The Sixteen (4 page)

‘You and your bloody puppies!’ Chalky laughed and put out his hand. ‘Here, give me one of them before you fall out of this damn thing. Lovely little chaps aren’t they,’ he said, taking the fat little body I passed to him and stroking it.

I was grateful for the free hand; we were being jolted around a lot and I needed to hold on. The puppy snuggled into him and Chalky grinned broadly.

‘Who’s a big softie now,’ I asked him.

Suddenly there was huge bang and the jeep’s engine burst into life and a cloud of belching black smoke shot out of the exhaust. Dynamo braked sharply and stopped the jeep then turned around in his seat.

‘Hell, that’s all we need. They’ll have heard that in bloody Nicosia. I might as well have fired a twelve-bore and here’s me thinking we were going to get back without a hitch as everything’s gone smoothly so far.’ The engine had stopped spluttering now and was running quietly.

‘Well, at least you’ve got it started,’ Spot pointed out as Dynamo
crunched the vehicle into gear and we slowly began to make our way down the steep track.

Chalky sat watching me, shaking his head, laughing and smiling as I clung on with one hand and cradled the puppy in the other.

‘I might be soft but you’re crazy, do you know that!’ he said.

‘Aye, but I took care of that Greek, didn’t I?’ I replied.

He looked at me steadily for a moment, ‘Yes, you certainly did, Geordie! But you know, I think you need to be a bit crazy to belong to this outfit – so you’re well and truly a part of the team now!’

‘Those puppies could land you in a bit of bother when you get back, you know, people will ask questions about them,’ Spot pointed out. ‘You really should have just left them behind, Geordie.’

Dynamo shook his head. ‘Just leave it, Spot, he’ll learn.’

With the gradually lightening sky visibility improved, and we began to catch brief glimpses of the trail ahead through the thinning mist as we descended slowly down the twisting track. Eventually we came across the bend where we’d had trouble on our way up the night before.

‘Jeeesus! How the hell did we manage to get past here in the dark without ending up over the edge?’ Spot exclaimed, speaking for all of us as we gazed in disbelief at the sheer drop where the washed-away track narrowed to the mere width of the jeep. It was no wonder our wheels had spun off in the dark – only Dynamo’s fast reactions had saved us from going over. Obviously going down was going to prove to be much easier than going up!

We didn’t talk much after that and I sat quietly stroking the warm little body on my lap. The gentle snuffling of the sleeping puppy reminded me of two rabbits I’d had as a kid.

I’d grown up in a rough, poor area of Newcastle where presents were rare in most houses and non-existent in mine. But
on one particular occasion when I was about seven my father came home with two very small rabbits saying they were for me. I’d hardly been able to believe it as he’d never bought me anything before!

I’d loved them and called them Floppy and Hick. In order to get money to buy bran and to make them a hutch, I’d hunted around for old boxes and once the hutch was built, I’d broken up what was left and sold it for firewood. I kept this up for several months and the rabbits grew sleek, plump and cuddly. They were Flemish Giants and as they grew began to live up to their name. I’d rush home from school every night and dash straight into the backyard to see them. Then one night my mother shouted down the stairs, frantically trying to stop me – but it was too late and as I’d opened the back door, I’d seen their bodies hanging there, dripping with blood. My father had killed and gutted them to sell to one of his mates for his Sunday dinner! In that moment all my hatred of him had come to the surface. I’d wanted to kill him and would never trust him again.

Suddenly my daydream was shattered as a loud crack rang out and a stream of water cascaded on to us from the leaves above.

Chalky pointed ahead. ‘I think I spotted something that looks like a truck, over there.’

‘Where?’

‘Over there, about eight hundred yards in that direction.’

‘How can you see eight hundred yards?’ Dynamo queried, peering into the mist. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing.’

‘Well, it was clear when I looked before. Over there, down on the other side of the river.’

Dynamo stopped the truck and we all peered in the direction Chalky pointed out, trying to see through the mist into the valley below. ‘Ssshh. Be quiet, we might hear something!’ Chalky said.

‘Well, I’m not switching this bloody engine off for anyone, we might not get it started again,’ Dynamo insisted.

‘Look, we can’t sit here all day,’ Spot pointed out. ‘There’s only one way down here so let’s get going. Chalky must have eyes like a bloody hawk! I can’t see a thing either.’

Dynamo put his foot down and the jeep picked up speed. ‘We need to get out of here quickly,’ he said. ‘That was definitely gunfire. It’s a bloody good job whoever fired it is cockeyed.’

I turned to Chalky. ‘This is the only way down isn’t it? So there’s a good chance whoever fired at us will be waiting at the end of this track by the time we get to the bottom.’

