Authors Notes: I recently watched War Horse and the scene where the soldiers go over the trenches inspired this. I hope I managed to capture some of the danger. Yay for angst! Enjoy.
Captain John H. Watson
It was hot. So very hot, and incredibly arid. The sun beat down mercilessly, it was 30 degrees in the shade. The platoon of men shifted uncomfortably, their osprey body armour feeling more like a heavy burden than a blessing. They were camped in the abandoned buildings of an unnamed village, no one had lived there for years but that did not make it safe. They were in the heart of Helmand Province, Afghanistan.
Nothing was ever safe. The platoon were a rescue party, a mayday call had come in from a small group of soldiers who had been scoping out the area for insurgents. They had found them. The recon team were somewhere nearby and they had injured men with them. That's all they knew. They had to find them and get them out, providing cover for a Merlin helicopter to pick them up. Tensions were high.
As they waited for the signal to move out, John Watson clutched at the SA80 rifle in his hands to cool his nerves.
"Captain?"
John looked up, his friend Lieutenant Brian Holloway flashed him an easy grin.
"We'll get them out, don't worry John." He told him happily, he was always carefree about everything.
"I know, I just can't shake this feeling, that's all." John whispered back.
"What feeling?"
John was about to reply but the commanding officer gave a hand signal and they started to move. John stayed beside Brian and the two other medical officers in the platoon as they stalked forward. Their group numbered only 25.
Dust crunched beneath their boots. A dry, hot wind sighed down the empty street. There was no other sound. Slowly they made their way forward. John's breath seemed loud in his ears. Everyone was tense, waiting.
They made it to the building in which the recon group was hiding. As soldiers were put on guard and orders were barked, John set about seeing to the wounds. Most of them were minor.
"What's your name?" He asked one soldier gently as he removed the pack from his back and laid his rifle down beside it.
"Corporal Mary Stevens, sir." She replied.
"Okay Corporal, I'm Captain John Watson and we'll get you fixed up." She nodded bravely. He got to work, setting two fingers which were broken and bandaging a gash on her arm. He moved onto the next injured soldier. His name was Captain George Mckillan and he had a large piece of shrapnel sticking out of his eye. John knew it couldn't be saved.
" Unfortunately there's nothing I can do while we're here, once we get to base camp, we'll get you sorted though, Captain." John told him gently as he bandaged it and administered pain relief. He made his way round the injured soldiers slowly and his face fell as he spotted a body of a lad set apart from the rest. They hadn't arrived soon enough to save him. The lower half of his right leg was a mangled, bloody mess. Bone splinters pointed through charred red flesh and the foot was barely attached. There was a tourniquet tied around the lad's thigh but it hadn't been enough.
"Damn it." John let out a breath and cursed. He alerted the others and the soldiers details were taken down. They covered him in a sheet and placed him on a stretcher, he would be carried back with them. John move to the door of the building, Sergeant Major Aaron Burke greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. John turned his attention to the street outside. All was still quiet but there was an ominous closeness which put him on edge.
"How many injured, Captain Watson?" He was asked.
"Seven in all, sir. Plus one dead."
"Damn. Air assistance has been contacted but the nearest landing place is ten minutes away. We'll be out in the open." The Sergeant Major confided in him quietly. The soldiers nearby heard and a murmur ran through the group, the men shifted uneasily. But they couldn't stay there. They had to move and now.
The going was slower than before, the injured were grouped together and on either side soldiers walked, hands on their rifles. They formed a moving shield. John led the injured group, the Sergeant Major and another solider were just up ahead, leading the way carefully. The field came into view in the distance. All was quiet, too quiet.
Then all hell broke loose.
The man just in front of John took a step and an explosion shattered the silence. The IED made short work of the soldier, blasting him apart. John and the men nearby were thrown backwards, the skin on their faces receiving burns. John fell hard. His vision darkened into a tunnel, he couldn't hear anything except the sound of his heart and felt the blood trickle down from his ears. Time slowed. He rolled on to his side, trying to recover his breath. He was vaguely aware that the earth beneath him shook with another explosion.
A hand grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet, and then he was running. His hearing and vision roared back to him suddenly and he took in the chaos. There was gun fire all around him, the rattle of machine guns, deafening above the shouts of men.
"We're under attack! The bastards are everywhere. Move John, MOVE!" He realised it was Brian shouting beside him. They ran but John turned back to where the first explosion had occurred. The platoon was scattered. Men ran, screamed, and died all around him. Another IED was triggered, demolishing a building and throwing men into the air like rag dolls.
John could smell burning flesh and the acrid taste of smoke threatened to choke him. There was a brief moment of colour in a dark window on the opposite side if the street. He raised his rifle and shot a single bullet. The enemy fell.
"TO ME! TO ME!" He roared, hoping to regroup them. The men that remained however were gripped with panic. They fled and stumbled blindly in all directions, falling over the body's of their comrades. A bullet whizzed past John's head suddenly and he searched for its origin. The high pitched whistle of a mortar caught his attention. The building beside him and Brian imploded. Shrapnel and bricks flew. The heat of the blast stung his already burnt face and he was knocked backwards again. Brian caught him. Others finally managed to join them. They ran. Adrenaline and terror drove them forwards with speed. Then above the chaos the familiar sound of the Merlin helicopter could be heard. They were going to make it. Just round the next corner. Brian was ahead of John. The down force from the helicopter's rotor blades slowed them slightly. The last obstacle between them and safety was a low wall.
Pounding hearts and pounding feet. Another explosion tore through the air, but it was behind them. Almost there. Almost. Suddenly a lone gunman stood from behind the wall. A shot ran out. John stopped short.
"NO!"
Brian fell backwards. John knew he was dead before he hit the ground and his body made a sickening thud in the dust. John stared in horror at his friend's body, fixated, unable to look away. As his friends lifeless eyes stared at him, asking why. The danger around him was forgotten for a moment. He glanced up then and caught the shooters eye.
"Shit."
He very quickly became comfortable with dying. Silently said his goodbye.
He dropped to the floor, taking cover. He was too slow. The bullet exploded into his shoulder. It was agonising as the flesh ripped apart. He saw the resultant blood gushing out of the wound. His face hit the packed earth.
John bolted upright in bed. He was tangled in the sheets and covered in a cold sweat. His cry echoed in his ears and his breath came out in short, juddering bursts. There were tears on his cheeks and his heart raced loudly in his ears. He reached to the scar on his shoulder, it stung.
"John?" A voice asked gently. He jumped and whipped his head towards the sound. Sherlock raised his palms "it's only me. You were having a nightmare." He said calmly. John nodded, feeling exhausted.
"Sorry I woke you." He mumbled, lying back on his damp pillows. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively,
"I wasn't asleep." A yawn caught him out though. "Anything I can do?" He asked concerned.
"Nothing at all." John sighed, rubbing his eyes forcefully with his fists, willing the memories to disappear.