A little bit different for me this one. One for Harry and the lads maybe, who I honestly hope enjoy it.
Sorry if any of the technical side is a bit out, but I've got a bit rusty about these things these days, so I've done my best within time constraints. Please enjoy, please vote and feel free to comment.
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I felt the compacted sand under feet change to tarmac as I followed my four colleagues towards the great aircraft that loomed there in the darkness in front of us. The plane was an American transport, a C130 Hercules. On this cold and windy night it was just my compatriots and I that were it's miniscule charge. Five members of the British SAS, all dressed up and ready to go for our night out in black fatigues, black boots and black balaclavas, our hand and faces smeared with ample quantities of her Majesty's Government's very best black camouflage. Our own mothers wouldn't have seen us if we'd passed by more than ten feet from them. A very small load indeed for such a big plane, but those that make those decisions thought it worth it.
Our weaponry was light, a selection of light machine guns, standard Browning HD pistols and our knives strapped to our thighs ready for close quarter fighting. That night we were being dropped way out in the desert where our guys had been made most unwelcome for some time; not to take on the enemy ourselves but to use the equipment that three of them carried on their backs to direct an American airstrike. That would be followed by a full head on attack by a large detachment of crack Yank troops from the north, while a smaller force of Brits would be parachuted in to the hills in the South to cut off the escape of the bastards we were in battle against.
Us Brits, and them Yanks argued and disagreed with one another constantly about everything from which was the real football, whether you should drink beer ice cold or not, how you pronounced tomato, to the shape we liked our women. But by Golly, as so many wars had shown, when we fight side by side then the other side had better take cover.
AFGANISTAN --- 2010 ---- JUST NORTH OF HELMAN PROVINCE ----- 1.45 IN THE MORNING ----- TEN DAYS AGO!
We approached the waiting flying machine, sitting there like a black bird waiting to devour us, walked under its high wing and with a last check from the Major counting us out, we scrambled easily up the cold metal ramp that had been lowered to welcome us. Once inside the belly of the great beast we obeyed the orders of the young, but huge black loading master with hardly a grin, politely listening to his instructions about how things were done by what he claimed to be the best air force in the world. He was a big sod, so who were we to argue, even though between us we'd maybe jumped out of more aeroplanes than he'd ever flown in.
Once strapped in, we heard the engines wind up, and soon we were bumping along the uneven approach way, all with our own thoughts about what the next twenty four hours would bring -------- Assuming we survived long enough to reflect upon it of course.
In fairness that night's mission was what we would call a doddle. The biggest risk was landing on unknown terrain in the dead of night, and then we'd lay up, direct the Yank bombers in, and then wait for the 7th cavalry or whoever to come galloping in and save us.
Well ---- Something like that! And if someone didn't arrive to give the guys a lift home, then it was going to be an awful long walk back home.
Not quite true though!
That's what my four colleagues and friends would be doing, but not me. NO! I had another mission, albeit a totally unofficial one.
The engines reached an inferno and we felt the acceleration as our mother ship roared down the runway, the infernal row from the wheels on the rough runway through the un-insulated fuselage, suddenly dying away as the great bird broke its earthly bonds and took to the sky.
As expected the pilot turned into a wide circle, partly to gain ground and partly to confuse any unfriendly eyes as to which direction we might be going. What wouldn't have been expected at that moment was that he let the loading ramp back down again.
"Good luck Sarge," shouted each of my guys above the roar of the plane as I passed them, each of them more than happy to be doing what they were scheduled for rather than the task that had fallen to me. They were good friends and we'd fought side by side enough that I knew wild horses wouldn't drag the fact that I hadn't been with them the whole time. If our commanding officer questioned them, then they'd tell him immediately of course. But he wasn't going to ask them anymore than the two Yank pilots up front that three of us dragged back from behind enemy lines after they'd crashed, less than two months ago were. And the loading master? It was a risk, but I'd been assured that he'd know to keep his mouth shut.
Taking a pre-prepared smaller rucksack from my back pack, and with a final salute and good luck wishes both ways, I ambled down to the back of the aircraft, and launched myself into the unwelcoming darkness as I felt the expected tap on my shoulder.