Just then several more shots rang out and whistled overhead.

‘I still can’t see anything!’ Dynamo exclaimed. ‘Look, we might have to ditch this bloody thing and take care of the bastards if there isn’t a turn-off soon, we’re a sitting target in it!’

‘Surely they can’t be aiming at us, they’re miles out. They mustn’t be able to see us and are aiming at the sound.’ As Chalky spoke, the mist swirled and cleared for a brief moment and through the break, we could just make out a British army truck and what looked like several soldiers on the other side of the river.

‘Hey, it looks like our lot, bloody typical, I might have known. Whatever happened to ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ he joked.

‘It’s a good job they can’t see us properly, dressed like flamin’ terrorists in a bloody American army jeep!’ Spot laughed back.

‘We’ve got to get away from here. We can’t take our own men out but we can’t afford to let this lot catch us either,’ Dynamo pointed out, and abruptly veered off the track and headed the jeep straight up the side of the hill.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ asked Spot.

‘Look, I know this area pretty well, there’s a little dirt track on the other side of this, if we can make it. They won’t be able to
catch up with us, they can’t cross that river here; they’ll have to go a couple of miles further down and we’ll be long gone by then!’

The hill was steep but relatively smooth and the jeep slid and skidded sideways across the rough surface as we sped towards the top. Once on the other side, we looked down the steep slope and beneath us could just make out the old dirt track that Dynamo had mentioned in the distance.

‘There you are, I knew it.’ Dynamo grinned. ‘We’re home and dry now, lads!’

B
ack at camp at the end of that day, I lay on my bunk unable to sleep, going over and over the vivid events of the previous night, barely able to believe what had happened up in the Troodos Mountains. It still seemed so unreal to me – my first operation as part of the ‘The Sixteen’. If it hadn’t been for the puppies, I might have simply believed I’d dreamt it all.

Unanswered questions whirled around and around in my head, and not for the first time I wondered just who these guys were that trained me. Where did they go after an operation once they’d dropped me off, what happened to them, did they go back to a regular army camp like me? And what was it all about anyway, what was it in aid of and just who was behind it? Why were there only sixteen of them and what on earth had induced them to pick someone like me to be one of their group? But although I was desperate to hear the answers and learn more about them, I knew it was pointless to ask, as they’d warned
me from the start that I would only ever be told what I needed to know.

I’d heard rumours that a Special Forces Group called the SAS were operating on the island and on one occasion while training with Dynamo I’d asked him whether the ‘The Sixteen’ were anything to do with them. But, as usual, I got little out of him, he’d merely laughed and shaken his head.

‘No, we’re nothing to do with that lot!’ he’d said emphatically.

‘Don’t ask questions, Geordie, you know the routine.’

Training with them had been an incredible experience. They told me that I needed to reach a stage of readiness in a very short period and, apparently, I’d proven to be an extremely adept and quick pupil, surprising them with the speed at which I learned complex manoeuvres and techniques. If only I could remember those four days! I’d loved every minute of my training and over the last few months I’d quickly reached a stage where I feared nothing and felt almost invincible, so that by the time of my first operation I’d been raring to go.

But now that the adrenalin had faded, I began to feel a real sense of disappointment, of almost being cheated somehow. As I’d looked at those dead men lying in the cave, I’d realised just how much I’d wanted to prove myself – I’d desperately wanted the opportunity to take on more of them. I’d really wanted to use my sash and my boot-knife, to be able to act like the machine they had trained me to be. It had been such an incredibly strong, powerful urge – unlike anything I’d experienced before in my life.

Using my sash during training, I’d seen the awesome, unstoppable power of the weapon and had been itching to use it ever since – with it I knew that I had the capability of ripping three or four men to pieces in seconds. But now I felt as though I’d been given the best toy in the world and then told that I wasn’t allowed to play with it.

For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what had happened, just what it was exactly that they had done to me, and turned me into, in such a short period. I wasn’t a vicious thug with something to prove and I certainly hadn’t been out of control; in fact, it had been the complete opposite – I’d been so totally, unbelievably in control. Yet, only three months before, I had been a shy, stammering, ill-educated lad.

Although I was good in the gym, being fit and agile, and I’d done a bit of boxing as a kid, I’d always avoided any type of conflict or trouble because I felt that I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. Exactly what had happened to me in the cave I couldn’t say, but afterwards everything had been a total anticlimax. I’d experienced not only a deep sense of loss, but also an equally strong craving to feel so powerful again, and to be back in action as soon as possible.

