I, in no way, claim rights to the characters portrayed in this story as they were created by the fine people of Infinity Ward. However, the story is my own creation and was used as part of my creative writing for my English GCSE in 2010.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
“Operation Anchorage”
Training, somewhere in the Black Mountains, Wales, 16th
March 2008, 1400hrs:
The valley was a thing of beauty; trees dotted here and there, neither
too sparse nor dense; the grass was a luscious, inviting meal for the grazing
cows; a lonely, rundown building to the west of the valley begging for someone
to take care of it and the river that ran straight through from east to west
was crystal clear. It was perfect.
The valley truly was a thing of beauty. Trees dotted here and there, neither
too sparse nor dense were perfect cover for a sniper and his spotter. The grass was a luscious, inviting meal for
the grazing cows: a good sniper would be able to move among the cows without
spooking them. A lonely, rundown building to the west of the valley would
provide enough cover to hide a muzzle flash and the river that ran from east to
west would throw the scent of a hunting dog. It truly was perfect.
“Four hostiles approaching from the south ridge of the valley, three with
silenced Semi-Automatics and one with an M110 Semi-Automatic.” My instructor
whispered.
“Range it,” I replied in the same calm, whispered
tone. Sergeant Bagshaw, a well renowned sniper instructor in the British Army, consulted
his mock scale drawing of the valley and ranged the advancing men in a matter
of seconds and whispered the distance.
“The enemy is at six hundred and
forty-three yards and closing. Adjust two clicks and fire when ready.”
I adjusted my scope, two clicks. Click. Click. At this range the bullet
will be in flight for two seconds which means I must aim a foot above the
target and four and a half foot to the left to counteract the westerly wind. My
hand was steady and my eyes fixed on the target. I pulled back the bolt of my
rifle and steadied my breathing.
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, 3rd March 2009, 0900hrs:
I heard the voice of my
instructor in my head, “Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, and
breathe in. Hold. Fire. Breathe out.”
I fired the rifle, straight
and true through the scorching heat. A few seconds later I heard my spotter
shout to the platoon waiting behind me, “Sniper down!” Price shouted and
ordered the platoon to advance.
“Well done Captain. Welcome to
Afghanistan.”
Passing out assembly, Pirbright, England, 28th February
2009:
I had a natural instinct for
warfare. It was in my blood, my father was in the Regiment, his father before
him and his father before him. I was trained as a combat engineer in the Royal
Electrical and Mechanical Engineers; I have helped build air bases in Cyprus;
destroyed integral bridges in Iraq and built command outposts in Afghanistan.
Two medals to recognise my tour of duties in Iraq and Afghanistan take
residence on my left breast of my twos, which is military talk for smarts,
eleven other soldiers, most of them from Infantry and highly decorated, and I had
been summoned to a meeting with Brigadier Miller.
“Attention!” Sergeant Bagshaw
barked as Brig. Miller entered the small, stuffy room with such power and authority.
“Good morning gentlemen. As
some of you may or may not know, you have been asked for your attendance to
this meeting room for one reason and one reason only. Each and every man in
this room has been hand selected to train as a sniper for the British Army.
However, only six of you will become the shooter. The other six will become his
spotter.” Miller spoke with charisma as the twelve soldiers groaned with
disappointment.
“Don’t look so disappointed,
gentlemen, the spotter is the most important tool at hand to the sniper. From
this day forward, you will be known as Viper Squad. As some of you may have
heard, you are no longer required to wear your uniform at all times, you will
no longer be required to be well kempt and you will under no circumstances answer
to anyone but Sergeant Bagshaw or myself. Is that understood?” Miller questioned.
Viper squad yelled with
honour, “Sir, yes Sir!”
“Good. I will see you all bright
eyed and bushy tailed and oh-five-hundred. Dismissed.” Miller ordered.
If I was honest with myself, I
didn’t want to become a sniper, I was perfectly happy blowing things up for a
living. Passing out was no more than Sergeant Bagshaw throwing sharpshooter
badges out to us in the meeting room and congratulating us on completing our
training, but I was told that I come top of my class in all aspects of sniper training
and was told to wait around after everyone had left.
“Sergeant, a word please,”
Brig. Miller asked.
“First of all, let me
congratulate you on your outstanding performance in your training. You really
are a true soldier. Secondly, I would like to make you a proposal, one that is
of great importance to me and indeed the British Army,” Miller paused, looking
right into my eyes.
“I need you to fly out to
Afghanistan, tonight. Operation Anchorage is a week away from starting its push
on a main Helmond Province compound, a regular meeting for important Taliban
leaders. Your combined skill and knowledge of explosives and sharpshooting can
turn the tide of this operation in our favour,” Miller explained passionately.
“I’ll do it. Whatever you
need, I’ll do it,” I said with calmed excitement.
“Splendid. We fly at
twenty-one-hundred hours. Now go and pack your things and say your goodbyes,”
Miller said with great enthusiasm and relief.
“Sir,” I acknowledged him as I
saluted, turned and started toward the door. Miller stopped me before I reached
for the handle.
