Wednesday, January 2, 2013

OUT OF THE EAST by Terence Gibbons



OUT OF THE EAST
by
Terence Gibbons

This is book #1 In the Deniable Assets Series

Introduction
Within the United Kingdom there exists a secret organisation that is answerable only to the residing Prime Minister. It has no official budget because nothing it does can be recorded in any archive. Its intelligence sources are MI6 and MI5 but it is part of neither.

It is England's oldest secret service and, because it is unknown, it is above and beyond the laws of the land. Its mandate is to provide solutions to problems that cannot be resolved by either political means or through the law of the land.
                     
The organisation is run by only one man, usually a former army officer of high rank. Its agents are recruited – hand-picked for their specialist talents – from various arms of the military. Some come from the ranks of the SAS, others from the Parachute battalions while others are from the Royal Marine Commando's elite SBS. All are volunteers and dedicated to the ‘Group’ they are assigned to.
                     
For identification purposes the units are known as Groups. There are a number of such groups but none know the identities of members of the other Groups for security reasons. If a member of a Group is killed then he or she is replaced from outside but never from another group. If they are killed on foreign soil they are brought back to Britain – if possible – if not they are left behind in unmarked graves. Their existence is always denied and their actions deniable.
                     
Groups have been known to assassinate foreign leaders both in this country and abroad, organise rebellions to bring down unfriendly regimes, support chosen foreign governments. A Group is a deadly force made up of ordinary people who are willing to forfeit themselves for the best interests of the country.
                     
All work to one rule: Do not get caught!
                     
They are Deniable Assets!

Chapter One

Friday...April 4th...1969...Salalah...Oman...Dawn.
Major David Forrester peered over the high crest of a dune close to Oman’s border with Yemen. He scanned the ground below him as far as the horizon which danced in the heat haze. The direction he expected the column of rebels to come from. On a similar rise, almost opposite his position, was a stately animal. By its brilliant white coat and brown markings he recognised it as an Arabian Oryx, a threatened species in most of Arabia. It looked like a male, probably the leader of its herd. Its horns, brown like its legs, facial and neck markings, rose above its head to give it a height of almost two meters. Forrester watched it with great interest. Animals were the best guards in their territory and the Oryx was the foremost of all in these desert wildernesses. It looked nervous and Forrester had to determine the cause of its disquiet.  It pawed the ground causing gravel, of which most of this desert was composed, to trickle down the slope. Even at this distance Forrester could hear it. Was it someone in his own command that unsettled it? He swung his binoculars in an arc until he located a movement to its right. A wolf showed itself briefly above a ridge of rocks.

The wolf, next to man, was what had put the Arabian Oryx on the endangered list. The Oryx turned and gave a warning to the herd out of sight. A cloud of dust rose as the herd rapidly responded to their leader. Forrester saw the stream of wolves follow in pursuit. His peripheral vision caught a cloud of dust thrown up to his left and focused the binoculars to pull the distance into focus. He counted the trucks as they came into view. He now needed to be down with his men but moving tactically in that kind of terrain has to be slow and careful not to give away one’s position. It is so easy to dislodge a noisy displacement of the unstable shale which is very prone to avalanche. He moved his feet carefully – feeling for secure footholds with each step. At the bottom he slipped his binoculars into the canvas case he looked around to where Sergeant Steven (Spike) Phillips waited. Spike was never far away from the major. The sergeant was speaking quietly into the handset of his radio.

Forrester frequently thought of him as his personal armed shadow but had also been glad of the fact many times when the sergeant's beefy fist had snatched him out of the path of a bullet. Spike and Forrester had known each other since going through ‘P Company’ together in Aldershot. Spike had been a private then and Forrester a young, and relatively green, lieutenant. Thereafter they had served together in the same battalion of the Parachute Regiment before both passed the demanding SAS selection course. Forrester could not say off the top of his head how much action they had seen together but their combination had always worked well – each was a compliment of the other.

They had survived.

They had served together the first time in Oman with the SAS where the ‘Regiment’ honed its skills regularly. The operations then had been a different kettle of fish to this one. They had been more covert. Now they found themselves in Oman as the guests of Sultan Said bin Said, a liberal ruler in many respects who had broken tradition by giving voting rights to women and had faced strong criticism for spending oil revenues on education and general welfare. The posting, for the British soldiers, was voluntary and of one month's duration. Though the country was strictly Muslim, the Sultan imported sufficient alcoholic beverages to keep his British guests happy. Each volunteer had been instructed to enter next to his name and favourite drink on the notice posted on their battalion's noticeboard. So far each man had been pleased, even to the quantity.

The oil-rich country has been plagued by a Soviet backed rebellion since 1962. Britain has strong financial interests in Oman mostly in the presence of British Petroleum which has the franchise to the oil fields, so contingents of troops are sent regularly in an 'advisory capacity'. Advice includes 'practical demonstrations in the field' as well as training the native troops. Many British units, in return, gain valuable experience while putting into practice all that they have trained for. For some soldiers to achieve the high skills that are learned during manoeuvres and not be able to test them on the battlefield can be a great demoraliser. The young men are proud and need to have their mettle put to the test.

The skilled oil workers are mostly from Britain so the British government is more than willing to protect their investments and their own citizens and Oman is not a bad country to live in. The work is very well paid and the accommodation luxurious though the married workers have their own houses built in the major towns. Their children go to schools that the oil company finances and they even run their own clubs where they can get together for various interests and sports. Alcohol is also sold in the clubs which are within the compounds. So, with their lucrative jobs and very high standard of living, the oil workers are very reluctant to leave Oman.

While more than ninety-nine per cent of the citizenry are Muslim – in the capital of Muscat they follow the Ibadhi sect while in Salalah, the second largest city, the Muslims are Sunni. The two sects agree on most that is taught within Islam though there are things they differ on hence the two sects. In Oman there is little conflict between them though so the only threat is from outside. Crime is pretty low in what is, after all, a Muslim country with its strict capital penal code. Amputations for theft are carried out but not as public spectacles as in some neighbouring Arab states.

Around Salalah, which is the perfume capital of Arabia, can be found fine beaches and tourism does flourish between the wars. There are many interesting examples of architecture to be found, some dating back hundreds of years. For those who have a leaning towards archaeology there are many ruined forts to explore. The town boasts fine hotels like the Hilton, Crowne Plaza and the Hamdan Plaza. The pure white Sultan's Qaboos Mosque dominates Salalah's skyline.

The rebels live, and generally muster, over the border in Yemen or Saudi Arabia from where they make their incursions – attacking then retreating back over the border. Intelligence had advised on a strong force of rebels on their way to attack the oil-wells and communities in a sector about two hundred kilometres north-west of Salalah. Two hundred kilometres over the mixed terrain that Oman boasts. Forrester had led his battalion of British and Royal Omani troops along deep wadis, over rocky ridges and sand dunes through temperatures that rose into the fifties centigrade. The deep wadis could be a death trap and had to be scouted by his best men to ensure that the scrub that clung to life did not conceal any opposing factions. He had learned the danger while on SAS duty in the country. SAS troops could spend a whole night crawling towards a suspected wadi before a dawn attack would drive the occupants into the heavy fire of the main military contingent.

