The Forgotten Land by Keith McArdle Page B

cut the air between 800 and 1000
metres per second, was red hot and simply passed straight through anything soft
in the way such as a human body. When a person was shot, there was an impact at
the point of entry, pink mist sprayed into the air, and if the bullet was
accurate and well placed, the soldier simply crumpled to the floor, as if he
had been suddenly knocked unconscious. Unless a soldier was wearing reliable
body armour when he was shot, it was rare to see anyone fly through the air.
    Steve
took a deep breath and fired a short burst at three advancing Kurds. He stood
up again and sprinted back. Throwing himself to the ground, he grunted as a
rock dug into his pelvis. The burst had wounded two men: one in the arm, the
other in the leg. Both were down, screaming their pain to the sky. Steve had
landed in tall grass and could not see the third enemy. He leant up and saw the
Kurd kneeling down beside his two wounded comrades. He was shouting at them, as
if being shot was their own fault. Again he started firing wildly at the
withdrawing Australians. Steve took aim and sent a short burst that ripped
through his chest. The man dropped motionless beside the two screaming men.
Several other militiamen had seen where Steve had fired from and directed their
assault towards him. Bullets zinged past him, one thudding powerfully into the
ground just two metres to his left. He kept his head down until the incoming
rounds found interest elsewhere. Steve looked up again, took aim and shot another
Kurd who was running towards them, shouting angrily and firing his AK47. He
sprayed the weapon from side to side as if he were playing a leading role in
The A-Team. The round took him full in the face and he dropped without a sound.
Steve ripped out the near empty magazine, shoved it down his shirt and pulled
out a fresh one before slapping it into the weapon.
    The
dull roar of a 40mm grenade exploded, sending up a thick cloud of dirt and
acrid, dark smoke. The distinctive bark of the Minimis continued as Dave and
Scott poured a murderous barrage on their pursuers. The fire fight was so
intense that it was difficult to hear the shots of individual weapons. The
noise was a continuous roar of violence.
    Steve
saw four Kurds dart behind a thick tree for cover. The ear- ringing BOOM of a
66 ripped through the air and the rocket sped towards its target, slamming into
the ground just behind the tree where the Kurds had taken cover. The explosion
sent a shock wave through the ground and blew the tree apart.
    Smoke
covered the scene for several seconds. Moments later, two of the Kurds stumbled
out, one with his face a mangled mess. The other militiaman had blood pumping
from his arm, his shirt was ripped, his chest was bleeding and his face was cut
to bloody ribbons. He had left his weapon behind and was staggering around in
confusion. Bullets ripped into both men and their torment ended before their
bodies hit the ground. The two remaining Kurds who had taken refuge behind the
tree must have been torn apart.
    “Stoppage!”
roared Dave. He cocked his machinegun and flicked it open to inspect the
ammunition belt. Stoppages occurred if dirt, grit or rocks got stuck in the
working parts.
    “Get
that gun up!” shouted Steve, as Matt sprinted back and dived to the ground,
providing covering fire for the next man to move back.
    The
Kurds were still in the fight. Several militiamen kept up a sustained rate of
fire from behind the destroyed truck and another eight or nine mimicked the
Australian soldiers, only they were fire-and- moving towards the withdrawing
men.
    “Almost
up!” Dave yelled, flicking out a piece of bent belt link that had caught up in
the working parts. Dave’s machinegun burst back into life, ripping into the
chest of a Kurd running towards a tree. The man went down. His face planed into
the earth and the forward momentum sent his body skidding a metre before it
came to a limp halt.
    Steve
sprinted back, threw himself down and