Soldier of Fortune

"We need a pattern," I sighed. "The others are all cracked and bent out of shape."

"We haven't got a pattern," shouted my problem guy, whose name I hadn't even been told.

"I think we may have," sighed Omah, guessing what I was suggesting. "We still have the last of those gun working."

"No bloody way," the problem officer screamed. "It's the only one that still works properly. Without that we're finished so there's no way you're taking that apart."

"Without more fire power we're finished anyway," commented the black officer.

"Do it Captain Jones," I was instructed. "We'll pray that meanwhile we can hold them off."

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When things are at their lowest ebb, it is then that real men step up to the plate and change the course of history.

At least that's the sort of thing that happens in the cinema.

Unfortunately real life isn't like that, and if things are bad then the chances are that they will only get worse, and my brilliant idea turned out to be a complete fuck up!

We removed the mechanism from the last working machine gun and rushed it back to the workshop where we had another inoperative gun waiting, with the intention of rushing it back to the perimeter line as soon as we'd successfully made a copy. Unfortunately we then discovered that Rene wasn't perhaps as expert with the lathe as he'd suggested he was. That or the metal we were using simply wasn't good enough.

He tried. He made three. Two didn't fit and the third snapped in half as we struggled to fit it back into the machine gun.

We were stood there, heads bowed wondering what to try next, not imagining things could get any worse, when they did.

A sudden outburst of fire signalled that another attack was being launched on our position, and we all fell silent hoping that it would die down and that it was just some minor skirmish, as if it wasn't, then there was no cavalry out there coming to save us. I looked around my group of eight mechanics and I saw every emotion from despair to calm acceptance of our fate, as they all looked at me for leadership.

Our defensive fire was of course immediate, but without the heavier machine gun, then even to us the difference was obvious. Obvious and heartbreaking as we stared out towards where the defensive perimeter lay beyond the line of dense trees and bush, not two hundred meters from where we were waiting, knowing that violent death was on its way.

"Merde!" grunted Rene as we heard our single remaining medium gun stutter and fall silent, the remaining crack of rifle fire seeming so pathetic.

"They're breaking through," one of my men pointed out the obvious. "They're going to overrun us."

You can't imagine what that comment, obvious though it was, could do to you.

We all knew what that meant. There'd be no mercy; anyone surviving the first onslaught wouldn't be spared, as they'd be taking no prisoners. With a shrug, one by one the men bravely picked up their personal weapons, a pretty motley collection of dated rifles and handguns. Not a lot to stand up against the hundred or more heavily armed infantrymen that we all knew would soon be breaking through the forest perimeter and into the compound.

My seemingly last thoughts as I drew my own pistol were of Jenny, wherever she was, and whether she'd ever know how I met my death in a far off land. Would she mourn me? Would she miss me? What would she say to me right now if she could see my final predicament?

I chuckled mirthlessly as I imagined her telling me use the brain that God had given me, her standard response whenever she didn't have another answer.

Use my brain?

Fuck ....... Sometimes you're blind to what's staring you in the face.

"Where the fuck is that firing mechanism?" I screamed at nobody in particular.

"It doesn't work Captain," someone called back. "It's useless."

"Not that one," I shouted back. "The original one, the pattern."

There was a scramble as several of them caught on to what I was intending, and with a satisfying click, the original mechanism slipped into the Russian gun that had remained silent and unused for so long.

"Ammunition," I screamed, but two of them had already started to drag the heavy metal box towards the gun that was by then being lined up on the tree line from where we knew our enemy would at any minute be descending on us.

"Too late," someone cried, as they broke through, thirty of forty maybe in the first wave, spraying gunfire all around them at anything that moved, the light returning fire from the few men left around the compound, hardly affecting their onward rush.

"Wrong ammunition," sobbed the soldier trying to feed the roll into the gun, as the attackers cut down the small defending force between us and them.

