The Nationalist (26 page)

As the tanks moved into position, the German firing began. Heavy artillery pounded positions, creating new craters and bringing more death. Jock’s role in the operation had obviously been spotted early on and his position became a priority target. Knock him out and the assault could falter through lack of communication. Of the eight men he was with, five died within the first hour. Jock turned round to ask for additional wire to see a comrade dropping to the ground. The single bullet hole in his forehead was to become a lasting memory.

Looking towards Cassino the brief but persistent flare of gunfire illuminated German positions within the rubble.

“Get moving, Jock,” barked today’s commanding officer, “We need to get a line as close to town as possible. You’ll need to work round the edge of the lake.”

“Yes, sir,” but Jock wasn’t sure how easy the task would be. There didn’t look to be any substantial cover and the hilltop German position was now focusing on ground troops. Already they had suffered significant casualties. Working with Bill, Jock dragged their cabling from crater to crater, crouched down to avoid the overhead crossfire. They went out one at a time, keeping low and moving fast; terrified but focused.       

“You alright, Bill?”

“I’m good. I’ll go first this time. You see that three storey building to the west of town?”

“Aye.”

“If we can get in front of that we’ll be out of the line of fire. It’ll be safer – might give us a minute to think.”

Jock nodded, “Good luck.” Bill clambered out of the rocky crater and slid over the top. With the cable holder in hand the wire shook as Bill moved forward. “Christ, when will this shite ever end?” Suddenly the cable stopped moving. Bill must have made the next crater. Here we go again. We can do this, we can.

Crawling towards the ridge Jock was forced back by a targeted volley of gunfire from a sniper – followed by a scream.

“Bill is that you? Are you alright mate?” The only response was an agonising wail. Jock tried to move out of the crater but was pinned down by gunfire. Sitting back and using his binoculars he could see that German troops were now moving into the ruins of the monastery; they hadn’t been there after all. After a couple of hours it became clear to Jock that he was not going to be able to move until night time. As the hours passed Jock listened as Bill wore himself out and his screams turned to groans, then silence.

“Where are you hit, Bill?” Jock shouted when the sound of battle had died down.

“It’s my leg, it’s my fucking leg. I can’t feel anything.”

“Are you safe?”

“I’m in a crater, but I’m up to my waist in water. I’ve got company too, there’s some poor bastard’s body. If I stay here too long, this wound will get infected. I can’t die like this, Jock, not after everything we’ve been through.”

“You’re not going anywhere, mate. Don’t worry.” But as the hours passed it was clear that rescue was not going to be easy. Jock’s plan to move in darkness proved fruitless. The German sniper had Vampir night vision sights, which gave him the means to hit any target at any time of day. Eventually, after hours of silence, Jock made it over the top but he couldn’t see where Bill was. He was out of sight and with no natural light it was difficult to get his bearings. The shot which hit him came without warning, throwing him back into the crater, the impact shattering his right shoulder.

When he woke up, the agony was almost overwhelming. It was early morning and Jock was lying flat on his back. Overhead, through heavy rain, he could see a British reconnaissance plane. Apart from the thundering patter of raindrops there was no other noise. Two hours later the allied artillery bombardment began again in earnest. Shells were landing all around and Jock knew he had to leave. Tentatively peering over the ridge he was relieved not to be met with enemy fire.

He darted forward, staying low, scanning the landscape for a likely bolthole. He saw Bill’s head first. He was lying back in a shallow pool of water which had formed in a bomb crater. A dismembered leg floated, partially submerged in the murky water. Bill wasn’t moving. Jock slid down into the filthy mire and propped up his friend, careful not to expose his own wound to the filth around him.

“Are you still alive?”

“Took your fucking time didn’t you?” Bill whispered, his voice was rough and breathless.

