He knew what his men were doing was a war crime. Article 12 of the Geneva Convention states “Wounded and sick soldiers who are out of the battle should be humanely treated, and in particular should not be killed, injured, tortured, or subjected to biological experimentation.” Thomas didn’t care. Those Iraqis made their choice, and in any case they couldn’t very well take prisoners with them.
Instead, the young Captain chose to focus his mind on the billowing black smoke being emitted from the destroyed equipment. He knew the “contact” (the term used to describe a military engagement) would be most likely seen for miles. The direct consequence therefore would be most likely more troops on top of them within a matter of minutes rather than hours. This meant they would have to move out quickly to at least have half a chance of escaping, something they couldn’t do with 200-pound Bergen rucksacks they were carrying on their backs. This meant Thomas and the lads would have to ditch their warm weather clothing, food, and heavy weapons and just keep the water and ammunition for their remaining weapons. In his case, the M72 and an AK-47, a Russian weapon, but one Thomas had chosen as his own personal weapon of choice because it was the weapon most used by the Iraqi army as it didn’t require a lot of tender loving care and rarely jammed. In addition, since he had spent most his time since August pretending to be a tribesman since the invasion and as there were hundred million AK-47s worldwide, he reasoned that if he was ever in a contact he should be able to use ammunition of the dead or buy some from any Bedouin as needed.
At the time, the boys of the regiment had made jokes at his expense nicknaming him “Lawrence.” He doubted they would be now if they were here.
Knowing that they couldn’t engage with another bout of armored weaponry, Thomas took the decision to ditch his M72 anti-tank weapon. Weight was king in a fight for survival.
The wall of sand rolling in from the direction of Saudi Arabian border in the south brought him a sense of relief.
“What’s the plan?” asked Stevie handing him a collection of magazines full of ammo so as to save Thomas the time of picking the bodies of the dead Iraqis for resupplies.
Thomas nodded towards the wall of sand. “That might just be our friend, lads,” he said.
Stevie and Tony looked at each other and then nodded at the suggestion, fully understanding what Thomas meant.
“We will need to ditch our kits though,” offered Thomas. With temperatures of minus ten degrees Centigrade at night, it was, although nobody mentioned it, a prospect that terrified them more than another contact with the Iraqis.
“And we will need to make another fifty miles over the next twenty-four hours, lads, in order to make the back-up drop in,” he added, driving his knife home even more.
“But it’s your choice,” stated Thomas, referring to the one rule of the SAS being that, in the field, all Troopers were entitled to have their say regardless of rank.
Both men looked at the body of Mickey. Neither said anything for a moment.
“Drop the kit,” was Tony’s response.
“I thought fucking selection was hard,” answered Stevie before walking off in the direction of Mickey to say a silent pray for his fallen comrade and say his goodbyes. Thirty minutes later, the sand arrived and engulfed them. The three remaining members of Charlie One Zero set off in the direction of Syria.
During the next day, using the storm initially as a cover, they completed the fifty-mile target they had set for themselves, due partly to the steady pace set by Stevie and because they only took two stops for water. Yet it didn’t take a genius for the three men to realize that with only a couple of bottles of water on each of them, they were burning too much body fat in the cold by maintaining this pace.
Their training told them that losing five percent of body fat in a short amount of time and not replacing it causes the body to seize up as a consequence; the three of them knew the next five hours would be crucial.
As it was Thomas’s turn to set the pace he took the lead. Half way to the second LUP, he stopped and turned, only to find nobody was with him. That in it’s self wasn’t unusual; groups on a romp often separated.
Despite knowing he was exhausted, he focused on his training. Again following the SOP of the Regiment, Thomas pulled out his personal tactical beacon (or TACBE) as the device is known) so he could alert any planes or helicopters that might be overhead or nearby to his position. Designed primarily as a distress signal, it could also be used as a short-range communications device to nearby aircraft by indicating that someone is in danger and needs help. Five minutes later, having not received any response, he turned off the beacon and waited for his team to turn up. Half an hour later, he was fighting off the urge to sleep, knowing if he did he would most likely die from hypothermia, when they still hadn’t turned up after an hour it started to dawn on Thomas that he was on his own. A Trooper’s training tells to focus on the goal. Use your willpower to drive you on. That, unfortunately, though doesn’t stop you from second guessing yourself.
Thomas’s tired and troubled mind tried to focus. He checked his water can. His lips were cracked and sore. He could feel all the joints in his body and fingers becoming numb. That was a bad sign.
“Half a can,” he muttered as he fought the urge to sip it all, and questioned whether he should try to find his missing colleagues.
Suddenly the face of his dead mother appeared in front of him. He knew his mind was beginning to play tricks. He shook his head in an attempt to break free. He felt his muscles began to cramp up. He knew what that meant. His body was shutting down to reabsorb fluid from his blood and his other body tissues. He was about to go into shock. That meant he had to rehydrate. Yet before he could, the delirium arrived.
“Move darling,” she said.
“I need to wait Mummy,” he said to her out loud as though he was eight and heading off to boarding school.
Then the face of his hated father appeared in front of him.
“Fuck off!” he said as the wind continued to whistle around him. He shook his head to break free. He tried to focus on the waterproof map that he had pulled from the inside of his combat jacket, forgetting in the process about the urgent need to take on more water to stop the delirium playing havoc with his mind.
Then it was the turn of the mythical face of the legend Homer that he had used in his Thesis at Oxford to appear before him.
“Thomas, you must live,” the Greek ordered.
“Do not shrink from it. Have inner strength. Your Kelos will be won later through your great deeds,” the voice whistled, referring to the Greek word meaning “What others hear about you” through accomplishing great deeds, often through death.
“It is not Hades’ time to welcome you yet!” the voice instructed, referring to the Greek god of the underworld. “For the Gods have other plans for you. Your Odyssey is only beginning,”
Thomas’s entire world went black.
The word “Bedouin” is derived from a plural form of the Arabic word Badawi, and literally translates as “nomad” or “wanderer.”
Amongst the Bedouin, there are as many as one hundred and fifty tribes in Iraq. One such Clan is The Dulaym. Today many prominent Iraqis carry the last name “Dulaym,” because it signaled to the other Clans of the country and the area that they belong to the tribal confederation. Since 1968, the Clan had been allied with Saddam Hussein. They supported him throughout his war with Iran with manpower and ruthlessly opposed anyone that had tried to dispose of him. As a consequence, members of their clan held important positions within government, mostly in and around the western province of al-Anbar. Yet that link was severed forever when Saddam, by way of the arrest and removal of individuals that held close ties to Saudi Arabia via family connections, chose to break that bond.