Crossfire (8 page)

Dave didn't want to know about the dramas, he
just wanted a body count.

Barney got on the air. 'Five. But we got groups
of two or three moving all over the arc.'

'Wait out. Boss – Chindit?'

You could have heard a pin drop on the net.
Nobody was going to talk over the top of those
two.

'Chindit now mobile.'

It was hard to see exactly what was happening
in the dark now the street-lighting was dead.
Riflemen ran all over the place. Contacts could be
heard left and right, as well as beyond the buildings
on both sides of the street. Shouts and
screams of command filled the short lulls when
the Bulldog guns weren't firing. I didn't try to
work out what was going on. It's always best just
to get on with your own stuff.

An eight-strong Rifleman patrol came up
behind us, panting and sweating, just as the
wagon's gunner aimed a long burst at the end of
the road. My ears rang. Empty cases tumbled
off the hull and clinked on to the crumbling
tarmac.

The patrol's NCO yelled at the gunner. 'We're
moving into the alley, crossing your front!'

The last thing they wanted was a blue on blue.

Pete filmed them as they hunched behind the
Bulldog, waiting for the gun to stop. 'All right,
Tel?'

Pete had the handheld up to his eye. He
couldn't use the hinged screen like a tourist
because of the telltale glow.

Dom got into reporter mode. 'Can you tell me
what's happening?'

The NCO didn't bother looking at him or the
camera as he replied. His eyes switched between
the road and the gunner, who was still firing. He
had to force the words out as he tried to regain
his breath. 'We're going to go down the alley and
bomb-burst out the other side of the building. We
got movement in cover over there and the
snipers can't get 'em – so we're going to flush
'em out.'

Pete put the camera on Terry, but only for a
second before our gun stopped and the NCO
legged it. The patrol followed. I watched the last
man, the little Manchester lad, as he ran across
the street and veered right, up towards the alley
mouth. Blue cyalumes hung off buildings either
side.

There was no need for discussion. Dom was
already on his feet and about to follow.

I restrained him as another long burst came
from the other side of the buildings, and checked
he and Pete still had IR cyalumes gaffered to the
backs of their helmets. 'You've definitely bent
those things?'

They nodded. I kept low and followed the
patrol, who were well ahead of us now. An RPG
kicked off to our right and flew straight down the
middle of the road. It slammed into a building
fifty metres further on and exploded. Lumps of
concrete rained down on us. When I looked up
again, the last man was disappearing into the
alley.

'Come on, quick!' We needed to get there
before they were swallowed into the darkness.

I stopped at the intersection.

A dull glow shone along the alley from the
street a couple of hundred beyond it. It was
about two metres wide. Rusty metal doors and
barred windows lined both sides. The ground
was strewn with litter, rubble, puddles, dog
shit. The patrol was nowhere to be seen.
They had already bomb-burst out the other
end.

We crunched our way towards it. Dom needed
controlling. He'd switched on his forcefield again
and was surging ahead.

'No one goes any further than the end, OK?
We've got snipers above us and we don't know
what the fuck's going on out there.'

Pete snorted. 'You won't have to tell me twice,
mate.'

Dom got there first. He was scoping up and
down as I joined him. Out there somewhere was
the distant rumble of Chindit Company's
Warrior tracks. Immediately ahead, across about
thirty metres of sewage-covered wasteground,
lay a rabbit warren of side-streets, ramshackle
buildings and bomb-blasted sewers. That was
where the patrol must have gone.

I gripped Dom, the stench of shit burning deep
into my sinuses. 'This is as far as we go, all right?'

He pointed frantically to a fallen wall about
fifteen away. 'There, Peter, look!'

A body lay motionless in the half-light, face
down on the wasteground.

Pete started filming. With his camera's night-viewing
capability he could see better than we
could. 'He's got one round through the nut and
there's an AK next to him.'

Dom spotted another body sprawled on the
road further on, just before the warren where
the patrol must be. The snipers couldn't have
missed the fuckers at that range.

SA80s stuttered behind us back in the street.
Pete arranged Dom at the edge of the alley so he
had the body in the background. Dom started
gobbing off to camera in hushed and dramatic
Polish.

Above us, another sniper added to the soundtrack.
It was going to be award-winning footage.

Pete was still filming as a burst of AK screamed
out of the warren. The rounds zinged over our
heads and into the walls behind us.

Pete jerked the camera away from Dom. 'Tel!'

I turned to see a body staggering out of a half-demolished
building and into the wasteground.

It was a Rifleman – the dome of his helmet was
silhouetted against the distant glow. He
stumbled a few steps more and fell.

Pete pushed the camera into Dom's hands and
legged it across the wasteground.

'Pete, stop!'

Either he couldn't hear me or he didn't want
to. I shoved Dom back against the wall. 'Stay
here!'

I tried to gain ground and catch up with him
but it wasn't long before my boots were sinking
into calf-deep puddles of sewage.

