Sabre Six : File 51 (12 page)

He was practically standing on me when he caught my eye appearing from up beneath the ground. He jumped out of his skin and shouted out something in his own language, most probably a swear word. I had no time to think; I left my position, jumped out from underneath the rock and grabbed hold of the old bastard. He started screaming somethi
ng at me, pleading for his life. Stan was looking at me. I looked back, then he nodded his head and packed his kit away very quickly. I slid the knife up through the fourth rib into the heart, the commando knife, which was used by British Special Forces had been designed for this move: it was text book. I felt the blade slide up into his chest, my hand over his mouth to stop the scream. I used his body weight to slide onto the knife, and as soon as it pierced his heart he was dead. It was a very quick and silent death.

“I’m sorry, m
ate, I had no choice,” and I dragged his body to where we were hiding. I covered up the blood trails as we left, clearing any sign of life. No one said a word to me for the next three hours. I felt very alone; all I could think about was my Hannah, and how she would have felt about me doing what I had just done.

We contacted
Call Sign Zero HQ and confirmed our next RV, RV3. It was about sixteen kilometres from here, a day’s trek over the mountains.  Everyone was good to go, and so was I. I took a big gulp of water, ate another biscuit and pushed hard for the next five hours. We dumped our kit off just short of RV3.

“Righ
t, chaps! We got caves up front, so keep tight. Keep your eyes open, and don’t fool around – we might meet some bad guys, ok!” Stan moved off first; I went second, followed closely by Keith with Nig holding our rear.

The footing was hard going, I took each step as best I could, but fell two or three times for every metre I trod. It was bloody hard work. Suddenly Stan dropped to his knee: something had spooked him and Stan does not get spooked that often. I dashed forward to check out what was wrong.

“Buddy, what can you see?” He continued to stare.

“Something’s not right, m
ate, it isn’t right.” From my kneeling position I scanned the horizon; all I could see was rock and sand, and a semi blue sky, as if it was going to rain a little later.

“I can’t see anything
, buddy.”

“Ok, maybe I was wrong then, Michael.” He stood up and carried on.

I looked behind and saw Nig on his arse; he had jus
t taken a tumble. Keith was
picking his nose as usual. As I turned around, I heard a noise that I had not been expecting.
It was faint, but so powerful it was somewhat daunting. I lifted my head further, only to see Stan lying on the floor screaming. I just stood there for a moment until a bullet whizzed straight past me and hit Nig right in the head: I watched his head explode behind me. I jumped forward and landed on top of Stan; he seemed ok, but had taken a bullet in the arm. Stan was alive at least. Keith fired a full magazine into the cave, killing two men. I left Stan on the floor and unloaded a full mag into the cave. Keith was running forwards alongside me, firing as we moved. Each time Keith got one, he would shout out, “Target down!” At the same time, we were continuing to move forwards. My adrenaline was pumping hard. I felt exhausted by the time we reached the top of the ridge, and Keith’s hands were shaking like a bastard.

One popped up about ten metres in front of me, the little arse. I could see his tiny face as he squared up to me
, unable to cock his rifle. By the time he wet himself, I had popped three rounds into his chest cavity and he dropped like a bag of spuds. Our Keith was still on the deck.

“Come on, m
ate; let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted at me, adrenalin now pumping in full. I agreed.

“Yeah, help me with our Stan! That’s it, m
ate, up you get!” He started moaning and groaning.

Keith got on the radio;
we needed a pick up point ASAP. We were a day early, and our Stan was badly injured and losing a great deal of blood. I stripped Nig of his kit, took his dog tags from around his neck and left him where he had dropped: he looked nothing like the man I had known minutes earlier. Without a face. I placed a cloth over his head and left the area, and then I applied a first field dressing to Stan’s injured arm whilst Keith was on the radio.

“0
, this is X-Ray2. Over!” No reply. Keith continued trying.

“0
, this is X-Ray2. Over!” The radio crackled repeatedly.

