Man Down

Captain Alistair McQuade of the Queen’s Own Rifles looked upon himself as the archetypical career officer. He was the product of a good military family and Sandhurst. He’d had a good education, and there was a moderate but adequate private income from his father.

OK, he would be the first to admit that his A level results from the Merchant Tailors school could have been better, but he’d had an off period during his final examinations, and had his incompetent teachers been up to the mark he would have got the grades he deserved.

Never mind, the two D’s in applied mathematics and geography had been enough to get him into Sandhurst, though there were those who hinted that the fact that his father was a retired Brigadier-General might have had rather more to do with this than his mediocre qualifications. However, he was in and managed to pass out and that was all that mattered at that time.

He had never quite got over the fact that none of the Guards regiments or the Blues & Royals would accept him, but he had managed to convince himself that this was their loss, not his.

It wasn’t his fault that he had come very near the bottom of the Order of Merit list. Once again, he had been cursed by sloppy instructors who couldn’t have explained how to make a decent cup of char properly if they tried. To hell with the lot of them, he would make his mark with the Queen’s Own Rifles, and then perhaps, the so called cream of the British Army would realise their loss and make their belated overtures. This was how he saw his present position.

It did not match at all with the opinions of his superiors or his subordinates for that matter. Not that this would have troubled McQuade at all even had he known. In his opinion they were a bunch of old women, or thickoes, depending on their position relative to his own. The Colonel was easily buttered up and was a friend of his fathers. What more did a man need?

The truth of the matter was that his superior officers, and indeed his peers, were not greatly impressed with Captain McQuade. The regimental CO Colonel Wallace MC, a kindly and fatherly figure, thought that with some improvement and a little more maturity Captain McQuade might just make the rank of Major, but that would be the zenith of his career. However, many others around him were waiting for the big mistake that would put an end to his career for good.

Alistair McQuade was not the leader of men he imagined himself to be. A bully, he continually repeated the mistake of belittling his men in front of others and often openly sneered at them. One in particular, Lance-Corporal Jerry Evans seemed to be the main target for McQuade’s spleen. None of his platoon-mates could understand why.
*


Jerry Evans had wanted to be a soldier ever since he could remember. His uncle Tommy had been a RSM with the Welsh Guards and throughout Jerry’s childhood he had enthralled the boy with his stories of the Second World War and the Korean War, bravery under fire, barrack room camaraderie, and loyalty to your mates; all, occasionally laced with hints of boozy nights out with the girls of Aldershot.

Jerry hadn’t as much as glimmered academically, and had struggled even in the C stream at his poor inner city secondary modern. Even so, he had always been a popular lad, cheerful and dependable with a burning ambition to become a soldier.

He’d joined the Queen’s Own Rifles as soon as he was old enough. The simple arithmetic and English tests had floored him, but the recruiting sergeant had been wise enough to see the potential of this enthusiastic youth and had pushed him through the tests. The lad was in perfect physical shape and was unblemished except for a large cherry red birthmark on the inside of his upper left arm.

Jerry had done everything expected of him without standing out too much from the crowd. Getting his first stripe after four years had been his proudest moment and even Uncle Tommy, over a pint in the local in Mile End, had said that he would make sergeant by the time he was thirty.

For some reason Jerry Evans got right under Captain McQuade’s skin. The lads in the barrack room couldn’t understand it at all.

Jerry was a good bloke. Firm when it was needed, but none the less one of them. He was always cheerful; did his job well, and was always immaculately turned out. You could comb your hair in his brass buttons, and his boots!

He drank like the rest of the squaddies, but he was strictly a beer man and never went too far. He had never once been in trouble throughout his time as a private soldier, and had never given anyone cause for concern since his promotion. On one memorable occasion, at one of the regimental all-ranks get-togethers the Colonel had actually called him 'Jerry' . This was an accolade shared by few in the barrack room.

McQuade’s jibes rarely had the intended effect. Rather than demeaning Lance-Corporal Evans in front of his peers he had increased his popularity. The ‘us’ were further consolidated against the ‘them’. This proved to be just one more fatal flaw in Captain McQuade’s military make-up. He just couldn’t get into the skin of those below him. An absolute necessity if he was ever to successfully lead his men.

Although Jerry realised that the Captain had truly earned his barrack nickname of ‘Captain Pratt’, he took many of the jibes to heart and tried even harder. He desperately wanted to make full corporal and then sergeant to please his uncle Tommy.

Ironically, the Captain’s pregnant wife Laura was very popular with the troops and their families. Like all good army officers wives she had become involved with her husband’s men and the welfare of their families. She was one of the very few officer’s wives who were genuinely welcomed into the other ranks married quarters for a cup of tea and a chat, and appeared to have no ‘side’ whatsoever.

How she ended up married to a man like McQuade was a frequent topic for discussion amongst the other ranks wives.

She had often noticed, and was disturbed by her husband’s intense dislike of the little Lance-corporal in ‘B’ platoon and had only recently mentioned to her husband that ‘she always found the young soldier polite and helpful, and that he was after all, some mother’s son’.

McQuade had patted her swollen stomach and replied, ‘that’s a son you’re carrying darling, Evans is just the runt of some East End litter.’ Laura had winced but decided to say nothing more for the moment.

A week later the regiment was ordered to join a night exercise in the Brecon Beacons.
They were set against the SAS and were tasked to attack a position held by that elite regiment. It was to be a limited ‘live fire’ exercise, with live mortar shells to be dropped a hundred metres ahead of the advancing line.

