James Deegan - Once A Pilgrim

He saw four men, one of them placing an RPG7 warhead into its launcher, the others peering cautiously around the side of the building towards the target house where the assault teams were still engaged.

Carr looked back towards Geordie.

Gave a thumbs down – enemy – and held up four fingers.

Geordie nodded.

Carr removed a fragmentation grenade from his assault vest and showed it to Geordie, who nodded back and immediately brought up his weapon to cover him. Noiselessly, Carr removed the pin and casually lobbed the grenade over the wall, and moved back into cover.

In the darkness, and amidst the cacophony from the firefight, the men neither saw nor heard the grenade land.

Three seconds later it detonated, partially eviscerating the three to the side and leaving them moaning and writhing on the ground. Carr stepped through the gate, followed closely by Geordie. The RPG man turned, seeing only black shapes – though Carr saw him well enough, and saw his look of utter surprise – and opened his mouth to say something.

Carr placed the barrel of his weapon into the centre of the man’s face and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash illuminated his head as it exploded from the impact of the high velocity round, and Carr was turning and moving before the body hit the floor.

Geordie took care of the three on the ground and then they moved quickly to the back door of the house, ready to make entry.

As they reached it, a burst of gunfire erupted from the window above, followed by shouting.

Carr turned: Wayne Rooney had been following them through the gate, and had taken rounds directly into the chest and face; his body armour had absorbed the impact to his chest, but a round had just clipped his right temple. It might have been survivable, ironically, if it hadn’t been for his helmet. As it was, the bullet had bounced around inside the Kevlar, ricocheting through his brain and making mincemeat of it. An inch to the left and things would have been different.

*

But shit happens.

The temptation was to run to help him, but that would have been suicidal, and pointless: Carr knew the young trooper was dead before he hit the ground.

The only thing to do now was get into the house and kill everyone inside.

Cursing, he opened the door.

He and Geordie stepped into a darkened kitchen, and paused to listen. They could hear some movement upstairs, but nothing in the immediate vicinity. While Geordie covered an open doorway which led into a hall, Carr keyed his mike and transmitted. ‘Steve, it’s John. We’re in the downstairs of the house. Make sure no-one fires into the downstairs, okay?’

He listened for a response.

Nothing .

He repeated the transmission.

This time it was acknowledged.

With rounds smacking into the upper floor, and rapid AK fire being returned, the two men quickly cleared the lower floor of the building.

Carr got on the net again. ‘Steve,’ he said, ‘Downstairs clear. We’re moving upstairs. Stop firing.’

‘Okay, John.’

Carefully, John Carr and Geordie Skelton headed up the marble staircase. They cleared the rear rooms of the house – whoever had shot Wayne Rooney had obviously returned to the front – and came to the final two doors, which faced the target building.

Both doors were closed.

Carr pointed at the first and held up one finger.

Geordie understood that he was going to be the first through the door.

He nodded and took up position.

Carr pressed the door handle and pushed it open.

Geordie stepped through.

Directly in front of him, an insurgent began to turn, lifting an AK47 and swinging it around.

Geordie fired two quick shots into his face, and the man was punched backwards and straight out of the open window.

To the right, a second insurgent turned to engage the SAS man, who beat him to the shot and pulled his trigger…

Nothing .

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

‘Shit,’ screamed Geordie. ‘ Stoppage !’

He began to drop into the kneeling position, reaching for his pistol, knowing that he would not have time to draw it and take out the threat, knowing also that Carr would hear and respond.

The big Tynesider felt the impact of the round in his mid-thigh at the same moment that he heard the report of Carr’s weapon sounding over his head.

The shooter was flung backwards against the wall; just to make sure, Carr stepped forward, put the barrel of his weapon to the man’s forehead, and shot him again.

Then he turned to Geordie. ‘You okay?’ he said.

‘What do you fucking think ?’ said Skelton, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been fucking shot , you daft twat. Fuck me , it hurts.’

‘It’s only a flesh wound, you big girl,’ said Carr, with a sniff. ‘Sort your weapon out.’

Geordie nodded, cleared the stoppage, and stuck in a new magazine.

It was as the mag was slapped home that Carr looked down, and immediately saw that it was far from a flesh wound.

Geordie’s leg was sticking out at an unnatural angle, indicating that the round had hit bone; Carr knew that he could bleed out quickly from a shot to the femur, especially if the femoral artery was damaged.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said. ‘Right, Geordie. I’m going to pull you over to the wall over there and prop you up. Keep an eye on the doorway, okay?’

Another nod.

Sweating, Carr dragged Skelton the ten or twelve feet over to the side of the room. It was a bastard – he weighed more than 270lbs with all his kit, and he couldn’t help much, and Carr felt horribly vulnerable, especially when he had to turn his back to the door to sit him up.

Once that was done, Carr pulled the tourniquet from his chest rig.

‘Keep watching that fucking door,’ he said, feeling for the entry point on Geordie’s leg.

He found it, and then located the exit wound on the back of the thigh. It was large, and wet with blood, and full of bone splinters.

Shit , he thought. But at least the artery appeared to be intact.

‘Okay, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. I’m going to put this on, yeah? It’s going to hurt a bit.’

Carr applied the tourniquet and pulled it tight.

Geordie let out a low moan of animal pain; he was a hard man, and Carr knew he must be in something near agony.

‘That’s done, mate,’ he said, wiping his bloodied hands on his combats. ‘Now listen, I need to go and clear that last room. Anyone but me comes through that door, you kill them. Got it?’

‘I’m coming,’ said Geordie. ‘You can’t do it by yourself.’

He tried to stand, but fell back down.

‘Ah, shit,’ he said. ‘That does fucking hurt. Give me a hand up.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Carr. ‘Stay here.’

Geordie gave him a thumbs-up with his left hand, his right wrapped round the pistol grip of his Diemaco, which was aimed at the doorway.

Carr smiled, returned the thumbs-up, and stepped out and back into the hallway.

Looking at the door to the last room, readying himself to step through that breach.

And then the handle started to move, and the door began to open.

Carr moved to the wall, flush to the door, and took aim.

A bloodied hand gripped the side of the door recess, and then a man of sixty or so stepped out, unarmed, hands cradling his belly. His white shirt was stained red with blood from a gunshot wound to the stomach, and when he looked at Carr the Scot saw shock but no fear in his eyes.

He smiled at Carr and nodded – as if he was acknowledging a stranger in the street, on a nice summer’s day. But then another man, much younger, stepped out behind him.

The second man looked at Carr for a split second, yelled ‘Allahu akhbar!’ and raised his hand.