The First Battle
by
Mac Logan
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Mac Logan, 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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If you enjoyed this ebook, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by Mac Logan, including:
The Angels’ Share - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/122786
Fumble - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/123330
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Meg for her patience, cooking and support as I wrote and re-wrote The Angels’ Share.
Gale Winskill of Winskill Editorial deserves a mention for her forthright feedback and fast turnaround. She’s as professional as she is helpful.
Thanks to Mariana Sing for permission to use her picture “Keep Breathing” on the cover.
Thanks to Choice Voices for their willingness to help with audio-book production (audio version of The Angels’ Share out Spring 2012).
Thanks to Andrew L Phillips for his interest in taking my project to the film and TV world ... Watch this space!
Thanks finally to everyone else: family, friends and helpful strangers who read parts or the whole manuscript and shared their thoughts.
Note
The First Battle provides backstory for The Angels’ Share. It tells the story of the first battle early in Sam Duncan’s military career. It is a short war story pure and simple. The Angels’ Share is a conspiracy thriller with crime, corruption, adventure and mystery thrown in.
Chapter 1
‘Where’s the fuckin’ Falklands?’
‘The South Atlantic.’ Sam said.
‘Tell me more, Sir.’ Sam recognised the tone from officer training. Lowest of the low, one of the instructor sergeants had told him: I’ll call you “sir” and you’ll call me “sir”, there’ll only be one difference: I won’t mean it!’
‘Take a boat from Southampton, Sergeant. Sail into the North Atlantic (which is to the right, making sure to miss Ireland) go on for a bit; then hang a left and go south for thousands of miles.’
Fuss gave him a frosty stare and got an insolent half-smile back from his ‘green’ lieutenant. A week later they joined the Taskforce; trained hard on the long sea journey and, later, with a couple of fire-fights behind them, mutual respect and liking grew.
A soldier’s life included death, violence, boredom, physical discomfort, rage, terror and sadness. How could a person be unaffected by the harsh reality of war like the drawn out death of a young Argentinean? Sam and others watched as the youngster screamed for his mother in the strident universal language of fear and agony; fading, minute by minute, to silence and stillness, as his life ebbed away despite the efforts of the medics.
Active service; they weren’t kidding! Sam and his men fought with gun, grenade and bayonet. He experienced courage, cowardice, wonderful leadership, stupidity; and, one day, a battle by the sea.
Chapter 2
The briefing happened on a desolate windswept shore. Quentin Smythe, the Adjutant spoke to his officers as they squatted round a map. His clipped British military-style of speech conformed to stereotype as he spoke in a firm, precise style.
‘Best guess is they’ll defend with aggression from well dug in positions. Reconnaissance suggests we face quite a few regulars in this lot. Order and morale looks pretty good. Don’t expect an easy passage.’ He paused and made eye contact with each member of the group. ‘Right, you all know the goal, let’s review your orders. Baz, run your contribution past us.’ Smythe nodded to a sandy-haired, youthful lieutenant with quick-moving blue eyes.
Baz leaned over the map and, using the point of a pen described what his platoon would do in a nervous but determined-to-do-well voice.
‘We will head out at 19:00. We will position, invisible and silent, on the left facing the enemy position, and provide suppressing fire as needed. When Sam’s team reaches here,’ he tapped the map, ‘we will follow-up.’
Smythe acknowledged Baz in an affectionate, almost parental way. He nodded. ‘Good Baz, thanks.’ He wagged his finger at the sky with a knowing half-smile, ‘Remember, Baz, suppressing fire must keep enemy heads down. Follow-up must be quick. Be right on Sam’s heels as he engages. Delay means death.’
The next day Baz didn’t delay. He was right there for Sam, and dead before daybreak.
‘Now then Tonka.’ A dark haired man in his mid-twenties nodded, his impassive face betraying nothing. ‘Give us the low down.’