There was no source of water for them at that season of the year so sufficient had to be carried in with them in the wagons and bowsers towed behind. He was glad it was not the hot season yet. Fifty degrees in that kind of terrain was hot enough for anyone. The dust was saline and did nothing but exacerbate the suffering of thirsty men. Most of Oman had at some pre-historic time lain beneath the sea. Shells of sea creatures could be found even in the foothills of the mountains to the north.

After the long journey his scouts had finally found the perfect spot for an ambush in a rocky area on the route the rebels would be forced to take. The terrain itself determined any traveller's route.
Spike was permanently bonded to his A13 HF radio which gave him regular updates from a large aircraft flying ten thousand metres above them spotting the terrain below and hopefully the enemy. While they were not equipped to identify individual weapons they could identify trucks carrying the rebels. Forrester took a large, khaki handkerchief from inside his shirt, removed his keffiyeh and wiped the sweat from his eyes and face. He carefully replaced the keffiyeh according to how he had been instructed. Other officers had had their sport with him, some comparing him to Lawrence of Arabia, but he had stuck with the traditional headgear for its usefulness in the climate for which it had evolved. The sun was only just beginning to rise but the temperature was climbing with it. With luck they would have this fight over before the worst of the day’s heat was upon them.

His reconnaissance had informed him that the rebels were not as ill-equipped to take on such a large target as the intelligence reports had suggested. With Soviet financial backing the rebels were now a modernised army with small, open topped, Toyota four-wheel drive pick-ups with general purpose machine guns mounted on their roll bars. A few were equipped with rocket propelled grenades – anti-tank missiles that could also be used against ground troops and even gun emplacements. In addition each truck was able to transport a handful of rebels. Each vehicle struggled under the weight of the men and their AK47s – not the ideal weapon for a battle of this sort but the cheapest they could afford. And when fired in long vollies they were noisy – a factor that seemed to appeal to the Arab. They would not settle for anything less unless it was bigger and noisier. He calculated that the convoy consisted of twenty armed pick-ups and five four-ton trucks bristling with armed men and supplies. Those defending the oil wells, pipe lines and their small communities were about to have a battle on their hands. And that meant Forrester’s command.

The Arabs did not like to fight in the heat knowing that the body lost liquid at such an alarming rate that no amount of drinking could counteract. But he had chosen this time for that very reason, that it would give his force an element of surprise. The rebels would be tired after their all night journey and looking forward to resting throughout the heat of the day, attacking when the clear night fell. Forrester had seen to it that each pair of men had plenty of water in skins close to them and even better a sack of dates although some of the water was for cooling the muzzles of their weapons which could seize solid otherwise. This was April, supposedly the wettest month with the prospect of between 17 and 18 millimetres of rain. Not much by European standards but a lot for the Arabian Peninsula. Last month was the second wettest but not a drop had fallen. With a climate like this one could hardly call it a drought even though there was no precipitation. The dew carried by the coastal breezes provided some moisture but the soil, that had once been very fertile, was now becoming too saline to support much but the hardiest of tufted grass and dwarfed shrubs. Along the coastline it was fertile with coconut palms, oleander and acacia being prominent so that approaching from the gulf the land gave the appearance of a paradise.

Forrester had sighted his FN MAG, Belgian 7.62mm general purpose machine guns and 105mm Pack Howitzer artillery pieces under camouflage netting to great effect – having men 'sweep' away all tell-tale signs of their passing – and now he waited for the inevitable battle when the rebels came within range. It took patience to judge the right moment to open fire – a stoicism that was made almost impossible by the mercy-less heat. Their clothing did little to reduce its vicious burning. He and his men had to be a solid check-point between the rebels and their main objective of disrupting the flow of oil and thus causing financial chaos to a country that was being slowly squeezed by the rebellion. He felt that today the rebels were on a suicide mission – of which they had no hope of success, but then most rebel actions were of this sort. His command was well dug in so their losses should be negligible. He was surprised that the rebels had not sent forward scouts to ensure the route was safe and he had placed hand-picked men forward to take care of them if they did. He had listened to the grumblings from the Omani soldiers at having to endure the night without a fire, and no cigarettes. He heard himself called some pretty awful things in their language but maintained a stoic expression on his face as he passed their bivouacs. He knew from experience that troops that did not complain were worthless. When British troops ceased complaining it usually meant there was mutinous trouble in the offing.

Spike heard his headphones crackle before it became clear speech; their forward observation posts were reporting in that the rebels were now coming within range.

“Time to do it, Boss,” Spike was his usual calm, self-possessed self.

“Come on then, Spike. We'll hit fuck-all from here!”

As the two men ran there was little to choose between them. They were both tall, muscular men, and it was their choice of hairstyle that separated them. While Forrester’s was a court cut and curly Spike had always favoured a spiky number three all over. It was easy to maintain although he did have to use his hair clipper more often than barber parades would have demanded. Washing and drying it was a doddle. At a pinch, in environments like Oman a fine comb was enough to keep the sandy grit at bay. The other difference was in their facial features. Forrester’s face was lean with pronounced cheekbones while Spike's was much rounder. Both men were clean shaven.

They scuttled to their positions behind an outcrop of rocks. Forrester was a man who preferred to lead from the front. To show his men that he was willing to take the risks they were taking. He raised his left arm in a pre-arranged ready signal and every man readied his weapon whether a rifle, machine gun or 105mm Pack Howitzer. He waited with strained forbearance until the last vehicle in the convoy came within range of the artillery. As the right moment came his arm dropped. He raised his SLR and sighted a target as the whole force coordinated their barrage. High explosive artillery shells rained down on the advancing rebels. 50mm mortars joined in for good measure. Machine-gun fire ripped through the exposed bodies on the trucks and individual shots from rifles decimated those who leapt for cover.

Their whole world became a cacophony of shells and high velocity rifle rounds. The pungent stench of cordite hung in the almost still desert air. Well placed artillery shells and mortars bracketed and exploded among the rebels, throwing trucks high in the air destroying both men and vehicles. Fuel tanks exploded showering the wounded with burning petrol. Some in commanders of rebel trucks valiantly fired their rocket propelled grenades at the artillery positions but their accuracy was for the most part poor under fire. Forrester noted the explosions and wondered if there were any casualties among his gunners. Yet he was caught up in the fever of battle – the blood lust of identifying targets and shooting without counting the fatalities on the other side. Through his mind ran the words of General George Patton: “You win battles by killing more men than you lose.”