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From the height that I jumped one didn't worry about freefall, the chute snapping open almost as soon as I exited the plane, yanked out by the ripcord to make sure that it did. Within moments I found myself dangling above the darkened countryside, only the dimmed lights from the base that we had just left to guide me. Too quickly the ground rushed up to greet me and a little harder than I would have hoped for, I hit the ground.
Up on the rebound, I gathered my chute, bundled it up and hid it under a nearby scrubby bush. Maybe sometime some lucky tribesman would find it, and who knows, maybe some lucky tribesman's wife and daughters might find themselves with enough fine underwear to last them a lifetime.
Then I yomped!
A term made popular during the Falklands when British Special Forces almost galloped rather than marched miles across the Island to surprise the Argentinean forces before defeating them around Port Stanley. In no time at all, I approached the perimeter fence to the base, formidably guarded, but no problem to the forces who had redesigned the defences recently and regularly tested them out to check them ever since. Panting hard but confident, I was soon inside and making my way back over to the very airfield that I had left from less than half an hour previously.
Time was of Importance!
A quick face wash and donning a borrowed great coat from my rucksack, just in time, I joined the end of a queue of British servicemen boarding yet another transport plane ---- yes one of those big fuckers again, but this time one of the later C130Js.
"Seventy seven?" queried the erk counting us on board. "Shouldn't there be ......"
"Go back to school laddy," butted in the burly Scots guardsman who commanded the squad. "You can't count."
"But Sir," the young lad complained. "There should only be seventy six."
"Are you calling me a liar laddy?" the Scotsman demanded, raising himself to his full six foot five of brawn and muscle.
"No sir, sorry sir," the erk backed down and went about his business.
"Find yourself a seat Tim lad," the Scot, an old pal of mine, whispered to me and I merged in with the others knowing that they would be more interested in getting home to see their loved ones than to give any thought to the late arrival.
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The flight back to Blighty is bloody long on one of those things, especially when you have to land to refuel, conserving fuel in Afghanistan for those that might need it more than we did.
Uncomfortable as well.
Bloody miserable also when I had to contemplate the problem that I was flying home to deal with.
It started as a rumour. They were common enough in the services. There was always someone or other's wife up to monkey business.
But not my wife, not Jill, my beautiful, blonde bundle of fun that I'd fell in love with at school. It was the legs I guess, not that the rest of her wasn't fantastic. But with legs that seemed to go up to her armpits she was the only woman that I'd ever wanted.
Well?
You know what I mean for Christ's sake.
We'd been married eight wonderful years, and as I'd clawed my way slowly up the ladder in my chosen profession, then she'd done the same in hers.
She was a copper!
Yes, honestly, she joined the police force and became a policewoman, rising to Detective sergeant, with hopes of becoming an inspector soon. She was good at her job. Efficient. Caring. A good leader. Successful. Popular.
Too damn popular by all accounts!
According to rumour someone else, a colleague of hers had also been taken in by those damn legs. According to rumour, more than taken in by them, having had them wrapped round him on several occasions.
Her fucking Superintendant, her boss and all.
Worst of all, was that it wasn't just rumour anymore. It was fact! Doesn't matter how I knew, but I did, and now I had to do something about it.
As I said, it was a long, long flight home!
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Time moves on.
We touched down on an RAF base west of London, and in my borrowed great coat over my combat outfit, I made my way over to Hereford, not a million miles away. In that area nobody would remember the Corporal from the REME, and if they did, then they would never connect him with me.
So far, so good.
By the time I arrived at the estate where Jill and I lived, off base, as many of us married guys did, night had fallen. The time difference was confusing, even though I'd planned it all out, and as I stood there hidden behind a bush on the corner of our street, I thanked the stars that I'd been able to catch a few winks on the flight over. I'd stripped off the REME coat and was back in combat black so it was unlikely that anyone would spot me. If they did? Then that would take some explaining.
More time passed.
About eleven O'clock that night, my lonely vigil started to come to an end as a big silver grey Mercedes pulled up in front of our house ---- my house, and a tall chap jumped out and rushed around to the other side to open the door for his companion.
Is that why she'd wandered? Had my chivalry deserted me over the years?
The most outrageously long pair of shapely bare legs swung out, eventually being followed by a small, tight, black mini skirt.
Yes I recognised them!
I'd recognised my wife's legs anywhere.
