This story is set in a real place, a real time and is based around a real incident. I have used generic terms such as Militia and Infiltrators as I don’t want readers to be distracted by the politics. Anyone who is familiar with the area will be easily able to identify these groups and even the location of my platoon base. But none of this is important: The story is about the people.

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“A wadi patrol?”

“Yes; that’s what I said.”

The Operations (Ops) Officer was not in a good mood. I knew him fairly well as we were in the same home Brigade, much better than I knew my Company Commander. Here on deployment, only the Platoons were from single home Battalions, the Companies tended to be drawn from single home Brigades. It was my misfortune that my platoon was attached to a deployed company mainly drawn from a different home brigade, and it showed. I felt we got the short end of the stick when decisions were made on duties or benefits.

“I’m fairly tight on men, Sir”, I replied. “I’m down to about half a platoon. Five men are on leave and one section has been withdrawn back to the company to cover their leave.”

This was a dig at the Company Commander. We had to cover our own leave, but he had taken one of my sections, two Corporals and eight Privates to cover leave in Company HQ and the other two platoons in the company. Our army was based on the British model and Corporals (Cpls) were roughly equivalent to US Army Sergeants. He sat stony faced; he didn’t want to have this discussion with me in the presence of the Ops Officer. We had both been called to the Ops office so I had already guessed that there was something afoot specific to my platoon area.

The Ops Officer flashed a quick look at the Company Commander and continued.

“Sorry Jim, we’ve no choice. The Militia are complaining that there are Infiltrators coming down the wadi to harass then at night and that they would take action if we don’t.”

We both knew that this was bullshit; the Militia just wanted to have an excuse to push my Platoon out of an enclave we occupied covering a village remote from the rest of the Battalion Area of Operations (AO). We were two kilometres from Company HQ accessed only by a dirt road across a mountain ridge. The Militia wanted to establish their line across the top of that ridge; we wanted to prevent them dominating the village which was not sympathetic to them.

“It’s just a Recce (reconnaissance) patrol; no more than 4 in total. Go out after last light. Be visible from the Militia positions withdrawing up the wadi after sunup.”

“Yes sir”, I answered. There was no point in giving him a hard time; he was a decent guy.

The Company Commander and I left Battalion (Bn) HQ and split up. He was going back to Company HQ; I was heading for the Mortar pits. I said that I’d check in with him as I was returning to my platoon. At the Mortar pits I chatted with the Mortar Platoon Commander, a classmate from the Military Academy. An Artillery officer, he had a mix of mortars generally laid out in pairs to provide illuminating fire to each of the three companies in the Battalion. As we were a Peace Keeping, not Peace Enforcement, mission, no high explosive rounds, or even smoke could be fired. We used illuminating rounds regularly as the night vision equipment then in use wasn’t great, and was in short supply. I pointed out our intended route on a map and asked him to “silent register” three targets for illumination on request. This would save a lot of time if we needed the mortars during the patrol. I would have two 81mm mortars in Direct Support, a military term meaning effectively that I had first call on them.

I headed back to the platoon, checking in at Company HQ on the way. I had lunch with the officers there, the Company Commander, Deputy Commander and the Platoon Commander of the platoon based there. I didn’t manage to get any of my own team back, but got the loan of a three-man team with a Sustained Fire Machine Gun (SFMAG). Much like a mortar, this could be sighted on targets in daylight, the coordinates registered, and subsequently engaged using this information at night and without illumination. It could also sustain a higher rate of fire than a normal machine gun (MAG) due to its heavier barrel.

Arriving back at the platoon, I met my Platoon Sergeant. He looked at the SFMAG team, knowing that meant a job was afoot.

“No problem Sergeant, we’re just going for a nice walk in the wadi tonight. Moonlight, romance, that kind of thing.”

“Mosquitoes, thorn bushes, crumbling stone walls and the stink of shit”, he replied. The locals fertilised the fields with the contents of their septic tanks.