The Rifleman lay prone on the ground. Sniper
fire cracked off above us. The rest of the patrol
was now engaged in a contact inside the warren.
As long as they kept the fire going I could get
Pete and the Rifleman – if he was still alive – back
into cover.

Pete was bent over the body. I fell on my
knees next to him. Sewage splashed up
my Osprey.

Pete must have spotted Terry through the
viewfinder. The boy groaned.

'Pete, he's OK, he's alive. Come on, let's get
him up.'

Terry had taken a couple of rounds into his
front plate. The force would have knocked him to
the ground, but he wasn't injured, just bruised.
He lay there in shock at still being alive. 'Fuck . . .
fuck . . .'

For Pete it was relief.

'Get up, both of you. Come on!'

I grabbed Pete as a scream from the snipers
told us to get out of the killing ground. They
cracked a couple of rounds over our heads.

I looked up towards the warren as a body
dropped just metres away. His AK hit the ground
before he did.

More bodies poured from the darkness. They
weren't firing.

'Run! They're going to lift us!'

Pete and Terry were on their feet. I pushed
them on through the stinking mud as the snipers
tried to cover us.

It was too late.

An arm appeared from behind me. Then I felt
hot breath on my neck and a head against my
shoulders. He tightened the armlock, and the
world was full of grunts and stale tobacco. His
weight was dragging me down. The Velcro of my
PRR ear pad ripped away and fell to the ground.

Other bodies swarmed over Pete and Terry but
they were going down fighting. There was
nothing I could do for them until I was free.

The screams, gunfire and Warrior engines
receded into the background as I jerked left and
right, pushing my head back to nut him, anything
to get the fucker off me.

My knees buckled. I fell to the ground and he
collapsed on top of me. I kicked, pushed,
punched, anything to get him off so Barney –
anyone – could take a shot.

I kicked out but this boy was massive and he
kept hold. Wet with shit, his hair slapped against
my face. We tumbled into a shallow ditch. I made
a grab for his head and tried to butt him.

We rolled over and over in the shit puddles. I
saw the stars, and the next thing I knew my face
was in the mud. I tried to keep my mouth shut,
but I had to breathe. It was like holding your
mouth and nose as a kid after taking a
deep breath, then carrying on until it becomes
unbearable and keeping on going a few seconds
past that.

I felt a stabbing pain in my eyes and ears. I felt
pressure in my chest and throat. I thrashed and
bucked, but only succeeded in burrowing my
head further into the slime.

My body was telling me to breathe, but it
wouldn't let me inhale water. I jerked and convulsed
like a madman. After ten or fifteen
seconds more I felt like I was in a vice that was
being gradually tightened across my breastbone
and spinal column. Water seeped into my lungs,
my body was a mass of pain and I knew I was
dying.

I didn't even sense the other body appearing
above us, or jumping down into the ditch, or the
boot that must have come in fast and hard and
smacked against the Iraqi's head. All I heard was
a bone-crunching thud, then the man crushing
me spasmed and relaxed. Next thing I knew, his
weight was pulled off me. My lungs roared as I
filled them with air.

Another kick barrelled into my assailant as I
gulped and coughed.

The boot was Pete's. I could see him through
the blur of mud and shit that covered my face.
And then I heard the loud bang as he followed
up with just one round from Terry's weapon into
the Iraqi's head.

'Staying down there all night, mate?'

His free hand was outstretched. He hauled me
to my feet.

Sniper rounds whistled overhead, thudding
into the warren. I fought for breath and spat shit
from my mouth.

A few metres away, Terry was kicking another
dead body off him. He scrambled to his feet and
stepped over the one Pete must have dropped.

'Man on! Man on!' The screams came from the
snipers.

I spun round to see more bodies closing fast.

Pete didn't miss a beat. Terry's SA80 went
straight into the shoulder. 'Go, go!'

I turned and ran, pushing the boy ahead of me.
Pete put down a series of short sharp bursts that
punctuated the stream of sniper fire above me.

I stopped halfway and turned back, letting
Terry go on. AK muzzle flashes strobed in the
darkness as Pete kept firing.

'Enough, Pete. Come on!'

My body jerked as if somebody had swung a
pickaxe handle into my chest. I was hurled back.
My hands were flung into the air and I fell, pain
searing my arm. The force spun me round and I
crumpled, face down.

I lay there, a bundle of pain, fear and disbelief.
Like Dom with his invisible forcefield, I'd
thought I'd never get shot again.

I didn't have as much as a nanosecond to start
crawling before Pete caught up with me. He
managed one short burst before he ran out of
rounds.

He dropped the SA80 into the shit next to me and
his bony hands grabbed my good arm and pulled.
His grunts sounded louder than the gunfire.

Bodies surged from the warren; the patrol was
taking on the insurgents as they moved back
towards the alley.

