Free Elephants can't hide forever by Peter Plenge

Parachute
Regiment man.” Both men starred at each other incredulously. The Para, Toby Wakefield, had a couple of weeks earlier been on patrol, discreetly observing an official IRA funeral. As the
procession of hooded terrorists and mourners had been making their way down the Falls Road in Belfast, Toby just happened to stray past an alleyway where he lingered for a split second too long.
Out of the depths of the alley, an opportunist snatch squad of republicans grabbed him from behind and disappeared behind one of the many doorways that littered the alley. By the time Toby’s
mates had realised he was missing, and had ripped every door in the street of their hinges, Toby was in the republic and awaiting his fate.
    The stench from the two men in one room was almost unbearable but the three IRA men, all sadists, were relishing the sport they were about to undertake, and didn’t appear to notice
anything untoward.
    “Right, lets get started” said the red -haired man “Either of you two got anything to say?” he inquired of Mike and Toby. Neither man said a word, if anything they were
taking some solace in each other’s predicament. One of the tattooed man’s disciples opened a cupboard under the sink and produced a set of industrial bolt croppers, he looked at the two
prisoners and flipped a coin, heads SAS first, tails the Para. The other two found this highly amusing. The coin landed and tails showed. Mike had kind of hoped he’d be first, purely for
selfish reasons, to get it over with and not witness what he was about to receive.
    With no more talk the Irishman who had not yet spoken named Declan spread Toby’s hand open and selected the first finger of his left hand, staring into his eyes he secured the tool around
the base of Toby’s little finger and gradually tightened his grip. As the finger fell to the floor Toby thankfully passed out and didn’t give the fenian bastards the satisfaction of
screaming. Pleased with his work, the IRA man let the enormity of the moment register with Mike and asked him one time: “Anything to say now?”
    Mike thought for a moment; if he started talking could he put off the dreadful events that were unfolding? He concluded not, and just looked into the ceiling. The man named Declan was pleased
there was to be no delay, not at this early stage anyhow.
When these two bastards see the blow torch they’ll be singing for their lives then,
he thought. He took Mike’s left
hand, selected the little finger, looked into Mike’s eyes, placed the cutter round the base, exerted just enough pressure to ensure maximum pain and squeezed.
    As Mikes finger came off, the world caved in; at first Mike thought it was the sensation of his amputation, but quickly realised salvation had come. The windows flew through the kitchen, as did
the door; simultaneously three CS gas canisters burst open, the main door caught Spiderman full in the chest but before he hit the deck six bullets from an MP5 sub-machine gun had entered his gut,
and he was dead before the floor greeted him The other two IRA men fared no better. Declan took twenty two bullets through the head and torso, and the remaining terrorist was cut in half by the
automatic fire of the MP5.
    Four hours later Mike and Toby were in the field hospital at Bessbrook barracks. Both had identical bandages on their respective left hands. Word had got round of their ordeal, and even for the
respectful soldiers inhabiting the barracks, people were finding excuses to come and see the two heroes, as they were now being labelled.
    The next morning a land rover pulled up alongside the hospital, and a colonel from the Parachute Regiment entered.
    “Morning, Toby.” he said “Let’s get you home where you belong, don’t want you mixing with this lot any more than you have to, they will get you into trouble if
you’re not careful.”
    Toby looked at Mike. “Not even time for a beer then,” he said.
    “Doesn’t look like it,”