“Hello, X-Ray2. This is 0. S
end your Sit-rep! Over!”

“Yes 0, I have one man down and one seriously inj
ured with a gunshot wound. New extraction grid 63346745!” There was a short delay.

“X-Ray 2, all received – out!
”

“Right, you
two! Keith, it’s full on now, mate, ok? No mucking around! And you, Stan give it all you got, ok, buddy! Can you do that for me, Mate?” He smiled as best he could.

I picked Stan up and went for it. I felt gutted at leaving Nig
, but we had no choice: it was a do or die situation. Keith agreed with me. We didn’t have much time to cry about it. It started pissing it down. Stan’s arm bled more, but I think it was partly the rain making it look worse than it already was. We booted it over the rocks, only dropping Stan twice, which was funny for us, but not so funny for him. It properly hurt, the poor sod! We had six kilometres to go until our extraction point. The ground looked tough going from here and Stan wanted to stop. “Let me rest, mate, I’m shattered. I feel like crap, bud.” I told him to sod off and we continued. Looking over my shoulder, I could see we were not being followed: well, not for now anyhow.

We dropped Stan once more on the way to the extraction point. I put him down on the ground to check his wound, which was still bleeding heavily, and I worried for
the poor bugger. I still hadn’t grieved for Nig yet. That would come later.

Keith prepared everything for the chopper landing. We had dumped half our kit back in the hideout
, so it was minimal. We still carried most of the hot kit anyhow; we’d only bunged shit like sleeping bags and clothes: nothing of any importance.

“Hold on
, Stan my old mate! The chopper’s coming.” Stan was unusually quiet.

Keith was worried for Stan; he started playing with his fingers.

“Shall we go back for Nig, mate?”

“No
, Keith, no – it’s too dangerous. Now keep an eye out for the bird, mate.”

I could hear her coming. She must have been nearly two or three miles out
, and I couldn’t see her but I could hear her.

I popped a green smoke grenade to call the chopper onto our position. The air filled with a green haze.

“There she is, Michael!”

I felt shattered.

Keith guided the black hawk down. We had an Apache escort: I felt honoured! Once the bird had landed Keith and I picked up Stan and threw him into the chopper. The door gunner grabbed hold of him and a medic took over: he was in safe hands now. Keith and I jumped inside and sat down. I felt overwhelmed by the situation but I shouted over to the door gunner that we had lost one man. He stuck his thumb up and said he knew: it was being sorted now.

As I sat in that chopper, I felt sad that Nig was gone. I would miss him so much; he was a bloody cracking lad. Keith was asleep already and not long after I joined him.

A week later they flew Nig back to the UK, where his family and friends had him cremated. We were not invited, nor was anyone from the regiment. Stan, on the other hand, made a full recovery and was back on his feet in no time. Keith was awarded the Military Cross for his brave actions under fire: he had put the first rounds down.

I never spoke to Keith again, nor Stan until we met up at a reunion a year or so later. I saw Keith across the bar, biting down on a sausage roll. I walked over to him, treading very carefully as you might imagine. Stan walked
up behind me. We patted each other on the back, had a few cheers, and raised our glasses to Nig.

Chapter Five: Sabre Six – File 51

London 2013 – Hannah’s Funeral

I woke up to Griffer howl
ing downstairs in the kitchen. He was getting louder and louder, the attention seeking little bastard!  I grabbed hold of my comfortable pillow, and then flattened it across my head: I could still bloody hear him.

“Shut up Griffer
, you weirdo!” He continued barking undeterred.

I pulled th
e duvet over my head feeling overwhelmed by the day already. I just wanted to sleep and escape the realities of life.

Eventually I fell asleep. I had a dream where I was blind, I was blind and yet I could still see: it was dreadful, man, bloody dreadful. I used a mirror image in my mind to map out a grey, mystical picture so I could walk about in my dream. I was walking with friends and family, seeking sympathy for my disability. It wasn’t until nearer the end of my chaotic dream, that I regained my full sight,
only to be blinded by the sunlight. Now that was some serious shit, man! I woke up recalling the bizarre dream – weird.