‘We will be crawling on to this lump here.’ He pointed to a map position almost due east of the objective. ‘This gives us a similar height to Baz and an enfilading position on the Argie’s line of defence and beyond. We have two snipers and some GPMGs. Our role is to sow fear, doubt and uncertainty. We will aim to take out some of the command structure and disrupt any coordinated response. We will engage when Baz starts and then follow up on foot to support Sam’s boys. The only worry is the fog of war. Let’s be careful not to shoot each other … especially if we disrupt them and get them moving westwards.’
‘Important point Tonka. Awareness lads. Kill the enemy, not each other! Night fighting is tough but we’re much better at it than the enemy are.’ Smythe summed up and then gave attention to the next officer in line, an older man; maybe thirty-five; a Captain of Artillery. Bill Weston was well liked by the men because of his sense of humour and solidity.
‘Bill, tell us about the hail of death you’re going to rain down on the enemy.’
Bill gazed at each of his colleagues in turn, establishing rapport. As ever, a half smile eased on to his mouth before he spoke in an almost casual, wry manner.
‘We’re going to give our Latin friends a bit of a mortaring. This will be peppered with some heavy machine gun support fire. And all will be spiced up by some NFGS (Naval Gunfire Support) to add a subtle je ne sais quoi. We have spotters in place to direct the heat.’
He was quiet for a moment then, adopting a more serious considered expression, became more military and precise.
‘Gentlemen, the show starts at 21:45. The bombardment will go on for fifteen minutes. A spotter will call early stoppage if Sam is early and seen. Don’t be early Sam. The fire won’t be friendly. You want to do your last 100 yards or so starting around 21:55. It’ll give you time to crawl through the soggy stuff. I’ll give you a call if there’s a change.’ Sam nodded. He’d be lucky to come out of the action with all his men intact.
‘One more thing chaps. Bad news is we don’t have much spare ammunition. We can only afford fifteen minutes of bombardment. After that, its bullets, grenades and bayonets.’
Smythe turned to Sam, at twenty, a youngster like Baz. Smythe wrinkled his eyes and nodded acknowledging the implicit danger in Sam’s task. ‘Last but not least, Sam, tell us your story.’
Sam spoke with clarity, his Scots brogue a counterpoint to the military English spoken by the others – except for Tonka who had a warm West Midlands accent. ‘We’re going to follow Baz out to his hidey hole. When he is in position we will advance, or should I say crawl, to this area here about fifty yards to the right and forward of Baz.’
He pointed to the map, made a circular motion over one area and continued. ‘Baz and his team will be ten yards higher than us and three yards above the enemy positions. No doubt the covering fire will be right on the money. It’s going to be a bit hairy, but with Baz, Tonka and Bill on our side, and we mustn’t forget the Navy, we need only run out from cover, take the surrender and get a gong or two for outstanding bravery.’
The team laughed as expected – all humour welcome on the eve of battle. Smythe shook hands with each one in turn, wishing them a brief ‘good luck.’ Sam turned to go when the Adjutant raised his hand. ‘A word please Sam.’ The others moved away.
‘Sir.’
‘This is your third point in a row Sam.’
‘Yes, Sir’.
‘The CO regrets putting you in again. We wish we could rotate this around a bit, but you and your team are useful when it gets a bit hot. Experience has its own price.’ A thin smile. ‘How are your men?’ Smythe said.
‘A bit cheesed-off, but accepting the need. We’ve been lucky to have only minor wounds so far. Bottom line, Sir, we’re up for it. We accept there’ll be a price sooner or later. Least said, and all that. We’ll do our job.’
Chapter 3.
In the damp night, fifty yards forward and to the right of Baz , Sam’s team stopped and hunkered down. The terrain: wet peat hag, shrouded in misty drizzle and strength sapping cold. When the troops lay down in cover the soggy ground soaked their kit and sucked the heat from their bodies.
A signal delayed the advance for three hours. Fuck! They were cold enough already. Moonlight added an eerie dimension to the boredom. The bombardment started 01:45, a lethal firework show, and, after five minutes Sam’s platoon made ready. The prospect of action livened the men up. Their eyes glittered with energy as they made ready. The splatter of rain against faces refreshed as adrenalin surged into muscle and bone. The dampness of hours of exposure was forgotten with the prospect of a fight. Focus, focus, focus. How well had the bombardment worked? They’d know soon enough.
