like a kind of walt advent calender

 
 

I was sitting outside the Hereford Boathouse with my squadron-mates Twozzer, Dingleberry and Phil the cunt when we got the call.

We had to tab to the Lannies and drive to the head-shed double-time to see G, we knew some serious shit was going down if they were calling on X squadron to get something done.

Turns out that Saddam had invaded Kuwait, and all fucking hell was breaking loose.

G told us that HM herself had authorised our mission - take out Saddam, and end the war.  "We need total deniability on this one" G said "no identifying papers!"

I knew what that meant - I had to head back to the barracks and get rid of the one thing that could tie me to the regiment - the winged dagger I'd had tattoed on my cock to celebrate the Beirut job.  2 minutes with some 60 grit sandpaper did the job, and I was ready to kit up.

I was always ready to leave in 60 seconds, so I got my gear on my back and out the door.  The SA80's shit, that's just for grunts and squaddies, I chose the mini-14 as my personal weapon, as recommended by small-unit tactics expert Colonel H Smith.  A fuck-load of mags, a few claymores and a 24-hour rat pack was all the extra kit I needed.

The regiment's always had a cosy relationship with BA, so when we got to Heathrow we tooled straight into first class on a Jumbo bound for the ME - Just us in our HALO suits and a few fat businessmen sipping champagne - Fit crack stewardesses, but X squadron had planning on our minds, no time for any more than our tops and fingers.

When the plane got close to the Iraqi border, everyone had to strap in while we opened the door and jumped out into the night, drop bags full of kit leading the way, NV goggles on.

This shit had just got real.

We reached terminal velocity and crossed the border at 03:00 - we had intel that Saddam was going to inspect a bunch of republican guard tossers that morning, we had to get a fucking move on.

Dingleberry's chute didn't open, and he arced right into the ground - I'd told him not to let Phil pack his chute, he really is a massive cunt!

Once the 3 remaining squadron members landed we set up an RV and all had a shit to lighten us up for action, but we had to carry it with us in plastic bags to avoid attracting insects to the RV and alerting the enemy.

It was 3 hours hard tab to the target point, Phil the cunt was a real racing snake and kept up the pace, but Twozzer was getting too old for this shit, he was holding us back til I gave him a tab of E - that perked him up!

We got to the target compound, 5 senties in a standard 4-way patrol pattern, piece of fucking piss and we had them all slotted inside 2 minutes, then we rigged up all our claymores to cover our exit route.  Twozzer was really starting to trip his nuts off, but was professional as ever, except for the dancing.

We headed for the HQ building, the boys set up stag outside while I fired a grapnel up and bombed up the rope straight into Saddam's bathroom - there the fucker was, large as life in a fluffy pink dressing down with epaulettes and medals.

Acting purely on instinct I took aim and pulled the trigger!

My fucking Mini-14 jammed, the first time this had ever happened to anyone, and Saddam was turning to run, pressing the alarm button on the wall - thinking on my feet, I opened my rat pack and threw a Biscuit, Brown shuriken style - it went straight into his skull and he dropped on the spot.


I rolled him over so I could start cutting off his moustache as a trophy to prove to G that we'd done it again - Fuck me, it turned out it was some other cunt with a 'tache, one of Saddam's decoys - and now the whole fucking wasps nest of ragheads was going to be after us.

I piled out the window to meet up with Twozzer and Phil the cunt who were dropping their extra kit and loading up extra mags, their 1000 yard stares showing them to be steely-eyed dealers of death - now our only mission was survival, so we headed out on our planned evac route to the RV.

The RG were after us now - 30 or so, firing AKs from the hip as they piled straight into our claymore ambush and evaporated.  Twats.

But now they were coming in BMPs, things looked bad.  The first BMP we took out by ducking down in a ditch then jumping in the back hatch as they went past and mowing them down - now we had some wheels, we'd make it across the border in an hour and be home for tea and medals that night.

Nothing was going right, though - in the mirror I saw a fucking Mi24 Hind bearing down on us - A stupid civvy cunt like you wouldn't know, but that's one mean piece of helicopter badassery.

I had one chance, so I climbed out on top of the BMP with my trusty Browning Hi-Power as Twozzer, high as a fucking kite, junked it left and right while singing ABBA songs - the Hind got closer, I took aim at the pilot and took my shot - he slumped forward and the Hind came towards us with gathering speed - I took the chance and jumped up, swinging into the pilot's seat just in time to pull it out of the dive.  I turned around to the gunner and just grinned - he was shitting himself and the yellow bastard jumped out into the desert air.

I bounced down, picked up Twozzer and the cunt and we headed for the border.  Iraqi TV later said there had been a small fire at a barracks and 2 soldier s had died - lying bastards.  Our TV didn't cover it at all, just how we like it.

We didn't win any medals, but I got my cock tattoed again in memory of Dingleberry.  RIP.

"so I climbed out on top of the BMP with my trusty Browning Hi-Power as Twozzer, high as a fucking kite, junked it left and right while singing ABBA songs"

I've just spat Budweiser over my monitor...