It was then perhaps that Rene showed his true colours, shoving the other man bodily out of the way, spinning the roll of ammo round the other way and feeding it into the welcoming slot. Then leaping behind the gun, swinging it round to face the first of the attackers who by then were almost upon us, bullets flying everywhere, already screams of wounded men on both sides chilling us.

Music to my ears!

I'm not a very musical person at the best of times, but the heavy chatter of that beautiful Russian gun, was the most wonderful music that I'd ever heard. We might all be going to die that day, but we wouldn't go without taking a lot of them with us. I never had time to reflect on what had happened to that young man who'd quit the army years before, unsure whether he could really stomach actually killing anyone.

The heavy gun cut a swathe through the attacking hoard, but even so a few got through and closed with us, my handgun hot in my hand as I picked them off whenever I got a clear shot, some of them so close that I had to shoot in the gap between my own men.

We were overrun, and then suddenly we weren't, as my men cut down the last of them, sometimes literally with old fashion bayonets.

Then the next wave hit us, a much bigger group, but by then we were more ready for them, Rene firing the gun in short accurate bursts, and three of them servicing him and keeping him in ammunition, while we all thanked the Lord that somehow Rene knew what he was doing, and prayed to a God that we'd previously perhaps had no time for, that the gun wouldn't jam.

The truth of the matter is that in the middle of a battle you really don't have the faintest bloody idea what is actually happening. Maybe some General back there might know, but we didn't have one handy, so we simply kept fighting for our lives.

What we didn't know of course was that our attackers had rushed straight into our ambush, even though it was an ambush that we had no idea that we'd set. The last thing they expected having broken through our defences, was to run straight into out heaviest weapon way back from our front line. Who would? It was a ridiculous piece of military planning. So ridiculous that the whole thing turned into a massacre, as their forces poured into the killing grounds, and our surviving perimeter troops closed in behind them.

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I lost four of my men that day, including poor Rene, but we had little time to mourn them. We had no idea that they'd planned their major offensive that day, and the truth is of course that if we hadn't just by chance withdrawn that machine gun from the front line, then we would have been defeated, and I would have ended up in an unmarked mass grave somewhere in a land far away. As it was, my only injuries were the little finger on my left hand that had got shot off without me even being aware of it at the time, and a shallow gash across my chest. I could have pretended was from a bloodthirsty enemy, but was actually from one of my own guys when he lost his grip on his bayonet.

That battle didn't win that civil war, but it certainly turned the tide, news of Omah's victory persuading various factors to throw their lot in with him, seeing at last a real chance to oust his very unpopular cousin. Within ten weeks Omah had taken the major town in the country with relatively few casualties on either side, or perhaps more important for us mercenaries, the gold mining complex, not large, but without which the huge bonus we'd all been promised, might not be paid.

Personally I took little direct part in any of the subsequent skirmishes, kept busy moving up our supplies and adding those captured to our inventory. But the day after that first major success for us, Omah did take me aside to talk to me in private.

"Brilliant bit of military tactics withdrawing the heavy gun like that Captain Jones," he congratulated me, clapping me on the shoulder.

"Complete luck," I grinned back at him. "But my men performed very well under fire."

"Nonsense," he grinned at me hardly able to stop laughing. "The tactics were perfect. We laid the trap and the enemy fell into a classic ambush and we defeated a far superior force.

"If you say so sir," I grinned back at him.

"I do," he replied, winking at me. "That's what the press will hear, and that is what the world will believe, and that is what my bastard cousin will have to contend with when he tries to rally his troops."

I simply grinned back at him, shrugging my shoulders in agreement.

"Stick to that story Captain and all your crew will get a little extra, and you will get a bonus on your bonus."

"Consider it done sir," I agreed, saluting him, wondering if I would have actually lived to see my bonus if I had argued.

The press release did go out, and the world did hear about Omah's brilliant strategy. It did mention the help provided by a junior officer of Captain's rank, but somehow they managed to spell my bloody name wrong!

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Women? Well what about the women?

Well as unpalatable as some sensitive people might find it, where there are men with money to burn and little else to do with it, then you will find women keen to help them out with their problem.