His guns and mortars were still pounding away so there could not have been much damage from the in-coming RPGs. He concentrated his small arms fire on their soft targets as the rebels tried to run for shelter or defiantly fired off long bursts that looked macho but would soon jam their weapons while at the same time their stance made them easy targets which his men must take advantage of. He zeroed in on a man and squeezed off a shot watching the hole suddenly appear in the rebel's chest. An SLR has a muzzle velocity of something around Mach 2. You don't see them coming. If you hear it then you are safe – the shot has missed you. The battle seemed to go on forever. Shoot a couple of times then move to a different position to avoid giving away your position. And each time there were targets waiting. Not human beings. He could never come to terms with that. A target was one thing but a person was something else. Killing – that was what his soldiering had been reduced to. A body count that he could not live with. How many he himself had brought down he could not say, nor would he hazard a guess. It would blow his mind if he knew how many lives they had taken between them.  He was ashamed of the lust he had for killing. He knew he was inhuman to feel any elation for what he did. And yet he did it. Spike interrupted his crazy killing spree by gesturing with the handset of his radio. Oh Spike, do you also bear the torment of the death toll we wreak? What effect does it have on you? Do you have flash-backs when you least expect them? I do? We never talk about these things do we? And I wonder if we should. Nothing was mentioned on that occasion either.

Spike was unable to hide the wash of relief that surged over him at seeing the major unscathed. They had drawn apart during the battle as so often happens. He felt a warmth flow through him that the major, Dave his best mate, had come through uninjured - physically at least. He did not look too good but his was the stress of command and all that went with it.

“The rear of the column has turned in retreat. The sultan has two of his brand-new toys up there to pulverise them.” Spike held his hand to his brow as he scanned a sky that tortured his retinas.

It took something away from Forrester’s personal achievement as two of the Sultan's BAC 167 Strikemasters wheeled in the air to attack and destroy the retreating rebel column with cannon fire and missiles. He had not noted the time when the battle began, but the exchange was naturally brief considering the vast difference in fire power and battlefield discipline. The prognosis was without doubt a total victory for Forrester’s command. A few Yemeni and Omani rebels began flapping anything they could use as white flags and were quickly rounded up, roughly disarmed and taken prisoner. At some later point they would be interrogated – not by Forrester but by the Sultan's men. What their sentence would be Forrester could only guess. It would be bad. While Oman has a legal system based on British Law it also retains some elements of Sharia Law dictated by the teachings of the Koran and, although the Sultan was judged to be easier going than most of his neighbours in the Middle East, Forrester did not hold out much hope for the rebels good treatment.

Spike Phillips received a message over the radio and went to locate the major who was checking the wounded of his own command. Of a total strength of nearly five hundred they had suffered only twenty three wounded and two killed. Forrester saw the urgency in his sergeant's face and led him out of earshot of the men. Sporadic fire was still heard as some rebels fought back with fanaticism in order to qualify for their exalted positions in whatever each man's idea of paradise. He deeply wanted to put a stop to these killings but did not want to risk the lives of his men to act as referees between men who had such diverse beliefs. Perhaps he was right to let the killing continue. It was not slaughter because the rebels could just as easily throw down their weapons and surrender. No one’s life was worth the false pride of fanaticism.

“I’ve just received a message, Boss, from Darnley, by the signature. We are requested to return to Salalah soonest with regard to immediate transfer to the UK.” Spike shrugged but knew what lay behind the message. Both the major and he were part of Group Alpha. Something was going on back home that needed their specialist attention. The major removed his keffiyeh and brushed sand out of his curly hair. Spike had one day arrived on parade wearing a keffiyeh too. When Forrester thought about it there was just a slim chance that, in the heat of battle, the keffiyeh could save them just as well as body-armour. A head wearing a keffiyeh could confuse a rebel just long enough for the wearer to get his shot in first. The difference between death and survival could be just that close.

“Inform them at base that we need casualty evacuation flights for the twenty-five wounded and dead. We can squeeze ourselves into one of the choppers somehow.”

He turned to give orders for the captured trucks that were serviceable to be brought up to carry the walking wounded while the rest were to be destroyed to prevent the rebels from cannibalising them and the weapons for spares. All enemy ammunition was loaded onto their own convoy, while the prisoners were ordered on to their own four ton trucks that had survived the shelling, with armed escorts. Spike cringed as he saw a young soldier of the Sultan's army scooping up armfuls of RPGs and tossing them without any apparent care into the bed of a truck.

“Oy!” he shouted making the soldier spin around to face him. “Be careful how you handle them things. We don't want any accidents.”

“Yes Sergeant,” the boy, for that's all he appeared to be, answered in embarrassment. Many of the prisoners were carrying Mills 36M hand grenades with which they could still launch a successful assault. They were secreted inside their flowing white thawbs; Spike had each man roughly and thoroughly searched. The net gain, besides security, was a sack full of hand grenades together with and an assortment of pistols and knives. The sack was placed in the leading truck which was filled with all the captured ammunition and weapons.

Spike went along from one truck to another checking the condition of each and whatever weapons they were fitted with. He was amused to see how launchers for the RPG-7s were fastened to the tubing roll bars by cat’s cradles of fencing wire. When he had cleared one of the weapons and any useful spares he set a patch of C4 plastic explosive on the fuel tank out of sight and wired it to the ignition. With some of the vehicles he had to be craftier and hide all evidence of his tampering. They could not be expected to keep on blowing themselves up and not cotton on that they were rigged so at times he had to be a little more creative by shorting a cable from the main loom into the fuel tank. It was a trick he had seen used in an old World War Two movie and it usual had them jumping in into the arms of Allah quick enough. The trucks had to be destroyed so why not their drivers with them? Nobody switched off on this job.       

Four Wessex H2 helicopters soon arrived and all wounded were taken gently into them where they were attended by medics and doctors. Forrester handed over command to his Second in Command, a young but promising captain in the Royal Omani Army. He was only too happy to take charge as it would mean he would be the centre of attraction as they drove victoriously into Salalah. It was two hours before they began their drive on the gruelling journey over the rough, lunar landscape towards Salalah. The sun was coming up to its zenith and the heat had risen to its unseasonable 50° C with no movement in the air to give relief.

In the slow moving helicopters the air was almost unbreathable even with the doors open. They passed time by helping out with the injured but fortunately their wounds were not life-threatening just yet. In an Hour or so the wounded would be tucked up between fresh linen sheets with women like angels to look after them. The dead would be buried with full military honours. The Sultan did not skimp on facilities for his troops. He bought in the very best and when they needed anything they got it as quickly as it could be delivered. There was a brotherhood between them having fought so many power struggles over the years together.

Spike and Forrester crouched in an over-loaded helicopter that took them on their first leg of their long flight back to Salalah and eventually the United Kingdom via Akrotiri in Cyprus. They reached Salalah just over an hour later.

After organizing their flight home they went into the town to do a bit of shopping. Forrester had promised himself a khanja knife – a curved dagger that was traditionally carried by Omani men. He and Spike found what he was looking for in one of the traditional souqs – open air markets that sold everything from household goods to food, jewellery and ornaments. He chose a second-hand knife as being a genuine example and not the inferior copies churned out for tourists. It would look good on the wall of his room beside his Nepalese khukri and Samurai swords. Spike bought his wife some traditional jewellery and some bottles of the locally produced perfume. After a meal in the town they waited for a taxi to take them to their quarters. Spike looked up at the thousand metre high mountain ridge that dominated the northern skyline forming a protective arm curving behind the town. He wondered if he would ever see it again. They had not had much chance to explore the town and he knew there were many places of interest to see. The taxi ride back to their quarters only revealed what they had already seen. They changed into civilian clothes and called the duty driver to take them and their luggage to Salalah Airport. The long journey home began. A Hercules C-130 would take them to RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus where, if they were lucky, they would board a Vickers VC10. The luck involved came in the way of that the RAF had a ruling that their own personnel took priority over anyone else. An unknown waiting period at RAF Akrotiri was not something to look forward to.  There was very little entertainment and passing the time in the bar was not to be recommended when they had no idea of what the coming mission involved.

