body off him. He scrambled to his feet and
stepped over the one Pete must have dropped.
'Man on! Man on!' The screams came from the
snipers.
I spun round to see more bodies closing fast.
Pete didn't miss a beat. Terry's SA80 went
straight into the shoulder. 'Go, go!'
I turned and ran, pushing the boy ahead of me.
Pete put down a series of short sharp bursts that
punctuated the stream of sniper fire above me.
I stopped halfway and turned back, letting
Terry go on. AK muzzle flashes strobed in the
darkness as Pete kept firing.
'Enough, Pete. Come on!'
My body jerked as if somebody had swung a
pickaxe handle into my chest. I was hurled back.
My hands were flung into the air and I fell, pain
searing my arm. The force spun me round and I
crumpled, face down.
I lay there, a bundle of pain, fear and disbelief.
Like Dom with his invisible forcefield, I'd
thought I'd never get shot again.
I didn't have as much as a nanosecond to start
crawling before Pete caught up with me. He
managed one short burst before he ran out of
rounds.
He dropped the SA80 into the shit next to me and
his bony hands grabbed my good arm and pulled.
His grunts sounded louder than the gunfire.
Bodies surged from the warren; the patrol was
taking on the insurgents as they moved back
towards the alley.
The Manc lad stood his ground in the middle
of the wasteground, his shoulder rocking back
with the recoil from his weapon. The moment we
were in the alley, Terry helped get me over Pete's
shoulder in a fireman's lift.
'You're all right, Nick. Sonia'll sort you. See
you later, Tel.'
He turned towards the Bulldogs and legged it.
My forearm jolted with pain each time his feet
hit the ground. I looked down. The skin was
punctured big-time, but it wasn't flapping about.
Maybe the round that had hit me hadn't smashed
the bone. I couldn't tell.
Sonia had the back of the wagon open and
ready. Pete threw rather than loaded me in.
Rounds from both sides of the street smashed
against the armour. The GPMGs returned fire.
The gunner above me gave it max.
Sonia jabbed an autojet of morphine into my
arse and tore at my T-shirt with scissors. She
pulled a face. 'I might let off the odd fart, but I
don't bloody shit myself!'
I could hear Pete laughing with sheer relief as
he and Dom jumped in for cover. 'Fuck me, mate.
You're supposed to be looking after us!'
Another burst slammed against the armour
plating of the wagon and I heard two Warriors
scream up alongside us.
18
Somebody leant over me, high collar and batwings
silhouetted against the red light. His hand
was in the air. His fingers were gripped round a
plastic bottle. A tube ran down from it and into
my good arm.
A cannon kicked off a few rounds. Everything
jerked as we moved off again. The guy holding
the saline cursed as he tried to keep his balance.
I could see Warrior seats. I must be on the floor,
between the two benches.
We lurched off again and my head rolled to the
right.
Dom and Pete looked down at me. Pete was
filming.
'You'll thank me for this later, mate. One for
the family get-together . . .'
I sort of saw a smile behind the lens.
My head bumped on the steel floor and I
realized I didn't have my helmet on. I couldn't
remember it being taken off. Not that it mattered.
My head didn't hurt. Morphine rules.
One minute, two minutes, five minutes, an
hour later, for all I knew, the wagon stopped and
the door was pulled open. Scouse voices echoed
in the darkness.
'Get them out of there! I'm not fucking waiting
out here all day, you cunts – get them out!'
The guy with the saline shouted back, 'This
one first!'
Hands gripped me and floated me on to a
stretcher. Red night-lights and dark shadows had
been replaced by shot-to-fuck HESCOs and a sky
speckled with stars.
My new best friend with the drip stayed alongside
the stretcher as I jerked up and down. Dom
and Pete were nowhere to be seen. Boots
crunched over a stretch of rubble-strewn ground.
Seconds later I was blinking under
William Manchester, Paul Reid