Dawn came like a warning.

I opened my eyes and looked out at what was to be my last day. For 14 long, agonising days and nights I had been kept prisoner in this hell hole, seen my friends taken one my one, until only I was left. A ray of sunlight pierced the turbulent clouds, briefly lighting my face, with its bloodshot eyes and dry, cracked lips.

I let out a groan as I tried to work some life back into my atrophied muscles. As the blood began flowing I experienced agonizing needle sharp pain throughout my body. 14 days of hellish torture will do that to you. The bastards that did it to me thought it was entertainment.

I cast my eyes around my sparse prison. It hadn’t improved any overnight. The remnants of yesterday’s barely edible meal lay in the corner, untouched. Even the rats wouldn’t eat that shit, but I had forced myself to consume some, just to stay alive. Where there is life, there is hope.

They had taken Kev first. He was a tough motherfucker, a former US marine. They came for him around noon, with big shit eating grins on their faces. He tried to fight them off, and took several down with his Akido moves, but more just kept coming until he was overwhelmed. Although I never saw him again his screams of terror will haunt me for the rest of my life. Of course, I thought at the time, that might not be very long.

They came for Bill Henderson next. Although retired, Bill had served in the British Army all his life. He had been a paratrooper, seen action in Panama during the Suez crisis and served with the Gurkhas in Borneo. Bill was a hard as nails Scotsman, but at the end he was crying like a baby.

One by one they came for my companions, until only I was left. I guess they thought that seeing my friends taken would add to the cruelty, and they were right. I vowed then that I wouldn’t let the bastards have the pleasure, and would either escape, or die trying.

Time passed like a Post Office queue on pension day. It didn’t bother me, my life as an elite sniper had trained me to stay still for days on end, lying in my own urine and excrement. I continually flexed my muscles to rid them of lethargy and cramp, ready to strike when the time came. I had fashioned a plastic spoon into a shiv by scraping it against my face stubble. My time in prison had taught me that, but that’s a story for another Walt thread.

As day inevitably turned to dusk I heard them coming for me. I slightly turned my head and imperceptibly opened my eyes a fraction to watch them approach. Two of them came, wearing their ridiculous red uniforms. They entered my cell, slamming the door behind them. Good, that would help. One stayed by the door as the other, a great hulking brute who stank of cheap aftershave and even cheaper booze bent over my inert form.

I tensed my muscles ready for action, but knew that they would likely fail me, so I did the only thing I could. I bit down hard on the tip of my tongue, neatly severing it. Although this would leave me with a speech impediment, and I would never be able to bowcat a woman again, the pain that flowed through my body was immediately followed by a surge of pure adrenalin. As the brutes ugly, pockmarked face appeared I spat the bloody saliva into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. I grabbed his lapel and pulled him down onto the point of my shiv, pushing it through the meat and gristle of his neck until it reached his jugular. With a twisting and pushing movement I opened a large ragged hole in the vein and received a wave of arterial spray as a reward. As the dying man fell on top of me I heaved him to the floor and launched myself at his shocked counterpart, like a gore covered crack head looking for a fix.

The second man was smaller than the first, and on a wave of adrenalin I covered the distance between us in a heartbeat. I reached around the back of his head, grabbed a fistful of hair and smashed his face again and again into the door frame. I didn’t stop until his head was a pulpy mush of brains and ichor.

I fell exhausted to the floor, the chemical rush ebbing from my body as fast as it had come. I knew I couldn’t wait too long though. Although each man had died without making much sound, the noise of bone splintering on wood must have been heard by half the camp, and more of the vicious bastards would be on their way. I quickly searched the bodies, but due to their over confidence neither man was carrying a weapon. All I founds was a small multi tool which mercifully had a folding blade, a ballpoint pen and a safe shooters certificate, which was clearly useless.

I didn’t bother trying to hide the bodies, the room was awash with blood, and a metallic taste hung heavy in the air. I closed the door behind me but noticed that a puddle had already seeped under the threshold. I moved down the corridor, ignoring the pleas of men, women and children to save them. Now was not the time to mount a rescue. I had a better chance of escaping on my own, and could alert the authorities and media to the atrocities being performed. The thought of returning with a squad of my black eye strip buddies and wiping out the nest of evil cunts spurred me on.

I reached the end of the corridor, stumbled down a flight of steps and through an exit door that was unlocked. Sloppy of the bastards not to lock down behind them. Dusk had turned to night, and I was thankful for the inky blackness, polluted here and there by the pseudo daylight of carbon lamps.

I skulked toward the perimeter, becoming a shadow and moving like a ghost. The years of ninjitsu training allowed me to avoid most of the roving patrols, and to kill the few that could not be avoided.

As I approached the high fence that surrounded the compound I knew I was in trouble. There was a large stretch of no mans land between the chalet type structure I was lying under and the fence, brightly lit and patrolled by two dozen of my enemies. There was nothing for it, I would either have to fight and win, or die trying. None of them seemed to be carrying any weapons, although many carried 6 cell maglights. There overconfidence would be their undoing.