Friday...April 4th...1969...Dhekelia...Cyprus...Evening
Captain Joseph Collins was a doctor as well as a former member of the SAS. His Hippocratic oath was something between himself and his god. While sworn to preserve life he was well skilled in taking it but within Group Alpha his primary task was providing the medical cover for the group on missions. A small man in stature and slender in build his movements were well coordinated. Every movement he made was with a minimum of effort and great precision - some would say with grace - which made his two favourite sports, scuba diving and sailing easy for him. He was also skilled at dancing both modern and traditional thanks to his mother who thought a man should be able to show himself at his best on the dance floor. He had been waltzing and doing the quickstep since he was a boy. He had added to his repertoire of dances through experience. His black hair was well groomed if a little on the long side for army regulations. Officers managed to get away with these minor infringements. He only rushed to the hairdresser's when a senior officer was about to visit and that was a rare occasion. His moustache however was well clipped and in keeping with army regulations - it did not come below his top lip. His blue eyes were so pale they appeared almost white, which created a striking effect with his dark hair and the deep tan that six months in Cyprus had given him. It had been six months of holiday-like duty for him with very little to do but treat sunburned soldiers who should have known better than to overexpose themselves to the strong sun. Those who were severely affected would in all probability be charged with self-inflicted wounds according to military law. He had operated on one case of acute appendicitis and delivered a dozen babies. Both the RAF and the Army had permanently posted personnel on the island so his working day was taken up pretty much the same as that of a civilian doctor in the UK.

But the weather was better and the lifestyle more enjoyable even though there was a drought on. There was little greenery to be seen except up in the mountains where streams where lined with struggling trees whose growth showed evidence of their fight to survive. Tables had been placed in the shade of the scattered trees on base and tea urns placed on them filled with fresh orange juice for those who had the sense to drink it. But most of the troops were sick of oranges because of their cheapness and ready availability. His spare time, when he was able to dress casually, was spent mostly taking part in beach sports and water activities with occasional coach trips to museums and archaeology sites. It was like being on holiday with duty an intrusion. He had developed a strong interest in archaeology while at Cambridge University and it had remained with him. And he was grateful because it had changed his whole life – the way he thought about the more important things in life. Books on archaeology were always to be found on his bedside locker. Cyprus was one ‘big dig’ it seemed to him. It was on such a trip, to Khirokitia, that he had met Gwen Hopcyn who was also a doctor. Her rank was major, one grade above him. That trip to the Neolithic site had had a magical atmosphere that was enhanced by Gwen's presence.

A great deal of its importance as a  find came from it being evidence, for its time, of an organised and functional settlement formed into a collective settlement, with surrounding fortifications for communal protection. The site, which is situated on the slope of a hill in the valley of the Maroni River towards the southern coast of the island about 6 km from the sea, had been discovered in 1934 by Porphyrios Dikaios, who was the Director of the Cyprus Department of Antiquities.

It represented the Neolithic aceramic period and had been occupied from the 7th millennia BC. It consisted of small circular white buildings with domed roofs while some were flat. The dimensions of them varied considerably according to their usage.

Gwen had shown considerable knowledge of the site indicating that she too was an enthusiastic archaeologist, if only amateur like him.  Their meeting at had been at the beginning of his present tour of duty and their relationship had deepened to the point where he felt that if he popped the question the answer would be yes. He could not understand why their paths had not crossed before. The Royal Army Medical Corps is not so large as units go and the number of doctors is the least of their number. If he had seen her before he would have remembered. While she was not stunning she was certainly someone one would not easily forget. Her dark chestnut hair was thick and wavy; her green eyes the kind that changed shade according to her mood. Her nose was upturned and a little on the large side but was made less obvious by her full sensuous mouth. Her lips were a rich red that needed no lipstick and her Welsh skin so fair that any make-up would have been a crime. She was short, which made her even more attractive to him with him being below average height himself. Her figure was perhaps a little heavy but her way of moving was a delight.

Their relationship had gradually deepened until both felt the strength of their love. They were like love-struck teenagers until a phone call was put through to him to return to the UK. He had scowled but, while life on the island had been a serviceman's dream, especially since meeting Gwen, it had lacked the action he needed to balance his existence. Something interesting was if the offing in the UK.

They had a dinner at a small family restaurant to the north of Dhekelia where they had promised to keep in touch. He felt that he should propose but how could he when he was a part of the darker side of Britain's defence forces?  How could he tell her what his other position in the army was? He could never hurt her with that sort of knowledge.

On the other hand Gwen was more than a little disturbed by his reluctance to disclose the reason for his hasty recall to England. With him being a doctor she could not come up with a reason that fitted. He did not specialise in medical subject that she was aware of and questioning him on the subject might damage their relationship. That he was a member of any clandestine unit was outside her world. She knew that such units existed but Joe was not the type. Yet maybe he was. She had noted the paratrooper wings on his uniform and knew they did not come easily but had to be earned. Did she know of any other doctor who had done the parachute course? Yes, quite a few but where any of them ever called suddenly back to England? She knew of none. She buried her suspicions while bearing the pain of separation with stoicism. She loved him so much that she could only hope that he would remain in her life. She did all that was humanly possible to attract him and hold him to her without being too forward. Sex was not a problem; they made love as a natural progression of their relationship. Life felt so natural when they were together and she was content with that. Whatever secrets he had, whatever he chose not to share with her was part of him, the man she loved and she decided to be satisfied with that. They assured each other that by hook or by crook they would keep in touch even if it was restricted to mail. Both were content that the other wanted the relationship to work. They had exchanged addresses which seemed like some kind of pact between them. It was not really necessary as either could be reached through the Royal Army Medical Corps.  Any letter would find its addressee.

They had been the last to leave the restaurant having sat contentedly holding hands with the gentle lapping waves of the Mediterranean just a few meters beyond the sand dunes which the restaurant was built on. Each wanted the night never to end. Joseph knew that during the next few days he would be putting his life on the line and now he was afraid. It was a first for him and he could find a rational reason for it - he had not valued his life so much before but now having someone to share it with had made living more precious. Of course he had both his parents back in England and a brother and sister he was fond of but nothing came close to how he felt about Gwen. He wondered if soldiers felt more ill at ease than single men. It would make an interesting study if anyone had the courage to ask the question and the men had the honesty to answer it truthfully.

