Operation Lavivrus. John Wiseman
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on his knees like a fish out of water, grabbed his head and forced it down. The class stated to gather around the injured pair till Jim shouted, ‘What do you think this is, a peep show? Get back to work.’ In a softer voice he continued, ‘Stay on your knees, Tony. Force the air out.’ He looked over to Peter, who was pinching together the edges of his cut eye.
‘Here, boss, use this,’ he said, and threw him a clean white handkerchief that he had in his pocket. ‘Charlie, Fred, come and give a hand,’ he summoned the nearest couple. ‘Take the boss to the MI room, and you can help me with Tony.’
Between them they got Tony to his feet. His face was contorted with pain and he was forced to breathe through clenched lips. He had attempted to spit the bitter taste out of his mouth but only succeeded in dribbling it down his chest. A silver thread of spittle was still hanging from his lip. Jim supported him from behind, with his massive arms wrapped around his chest.
‘I’ve lost one of my nuts,’ muttered Tony. At this Jim held him tight, and with Charlie helping, dropped to a kneeling position. ‘Tell me when it drops’, he said, and he bounced Tony up and down on his buttocks. He had done this many times before, and Tony knew the routine; they called it ‘Testes Absentus’. It was their term for a testicle that goes up into the groin cavity. Some sumo wrestlers would do this deliberately before a contest, but to the uninitiated it is a very painful experience.
Eventually Tony got to his feet, supported by Jim, who was pressing his thumbs firmly into his abdomen trying to alleviate the burning, sickly pain.
‘Thanks, mate. I’d better go and see how the boss is,’ and Tony headed gingerly to the MI room.
Peter had four stitches, and Tony recovered apart from a slight headache and a loss of appetite. Most of the troop sported a bruise or welt of various sizes and colours, which they carried with pride. These were marks of the warrior; it went with the job.
After a shower and a late breakfast, the troop assembled at the armoury to draw out their personal weapons. Tony complimented his boss for the cheap shot and apologised for the cut.
They retired to the Troop Basha (billet), where they stripped and cleaned their weapons. While they were doing this they had an informal discussion on firepower. All the troop had a say on what was needed for their coming mission.
‘Weight is going to be critical,’ stated Peter, who got the ball rolling. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in a firefight.’ The mission was covert, so stealth was their best bet. If they were compromised at any stage, a rapid withdrawal was the strategy –what they called ‘shoot and scoot’.
‘What about silenced weapons?’ asked Chalky.
‘What do you think, Tony?’ Peter handed the question to Tony.
‘It’s so windy down there that I think they’ll be useless.’
Silenced weapons fire sub-sonic ammunition, which is slow, leaving them at the mercy of the wind. Range is also limited, and the stronger the wind, the less accurate they become. In a confined area they are noisy, much louder than the dull thud you hear in movies.
‘If the wind is that strong we’ll probably get away with the odd shot,’ offered Phil.
‘Maybe, but I definitely want some night sights in the patrol,’ countered Peter.
After further discussion and much deliberation Tony issued the following orders. ‘OK, lads. Every man an Armalite; Chalky, Fred, night sights. Grab some ammo and I’ll see you on the range.’
The AR15 had all the credentials needed to make it a first-class weapon. It was light, reliable, with a good rate of fire. The only modification that the lads would make was to cover the magazine release catch with a strip of tape to prevent accidental release.
Close to the camp was the 50-metre range. This had a railway line running past on one side and open fields on the other. There was a gypsy camp nearby, and sometimes they grazed their ponies on the range. Local kids, especially from the married quarters, used to glean the ranges frequently, picking up empty cases and the occasional live round. The MOD police patrolled the area regularly after strong complaints were made by the local school from teachers who had caught their pupils with some interesting souvenirs. These patrols were ineffective; they just tested the inbred skills of the kids, making it more of a challenge, raising the price of the bounty they found.
‘Let’s make it interesting and have a kitty, winner takes all. Are you all in favour?’ asked Tony. A show of hands confirmed this, and got the banter going.
‘You may as well give me the money now,’ insisted Ron. He was the youngest member of the troop.
‘If you shoot like you did last week you’ll do better with a bayonet,’ replied Fred.
To the side of the retaining wall, which was heaped with sand, there was a scoreboard reading, ’Moles 0 – Brummie 4’. Brummie was the range warden, a retired soldier, who waged a constant war on the moles that were responsible for the unsightly mounds of earth that spoilt the appearance of the well-kept grass. He nagged the lads, constantly telling them to pick up all their empties, burn the rubbish and repair the targets with paste when they finished.
Tony was talking to the warden when Peter butted in. ‘Come on, let’s get started,’ he said in a brusque voice.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Brummie. ‘Wrong time of the month? And what’s happened to his eye?’
Breathing control is the secret to accurate shooting. Inhaling strongly through the nose, taking up the first pressure on the trigger while focusing on the target, is the first stage. Holding the breath when the aim is confirmed is the second stage. Squeezing the trigger is the final phase. This eliminates any wavering of the weapon.
The only disturbance they had was the 10.30 from Cardiff. A few excited passengers were seen starring out the windows as the train sped by. This did not stop the lads shooting. Once they started they finished the practice; only a fault with a weapon would prevent this. When all the detail had stopped firing they were checked by Tony and Peter before getting the ‘guns clear’, which allowed them to dress forward and check their targets.
Corporal Phil Jones was the best shot of the day. His group of ten rounds could all be covered by a single patch. His MPI (main point of impact) was one inch above dead centre.
‘Well done, Phil. Here’s the loot.’ Peter handed over the kitty to an outstretched hand the size of a dinner plate. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’
‘I’m slightly high, but at 100 yards I will be spot on,’ the tall corporal commented, stuffing the handful of loose change in his pocket. Phil was a country lad from Somerset, a powerful six-footer. At thirty years of age he was in prime condition, and was one of those men who seemed to have been around for ever; in fact he was in his tenth year with the regiment. He played second row with Tony, forming a solid partnership.
‘Tony, can you cover for me till two?’ asked Pete.
‘Sure, Pete. Give her my love. Tell her you cut your eye shaving,’ replied Tony as he carried on cleaning up the range.
Back in camp the lads cleaned their weapons sitting around Trooper Ron Evans’s bed space.
‘What’s wrong with the boss, Tony? He don’t seem too happy,’ enquired Fred.
‘I think he is in love again,’ replied Tony, ‘and he’s not too pleased with his eye.’
‘Serve him right. It might slow him down a bit,’ grumbled Phil.
‘What will, the girl or the eye?’ asked Tony. They carried on discussing the captain’s love life as they cleaned and oiled their weapons.
‘Tony, can I get away? The eldest ain’t too well. The missus was up all night with her.’ Trooper Andy Swingler was the troop signaller. He was the only member of the troop with children, and was a devoted father. He was never short of babysitters, as the troop volunteered when he wanted a night out with his wife