I slipped from cover and stealthily approached the nearest pair, who had their backs to me. I kicked the right hand man hard in the side of the knee and was rewarded with a loud crack as the bones gave way. At the same time I grabbed the left hand man around the neck, pulled his head back and stabbed the multi-tool blade into his exposed throat. With a sawing action I ripped across, but the blade snapped as it got lodged in cartilage. Cheap Chinese shite.

As I dropped the body I snatched his maglite from its holster on his hip, and smashed it down hard into the head of the second man who was rolling around on the floor clutching his ruined knee. His skull gave way with a sickening wet crack. Lesser men would have vomited, but I’ve watched many men die far more horribly, most at my own hand.

The man’s screams had attracted the attention of the others. I knew I had to take them out quickly and get over the fence before reinforcements arrived. Although a single man is more combat effective than a group, this squad was large so I had move with excessive violence of action.

Three men approached ahead of the others. I was going to blade at a 45 degree angle, but then remembered that the blade had snapped off the multitool. Besides, it’s a stupid manoeuvre, generally employed by cunts and the occasional mall ninja. Instead, with the maglight in my left hand and the pen in my right I performed a dive roll forward to close the gap and came up swinging the maglight against the nose of the middle man, and stuffing the pen into the ear of the man on the right. As each went down I addressed the assailant to my left with gaon saki naga (a particularly nasty block, strike, throw combo) which left him with a smashed collar bone and shattered femur.

By this stage I was in danger of becoming surrounded by the remaining attackers, so I performed a swift backflip over the head of the nearest man, turned and clubbed the back of his head smartly with the butt of the maglight. As he fell forward, tripping several of his comrades I snatched his torch from his belt. Armed with a 6 cell maglight in each hand, I adopted a South African dlala 'nduku stick fighting stance, and prepared for combat.

As they approached I waded in and hit them like a tsunami. The maglights whirled in vicious, deadly arcs, striking without impunity. Time and time again I struck, leaving the dead and dying in my wake.

Soon there were just four men standing between me and freedom. However these were the best of my enemies, men hardened by years or service to their masters. They spread out, trying to encircle me. One of my maglights had snapped, allowing the batteries to fall out and leaving me with a 6” aluminium tube. The first of the elite guard feinted left, then attempted an overhead smash with his own torch. I dodged, swung and parried the blow with my intact maglight. My free hand smashed the remnants of the broken torch through his forehead, coring his brain. Yanking the tube clear I launched it and the dead mans frontal lobes in the opposite direction toward another assailant who was approaching from my six. As he ducked under the projectile I launched an ushiro mawashi geri reverse spinning kick, catching him in the temple. He went down like a cheap hooker.

Turning to engage the next man I realised he was much closer than expected. I couldn’t block the swift flurry of punches he launched at my face, and was knocked backwards, tripping over a fallen body. As I lay winded my adversary began kicking me repeatedly. With my strength quickly failing this was no time for niceties, I wrestled the multitool from my pocket, and flicking out a tool at random slashed upwards towards his groin. Who knew that you could make a man into a eunuch with a corkscrew? As he collapsed back screaming shrilly I regained by feet and prepared to take on my final adversary.

He was a small man, but clearly well trained in the martial arts and quick on his feet. Whilst I boast prestigious fighting skills myself, I was half dead from exhaustion and the hammering my kidneys had taken. We traded blows, most of which were blocked, for what seemed like an eternity. I could see that I would have to fight dirty to end this quickly. I faked a stumble and fell to one knee. My opponent sensing victory was within grasp attempted a kakato-geri axe kick. As his heel came powering toward my head I executed a flawless leg sweep, knocking him known hard. I scrambled on top of him, got my knee into the side of his neck and pushed with all my remaining strength until I heard a pop and knew that his neck was broken.

I took a moment to catch my breath, and then sprinted for the chain link fence. I went up and over it as quickly as a Frenchman surrenders, and dropped to the sodden earth on the other side. Before a pursuit could be launched I disappeared into the night and after several hard days living off the land made it back to civilisation.

I will never forget that hellhole or the friends I left behind. I will carry the scars to my death bed. Fucking cunts, fuck them, fuck them.


Yeah, fuck Butlins. Next year I’m going to Centerparks!

Good one
For a moment I thought it was about an demented OAP escaping the home...

Very good - WH Smith will be going out of business

I'm enjoying these short stories.

stories





you mean memoirs





looks like the bar is set higher this year





 

Yes sorry memoirs - ideal for after dinner speeches

Just when you think you know someone.

Pah, that's nothing. I've just finished watching Captain America and can you believe it, they've based it on my later exploits! Bloody cheek.
They'd better not bring up that Red Sea incedent or I'll really get mad

Brilliant stories..

keep them coming

it has been a few years now , i miss the crack and the danger of war , i got out in 2001 and just bummed around for a few years , then i needed to find a job as money was sort and i was not getting any younger.





with all my skills all i could get was a security job at bultins not what i wanted but i took it anyway .





who would know it would turn out to be the biggest fights of my life.