Naturally, I’d been dying to tell my mates what had happened when I got back to 524 Company but, for obvious security reasons, I couldn’t, besides there was no way they would have believed me anyway. I might as well have told them that I’d just seen a flying saucer as recount the incredible story of how I’d been recruited and selected to serve with this ultra-covert outfit and trained as a professional assassin! Even I still found it difficult to believe, after all who was I? Simply a complete and utter nobody doing my National Service in the Pioneer Corps, just how low can you get!

Eventually it had dawned on me just how good a cover it really was, in fact it was the best there could possibly be. Who on earth would ever believe such a fantastic story, for God’s sake! I’d never be able to prove a thing – I didn’t even know where they trained me as they took me a different route each time! They certainly knew how to cover their tracks.

So I just kept my mouth shut and said nothing to my pals. It was
difficult though, listening to all their boring tales about how much beer they’d drunk and all the stupid antics they got up to when they’d had a few. Their other main topics of conversation were football, which they’d go on and on about endlessly, and either women in general or their girlfriends in particular and how they just couldn’t wait to get back home.

I could understand how they would think that I was a real bore, because most of the time I’d refuse to go to the NAAFI with them or join in their foul-mouthed discussions about women. It wasn’t their fault – the poor buggers had nothing more interesting to talk about – but, for once in my life, I’d done something exciting and adventurous and I couldn’t tell a soul. If only they’d known!

I’d have loved to be able to keep the puppies but knew deep down that it was impossible. On my return to camp, I’d managed to smuggle them back to my tent but needed something to put them in as they were trying to crawl around all over the place. Being Friday night there was no one about, all the lads were down the NAAFI spending their pay, so I’d left the puppies hidden in the tent while I went to look for something suitable that would hold them.

Over at the NAAFI I’d managed to scrounge a cardboard box from one of the Indians who helped to run it and bought a couple of sausage sandwiches to feed them with when I got back. Hopefully this would keep them quiet and help them go to sleep. It was quite a while since they’d last been with their mother and they were obviously very hungry by now. I just hoped that they were old enough to eat solid food.

Of course, I should have realised that puppies are just like babies and cry a lot. Back at the tent they were trying to move around, squeaking and whimpering constantly – I’d just taken them from their mother and they were obviously fretting for her. I
was beginning to regret bringing them back to the camp but what else could I have done? I couldn’t have just left them there to die, after all I was responsible for their mother’s death. I suppose it’s hard to believe that I felt so guilty about two puppies after I’d just killed a man, but then again these dogs hadn’t been going about murdering British soldiers and their families, as the local terrorists were doing all over Cyprus.

Taking the sausage meat out of the bread, I’d put some of it, together with the puppies, into the cardboard box, which I’d then pushed outside through the back tent flap. I’d no idea what I was going to tell the lads I shared the tent with when they returned from the NAAFI. I just hoped that the puppies would go to sleep and not make any noise.

It was getting late now and I decided to write a letter home to my mother. I told her about my life at the camp but there wasn’t very much to tell really – so I jotted down a bit about the puppies although not, of course, how I’d actually come by them. Then suddenly it dawned on me just how daft I was being – I was on active service and censors vetted all letters home. If any army personnel read about the puppies, the poor things would be taken away and immediately destroyed. Wild dogs were a constant problem around the camp, roaming about looking for food, and orders were to shoot them on sight, so I really couldn’t expect much sympathy for these two little scraps. I knew that I really hadn’t given enough thought to how I was going to look after them. Spot had been right, they were going to cause problems and might get me into a lot of trouble; I could see that now.

Suddenly I felt very, very tired. It was about forty-eight hours since I’d had any proper sleep, having spent most of the previous night on a stony mountainside and so, fully clothed, I lay down on my bunk and finally began to relax for the first time in the
last couple of days. As the tension started to disappear at last, I realised just how relieved I was to be back safely, especially after almost being shot by our own troops. But weirdly, despite being glad to be back, I also realised just how much I was looking forward to the next operation. It was as if deep down inside I had a want, a driving force. I’d never felt as alive before as I had the previous night.

To play with danger the way I’d done, to face death that way, to be so totally in control and have the ability to walk away without a scratch, had left me feeling almost invincible. I just wanted to be back with Dynamo, Spot and Chalky as soon as I possibly could.

They were all great guys who took their training very seriously but went about it in such a way that they made it seem like fun. They were always laughing, joking and poking fun at one another, but I knew instinctively that I could trust them implicitly and rely on them totally. Bright, intelligent and well educated, they knew exactly what they were about. With them, for once, I felt that I was among real men.