The exercise called for careful map work and precise timing, and each platoon commander had been briefed thoroughly on their mission and responsibilities. To add to the difficulties the weather was dreadful. Sleet lanced into their faces in the bitterly cold wind, and sought out even the smallest gap in their heavy weather gear.

The men of B platoon were in the centre of the line under the command of a young fresh-faced second-lieutenant, and crawled forward after each salvo of mortars had landed up ahead. Captain McQuade moved up and down the lines of A, B, and C platoons, making his customary noise and issuing unnecessary orders and reprimands. Many of them directed at Lance Corporal Evans.

McQuade loathed these exercises. He hoped to make his impression in the officer’s mess and on the parade ground ‘A total waste of time’ he was often heard to comment, away from the ears of his superiors. He was more of a ceremonial duties man, and loved to get into his mess dress.

But this night was particularly awful. His wife was heavily pregnant and though not due to give birth for another ten days or so, she was beginning to feel very tired. He needed to be at home, not out on this God forsaken terrain playing bloody soldiers in this foul weather.

The first mortars began to fall a hundred or so metres ahead. The ‘crump’ and the flashes could be seen clearly enough but the explosions were muted by the noise of the wind and the sheeting rain. The soldiers, lying flat on their stomachs in the soaking muddy grass and earth, with legs spread wide behind them, were frequently showered by bits of earth, and fragments of heavier bush foliage from the explosions ahead of them, and had to turn their helmets towards the blast for protection.

McQuade looked at his watch and consulted the map. Next salvo due in eight minutes. ‘Evans’ he shouted into the wind, ‘go on ahead and do a quick recce, we must be getting close to the target, see if you can see anything, but be back in five minutes’

‘Bit dodgy Sir’ ventured the nervous young second-Lieutenant, ‘I mean….’

‘Look to your own Marcus’ snapped McQuade, and then to Evans, ‘get moving man’

Evans began to work his way forward on elbows and lower legs and was soon swallowed up by the darkness and rain.

The next salvo of mortar shells arrived a minute early and fell 40 metres short. The resulting shower of earth and debris was heavier this time and covered them all.

McQuade swallowed hard to clear his ears, and waited until the shower of debris had subsided.

‘Damnation’, he had clearly mistimed the salvo. It had been due six minutes after the last, and not eight. Why couldn’t they make themselves clearer at these damned briefings?

‘MAN DOWN’

The urgent cry came through on the wind and the rain.

‘Cease firing’ the Second-lieutenant radioed back to command, ‘we have a man down’

‘Confirmed’ the reply came back, ‘Check and report”
*


Evans was engulfed by the enormous shock of the blast and was hurled many yards to his left, where he lay badly dazed and winded. There was no pain and he lay perfectly still for a while, just wiggling his fingers and toes to see if they still worked. When at last he felt he was able to move, he got slowly onto his hands and knees and then, very shakily, stood upright

‘Damned good thing the wind’s died down’ he thought ruefully, ‘my legs feel so weak I’d never be able to stand up in it’, then,

‘My God, that was bloody close”

He noticed that he’d lost his rifle and all of his webbing and pack, and began to look for them in the low scrub as he made his way towards the small knot of men he could dimly make out from their masked torches. Men who were on their knees around another shape lying on the ground.
*


Captain McQuade turned the man over on his side and immediately vomited as the viscera partially slid away from the torn stomach and chest. It glistened with a yellowy red colour tinged with blue in the dim torchlight. The eyes were wide open and looked faintly surprised.

McQuade put his head into his hands and whispered ‘Oh God, what have I done’

Evans arrived by the Captains side and touched his shoulder. McQuade shuddered at the icy chill that ran through his body.

‘I’m OK sir,’ said Evans, ‘Who’s copped it?’

Receiving no reply from McQuade, he looked over the Captain’s shoulder, and down at the body of the dead soldier.

The helmet had fallen to one side and he could just make out the bloodied face and the staring sightless eyes. Jerry felt the bile rising in his throat as the reaction to the horror before him ran through his system like an electric shock.

The mutilated body was his  own. He was looking down at himself.

Gerry Evans began to back away in horror, his legs rapidly weakening. He cried out in despair to those around him but no sound came. Turning, and in blind panic, he tried to flee from the ghastly scene but felt as if he was running though thigh deep water and into a dark tunnel. He knew he was about to lose consciousness. With one last anguished wail his fading form began to shred and was carried away like wisps of smoke on the howling gale.

It was 01:41am exactly.
*


Laura McQuade’s contractions had started at 10 pm the previous evening, her waters broke at 10:30 pm and she was rushed into the medical quarters on camp.
She was now in the final moments of her confinement.

‘Push, Mrs. McQuade’ said the young auxiliary sister,’ just one last big push - I can see the head”

She pushed with all her strength and the baby slithered free with a liquidy squelch between her thighs, straight into the waiting hands of the midwife.

‘It’s a lovely boy’ the midwife said, ‘just what you were hoping for’

Laura looked on exhausted as the midwife decided that she would need to clear the baby’s airways with her little finger before she could cut and separate the umbilical cord.

The baby coughed once, opened its mouth and gave its first, very loud and anguished wail. It was 01-41am precisely.

Ten minutes later, the baby, washed and wrapped in a soft cot blanket, was gently placed in Laura’s arms.

‘He looks so beautiful’ Laura said, kissing the baby’s forehead ‘his father will be very proud of him”, then as an afterthought, ‘He’s alright isn’t he?’

‘He’s just perfect’ replied the midwife.

She didn’t think that it was important at this stage to mention the cherry red birthmark on the inside of the baby’s upper left arm.