Sabre Six : File 51 by Jamie Fineran Page A

put the shits up us.
    “Come on, move it, you buggers, now!” We had been compromised!
    We legged-it as fast and as hard as we could: the fuckers were on our tail. We had to reach high ground by half one to meet our allies; if we were late, then we were buggered. They were gaining on us. They had less kit than we did, probably carrying only their weapons, we on the other hand were carrying seventy-plus pounds of shit.
    Keith egged us on. “Come on, you reprobates! Move it, get up that bloody hill! We’re nearly there.” He pushed us bloody hard.
    We had hit the top only to find ourselves alone: there was no allied friendly force. My only other option was to about turn and fight our approaching enemy. Stan and Nig looked at me, checked their magazines, and got down into the firing position. We were at an advantage, as they were coming up hill and we were firing down.
    “Hold your fire, m en! Hold your fire! Let them come to us.” I was breathing very heavily. I could see the first soldier. “Fire!” I fired 30 blank rounds at my target dropping him to the floor. They had been demolished, and as we got up and regrouped our allied unit arrived to our rescue.
    “Stop! End Ex! ” The whistle went and the exercise was over. The boss pulled me to one side and gave me a fucking good bollocking! It was all pre-planned anyhow; they just wanted to see how we reacted to a compromise. I still got a fucking good rifting for it, though – the wankers!
    I patted my boys on the back and walked over to the four-ton lorry waiting for us at the bottom of the valley.
    When we got to the bottom of the hill our boss called me over for a chat.
    “You’re going back up. Not good enough mate. Repeat!” I kept my mouth shut and got on with it. The lads moaned like fuck. It was our job, we were professional soldiers. Six hours later we had finally passed. The wankers were happy at last!
     
    Arriving back at camp by 06:00hrs that morning, we were completely fucked. I had the biggest headache ever! I was very surprised to hear that we were ordered to report back at 15:00hrs that afternoon after we’d sorted our kit out and got our heads down for a few hours. The boss wanted to brief us up.
     
    The wind had picked up again and my eyes were stinging. I belted it as fast as I could without being caught up in nature’s beastly elements. Then closing the flaps behind me, I walked into a tent full of fumes from the boss’s camping stove.
    “What you got cooking then, b oss?”
    “I started it earlier: it’s taken me forever just to bring it to the boil.”
    “That looks bloody marvellous that, boss, I haven’t had a stew in ages.”
    “Sod off, Michael, and mak e your bloody own!”
    Stan and Nig turned up together.
    “Where the hell have you two been?”
    “We were having a power nap!”
    We poured ourselves a hot brew and the boss had a couple of plain biscuits to dunk.
    “Come and sit down then, men! Let’s get this over and done with.”
    We sat down on our plastic chairs, Stan rocking backwards and forwards on his. We laughed our socks off when it collapsed and he plummeted to the floor. Stan went a little red in the cheeks, the silly sod!
    “Right, l ads, calm down! Let’s crack on.” We took our seats once more.
    Marc, an e x-army commando, came and sat down next to me. He wanted to borrow a pen, so I lent him mine. Marc was part of the Joint Services Intelligence Cell. It was his job to brief us men about the current situations brewing in country. We got out our notebooks and prepared for the briefing. Marc was from St Helena Island, just west of Namibia, Africa. He was born in a town called Jamestown, south of the Island. He had spent his childhood fishing, and it was not long before he set sail and fished for a career in the high seas. Marc’s father passed away at home in bed when Marc was sixteen: he died of cancer. His mother still lived on the Island and was alive and well. The British Army and the Special Forces