The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [60]
Being a hypochondriac, I thrust my hand inside my body armour to check for blood and quickly realised I hadn’t been shot. After plenty of digging, I removed a pair of hot, flesh-stained shell cases that had fallen from Bernie’s rifle. I looked back up to see Geordie and Jones laughing their asses off at me.
‘STOP.’
Geordie gathered us round.
‘So what have we learnt from this exercise, lads?’
‘Should’ve joined the Air Corps,’ Cartman said, catching his breath.
‘Don’t get shot, simple as that. Otherwise you’re all fookared. Right, collect the brass, pack up and Foxtrot Oscar.’
We absorbed volumes of information on assault techniques, situational awareness, observation skills, reconnaissance, patrolling, signals, close-quarter combat, fieldcraft, routines, teamwork. It paid to listen and learn. You could be put on the spot at any moment.
‘Collins, Johnny, you’re with me in the gun group. The rest of you lads, get fackin’ bombed up for the assault.’
I took the General Purpose Machinegun, Johnny took the Minimi. I carried enough belts of ammunition around my neck to film the entire Rambo series. We made a tactical approach to the fire support position overlooking the area where our brothers would be assaulting a range of bunkers and targets. ‘Tactical’ meant the hard way, the steep way, avoiding open ground and maintaining cover, dragging ourselves and our kit across rocks and fallen trees. Ken walked alongside and dished out his usual brand of encouragement.
The Gimpy could dish out up to a thousand 7.62-calibre rounds every minute, and Ken wanted Armageddon. That meant switching barrels regularly to prevent them overheating and I ran the drill in my head. Sometimes the barrel would get so hot that it glowed red and the passing rounds were visible from the outside.
Lying flat on my belly in the firing position, I set out my stall with spare barrel, oil and ammo. With the butt of the gun pressed into my shoulder, I flipped open the top cover and splashed oil over the working parts like a drunk pissing over his shoes. I loaded a serpentine belt of live rounds mixed with ball and tracer, slapped down the cover, racked the cocking handle to make ready, clicked on the safety and sighted for 400 metres.
In seconds, the boys would sweep into view from the left of my arc of fire. My job was to suppress as many targets ahead of them as possible. Policing the exercise was just as intense for Ken as for us on the triggers.
I stared down the iron sights with both eyes open to take in the periphery, scanning for a target, watching for the assault group. A jammed round or a belt change had to be dealt with as fast as possible to maintain the rate of fire and support the attack. Everything was prepared. Shit. Apart from my earplugs …
Movement, an obscured white object that wasn’t there before …
‘Staff, target at 400 metres, centre of arc behind the bush, can I engage?’
‘Crack on.’
I flicked off the safety and gave a short burst to gauge the fall of the rounds. Johnny followed suit. The crackle of fire slashed at what was left of my eardrums. The bush exploded as the tracer thudded into the bank just short of the target. I raised the barrel a hair, squeezed and the next burst tore through the target.
Firing in bursts didn’t look as cool as the Rambo method: stripped to the waist and freshly lubed, legs apart, gun under one arm, hosing an infinite belt of rounds across the entire battlefield. The upside of stroking the trigger was the accuracy, which the ‘spray and pray’ method rarely achieved.
Smoke drifted across the area, signalling the arrival of the rifle group. ‘Get the fackin’ rounds down!’ Ken chanted.
We poured fire into the forward positions at an increasing tempo as they moved towards them.