Free Warrior Brothers by Keith Fennell

scenario.
    We found out later that the round had split in two: one piece exited the side of his neck and the other the front. Surgeons informed him that the round missed his carotid artery by only a millimetre or two. When a tattoo artist offered to cover up his scar by adding to the already impressive artwork on his back, his response was far from ambiguous. ‘No you fucking won’t,’ he snarled.
    The second soldier was less fortunate. He did himself proud, as he was shot through the arm but jumped back onto the vehicle-mounted machine gun and kept firing. Unfortunately, however, it wasn’t long before his leg was blown from under him and that was that. His calf muscle was blown off and the bones in his lower leg were completely shattered. Half of his abdominal muscles were later inserted into the calf area, but they didn’t take so the surgeons cut out the other side and tried again.
    One soldier that day had a bullet cut through a pocket in his trouser leg, and another had one of his webbing straps severed and a hole through his headrest. Four militants were killed in the action. These accounts filled us with mixed and complex feelings: sympathy, excitement, even envy at having missed out. As it was, we wouldn’t have to wait long for our turn.

    Squadron HQ gained intelligence that a militia leader and a contingent of his men were operating out of the main village of our target region near the border with West Timor. Our team was tasked to locate the militants and send a detailed plan to HQ for a squadron-level assault. We were soon packed, briefed and raring to go, frustrated at having to wait until nightfall for the helicopter insertion to take place. After carrying out several rehearsals, we boarded the aircraft – three men on each side – and leant up against our heavy packs. The squadron commander (who would later command the SAS Regiment)came and shook our hands before telling us to be careful. Intelligence had just come through that the area was crawling with armed militia. All this did was make us even more impatient for the bird to take off.
    The rotors began to turn and the internal whine increased until the blades were neatly cutting the air with a rapid thumping sound. The vibrations travelled into our bodies, making us feel as one. We lifted into the darkness before angling west and picking up speed. Our heavily camouflaged faces were hidden in the blackened aircraft but a casual cheeky grin would reveal an eerie set of white teeth, glowing like a fluorescent road-marker touched by a vehicle’s headlight. Banking left then right, the bird roared through the night, dancing from mountain shadow to shadow. It was an exhilarating ride.
    After 30 minutes we were told that the first dummy landing would take place in five minutes. The pilot hovered low over the ground before pulling hard into the air and continuing on towards the insertion point. We were given a three-minute call: we switched on our night-vision goggles and tightened our pack straps. The next call was 30 seconds. We readied our weapons.
    As the bird touched the blackened landscape, we stumbled out into the darkness, flung ourselves to the ground and immediately adopted the firing positions we had rehearsed so many times. Within seconds there was a tremendous downdraught that pushed us into the earth and pelted us with dust and foliage. Then we were alone. All that could be heard was the faint sound of the helicopter gradually fading into nothingness. We quickly moved away from the landing zone and went through our all-round-defence procedures. The orchestra of cicadas returned to full song as we began to move. The village was eight kilometres away.
    The air was thick and humid, and the vegetation seemed impenetrable. Charlie, as lead scout, forced his way throughthe undergrowth for several metres at a time before stopping and listening. Our shoulders were aching within minutes but we were aware that we’d be