Chapter 1

There are times when you imagine that life is doing its best to dispense with you. Everything around you either goes away, insults you, kicks you when you are down, pretends you no longer exist, or even deliberately tries to end your life.

That’s me, John Hawkins Freeman, soldier; or rather ex-soldier. The army doesn’t want me any more, having managed to survive being half-killed. I am officially ‘invalided out’, which is officialese for ‘medically unfit to be a soldier any more’; or more simply, ‘now useless’.

My life career, as a soldier; shot to hell.

I have no other talents. I trained as a soldier from my teenage years. Despite good school results, I did not take up the option of a university course as part of my soldiering, as I was having so much fun just BEING a soldier. The tougher the course was, the better I liked it.

The Marines suited me down to the ground, and later when the option of an SAS Selection course came up, I went for it. That five-week Selection tested me to the extreme, it really did. I laboured at times, especially trying to get round that horrendous forty-mile Endurance route in the Brecon Beacons in bad weather. A few guys have been known to die on that course - honest.

And, wonder of wonders, I passed. The average result is 10 per cent of candidates pass, so I felt honoured.

They let me become a squaddie, known as a Trooper, in the SAS Regiment. Your rank in your previous regiment was ignored, no matter what it was. You start in THE Regiment at the bottom, and work and learn your way up. They put me in a four-man patrol with the senior guy keeping a close eye on me. Patrols are part of a fifteen-man Troop – I was in Mobility Troop; we specialise in keeping transport running – and I was being trained in signals.

It was great! I became immersed in the SAS ethos: self-motivated, individualist, but part of an integrated team. Each of us specialised, so that we melded as a group with a greater range of abilities. Wonderful.

That first year, I went through all the courses that I could, and we had practical experience around the world in a whole slew of environments; from jungle to desert (jungle is the toughest, medically), so that we could excel anywhere.

Two years into that immersion process, I found myself and colleagues thrown into an anti-terrorist operation in Liverpool. No, it was not Irishmen, it was Islamic extremists. You know the style: “If you are not OUR extreme brand of Islam, you are an infidel.”

We were tasked with taking out this group who were cornered in a terrace house in a quiet residential district. Once the neighbours had been safely evacuated, in case of suicide bombs, we insinuated ourselves into the street, and got into a house on either side of the target.

We had been provided with architectural plans of the terrace, and so we knew that the attics were interconnected. Plan A was to get up to attic level and creep along in silent mode, ready to drop down on the targets below, once their positions were ascertained. Earpieces to our radios meant we could be advised without any noise to give us away.

Our mates passed on that there were three known targets, all located on the ground floor, so we had a decent chance on ingress via the attic trapdoor. My oppo was carrying the rope ladder for use when the trap was open. I reached this point without incident, then things started to go to pot.

First hurdle: the trapdoor would not lift. It must have been secured by a pair of hook and eye fasteners, on the underside. There was no way to get that trap open without noise of some kind.

Second problem: one of the terrorists decided to come upstairs; either to use an upper window as a lookout point, or just take some rest in one of the bedrooms, which were all upstairs. We heard him clumping up the lino-clad stair treads. Not good. Time to retreat to safer ground.

We began to reverse our crawl across the attic beams; no flooring on top of the beams, so careful manoeuvring called for. We have practiced this, so no sweat. At least, until I put my weight on one beam and it turns out to be merely a link between two beams, with no proper support.

Why it had never been correctly attached at both end joints, I will never know. Someone probably just forgot. Anyway, it was what it was, to my detriment. The short section of beam goes down under my weight, and pushes through the fragile plasterboard ceiling panel, as does my leg. Disaster.

I have no idea whether the insurgent was heading to the room below me, or the other bedroom, but unless he was deaf, he was bound to have heard the ceiling smash through. From our practice exercises, I knew that trying to pull your foot back up was almost impossible, due to the broken panel angles. I stamped down with my other boot to widen the hole, so that I might get myself back up.

There was enough daylight from the room’s window to see that there was a face at the doorway, looking up at me as my second boot widened the hole. Before he could do something dangerous to me, I dropped one of my flash-bangs through the hole. I went off as it hit the floor, and with this distraction, I pulled my legs up, dragged myself onto a solid beam, and started clambering towards safety.