“Oh, by the way, you’ll be
addressed as Captain now. Here’s your badge. That comes with a nice pay bonus
as well. You’ve earned it, Captain,” Brig. Miller chuckled.
“Yes Sir, thank you Sir”, I
replied, trying hard not to jump for joy. I walked out the room, closed the
door behind me and punched the air and jumped up and shouted, “YES!” A few heads poked out of various different
rooms in confusion as to what was making the racket out in the hallway. Brig.
Miller also came out into the hall, chuckling again as he saw me jump up and
down like a little school boy who’d just been picked for the school football
team. I looked around and realised my infamy among the other officers looking
down on me as though I had disgusted them and sheepishly hurried myself to my
barracks.
Packed and ready to go I was
sitting on my Bergen at the helipad, waiting for my ride to Helmand Province. I
would’ve phoned my Mum, Dad, girlfriend or wife to say goodbye, but the truth
is, I had and have no one. I was passed from foster parent to foster parent and
back to the home again. When I was legally old enough to join the Army I did.
No goodbyes, no tears, no regrets. The Army is my life and my family.
“Ready, Captain?” Brig. Miller
shouted loud enough to be heard over the rotas of the approaching helicopter. I
nodded with determination, not wanting to strain my voice trying to shout loud enough
so Miller could hear me. Brigadier Miller, Captain Price and I climbed aboard
our transport to the Hercules, in Norfolk, where we were then flown to Kandahar
Airbase and then onto the unknown location of Helmand Province.
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, 2nd March 2009, 0500hrs:
As soon as we arrived at the
forward command post for Operation Anchorage, I was ushered into the War Room…
the War Room! I’d never been allowed within a hundred yards of the War Room
until now. Well, I suppose I have my recent promotion to Captain to thank for
that. I was suddenly relied upon to have input into the execution of this vital
operation and I didn’t know the first thing about what went on in the War Room.
Wow! I am actually somewhat of an importance to the British Ar…
“Captain, what’s the ‘sit. rep.’
with your guys?” questioned an Officer I’d never seen before, looking war torn
and tired. His right cheek had recently been stitched from what looked like
shrapnel, considering the size and severity of the wound; his hair was grey and
short, covered in the Afghani dust that envelopes every nook and cranny in this
hell the natives call home; his eyes were laden with dark circles, which told a
tale of sleepless nights and a life of dust and blood.
My curiosity and ignorance of
how to act in the War Room didn’t fail to show that I was a rookie. I was
willing myself to come up with something smart and or witty to redeem myself
from the embarrassment of not listening to the obviously highly decorated and
respected Officer. But all I could muster was, “Er…” I cleared my throat, “I
haven’t had chance to speak with my platoon yet, Sir. I have only just arrived
in Afghanistan. I’ll get up to speed ASAP,” I replied trying to sound promising
and authoritative.
“No need Captain, I’ll get you
up to speed myself. Go and get yourself unpacked and ready for a briefing in
twenty minutes.” He said this without looking up from the various different
maps of oil pipelines and terrain. I stood there, phased out again, in my own
little world thinking about what secrets these walls were hiding but could
never be broken to tell.
“That’s an order, Captain!”
The Officer bellowed with impatience. His booming American voice brought me
right back to reality and I took to the heel and quick marched out of the War Room.
Captain Price followed me out and put his hand on my shoulder - a signal for me
to stop and turn around. He held out an extended arm and smiled. I shook his
hand and he introduced himself,
“Heard lot about ya, Captain.
Nice to meet ya, call me Price. I’ll be ya wingman in this op.”
“Nice to meet you Price, I’m
McTavish, call me Soap.” I returned the introduction.
“Soap? What kind ‘a name’s
that?” he replied as he let out a short, sharp laugh.
“Don’t ask. What regiment are
you from?” I questioned as I scanned for regimental colours in his
not-so-conventional uniform.
“22nd SAS, mate”, he whispered
with pride. “Tell anyone though and I’ll ‘ave to kill ya.”
I looked at him with disbelief
and amazement. I was speechless. He laughed and patted me on the back and said,
“One day, mate. One day. Ya never know, prove ya worth out ‘ere and I might
even put in a good word for ya. See ya on the field, mate,” he shouted as he
waltzed back into the War Room.
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, 3rd March 2009, 0910hrs:
My first shot against the enemy
since arriving in Helmand seemed to trigger Chinese Whispers among the guys. By
the time word had got back round to me it was, “Hey, dude. Have you heard? One
of our guys took out an enemy sniper from a mile and a half away and he’s had
twenty six confirmed kills to his name. He’s only been here a week!” An
over-excited Rifle’s soldier exaggerated my first successful kill of this tour
as he realised by my expression and a bit of prompting from Price that I was
the ‘Godly Sniper’.
The young soldier suddenly
stopped, slung his rifle of his shoulder and saluted. “Is it true, have you
killed all those enemy personnel?” He asked as though in awe.
“Don’t believe everything you
hear, kid.” I said, shattering his dreams of a God-like figure that he
worshipped. The young soldier looked confused and embarrassed as he realised
that what he had said was not all as true, as he was hoping. He made his
excuses and rushed off to join the other guys that were advancing to the target
compound on Price’s orders.
