Ronnie leaned back and said, “Gonna be harder to work soon. We’ll need the lantern.”
Kirby just nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. He took another drag and spoke his mind. “We also fight’n ’em cuz they allow homosexuals. Homos allowed to fight. Women allowed to fight. Atheists allowed to fight. Hell, anyone allowed to fight. That’s just fucked up seven ways to Sunday.”
“Seven ways,” agreed Ronnie, keeping an eye on the promised cigarette. He shifted the subject and asked, “What we got so far?”
Kirby looked over at his buddy then pulled off his other glove and tossed it to the ground. With the dwindling cigarette in his mouth he said, “You done seen what we got. Ain’t shit so far, just a couple of rings. And we won’t have shit until we get past that fucking search tomorrow.”
“You put it in your boot?” asked Ronnie.
“Look, I hollowed out both our boot heels and they only hold so much. Yes, it’s in my boot. But there’s a shit pile of stuff out here. If we had a way to hide more and come back later, we’d have us a king’s ransom. We surely would.” He sucked on the smoke, measured the length, determined it was more than half gone, and flicked it across to his buddy, where it landed in the dirt.
Ronnie picked up the butt, examined it at eye level, and brushed away a few particles of sand. Placing the butt between his lips, he drew in the smoke. A moment later, he leaned back with a satisfied smile.
Kirby watched Ronnie smoke, but his mind worked the problem—the lack of good hiding spaces. They were just getting started and would be humping bodies all night. He expected to find lots of loot. To lessen suspicions, he needed to make sure a few valuables got tagged and turned over. The rest they would hide. But soon, their boot heels would be full, forcing them to hand over items they’d otherwise pilfer. Not acceptable.
The idea of a better hiding spot intrigued him. By finding a good location to stash loot, with plenty of room, profits were sure to increase. With a cache, they’d come back later and retrieve it when no one was looking. Maybe after the fighting. Deep in thought, a potential solution appeared out of nowhere.
Intrigued, in the gloaming, Kirby stood and walked over for a closer look. The depth of the shell hole was only five feet, and about half way up stood a little cave. A dark opening less than a foot in diameter. Curios, he bent over and stuck his index finger through the spot and touched nothing on the other side. Good.
Now excited, Kirby decided to widen the hole and find how deep it was. From his boot he pulled out a combat knife and stuck it through the opening. Again, he felt no pressure against the tip. The hole was deep. With the knife he scraped around the edges, causing dirt and sand to crumble away. The hole widened farther. In a burst, he clawed at the dirt and sand until he uncovered something bigger. A pipe. Perfect!
Finished with the cigarette, grinding it out, Ronnie watched Kirby work the side of the shell hole. “What you got there?”
Not looking back, Kirby replied, “Found a hole. I think we can use it to hide stuff.”
“Oh,” replied Ronnie. He seemed happy to let Kirby do the work.
Within a few minutes, Kirby exposed the entire entrance. Standing back, he admired his labor. The pipe circumference was rather large, and covering it up again would be challenging. After sheathing his knife, he pulled a penlight from his web belt, flipped it on, and pointed it through the opening. Shocked, he jumped back and extinguished the light.
Ronnie, obviously alarmed, whispered, “What is it, what you see?”
Kirby turned and raised a finger, warning his friend to keep quiet. With the penlight in one hand, he backed away from the entrance and with the other pulled out his knife. Seeing the movement, Ronnie also withdrew a knife.
Kirby whispered, “Somebody’s in there.”
Ronnie, still seated, leaned around his buddy and guessed. “Dead guy?”
Kirby shrugged. He didn’t know if the guy was alive or not. All he’d seen, not far inside the pipe, was a pair of boots. Expectant, staring at the opening, both friends listened and remained quiet. Nothing, zilch, no noise.
After a minute, Ronnie pointed over his shoulder outside the shell hole where they’d left their stuff and whispered a question, “Weapons?”
Kirby considered the possibility. Firing an assault rifle could alert the enemy. Worse, and more likely, shooting would bring officers, and he didn’t want that. No, he and Ronnie had knives, and those would have to do. Besides, whoever was in there didn’t appear to be moving. It had to be a dead or wounded enemy. He decided and whispered, “Follow me. Keep your knife ready. I’ll pull the guy out, and if he fights, help me stab the shit out of him. Got it?”
With nervous energy, Ronnie bobbed his head.
In the fading light Kirby gave his friend a wicked smile and then retraced his steps. Ronnie got up and trailed behind.
After reaching the pipe, Kirby stood off to one side and gestured Ronnie to stand nearby. Ronnie moved into place, and Kirby pantomimed, showing what he planned to do. Then, Kirby handed his knife, handle first, to his friend. Now holding a knife in each hand, Ronnie nodded.
From his combat belt, Kirby removed a penlight and, after turning it on, placed it between his teeth. Hands free, he readied himself. It was now or never. Heart racing, he jumped in front of the pipe, bent low, and in a single motion, reached in with both hands and grabbed a set of ankles. With a mighty tug he fell backward. To his surprise, the man slid out without much resistance, causing Kirby to stumble and let go. A moment later, the body landed in a thud on the sandy soil.
In a flash, Kirby scrambled forward and put his knee into the back of the prostrate figure. The soldier, or whoever he was, lay face down, head turned sideways, not moving. Ronnie, ready to pounce, hovered nearby, knives at the ready. But the person remained still.
Kirby removed the penlight from his mouth and shined it at his captive. In profile, he saw a mouth covered in dried blood. There was more, a surprise: medium-length dark hair. Not a man. Stunned for a moment, he wasn’t sure what it meant, but the opportunities dawned on him, and he smiled. With his knee still planted in the back of his captive, he let out an appreciative whistle. “Now look at what we got here.”
Before Ronnie could respond, Kirby realized the job wasn’t complete. He’d made too much noise. Near panic, he arose, turned to Ronnie, and whispered, “Watch her.” Like a cat, he moved back to the pipe. Once again approaching from the side, ready to move away at the slightest provocation, using his penlight he peered inside. To his intense relief, for many meters all he detected was the inside of an empty corrugated pipe. Relieved, he let out a puff of air and stood straight. “All clear,” he said to Ronnie and then shifted his attention back to the prize.
In the dying daylight, Kirby flipped his penlight along the length of the prone woman. Even wearing combat gear, he detected feminine curves. Then he made a note of her rank: a sergeant in the ROAS.
Ronnie stood over the body with knives in both hands and asked, “She dead?”
“I don’t think so,” said Kirby, taking a knee next to the fallen woman. He felt for a pulse and detected a steady beat. With his penlight, Kirby inspected closer and scanned the length of her body. Arms scratched and scraped, pant legs caked with dried blood, uniform and soldier protection suit covered in dust and sand, but she was alive. With no head protection system, she must’ve been knocked out while cowering in the pipe to survive. She was fortunate to be alive and even luckier for him!