Jock laughed, but he knew the situation wasn’t good, “I’m just going to check your leg mate; this might hurt a little.” Bill spluttered but nodded his approval. Putting his hand under the water Jock felt for Bill’s boot. His hand was cut open by a piece of shrapnel below the surface. Finally he found the boot and lifted the leg. He could see the wound was already infected. Jock had seen it before – gangrene. In the distance he could hear the sound of British troops moving forward. Rubble moved at the ridge of the crater and a soldier appeared, with his rifle aimed directly at them.

“How long have you been here?”

“Two days.”

“Time to get moving soldier – is your pal OK to be moved? He’s not looking too pretty.”

“He’ll be fine,” but as Jock looked back he knew that salvation had come too late for Bill, who was too far gone.

By the end of three days of fierce fighting the 6th battalion had been reduced from 1000 men to 97. The operation had failed.

45

Present day – November 10
^th

Jock Smith woke up in pain, as usual. His short, rasping breathes meant he was forced to wear an oxygen mask overnight. He’d been diagnosed with emphysema two months ago and was finding it increasingly difficult to get around, to inhale. When he’d gone to the hospital for tests Jock had spoken to another patient with the same condition; someone who was much further down the line. He had described his condition as a being like a living hell. Jock had already lived through one hell, and wasn’t ready to return just yet. In a way the diagnosis had helped him prepare to carry out the plan. He had met Ian Wark through James Wright. All three shared a common bond through the armed forces. They had all suffered at the hands of their country, and for no good reason. The days of the UK as a world power had ended, in Jock’s mind, after the Second World War. But today they were still involved in international conflict. Innocent people were still dying from British bullets, and at the same time nuclear weapons remained at Faslane Naval Base. During the war Jock had applauded when the atomic blasts levelled the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, because it meant an end to the fighting. That tens of thousands of people died didn’t seem relevant. Over time, though, he realised mankind had created its own time-bomb, and as more countries clamoured to hold the balance of power in an unwinnable war, the more it became increasingly unstable, yet still clung stubbornly to the delusion of peace. Through his ties to the communists, Jock had campaigned against the bomb, against the Westminster elite, and against what Britain had come to represent. Ultimately this was a fight he found he could not win, but through the gradual rise of nationalism Jock found a new cause to further his ambitions, and transform his native Scotland.

Today he was meeting Ian Wark for what would be that last time. Jock sat and waited in his single bed flat on Kersland Street, where he lived alone. The buzzer went. Jock looked at his watch – 11:00am, right on time.

“How you doing, Jock? Are you still good to go?” Ian said.

“That’s an insensitive choice of words, given the circumstances.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian looked sheepishly at the floor, “Are you ready for this?”

“I’m fine. Have you got everything we need?”

“Right here,” Ian swung a green army rucksack onto the kitchen table. Untying the lace at the top of the bag he pulled back the canvas. Inside, there was an assortment of hand guns, ammunition, and most importantly the plastic explosives.

“How much have we got?”

“More than enough, about eight pounds; I’ve got a contact at the airport who is involved with the extradition flights the Yanks bring into Prestwick. It’s a risky venture, but no-one suspects anyone would be bold enough to use a CIA flight to smuggle in contraband. Their work in Libya means there’s still a steady stream of bodies coming through Scotland; we’re lucky to have them. Do you still feel comfortable about this?”

Jock nodded. He took out the largest block of encased C-4, “Let’s go through this one more time.”

