mind, knowing that the colour, a yellow tinged green, might be specific to the area. I noticed that the steel girders were red with oxidisation, suggesting that the warehouse was by a water source, maybe the river.
My eyes travelled higher and I could see through the grimy windows a crane illuminated by the moonlight. It was made by a company called Morris, the logo having a sweeping line starting at the top of the “I” and moving to the left, getting smaller. I didn’t know how rare a crane this was but all of the information put together could lead back to the right warehouse.
The disturbed looking cabbie was cutting the dress that my wife was wearing with a pair of scissors, taking care not to cut her skin as he removed it to reveal my wife’s naked, porcelain body. I had shouted at him to stop and he had looked at me, a faraway look in his eyes as if he was living in a dream. Then he put the scissors down and, turning his back on me, stood in front of her feet and with an unexpected gentleness, took hold of her ankles.
I couldn’t see what he was doing but there was a strange cranking noise that I could not attribute to anything I had heard before. Then he stepped away and I saw that the massage table had stirrups that he had moved so that my wife’s naked genitals could be seen. I felt violated for her and threats and profanities poured from my mouth as he fondled her, all the while looking at me. I was just glad that my wife was unconscious and unaware of his heinous violation.
More and more profanities erupted from me as his movements became more vigorous until he stopped and walked over to me. He bent towards my ear and whispered to me that if I did not want to watch then he would be happy to help me. I, in an act of defiance, lunged to bite his ear but he was quic
ker than I anticipated and before I could blink, I felt the prick of a needle find a vein behind my ear.
Numbness immediately spread across my face and as my eyes started to close and my mind entered the realms of unconsciousness, the last thing I saw was a scalpel coming up to my eyelids.
Vomit poured out of me as I purged myself of the memories and emerged to be once again sitting on my calves, my fingers prodding my empty, bloodied eye sockets. I scrambled to a crawling position and hustled forward, trying to escape the horror inflicted upon me. My only desire now was to find my wife.
“Lizzie!” I called out in desperation and received no reply.
Please, I thought, please don’t have hurt her. She was still young and there was so much she had wanted to do in life. We hadn’t been blessed with children yet and Lizzie would make such a good mother. She was still beautiful, she could find another husband if she couldn’t stand the sight of me anymore.