On the riverside of promise
a story in the forgotten Land of the Rising Sun
by Vasileios Kalampakas
Aug 13, 2012
Copyright © 2012 Vasileios Kalampakas
ISBN:9781476298696
Available in e-book form from https://www.stoneforger.com, the Amazon Kindle store and other online retailers.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
You can reach the author at this e-mail address:
[email protected] Written and typeset with the LyX document processor
from https://www.lyx.org
Cover made with the aid of the GNU Image Manipulation program
from https://www.gimp.org
Cover photo by Gilles Caron
This time written with a plan in mind
Any likeness with events and persons living or otherwise is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.
Table of Contents
In her Majesty’s service >
Well met on an ill road >
Blood-red dawn >
Heed no prayer >
Dead men can’t dance >
Opening night >
The bonds that tie >
All's well, that ends well >
Thanks
Thanks to Minas Pergantis for editing this one (or maybe botching the job)
Elemental, united in vision
of present and future,
the pure line, whose innocence
denies inhibitions.
At confluences, of planes, the angle:
man loses man, loses vision;
- Christopher Okigbo, Lament of the Lavender Mist
Dedicated to my brother, Nikos.
In her Majesty’s service
Sweat ran freely down the red-haired Englishman’s temples, smearing the jungle camouflage on his clean-shaven face. A knife blade covered in dry mud sat in his left hand, while his other hand made a rough circle in the air. It was a hand signal for the command to encircle the target.
Five men melted away into the green humid jungle in a heartbeat, as if they had been an optical illusion. They moved fast; faster than what Ethan had believed them capable of. He decided to stand back for a little while more, and see how they could handle their approach on their own.
All of them stopped dead in their tracks and hunched low when they heard noise, probably from the direction of the clearing up ahead. The two men that formed the edge of the squad aimed their rifles outwards, as if a switch had been thrown. The point man laid himself flat with the silken grace of a cat, knife drawn in his right hand while his left hand reached out for his Browning nine millimeter. The rearguard moved like a pair of dancers, covering each other’s back, both aiming their rifles from shoulder-high, safeties clicked off to single-shot selection.
In that cautious small diamond formation they moved as a whole, each step forward made with practiced ease and well-earned confidence; the mark of a well-trained soldier. For all intents and purposes, and as far as Ethan was concerned, he had done a good job training them. What did bother him though, was that they had yet to fire a shot in anger. He knew that nothing tests a man like real combat.
Though they moved precisely as they had been taught, and seemed quick and stealthy enough, Ethan couldn’t really tell if they just went through the motions or if they were really up for the challenge. After all, no matter how much one practices before a show, it’s the opening night that really matters.
Ethan’s free hand was wrapped tightly around a metal L-shaped trigger attached to a small box no larger than a pack of cigarettes, from which a run of cables protruded and got lost somewhere under the rich jungle tapestrie of green and brown. With a tight grin, Ethan whispered to himself with the expectation of a job well done:
“Showtime, lads.”
When he double-clicked the trigger the first thing that attracted everyone's attention were the flashes. And then came the shockwaves, their force pummeling at everyone, making every ribcage vibrate intensely as if tremors had seized them. And that was just the opening note.
Small gun fire erupted from various well-placed locations, the muzzle flashes dotting the lavish scenery as if hundreds of photographers clicked in rapid succession.
The scouts instantly dived for cover, falling prone while keeping their arcs of fire firmly fixed to their own particular zone of responsibility. A wry smile formed on Ethan’s face: he seemed to be enjoying the performance.
The five trainees were on their bellies, rolling and crawling over the jungle bed in an effort to find as much cover as possible in mere moments. They exchanged quick glances and made repetitive hand motions to each other, communicating silently trying to establish a point where they could fall back away from the guns blazing at them.