Who knows what happened in the room doorway, but it appears that the guy had been holding an automatic weapon when he was hit by the flash and the concussion. A flashbang is a concussion or stun grenade with pyrotechnics, designed to disorientate the victim.

He must have been holding the gun in my general direction when it hit him, and his finger gripped the trigger tightly enough to set off a burst of bullets my way. I wasn’t quick enough to be out of the complete field of fire, and I felt one or more rounds penetrate my legs.

I continued to crawl to safety, and found myself being grabbed and pulled by my back-up mate. We got to the hatch next door, and he went part-way down the ladder before pulling me on to his back and carrying me down to floor level. For a time, I didn’t feel pain, due to the adrenaline rush, but when it finally hit me as my feet landed on the floor, I blacked out for a little while.

I recovered my senses in time to hear my mate calling for the medic, detailing my injuries and location, then saying to me, “Got to go, John. Duty calls.”

I replied, “Go. Go.” I tried to nod my head, but it must have hit the edge of the hatch as we had come through, for a fresh surge of pain went through my head, and I was out again.

Some time later, a herd of boots clattered into the room, and hands started to attend to my wounds, a voice reassuring me, “We’ve got you, mate. You’ll be okay. We’ve wrapped your leg wounds and you’ll be off to hospital soon. Might be a bit of a jostle with the stretcher going down the stairs, so I’ll put you out first.”

I never felt to injection of the knock-out potion, but it did its job, for I next woke up in the hospital. “Woke up” is a bit of a joke, for the doctors who revived me just wanted to ask me a few questions about what I could feel – bloody sore all over, mate! – then they told me I was going to the theatre, so they put my lights out again.

When I was compos mentis once more, the next day (I think), a doctor came along to inform me that most of the rounds had passed through my flesh, but one had hit my femur and smashed it somewhat.

That didn’t sound too bad, until they explained that they had been forced to install a pair of rods on either side of the leg, screwed into the bone above and below the damage. It was going to be months before I would be able to put much weight on the leg, and even longer before they would risk removing the splints.

After days of asking, I was finally told that all the terrorists had died during the assault on that house. A couple of other troopers had sustained wounds, but neither was severely hurt and were back at base.

A week or so later, I was visited by the regimental doctor. He examined all my medical records, viewed the damage, including the remaining bump on my head, and told me the bad news. I was still a bit woozy with all the painkillers that had stuffed into me, but I could take in what he was saying.

“John, you are not going to get back to fitness for your normal service for at least a year, if ever. That leg will never be as strong as before. The Service may be able to find you a desk job, if you want it, or you will get a medical discharge. In either case, you will be able to make a claim under the Armed Forces Compensation Scheme, and we can assist you with filling out the forms. The army runs on paperwork, as you will appreciate.”

Crap. My SAS job was down the toilet. No way was I going to sit at a desk, hearing third hand about the exploits of my former mates. Bad enough lying in this bed with my leg sheltered by this protective frame under the sheets; it stops me turning on my side to get more comfortable without a lot of effort. EVERY bloody thing is going wrong for me.

“Sir, I don’t think I could put up with a desk job. Sedentary is just not me.”

“Get used to it, son. You are going to be in a bed for weeks, then sitting up in a hospital chair, or perhaps a wheelchair if you want to move around or get some fresh air, but you won’t be on your feet for a looong time, John.”

“In that case, I’ll go for the medical discharge, sir. That is easier to cope with. At least I’ll be able to make my own decisions.”

“Very well. By the way, have you contacted your family? close friends other than the Regiment?”

“No, sir. I didn’t want to tell my folks until I knew how the land lies. Oh, fuck! Jenny!”

“Pardon?”

“Jenny, my girlfriend. She will be wondering where I am.”

“Ah.” The officer hung his head, looked uncomfortable, as if not knowing what to say.

“What?” I questioned him. “Is there something I ought to know?”

“Ah, I spoke to some of your mates before coming here, in case they wanted to pass on messages. One of them informed me that your girl was two-timing you; so perhaps you should prepare for the old heave-ho, now that you are off the reservation, so to speak.”