Cradling the AR15 tightly across his chest, instinctively covering the working parts, he prepared to move. Taking a deep breath he steeled his body in anticipation of a fresh assault of cold water. He checked all his pockets and the fastenings on all the pouches that hung off his belt. Every movement was an effort, as his hands were numb and his limbs stiff. He rubbed his knee, trying to restore circulation, pre-empting the pain that was sure to follow.
From under his green and black patterned smock he pulled out his watch, which was suspended around his neck with a length of para cord. ‘So far so good,’ he thought, nervously fingering the two syrettes of morphine that were taped either side of the watch. ‘I hope I won’t need these,’ he mused, stowing the necklace back inside his clothing.
He straightened up slowly, overcoming the pain of protesting joints, and moved to the front of the bay. He crouched low with his weapon ready, flicking the safety catch on and off. He stayed in the shadows beside a piece of machinery, knowing that soon he would have to cross the curtain of light that illuminated the fence. For the first time he realised he was hungry. Food might ease the gnawing sensation in his stomach.
Trying to remember when he last slept or had a proper meal was too much for his mind to process; only the dangers at hand seemed relevant. He couldn’t afford to dwell on creature comforts.
Inactivity had caused his feet to go numb, so he took it in turns to put all his weight on one foot while he wriggled the toes on the other. He did the same with his hands, changing over the weapon regularly from one hand to the other. His knees were burning and a small nagging pain in his back reminded him of the free-fall descent he had made recently. It all seemed so long ago, like part of a sketchy dream he barely remembered.
As he scanned the area his eyes kept returning to the same object, slightly behind him and suspended six feet from the ground. It was long, white and menacing. It had four small fins sprouting a few feet behind a needle-sharp nose, with four larger triangular ones towards the rear. He was close enough to be able to make out the bold black lettering stencilled on its side. The word ‘AEROSPATIALE’ revived distant memories.
Sometimes the eyes can play tricks on you, especially after they have been battered continuously by rain and wind, and the soldier thought he might have imagined seeing a shadow that wasn’t there a minute ago. It caused a tightening in his throat and a strange flutter in his heart. He studied the area, and sure enough the shadow got bigger. ‘Here we go again,’ he thought, easing off the safety catch and bringing the butt of the rifle up to his shoulder.
For a man who had had less than two hours sleep, Tony looked remarkably alert. Settled well down in the driver’s seat but with his head erect, he overtook the slower motorway traffic with no apparent effort. His driving was smooth, anticipating what the other road users were doing. He looked as far forward as possible, dealing with things before they happened so they wouldn’t impede his progress. He checked his mirrors regularly, knowing exactly what was behind him. Although he was relaxed, he played little games that helped pass the time. He looked at car number plates and from the letters made up abbreviations.
He found driving gave him time to think and consider his life. The long line of lorries in the inside lane brought back childhood memories. As a kid he had wanted to be a lorry driver. His uncle would pick him up in the school holidays and take him on trips in a timber truck. It was an ex-army vehicle, and Tony thought his uncle had the best job in the world. He looked at all the trucks he was now passing, however, and didn’t envy the drivers at all. His dream of being a lorry driver was soon replaced by the urge to become a racing driver. At the house where he was born in South-East London, his mother had an upright mangle; for hours he would sit at one end and pretended the large cast-iron wheel was a steering wheel, controlling a Ferrari or Maserati.
The weak April sunshine favoured driving: visibility was good and the traffic light. Contrary to the weather forecast it was dry at present, but clouds were building up and the dark sky ahead looked ominous.
Tony was dreading having to use the wipers because he knew the washer bottle was empty. Due to the early morning start he was pushed for time. The lifeless form beside him was partly to blame for this. All the dirt on the screen would just get smeared if the rain was light, and he hated driving if his vision was impaired.
Although the sun was welcome it could be a nuisance. It was in his eyes when he was heading east to London in the morning, and again as he returned west towards Hereford in the afternoon. He had lost his sunglasses and refused to buy a new pair. ‘They’re for posers,’ he thought, tenderly rubbing his ear.
He started whistling ‘April Showers’, keeping it quiet to avoid disturbing his companion. He gave up after a few bars as his swollen lips couldn’t form the notes properly. He took a swig from the water bottle he had beside him, trying to lubricate a mouth that tasted like the bottom of a baby’s pram.
A lot had happened in the past three weeks, and Tony started reflecting on recent events. Three weeks ago the entire regiment was assembled in the Blue Room. This was a converted gun shed and the only place big enough to accommodate everyone. It echoed with the sound of many voices trying to work out what this gathering was all about. The din ceased abruptly with the appearance of a tall, authoritative figure who stared fiercely at his audience. When he was finally satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he began speaking.
‘Gentlemen, at 0830 hours this morning a large force of Argentinian marines invaded the Falkland Islands.’ The Colonel went on to explain how this affected the nation and what they were going to do about it. Most people in his audience didn’t have a clue where the Falklands were. Some thought they were off the coast of Scotland.
Since this briefing A and D Squadrons had been despatched southwards to assess the situation. Tony had watched their departure with envy and was wondering when his turn would come. Rumours spread faster than dysentery at times like these.
A loud rumbling noise caused by running over cat’s-eyes brought Tony back to the present. The repeating vibrations transmitted up the steering column went through his shoulders to his neck, causing his head to shake and reminding him of the fragile condition of his head.
After a heavy night in the club he was wishing he had taken the soft option and had an early night. He was grateful that the three-hour journey was mainly on motorways and his partner could drive the return leg.
At present, however, the guy slumped in the seat next to him wasn’t any use to man or beast. His breathing was slow and deep, broken only occasionally by a loud snatch for air. This happened every time he forgot to breathe, which became more frequent the longer he slept. Contorted as he was, tangled up in the seat belt in a foetal position, it was a wonder he could breathe at all. A road atlas lay open on the floor with its pages crumpled under a pair of well-worn chukka boots, carelessly discarded. These emitted a strong smell of mature feet, intensified by the efficient heater. But the smell, instead of offending Tony, gave him a sense of security, knowing he had a comrade close by. As much as he would like to relax like his passenger, he opened the window to let in fresh air.
Yesterday afternoon he had played rugby, and he was now feeling the after-effects. His ears were so tender that he could hardly bear to touch them. This was the main reason why he didn’t open the window more often – the inrush of air was too much. They still bore traces of Vaseline because of their tenderness, and they had