I pulled myself out
of my bed and went downstairs. On investigating the cupboards I found I needed a pint of milk, a loaf of bread and a tin of dog food. I donned my jeans, T-shirt, trainers and my jacket and walked to the shops with the little bugger.

He enjoyed the fresh air as much as I did. I met an ex-girlfriend on the way, who asked how I was and what I had been up to. I just told her some non-committal ‘ins and outs’ of life and she soon went on her way.

The assistant in the local shop was somewhat unpleasant; she looked like a drama queen on cocaine. As I walked to the exit, she called me back. “Excuse me, babe!” I turned and looked around. “You forgot your change, babe.” She smiled and then turned away. I felt like a right plank, but at least she had been honest and not pocketed the change.

When I eventually got home, I headed straight to the kitchen, sparked up the toaster and slid in four slices. I flicked the kettle on and sat at my breakfast bar watching the box. As usual, there was sod-all
on. I really did have to stop watching Jeremy Kyle; it was becoming a habit now, and I couldn’t even stand the bastard! I finished off my toast and downed my tea.

Tomorrow I w
ould be burying my wife. Fran would be there, escorted by undercover police, for her own protection. I couldn’t wait to see her and give her a big squeeze. I still couldn’t believe my Hannah was dead, or fathom out how it had happened.  I had so many thoughts in my head. Why me? Why did this have to happen to the one girl I loved? She was so innocent and never harmed a fly.

Pete knocked on the back door and let himself in, making himself a brew. ‘Just help yourself Pete’, I thought. I spent most of the day thinking, or staring out of my kitchen window. Our Pete got bored and headed off home, I couldn’t blame him really
– I wasn’t the best person to hang round with at the moment – still, he had time to eat all my cakes though, the bugger! I felt like a window licker on a school bus staring into oblivion. I pulled myself together realizing I had unwittingly been sat there staring for two hours: the neighbours must think I was a right sad bastard. I wasted no more time, and started thinking about bed. I was knackered and couldn’t be arsed to go out again, not even to the boozer with Pete. All I could think of was Hannah, and tomorrow meeting our Fran. I felt nervous and I didn’t know why. It was still light outside and I was already getting into my bed. The sheets were clean, the pillows were nice and fluffy: shame my Hannah wasn’t there. “I miss you, babe!”

Before I knew it, it was morning. I stared into the mirror and tried shaving. Bloody hell! I had drawn blood on the first swipe: every bloody time
, man, every bloody time! I continued to rip away at my face, patted on a finger of aftershave, and then cringed when it burned like hell. Pete picked me up in his Jaguar XJ. He tooted the horn and I made my way outside. My suit looked tidy, and Pete smirked at me. He had not seen me looking so good in weeks and he seemed impressed with my attire.

“Come on yo
u bugger, let’s get you there, mate.” Pete was trying to calm me down. We continued driving towards the crematorium, which was about six miles away, my hands shaking with nerves. I hoped Griffer was behaving himself! I’d left him for the day with an elderly widow, Mrs Jones, our next-door neighbour: she enjoyed his company.

“I’m looking forward to seeing my baby girl, you know.”

“I bet you are, buddy, I bet you are! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Nearly a week and half now.”

“You’re kidding? Has it really only been that long? It feels like a life time.”

I continued to stare out the window of the motor. Pete put on a CD, which we used to listen to when we were in the Regiment; ‘Get me out’ by New Model Army. We both sang all the way to the crematorium as loud as we could.

Pete pulled up: I could see lots of family and friends of Hannah’s, not one of them knew how she really died. I felt a tear fall from my eye when I saw my daughter getting out of a Land Rover. She spotted me straight away and came running over to me shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” with her arms open wide, her little face crying as she ran as fast as she could. Here comes my angel! I held her tight in my arms, kissing her and repeatedly telling her I loved her. She couldn’t stop crying and so Pete left me to it.