The Manc lad stood his ground in the middle
of the wasteground, his shoulder rocking back
with the recoil from his weapon. The moment we
were in the alley, Terry helped get me over Pete's
shoulder in a fireman's lift.

'You're all right, Nick. Sonia'll sort you. See
you later, Tel.'

He turned towards the Bulldogs and legged it.

My forearm jolted with pain each time his feet
hit the ground. I looked down. The skin was
punctured big-time, but it wasn't flapping about.
Maybe the round that had hit me hadn't smashed
the bone. I couldn't tell.

Sonia had the back of the wagon open and
ready. Pete threw rather than loaded me in.
Rounds from both sides of the street smashed
against the armour. The GPMGs returned fire.
The gunner above me gave it max.

Sonia jabbed an autojet of morphine into my
arse and tore at my T-shirt with scissors. She
pulled a face. 'I might let off the odd fart, but I
don't bloody shit myself!'

I could hear Pete laughing with sheer relief as
he and Dom jumped in for cover. 'Fuck me, mate.
You're supposed to be looking after us!'

Another burst slammed against the armour
plating of the wagon and I heard two Warriors
scream up alongside us.

Somebody leant over me, high collar and batwings
silhouetted against the red light. His hand
was in the air. His fingers were gripped round a
plastic bottle. A tube ran down from it and into
my good arm.

A cannon kicked off a few rounds. Everything
jerked as we moved off again. The guy holding
the saline cursed as he tried to keep his balance.

I could see Warrior seats. I must be on the floor,
between the two benches.

We lurched off again and my head rolled to the
right.

Dom and Pete looked down at me. Pete was
filming.

'You'll thank me for this later, mate. One for
the family get-together . . .'

I sort of saw a smile behind the lens.

My head bumped on the steel floor and I
realized I didn't have my helmet on. I couldn't
remember it being taken off. Not that it mattered.
My head didn't hurt. Morphine rules.

One minute, two minutes, five minutes, an
hour later, for all I knew, the wagon stopped and
the door was pulled open. Scouse voices echoed
in the darkness.

'Get them out of there! I'm not fucking waiting
out here all day, you cunts – get them out!'

The guy with the saline shouted back, 'This
one first!'

Hands gripped me and floated me on to a
stretcher. Red night-lights and dark shadows had
been replaced by shot-to-fuck HESCOs and a sky
speckled with stars.

My new best friend with the drip stayed alongside
the stretcher as I jerked up and down. Dom
and Pete were nowhere to be seen. Boots
crunched over a stretch of rubble-strewn ground.
Seconds later I was blinking under blindingly
white light.

White tiles, white floors. Maybe six or seven
others lying on stretchers, bound up with awesomely
white dressings over filthy combats and
body armour.

A medic with rubber gloves on swam across
my vision. He was Ospreyed up and helmeted.
Wherever I was, they must be taking incoming as
well.

It had to be OSB. The place was permanently
under siege from indirect fire, small arms and
RPGs. One of their sangars held the record for
having the most contacts in the whole of Iraq.
The Chindits had even built earth ramps up
to the HESCO walls so their Warriors' 30mm
cannon could join in the firefights.

My stretcher was lowered on to a table. Within
seconds somebody was cutting off Sonia's field
dressing.

'It's OK, mate. It didn't hit a bone. Just a meaty
hole, that's all.'

A mortar landed close by and I must have
flinched. The guy doing the cutting was a Jock.
'It's OK. They'll get bored in a minute.'

Automatic fire kicked off from somewhere
above me. Maybe it was that record-breaking
sangar.

Through the blur, I could see Dom and Pete in
the room.

The Jock was cleaning my left hand now. The
liquid stank.

'Pete!'

They were busy talking to the guys, pointing at
me.

'Pete!'

A burst of Scouse came from behind me. 'You'll
be OK, la'!'

Rhett came into vision. He inspected the
wound as Dom and Pete stepped up beside
him.

Pete pointed at my Osprey. 'You copped this,
mate.'

I looked down like a drunk to see a blurred
couple of strike marks, almost indents in the
front plate. I couldn't see the ripped material
because it was covered with shit and mud.

Pete brought his camera up as Dom eased off
my body armour and one of the medics cut along
the inseam of my cargoes with a pair of scissors.

'Nick, they're going to clean you up here. As
soon as the attack stops Rhett's taking you back
to the COB with the other casualties. We'll see
you there after they've sorted you out.'

'You'll soon be sound as a fuck'n' pound.'
Pete's bad Scouse echoed off the tiles.

I tried to reach out to him with my good hand
and was told to stay exactly where I was. 'Pete
. . . thanks, mate . . .'

'Oh, fuck off.' He laughed. 'It's only 'cos I need
you.'

I must have frowned.

'You're a witness in the case of the floating
turd!'

I heard him laugh again, loud and long, and
then the world grew gradually calmer.

The morphine took effect.

I felt myself floating.

My world became a drowsy haze of dim red
light.