Fear was something you hid deep inside in order to overcome it. Should you admit to it? Then it could take over and destroy not only you but possibly those around you. Fear was a stronger enemy than the enemy itself and must be defeated at the same time it is felt if not beforehand. These days he thought a good deal about fear and its management. Fear was felt by anyone who faced a death situation. Anyone who denied it was either a liar or psychotic. It was as simple as that. It was how you controlled it that mattered. As a doctor he was only too aware of what was actually happening within the body during battle stress. Raised blood pressure; high levels of adrenaline in the blood to feed the fight or run reaction to danger, and the weakening of both bladder and bowel. The brain can either freeze or become over-active depending on the stage of the adrenaline rush. That split second at the beginning was when the muscles refused to obey a mind that could be stunned. This was the main reason why military training was designed to create automatic responses to a given situation – to over-ride that initial numbing in the time when the danger was at its greatest. 

“What are you thinking, Joe?”

“I was thinking how bloody awful it is that we must part. We really must make every effort to get postings together.”  He hope that her female intuition. Which he strongly believe in, did not see through his answer. If it seemed glib it was otherwise; he meant it with all his heart. He wished he could....could what? Trust her enough to tell her the truth? Yes damn it! He wished that more than anything but he could not bring himself to tell her. All of a sudden he felt dirty about what he did. While he did not himself go out to kill people he was in the team and so was complicit in what they did. It was his job to put together the pieces of both enemy and his team if it was possible. The choice was often taken away from him as the mission took first priority.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. She smiled. The pain of separation was the fire that tested a relationship. “Perhaps we should tender our resignations and set up a joint practise in civvy street.”

“Now that's something else I admire about you, Gwen. You are so practical.”

“Oh? I am not so sure. I imagine myself as a country doctor. You know, in a small town or village. Not too much work involved.”

“I second that. A thatched cottage come health centre in the Cotswolds perhaps, with horses in the paddock and all that.”

“Hmm, something like that but wouldn't you prefer to be nearer the sea. To keep up your sailing I mean.”

“Sounds even better,” he admitted. “OK, somewhere in the West Country then.”

“I will hold you to that,” she laughed.

“You can do that,” he leaned over and kissed her on the lips but the spell was broken by the Greek waiter giving a subtle cough. Joe laughed. “Come on, Gwen. These chaps need to get home to their warm beds and warm wives.”

“Nice thought,” she smiled. Her green eyes flashed a promise he must take her up on. The waiter phoned for a taxi and while Joseph paid the bill, which included a generous tip, he felt guilty about eating into the man's time which he could have spent at home. While they waited for the taxi he had his arm around her shoulders, toying with her voluminous hair, noting how the setting sun toyed and cast flames like a golden halo around her head. Looking out over the dark Mediterranean they witnessed an electric storm, the lightning forks striking the dark blue line of the horizon. Gwen put her arms around his midriff and pulled him to her. He was surprised at her strength – it felt almost desperate but he was pleased by the display of obvious affection. He felt wanted and the sensation sent warm shivers through him. He felt a tugging somewhere deep inside. Close to his heart. He returned her embrace and kissing her passionately on those beautiful lips. Lips designed for kissing.

The next morning was an agony and both wished they had said their farewells and gone to their own rooms though neither put it into words.. This was too much for two people who must be torn apart according to the whims of the Ministry Of Defence but hadn't that been happening for years?

“This is not goodbye, Gwen. Two weeks perhaps.”

“Yes, Joe. I believe you but who can say? Just promise me you will write me. Please don't let us end like this.”

“Gwen, I promise. This is not some fleeting romance. I love you. I never knew what love was until I met you and I refuse to let this separation be permanent. But I must go. I can't explain why. But I must go. One thing I can promise is that, after this week or two, I will be free to see this relationship through. Trust me, my love.”

“I do Joe. Oh I love you so much. Come back soon to me.”

Despite the tortuous interruption in their courtship his heart beat faster the nearer he got to RAF Akrotiri and his flight home. He knew that he was about to face danger and it thrilled him.

Waiting in the airport were Forrester and Spike Phillips. The re-union was genuinely jubilant. His expert eye diagnosed their health and they seemed to be fit if a little sun-burned and tired. During the flight his thoughts were on Gwen. The other two were lost in their own thoughts. When would they meet again? He certainly hoped it would be soon. He was smitten with her as his mother would say – if she was not saying already. He had never mentioned female company before in his letters home but this time he had been so full of Gwen Hopcyn that he wrote the words before he realised. He wanted the world to know how happy he was. They had taken a trip to a professional photographer and had a number of shots taken of them both in uniform in rather stiff, old-fashioned poses. Even so the photographer had captured a good deal of what was Gwen. Her whole persona shone out from her face. But that was perhaps in the eye of the beholder. On the reverse she had written:

“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”

He chuckled at that.  It was a quotation of Marilyn Monroe. Now he carried a 15 by 10 centimetre picture in his breast pocket like any soldier did and should. It was framed in Turkish leather to keep it from damage. He drew it out and studied it closely and with affection as the aircraft circled in preparation to landing at Brize Norton. Her love radiated out. “Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.” The words entered Joe's mind and he strove with the quote for its origin. Through the window he was struck by the contrast of how green England was at this time of year compared to the burned-out landscape of the rain-depleted Cyprus. The difference was so marked that Joseph was glad to be to be back in his homeland. England's beauty was a subject that poets had completely covered over the centuries, so much so that it seemed impossible to add to it. The quote that escaped him came suddenly as the aircraft wheels screeched on the tarmac. It was by Albert Camus who also said: “I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is.” Albert Camus was a French philosopher Joseph had read recently and been greatly influenced by. He had such an understanding of the world that it would be reckless not to take what he said on board.  Joseph Collins stepped down the stairs to take on another mission in which his future was to be in the hands of the god he believed in with the prayer that he would survive to be again with Gwen.

Chapter Two
Friday...April 4th, 1969...Israel...16:30 Hours
Sergeant Major Archibald Douglas re-checked his calculations before giving the gun crews of the batteries of Obusier 155mm Modèle 50 guns the altitude, bearing and range that, at any time in the future, would bring down a deadly barrage of shells from the Golan Heights onto any Syrian forces that attempted to attack the position. The Syrian leader, Hafez al-Assad, had recently half-heartedly sent forces into the Golan Heights in probing forays to test the strength of the Israelis and had been easily repulsed.

Israel had controlled the Heights since the Six Days War two years previously and had gone on to consolidate its claim by building ten settlements with others under construction. Merom Golan, the first, was founded in July 1967 and then served as the base from which the others worked. Each battery of guns was protected by a number of Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft guns with the addition of a number of AMX 105mm self-propelled Howitzers carefully concealed under camouflage nets. Sighting the guns was the final part of the task for which Douglas had been sent to Israel, together with his driver and a handful of 'volunteers' from the 7th Parachute Regiment RHA, by the Ministry of Defence. The Israeli government had bought some of the artillery from Britain and others from France. Douglas had been commissioned to install the pieces according to Israel's requirements. He had also delivered a number of lectures and trained the Israeli Defence Force gun crews up to a high standard during several shoots in the Negev Desert in the south of the State of Israel. The officers of the IDF had also attended the lectures and live shoots and were well capable of using the artillery to maximum effect.

