Synopsis of remaining chapters
They shared out the last of the ammunition between the six of them – twenty rounds each. Mike checked the safety catch, and loaded the magazine into his rifle. The sergeant snapped out an order, and they began to walk forward, scanning the ground ahead. Two hundred yards away, directly ahead, Mike saw movement. He dropped quickly into a kneeling position, and raised the rifle. Compensating for the distance, he checked his breathing automatically, aimed and fired a single shot. He re-cocked the rifle and fired a second shot, and the target went down. Around him, he heard the crashing of the other rifles firing. Mike glanced sideways to make sure he was staying level with the other firers – he didn’t want to shoot any of them accidentally, or be shot himself.
He heard another volley of shots around him and dropped down quickly. He was too late to shoot – the target had dropped from sight. The six stood up and began to move slowly forward again. As Mike strode forward, picking his way carefully over the grass, there was a sudden movement to his right. Instinctively, he froze. He knew if he turned his body his rifle would turn too, perhaps pointing at one of the others. He resisted, turning his head instead. He knew the sergeant, behind him, would deal with this.
The sergeant bellowed out a single word – ‘STOP.’ The others stood still, then followed Mike’s gaze. A bush, about thirty yards away, moved again, and Mike stared. The air was still, so it couldn’t have been caused by the wind. There was somebody, or something, in the bush.
A large dog burst out, startling them all. The animal bounded away, and Mike heard the sergeant on the radio shouting at the spotters who were meant to warn him of anyone, or anything, likely to be a threat to them.
‘Are you bastards asleep? I told you to let me know if anything comes by – anything. That includes dogs, like the bloody great big one that just frightened the shit out of everybody here,’ he ranted. The spotters protested, and he shouted into the microphone again. ‘I’ll decide what’s a threat and what isn’t. You don’t need to think – just tell me, I’m better at it.’ He slammed the radio down.
Behind them, the sergeant called to the six firers. ‘Okay, false alarm. Keep moving.’ They began the routine once more, working their way slowly forward, firing whenever they saw a chance.
‘Down, down, down,’ the sergeant shouted. Mike dropped down prone into a small hollow, resting his rifle on the ground ahead of him. To either side, the others did the same. He had a good position – he was almost hidden from view but had a good viewpoint of the terrain ahead. There were only half a dozen rounds left in his magazine, though.
A short distance ahead, another shape appeared, and Mike fired off three rapid shots, smiling grimly as the target dropped from sight. He fired two rounds at the next target, and saw it, too, go down. He waited, patiently.
He looked down the sights of the rifle. This was his last round, and he wanted to make it count. To either side of him, the others were still firing, but they were all running out of ammunition. Another movement – he had plenty of time for this one. Automatically he went through the routine he had gone through so many times before: checked the rifle was pointing naturally at the target, breathed in, out, in, out, paused, then squeezed the trigger gently. The rifle barked, sending the tiny projectile away at twice the speed of sound. After the recoil had settled, he waited for a second or two until he was satisfied the shot was on target, although it was too far away to see. He re-cocked the rifle and the breach locked open automatically – the magazine was empty, as he had expected. He checked the magazine to make doubly sure, tilting the rifle to look inside. It was difficult to see with this weapon. Without needing to think about it, he applied the safety catch, then lay still until the firing had subsided.
He sensed the sergeant behind him. ‘Has anyone not finished?’ the NCO shouted, so he could be heard over the ear defenders they all wore. When there was no reply, he commanded, ‘Detail… UNLOAD.’ Check safety catch; mag off; cock, hook and look – the formal style that was so typical of the services felt comfortable with Mike after so many years. Having the RAF sergeant on a shoot was handy, because it meant the officers could shoot as well as the cadets, without breaking the rules.
Once the weapons were cleared, the cadets and the two officers moved away from the firing point, leaving the rifles where they were for the moment. This was the last detail, so when the formalities were finished, Mike stood up and joined John and Sergeant Forrester.
‘Your range, sir,’ the sergeant said, formally handing command back to the officer. Mike nodded an acknowledgement and began shouting orders to the cadets. The three men and the cadets busied themselves with all the tasks needed to tidy up and shut down the range.
The senior cadet, Flight Sergeant Tim Daniels, quickly organised the cadets, delegating tasks to the other NCOs and watching carefully whilst they organised their own parties of cadets. This delegation was part of the personal development of all the cadets, and Mike appreciated the qualities that the young flight sergeant displayed. It was important to know when to speak and when to stay silent, and the cadet was especially good at keeping quiet when he could see that a cadet was doing his or her best.
John picked up the radio and called the spotters to join them. A couple of minutes later, they arrived, and he sent them to see Sergeant Forrester.
‘When I tell you to keep a lookout and report anything that goes by, I mean exactly that,’ the sergeant raged. ‘What did you do, put your feet up and have a bleeding kip? If you go on spotting detail again, you bloody spot, or I’ll have your gonads and hang them up over the Mess bar. Do I make myself very clear?’ The two cadets reddened, then nodded sheepishly.
