Part 5 (1/2)

We came to a fair-sized lake, fringed with marsh and rushes, and tabbed round it till we encountered a gravel track leading in the general direction we wanted to go. There were signs of sheep here and a few birds, but no other wildlife. The whole land was eerily quiet save for the occasional hum of a vehicle on the road. We paused a moment to catch our breath. After a minute I looked back and saw something moving along the gully we had just come from. Signing to Doug to cover me, I dropped back to take a closer look.

Whatever it was moved very cautiously, keeping in the rushes. I squatted under a bush, the L42 at the ready. If there was any doubt I would shoot first and no questions. The shape edged closer. It was a figure in camouflage carrying a long weapon. Too close for comfort. If I took out this one, his buddies would slow down a while. I raised the rifle and centred the cross hairs. Fifty metres, an easy shot.

My finger was tightening on the trigger when he moved out from behind some gra.s.s. In the circle of the sight I saw he was wearing civvies under his camo jacket. s.h.i.+t, I thought. Now what?

”Hey, you!” I called out. ”Halt!”

He spun around, the hunting rifle in his hands training towards me a tall, sunburnt man, bearded, with harsh, gaunt features, what I could see of them. His face was taut with suspicion. For a moment I actually had the impression he was about to fire, then he lowered the barrel.

”Tienne una habitation?” he called out in Spanish. ”Have you a room?”

With a shock I realised this must be the agent sent to meet us. I tried to make my brain work. There was supposed to be a response to the codeword recognition system but for the life of me I couldn't recall it.

He must have understood my confusion because he added, ”SAS? My name is Seb.”

”Jesus,” I whispered, ”I almost shot you.”

Slowly, he relaxed and stood up. He was a big man, dressed like a hunter, and swarthy, his wrists and the backs of his hands matted with dark hair. He looked like someone who spent much of his life outdoors, a man who could take care of himself. His expression was closed and hard. A loner, I thought.

”I did not see you properly for a moment,” he confessed, lowering the rifle and coming over to join me. ”I thought you were an Argentine soldier. I'm sorry I couldn't reach the rendezvous; the roads were crawling with soldiers. I managed to work my way round and pick up your trail.”

Doug moved up to join us. ”Welcome, friend,” he said drily. ”We missed you at the rendezvous.” Doug mistrusted spooks.

Seb shook his head as if he had no time for pleasantries. ”The Argentines know you shot down a plane. There's a patrol right behind me. Fifteen men with a light mortar.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Seb didn't need to say more. A platoon of men with a mortar could sit out of range of our weapons and blow us to pieces. Then they could pick off the survivors at will. The three of us scrambled back to the others. We had two options: to lay an ambush and take them out or to quicken our pace and try to lose them. Ambush would've been the preferred option, but with the possibility of other patrols in the vicinity it was too risky. We could delay them a bit, though. Tom and Taffy, our demolitions experts, rigged up a couple of grenades on tripwires across the path it took them no more than a minute then we moved out at a run.

We jogged on in single file, Taffy leading this time, Seb following to give directions and myself bringing up the rear. I had been worried about whether he could keep up but Seb ran easily. He wore hiking boots and carried a hunter's light knapsack. He steered us unhesitatingly through a confusing tangle of small intersecting valleys. It was a relief to feel we were in safe hands. We splashed across a small river that chattered over its rocky bed, and Seb paused to check out the country beyond.

We had come out on to open ground again. In front of us stretched undulating ridges of pampas with tall gra.s.ses waving in the wind. Silently Seb pointed to a line offence posts marching across the horizon half a mile off.

”The border?” Guy asked after a moment.

Seb nodded.

”Is it guarded?”

He shook his head. ”Not here. Further up where the road crosses the frontier there is a customs post.”

I turned around to scan back the way we had come with the scope sight on my rifle. It looked as though we had shaken off the pursuit. Then abruptly I spied a cautious movement among the trees along the stream, about 500 metres off, long gunshot range. ”Andy,” I called softly, 'that patrol is moving along our trail. They'll be up with us in the next ten minutes.”

”Do not shoot,” Seb whispered. ”If you do they will claim hot pursuit and follow you across the border into Chile.”

”Will they respect the frontier line otherwise, do you think?” Guy asked.

”They have instructions not to cross unless fired upon,” Seb answered soberly. ”If you six will go straight on over now, I will try to delay the patrol.”

”How will you do that on your own?” Andy wanted to know.

”I will tell them that I saw your party, numbering twelve or fifteen men, heavily armed, heading north-west towards the border,” he said simply. ”These are conscripts, not regular troops. They will not hurry to catch you up if they think you are so many.”

We looked at the border, half a mile off, and back in the direction of the pursuing enemy. ”You sure you wouldn't rather come with us?” Guy asked him. ”You're taking a risk going back.”

”I know what I am doing, trust me,” Seb told him. He shook hands briefly with the six of us. ”Now go quickly,” he said. ”Five hundred metres beyond the fence posts you will come to a track leading south-west. Follow that for two miles and you reach a village. There you can get transport to San Sebastian.”

With a quick wave of the hand he strode away into the bush, vanis.h.i.+ng rapidly among the trees. I felt an obscure sense of loss at his going, this stranger who had risked his life to help us and was now putting himself on the line for us again.

”Come on,” Andy said. ”Let's do as the man said.”