“Can you detail a Cpl and two men?” I asked. “I’ll go myself as a rifleman.”

This was a practice that we had developed to ensure that the platoon officers were intimately familiar with the work the men were asked to do. It also enabled the officers to see the Cpls at work and assess any development needs, and relieved some of the pressure on the Privates. The men liked to see the Officers pitch in; the Cpls were less enthusiastic!

“I’ll need a MAG team as well to make up the fire support group along with these guys”, I continued, pointing to the SFMAG team.

I headed off with the SFMAG team to set up the fire base. As I was leaving, I bumped into Achmed. He was a cheerful local employed in the platoon kitchens, probably aged about 15 or 16. His family had a farm down in the wadi but had abandoned their house there and moved into the village; it was a lot safer under our protection. They still farmed the smallholding and occasionally used the house when things were quiet.

“Marableedinghabba”. Achmed had adopted the soldiers’ habit of interspersing English language profanity into the local Arabic words.

“Ah come on Achmed! Don’t do that to your language. And it’s not polite!”

He grinned; we had the same conversation almost daily.

Setting up the firebase was easy as we had already selected a good location that covered the wadi, but was itself covered from direct fire from the main Militia positions. I left the team there to set up and register targets; I would send up food later and collect their list of targets for the patrol commander. The normal MAG team that would supplement the SFMAG did not need, in fact couldn’t, preregister targets so they would only join them at last light.

I headed back to the platoon base to get ready. The roof sentry passed a message from the Patrol commander; could I bring a Gustav SMG instead of a rifle, and the briefing was at 1830 local time in the dining room. The Gustav made sense; the Cpl would be carrying one too and two rifles and two Gustavs gave the patrol a nice balance of short- and long-range firepower.

I changed out of my standard uniform to one that I wore only in the platoon area. On arrival in the AO we were issued tropical uniforms purchased by the UN. They were generally too loose and long for the general taste and the shirts were “pull on”, with buttons only going about a third of the way down the front. Generally, we got the local women to retailor these to give a better fit and put a proper front on the shirts. Every camp seemed to have one of these seamstresses. I had kept some of the shirts as originally designed, and also had a wide elastic band sewn into the waist of the trousers and at each leg end. This gave a looser fit, not at all military chic, and I felt was more suitable for the heat. I wore the shirt outside the trousers, for the same reason, and the soldiers thought that the whole outfit looked like Sinbad. Privately I thought it looked more like harem pants and a tunic, but I kept that to myself! I sprayed all my clothes with DEET; the mosquitoes could bite right through a shirt, especially at the shoulders. On the advice of veterans, we had also brought large cotton scarves, about a metre square, which we could wrap around our heads like the locals. We had managed to acquire these in our home Battalion’s colours and, whereas they were not standard issue or worn outside the platoon’s area, they were very useful. This got a spray of DEET as well. I picked up a Gustav and six magazines in a leather pouch. I only put 30 rounds in each magazine. They could take 36, but that wasn’t good for the springs.

Time for a quick meal, collect the SFMAG target list and it’s 18:30. This was the Cpl’s time to brief his patrol, but I started by outlining the purpose and the general route. The Cpl would have expected me to do this even if I wasn’t going myself. He took over, rehearsed the formation, outlined the battle drills, checked everyone for ammo, field dressings, water, and NO cigarettes! Dark comes quickly and early, even in summer, in this part of the world and we set off.

I was point. That made sense as I had a Gustav and I knew the route best; it also kept me well away from the Cpl to minimise my view of how he was performing! We stayed in shadows as much as possible as we left the village and moved into the wadi. We moved very slowly and, as we moved further towards the Militia zone, we started to move in “bounds”; one man moving, the rest covering. Our only chance of spotting any infiltrators was not to be seen ourselves, even though we were sure that there wasn’t any there. After about an hour, we were near a point where we would stop and set up a LP (listening post). It’s much easier to catch someone moving if you’re hidden and still. To get there we had to cross an open patch of stony ground and once across, we would set up our LP close to a large rock. There was a disused and somewhat dilapidated small cabin or house a short distance beyond that with a small low stone wall leading along from that to the rock and we would spread ourselves along this wall..

