The Furness Secret

by Mark Williams

  Whirling round, he saw Biscuit’s body crumpling to the floor. A bloody hole pierced his forehead. A Taliban fighter was standing over his mate’s body, Kalashnikov pointed straight at Tom. Before he had time to recognise the danger, he was knocked backwards by the explosion of a shell, maybe ten yards away.

  Somehow he’d managed to keep hold of his weapon. Which was unlike his opponent. When the dust cloud settled he found himself pointing a rifle straight at his assailant. Should he kill him? Tom had no time to answer the question. A whistling from overhead heralded another incoming round. Instinctively, he threw himself away from the arriving shell, shielding the other man in the process.

  The detonation was deafening. And this time a searing pain shot up his leg. He knew this was serious.

  May 2010 – The IED

  It was ironic Malik thought, as he watched the bomb maker at work. Most of the ordinance for the IEDs that were doing so much damage were from the Coalition’s own devices. There was great rejoicing amongst the fighters when the enemies’ shells did not explode. They were seized upon by the Taliban and spirited away for reuse. As the bomb maker was doing now. Quietly fashioning a crude explosive.

  Basic it may be, but the damage it could inflict was great. The Coalition forces had been made to change their tactics. Diverting resources towards clearing minefields. Putting extra reinforcement on their armoured vehicles. But still, enough of the IEDs hit their target to cause death and catastrophic injury. And to instil fear in the invading Infidel troops.

  This device was a little more sophisticated than the Taliban usually employed. It had a remote controlled detonation mechanism. The success rate with these remote devices was higher, than with the pressure activated IEDs. But it wasn’t always possible to find the right equipment for the bomb makers. Also, it would need close quarter contact with the enemy in order for it to be activated. Which was more dangerous for the jihadis.

  It needed someone who knew how to operate the equipment, being in the line of sight of the target. This IED was to be placed tonight. And Malik’s mahiz was required to stay with the operator for the next day. Their first job was to act as a guard for the man and to help him escape safely. The second was to try to take advantage of the chaos that the IED would cause. Hopefully kill a few more of the despised foreign invaders, as they fled in panic.

  Dawn on the following morning found Malik taking his turn at watch. The best observation position was lying flat on top of the mud roof of a small hut. From this vantage point, Malik could see the gully where the device had been placed. The ditch had been cut through an area of green vegetation and trees. It was a verdant zone, in sharp contrast to the ubiquitous grubby greys and burnt browns of the local countryside.

  It was the job of the man on watch to check for enemy activity. Then rouse the others. There was no guarantee that any troops, even if they arrived, would go anywhere near the buried IED. In that case it would be mission aborted. Their orders would be either, to stay and try again the next day, or to retrieve the bomb and move to a different location. It all depended on the intelligence that the Taliban received from their Afghan spies, who were deeply embedded in the ranks of the foreigners.

  It was dull work. But Malik had seen enough action to know that a state of constant alert was essential. Too many cases of death and injury had been caused by inattention and laziness. He yawned and stretched his legs out behind him. Suddenly, a slight movement caught at the edge of his peripheral vision.

  He snapped his eyes in that direction. Peering intently through his binoculars, a scene began to unfold. At first all that could be observed was just bobbing helmets. Then as he became more familiar with the landscape, he began to make out the advancing soldiers. A quick count revealed ten, or maybe more. Scrabbling quickly backwards across the roof, Malik called down quietly to his mahiz commander.

  A few moments later, there were three of them lying side by side on the top of the hut. The bomber was holding the detonator out in front of him. The commander had the binoculars, and his gaze was fixed on the approaching enemy troops. After a few minutes, he raised his left hand quickly in the air, paused for a few seconds and brought it sharply down. The bomb maker pressed the button a second later.

  The sound of the explosive blast boomed through the air, followed by a cacophony of shouting from the troops below. Malik knew his job now. He climbed swiftly down to where his comrades were crouched. Two men remained behind with the RPG launcher. The rest followed Malik as he raced out of the mud compound, and towards the direction where the enemy had been seen dispersing.

  This was a hazardous time. Malik had been in many firefights like this and there were nearly always casualties. But it was the best time to inflict damage on the Infidels. They were not familiar with the location and the effects of the IED would have caused disorder and confusion in their ranks.

  The crack of rifle fire whistled through the air and Malik dropped rapidly to the ground. Keeping his head down, he waited for the noise to subside. After a few moments, the intensity of the attack had eased and he felt able to raise his head. The rest of his mahiz had disappeared. Presumably they had gone round the wall he could see just in front of him.

  Picking himself up, he set off in a zigzag run to follow the course he hoped the rest of his group had followed. Rounding the corner at pace, he was stopped dead in his tracks. There in front of him were two of the Infidel invaders. At the far end of the courtyard, one of the men was kneeling and facing in the opposite direction. His rifle trained on some unseen target inside the house. But a second tall soldier was staring straight at him.

  The man’s face was a little chubby, and his hair the strangest colour that the Iraqi had ever seen. It resembled wet, red mud. The whole world seemed to slow down as the enemy in front of him started to raise his rifle. But Malik was an experienced fighter and got there first.