“C’mon, Soap. We can’t stand
around sharing bedtime stories all day. We gotta job to do,” Price said as he
got his gear together. “Oh, by the way, we’re not following them. We got more important
things to worry ‘bout. Follow me,” he ordered hastily.
Very confused, I followed
Price as we made our way as stealthily as possible through Afghanistan’s back
alleys. Doors and shutters were slammed shut and locked as we ran past. We
covered each angle by looking down the sights on the barrel of our weapons. I
was surprised that we didn’t run into any hostiles, but Price was quick to
explain that this was a NATO friendly village; they were just scared of people
with guns.
After working our way through
the maze, we came to a hill with clusters of rocks and dead trees that
overlooked the whole town, including the target compound. Price stopped and
crouched at the foot of the hill, “We’re ‘ere. Follow my lead,” he whispered
and started to climb the hill at incredible speed. I followed and tried to
match his pace but was slightly slower due to my size. Price looked back and
laughed as he shouted in a whispered voice, “C’mon ya big Triffid, climb
faster.”
Finally, we got to our
designated position and Price called it in, “Viper one in position.”
“Viper one, Alpha squad is
ready on your go,” replied a voice over the radio.
The operation was to take hold
of an integral compound and known bomb factory in this district. The top brass
had received information about a meeting with some of the most influential
Taliban leaders and it was my job to make sure no one was to get out alive. The
position Price and I were in had a perfect view of the meeting place; it
overlooked the whole compound. The terrace was laid out with fine silk cloth,
silver cutlery and china plates. There was a huge bowl in the middle of the
table brimming with exotic fruit, some of which I had never even seen before.
The leaders were evidently having a formal meal and the servants had done a
good job to make it look adequately presentable.
“Show time,” Price whispered,
excitement licking the air around us. “Range is fifteen hundred yards and three
clicks.” Price ranged the targets that were now all sat around the table
talking, laughing and joking, oblivious to their impending deaths. I loaded my
rifle and adjusted the scope three clicks. Click. Click. Click. Price
whispered, “Fire on my go.”
“Alpha squad, targets are in
position. Repeat, the targets are in position, standby,” I ordered with a tinge
of excitement in my voice.
There was a sudden eerie
silence; the bustling villagers over to the west had disappeared; the children had
stopped playing and had been told to come inside by parents; even the local,
stray dogs were nowhere to be seen. Something was wrong and I didn’t like it
one bit, neither did Price. We both looked at each other with the same
concerned look. All of a sudden, there was a blinding white flash and a
deafening high pitched noise. Pain seared across the back of my head and then
everything went black.
Somewhere Unknown, Time and Date Unknown:
“Soap, Soap, y’live?”
whispered Price. I could hear his voice but I couldn’t see him. There was a bag
over my head. My hands and torso were bound to a very old and unstable wooden
chair. Price tried to struggle out of the ropes which also bound his hands and
torso but was unsuccessful and just caused me discomfort because we were tied
together.
I came to my senses but could
barely grasp my surroundings and groaned, “Yeah, I’m alive. What the hell
happened?”
The door to the dimly lit and
dusty room was slammed open and at least four men marched in. I could tell
there were four because of the sound of their military issue boots, and their
stinking, sweaty bodies that created an overpowering odour. A man shouted to
the other guys in an Arabic dialect I was unfamiliar with and we were both
abruptly hauled to our feet and given a good kicking before we were frog
marched to an outside area. I could tell we were outside because the light
pinpricked through the material of the bag, which was probably used for
potatoes due to its mouldy, starchy pong.
I was standing shoulder to
shoulder with Price not knowing what the hell was going on. Just then, Arabic
orders were shouted and a dozen Russian made Kalashnikovs were loaded
simultaneously. A sound no man or woman wants to hear, especially when standing
there with a bag over your head and all you can think of is never seeing the
light of day again.
All of a sudden, the Arabic
man ordered his men to fire on his order. Not in Arabic, but English. Maybe it
was to taunt us, impeding our death by firing squad. He wasn’t an English man
but he spoke very good English, he probably studied it at university. He walked
towards us both and put his head between our heads and spoke with calm and
calculated words, “Now, my friends, you will be made an example of for your
treachery towards God. Do you have any last words?”
I held my tongue, in an attempt
give myself some more time to think but Price had other ideas.
“Yeah, I do. I just wanna say
….”
That’s all I heard. Price had
whispered what turned out to be his last words to our captor. I don’t know what
Price said to the man but it sure did the trick to get us killed quicker. My
heart raced. I knew we were about to die and had no chance of lenience because
of what Price had just said. I was scared now, really scared but I stood brave
and said to Price,
“See you on the other si…” I
couldn’t finish my sentence. The gun-wielding men opened fire and a white hot,
searing pain pierced my skin and everything went black.
London, England, 11th March 2009:
Beep… Beep… Beep…
The gentle monotonous rhythm
of the life support machine played its song in harmony with the percussion of
the breathing apparatus that was keeping Soap McTavish alive. From the bed next
to him came a familiar, brash yet comforting voice that desperately sought a
response to its question.
“Soap, Soap, can ya ‘ear me, mate?”
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