I was still point. Behind me was a rifleman, the Cpl and finally a rifleman carrying the “77 Set”, a heavy VHF radio normally used at platoon level. We had found that anything smaller simply wouldn’t work so someone had to hump one of these on every patrol. We waited, listened, and eventually I moved slowly across the open patch. The rest of the patrol remained under cover. I still walked slowly; to run would be more conspicuous in the dark. I was just about to reach the rock when it seemed to explode sending fragments all over the place, including into me. I tried to run forward to get under cover, but fell on my face. I lay still, unsure of what had happened, and could hear the radioman clearly call “Contact; wait out.”

As my mind cleared, I realised that a .50 machine gun had opened fire, hitting the rock and breaking off shards of shrapnel. It was still firing sporadically and the patrol was exercising good discipline and not firing back. They were well outranged, so why give away their position? I tried to crawl forward on my belly but nearly passed out with pain. I rolled on my back and using my shoulders and legs, pushed myself under cover.

“Are you OK sir?” a low call from the rifleman who had been behind me.

“In cover, but hit around the belly. Stay where you are; I’ll check how it looks!”

There’s no point in two people getting hit and clearly the open patch was under observation. It had to be the Militia; they were the only ones operating .50 machine guns in the region. I could hear a SITREP (situation report) being passed over the radio. Contact at grid XY, Callsign 339 hit, cut off, communicating but status uncertain, approx. location of enemy, etc. Before the Platoon Sergeant had time to acknowledge, I could hear the Firebase cut in. Target identified and engaging. A stream of tracer passed overhead, both ways. The .50 was still firing at us so they must have a second machine gun, probably a .30 cal.

I took off my ammunition pouch, pulled up my shirt and eased my pants down. I could see that I was in a bit of a mess, oozing rather than pumping blood, and nothing was falling out.

“I’m OK” I called back softly towards the patrol. Not strictly true, but I reckoned the gunfight had to end soon and no point is taking unnecessary risks. I lay back against the rock, trying to stay awake… sip of water… spit it out… can’t drink with possible bowel damage.

There’s something moving along the wall. I’m in shadow so I keep still, just very slowly picking up the Gustav. Whatever’s there is on my wrong side and I’ll have to fire left-handed as I can’t move. I keep watching. After a while out in the dark it’s amazing how keen one’s eyes become. It’s a person, looks more like a girl than a man. I hear a local accent call out softly in English.

“Don’t shoot, you hurt, I’ll help.”

“Come closer.”

The figure crawled along the wall; definitely a girl. The women out here don’t get involved in the fighting so she’s not here to finish me off like the Afghan women in Kipling’s poem.

“Keep low” I call, in a stage whisper.

She crawls over to me, carrying a small bag. It looks suspiciously like one of our medic’s bags. The locals like to acquire these from our medics who then report them lost or stolen and reequip themselves from stores. With only rudimentary medical support available, and a trouble always close to hand, it’s a sensible thing for the locals to acquire. She kneels beside me in the cover of the rock and looks at my belly. At least I still have my underpants on.

“Are you OK, Sir?”

A low call from the direction of the patrol; they had seen movement in my location.

“I’m OK; local medic helping me.”

Time to explain later. The girl fished out some antiseptic powder from the bag and began to shake it over my wounds. I looked at her as she was working. She was a strong, peasant girl. Her hands were rough, probably from farm work and she was dressed in the long dress and scarf that a lot of country women still wore in the area. The town girls dressed more in a Western style at that time. She took a large triangular bandage from the bag and covered most of the damage. I lifted my back on my elbows to let her get a long bandage around me to hold it in place. It hurt, and I’m not sure what good it was doing, but probably no harm either. She poured some of my water onto a piece of bandage fabric and dabbed my lips. She knows her first aid, not letting me drink.