  The head with the red hair snapped back as it caught his bullet straight between the eyes. The body thumped into the ground. Malik was shifting his aim towards the second soldier when a shell exploded in the courtyard. The shockwave knocked him to the ground and his weapon was thrown to the floor.

  Recovering from the blast of the shell, Malik could see he was in a precarious position. The second soldier had been farther from the impact of the incoming round, and he had whirled round, his weapon pointing straight at the Iraqi.

  His eyes were wide open in a wild, confused stare. Malik had fought before at close quarters and could guess that this guy was inexperienced. Maybe there was still a chance of getting out of this without being killed or captured. An unusual silence seemed to have enveloped the scene. But, in a few seconds, a faint whooshing signalled the arrival of another shell approaching from above.

  Both the combatants heard the noise simultaneously. The foreigner reacted first. His weapon dropped as he jumped on Malik and threw them both to the ground. As they rolled over, the ordinance exploded right beside them.

  Malik felt hot shrapnel rip through his back. The pain exploded inside his brain, which responded by shutting down. Unconsciousness welcomed him to its dark embrace.

  June 2010 – Camp Bastion field hospital

  Malik groaned in agony. His back was stinging, his legs were stinging and his scalp was raging. All caused by the after effects of the detonation of the exploding shell. He was lying on a hospital bed on his front to prevent pressure on his dressings. There were four other jihadis with him in this section of the hospital.

  He was surprised when he’d awoken to find himself alive at all. He would have thought that the Infidels would have killed him in the courtyard. That is what he would have done himself. But actually his treatment had been exemplary. He had been forced to spend all his time in bed and it had given him time to observe the medical personnel.

  All bustling khaki uniforms and white armbands with the sign of the crusader’s cross in red. He thought back to the previous day and wondered if his rescuer had survived. Th
ere was no doubt in his mind that he owed the young man his life.

  Malik could never in his life, forgive the foreign governments for invading his beloved home country. They had torn his world apart. And slaughtered his brothers in cold blood. They had ripped the heart from his father, and caused his mother’s tears to flow like the great river Tigris. But individual soldiers he could forgive.

  He thought of them as misguided. Based in Helmand it had been British rather than Americans he’d been fighting. He had always regretted those whom he’d seen killed and maimed. After all they were from his mother’s homeland. He used to wonder where their houses were. What did their families think of them fighting a hopeless foreign war, so far from home?

  Malik looked down by the side of the makeshift bed. The explosion had shredded his clothes. And what was left of them had been dumped in a jumbled pile. He was amazed to see that the leather pouch his father had given him, was still intact. It had been placed carefully on the top. He would have expected looters to have stolen it.

  With considerable trouble to his scarred body, he reached down and picked it up. What was it his father had said? Keep this. It is an old Frankish secret of the English that may be of some use to you. He’d not really given it much thought since leaving home. But nonetheless it had been carried with him throughout his training and campaigns.

  Malik wasn’t sure what the words were on the documents. They obviously weren’t in Arabic script. And he couldn’t recognise any English words. But he could tell the letters had been lovingly crafted onto the old paper.

  He leant back on the bed and sighed heavily. He would be in no need of help in battle with the English from this point onwards. He wasn’t sure of exactly what the future held, but had a pretty strong idea that the prison at Kandahar was beckoning.

  His thoughts returned to the young soldier who had saved his life. He must have been wounded but maybe one day might return to the front. Malik wondered if his opponent would have the knowledge to decipher the words on his old papers. Or, even if the knowledge would even do him any good. Still he thought, it seemed the least he could do for the soldier to pass the ancient leather pouch to him. And a week later Malik managed exactly that.

  June 2010 – In Hospital

  Tom didn’t remember much about the first 24 hours. But tiny fragments of memory seemed to have embedded themselves somewhere in his skull. In the days afterwards, he relived the time in a series of short flashes. First came the noises. The furious whirring of the helicopter blades followed by the manic screaming from the medics.

  “Cat A! Cat A!”

  The world spun frantically around him, as he was unceremoniously manoeuvred from the helicopter to the stretcher. Medical personnel descended on him from all sides.

  A kaleidoscope of colour exploded in front of the young Private’s eyes. The red crosses, the crimson blood and the blues and whites of the medical equipment were in acute contrast to the unremitting drab beige of the desert landscape to which he’d grown accustomed.

  Tom was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his left leg. He screamed as the pain bolted up through his body. Then came a shout.

  “Give me that fucking syringe!”

  And at that the memories ceased.

  Apparently he’d been out of it on morphine in the Camp Bastion field hospital for a few days. But gradually the mist of the drug began to lift, and he started to drift back to consciousness. First things first, he checked he had all his limbs. His head sank back onto his pillows in relief. They were all there.

  Something didn’t seem right with his lower left leg though. It was covered with dressings, so he couldn’t see much. But it wasn’t moving properly. Still he was alive and he seemed basically intact. That would have to do for now.