It was a Saturday morning , that's when all the new inmates urm customers turn up , we stood by the office and looked hard ( part of the job) and this one bloke caught my eye he was with his boyfriend and had a pink shirt on , he just look wrong and i told my 18 year old team leader that we would have to keep an eye on that one .





fast forward to Monday night and he is dancing with his friend and they are toughing each other on the dance floor , i was working the door in the tiger club milk bar ( under 12's only) when i got the call , code blue , code blue , that's what we would say when the shtf , a put the tiger stamp on the back of the last kids hand and off i went .





i knew from my recce that i could shave seconds of the trip if i went through the oasis bar ( 12 to 17 ) and past the gents bog .





as i arrived all i could see was this one bloke ( him) face down in a pool of sick , he had been drinking babycham all day and had got into it with a yank and a scot called bill henderson after he past a comment about the yanks ass .





his boyfriend had log since gone back to his caravan modular holiday accommodation  to sleep it off but he still had some fight left in him , we had only minutes before the police turned up so 6 of us gave him a good kicking and dragged him out the back .





when the police arrived he attacked one of them with a plastic chip fork he picked up of the floor, so plod gave him another good kicking and took him away , we removed his budy later that night without incident and i had the scuff on my knee looked at by the site nurse ( who is also a dinner lady ) .





hell , i have looked it in the face





next year i am working at Centerparks
 

you seem familiar



 

The 1970's were a turbulent time in Britain. The Socialist policies of Harold Wilson and James Callaghan, the miner's strike that brought down Ted Heath's government, widespread industrial strife provoked by Communists in the trade unions and the violence of the Irish “Troubles” had seriously undermined the economy, divided public opinion  and were threatening to destabilise the country. There were rumours of secret armies, Sir Walter Walker, a distinguished former General went public with ideas which resonated all the way to Downing Street and seriously rattled the Labour Government.  It appeared to many of us within the Services at the time that the previously unthinkable concept of a military coup in the UK was starting to become a possibility.

Against this background, the Cold War with the USSR was rumbling. Terrorist organisations sponsored by the Soviet Union, China and Libya were waging a proxy war throughout Europe and the Middle East,  with various Irish groups, the Red Army Faction, the Italian Red Brigades and others perpetrating outrages against civilian and political targets alike.

The economic, political and security conditions in Western Europe were starting to look favourable for a surprise Soviet strike by their massive tank shock armies through the Iron Curtain to the Channel ports.  As concern grew about the possibility of a Soviet attack, security at UK military bases, communications and energy facilities was increased as it was feared that Spetsnaz commando raids would form a key part of an assault.  The previously unprecedented sight in public of armed policemen and military personnel became familiar throughout the UK.  

It is only now that the 30 year secrecy rules allow me to relate a few details of a little known incursion into UK airspace that occurred during those dangerous days. Full details of the incident remain a close secret, however as a concession to the UKHTF I have been allowed to make public the outline of the event.

RAF Saxa Vord is located on Unst, the most northerly inhabited island of the British archipelago, only 180 miles from the Norwegian coast and on the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska.  The most northerly British military base in the UK, this powerful radar station was built during WW2 and became a crucial base in the UK air defence network, with the primary task of monitoring the movements of the huge Soviet Bear reconnaissance aircraft and supersonic Backfire bombers coming from the North and East, testing UK defence capability and reaction time.  

This small, isolated base was particularly vulnerable to a Spetsnaz attack. A raiding party could be put ashore from a submarine, destroy the site and be on the way back to Murmansk in a matter of hours, long gone before anyone on the mainland began to wonder why the phones were not being answered. Owing to this concern additional RAF personnel were moved in to improve security and defence of the site.  As many RAF Police and most of the Rock Apes had been hurriedly committed to the defence of Cyprus following the Turkish invasion of 1974, the reinforced security consisted of aircraft techs like myself, in the dual role of ground defence and servicing the increasing traffic at the island's tiny airstrip.

Mid-winter nights on Unst are long, dark and cold. This particular night was an exception.  Although cold, with a thin layer of snow on the ground there was a bright moon, the stars were clear with a few clouds blowing briskly along.  As I patrolled my route around the perimeter fence, occasional flashes of the Northern Lights flickered along the northern horizon, bright curtains of green, red and blue reflecting in the slight swell of the cold North Sea.

I stopped for a while to admire this majestic sight, the first time I had seen it. Gradually, I became aware of a small, dull red light approaching from the north, quite low in the sky. I assumed it was an aircraft navigation light, but as it drew closer, I realised that no flashing anti-collision lights were visible, nor the green light on the other wing of an aircraft.  The light disappeared behind clouds for a few moments, then when it became visible again I realised with alarm that it had changed course and was now descending and heading directly towards me.

Whatever this was, it was under some form of control and heading towards the vital domes of the radar station. With growing apprehension, I unslung my SLR, taking confidence in the weight of the powerful rifle in my hands. I began to hear a sound, a metallic ringing like the tinkle of a jet engine running down and cooling. Suddenly, a deep, man's voice echoed loudly across the silent island, yelling a blood-curdling battle cry, a Russian version of Banzai, repeated over and over! The red light was now at rooftop level, and it was now clear that the radar base was about to be attacked by the occupants of this strange, near silent aircraft.