On our way back from the mountains, they’d been full of praise for the way in which I’d handled myself. Spot had leaned towards me in the jeep and said quietly: ‘But believe me, Geordie, that’s nothing, nothing! Not compared to what we have done and what you will be able to do.’ I’d been intrigued, wanting to know more but he didn’t go into any further detail.

As I lay there thinking, unable to sleep, someone began fumbling with the tent flap and eventually Billy Strickland stumbled noisily into the tent and immediately flopped on to his bunk. It was Friday night and he’d obviously been down to the NAAFI with the others for a skinful.

‘Where’ve y’bin all week, Gsheordie?’ He mumbled drunkenly
into his pillow, his strong Lancashire accent even more pronounced than usual.

‘Over at 518 Company, how about you?’

‘Lucky bashtard, ah’ve bin diggin’ bloody roadsh all week.’ He was almost incoherent with sleep and booze. Just then, one of the puppies began to whimper and scratch at the box outside the tent.

‘Wha, wha’s that noishh, Gsheordie?’ Bill asked, trying to raise his head. ‘Ee, ah thort ah heard myshe or snakes or summat…’ he slurred as his voice faded and he fell asleep.

I crept to the back of the tent and slipping my hand through the flap dropped some more sausage into the box directly outside. I’d just lain back down when Dave arrived back too. I closed my eyes pretending to be asleep – I didn’t want conversation.

Unlike Bill, he wasn’t the worse for alcohol and sat down to write a letter. Eventually I dozed off but some time later, I woke to hear the two of them talking quietly and opening my eyes found them sitting on the opposite bunk each holding a puppy in front of him.

‘Hey, Geordie, look wot we’ve found,’ Dave said, holding the small white bundle out to me. Bill, obviously still drunk, swayed from side to side as he sat, staring hard and trying to focus on the puppy curled up in his hands.

‘Look, lads,’ I began to explain. ‘I brought them in, I found them wandering about just outside the camp, I think their mother must be dead. You know what would happen to them if the sergeant found out, he’d have them shot straight away.’

‘You daft bugger, this ain’t a cat an’ dog shelter. It woz probably our lot wot shot the muvver anyway. You’ll be in real bovver if yor caught. You’ll ’ave to get rid of ’em you know!’ Dave grumbled in his strong cockney accent.

‘Shoft shod!’ Bill mumbled.

‘I know, I know. Look, Dave, help me keep them hidden over the weekend, mate, and I’ll sort something out.’

Dave obviously wasn’t keen. ‘Yeah, well, OK. But only over the weekend, mind, you’ll ’ave ter get sumfing sorted by Monday. I don’t want ter gerrinter bovver over some daft bleedin’ dogs,’ he grumbled. ‘’Ere you, gimme that before you drops it.’ He took the other puppy from Bill then returned them both to the box outside.

Dave was as good as his word and between the three of us we managed to take it in turns to look after the puppies over the weekend, each of us smuggling bits of food back after mealtimes.

Late on Sunday night, when they returned from the NAAFI, Bill and Dave again tackled me about what I was planning to do with the puppies.

‘Well, Geordie, this is it. What will you do tomorrer if we’re all sent to work out of camp? D’you know where you’ll be this week?’ Bill asked, slightly drunk yet again.

‘No, I haven’t a clue. Look, we might not all get sent out and whoever doesn’t can take care of them, can’t they?’ I pleaded with them.

‘That’s easier said than done, don’t forget that the sergeant ’as a good look around the tents when we go off every morning. You’ll ’ave ter find somewhere else ter hide them,’ Dave grumbled, obviously keen to be rid of the problem.

‘I know, I know! Just help me out for a little longer and I’ll have a word with Lieutenant Stevens; he’s sort of a pal of mine, but I’ll not be able to see him until either Monday or Tuesday. I’m sure he’ll be able to help us.’

They seemed reasonably happy with that, but I was beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing in rescuing the puppies. They were beginning to be a real problem.

The following morning began like any other Monday, at 6.00
a.m., when the damn bugle blew. But on this particular Monday morning, my name wasn’t called out for a working party out of the camp; instead I was told to report to the cookhouse, which was a relief. Once there I thought I might be able to sort something out for the puppies.

As soon as we were dismissed, I reported to the cookhouse to get my orders off the Sergeant Cook then dashed back to my tent. The parade ground was deserted now so I grabbed the cardboard box with the puppies in it and dashed across to the cookhouse. There was a gap between the cook’s sleeping quarters and the cookhouse wall that was only about a yard away from where I was working and I hid the box with the puppies in there before sneaking back into the cookhouse. I started to wash the stacks of breakfast pots and pans knowing that after about two hours of this I would be finished until lunchtime and so free to go and look for Lieutenant Stevens.