PART 1: PEACE
1993
TARLETON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TARLETON, UNITED KINGDOM of GREAT BRITONNIA
The Territorial Units stood side by side with their regular army counterparts at the waiting bay, their standard-issue camouflaged rucksacks and olive-drabbed gear and helmets standing next to and around them. In the distance, down over the tarmac, their FV501 ‘Warrior’ Infantry Fighting Vehicles could be seen being loaded up to C-130 Hercules, bearing markings of the United Kingdom’s 3 QUEENS, an abbreviation of the Briton 3rd Battalion, Queen’s Own Hussars. Apart from the drivers, the crew and the infantry supposed to be carried within these high-speed, high-mobility armoured war machines sat at the boarding room where international flight passengers usually treaded, waited, and listened to walkmen or talked to their loved ones waiting at the other side of the world.
Before entering the boarding room the soldiers passed a massed group of civilians; friends, family, lovers, to say goodbyes for this moment might be the last time they would see each other. Greeted by a group of friends, two soldiers stood – in such dashing stature, their chests seemingly buffed by their DPM uniforms – sharing a few last laughs and several sad remarks.
Rickie Kostopolous and John Farissey were good friends who shared the same class in unicersity, in which they were studying law, currently in their third year. As members of the Territorial Army, they volunteered to be called up as part of Operation LEONIDAS, the multinational peacekeeping mission called by the United Nations to maintain peace in the quote-on-quote genocidal, criminal, evil government of the Socialist Federal Republic of Ustovakia. In truth the conflict was at an amazingly confusing state, with three groups fighting each other for any reason possible, something Kostopolous and even Farrisey had trouble in understanding. Grim, horrible, terrorist actions have been conducted by all three side, with even the United Nations not fully comprehending the situation.
A bad call, according to the university-educated minds of the two law students, but something of a call of duty to serve their country and go through what many inexperienced thoughts tend to think as ‘exciting’: war. For Rickie, a big fan of history, military history in particular, it was a rightful passage from to manhood.
John switched hugs and a kiss with his girlfriend, while Rickie talked to his two best mates Bray and Ian. Bray was a part-time music producer currently taking classes in Audio Engineering, and also a hit disk-jockey with several local clubs in the UK’s capital of Tarleton. Ian, on the other hand, studied film and aspired to be a successful director one day. Rickie was sent off with a brotherly hug and a firm handshake from his two mates.
“You go get ‘em, alright, mate?” Bray said. “And you come back, don’t be a damned courageous cunt.”
“Yeah. It isn’t like in the movies and all that, Rickie.” Ian said. He wore a flat cap in checkers, his rather short but stocky body, paired with a thick beard and black plastic-framed glasses further enhanced his somewhat-sophistication. “Don’t get yourself killed, otherwise who’d lecture me on Greek philosophy on the drive home?”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ian.” Rickie said with a grin. Rickie, like Ian, also wore glasses. Army-issue ray ban-styled, hard resistant glasses which, to him, was quite comfortable. Although, in many ways, he’d prefer not to wear them because they could be quite the fuss especially during the rain. “I’ll write home, lads.”
“You aren’t gonna write to that chick? What was her name? Joanna?” Bray asked.
“Joanna? Nah, mate. I don’t date every girl I meet at the club, unlike you, you wild bastard.” Rickie said.
A loud crispy voice could be heard. An officer was standing on a plastic seat, a speakerphone on his hands. The sleeves of his No. 8 temperate combat shirt rolled up, his navy blue beret slightly tilted, his cap badge rinsed and shining, he called onto the men who were still outside. “To men of Charlie Company 3 Queens you are duly expected at the boarding room immediately. Sorry for cutting your time with your mates and loved ones, but we’re shortly mounting you lads up and get you people flying twelve-hundred miles away to Ustovakia. Now, if you’d please, hurry up!”
“Heh. I guess that’s my call.” Rickie said. He picked up his two packs – one very large Bergen that seemed filled and tightly-packed, in which he set on the ground – and the other a black duffel bag. The other, smaller rucksack was worn on his back.
“Goodluck, mate.” Bray said, patting his shoulder.
“Yeah. Stay safe.” Said Ian.