I cocked my rifle, the bolt giving a solid and reassuring clank as it slammed the first round into the chamber. Sighting as best as I could in the darkness, I aimed at the rapidly moving red light and fired twice. As the shots thundered out into the night, the vivid muzzle flashes illuminated a terrifying sight.  The aircraft had a series of tandem power units extended in front of it, each equipped with a large, complex antenna array. The aircraft seemed to hesitate in it's flight, so I swung the rifle along the power train, snapping off two shots at each unit, relying on the muzzle flashes to light the next target.

My shots had found their targets, and the aircraft shuddered before loosing speed, banking steeply and smashing to the ground with a splintering crash. Fearful that the Spetsnaz commandoes may have survived the crash, I fired into the wreckage until the bolt locked open, the rifle magazine empty.  As I changed the magazine, the discordant banter of two-tone horns and a flicker of blue light in the distance indicated that my shots had roused the base and help was on the way.

We examined the wreckage by the lights of the Land Rover. The power units were crumpled into an untidy pile with the antenna arrays pointing in all directions, having smashed into the back of each other in flight as my shots hit them and they slowed. Twisted and distorted, they steamed gently as they cooled in the chill night air, puddles of fluid running into the snow and congealing. The aircraft looked unlike any other we had seen. It was compact, with flowing curves unlike the sharp angles of most combat aircraft of the time, and surprisingly there seemed to be only one crewman, a large, powerfully built man with a dense beard. He looked like an extra from Dr Zhivago, wearing heavy flying boots and draped in what appeared to be the red Soviet hammer and sickle flag.

Someone then noticed a large number of small, brightly coloured objects scattered in a debris trail along the line of the aircraft's final plunge. Fearing them to be anti-personnel mines, we evacuated the area and waited for daylight.

Daybreak saw a number of Wessex helicopters arrive from the mainland, with scientists from Boscombe Down and other investigators. I was questioned closely and related the story of shooting down the odd aircraft several times, my inquisitors clearly looking for inconsistencies, however I did not waver and they eventually accepted that I was relating the truth.

Questions of grave concern for the Boscombe Down boffins were how had this mysterious craft evaded detection by one of the most sophisticated radars in NATO, and where had it come from?

I was allowed through the cordon around the wreckage and was able to point out a few significant details to the boffins as I related my stand against an unknown enemy the night before. The boffins were very thorough and quickly decided that the small objects scattered around were indeed area denial weapons, oddly they were a garish mix of bright colours and patterns, possibly a way of warning off inquisitive hands. A few brave souls clad in heavy EOD armour collected them and piled them into a net slung below one of the Wessex helicopters.

Close inspection of the craft revealed no national or manufacturer’s markings, but the mystery of how it evaded radar detection was soon clear. Like the De Havilland Mosquito of an earlier conflict, it was made largely of wood.

The sweeping, aerodynamic curves of the craft were oddly familiar. One of the boffins sketched it and reconstructed how it must have looked before my well-aimed shots brought it down.  Several of them huddled around the sketch, and it was generally agreed that the craft was similar to old designs from the Arctic areas of Northern Russia, Sweden and Lapland, built to cope with severe winter conditions. The crewman was dressed for exposure to severe weather, in an old fashioned fur lined hat, coat and boots.  He looked quite noble, and I felt a pang of remorse at being responsible for his death but then remembered the terror of his night attack and the fiendish aim of his mission.

The power units were a mystery. The only identification we found were small metal tags that looked like position indicators, in a form of Cyrillic or Germanic script. “Donner” and “Blitzen” were clear, as was the enigmatic “Rudolph”, a grim reminder of the ill-fated flight to Scotland of Rudolph Hess 35 years or so previously.

The unit tagged Rudolph was removed by the base Rock Ape and a couple of the radar station officers. It seemed light for it’s evident power, for they easily manhandled it into the back of the Rock Ape’s Land Rover, two of the guys heaving it around by the surprisingly sturdy antenna. They drove off to the Officer’s Mess and it looked as if they unloaded it by the kitchen entrance. Why they took it there I was not certain, but there were NBC decontamination facilities nearby so I assumed that was where it was taken.

The remaining power units and the wreckage of the craft were removed over the next few days, underslung below the clattering Wessex on the way to the laboratories and workshops of Boscombe Down .

A few nights later a wonderful smell wafted across the island from the Officer’s Mess, and the sound of a merry party filled the air. Rudolph had been disposed of by partial incineration and dismantling, and a celebration was in progress.

After extensive investigation the boffins agreed that the craft had been on a Kamikaze mission, the single crewman and my recollection of his harrowing battle cry confirming his dastardly mission, although his departure base and route to Saxa Vord remained a mystery. The lack of radar signature was countered in a few years by improved radar systems, infrared detection of power unit exhaust signatures and other technologies that I am not permitted to describe here.