“Bloody mozzies! F***!” I was suddenly aware that the little blighters were feasting on me.

She helped me to pull my shirt down to cover my abdomen and give the mozzies less of a dining area and helped me inch my trousers up to cover up to the top of my legs. Both the bulky bandage and the pain prevented me pulling this any further up.

Looking back towards where the patrol had gone to ground, I saw a shape appear and slowly start to crawl across the open ground. A burst from the .50 splattered the area and the shape retreated. The Militia must have some form of NVE (Night Vision Equipment), but it wasn’t attached to the gun.

“Just sit this out” I called across to the patrol. “They’ll have to pull back before morning”.

The Militia probably would not want to be seen to have set up the ambush. They would blatantly assert that we had been attacked by Infiltrators and clearly were not able to secure the wadi. If they were left to do it, and we pulled back from this area to give them possession of the ridge line, all would be well.

I pulled myself up against the rock to relieve the pressure on my back. A wave of pain and nausea engulfed me and I let out a string of invective. I normally don’t do this; I regard use of profanity as vulgar and an indication of an inadequate vocabulary, but right now I didn’t care. The girl looked up; I felt ashamed.

“Sorry.”

“La problem”(no problem) she answered in the mix of English and Arabic that was becoming the lingua franca in the Battalion AO

It wasn’t far off first light now. I could hear the distinctive sounds of Panhard Armoured Personnel carriers and probably Panhard 90s, a small armoured car with a very useful 90mm gun, and guessed that the Battalion Mobile Reserve was crossing the ridge to be in position to join the party at dawn. The guns had no night sights, so could not have been deployed any earlier. The .50 firing had ceased; they were probably withdrawing. It would be too easy for us to identify them in daylight. I heard two small but quite distinct “pops” high in the air, and seconds later two mortar illuminating rounds lit up the wadi between our position and the Militia lines. The Sergeant must have called for illumination to try and catch the ambush party withdrawing. About 20 seconds later, two more pops and now four flares were burning. Perfect technique, the first two now burning at their maximum intensity, two more lighting up above them to keep a continuous stream of light over the area. The two machine guns in the firebase gave a sustained burst of fire, then fell silent. Two more pops as two more flares started their burn… then silence.

The girl looked at me.

“It’s nearly day; you’ll be OK; I go now”.

I caught her arm.

“Stay; we’ll bring you home when it’s safe.”

“No, I must go. My family would be dishonoured and it would not be safe.”

She sneaked off towards the stone wall and along that towards the derelict cottage. I lost sight of her. I got the bit about it not being safe as she might fear retaliation if identified by Militia sympathisers. I didn’t get the dishonoured bit; treating a wounded man is not like spending the night with him in the generally accepted sense of the concept.

The patrol came forward. A medic had joined them during the night, along with a further two riflemen and a stretcher. It was brightening rapidly. The medic injected me with something and I soon felt sleepy… the pain subsided. I remember being jolted around as I was carried out, jolted around some more in the ambulance going over the ridge. The jolting ended at Company HQ; an Italian Helicopter had arrived to bring me to the Swedish Hospital. We were quite an international force. The helicopter couldn’t have picked me up in my platoon area as it would have been exposed to possible Militia fire.

The Swedish medical staff were wonderful, but could only stabilise my situation and remove some of the easier pieces of rock from my abdomen. I was flown by the Italian helicopter team to an airfield to be flown home. I spent the trip admiring and chatting with the Swedish nurses who accompanied me all the way back. I wasn’t in a position to do anything more! Yes, I would love to have been able to play with them, but I also envied them, their curves, their hair, their softness, their beauty.

