The cheese-wire sliced deeply into the female British soldier’s fingers but he knew she was unable to even give voice to the pain and shock. The face veil about her throat to keep out the rain was a little hindering, but with a vigorous sawing motion it was but the work of a moment to cut through it and into the soft flesh beneath.
Royal Marines of A Company, 44 Commando, passed through the fighting positions of 2LI, the 2nd Battalion Light Infantry, to a pre-arranged point where guides from 2 Wessex led them safely through the lines of the men from Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Hampshire to a muddy forest track on the reverse slope. There, medics and the marines own quartermaster sergeant waited. 1 Troop was the first to arrive, numbering only nineteen men now, and their current troop commander, a corporal, carried out the reorganisation drills and reduced the troop further, sending one marine away in the direction of the medics, protesting vocally as he limped off.
The remainder stocked up on grenades, fragmentation and smoke, refilled magazines and water bottles, attempting at the same time to boost flagging energy reserves by shovelling cold compo rations into their mouths, replacing what the nervous energy and physical effort of close quarters combat had burned off. The small metal tin openers revealed a variety of contents from Baked Beans to Fruit Salad, all were devoured cold, straight from the tin. As ever though the ‘Cheese, Processed’ cans, and green mini packets of ‘Biscuits, Brown’ were passed over by many. For some, only the onset of starvation could motivate them to eat what was more commonly known as ‘Cheese Possessed’.
Sheer weight of numbers had eventually told over the Royal Marine Commandos fighting skills and fighting spirit. The loss of their sister unit, 42 Commando, with such terrible casualties had at first stunned and then enraged the men from 44. The deliberate running down of a group of survivors in the ditch by the Czech T-72 tank had been seen by many across the narrow valley in the NATO positions and widely reported.
The men topped up on ammunition and moved off, following the guides to the rear of 1CG and the 82nd’s position.
Colour Sergeant ‘Ozzie’ Osgood, 1CG, made his tentative way across the rear slopes of the rain swept hill, his arms aching from carrying a stretcher loaded down with ammunition boxes collected from the RQMS in the rear. Behind Oz a young Guardsman cursed, slipping in the mud and almost dropping his end of the stretcher.
“I’m chin-strapped, sir.” He wearily declared.
Oz was tired too, and not just physically.
There had been a time when he had mocked people like himself, back when he was young, stupid and working a coal face. Some men couldn’t hack it at all, the knowledge of how much rock and earth was above their heads. They left immediately, or as near as dammit. But it was the occasional older man, those who had been at the colliery for fifteen, twenty years or even longer who one day just couldn’t step into the cage another time. They got jobs on the surface, but few stayed with the colliery and most moved away. The wives were worst, and the kids a close second. The jibes and the whispers, the bullying in the playground.
Oz came from a long line of miners, a proud line. His grandfather had survived an explosion and rock fall, and his Dad had lived through both a fire and a flooding. There was no way the Osgood’s would ever lose their bottle like that.
One day he and his Dad got into the cage together at the start of the shift, but before it was full his Dad had turned to him.
“I’m sorry our kid, I just can’t do it.” And he walked away.
The bravest man Oz had ever known just walked out of the cage and up to the mine manager’s office to collect his wages and give his notice.
Oz wasn’t in the army because he’d quit too, he was there because the pits were closed, but Oz now knew that perhaps one day his bottle would also have held all it could, just as his Dad’s had.
All those tours of duty at the sharp end, in Ulster, Bosnia, the Gulf War, Iraq and now this, the big one, were telling. The stress builds up over the years, sometimes unseen, and with little or no warning something snaps. His friend, Colin Probert, had seen the fractures forming in Oz, and Colin had tried to help by easing the burden. A platoon sized fighting patrol had gone out without him, its platoon sergeant, and they hadn’t come back. That had nearly finished him there and then. Colin and two men had been found alive but badly wounded; the remainder were dead, along with one of those three. The man had died on the casevac chopper, just three minutes away from the field hospital.
Oz wasn’t at the sharp end anymore, but he wasn’t ecstatic about being a headquarters wallah either, a ‘REMF’ in yank parlance.
“Seriously sir,” his assistant grumbled again.”Me arms are a foot longer than they were at reveille.
“Grit yer teeth bonny lad, we’ll have a breather and a brew in a minute at the battalion CP, it’s just over yonder.”
The track plan had long been abandoned and the approved routes from his ammunition stocks to the three platoon headquarters positions was a morass now so they cut across at an angle to arrive at the rear of the sandbagged command post, ducking under the camouflage netting and hessian. It allowed a little shelter from the rain, and having lowered the heavy stretcher they squatted against the sandbag wall, giving their aching muscles some respite.
They had just settled down when Oz heard the steps of two others in the mud just around the corner at the side of the CP.
“Well Derek, what is it that you could not tell me inside?”
Oz recognised his commanding officers voice.
“Did the Adjutant speak to you on a personal matter, before he took over 3 Company, sir?”
The Guardsman beside Oz suddenly caught on that two officers were having a private discussion and Oz gestured his assistant to be quiet.
“Is this something to do with that infernal whispering between yourself and Captain Gilchrist?”
“Sir, you may have noticed another gunner officer earlier, he is a Forward Observer with 2LI…”
Although Oz could not see Pat Reed he sensed him tense.
“…it is with profound regret that I must inform you that your son Julian was killed in action this morn….” They heard the CO turn suddenly away.
There was a moment’s awkward pause before the battalion’s artillery rep squelched away back to the entrance to the CP.
Oz and his assistant sat in the shadows in embarrassed silence, unwilling voyeurs to their CO’s grief.
After several minutes Pat forced himself to stand upright, he then shook himself and removed the water bottle from its webbing pouch to rinse his eyes. A grubby sleeve dried his face before he straightened, squared his shoulders and returned to the business of running the battalion’s battle.
As soon as he was satisfied that the coast was clear, Oz turned to the young soldier.
“You breathe one word of this to anyone and I’ll plant you in a shallow grave.” He said with grim sincerity, “Clear?”
He received an earnest nod in reply.
“Now come on then, let’s get this lot back where it’ll do the most good.”
With a grunt they lifted their burden once more, staggering away into the rain and the night.
The Czech 23rd MRR had sorted themselves out for another attempt to drive the stubborn British and Americans from their positions above those the 23rd had early taken, but as they were in the process of mounting their vehicles the infantry were ordered to debus and form up on foot in the immediate rear of the main battle tanks. Only the AFVs drivers remained with the vehicles as the squads departed, and then somewhat bemused they followed new orders to drive to a location a half mile to the rear, switch off, collect their weapons and don full fighting order before re-joining the squads at the double.