The additional countermeasures were sufficient to persuade the leadership of the Soviet Union that an attack on NATO was doomed to failure, and a few years after the mission against Saxa Vord was thwarted by an alert sentry armed only with a rifle, the USSR fell apart.

I feel great pride in my contribution to the downfall of Communism in Europe and the stability that has followed.  Although I have now retired from active service, sometimes on clear midwinter nights when I gaze out at the majestic snowscape and flickering Northern Lights of Scotland, the blood-curdling battle cry of the mysterious pilot echoes in my mind: “Ho Ho Ho!”

Indeed. I’ll  give you bloody Ho Ho Ho mate…………………..

Almost ran out of time - had a hell of a job getting the MOD to release this one...

Sorry can't talk about it.


All I CAN say is,  North Korea is shit this time of year.


 Hereford sunglasses.

So that's why I got no Christmas pressies that year

I cannot talk about it either.

I cannot confirm or deny reports that I was in North Africa during the Arab Spring.

I cannot confirm or deny reports that I am now in South America making sure that certain unspecified islands remain in UK possession.

and this is why i will not win a mug





 

Sorry about that. I think it's called collateral damage.

Unfortunately the 30 year rule precludes me from telling you my story............

In 1994 a crack-head commando unit was dishonourably discharged from the US Special Forces for being absolutely shite. Today, ignored by the government, these men barely survive as guns for hire.

When no-one else can be arsed, and if you can bear to use them, maybe you can hire

The STD Team

I’m Colonel John “Flammable” Whiff. I earned my nickname during the Vietnam War. Because of my irritable bowel syndrome and love of hot chillies and cheap liquor, my particular skills were often utilized to clear the NVA from their rat tunnels. A quick squat over the entrance would fill the tunnels with not only a highly noxious, but also incredibly flammable gas. When I had finished I would flick the remnants of my cigar down the hole, and it was goodnight Charlie.

My 2nd in command is Lieutenant Simpleton Feck, known as Bass man. Lt Feck loves his bass. He would rather carry his guitar into battle than a weapon. Of course this is generally a stupid idea, bass guitars have little resistance to AK47 fire, and Feck was often shot. I swear that man has more holes in him than a colander. However he does have a way with people and is very good at procuring all sorts of ordinance for us. Feck also has a major ganja habit, and spends most of his time stoned out of his head.

Next we have T.A. Twatus. TA was a member of the Territorial Army, and is a twat. Not much more to say about him other than he is our “wheelman”. We call him that, not only because he drives our van (a 1970’s VW Camper) but also because he is in a wheelchair. TA (being a stupid bastard) removed his own legs, along with his bollocks, during a training exercise in the Brecon Beacons when he misread the instructions on a claymore mine. The twat had it facing himself when he detonated it.

Finally we have “Foulmouthed Dad” Burdock. Burdock has kids, and swears more than anybody I have ever met. Surprising considering my long military career. Your average conversation with Burdock goes like this.

“Hi Burdock”

“Hello cunt. Fuck me, what the cunting motherfuck are we shitting well doing this bollock cunting shit fuck today then boss, you cunt?”

Radio communications are always particularly problematic. Despite his obvious tourettes problem, Burdock is a fantastic pilot, and evaced our arses out of many a tight spot. Many the time we have escaped by the skin of our teeth leaving our assailants to listen to the dwindling sound of “ha ha, fuck you cunts, fucking arsehole shit face cunt bastard fuckers” coming from the cockpit of whatever aircraft we had procured.

Together, we are the Special Tactical Division (or STD) Team. Our weapon of choice is the Cougar Maxi 13. A remarkable weapon in that it never needs to be cleaned, never needs reloading (thanks to its infinite magazine capacity), never needs cleaning, and is absolutely positively guaranteed to hit anything you shoot at, as long as it’s an inanimate object and not living.

Our other important piece of equipment is our VW van. It has a remarkable ability to self heal, can survive multiple bullet strikes without a blemish, can recover from any jump, or being rolled and can be converted to (amongst other things) a tank, a submarine, a snow plough or an oil tanker.

Over the years the team has had many missions, and helped people out in every continent of the world. However our greatest mission happened this year, and I can now reveal…..


The truth behind the Bin Laden assassination

The team was approached by members of the Central Intelligence Agency for an important covert operation. We made them jump through the normal hoops, meeting with me dressed as a nun and being directed on to meet with me again at a number of other implausible locations, always disguised differently. There was no real purpose to this other than I enjoy dressing up in woman’s clothing.

Finally it was time for them to meet the whole team, and give us details of the op. We had arranged to meet at a run down hangar at the back of a disused airfield. They arrived in a large SUV, with blacked out windows and the Stars & Stripes emblazoned on the spare wheel cover. Wearing impeccable black suits and dark sun shades they surveyed us with obvious distaste, taking in Simpleton strumming his bass whilst smoking a doobie, me in a Gingham floral number with vomit stains down the front, and TA in his chair, idly scratching the remains of his ruined scrotum.

Burdock stood up, walked up to the Agency spooks and greeted them in his customary manner. “What do you cunt’s fucking want” he snarled.