‘Let’s get at ’em. Sam signalled the advance. They started moving to the crack of the snipers’ L42A1s, and the burping of GPMGs to the front and right.
They covered the first seventy yards or so without incident. Not every enemy head was down; the Argies had a strategy of their own and had entrenched some forty yards back from their original positions.
With a resounding whump a mortar shell landed forty yards behind Sam’s team, the sodden ground seemed to stifle the shrapnel. Whump! The next shell was damned close. The remnants of Joey Neil flopped through the air, camouflaged meat and bone; body parts and entrails splattering about. The enfilading GPMGs opened up on the mortars, tracer ripping into the enemy. Whump! Another shell went wide. Then some NGFS blasted into the mortar position from a frigate. No more mortar shells arrived.
The fighting didn’t stop. The sudden scream of a newly injured man wailed and went silent, friend or foe unclear. The crack of rifle fire rattled and continued in spasms. The slap of bullets into flesh and vegetation, the rip of machine guns, the explosions of shells and grenades combined with the beautiful ruddy glow of a burning hut; talk about surreal.
Chaos exploded in scattered clusters. Men dived into dark peaty cover watching out for comrades, ready to kill the enemy. The mantra was much the same whoever you fought for, stay orientated or die. Watchful people live. Awareness is all. The wild fire of fear translated into action and an uncompromising response: focused, killing anger.
They continued forward. Fuss, Sam’s sergeant, farther out to the right with a squad. They moved on elbows and knees using quick bursts of energy, benefiting from an Olympian stamina fuelled by surging adrenalin.A single shot. Another. A sputter of gunfire. The crack of bullets overhead.
They ran towards cover – sodden silhouetted hummocks; wind blown grasses waving like unkempt hair – and dived for squelching safety. After eight hours the two forces were well entangled as the brightness of daybreak came. In an instant, the fire-fight was all around; a storm of percussion and fireworks. Utter chaos.
Chapter 4.
Got to keep moving. His platoon spread out, Sam led a small group towards a narrow cleft. Muzzle flashes blossomed as soldiers moved forwards. An Argentinian machine gun pounded out a vicious new stridence to the rhythm of battle. The light-show was tracer; the dance was death. Everyone dived for cover friend and foe alike. Troops became separated in the lethal disarray. Training told.
Sam knelt behind a saturated lump of turf and rough grass. He breathed deep and exhaled with a steady hiss, calming himself, keeping his mind in control. Think! Think! A shape flopped to the earth beside him panting. One of his lads. ‘OK Cal?’ The words came out more like a statement of fact than a question. Corporal Calvin P. Martin, a big man, mumbled something that sounded affirmative between gasps.
The fire fight spluttered around them. They moved forward, then left down another mound and into a miniature valley. They peered through coarse grasses as the wind blustered and whistled. Their bellies blotting water, their hearts thundered as they crawled for an eternity. The centre of battle rolled towards them. Cal scrabbled onwards with brisk determination, his rifle moving between his elbows as feet and knees propelled him ahead. A sudden movement from the right seized Sam’s attention. He grabbed Cal’s ankle with his left hand. Both froze.
Four or five enemy burst from cover, moving fast. One ran into Cal hard and cursed him, fila da puta. The enemy gathered himself and turned raising his weapon. Cal, winded and squirming, tried to bring his gun to bear. He couldn’t make it in time. Three sharp cracks took half the Argie’s head off, Sam had rolled, fired and turned back on guard fast.
The foe’s body fell twitching two feet from Cal. Blood sprayed for an instant, red mist swirling away in the wind. His comrades kept going.
‘OK Cal?’
‘Fuck! Thanks boss.’
They moved on. No time to think about the horror as it happened. Afterwards in the boredom of waiting they remembered the violence, excitement and occasional nobility of a dangerous profession.
‘I’m going up for a wee recce.’ Sam said.
