Oman by Frank Sonderborg

 

“Well Mr Sandhurst failure, what can we do for you.”

The Colonel was lounging behind his desk, his lackey hovering in the corner waiting for a sign from his lord and master.

To all intense and purposes, it reminded me of a scene from Blackadder, that twisted TV show from long ago. Which had given the British Army a good arse kicking.

“I was told to report direct to you Sir,“ I said, all ramrod stiff and proper.

“Of course you were, of course you were. You’re a fuck-up like all the rest of the scum in this Re-D Division. Why don't you resign like a good chap. It would make life a lot simpler.”

“Have I new orders,” I said, just ignoring the expected tirade.

Jonesy had been quite correct in what to expect.

“He is a fucked over bitter bastard, and he will rip into you Sir.”

I was lucky to have had a chat with Sergent Major John Jones before I was thrown to the wolves.

“You see he is trapped in this here Re-D, and he knows he will never get out, unless something exceptional happens. We will get shunted on to no end of crappy end of the earth army jobs. But him, they will keep him there until he packs it in. He was caught with his finger in the till and his cock in a Generals daughter, and he is not the most valorous or entertaining chappy to get along with. So, he is bitter and stuck, and he likes to take it out on the flotsam coming through. No disrespect Sir.”

“None taken Jonsey.” 

Yes, I suppose I was flotsam. But not long ago I was a confident resourceful Second Lieutenant,  straight out of Sandhurst, thrown into the meat grinder that was Oman.

I was given a platoon to take through some broken village, and on to a forward post.

A simple enough task. I done the maths and worked out what we needed to be doing.

Most of the men were fresh meat, newbies just like me. The Sergent Major was an old timer - 3 tours of duty. So, I listened and followed his advice. Just like we’d been trained to do.

I led from the front, and he was pushing them along as we flipped through the quiet village.

Everything was textbook. Overlap, cover, overlap, cover.

I could see our men on the high forward post, waving to us.

They were going back to base and their gaming Consoles. as soon as we arrived.

We made it through the deserted village. I had Hardy, Smith, Brown, Frusher just behind me.

That's when Kray twisted his ankle. 

 We all heard the shout of pain and hit the deck. I scurried back along the platoon line and 

found Sarge with Kray.

“How bad is it.”

 “Just a fucking twisted ankle, the dumfuck,” said Sarge.

“Keep the men moving,” I said, and the Sarge scurried off up the front, while I supported Kray.

That was the last I saw of him. The massive blast took me and Kray backwards sailing through the air. 

I came too in Hospital, and read the rest of the story in the papers. 

Fresh Meat Second Lieutenant loses seven men on his first patrol. 

Lieutenant loser, Lieutenant Jonah, I was hit with the lot.

Kray was dead, broken neck. Hardy, Brown, Frusher, Rifleman O’Brian and the last remaining  descendent of the fucking Brazilian Royal Family named Kruger, blown to bits. The Sarge was also gone.

Sergent Major Philip Turrock on his third tour in Oman, veteran of Iraq, Yemen, Niger. 

"Fuck," I said out loud.

The rest of the Division were blaming me on leading my men into a trap. 

The scuttlebut said, I should have known it was coming, from the empty chairs and tables.