Death Comes for the Fat Man

15

It was dark when we reached the village.

There’s a lot of crap written about working behind enemy lines. Truth is, they had no lines. You could waste a whole day the way we’d just done hanging around in the middle of a lot of emptiness. And if you stumbled across a village, it didn’t matter what it said on the map. Sometimes you could stroll in, sit at a table in the local café, order a coffee, and watch while the locals ripped the Saddam posters off the wall and set fire to them for your approval. Other times the whole fucking place was a rats’ nest that the fly-boys would need to sanitize before our lads moved in.

There was a half-moon, and in its ghostly light the place looked almost picturesque. We hardly needed our kite lights to spot that Abdul was certainly here now, mainly because he was making no effort not to be spotted. This was because they were packing up to pull out. Not many of them either, just two armored trucks being loaded up and a couple of jeeps outside the only substantial house in the village. We went in closer. If they’d had perimeter guards, they must have called them in prior to the withdrawal.

My job was to check out whether they were holding prisoners. If I decided not, I’d wait till the trucks were on the move, then call in their direction so that the flyboys could take them out on the road. Result, dead Abdul, a clean settlement, and us on our way without anyone knowing we’d been around, which was the way we liked it.

The troops were climbing into the trucks. So far we’d seen no sign of anyone under restraint, and when the Abs were on the move with prisoners, they weren’t shy of showing them, reckoning that this lessened the chance of a blanket air attack.

Then Ginger said, “Shack, there’s a guy there wearing a flyboy’s headpiece.”

I checked it out through my bins. He was right. There was this Ab prancing around like a hairy Biggles. Got himself a nice trophy to impress the houris with. But still no sign of the poor sod he’d taken it off.

“Maybe they’re still in the house,” said Ginger.

I’d been thinking the same.

If they were, and if they weren’t brought out in the next couple of minutes, it meant one of two things. I knew for certain these bastards wouldn’t be leaving living prisoners behind. So either they were dead already or they would be before long.

All the lads had reached the same conclusion and were looking at me for orders.

Well, I had mine, which were, Observe, don’t make contact.

I knew that I should sit it out till I was certain they weren’t carrying prisoners with them, then call in an air strike to take out the column on the move while we went in to check out the village.

But I was 90 percent certain if I did that all I’d find were bodies.

I said, “Ginger, three minutes you and Lugs take out the trucks. The rest with me.”

We left them setting up the antitank guns and moved forward.

It was impossible to get close without being spotted by locals but those we saw faded rapidly away and made no effort to raise the alarm. Wise move. Sit it out, see who comes out on top, then start cheering-the formula for civilian survival since wars began.

We were less than fifty meters from the house when one of the trucks started up. At the same time two Ab officers who’d been standing by the jeeps talking went inside.

I didn’t imagine they’d gone to kiss their prisoners good-bye.

“Where the fuck are you, Ginger?” I began to say. But I needn’t have worried.

Next moment there was that familiar whoosh! and the nearest truck went up like a curry fart across a candle. Figures spilled out, many on fire. The second truck began to move. Another whoosh! Another exploding fart. We were already running forward, shooting at everything that moved. No one was in much of a state for shooting back and I left the lads to mop up and kept on going right into the building. There were two men and a woman in the first chamber. They didn’t look military but this was no time for introductions. I blew them away without breaking stride, went through another empty room and out into a small central courtyard.

In the middle was a bronze fountain in a sunken basin. It must have looked pretty when water was sprinkling from the jets into the pool below. But no water flowed now and the basin was dry and dusty.

But it wasn’t empty.

There were three figures sprawled in it. I didn’t pay them much heed to start with. I was more concerned with the two Abs who were in the courtyard.

One of them was standing on the edge of the fountain basin looking down, an automatic pistol in his hand. The other had an AKK which was pointed toward me. If he’d started firing as soon as I appeared, that would have been it. But the fact that I was wearing a burnoose over my desert kit made him hesitate a fraction and that was enough. I dropped them both with a single burst.

When I looked at the figures in the fountain, I hoped I’d only wounded the Abs. Their exit deserved to be a lot slower and a helluva lot more painful.

One of the captured flyboys was still wearing full flying kit. He looked as if he’d been badly injured when the chopper came down and had died by the time they got him in here.

He was the lucky one, I’d say.

The other two men in the basin were naked. They’d been bound with wire to the fountain. The wire had been so tightly twisted round their calves that the blood had stopped flowing to the flesh below, which was greeny-white. OK, they’d probably suffered some damage in the crash as well, but that was nothing to what had happened since. Their bodies bore the signs of beating, cutting, and burning. One of them was already dead, which was just was well as his eyes had been half gouged out. I thought the other was gone too but he suddenly raised his head. He still had one good eye which took me in, then his mouth opened but he couldn’t speak. I poured some water from my canteen into the palm of my hand and moistened his lips. Then I started to untwist the wire that bound him but I could see that it was pointless, and so could he.

He spoke, a low croaking noise, but I could make out what he said.

“Shouldn’t bother, old chap.”

I gave him some more water and this time he was able to drink.

I said, “Don’t worry, mate, you’re safe now,” and he made a sound which I think he intended as a laugh.

When he spoke again, his voice was stronger.

“Told these chaps I was entitled to a phone call, but they didn’t oblige. Any chance now?”

I thought he was delirious, then I saw what his one eye was looking at. The Ab with the pistol who’d been about to shoot him had a satellite phone in a pouch on his belt.

I bent down to remove it. The Ab opened his eyes. His mate was clearly dead but this one still had a spark. I gave him a promissory smile and took the phone. It was Eastern European I think, but basically the same as the ones in use back at base. I switched it on. The battery was charged.

I said, “Who do you want to ring?”

He said, “My wife,” and whispered a number.

I punched it in. I’m not a fanciful man but my mind was painting pictures now. It would be midnight back home. The phone would probably be ringing in a dark house. She’d hear it, sit up in bed, get up, and set off downstairs. She’d be part irritated, part concerned. Who could be calling at this time of night? It couldn’t be good news, that was for sure. Then she’d reach the phone and pick it up and…

“Hello?” said a woman’s voice in my ear.

I held out the phone but his fingers were broken and most of them had the nails ripped out, so I had to hold it to his ear.

“Hi, darling,” he said.

To me his voice sounded like glass crackling under a rolling pin, but there had to be enough there to recognize.

“Oh God,” she said. “Is that you?”

This was a conversation I didn’t want to listen to, but I had no choice. I tried to direct my mind away but when two voices a thousand miles apart are speaking the last words they’ll ever speak to each other, it’s impossible not to listen.

I won’t write their words here.

They wouldn’t look much if I did.

But at that time, in that place, with him knowing he was dying, and her beginning to understand it, they were so moving they blotted out for a moment the noise of gunfire and explosions in the street outside

But it couldn’t go on for long. It was a miracle he was still able to talk at all.

He stopped in midsyllable. And the din of battle returned.

And for me love stopped, hate returned.

I spoke into the phone.

“Sorry, love, he’s gone.”

What else was there to say? Nothing. Not then.

Maybe when I got home, I’d find this woman and tell her everything I knew about her husband’s death. She deserved that at least.

But for now I had more urgent business.

I bent over the Ab and gave him a drink from my canteen. He looked at me gratefully. Then he stopped looking grateful.

He only lasted a couple of minutes, which was disappointing.

I gave him one last kick and went to see if my lads had left any more of those murdering bastards for me to kill.