While things were quiet on the Golan Heights the same could not be said for the Sinai Peninsula. In October 1968 a ceasefire had been brokered in an attempt to end the 'War of Attrition' which had raged since 1967. On March 3rd, 1969 President Gamal Abdel Nasser of Egypt officially made void the ceasefire and by March 8th had given orders to launch artillery attacks on Bar Lev Line – a chain of fortifications built by Israel along the eastern coast of the Suez Canal after it captured the Sinai Peninsula from Egypt during the 1967 Six-Day War. Israel retaliated with deep incursion into Egyptian territory and air strikes that caused heavy damage and casualties. It was this action that had precipitated Douglas' secondment to Israel with the shipment of artillery. It was a posting he relished. The Israeli government had passed into law an official policy to deliberately 'overreact' to the enemy's aggression by inflicting as high a toll of casualties as possible in a hope it would deter such acts against them in the future. If enough enemy blood was spilled they would not be so keen to try again.

Douglas had studied Israel's military history since its establishment in 1948. His austere religious upbringing had made him familiar with both the Bible’s Old and New Testaments and through such he had formed the opinion that the Jews were entitled to the land they occupied by God’s decree. Though a Scotsman he was a firmly committed Zionist. He had bought a copy of Exodus by Leon Uris – a novel he found to be both exciting and informative. It described the formation of the State of Israel, its fight for survival against the combined aggression of the neighbouring Arab countries and its successful victories against their massive man-power. It made him begin to believe that the Jews were, after all, God's chosen people. How else could one account for their victories against such overwhelming odds? How could the broken remnants of a nation the Nazis had attempted to eliminate create a State – and one that could stand up to be counted as a great military power in the midst of so many enemies?

Because they were not broken!

Had their experiences under the Nazis somehow given them the strength of character they needed to fight for their lives? To summon the courage to fight for what was theirs when the British had so badly let them down by giving the Arabs the well-fortified positions and arms? And in order to change the course of a hopeless situation, left to them when the British gave up their mandate and walked away from their responsibilities for the Middle East, they had to be strong. Archie Douglas admired that strength, that courage. As a Scot he had a strong disregard for the English ruling class. That same ruling class that had built such a huge empire at the expense of its own troops and of the people they subjugated. It had been the same upper class of England that had hired the German and Austrian mercenaries that had committed the atrocities at Culloden, evil men that had searched through the dead and wounded on the battlefield and murdered the wounded and the women and children who sought to bring them relief. Pure Scottish blood – that of the Douglas clan – ran proudly through his one point nine metre heavily built frame. His deep red hair and dark blue eyes attested to his roots. He had that high military intelligence of the Highland Scots that had almost taken England from King George II in 1746.

He was for the most part a silent man, speaking only when he had something worth saying. He judged those around him according to his own yardstick and suffered fools badly. If a soldier did something wrong he came down on him like a ton of bricks. His yardstick said that there was only one way to do something and that was so that it did not need to be done again. He was slow to anger but formidable when he was roused. His face could appear to be stern to those who did not know him but he had a gentle side to him that only those close to him experienced. He had helped many men to achieve their best in the army when he saw that they were worth the effort by signs of their own determination to succeed. He never despised a man who was physically weaker than himself but detested anyone who lacked any strength of character or mind He was clean living and drank very moderately. He had never smoked and disliked being in the company of those who did. In short he was a man who was a better friend than an enemy and many had marked him as such.
Satisfied with his work he looked around for his driver, a young gunner who had flown out with him among his contingent, and signalled that he was ready to move off. Gunner David Evans, a man from the lush valleys of South Wales, brought the short wheelbase Land Rover to a halt in front of the sergeant. His dark brown eyes and black eyebrows questioned silently their destination.

“Sinai, Taff. I have a feeling in my bones that we will be needed down there before dusk.” The Welshman looked at his watch. Four hundred kilometres before dusk – not possible, he thought but set the vehicle in motion anyway. “I didn’t mean the whole way to Sinai, man. Tel Aviv will do me fine. Aye. I'll need to fly to get to Sinai afore dusk.”

Even so it was still over a hundred and fifty kilometers, thought the Welshman as he worked his way through the gears. The roads were not paved all the way and there was always the chance of a puncture as they drove over the vast areas of razor-edged shale cast up by pre-historic movements of the earth. He drove carefully, choosing his route with surgical skill until almost two hours later they came onto the coast road with the Mediterranean glinting on their right. The going was better and Evans was able to put his foot to the floor so that they gobbled up the distance. Even so it still took hours to reach the military airbase section at Ben Gurion International Airport outside Tel Aviv. Entering the base was frustrating as the men and the Land Rover were thoroughly searched. Once admitted they drove to a large hanger where Douglas managed to hitch a lift on a supply plane bound for Sinai. The Welshman drove the Land Rover to the ordinary rank's mess and settled down to a good meal before being shown to a billet where he could shake down for the night.

The supply plane, a Hercules C-130, took off with a roar and settled on its course with a Mirage fighter as escort. Egypt had begun to enter Israeli air space with their MiG-17s looking for suitable targets. The Hercules would be a juicy target for them if it was located without an armed escort. The Mirage had proved to be superior to the MiG-17s during the Six Days Wars two years earlier. The three hundred and forty kilometre flight took a little more than sixty minutes during which the big Scot dozed on his makeshift seat among the variety of stores that made up the plane's cargo. He came wide awake as the engine tone changed and they came in to land on the rough landing strip. This was the kind of landing strip the Hercules was designed for: a hastily bulldozed level with little in the way of concrete to stabilise it. That would come later.

The cargo doors opened and he strode purposefully down the ramp through the team of IDF who entered the belly of the Hercules to unload the pallets of vital supplies. He climbed into a vehicle that was waiting to be loaded with ammunition and food supplies for the gun positions. The four ton truck growled painfully in low gear up the rough mountain track to the guns where Douglas hopped down and stretched himself before heading for the camouflaged command post constructed mostly of sandbags. Inside the atmosphere was tense with more than one pair of eyes on the radar screen which showed the green blips of three incoming enemy aircraft. He scrambled back through the door and sprinted to the nearest AAC emplacement to observe their effect on the incoming threat. A surge of pride rose within him as one gun quickly found its target and hit one of the fighters. The MiG gave off trails of black smoke and at its low altitude flames could be seen licking around a fuel leak. It turned back towards the Egyptian border, now pushed back to the west bank of the Suez Canal, before the pilot dare eject. His bombs and rockets were still on his plane and the observers all cheered as it became a ball of flame when it hit the ground. The two other MiGs were hit but they had managed to fire their rockets at Israeli targets but they hit nothing of importance. Three more aircraft were engaged and driven off by Israeli Mirage fighters that had scrambled to intercept them before they could fire. Archie Douglas stood amidst the smoke and dust his eyes straining through a pair of binoculars. He followed the dog-fights all the way back to the border where the Mirage fighters fired rockets on Egyptian gun positions with a good success rate. All the Mirage fighters returned without damage. Some accurate Egyptian shell fire rained down on the blazing targets around the gun emplacements. They were using the columns of smoke to sight their guns. Israeli gunners opened fire with both AMX-13 105mm Self-propelled Howitzers and Obusier 155mm Modèle 50 guns on the east bank of the Suez Canal. After a few minutes the incoming shells ceased and silence reigned as night fell.