‘With you.’ Cal moved backwards to cover Sam. He saw the boss creep up another small hillock and dropping over the hump to disappear from view. From the right came a burst of far from friendly fire. Cal, now separated from Sam, shot back and got on with staying alive.
Chapter 5.
Sam listened to the exchange. Shit! He hoped Cal was okay. Tracer from a GPMG team was aimed uselessly some fifty yards to his right. As he changed his magazine, he sensed stealthy movement nearby, incongruous rustling between the crackle of passing bullets and the flat bangs of weaponry. The baddies were heading for his men. More tracer and a shout of pain, one of his men screaming … Do something! The emotion of the moment. His training clicked in. Cool, focused, a killer ready to rock and roll.
The rustling sound came again. Three enemy came over the hummock, none of them expecting to discover a Brit. The first two died barely registering something was wrong. The third shot Sam in the meaty part of his left thigh before receiving three rounds in the face and upper body.
‘Bastard!’ Sam struggled on, his flesh wound mercifully numb.
A grenade went off behind him. The shock wave was briefly disorientating but the shrapnel blew above him, well absorbed by the sandy soil of the hummock. The enemy made contact with his team. He glanced over a mound and spotted some men hunkered down; Soldiers who wanted to kill his men, firing at them.
Grenade in hand. Pin out. Count, lob, duck. Wham. Screams. He lobbed another. Bang! More screams. Back up. Find targets aim a short burst into each man … fast as you can. Cheers of relief. His guys opened up and the enemy fled. He exulted to the sound of his men fighting strongly and knew they had just won the engagement. Victory. Yabba Dabba! The pain in his thigh burst through like a runaway train. Sam hissed through his teeth as he assessed the wound; bloody sore but it didn’t seem too bad.
He missed the approach of the soldier who bayoneted him. His kit took the worst of the stab to his back. The man meant to kill him and stuck his boot on Sam’s pack as he tore the blade free. Sam shrieked in pain as the soldier lunged again, this time finding the gap in the side of his body armour. The blade sliced into his side. Sam grabbed the rifle barrel. Fear and self preservation gave him strength. He turned, pushed the blade out of his body and away. His antagonist slipped and fell backwards over the uneven ground.
Eyes blazing the man came back. Sam’s 9-millimetre Browning Hi Power knocked him down, but didn’t penetrate his flack jacket. The soldier got up and rushed him once more, face distorted by the frenzied rage of battle. Two more bullets towards the head, a spray of blood. The enemy didn’t get up this time.
Sam lay back, already starting to feel sleepy; relaxed, calm, warm... pain-free. The fight ended, they’d won. His men were experiencing survivors’ love for their leader; there when they needed him. Two came running up.
‘Nice one, Boss.’ Cal called. The boss didn’t move. ‘For Christ’s sake, Fuss! Fuss! The boss is down.’ Cal started to staunch heavy bleeding with a field dressing.
‘Radar! Radar!, You fuckin’ twat. Where are you?’ Fuss, called in his gruff Glasgow voice.
‘Here Sarge’.
‘MedEvac now!’
The professional sounds of radio contact began. Beside Fuss there was a moan.
‘Argie bastard,’ Said Smivvy. He slipped the safety off and brought his SLR up.
Fuss’s hand pushed the barrel down. ‘No fuckin’ way son.’
‘Come on Sarge. He stuck the boss. The bayonet’s right there.’
‘Battle’s over son. No more killin’ for now. Winkle tend to him.’ A squddie went over to the wounded enemy and knelt beside him.
Winkle jerked the Argie on to his back, and recoiled as blood spilled out of the man’s helmet and splattered about. The soldier groaned.
‘Listen you fuckin’ ignorant Scouse twat. I said save his life not fuckin’ torture him. If he dies I’m gonna have yer fuckin’ balls …’ Fuss gave Winkle a hard stare.
Winkle, gentle in an instant, got an ampoule of morphine from the kit and injected it into the enemy. He pressed a dressing on the squirting head wound and followed up with another on the man’s shoulder. The enemy coughed up some blood.