Somewhat taken aback, one of the men addressed me. “Colonel Whiff, your team has been tasked with a top level, priority Alpha mission. We have intelligence to suggest that Primary Target Omega has been located, hiding in a mansion just outside Abbottabad in north-west Pakistan”. Burdock interrupted. “What the fuck is this cunt on about Colonel, who the fuck is he talking about?” he enquired. The agency man ignored the interruption (Burdock was used to this) and continued. “You are to covertly ingress across the border from Afghanistan into Pakistan, locate the mansion, breach the walls and terminate Osama Bin Laden with extreme prejudice. “

“Cunt” Burdock interjected.

I sat back and lit a cigar as the Agent continued. “Colonel, the US government maintains full deniability of this operation. You will be on your own, with no support from US or NATO personnel. If you are killed or captured, we will deny all knowledge of your presence. Do you accept the mission?”

I looked at each member of the team in turn. Feck was stoned to hell, grinning and dribbling like a lobotomised maniac. TA was staring into space, probably recalling watching his love spuds hanging off a tree in Wales, as he often did. Burdock was standing to one side, swearing quietly to himself. I looked back to the Agent, and with a nod told him “We’ll do it”.

We planned the incursion into Pakistan for the evening of May 1st. 5 days before this, we packed our kit into the VeeDub, and loaded it into the back of a small transport plane. TA kicked off (not literally, for obvious reasons) as usual. He has a real problem with flying, but we just strapped him into the drivers’ seat of the van and ignored him.

We touched down at Camp Bastion just after dawn and proceeded to drive the 400 miles to Jalalabad. We had disguised ourselves as locals by rubbing burnt cork on our chins and wrapping tea towels around our heads.

We arrived just as the sun was setting on the following day, having managed to avoid detection by the Taliban. There has been a near miss involving a donkey borne IED, but overall it was a fairly quiet trip. Feck gave some of his weed to a local and secured a safe house where we could begin converting the van for the assault. As we worked TA hummed to himself “dah dah dah, da da dah”, until Burdock had enough and shouted at him “shut the fuck up you cunt or I’ll kick you in the bollocks.” TA looked at him bemusedly and replied “good luck with that, I have no idea what tree they’re on” and resumed humming.

Finally, after several days we were ready. TA hauled himself into the drivers’ seat of the now converted van. Using parts scrounged by Feck we had converted it to look like a camel. My plan was to use that old Trojan trick and drive right up to the gates of the compound Bin Laden was hiding in and park until they opened the gates and pushed us in. We had hung a sign around the camels “hump” that read “Dear Osama, happy Ramadan, love and kisses, President Mugabe”. This was particularly cunning as it was 2 months before Ramadan, but Mugabe would be bound to get it wrong, being such an utter wanker.

Myself, Feck and Burdock climbed in the back and we were off. The 150 mile trip to Abbottabad was pure hell, mainly because the windows were sealed shut and I had unleashed one of my more potent farts. Burdock kept up a steady stream of insults and abuse for several hours. However this benefited us when crossing the border as it convinced the guards that we really were a large, stinking camel crossing over into Pakistan, particularly when coupled with the strange noises emanating from Burdock. We were waved through with barely a pause.

We continued on and reached Abbottabad early in the evening. Feck slipped out of the concealed exit at the rear (concealed as a huge camel arsehole) startling some locals in the process, and scouted the area. He quickly found the correct compound and came back to report. Unfortunately, because of his drug induced short term memory loss he forgot the route and had to repeat the process several times before we could move the camel van into position.

Now we just had to sit and wait. Finally, just before midnight the huge gates creaked open and bearded men pushed our Trojan Camel into the yard. As many more gathered around I pushed a button and unleashed our secret weapon. The air bladder concealed in the camel’s hump, that I had laboriously filled with gas from my own bowels over several agonising days, released its noxious cargo and one by one the beardies fell choking to their knees, tears pouring from their eyes. As this was a covert mission I did not ignite the gas. The resulting explosion would not only kill us, but would probably alert our target along with most of the country.

We waited a little while to allow the gas to dissipate, then Feck, Burdock and I slowly squeezed ourselves out of the exit arsehole. TA remained at the wheel ready to make a quick exit. Quiet as ghosts, other than Feck occasionally bouncing off walls and the odd “cunt” and “fuck” from Burdock, we breached the mansion.

The intelligence provided by the CIA had shown us the probable location of Bin Laden's room, and we continued upstairs to this area. Strangely we met no more guards on the way, our earlier gas attack presumably having driven them from the compound. As we reached the room I peered through the keyhole and observed a single occupant lying asleep on the bed. Stealthily we entered.

Feck slipped the guitar from his back, removed the E string and crept (well, staggered) forward toward the sleeping man. With slow deliberation (he was having a major mong out from the weed) he slipped the garrotte around Bin Laden’s neck and pulled it tight. Unexpectedly the terrorist leaders head promptly fell to the floor, bounced and rolled under the bed. Unaware of this Feck continued to tighten the wire around the neck of the now headless body. Burdock and I rushed over, and on pulling back the sheets realised we had been tricked. Lying on the bed was a wooden manikin with a bomb strapped to it’s chest!