Douglas settled down to a couple of drinks after an evening meal in the sandbagged mess. His small room was just big enough to contain a field bed, a small table and two chairs. He read some more of Exodus by Leon Uris by the light of a storm lantern before sleep overcame him. It came easily after a hard day's work but just before dawn he was woken by a signaller with a personal message for him.

“URGENT STOP RETURN TO UK SOONEST STOP RV STERLING STOP C2”

Douglas recognised Colonel Darnley's code-name as the sender. He felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought of a GROUP job. They were always special though he was saddened to leave his beloved artillery. He carefully burned the flimsy paper before going to notify his immediate superior in the IDF.

Friday....April 4th....1969....Berlin...1100 HOURS
Sergeant Adèle Tennyson was born of an English father and French mother in 1922. Now, at forty seven years old, she was fortunate to appear much younger than her years. She was physically fit and considered to be the best sniper in the British Army. Her early training had been in France where she had joined the Resistance, after her father’s death, and honed her skills on the occupying Nazi enemy. Her main interests in life were languages of which she could speak English, French, German and Italian with native fluency. In addition she could get by with Arabic, Spanish and Greek.

At one point six metres tall she was also painfully thin giving her a boyish appearance. Her dark hair was cut in a mannish stile and she rarely wore make-up. Even so, she could still make men turn for a second glimpse of her. She moved with cat-like strides and could silently cover the ground. The British Government made regular use of her skills to eliminate threats to the country's safety and security. She had no problem with this – she had been shooting people since she was eighteen.

The 4th of April found her in a rain-soaked Berlin lying on a platform, just below the roof, in the back of a plain box van that was parked on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Kochstrasse the back facing Check Point Charlie. An accomplice had faked a breakdown of his car on the crown of the road effectively blocking traffic on Kochstrasse. He clambered out with seeming awkwardness and reaching through the side window tried to push the car to the side of the road. A couple of men went to help him and themselves by clearing the way. A hole had been cut on the roll down door of the van and through this she focused her Lee Enfield N 4 Mk1 rifle. A spotter stood beside her with a telescope at another hole waiting for the target to show up. Adèle focused her telescopic sight and noted the range at 100 metres. From a pole a flag hung limply indicating no wind. An easy shot if the traffic coming through from the East was light. Any large van or lorry would block her line of fire.

“Female, violin case, red beret-style hat,” the spotter said in a voice like a disinterested cricket commentator.

“Roger,” Adèle breathed the word but it was loud enough for her spotter to hear. She brought the cross-hairs to cover the target's chest and gently took up the first pull on the trigger, held her breath, then squeezed off the shot. She saw the target take a step backwards from the impact of the first bullet. Her arms reached out as she lost her balance, then she crumpled to the ground in a twisting motion. In this short time Sergeant Tennyson had operated the bolt action to feed a second shot into the breach. She aimed at the red beret that was still on the woman's head on the ground and fired. The woman moved but it was the force of the bullet not a muscular spasm. The van pulled hastily away to lose itself in the Berlin traffic. Adèle handed the rifle down to her spotter before swinging herself nimbly to the floor. “And I wonder what this poor girl had done to deserve this?” she asked hoping she would get an answer. Her spotter looked down his nose at her. His educated voice told her where she stood in his opinion. She was a killer - someone he would under no circumstances be able to understand.

“She sold a number of our agents to the Soviets and thought she could continue to work for us,” he replied in a bored tone. The sniper just nodded as she took the weapon from him. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to wipe away the thin film of gun oil that coated his fingers.

‘Poncy Rupert’, Adèle thought to herself as she removed the magazine. A ponce is an effeminate man and a ‘Rupert’ is barrack-room slang for officer. She retrieved the cleaning kit from her bag and began to strip and clean her weapon. When she had finished she wiped the whole of the outside of the rifle with a lightly oiled piece of ‘four by two’ cotton and held it by this as she lowered it into the bag. Experience had taught her not to leave her fingerprints on a weapon used for assassination. The man behind the wheel drove carefully, by a circuitous route, to a lock-up garage and pulled in through the open doors. The heavy doors swung shut as Sergeant Adèle Tennyson leapt out when the backdoor was rolled up. She was simply dressed in jeans, DMS boots and a dark-blue roll-neck sweater under a thick woollen coat. She took up a large canvas shoulder bag and stepped out through the small door into the street outside. The rifle would be taken care of by others. She looked no different to any other civilian on the cold streets of West Berlin as she made her way to do a bit of shopping before reporting in. The rain had begun again but she was grateful for it. It kept that horrible grit down. Why is the air in Berlin so gritty?

Two hours later she hailed a taxi which drove her to a pre-war building, one of the few that had survived the bombing, whose façade boasted a large painted sign. Weiss & Beck Plumbers was a cover firm set up by the British Secret Intelligence Service. She entered by a side door and climbed the creaking stairs to the first floor. The office was long but narrow with a frosted-glass window in the end wall. In front of this sat Donald Seagram, the controller for Berlin. He looked up from his desk where he had been reading through a slim file. He closed it quickly and turned it face down on the desk.

“Well?”

“Well what?” She hated this part of a mission. It amounted to no less than an open admission that she had just taken a human life.

“You took your time reporting in. How did it go?”

“You have no more worries on her account.”

“Are you certain?”

“What did you want me to do? Run up there and take her pulse? The set-up did not allow for us to hang about. We raced away from the scene, if racing is the right word in an old Mercedes van. Any people in the street hearing the rifle report would possibly have thought it was the van back-firing. We got away clean. That is the main point. Not even the American military police car parked at the check-point had time to react and come after us.”

“Good.” The off-white telephone on his desk tinkled like a fairy bell and was not powerful enough to disturb. Seagram lifted it to his ear. “Thank you,” he said before replacing it. “That was our man on the spot. The target was taken away by ambulance. The blanket was over her face which just about settles the question. Thank you, Sergeant. Now you are to report to the airport. You will be met there and given your flight ticket.” He looked up at the clock. “Your flight leaves in two hours and do try not to be late for it. You will be met at Heathrow so don't go running off anywhere.”

“Is something happening?”

“You know better than to ask questions, Sergeant, but the order came from Colonel Darnley.”

She stomped down the stairs with the heavy shopping bag banging against her leg. Darnley, she mumbled to herself – something big in the wind. She arrived at the airport early enough to buy a few things in the 'duty free' then take a relaxing drink in the airport's bar. Over a glass of red wine she allowed her mind to transport her back to Orléans in France where she was born. Her father had been a captain in the British army and had married her French mother following World War One. In 1940, when the Germans invaded her country, he had been trapped and was forced to bury his army uniform and join the Resistance. Adèle had been just eighteen. She had begged her father to allow her to join the Resistance movement but he had emphatically refused. She was to stay at home and avoid arrest, to remain and support her mother.