Mike smiled at John, making sure the cadets didn’t see him. ‘They’ll remember that one,’ he said quietly. The sergeant was perfectly justified – it was vital that there were no surprises on the range, because someone could get hurt.
When the cadets had finished packing up all the equipment and the staff had locked up the range hut, the cadets lined up. Mike recited from memory, using the formal service style. ‘I am required to inform you that it is an offence, punishable by Court Martial, to remove from this range, or any other range or training area, any live rounds, misfires or empty cartridge cases,’ he began. When he had finished, each cadet in turn snapped to attention and declared that he or she had none of the offending items. Mike knew that some of them would have empty cases, but they had kept a careful eye on the live rounds, and that was primarily what he was concerned about.
‘Clarke, if you point that rifle at me again, you’ll be wearing it internally,’ John growled. ‘I’ll shove it so far up your arse you’ll have to open your mouth so we can check it. Now stop messing about and stand still.’
Sergeant Forrester was going his own way from here, and left. ‘See you on Thursday,’ he called cheerily through the open car window. The two officers waved, and watched him go. Strictly speaking, the sergeant should have saluted them as he left, but neither of them pressed the point. He was friendly enough, displaying none of the snobbishness that some of the regular servicemen showed when dealing with the volunteer officers; he was just casual with them.
The sergeant belonged to the RAF Regiment, the group of men whose responsibility it was to protect RAF stations – the Air Force’s army. Protecting ground installations meant they had to be highly trained in the use of weapons, so many of them were also trained to teach others to shoot, and so carried range certificates. Universally known as ‘rock apes,’ the Regiment were not known for their mental prowess. Most of them took this in good part, even enjoying the reputation.
Mike thought back to the first time that he had encountered a Regiment airman, on his first Officers’ course. The airman had presented himself in one of the lectures, with the words, ‘I am a rock ape. I can walk, I can talk, I can think… but not at the same time.’ Mike smiled to himself – how true that could be. Since then, he had always thought of rock apes having long arms and short legs.
‘You two – get the ammo boxes and the mags and put them in the bus,’ Mike ordered. ‘Cadets with the rifles – in the boot of Flying Officer Cosgrove’s car. And don’t just chuck them in. Stack them so they don’t rattle about. Flight Sergeant, you go in the car; the rest of you in the bus with me. Make sure you haven’t left anything behind.’ Except Clarke, maybe, he said to himself.
The range was quite remote, and unattended, apart from an occasional visit from the range warden to maintain the equipment. The rest of the time, it was grazed by sheep, which left the area quickly whenever the shooting started.
Mike got into the driver’s seat of the minibus. ‘Take your berets and jackets off and put your civvy jackets on,’ he told the cadets. Reluctantly, they did as they were told. The orders to do this came from the top, because it was feared that terrorists would mistake them for regular service personnel and shoot or bomb them. Sign of the times, Mike thought, not for the first time, as they drove back to the main road. The minibus carried the words ‘Kempston Air Training Corps’ in huge letters down the side, so it was abundantly clear to even the most myopic of terrorists who they were, but rules were rules.
The two vehicles left the range and headed back towards RAF Chitterne, where the summer camp was being hosted. They could have used the range at the station, but it was only a 25-metre range and they had promised the cadets a long-range shoot. That meant a half-hour each-way trip to this range, which was a real pain, especially the journey back when both men were knackered looking after a dozen cadets all day. They weren’t bad kids at all, but on the range you needed eyes in the back of your head, especially with the likes of Clarke around.
In spite of cadets like Clarke, mike enjoyed driving the minibus. After a few minutes, they seemed to forget he was there, and he listened in to their conversation.
‘I reckon Becky’s done it with Steve.’
‘Yeah, she has. Didn’t you see them at Tim’s party? They were all over each other. Then they sneaked off upstairs.’
Their route took them past a roadside café. ‘Sir, can we stop at the Little Chef?’ someone asked. Mike had expected that. The cadets would be eating in an hour or so, but he would have betted his pension that they would want to stop.
‘No. We’ve got the weapons with us, so we can’t,’ he said. It was a handy excuse. ‘Anyway, you’ll be in the mess when you get back. Why do you want to pay for a meal when you can get fed for nothing back at the camp?’
‘The food’s horrible in the mess.’
Mike couldn’t disagree. He had eaten in the airmen’s mess a few times, and it was invariably gristleburger with chips. ‘It’s always chips in the mess. I thought you liked chips,’ he suggested. ‘Anyway, we’ve got the weapons so we’re not stopping.’ To stop any further protests, he added, ‘End of argument.’
Back at Chitterne, the cadets were admitted to the armoury to clean the rifles. One or two were reluctant, but the armourer was firm.
‘You dirtied ’em, you clean ’em,’ he insisted. The cadets worked painfully slowly, and Mike and John were surprised to get them back to the billet in time for dinner.
© R Wilkinson 2002