Rickie offered a hand to Ian, which he gladly took, and when it came to Bray, he quickly crashed his heels in a 45-degree angle and gave him a mock salute. Rickie laughed at his friend’s gesture, and he dropped his duffel bag and gave a one-armed hug instead. He brought his things up, turned round, and marched, along with other identically-wearing, beret-headed troops, through the doorway.
Sitting down with Farissey on the sides of the packed boarding room, Farissey gave a final wave to his woman, who disappeared then amongst the crowd.
“A bit sad, isn’t it?”
“Quite.” John said. “I’m afraid I’m never going to see her again.”
“Who isn’t? Almost everyone’s here going to lose something. Even me.”
“You got that head of yours to lose, mate.” John Farissey laughed.
“I’m as precious as the man next to me, John.”
“You mean me? Oh very sweet of you.”
“No,” Rickie laughed. “You’re a tremendous guy, John, but that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that war takes a toll on everyone no matter who they are. People die. No matter how good we were brought up, how far we’ve gone in our career; when the first shots are fired… it don’t matter who we were. If it’s your time, your time.”
“Your stoicism appalls me.” Said John.
Then the speakerphone rang up again. It was the same officer who called them in. “Charlie Company 3 QUEENS ONYOURFEET!” he said.
“Here we go,” said Rickie. He put his beret on his head and stood up. He helped John go up, and before the two finished going on their feet proper, the officer said, “Follow Company Sergeant Major James who now holds a red flag. Godspeed to you all.”
“That’s us, I guess.” John said.
“Wonder where the major is.”
“Probably sitting in his luxury dining room on a flying limousine. Wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly brings his own table and medium well steak aboard.”
“Always full of surprises, isn’t he?”
Going down the steps to the wide, plentiful take-off zones of Tarleton International, company-sized lines of men were organized could be seen, heading towards several Boeing jets (rented from civilian airliners) and C-130s in courtesy of the Royal Air Force and elements of other UN-affiliated air forces. In the background, a jumbo jet was taking off, its contents pretty much the same as the ones now on the ground. Several land rovers went back and forth, some bearing the white colours of the UN mission and some in UK Army green.
Luckily the men of B and C Coy were guided to a 747, which, by any luck, had female flight attendants waiting at the loading stairs.
“Oy, look! Girls!” said one of the young soldiers. A squad-sized group cheered like a batch of hooligans.
“Hey, hey Rickie, John,” somebody suddenly called them as they marched. He was running from the back of the line, but nobody cared as he had rank. On the buttons of his shirt a downwards chevron was struck, indicating his rank of lance corporal, and automatically, commander of Rickie and Jonesy’s fireteam. Lance Corporal Harold Jones, known often by the name ‘Jonesy’ by the men of his section, was a man with a bushy mustache that made him look much older than his twenty-two years. Previously a regular army bloke transitioning to the Territorials, not more than a month after his discharge he was given an assignment to be part of Op LEONIDAS. An order was an order, and since deployments excited him anyway in comparison to his idle day job helping out his family pub, he went. Jonesy, Rickie, John, and young Tate – a quiet lad who did plumbing work before – were Fireteam Bravo of 3 Section. Jonesy, who had slung his duffel bag across his chest, opened a pocket and offered some cigarettes.
“Last one before we takeoff from Albion, lads. Have a ciggie.”
“Ain’t chargin’ me for this, are you Jonesy?” asked John.
“Fuck that, give me one.” Said Rickie. He lit it up. John followed in. Tate didn’t smoke.
They were three-quarters through when they finally reached the stairway up the Boeing. They handed over their bergens – which were each named according to their owners – and went up the steps. They threw off their cigarettes before being greeted by two attendants – one a tall, blonde, blue-eyed Nord, the other a rather short but well-figured Oriental.
They took their seats, far in the middle, and sat down with the duffel bags on the overhead compartment, and the backpacks in their laps. Rickie was absurdly sleepy then, and, putting his glasses into his chest pocket, quickly put on earphones to his walkman and slept to some songs. The last thing he heard were the captain’s voice – which was thickly accented Briton – and Peter Cetera’s calming voice in If You Leave Me Now.
***
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