There was a bit of a fuss made of me when I arrived home. I was treated in hospital and released on medical leave after two weeks. Then the bad news. As I was no longer on UN service, my allowances had been stopped. This was serious. I had been relying on this money to pay a deposit on a house and now, having only four months allowance instead of the expected six was leaving me short. I complained to my GOC (General Officer Commanding). He was furious that some pen-pusher in the Department of Defence had taken this decision. Even worse, he could not get it changed. I should explain that the relationship between the military and civilian sides of the Department have, over the years, varied between being bad, and downright poisonous.

The GOC called me to see him in his office during my medical leave, even having me picked up at home in his own staff car! I had already done some writing for the Defence Forces magazine. Would I be fit enough to go out during the next Battalion deployment and do a series of in-depth interviews with both the Irish and International units and effectively write up a special edition of the magazine. He reckoned it would take three months, and I would, of course, be on overseas allowances. I jumped at the chance.

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat” the GOC remarked as he shook my hand.

This Battalion was on a winter deployment, so the weather wasn’t as hot as last time, more like a good Irish summer. I was free to set my own timetable so early in this assignment I went back to my old platoon area to interview the platoon now based there. As I was driving into the platoon base, I met Achmed. I stopped the jeep, got out and shook his hand.

“Ahalan-was f******-ahalan” was his effusive greeting as he held my hand. “Great to see you again so soon Captain Jim”. I was only a Lieutenant at the time, the locals tended to call us all “Captain”.

“Great to see you again Achmed but I’m sad to see that you still haven’t cleaned up your language”.

“You were well able to say bad words yourself when you were hurt in the wadi!”

He stopped talking and a look of consternation enveloped his face. What had he just said? Of course; the girl!

I knew.

He knew that I knew.

I knew that he knew that I knew.

“Ah, you have spoken to the girl; how is she?”

Time to save face all around. Let’s pretend that we don’t really know; it’s better that way. If only he knew that I understood. His face lightened,

“I think she is well.”

“Tell her that I’m grateful for her help; she was very brave to come to me that night.”

“I will Captain”.

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The military police Cpl smiled as she picked up my partner and I at the airport. It was 20 years since I had been in this country and now, temporarily as it has since transpired, the situation was quiet enough to allow civilians to visit both the country and the UN area of operations. We were here to do a feature on the Irish unit. The UN had never withdrawn and Ireland had continued to supply troops down through the years.

A lot had changed for me. I had resigned my commission after one more deployment, this time in Africa. I loved the Army, but it would not, at the time, have loved the person that I wanted to be. So, I became her, and also a journalist. With my background, I was not short of freelance work; unfortunately, the world has not been the peaceful place that had been expected with the fall of the Soviet Empire and the “end of history”! Francis Fukuyama must have regretted that phrase. I had met my partner on assignment; she was a photographer and we worked together as much as possible.

We travelled to the Battalion area in armoured Land Cruisers with a small escort. They were assigned to us for the two weeks that we planned to stay. The situation on the ground had changed quite a lot and my old platoon area was no longer in the Irish area of operations. I asked around about Achmed; many of the contingent had multiple trips and would have been near contemporaries of mine. It appeared that when the Irish were redeployed from this area, he had followed and opened up a “mingy” shop in the new Irish AO. “Mingy” was actually a Swahili word introduced by the Irish to describe the type of items that they liked to acquire cheaply overseas and bring or smuggle back home.

I called to see him, my partner busied herself taking pictures on the street. Of course he didn’t recognise me. Even in winter I was wearing a long, A-line dress and sunhat. Years of working in the tropics had taught me to protect my light Irish skin.

Then he didn’t believe me.

Then a tear came into his eye. “I see that life has been kind to you, Captain Jim.”

“Jamie now. Can I ask Achmed, how is the girl that came to help me when I was hit?”

He shook his head.

“She has gone away. This country is not like yours, life would have been too difficult for her, so she left. I miss her.”

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