Sabre Six : File 51 by Jamie Fineran Page B

recruited Marc in the spring of 1994, and in 1996 Marc joined the Intelligence Corps attached to the Special Forces.
    “Right, m en, let’s get cracking on. Tonight I am going to give you a briefing about ‘Operation Sombre.’ I want you to take notes and pin those ears back, as what I tell you tonight will be very significant to your duties here in Iraq.
    I could still hear the wind outside battering the sides of the tent. Marc sparked up a fag and blew the smoke up into the tent ’s ceiling.
    “The first team, led by you, Sergeant Fox, will prepare for patrols commencing in three days. Captain Ralf-Marshall and I will lead the second and third patrols.”
    “Our mission is to dominate Al-Qaida by bringing the fight to them. We will deploy to high ground, by Black Hawk and then by foot, then tab in and deploy fixed observation posts watching over caves, roads, villages etc.”
    “What support do we have, b oss?” Marc stood up and walked to the front of the class. He stood very calmly. His hair was jet black and there was a hint of mixed race to him. He was rather a ladies’ man. Marc placed his note book on the desk, looked up at the boys, and introduced himself in a no-nonsense manner.
    “Bugger all , Nigel; sod all, apart from the men on the ground with you. You will be going into enemy held territory and you will be on your own. There will be no doubt of that.” We just smiled. A typical answer really.
    “We’ll be going in by Black Hawk to this grid reference here on the map. This is a black-ops mission , folks. Do you all understand that?” We all looked up at Marc. He was switched on to fuck! The briefing went on for a further hour. Each man knew what his job was, and I was a very happy boy.
    “Michael, get sorted with Steve in a b it and get your shit together. Ok, Mate?”
    “Sound, B oss!”
    “That’s all I have to say, m en. Thank you for your time.”
     
    We ran back to our bunks. The storm had calmed down a little, but a thick pile of sand and other shit had collected against the hangar door, nonetheless. I was going to fill Stan’s boots up with sand but decided he’d had enough for one day, bless him! Once settled in for the night I wrote a letter home to Hannah, telling her that I missed her and that if anything should happen to me then she should move on without looking back. I wanted her to throw a party in my honour, and then get out on the town and celebrate a little. When I’d finished my letter, I handed it over to Lionel, our quartermaster, who was in charge of all materials, parts and bodies in the squadron. If I were to die, he would post it to Hannah. I rang her one last time and explained that I would not be phoning for a while as something had come up. I told her nothing: she was a bright girl; she knew the score.
    My Bergen weighed in excess of 100lb, carrying food and water, spare ammo and radio batteries. I dumped all my kit outside the hangar and watched Nig light his fag up. He blew the smoke into my face and then smiled at me, the cheeky shit! The chopper landed next to us and the pilot jumped out and ran past me. He was running to the toilets in distress – busting apparently. The boys and I dumped our kit in the back of the chopper and hung round for five minutes; Nig got a last fag in before we took off. The pilot looked round at us from inside his cockpit.
    “Are you boys ready to go?” I nodded and smiled with the thumbs up; he then turned around, waved at the grou nd crew and we began to ascend.
    It was 23:23hrs, Friday 5 th May, and it was freezing cold in the cabin. I put my hands in my pockets and rubbed them against my crutch to keep them warm. Stan and my boys looked happy; Nig was wanking… I think! It looked like it from where I was anyhow.
    We were flying low level. The pilot was very aggressive with his manoeuvres, and we were up and down like a yoyo. The door gunner told me to put on my headphones, as the pilot wanted a word.
    “Hello, is this