Recoil - Andy McNab [59]
Our attack was going to be straightforward. It had to be, because of the language problem and lack of comms. Crucial’s fire group needed to keep the enemy’s heads down so we could move up on their left flank to the FAP (final assault position). We’d attack the enemy from there and fight through their positions. Once that kicked off, the fire group would either switch direction or stop altogether so we could avoid getting the good news from our own guys. It was the recipe for a Gordon Ramsay-scale gangfuck, even for well-trained infantry, especially in the dark and rain, but it had to be done. We had to kill all of them before they did the same to us.
I kept close behind Sam, and the rest of the guys kept close behind me. This wasn’t a tactical move, it was all about speed. We moved as fast as we could through the mud towards the FAP. I looked around me. I was among guys I didn’t know but might end up dying alongside.
We drew level with the enemy fire to our right. Rounds from Crucial’s fire group punched into the mud and ricocheted off rocks.
Sam waited a couple of seconds for the next sheet of lightning and signalled for everyone else to stay put, but for me to go with him and recce. I dropped into the mud and crawled beside him. My OGs soon rode down to expose half my arse.
We got to within fifteen metres of their positions. It looked good: we could form up here and attack. But Sam seemed to want to get even closer. I grabbed his leg and crawled up beside him, my mouth against his ear. ‘What the fuck? This is good, Sam!’
He shook his head. ‘I need to know who they are. I’m not killing kids.’
He broke away from me and carried on crawling. There wasn’t much I could do but follow. Tracer from our guys drifted high over our heads. The claps of thunder were so loud they drowned the enemy’s gunfire, but I didn’t have to hear it. We were so fucking close, I could smell the cordite.
7.62 from the fire group stitched along the ground just metres ahead. I could actually feel the ground tremors as our GPMG rounds slammed into the mud.
At last Sam seemed to get the message. He paused. Two bodies were suddenly silhouetted by lightning as they got up and ran to another stretch of cover not ten metres away. They held their AKs high and loosed off wildly in the direction of the fire group.
Finally Sam had seen what he needed. The silhouettes had been man-sized. We headed back.
2
The rain was a solid curtain, which was now no bad thing. We could hardly see our guys until we’d virtually crawled on top of them, which meant the enemy couldn’t see us at all.
Everybody was in a line, facing the attack, wanting to know just one thing: was this the FAP? The answer was going to be no: we were too far away.
We moved to the middle of the line. I caught sight of some worried faces as they waited. I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy myself but, fuck it, we had no choice but to get going.
Sam pulled the Very pistol from its holster, crouched low and began to move. The rest of us copied, like in a big game of Simon Says. No need for words or hand signals, just do what the commander does. If he stops, you stop. It was the best way to keep everybody together.
I changed mags on the move. As I pulled up my OGs, I could hear shouts ahead, the sounds of fear and excitement as we got closer. There was even a peal of nervous laughter; maybe the boys had been having a night on the ghat.
Sam stopped; we copied. He lowered himself to his knees in the mud; we did the same.
All random thoughts and sensations were binned from my head: the rain, the noise, the thunder. Even Silky ceased to exist.
Sam got down on his belly and began to crawl. The rest of the Simon Says crew followed, and I was soon swimming through a river of warm mud, working