She smiled as she recollected her stubbornness - how she had slipped away at every opportunity with her rifle - an old Lee Enfield .303 like she had used today - and had sniped at German convoys passing along the quiet and seemingly innocent roads that led into and out of Orléans. She had childishly cut nicks in the butt of her rifle for each kill and prized that rifle so much. She had been occasionally spotted by Germans and a legend had grown about the Maid of Orléans returning from the past. They had named her the Engel des Todes – The Angel of Death. She had felt no shame for what she did and was secretly elated at the name the Germans had given her. While she was no Joan of Arc she was perhaps as strong a character and as big a threat as that heroine of so long ago.

Then the day came when her father was arrested by the Gestapo. Adèle had slipped out of the house and quickly found a perch on the roof of a house overlooking the junction were the Rue de la Bretonerie, Rue d'Escures and the Rue Paul Fourche met. As her father was dragged from a car and up the steps of the Gestapo Headquarters building she fired just one shot that killed him. He had often said that he would die rather than be tortured by the Gestapo and thereby betray the members of the Resistance in his cell. The war must continue. Personal sacrifices had to be made and that had been hers. The actual shooting was a recurring nightmare for her. Afterwards she had hidden among the railway carriages in the railway sidings until dark when she made her way back to her mother. The railway station, Orléans Fleury-les-Aubrais, was the centre of the Germans supply depot to the rest of France and as such provided regular targets for her forays. Many officers of the Wehrmacht, SS and Gestapo met their end while waiting for trains to Paris, just a hundred and forty kilometres to the north-east. Adèle had continued her solitary war until the American forces liberated her home town. Her career had then continued when she finally joined the resistance to fight further north and eventually fighting in Germany itself under British orders.

Friday...April 4th 1969...Aldershot Ranges...Late Afternoon
Sergeant Donald Beech was something of an introverted man in normal life. He read novels that his comrades would laugh at if they were allowed into his private room but he kept them well out of sight locked in a steel trunk. Historical novels and English classics were his favourite. No way could he allow the riff-raff to even guess at their existence. They were of the opinion that he read nothing but war books both fiction and non-fiction. He saw it to his advantage to cultivate this idea and worked at it by his quotes from various historical battles – contrite remarks by famous officers that had become well-known words of wisdom. He watched the would-be paratroopers struggling up the hill in teams bearing sections of telegraph poles between them. He had thirty young bodies in the Parachute Company, each hoping they were strong enough in both mind and body to carry them through the selection course so that they could proudly call themselves Paras. Only a few of them would succeed. ‘P’ Company was designed to eliminate those who were below the high standard required.

The heavy sections of telegraph poles on the soldiers’ shoulders were very heavy, their frozen hands gripping the iron handles that were well driven into the wood. It had rained for weeks and the poles had soaked up plenty to make them even heavier. Beech had given them each a cursory kick with his immaculately bulled toecaps before allowing them to use them. They had become greasy and both ends were covered in yellow and green moss as evidence that they were rotten and therefore heavier than they would normally be. They sweated and they cursed; often they stumbled and then it was Sergeant Beech's turn to curse them for their clumsiness.

“Get a grip of that pole you pansies. Do you think you’re on holiday? You Felton, put your fuckin' back into it.” Beech’s Liverpool accent became heavier, thicker when it came to shouting orders to his maggots - flies that did not yet have wings. Nicer people would call them penguins - flightless birds. The whole purpose of haranguing them was to enrage them enough to make them strive that bit harder for their dream. Nobody was going to give them it: becoming a Para was achieved through blood, sweat and tears not given away.
                     
And the men summoned that bit extra and cursed each other again as they ran up and down The Hog's Back. The rain fell out of the dark grey sky in sheets but they felt none of its chill. Each man was bathed in sweat, their clothes soaked with it. They were blathered with mud almost up to their waists. Sergeant Beech kept them at it, running beside them, bullying them on to make even greater efforts. Back down the hill.

“Right my boys. Lower the logs slowly but keep moving, running on the spot. Now doesn't that feel better? Don't you feel lighter? Move them arms! That’s it, get the blood pumping through your poor aching muscles! Work them shoulders! I don't want anybody reporting sick. On my stag sickies get kicked off the course! RTU! You hear me!” he roared. “Returned To Unit that means! Don't let that happen to you! You will be a laughing stock among your mates back there after all your bullshit about joining the Paras. Nobody joins the Paras!” he screamed. “You have to earn the right. Am I right?” There was a staccato mix of voices. “Get it together! You hear me? Let me hear you as one voice!”

“Yes Sergeant!” they shouted in unison.

“That's better. Team work, lads, that's what will get you through this course. Right let's have a little trot to the wagons. We’ll soon have you all warmed up. Get in single file now, no more than a metre between you and the man in front. MOVE IT!”

By the time they reached the four-ton wagons few had the strength, or wind, to climb up. Those who managed it used the dangling rope before helping the others up.

Team work!

They flopped down on the wooden bench seats at each side facing each other. The trucks moved off with roaring engines. Those who still smoked lit cigarettes while those who had quit complained. All of them shivered as the cold draughts in the back of the wagons began to bite through their soaked clothing. The truck bounced over the rough terrain despite its slow speed and the driver's care for his passengers. It was less than a kilometre yet it seemed endless to the men in the backs of the wagons but at last they reached the paved road and the wagons slowly picked up speed. Their engines were designed to provide power not speed making them absolutely snail-like on a convoy run. Most of the men did exercises to try to warm themselves while on the other side of the canvas cover the rain came down in torrents.

“I wish this bloody weather would clear up,” said one.

“It's been pissing down since the snow cleared in January,” moaned another shaking his head. He took off his black beret and wrung the water out before replacing it. He thought of the wine-red beret that waited for him at the end of the course. His black beret he would happily throw into the garbage. All he had ever longed for was the red beret. It was a symbol of his worth as a fighting man. Parachute training would follow and the wings on his shoulders. He’d no longer be a crap hat. Nobody would call him a penguin. Or a maggot but a Para, a special man in the ranks of the Army. The red beret and the wings combined symbolising both his physical and mental superiority.

“I'll tell you what. It will be the weather that determines who passes and who fails,” grumbled someone deep inside the truck.

“How do work that out then?”

“Well it will all depend on who can swim, my ducks!”

“Fuck me! Are we nearly there? I'm fuckin' starving!”

“Five more minutes I reckon.”

He was wrong. The truck rolled into Browning Barracks ten minutes later and lurched to a halt on the road outside their barrack rooms. Those nearest the tailgate let it down with a clang and they all piled out looking forward to getting the last of Sergeant Beech's sarcasm out of the way so that they could fall out, change out of their wet gear, shower and head for the dining hall. Beech had them fall in in three ranks while he went through a long list, with verbal acrobatics that came with years of doing it, of what they had done wrong and a very short list of what they had got right. At least he finished on a positive note. That was in the training manual too.

“All right then girls. Squad 'shun! Fall out!”

Though none of them knew it at that moment but they were about to have a rest from the cutting wit of Sergeant Beech. A message awaited him from Colonel Darnley. He was to join up with GROUP ALPHA soonest.

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