Olga back in Dubai had been somewhere very near the top of the pecking order, the women back there in that hellhole decidedly near the bottom. They were nearly all skanky, older whores, and the few of them that hadn't reached that stage yet were heading there. In fairness to them, I don't suppose that was their fault!

But I abstained.

There was just one of them, a pretty enough young African girl, easy enough on the eye that I could have been tempted. But the queue was too long, and officer status in that situation bought you no advantage, the dollar, pound or euro counting for more than rank or standing. Unfortunately she was unlikely to last that attractive for very long.

So I abstained.

Things changed as we swept up through the war-ravaged country, the women and girls welcoming us like their saviours, their own men perhaps lost in battle, or simply keeping a low profile.

It was then that my abstinence failed me.

I admit it, twice taking my prize like some conquering hero; a prize I should add that was freely given on both occasions. Maybe not my finest moment, but they did both seem to enjoy it.

Then things changed again.

Then there was Florence!

Oh Florence!

Our troops had swept into what was flatteringly called the capital city, hardly more than a small town in reality, with hardly a shot being fired. My contingent arrived just a day or so afterwards, and we set about finding ourselves somewhere to base ourselves, and then somewhere to sleep. Soldiers being what they are and with the town still operating to some level, somehow somewhere to drink found its way onto the list, and the main bar in town seemed to fit the bill nicely.

Of course we weren't the only ones, the place already overflowing with other troops with exactly the same idea. Again where men gather so will a certain type of woman, though I was content to just stand there and watch the merry-go-round go round while I supped my pleasingly cold, but unfortunately not very good beer.

I knew I shouldn't have got involved, but the girlish scream caught my attention. Pushing my way through the crowd gathering around I soon found the cause of it, a young woman being mishandled and unlike the other sluts in the bar objecting pretty violently. I made to turn away, it being none of my business, and having no wish to confront the hardened looking African soldier molesting her. Big and black like his compatriots who were edging him on they would not be in the mood to take any notice of a junior officer, especially a white one.

The ripping sound and the scream of terror stopped me in my tracks and I glanced back, to see a breast flash into view as he ripped her top off, though woman's bare breasts already being nothing exceptional at all in that bar on that night.

Except that it was a pure white breast!

I'd been living cheek by jowl with African troops ever since I'd been there, and the two women that I had been with, though lovely, were both as black as the ace of spades. So I think I can claim I was no racist. But a white breast belonged to a white girl and there were no other white females in there. Indeed I hadn't seen a white girl in the whole time I'd been in Africa.

It was her breast that caught my attention, but probably her pathetic cry for help that made me snap!

I told myself I was a bloody fool even as I pushed my way through to confront them, using my best officer's voice to order them to stop. They, or rather he did, but only to stare angrily in disbelief.

"Mind your own fucking business," he growled at me, forcing the poor girl's arms behind her back till she whimpered in pain, and turning her in my direction, deliberately taunting me with her now half naked body, her plump, white breasts thrust out, such beautiful and pure things in such awful, dirty surroundings.

"Let her go now," I barked at him, hopefully sounding a lot more confident than I felt.

"Take him. Stupid white officer's on his own," he spat out at his pals, soldiers who had been killing without a second thought till possibly only just the day before, and they made a move towards me, grins on their faces that turned my stomach. Men killing their officers was not at all unknown in this conflict, and I inwardly cursed myself for being such a fool, and I searched for a way out, the girl, whatever damn colour she was, doomed to her fate, beyond saving and not really my problem.

"Please."

It could have been the pleading tone of her voice, or maybe the sexy French accent. It may have been that cute looking pair of tits still staring me in the face or the innocence of the little pink nipples adorning them. Or it could have been simply the lovely face of the beautiful young girl who was pleading with me.

But it was probably the way her eyes caught mine and held them defiantly. Striking clear blue eyes that were silently telling me that I was her only chance and begging me not to abandon her.

Idiot!

Fucking bloody idiot that I was, instead of turning away I stood my ground knowing there was only one way that I could stop them kicking the hell out of me and possibly killing me.

