than it already was. We booted it over the rocks, only dropping Stan twice, which was funny for us, but not so funny for him. It properly hurt, the poor sod! We had six kilometres to go until our extraction point. The ground looked tough going from here and Stan wanted to stop. “Let me rest, mate, I’m shattered. I feel like crap, bud.” I told him to sod off and we continued. Looking over my shoulder, I could see we were not being followed: well, not for now anyhow.
We dropped Stan once more on the way to the extraction point. I put him down on the ground to check his wound, which was still bleeding heavily, and I worried for the poor bugger. I still hadn’t grieved for Nig yet. That would come later.
Keith prepared everything for the chopper landing. We had dumped half our kit back in the hideout , so it was minimal. We still carried most of the hot kit anyhow; we’d only bunged shit like sleeping bags and clothes: nothing of any importance.
“Hold on , Stan my old mate! The chopper’s coming.” Stan was unusually quiet.
Keith was worried for Stan; he started playing with his fingers.
“Shall we go back for Nig, mate?”
“No , Keith, no – it’s too dangerous. Now keep an eye out for the bird, mate.”
I could hear her coming. She must have been nearly two or three miles out , and I couldn’t see her but I could hear her.
I popped a green smoke grenade to call the chopper onto our position. The air filled with a green haze.
“There she is, Michael!”
I felt shattered.
Keith guided the black hawk down. We had an Apache escort: I felt honoured! Once the bird had landed Keith and I picked up Stan and threw him into the chopper. The door gunner grabbed hold of him and a medic took over: he was in safe hands now. Keith and I jumped inside and sat down. I felt overwhelmed by the situation but I shouted over to the door gunner that we had lost one man. He stuck his thumb up and said he knew: it was being sorted now.
As I sat in that chopper, I felt sad that Nig was gone. I would miss him so much; he was a bloody cracking lad. Keith was asleep already and not long after I joined him.
A week later they flew Nig back to the UK, where his family and friends had him cremated. We were not invited, nor was anyone from the regiment. Stan, on the other hand, made a full recovery and was back on his feet in no time. Keith was awarded the Military Cross for his brave actions under fire: he had put the first rounds down.
I never spoke to Keith again, nor Stan until we met up at a reunion a year or so later. I saw Keith across the bar, biting down on a sausage roll. I walked over to him, treading very carefully as you might imagine. Stan walked up behind me. We patted each other on the back, had a few cheers, and raised our glasses to Nig.
Chapter Five: Sabre Six – File 51
London 2013 – Hannah’s Funeral
I woke up to Griffer howl ing downstairs in the kitchen. He was getting louder and louder, the attention seeking little bastard! I grabbed hold of my comfortable pillow, and then flattened it across my head: I could still bloody hear him.
“Shut up Griffer , you weirdo!” He continued barking undeterred.
I pulled th e duvet over my head feeling overwhelmed by the day already. I just wanted to sleep and escape the realities of life.
Eventually I fell asleep. I had a dream where I was blind, I was blind and yet I could still see: it was dreadful, man, bloody dreadful. I used a mirror image in my mind to map out a grey, mystical picture so I could walk about in my dream. I was walking with friends and family, seeking sympathy for my disability. It wasn’t until nearer the end of my chaotic dream, that I regained my full sight, only to be blinded by the sunlight. Now that was some serious shit, man! I woke up recalling the bizarre dream – weird.
I pulled myself out of my bed and went downstairs. On investigating the cupboards I found I needed a pint of milk, a
We dropped Stan once more on the way to the extraction point. I put him down on the ground to check his wound, which was still bleeding heavily, and I worried for the poor bugger. I still hadn’t grieved for Nig yet. That would come later.
Keith prepared everything for the chopper landing. We had dumped half our kit back in the hideout , so it was minimal. We still carried most of the hot kit anyhow; we’d only bunged shit like sleeping bags and clothes: nothing of any importance.
“Hold on , Stan my old mate! The chopper’s coming.” Stan was unusually quiet.
Keith was worried for Stan; he started playing with his fingers.
“Shall we go back for Nig, mate?”
“No , Keith, no – it’s too dangerous. Now keep an eye out for the bird, mate.”
I could hear her coming. She must have been nearly two or three miles out , and I couldn’t see her but I could hear her.
I popped a green smoke grenade to call the chopper onto our position. The air filled with a green haze.
“There she is, Michael!”
I felt shattered.
Keith guided the black hawk down. We had an Apache escort: I felt honoured! Once the bird had landed Keith and I picked up Stan and threw him into the chopper. The door gunner grabbed hold of him and a medic took over: he was in safe hands now. Keith and I jumped inside and sat down. I felt overwhelmed by the situation but I shouted over to the door gunner that we had lost one man. He stuck his thumb up and said he knew: it was being sorted now.
As I sat in that chopper, I felt sad that Nig was gone. I would miss him so much; he was a bloody cracking lad. Keith was asleep already and not long after I joined him.
A week later they flew Nig back to the UK, where his family and friends had him cremated. We were not invited, nor was anyone from the regiment. Stan, on the other hand, made a full recovery and was back on his feet in no time. Keith was awarded the Military Cross for his brave actions under fire: he had put the first rounds down.
I never spoke to Keith again, nor Stan until we met up at a reunion a year or so later. I saw Keith across the bar, biting down on a sausage roll. I walked over to him, treading very carefully as you might imagine. Stan walked up behind me. We patted each other on the back, had a few cheers, and raised our glasses to Nig.
Chapter Five: Sabre Six – File 51
London 2013 – Hannah’s Funeral
I woke up to Griffer howl ing downstairs in the kitchen. He was getting louder and louder, the attention seeking little bastard! I grabbed hold of my comfortable pillow, and then flattened it across my head: I could still bloody hear him.
“Shut up Griffer , you weirdo!” He continued barking undeterred.
I pulled th e duvet over my head feeling overwhelmed by the day already. I just wanted to sleep and escape the realities of life.
Eventually I fell asleep. I had a dream where I was blind, I was blind and yet I could still see: it was dreadful, man, bloody dreadful. I used a mirror image in my mind to map out a grey, mystical picture so I could walk about in my dream. I was walking with friends and family, seeking sympathy for my disability. It wasn’t until nearer the end of my chaotic dream, that I regained my full sight, only to be blinded by the sunlight. Now that was some serious shit, man! I woke up recalling the bizarre dream – weird.
I pulled myself out of my bed and went downstairs. On investigating the cupboards I found I needed a pint of milk, a
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