Every tree trunk and low bush or gully counted for gold at times like these, and the five Marine scouts from the 3rd Marine division made excellent use of their surroundings. Very much so that Ethan felt a twang of pride at seeing his handiwork in action. They were his men, and they seemed every bit as professional as he intended them to be.
They quickly abandoned their exposed position for a slightly shallow depression with good cover, fat tree trunks strewn around them with thick bush for cover and a clear view on all sides. It was a defendable position from which they could easily spot a move against them and fall back while they harassed their enemy firing and moving in turns. Ethan’s mind flashed with the sudden realisation they were good enough to be Royal Marine scouts, not just Nigerian troops.
He almost felt a hint of regret he couldn’t be there with them when it really mattered. When the guns pointing towards them would not be loaded with blanks. When the explosive charges half a mile away would be real shells and mortars falling right on top of them.
Almost, as Ethan reminded himself inside his head, was the eminent keyword: This was not his war, not by a far chance, and setting up mock engagements such as this one was as close as he wanted to get to another war zone. Except for the times when he itched. Except for the times he woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, knowing it wasn’t the tropical heat that left him sleepless thereafter, but faces all too well remembered and defined.
The team of five men had dug themselves in, taking solid cover. The gunfire died down soon afterwards and Ethan believed there was no point in continuing tracking and crossing the jungle. He had seen what he wanted to see, and that was a team of scouts, not a bunch of gung-ho Nigerians hollering with rifles raised firing on auto, vying for Igbo blood.
Ethan raised himself above the brushes and bellowed as if he wanted the cadets back at Sandhurst to hear him clear as rain:
“End of session! Fine job lads!”
The team of five men gave no sign of sight or sound that they had heard their instructor. Ethan repeated himself with less enthusiasm:
“Come on, game's over! Let’s head back for some rest, off we go.”
Still, nothing could be now heard other than the usual sounds of the jungle, the distant cries of birds and monkeys, and the constant buzzing of mosquitoes and other assorted exotic insects.
Ethan furrowed his brow and briefly considered that the team might have actually extracted themselves without him noticing, and decided to check the small depression himself. With a hurried pace, he made his way through the brush and in a few moments reached the position he had last seen them take cover in.
He saw no-one, but suddenly felt a piece of metal poking him through his left side, right between his ribs, poised to pierce his heart at a single thrust. He had been caught unaware. Once he looked sideways to his assailant he saw Onko, the team scout leader smiling wildly, his bright wh
ite teeth a stark contrast to his camouflaged dark face. A little stunned and a little bit surprised, Ethan barely had time to let off a curse:
“Bugger me, you’ve grown into a real scout Idowu.”
No longer wearing the same disarming smile, the nigerian marine responded with a heavy accent, the Nigerian pronunciation thick and strong:
“You grow soft, Captain Whittmore.”
Onko then sheathed his knife and the four other men suddenly appeared from quite unlikely and widespread places, from any one of which they could have put a bullet through Ethan at their leisure.
Ethan nodded and made a small sigh, as if acknowledging he had indeed let his guard down and had been overcome, exactly what he tought his recruits should never happen, especially while in the battlefield. Cultivating a little paranoia went a long way in keeping a man alive, especially in a civil war where telling a friend from an enemy was not as clean a business as shooting at one.
Ethan did manage to save some face though, when he pointed at his feet to a small bump in the ground, leaves cluttered all over it and said:
“See now Ibrahim, that’s a mark for a landmine. You might have killed at least one man when you chose to fall back here.”
Onko seemed far from smiling at that comment and with a mixed expression midpoint between anger and disappointment he said to Ethan, making it sound almost like an accusation:
“There was no place else to fall back and take cover, Captain. It was a death trap then, for sure. What could we have done different? Not fair, sir.”
The word `sir’ had a strange ring to it and that probably was because it was meant to sound off-putting. Ethan only cared to answer briefly right before he turned about and started walking to the gathering area of the training field:
“All’s fair in love and war, sergeant. Says so somewhere, I’m pretty sure of that.”