Patrol

Christ, he was cold!

The wind was biting and

A drop of the ever-present rain

Joined others which had evaded his collar

And slid smoothly down his back

Undeterred by his goose-bumps.

He grinned slightly, acknowledging

That both the rain and situation

Were firmly at his doorstep,

And raised his cap to cover

The bottom part of his face

And took another deep drag of,

If his counting served him right,

His eleventh Marlborough

Since he’d got out of his pit.

Shite for somebody committed

To knocking the weed on the head!

He took another wee drag,

Reluctantly nipped it out

And put his cap back on firmly.

Better the burn marks inside it

Than a bullet through the head,

So Serg had told him

And he knew stuff!

He glanced across the road for Tom

Saw him tight by a tree,

His faithful friend

Held against his chest.

They called him ‘Ever Ready’

And he was a good man,

Older and wiser by far than he was,

His mate and mentor, good also

To have with you on patrol.

Fleetingly the wavering wind

Brought an unexpected joy,

Though most unanticipated

Before full dawn; a Pig.

He saw Tom tense –

He’d caught it too.

The sound became louder,

More certain, and then there it was,

Stopped in front of them,

The Sarg waving them in.

He looked around swiftly

And then just beat Tom to it

As he threw himself past Serg

And crashed his weary arse

On a welcome bench,

Tom sliding in opposite.

The Pig picked up speed,

Probably doing a dizzy

Thirty five miles an hour!

Serg yelled they had intel,

‘Death Squad’ arms dump.

Regulars and Army called

But they were nearest,

And movement had been seen.

He thought about it.

The Pig wasn’t going to

Creep up nice and quietly.

It was old, slow, noisy,

Had shite armour

And no Bren turret.

It kept him dry,

And that was about it,

And actually he’d prefer

If given a choice,

Which he wasn’t,

To be under the wet tree,

Waiting for a deep blue Corsair

Which might or might not

Come their way.

He hoped Serg had a plan!

Tom sat bolt upright, asleep.

Judas, it would be good

To be able to do that.

Serg followed his gaze

Grinned -  Every Ready

Was just as good at waking up -

And then reached into his pack

And brought out five

Completely non-reg,

Black and deep purple balaclavas,

Poked Tom and passed him one,

Shoved two forward into a waiting hand

And then passed him his.

He pulled it on

And careful to not hit Serg

Unslung his rifle.

Apparently there was a plan.

He and Tom nodded, ready

And the Pig stopped,

Engine running, lights on

But empty as they bailed,

Ran off the road through a copse,

And doing so cut the corner.

In seconds they were looking

Down at two cars, lights off

Shadowy figures just visible

In the drizzle and dawning light.

Their attention was towards the Pig,

Sitting just round the corner.

Serg was not a great one for regs.

He signed the two from up front,

Old mates Charlie and Paulie,

To prepare for their run,

Then he put a shot

Into the engine of the first car

And one after that,

Rolling back as

The runners took off in the darkness

To the little copse opposite

Whilst he a Tom gave cover

And then spread wide.

The cars were boot to boot,

A transfer taking place,

And he knew the one that was

Pointing to the Pig

Had less cards to play

Than the one facing up the road

And away from the action.

Obviously somebody in the car,

Was thinking the same

And it started, lurched forward,

Stalled, and he and Tom

Aimed vaguely at the bonnet,

A couple of rounds each.

Two down, eight to go.

Apparently it was enough,

As the driver tried to restart

And failed, and it occurred to him

What a fool he was

Because he must know

That whoever it was

Knew exactly where he was,

And could most easily kill him.

He briefly considered it.

It could be an accident,

But decided not to risk the Serg’ wrath.

As the group below –

He’d counted seven –

Cowered behind the cars,

Uncertain as to where the fire came from,

He waited for the two on the other side

To open up, cause confusion.

This they did,

Keeping their fire on the cars doors,

Making their position more obvious,

And he watched as the desired effect

Followed and the bastards

Rolled to the other side.

When they got there he and Tom

Put a couple of rounds each

Into their side of the cars,

Four down, six to go.

He slid the bolt slowly,

Chambering the next round,

Thankful for the thin oil

He put on every night

He was on duty, and

Watched to see what

Was going to happen next.