Chapter 6.
Sam became aware of a helicopter journey as he faded in and out. A blurred stream of calm speech giving co-ordinates; concerned voices cooing to him; gentle hands squeezing his arm. Another prick in the arm followed by the rosy glow of more morphine. A high. Soothing words … ‘gonna to make it’… ‘almost there’… a sense of being moved and body armour coming off … scissors and a chill draught on bared flesh.
Then a murmur near by.
‘We’ve got to open him up right now.’ A clear, authoritative voice. ‘Come on we need two more units for Christ’s sake!’
‘Who’s him?’ Sam said.
‘You.’
‘Oh.’
‘We think we can save you.’
‘Faaantastic, good stuff morphine; no pain, not a fuckin’ twinge.’ Sam said.
‘Right.’ A smile covered by a green mask.
‘You say I might die?
‘Not if we can help it.
‘Is there a Padre?’
‘Yes’.
‘I need a minute’.
‘Right. Padre, over here, please be quick.’ The surgeon said.
The Padre moved over and gazed at the bloody man in front of him. ‘Hello lad?’
‘Padre, I’m sorry for the killing. I love my family. Tell them for me … Please tell God I’m sorry for the men I’ve killed.’
‘I’ll tell ’em; God will understand about the killing.’
‘Thanks.’ They started to anaesthetise Sam. He faded away. The surgeon shook a weary head, looked away for a moment, sighed; he and his team did the emergency work, and saved Sam’s life.
Sam wasn’t the only surviver but three of his team died; two were badly wounded and one of them later invalided out of the Army.
Two weeks later as he recuperated with much less pain and some wry humour, he met the man who bayoneted him. Fuss made the arrangements. Alberto Arnaldo Evans was an Argentinean of Welsh descent. He spoke excellent English and was great fun.
‘Arnie’ had run out of ammunition – hence the bayonet. When Sam dropped him the bullet had ricocheted off his forehead, careered round the inside of his helmet, passed through his right deltoid muscle and fractured his collar bone before stopping somewhere in the top of his right lung. The second round had missed by a mile; no bad thing!
The helicopter trip saved two lives and created a friendship, with both men unaware of Fate’s agenda for them in years to come.
*******
Thanks for reading The First Battle. I hope you enjoyed it.
The Angels’ Share and other writing is available in most ebook formats (more titles to come!). Go to:
The Angels’ Share https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/122786
Fumble https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/123330
About me …
WRITING
My inspiration for The Angels’ Share series comes from first-hand experience of wasteful, inept and self-serving procurement practices in the public sector. With disturbing frequency there are press reports of uncontrolled costs and minimal accountability.
I have witnessed opportunistic exploitation and stunning incompetence, by both public and private sector people and organisations in both national and local government. This begs the question: why is incompetence and self-serving abuse allowed to continue?
In addition to The Angels’ Share series, there are two other writing projects in-hand: one is a Celtic ,spiritual warrior adventure story, set in Roman times, with preliminary research and writing begun; the other, having written over twenty published articles, involves the human side of work.
ME
A ‘son of the manse’ I lived in North America as a child. I am British and Scottish with a strong affinity for Americans.
After a somewhat spotty school career, I did various jobs including time as a shepherd on the island of Mull. I became a middle manager in an engineering company at the age of twenty three. By twenty six I was running a training group of twenty SMEs (Small and Medium-sized Enterprise) manufacturing companies in thirty locations. When I was thirty I joined a UK national multiple retailer and manufacturer as Head of HR (Human Resources).
Next, I started my own company as a business advisor, organisation/team development and change specialist. I worked extensively in the public and private sectors, from blue chip to SME. I was often hired by organisations to troubleshoot people and team problems.
Finally I founded and became CEO of an IT firm. I left after eight years and became a writer, business advisor, non-executive director and member of a charity that provides advocacy support for people with learning difficulties.
I've known good times, hard times and have travelled a bit.
Apart from short ebooks, the next novel in the Sam Duncan series, DarkArt, will be published in summer 2012.