I drew my gun. My handgun. My small calibre pistol that had served me so well through two battles. They hesitated, and then apparently decided that I wouldn't use it, or if I did, I wouldn't have time to take more than one of them down. One way or another people were going to die in that bar in the next few minutes, and the entire place fell silent, every eye riveted on us waiting to see what would happen next.

"Who's first?" I choked out in mock bravery, waving my gun back and forward across them, already deciding that the guy holding the girl was going to his makers first, even if the others got me.

In answer, he reached around her, took her breast in his hand and squeezed it cruelly, making her scream in pain and sending my senses reeling, but not so that I couldn't raise my pistol and take a bead on his forehead.

He was a brave sod, and I'll have to give him that, and he had clearly faced death before, realising perhaps by the way I handled my gun, casually flicking the safety off, that I knew how to use it and would use it, and that from that distance I could hardly miss. I could see the fear in his eyes aware perhaps that he'd also made a fatal mistake, but he never flinched, yet again squeezing the poor girl's breast to taunt me.

Putting pressure on the trigger, I knew this was going to end badly, but it was too late to back off now.

Oh shit! What a way to go after all I'd been through, and all for the sake of some bloody woman that I didn't even know.

"Stand down!" snapped a deep commanding voice from somewhere behind me, a voice that my mind fought to put a name to.

"Put your gun down Captain and that's an order," came the next boomed instruction. "You men back off and let the girl go."

We all hesitated, and nobody moved, the entire room uneasily silent, except for the quiet sobbing from the girl.

"Now!" came a shouted gruff command from behind me and I at last recognised the voice, and lowered my gun. The men in front of me also realising who it was, possibly the only man in Africa at that moment who could have made them back off like that.

"Put the gun away Captain," instructed Omah more calmly as he stepped in between us, glaring at my adversaries until they backed right off, the one holding the girl releasing her, albeit reluctantly, and she rushing to throw her arms around me in a flood of tears.

It didn't however stop them from glaring at me with hatred in their eyes, making it clear that this matter wasn't settled yet.

"Bloody fools," Omah berated his soldiers. "You're lucky he didn't shoot the lot of you.

"Fat chance," mumbled one of them, still glaring angrily at me.

"You think not eh?" Omah continued. "You realise who this officer is? You don't recognise him? You don't recognise the man who saved your miserable lives in that hell hole just a few weeks ago?"

Suddenly every eye in the bar was on me, which if nothing else allowed me to ignore the pair of soft, naked breasts that were still squashed up against me.

Equally the mood changed!

The looks of hatred faded and were quickly replaced by smiles all round. A buzz went round the bar and suddenly every man in that bar wanted to shake my hand or buy me a drink.

"Split and take the girl with you," Omah suggested quietly, not yet taking his eyes off the big soldier. "I'll take over from here."

"Thank you sir," I sighed back gratefully, my adrenalin seeping away and the knowledge of how close I'd been to meeting my maker flooding back to me.

"Now we're equal," he grinned.

"What for?" I asked.

"For spelling your name wrong," he chuckled and then burst out laughing, his booming laughter infectious and soon the whole bar joined in, everyone including me; everyone that is except the poor young woman still clinging for dear life onto me.

We split!

We left and I bundled her down the dusty street till I found a grubby shop front that gave us a bit of privacy, a pretty girl with her tits exposed tending to be rather vulnerable in any city centre, and a whole lot more so in a place that was still on the edge of being a war zone, especially when they were as succulent as hers were.

"What the hell were you doing in a bar like that?" I demanded angrily, taking off my shirt and wrapping it around her shoulders.

"I thought they might give a job," she whimpered, still clinging on to me.

"Why do you need a job?" I asked, calming down a bit, unable to understand how such a young, cute, white woman, probably still in her teens, could be looking for a job in a war torn area like that.

"No money," she answered simply, her French accent less distinct as she settled down.

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen," she replied, but I raised my eyebrows questioningly.