There were too many to arrest,

And too heavily armed,

But Serg reckoned if they

Kept them pinned down

It should give time for the Regulars.

It was not to be.

These people were bastards,

But other than that one thick driver

They were disciplined;

And so it was that a couple of Stens

Opened up to either side,

And as they put their heads down

Those by the cars broke for cover.

When they put their heads up again

They saw figures running

In every direction.

He could have, but he didn’t.

And as he prepared for Serg

To issue whatever next

He suddenly rolled

As a heli came over the rise

And the world was full of noise

And light, as the shites

Filled the dawning-washed dark

With flares, and he was blinded

For a long, fucking dangerous moment,

And so should the fleeing shites be,

But Tom, Ever Ready,

Must have closed his eyes

When he heard the heli,

Knowing what it would do,

And opened them slowly

So he could view the scene,

And he rolled and grabbed

Serg’ Sten and stood,

Firing high above the fleeing trash,

Fully illuminated by more flares

From the bastards in the heli,

And most fell to the ground,

But one must have done the same

As Tom; Tom his mate, his mentor;

Tom who always did the right thing.

And he knew, by Christ he knew

As his vision returned

That this was going fucking wrong,

And he watched as Tom danced

And seemed to hang in the air a moment

Like a levitating bear before he fell,

And he saw the guy with the Browning,

Or whatever it was,

And he could have again

And he tried,

But he couldn’t

Because he missed –

Five down, five to go –

And he flew back the bolt

And chambered another round

As he rolled to Tom,

Poor, Ever Ready but not this time, Tom.

And he wanted to scream,

Because he knew he was dead,

And then the fucking, bastard heli

Dropped down and fired more flares

And the madness continued

And the Serg lost it, totally,

And leapt up, weaving,

Spraying his recovered Sten,

Running to the bastard who fell back,

And when the Serg paused,

Like his sanity returned,

And he watched this play out

As something appeared in the air from nowhere

And Serg dived, but too late;

And suddenly the dawn grey lit up,

And both cars, the Serg, the bastard,

Suddenly they were lost in a ball of fire,

And he screamed, turned

And raised his rifle towards the fucking heli

And it was abruptly knocked aside

By Charlie, Bonny Charlie,

Who lay across him and

Shouted he needed to wise up,

And as he tried to sink into the ground

Charlie let go, slowly

And rolled up by Paulie

And surveyed the view.

He slowed his breathing,

Checked his rifle,

Forced himself not to look at Tom,

And crawled up by Charlie and Paul,

Studying the wreckage on the road,

Hearing the odd shot here and there

And multiple Pigs coming towards them.

He shouted to himself in his head,

Forcing everything from his mind

Other than getting his head in gear.

He scanned the mess on the road,

Ready to cover the guys dropping from the heli,

It all being too late and too light,

And wondered how long these kids lasted?

Randomly as he did his damndest to stay on task,

He remember how he’d watched the poor sods

Doing foot patrol in the city

And their NCOs constantly trying to

Get them to think 3D and look up,

Up where the snipers looked down;

Innocents abroad, or some such.

And then as they got the all clear

He wondered about Sall, Tom’s wife.

What was he going to say to her?

Who was going to tell the Serg’ partner?

He looked over at Tom as he lay there

And walking over, puzzled.

For a moment he wondered

If he was going mad,

If this was some fucking nightmare?

There was usually loads of blood,

Loads of fucking, squirting blood,

And in this half-light he saw none.

A medic came over, a kid like him,

Just a lot more innocent,

Less fucked in his head, he thought,

And whimsically he hoped he stayed that way,

And he took his arm and asked if he was okay.

And queried if this was an oppo or some such,

And he didn’t want to talk,

Couldn’t quite get his head straight –

Tom and the Serg, for fucks sake!

And all because of their sodding flares –

So he said no, first time out together,

And Charlie heard him and grabbed his arm

As Paulie took Tom’s balaclava off,

Then removed his, and he stared at Tom’s face,

And some of it was missing,

And he wanted to boak,

But pulled himself together,

And with Paul and Charlie,

Went back to their Pig,

And there they sat in silence

Waiting for some superior bloody officer

To give them orders,

And set their debrief time

Down at their station,

And he wondered if

He’d tell him to fuck off,

And ask his wank heli mob

What had happened instead?