We tabbed forward at a rapid pace, bending low to keep from being spotted. Luckily the tall gra.s.s provided plenty of cover. It took us only ten minutes to reach the fence. There was no wire, just a line of weathered posts set at twenty-yard intervals running straight across the pampas and disappearing into the distance. As we pa.s.sed through I felt a huge sense of achievement. We had made it. The mission had been a failure, but that was not our fault. We had tramped forty miles across enemy territory in wartime, evading capture for four days. We had fought a successful contact engagement and shot down an enemy aircraft sent to strafe us. Truly I had been blooded in combat.

A few hundred yards on, we came across the track Seb had described. Andy ordered a halt to get the satcom out. The rest of us stood guard while Doug checked in with Hereford, letting them know of our safe arrival on Chilean territory. It led in the right direction and we followed it cautiously in single file, still keeping our eyes peeled and our weapons at the ready. Any soldiers we ran into now would probably be Chilean and friendly but even so we were careful. I thought about Seb and wondered how he was doing. He was a brave man.

We had covered about a quarter of a mile when I heard a sudden shout from Tom in the lead, followed by a burst of machine-gun fire from a low ridge ahead. My heart leapt into my mouth. s.h.i.+t. Seb was wrong the Argies weren't respecting the frontier. They had guessed our route and laid a trap for us on Chilean soil. We had run straight into a well-laid ambush.

There was no hesitation now and no question of breaking contact or withdrawing. With another patrol on our heels our only chance was to fight our way through. The unit went into action as smoothly as a machine. The GPMG team moved out fifteen metres to the flanks and opened a storm of covering fire. Tom and Doug were hurling smoke and firing grenades from their 203s, laying down an accurate barrage upon the enemy who were shooting back from the small ridge to our front. Taffy and I moved up at the run, opening up with our own weapons, leapfrogging our buddies, while the machine-gun kept the enemy's heads down as we advanced. Five metres on and we flung ourselves down to take up firing positions from which to cover the next wave as they came running through. More smoke was thrown, and 40mm grenade rounds thudded against the enemy line as the machine-gun hammered away.

Everything was happening by the book. We were working by standard operating procedures just as we had been trained, and it gave me a degree of confidence.

The firing was very heavy though, zipping over our heads and cutting up the turf around us. Some of those rounds were coming from behind and I thought, s.h.i.+t, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the other patrol we saw are moving up to take us from the rear. We were in a bad situation, outnumbered more than three to one and pinned down with enemy forces preparing to surround us.

The shooting grew more intense still. Through the gunfire I could hear orders being yelled. They must think they had got us cold. Andy was still rattling away with the GPMG, firing back at the enemy machine-gun. I saw Guy swing round, a.s.sessing the situation rapidly. We were in a bad spot; it was urgent that we break out somehow before the enemy overwhelmed us with sheer numbers.

Guy came to a decision and jumped up. ”Come on!” he shouted. ”We've got to push through. Follow me!” And leaving Andy with the GPMG, he grabbed his 203 and charged ahead straight for the ridge, yelling at full pitch.

For f.u.c.k's sake, no! I thought, but I knew Guy was right. We were pinned down and it was crucial that we somehow gain momentum, otherwise we were knackered. It took a brave man to show that kind of leaders.h.i.+p.

”He's doing it, follow him!” I shouted to the others, springing to my feet and running after him. Tom and Doug had jumped up too and were tearing forward. I triggered my grenade launcher, saw a round go arching into the rolling smoke, and heard the crash of the explosion. Taffy was with us now and we were all firing as we ran.

Tracer from the GPMG swept the ridge like a storm. I saw Guy turn for a moment to urge the rest of us on. In the same instant a bullet hit him. It spun him round like a toy and he pitched on to his side on the ground at the foot of the ridge. ”Man down!” I shouted and sprinted over. Guy was lying hunched up with his knees against his chest. The front of his camo jacket was soaked with blood. There was so much of it everywhere it was impossible to see where he had been hit. His eyes were dull with pain and terror. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the field dressing pack from his harness. At first I thought it was a chest wound, then I saw the huge hole in his throat. Snipers are trained to go for a throat shot and with good reason. There's almost no way to stem the blood flow. I grabbed the sides of the wound, attempting to hold them together while warm blood spurted through my fingers. ”Taffy!” I shouted. ”Man down, for Christ's sake!”

Doug and Tom took up positions a couple of metres in front of us, putting down sustained fire from their weapons. Taffy doubled over. He and I grabbed Guy by his harness and dragged him into the shelter of a nearby hollow. Doug and Tom moved across, continuing to cover us. Taffy ripped open the dressing pack and stuffed a big cotton wool pad into the wound. It turned red instantly and went sloppy to the touch. Guy's carotid artery was ripped to fragments. The blood was emptying out of him in a flood we couldn't stop. His breathing had stopped and his eyes had rolled up. He was in shock, dying in front of us. The gush of blood ceased as the internal pressure fell and the heart ran ragged for a few seconds, then seized.

”Fluids!” I screamed to Taffy. ”Get fluids into him.”

Taffy was fumbling with the plasma bottle filled with colourless, coagulable liquid that will bulk out the remaining blood in the veins and keep the heart beating. You insert it through a vein with a catheter. We had practiced this dozens of times on the first aid course. Seal off a wound and replace the fluids and the victim will survive till he gets to hospital that's what they taught us. Except that Guy's wound was too huge to seal, and all the plasma in the unit wouldn't replace the blood he had lost.

But I couldn't get my head around that. I kept shouting at Taffy to set up the plasma tube.

”Mark,” Taffy yelled at me. ”Mark, for G.o.d's sake. It's no use. He's gone.”

”f.u.c.k you!” I shouted. ”Just try!”