“What a cunt” Burdock murmured.

Grabbing Feck by the shemagh he was wearing, Burdock and I heaved him out of the nearest window. As the bomb exploded, splinters of the manikin whistled past our heads, several imbedding themselves in Feck’s chest. He didn’t seem effected, the years of drug abuse numbing him, well to everything actually.

Down in the compound things had gone bad. TA was engaged in a heavy firefight through the windscreen of the van with what appeared to be the entire Taliban forces who had been alerted by the explosion. Burdock and I stuffed Feck through the camel’s arsehole, and followed quickly behind him. “Hit it TA, I hollered whilst simultaneously laying down suppressive fire with my Cougar and lighting a huge cigar. “Yeah, get going you cunt” Burdock added, unnecessarily.

TA gunned the puny 1600cc engine and we began to drive straight toward the Taliban soldiers. Despite the thousands of rounds flying through the air, nobody actually got shot. We tore out of the compound and along the dusty track heading for the edge of town.  As we rounded a corner we came face to face with a Toyota pickup truck. On the back were a couple of raghead’s with a mounted .50 cal MG. As they began to light us up TA swerved into an alleyway on our right. We heard the Toyota screech into life behind us and begin pursuit. TA continued to jink into side streets and alleys to avoid a direct line of sight, but before long we had broken free into open desert with no cover. The asthmatic air cooled engine was beginning to splutter in the hot dry air and the pickup was gaining quickly.

“OK boys” I hollered from around my stogie “It’s time for plan B”. The team knew what was coming and quickly pulled on their gas masks. I grabbed the prepared thermos and quickly chugged down the contents of 50% gin and 50% jalapeno pepper juice. As my guts instantly began to churn I grabbed the hosepipe that was still attached to the air bladder within the camels hump, jammed it up my arse and filled the bag with pure body temperature methane.

With a “cunting fuck” Baldock jumped into the passenger seat and activated the secondary controls. As the bag inflated to capacity the wheels lifted free of the sand. The propulsion and rudder affair (which we had fashioned from a desk fan and an airfix model of the Bismarck) dropped down by the back wheels and we began to gather speed as we climbed over the desert. The Toyota machine gunner continued to pour lead at us, but despite a few rounds ricocheting from the underbelly of the van, we escaped unscathed. Feck opened up on them from the rear window with his Maxi, causing an explosion that flipped the vehicle end over end. Inexplicably all of the occupants crawled away from the wreck dazedly, holding their heads but otherwise unhurt. With a final cry of “fuck you, you camel felching towel head cunts” from Burdock, we slipped above the clouds.

The trip back to Camp Bastion was uneventful, other than Burdocks incessant foul language at our failure on the mission, but even he lapsed into silence as Feck’s traffic cone size spliff’s lulled us all into a state of blissful oblivion. As we began our decent Burdock completely missed the runway and crashed through the roof of the NAAFI, splitting the air bladder and ruining everyone’s day.

A few days later we were back at our disused airfield hanger base. We sat dejected, still depressed by our failure in the assassination, when the same black SUV with the sharp suited agents pulled up. The lead agent slowly walked over, solemnly shook my hand, and with a sudden large grin began congratulating me and the team.

“Colonel Smith, the United States of America is deeply indebted to you for your services in Pakistan. We simply could not have accomplished the mission without you.”

Burdock was incredulous. “What the fuck are you talking about, you cunt?” he demanded, before I could even open my mouth. “The mission was a bust, the cunt wasn’t there”.

“Colonel Smith” the Agent continued, completely ignoring Burdock (who was used to this) “I could not disclose the full details of the mission before, but you were sent in as a decoy. We knew Bin Laden was actually at another location, and leaked details of your mission to the Taliban before you arrived in order that they would concentrate on the threat from you. Meanwhile, Seal Team 6 slipped into the real compound in Blackhawk’s and successfully assassinated the target, with minimal resistance. You and your men are hero’s Colonel”.

So, after all we had been through it looks liked the US government had fucked us over again. Either way, the end result is all that matters. Bin Laden was dead, and we had all survived. And, as I always say….





I love it when a Tali-plan comes together.

The mark of the truely talented operator is his ability to operate in even the most demanding of operational areas.

Here we have an example of an operator in a well concealed LUP.

The casual observer might just see a drunken eejit passed out in a drunken stupor.

His fellow operators know better though

well done that man , some top tales this year

Well done Pete.

Cheers, all - In recognition of this honour, I will buy a team membership for the first time ever!

bout fuckin time



edit to add,

Renegade_Master was right on your heals





 

Done.

Now to find a suitable avatar...

Can you get some Bradley Arms mugs as consolation prizes for the others who entered?

Avatar test post

Go on, you know you want to!

Brilliant avatar!

Well done with the memoirs.

winner



 

Just wanted to publicly thank Mark for the v generous prize package which I picked up yesterday.

What a guy!