The snakes were a welcome diversion. A week ago he had been on a commando training course in a remote area of Wales. They put you through it, tried to find your limit of endurance. The corporal had almost broken, but the snakes had saved him. The orders came through and twelve hours later he was sitting on his backside, drinking beer in a village he'd never even heard of before.
They wouldn't find the snakes, of course they bloody well wouldn't, but they had to be seen to be doing something about it or else there would have been a public outcry. The whole business could have turned into a political issue, a squabbling match in Westminster. The snakes would not be seen again. The poor buggers were probably scared to death, lost in a strange land with nothing to eat. OK, so a few people had been killed, there were some funerals tomorrow, but that was because the frightened snakes had panicked. In all probability, the reptiles had now crawled away somewhere to die. People were getting killed all over the world every day of the year and always would be.
A single streetlamp cast a circle of orange light across the road and into the small car park. That was handy, you didn't have to keep straining your eyes in the dark. He was paid to do a job and he would do it, you got lazy if you didn't.
The soldier popped another can of Export, took a long drink and set it down on the stone step beside him. His eyes dropped to the shotgun across his knees. Funny things shotguns, he had never handled one before, let alone fired one. To a professional they seemed amateurish, nothing technically complicated, no range-finders or anything like that. You didn't even have to sight them, just pointed them at your target, pulled the trigger and blasted whatever you wanted to blast. Clumsy, he thought, no marksmanship required, a spread of shot that couldn't miss. That's why these sportsmen used them, because they wouldn't bloody hit anything if they used a rifle.
The company had had a briefing from the CO on the use of shotguns. Swing with your target and keep on swinging even after you've fired. Keep both eyes open. The soldier supposed they had to say something, couldn't just dole out weapons and leave you to find out for yourself how to use them. He'd read somewhere that the RAF used them for clay-pigeon shooting, some kind of training exercise. More like a bit of sport for the toffs.
The corporal checked that the safety catch was on. Don't want the bloody thing going off and demolishing the pub, else I'll be on my way back to Wales tomorrow.
Christ, you could still smell that field that had burned, the stench of charred undergrowth wafting on the faint breeze. Some fire that had been, he wished he had been here to see it. It had been virtually out when B Company had rolled into Stainforth, just a damping-down operation left for the fire-fighters.
Idly he wondered why the firemen had left that hose lying across the road. Bloody careless of them; it was all right for cars, they could bump over it but it might unseat a cyclist, even a motorcyclist if he was going too fast. The soldier decided he would report it to the major in the morning. There's a hose left lying across the road by the Rising Sun, sir, a potential hazard to motorists and cyclists. See how alert I've been, I haven't been kipping like some of the boys have.
He drank some more beer, checked the time again. 2.35. Another hour and a half and it would be starting to get light. His duty finished at seven and he had the rest of the day off until 8 P.M. 20.00 hours in military terminology. He wondered what the birds were like in this place. Country bumpkins probably; it might be better to take a bus into town. The trouble was with night duty you never stood much chance with birds in the daytime, most of them were at work. See you tonight, soldier boy. Sorry, I'm on duty. But you couldn't have it both ways; he could be lying in a hospital bed, flat on his back with no chance of ever walking again, like Charlie.
Something was wrong, he did not quite know what it was; something his trained senses had picked up and said, 'Hey, boy, that's not quite right.' Check your foreground and background, log every detail in your mind. Listen. Look for something out of place, movable camouflage bushes creeping in on you.
That bloody hose, that was what it was! The bugger was lying on the edge of the car park now and the road was clear. Sorry, sir, I made a mistake, it wasn't on the road after all.
Now how the fuck did that get across there? Somebody must've . . . Oh Jesus on a bike, it's moving!
He stared in horrified fascination as the long length eased itself across the shale as though somebody had an invisible wire attached to it, was pulling it along. Some kind of joke, the local yobbos taking the piss out of the soldiers trying to scare them with make-believe snakes.
It was a snake, a bloody big one!
The corporal instinctively retreated up a step, knocked his beer over, sent the can clinking and rolling across the sloping forecourt leaving a trail of frothy fizzing amber liquid in its wake. And that was when the advancing snake saw him, stopped, reared its fearsome head a foot or so off the ground. It was a boa-constrictor of some kind, you didn't need a university education to know that. God, it had to be all of twenty feet long and as thick as your leg. The corporal went cold, wished to Christ he had his rifle instead of this scatter-gun, But you'll have to shoot else it'll get you, 'cause it was trying to sneak up on you in the first place.
He raised the gun to his shoulder. Never mind what they tell you about keeping both eyes open and all that crap, get a sight on it and blow the fucker to smithereens.
The force of the blast knocked him back against the door. He crouched there trying to see. Oh fuck, the bastard's still coming, how in hell did I miss? On the verge of panic he fired the second barrel, saw the python go down.
It flopped, rolled, squirmed. And came back up. The corporal fumbled to extract the spent cartridge cases from his gun, unfamiliar with manual loading, feeling in the pocket of his combat jacket for live shells.
The snake was moving fast, throwing itself forward in a series of flops like a landed sea-lion, hissing its fury, oblivious to the pain where a scattering of BB shot had caught it just below the head, pumping blood as it charged.
The corporal pushed fresh shells into the breech, snapped the barrels shut but he was too late. Its vicious lunge, a hurtling forward of its dragging body, sent the gun spinning from his grasp, its fangs fastening in his throat, cutting off his scream as it tore out the flesh, blinded itself temporarily in a fountain of human blood.
Its instinct was to wrap itself around the body of its prey, crush it to a mulch, but it sensed that it no longer had the strength; time was running out. It flopped back, ignored the fallen convulsing human who still jetted scarlet blood from his throat wound, lay there and felt the pain from its own injury, knew that it, the king of the snakes, must flee. Only its supreme strength enabled it to turn, to head back the way it had come, its frantic slithering slowing with every yard. Bright lights blinded it, it heard the roaring of engines, the frantic shouts of men who saw it, knew that it was fatally wounded, yet kept their distance. If it could only get back to that dark hole in the ground it would be safe.
The Land Rover had stopped on the road, the mobile searchlight on the cab focused on the twitching python. Three soldiers ran forward, fanned out into a semicircle, Browning 5-shot automatic shotguns at the ready.