Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

He was told about a bear, about a dog, about the abandonment of a pursuit. Was told that helicopters would fly in the morning. An additional two companies of regular mechanised infantry from the garrison camp at Titovka would go into the field for the search mission. The wind would stay strong but the rain would be gone.

“In the military they’ve a bit of a yardstick about getting their people back, injured or corpses. Started in the US effort in Vietnam. A man down, send in a platoon to recover him. Not enough so make it a company, still can’t get to him so it becomes a battalion and then a regiment and full-blown close support air strikes, and an air cavalry intervention, for one man who is alive or is dead. Not our way, friend, not in my trade. A funny old world and a tough old world. Stand on their own, or lie on their own. They know it, are all volunteers, all signed up understanding the way things are. Rum for him that it didn’t work out. Not that we’ll be repeating.”

A stand off had developed in front of Knacker. The major, drenched, coated in slime and mud but with his medal ribbons still prominent, remained motionless and the detachment’s officer was uncertain what action to take. Knock the damn pistol out of his hand, wait for a psychiatrist to show up, keep talking gentle crap in the hope that the lunatic would start blubbering and chuck the weapon down. Knacker glanced at his watch. Had a bit of time left, not much. Would want to catch the flight out of Kirkenes that evening, then the red-eye from Tromso back to the UK.

Knacker said, “We’ve a new broom back at the shop. Not in favour of this sort of caper. Going to rein us in, and put the old ones, me and my ilk, out to grass. Don’t see the value of this type of mission. I tell you, should the shit do the decent thing and go to his Maker, there will be riotous pleasure in a couple of refugee camps, firing in the air, singing and dancing and a carnival night, because of what happened, and we will have won lifelong allies in that neck of Syria. Sorry, but it is now regarded as old fashioned, better left to satellites. The bullies and the dictators, and the killers, are – anyway – going to be our new friends… Come on, I’m here till the end but get a bloody move on, can’t you.”

But the pistol barrel did not waver, remained pointed to the leaden sky, held by hands in prayer.

Delta Alpha Sierra, the nineteenth hour

“He’s called Knacker, agent runner. Don’t mind him. Seems fierce but he’s all right. From the Sixers. Just tell him what you saw.”

His officer escorted him to a closed door. Two women were waiting outside: one was fluffy and small and blonde and with pretty freckles, and the other was taller, heavier, had a serious tattoo on one upper arm and bulged in a T-shirt and floppy shorts.

“This him?”

His officer answered them. “Well, it’s not fucking Father Christmas – and he’s had a tough time so treat him well.”

The door was opened. The women followed but not his officer. Behind a formica-topped table was a small man, stocky and powerful and greeting his visitor with a decent smile. The sort that would put Gaz, a little, at ease. An apology. Food and water were waiting in the Mess for him, and a medic on standby to run over his condition, but this guy, Knacker, would really appreciate his take on the last twenty-for hours. Seemed it had been this Sixer’s shout, way back, that had caused them to target the village, get the camera in place, and line up a friendly location in an area of hostility. He’d said he was fine, could wait for food and drink, and had talked.

Started with the camera and the schedule for the batteries and the life they had, and the need to clear out the recorded images. A set of batteries might have been faulty and the need for replacements had come sooner than anticipated. All routine stuff and all rendered with a dry monotone voice. And the move into position up a slope and under a lip below the plateau, and a girl with goats, and boys coming back on pick-ups, and then the convoy advancing up the highway. He told of some specifics, of the first boy to be hanged and of the corralling of the women and children and old men. Described how the crossbar had collapsed under the weight of four suspended youths. The woman who had slashed the officer’s face – a fair-haired Russian officer. Had struggled but had gone on to describe the long day, and the longer evening, the burning and the shooting, and then the Iranian militiamen lining up for their turn, their belts loosened and their flies undone. Spoke of the girl who hid close to him and who never spoke except to say that her sister was among the dead. Had remembered pretty much everything, and it had seemed to hurt more, now, in the recall, than when it had been played out live in front of him. Tears came.

“It’s all right, Gaz, take your time. Nearly through, but it is important we have a record, an honest and truthful appraisal which is what we are getting. We have ways of making people answer for their actions, not always obvious and sometimes far from sight, but that’s what we do. Have done in the past, will do again. Those sort of bastards, particularly the Russian officer, imagine themselves above any creed of the legality that we believe in. I promise you, Gaz, if anything can be done then it will be done. I don’t chuck them around lightly, promises. And at the end… ?”

He spoke of the darkness and of the pits, and of the shooting of those already in the pits who showed faint signs of survival. Then talked, with a choke in his throat, of the girl, and the stampede of her herd, and of militiamen running towards his hiding place where she, too, had taken shelter. He would have been identified, would have been captured and paraded, but she had run, had drawn them off. He said, would have sounded infantile to this man, that when he had been a youngster on a farm that a hind would bolt from cover to take dogs away from the place where a fawn, too young and too weak to run, had shelter. Told what had happened to the girl when she was caught. Told how she had escaped being shot dead, was a witness. Told this man, Knacker, he owed his life to her.

Knacker said, “What can be done will be done. As we said about the genocide people in Bosnia, ‘They can run but they cannot hide’. We go after them. It’s not something we forget. Thank you.”

Had seemed decent, had reckoned him to be a caring and honest man. He went out. Went to look for the girl. Was told she had been taken to the medic. Went to the medic. Seemed not a big deal. ‘What the local kid? Yes, saw her. Gave her a ‘morning-after’ dose.’ Had they provided her a bunk in the women’s quarters? ‘Didn’t have to. She’s gone, pushed off. Said something about some goats and her dogs. Just as well, would have been difficult, impossible, to square with regulations, her sleeping here.’

Had gone outside the collection of Portakabins and converted freight containers. Had gone to the entry point where the sentry was positioned behind a wall of sandbags. Was told she had come through, was alone, was walking, that no transport was deemed available. Had borrowed the sentry’s night-vision glasses, had scanned the track leading away from the Forward Operations Base. Had not seen her, had not thanked her, had failed her. He owed his life to her…

Timofey freed him, then Natacha did. He sagged. They left him to be held up by the hunter.

They ran, as best they could, down to the shore. There was a half-light of grey, the rocks and the sea and the far side of the inlet and the cloud ceiling, but a little brighter as if the worst of the night was over and a new day tilted forward. A desolate headland stretched away in front of them. Not a place that either would ever have been to before. No school party, no youth section, would have come here. Not fenced in but no road reaching the place: inside a restricted zone, halfway between the two Northern Fleet bases for submarines. When they were close to the water, they looked back, needed the final directions of the hunter.