Of Rice And Men (No longer being updated)

Chapter 4

Even as I dreamed my thoughts were still firmly grounded in reality. Bullets grazing by, huge explosions and epic battles were commonplace within the depths of my mind. From my sleep to my waking thoughts, from lunchtime banter to settling down at night, almost all of my time was spent thinking of ways to better myself or my gear for combat. Exercise and diet were strictly controlled for me, making sure I kept up the same prime physique.

Early morning as I still dozed in my makeshift bed, something jolted me from my slumber. Gunshots ringing out, dinging the metal of my vehicular shelter. Even with all the commotion, I still didn’t get out of bed quickly, rubbing my eyes and swinging my legs off the side before standing dizzy on the ground. As I looked around for my team mates and the enemy positions, a small, spherical object bounced off the plate steel floor and into my left knee. An old soviet Cold War era grenade.

I shouted out in pain, the heavy metal of the bomb smashing into my kneecap. Even through the pain, I realised I was still in danger, with less than four seconds before the grenade went boom. With all my strength and footballing skill, I booted it from the vehicle and dived for cover behind the driver’s seat. I knocked my head on the controls as I tucked into a ball and rolled into the foot well.

Fire erupted from the small metal sphere, showering my exposed rear end in a rain of hot, steel fragments. I screamed out once again in pain, one hand clutching my knee, the other picking shards from my arse cheeks. My mates were out their exchanging some steel of their own with the enemy, so I knew I had to get out and help. Clambering into my gunner seat, I realised I had a small problem. There were no fifty calibre rounds left.

I had left my SA80 back at base, not anticipating as ferocious and co-ordinated an assault as had happened both yesterday and at that very moment. Hastily, I snatched up a cheap, Burmese AK 47 copy from a dead Burmese soldier at the foot of the Vikings ramp and ripped the mag out of the mag well. I’d been lucky enough to pick a full one so I racked the bolt, ripped some magazines from the fighter’s pouches and cautiously stepped out into the fray, peering down the sights at the guerrillas appearing from the jungle.

“Oi, lad, get over here behind the trailer!” Sam ordered from behind the Vikings standard weapons and ammo carrier. The Americans and their diplomat had been sleeping in and around it last night, now it seemed we had all rallied to it safety. Weaving side to side with my head down low, I sprinted across the five meters of open ground. To a normal person, five meters doesn’t sound like much but when a scythe of machine gun fire is cutting anything passing its view to ribbons, it presents a slightly bigger challenge.

As I slid backwards on my ass into cover, I let loose a spray of rounds in the general direction of the guerrillas, cutting down a few and wounding many others. Sam pulled me in and up to my knees before barking me some orders.

“Dylan, we’ll suppress ‘em while you get around the other side of the trailer and try to get to the treeline. Then you spray across and we’ll charge them. If you’re wondering, the Yanks withdrew the diplomat a couple dozen meters into that treeline as soon as the shooting started. Now get moving lad!”

After a quick nod of acknowledgement, I went about my duty. Sam and Carter both stood and unleashed a barrage of fire from their MP5’s, forcing the Burmese to either duck into the undergrowth, or take a 9mm to the chest. As they rained down hell on the fighters, I hugged the trailer and shuffled around to the side, staying tight to avoid getting my head blown off. On a mental count of three, I hotfooted it over the reedy marsh and into the bush, the guerrillas being too concerned about hiding from the rounds passing over their heads to notice me race to cover behind a mangrove tree.

Using all my stealth and guile, I crept around in the shadow of the canopy, staying concealed by its dark shroud and the thick plant life. The Burmese were slowly advancing from all sides and if I didn’t intercept them soon, they would be on top of the SAS like a dog on a bone. I couldn’t risk sprinting though, or I would blow any chance of keeping the element of surprise. An odd rustle sounded further into the trees and I risked a quick glance over. My eyelashes dripped with my foreheads sweat as I did my best to stay concealed, despite the obvious rustle in the trees from my movement. How none of the fighters noticed me, was either a miracle or a sign of how terribly badly trained they were.

To my bewilderment, I saw the American liaison officer, with his hands in the air, speaking to a Burmese soldier. Dixon strolled up behind him, gun over his shoulder and motioned the guerrilla to go away. At that moment, Tyson came running over and filled the fighter with a full M4 magazine. The liaison officer looked at Tyson with disgust and utter contempt, but forced a thankful smile. The Burman, obviously puzzled at ones reluctance to shoot him and the others eagerness, collapsed to the ground in a heap, with the scrunched up face of a man who had no idea what was going on.

No time to worry about whatever the hell was going on with the Yanks; I got my mind back on the job and approached a Burman with his back turned to me. Steel glinted under the harsh morning sun as I slid a combat knife from its sheath on my belt. In one swift and agile motion, I slipped my knife out in front of his throat, stamped into the back of his knee and pushed backwards off his spine with my other leg. Blood sprayed the plants as he tried to contain his leaking jugular, my jerking motion slicing it clean through.

As he slid limp down my leg and met his final resting place on a fallen tree, I immediately set my eyes on the next target, another fighter with his back turned. I used all my pace to dash up to him and as he turned to face me, gasping, I jammed the barrel of my AK into his wide open mouth and buried my knife hilt deep into his femoral artery, running just alongside his groin. As he screamed in pain, I pulled the trigger and blew the back of his head out, wincing at the gory scene I had just caused. His blood mixed with my sweat, covering me in a crimson war paint.

I knew it was a bad move from the start, the gunshot alerting everyone within a mile of my presence. As all turned to seek me out, I swept across the floor with my AK, rounds slicing through the leaves and into Burmese feet. The SAS’ cries penetrated the rest of the noise as they charged across into the bush, picking off targets and dropping them like flies. Wrenching a curved magazine from my pocket, I ripped the empty one from my weapon and pushed the fresh one in with a clunk. Emptying it almost straight away, my bullets finished off the rest of the men who had fallen to the floor wounded.

We strolled through the bush for a half hour after that, mopping up any survivors and finishing them off. We had little supply for ourselves, let alone for some prisoners and we couldn’t just send them on their way for risk of them informing a larger group of our little base camp. That didn’t matter as much now though, the likelihood being that we would move out before nightfall. How they had found us so quickly I didn’t know, the area being quite remote. But after what I’d witnessed with the Yanks in the jungle, I had my suspicions.

Since seeing Tyson kill that guerrilla, the liaison wouldn’t even look at him, let alone speak to him. You could see Dixon was struggling too. They were acting pretty shifty and unusually quiet, very strange considering how boisterous and outgoing Dixon was the day before.  Whatever they were up to, I was sure it wasn’t good but I had neither the time nor the energy to pursue that lead right now. The constant fighting was really sapping at my will to fight, and the pain in my knee was excruciating, even with the painkilling properties of the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins. My main concerns at that moment were food, water and a bit of kip, and after all the work I was doing, I’d be damned if I let anyone stop me.