On Remembrance Sunday Jock woke up at 5:00am. He couldn’t sleep, and he wanted to see the sun rise one last time. In silence he sat in his living room and watched as the sun’s rays rose over the tenements, with shafts of light tapering across the roof tops, reaching down to street level. He washed himself and stood naked in front of his dressing table, assessing his decaying body in the mirror. He was an old man now, but the scars he had picked up as a boy were still visible. He had been badly wounded at Monte Cassino when a sniper’s bullet had shattered his shoulder. Later, he had been knocked flat by a shell blast, and a shard of metal had sliced him open from his stomach up to his right elbow. He had been stitched up and recovered but every time he saw his reflection he was transported back to the barren battlefields he had lived through in Italy. He hated his country for what it had done to him and to his friends. He had spent decades trying to change things but had failed – so far. He left at 9:00am. At the newsagent he picked up a copy of the Sunday Herald. The front page said support for the nationalists had dropped by 2%. The reporter suggested that if Scotland went to the polls today the ‘Better Together’ campaign would enjoy 60%+ support. Jock shook his head. There was a real chance of an alternative now and he would do what he needed to be done to point people in the right direction. On the subway people stood out of his way and offered him a seat. He was wearing his regimental cap and carrying a large red poppy wreath. They knew he was making his way to George Square to pay his respects. Jock felt quite calm, although his illness was slowing him down, and he was concerned at one point that he might not make it. At Nelson Mandela Square he stumbled and almost fell. A younger man stopped to help. He was a Major in the Royal Regiment of Scotland. Jock clung to his arm as he tried to steady himself. Despite it being November it was a reasonably warm day. The Major introduced himself as Charles Brown. Jock stopped in the street, coughing violently.

“Are you OK there, sir?” The Major was smiling; he was trying to be kind.

“I’m knackered. I’ve not got long left.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re fit enough to be here aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll be around for a while yet.”

“I should have stayed at home but I’m here to lay a wreath for the Monte Cassino Society.”

“If you’re struggling, I’d be more than happy to lay it on your behalf; it would be an honour.”

“It’s very kind of you to offer.”

“It would be my pleasure. I’ll be in the Cenotaph so I won’t be able to go forward to lay the wreath until after the service. I hope that’s OK?”

“That would be perfect.”

The Major took the wreath and made a weighing motion with the tribute, “No wonder you’re struggling. This thing’s quite heavy, what’s it made of?”

“I make them myself, and always the same way, with a lead base so they don’t blow away. Thank you for taking it for me,” He hesitated a second before adding, “And I’m right sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry to ask you to do this. I don’t mean to upset you.”

Charles Brown nodded. He looked confused, “It’s no trouble. It was nice to meet you.”

Jock said his farewells and watched as the Major joined the dignitaries behind the Cenotaph enclosure. Jock watched as he took his place out front for the service; and nodded when he saw the wreath placed behind him; it was an unexpected bonus. Jock joined the body of people waiting for the Sunday service. Looking around it was with some satisfaction that he realised that there must be several hundred people there, much higher numbers than in recent years. When the service started, thoughts drifted to old battles, lost friends, and the continuing conflict overseas. The Minister spoke of times of sacrifice and of freedom. The crowd was asked to keep the memories of the fallen forever in their minds, as without them the country would not be what it is today. Jock’s resolve grew with every word. The death and sacrifice had not been worth it. If all those fighting in the World Wars knew that the country would become what it is today he doubted they would have bothered to get out of bed. As the trumpet sounded the Last Post, flags were lowered to the ground and the crowd’s concentration drifted from the Cenotaph to personal thoughts. Jock knew this was his moment. He cursed when his illness chose that moment to slow him down. He coughed and wheezed when he knew he should be walking. His hands reached inside his overcoat pockets where he stabbed the detonator into his plastic payload; it was now ready and primed – there could be no turning back. The explosives were strapped to his torso and were weighing him down. As he stepped out of the formation he made his way slowly towards the Cenotaph. A tear came to his eye when he remembered the howls of pain his friend Bill Clements had let out through his dying moments at Monte Cassino. The memories flooded back of the years of struggle, strike, and family misfortune which had dogged him. He felt his old scar throb with a remembered agony as he moved closer to his final target. At the foot of the Cenotaph it all became too much and he stumbled. No-one had been looking at him until that point, but now he saw a familiar face. The Lord Provost had seen the tears in his eyes and moved forward to help. He was within the enclosure now, surrounded by people. The Provost leaned forward and whispered, “You shouldn’t be here right now. This is not the time.”

She did not expect his response as Jock’s remorse turned quickly to anger. His fingers wrapped around the detonator and he leered at his would be Samaritan, “This is exactly the right time. This is our time. Right here, and right now – Scotland Unite.”