He didn’t really think much

For the rest of the op,

Just Charlie upping and driving them back,

Some bullshit mil officer

Who spoke like he’d got a turd

Stuck half way down his throat,

Requiring his report

And him telling it like it was,

Including the stupid fucking flares,

And the turd-throat mainlander

Didn’t seem to like what he said

And he didn’t give a fuck,

And then he got into his old wagon

And drove back to the city,

And he kept rehearsing

What he’d say to Sall,

And the trip took forever,

But ended way too soon

As he pulled up by his house,

And then his mate Muz

Coming off duty

Drove him round to Tom and Sall’s.

As the front door opened to his knocking,

Sall was there with the twins,

Ready for school,

And she saw his face, and she knew,

And somehow she held it together –

Women are amazing like that, he thought –

And she called down her Ma,

Told her to take the kids on,

And the old lady knew too,

But she was her daughters Ma

And nodded, silent, white,

And shooed the kids out,

And he went with Sall to the kitchen,

And she started making a cup of tea,

A cup of fucking tea, for Christ’s sake,

And nothing was said until she

Put a cup down in front of him,

Just as he liked it,

And looked at him,

Stirring her own mug,

And he noticed randomly

That she was spilling it,

And it didn’t matter.

And everything

He thought he would say

Flew out of his head

To fuck knows where,

And he leaned forward,

Took her hands

And told her it was quick …

Just a few seconds of dancing …

Hell, it was instant!

And she took her hands away,

And she started to rock,

And he felt like doing the same,

And he told her everything,

Everything except the dancing,

And a bit of his face missing,

No need for that.

He told her what a

Fucked-up mission it had been

And she stared silently into his soul

As he spoke, words falling from him,

Rocking, and then she stopped,

Stood up and suddenly howled,

A howl like he’d never heard before,

And cleared the table with her arm,

Tea and crockery going everywhere,

And then started pulling

Everything off the surfaces

And was going for the shelves

When he got himself together

And grabbed her, and held her

As she tried to scratch him,

Pulled at his hair, kicked him,

And then suddenly slumped

And started sobbing,

Her whole body shaking,

Gasping for breath,

And he started crying too,

And a distant part of him

Wondered how his joining in

Was going to help Sall?

And then he knew it was okay,

But it wasn’t,

And Tom was dead;

Dead because of the fucking flares,

Dead, he had now worked out,

Because he hadn’t thought it through,

Because if he’d known there would be flares,

He should have known there would be others,

And the stupid, lovely sod had left them all,

Left them, in a cold, damaged world,

And Sall and the twins wouldn’t even

See him again, lying in his box,

Because part of him was

Somewhere in ‘Bandit Country’,

And slowly his sobbing stopped

And most thought left him,

And he and Sall clung to each other

Lost in shared agony,

A dark lashing sea of pain,

Wishing they’d be lucky and drown.

Thus it was, he knew not for how long,

And as she slowly subsided,

And was all sobbed out,

He looked over her shoulder

And saw her Ma standing there,

Silent, tears freely rolling down her cheeks

And he slowly disentangled Sall

And gave her to her Ma.

He walked slowly to the door

And found Muz standing there

Quietly waiting,

And they said nothing

As Muz put him in car,

Drove him home,

Forced some whiskey

Gently into his hand,

And listened to him ramble,

Saying little, topping-up often,

And at last he persuaded him

To take to his pit,

And despite everything he slept,

Slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the drained,

And woke with afternoon sunlight

Shining through his window,

And Pluff sitting by his bed,

And suddenly he remembered,

And Pluff saw it and nodded,

Thumping the floor as he did so,

And Muz and Charlie came in

And they all just sat in silence

Until he got himself together,

Pulled on some clothes,

Checked his rifle,

Clicked out the mag,

Topped it up automatically,

Returned it, eased the bolt a little,

Smooth and silent,

Put it down under his bed

And looked at his friends.

With no discussion

They all stood

And walked into the fading day,

Listening out for any gunshots

Bombings or sounds of trouble,

Off to whatever life handed out next,

But in all probability the Bot,

Or the Regency,

Or both.

Life goes on!