  Tom had been laid up for over a week. The hospital was cleaner then he expected given its location, and he was in a room of his own at the moment. The medic on his rounds this morning had been happy with the way his injury was healing. Apparently for the first few hours it had been touch and go whether he would be able to keep his lower leg.

  The doctors had been insistent that he got out of bed as soon as he could. Once they had managed to reduce his dose of morphine, they’d given him some crutches and he’d progressed to the stage where he could slowly make his way down the corridor to the toilet, under his own steam.

  His return home was scheduled for the next day. He was due to spend a few weeks in hospital and then down to Headley Court with the physios before returning home. Apparently, it looked like six months sick leave. His gear had been brought to the hospital for him and he was standing holding onto the bed, watching one of the orderlies pack it away.

  There weren’t many personal belongings. An envelope with a few photos of Eve and Chloe and that was about it. But glancing at the pile of clothing to be put away, he spotted an object lying by his photo container. Looked like some sort of wallet. He poked at it with one of his crutches.

  “That’s not mine. Some sort of mistake.”

  The orderly looked towards where he was pointing.

  “ No, it’s yours alright. One of the Afghan cleaners said he’d been told it was a gift for you. Wouldn’t say from who. But he knew your name.”

  “But…..”

  “Look, just take it will you. Otherwise you’ll cause me a right pain. I’ll be filling in forms ‘till I get back home.”

  Tom couldn’t be bothered arguing. His strength hadn’t recovered to that extent. So he just shrugged, collapsed back down onto the bed and let the packer get on with it.

  October 11 1216 A.D. – Lynn – Meeting with the King

  This thought William Marshal was where the best-laid plans could go astray. King John could be relied upon to be unreliable. Everything was in position, ready for the morning. But the King still needed persuading to separate from his baggage train. So far he had hardly ever allowed Allard’s cart out of his sight all the way from Dorset.

  However, it was too risky to follow through with their ideas with the King in tow. He was suspicious by nature, and much sharper than his reputation allowed for. Hence, the Earl had made a request for a private audience with him. And now the two men were standing close, in an antechamber just off the main room of the house where they were lodging.

  “Well, William Marshal, what intrigue do you wish to share with me now, that you need to seek private words with your Lord and master.”

  William took a deep breath. It was now or never. He plunged on, into his carefully prepared speech.

  “Your Majesty, you are well aware that my son, William the Younger has been associated with your enemies.”

  King John’s eyes narrowed and he looked at him curiously. Why would the Earl want to draw attention to his offspring’s treachery? He continued to listen.

  “Well, your Highness, all is not as it seems. He has taken the position with the rebel barons at my request.”

  John’s face darkened. Where was this leading? Was the Marshal about to reveal treasonous behaviour of his own?

  “In actual fact your Majesty, he has been in my employ at all times. And he has recently sent me communication, regarding their disloyal plans for assisting the accursed son of the French King.”

  John’s expression relaxed.

  “Well then my loyal servant, do reveal all. What devious schemes have my enemies created for me this time?”

  “The exact nature of the threat is, at this time unknown to me. My son has felt that there was no secure means of communication with which he could reach me. Instead, he has lodged close by at Wisbech.

  We are, as you well know, due to overnight tomorrow at Swineshead Abbey. Instead of making the crossing of the Wellbeck in the morning over the sands, can I suggest we take a small group and meet William the Younger at his lodgings? He can disclose his private information to us there. The remainder of our group can cross the sands as intended, with the baggage train.”

  He had made his a
rgument and anxiously waited for the King’s response.

  “The information from your son will be most valuable to me. We shall do as you suggest and travel to Swineshead via Wisbech. And now come, we must re-join the court.”

  He turned and gestured for the Earl of Pembroke to accompany him back to the main room. Relief and exhilaration coursed through the Marshal’s veins in equal measure. He would need to get word to Allard.

  October 12th 1216 A.D. Daybreak – Wisbech – Having Breakfast

  The Templar knight was breaking his fast at first light. He had received word the previous evening from the Earl of Pembroke. It was just the message, ‘May God be with you.’ Innocuous enough, but it was the code words for which he had been waiting. Their plan was to go ahead.

  Henry and James, fellow Templars were on the bench alongside him, eating their morning bread as if it was going be their last. Which there was a distinct chance it could be. Their companion, the monk Brother Robert, was seated opposite them at the table of the inn where they were staying.

  The man from Cartmel did not share the knights’ appetite though. He had a sheen of sweat already spreading across his forehead. His eyes were darting nervously from side to side. More than a cursory glance, would reveal a faint trembling of his arms beneath his sleeves. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since arriving from Swineshead Abbey late on the previous evening. That was a correct assumption, as he hadn’t had a wink of sleep. Allard sighed. The monk was absolutely critical to the next twenty-four hours. They could ill afford him to be overcome by nerves.

  “Brother Robert, pray calm yourself. You will have myself and Brothers Henry and James as your constant supporters throughout the day. The day will bring a chance for you to demonstrate your remarkable skills.”

  The monk rewarded his breakfast companions with a weak insipid grin. It didn’t fill any of them with confidence.