Rolling Thunder (2007) (3 page)

Archie used to sit at his desk in the classroom, completely oblivious to what the teacher was saying, writing over and over in his notebook: Field Marshal Lord Archibald Sikes, VC, DSO, GCB, GCMG. He would have added more to that abbreviated list of the Victoria Cross, Distinguished Service Order, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath, and Knight Grand Cross of the Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, but those were the only ones he knew about.

Eventually, as his inattentive moments lengthened in time and frequency, Archie flunked out of school completely, and his exasperated father got him a job as a helper in the warehouse. The young man endured that existence with the same amount of carelessness he had given his studies, and he proved to be a slow, inefficient worker. If it hadn't been for his dad, he would have been given the sack straightaway. When he turned eighteen, he did everybody a favor by announcing his plans to enlist in the Army.

The decision of which regiment to join was something that Archie had already given a great deal of care and attention. In the end, he chose the Royal Regiment of Dragoons for some surprisingly intelligent and mature reasons, and not because of their bearskin busbies and fancy blue uniforms with red facings. While the unit was not a member of the Brigade of Guards, it was a prestigious organization with a long and glorious history in the service of the Empire. The officer cadre were all upper-crust chaps from the right families who could supplement their Army pay to meet the considerable expenses of serving as rankers. These included their privately owned mounts in the regimental stables for polo, individually tailored and fitted uniforms, very high mess dues, correct costly civilian attire, special subscriptions, mandatory social functions, and other outlays required of officers and gentlemen of the Royal Regiment of Dragoons.

Rather than operate as a tank outfit like other cavalry units in the British Army, the regiment closely followed the traditional mission of dragoons, who in bygone days were horsemen who dismounted to do battle. However, in these modern days, armored personnel carriers were used in lieu of mounts. These state-of-the-art dragoons, in fact, were armored infantrymen superbly drilled in the procedures of dismounting APCs to launch well-coordinated attacks against the enemy. These operations were performed while being covered by fusillades from machine guns mounted in turrets on the vehicles.

This was the military environment that Private Archibald Sikes moved into as he began his Army career. And his military goal was to earn an officer's commission in the regiment and eventually become its commander before moving upward into the cadre of general officers to the rank of field marshal.

As it turned out, the daydreaming misfit quickly evolved into a dedicated soldier. Although he developed no close friendships with his fellow dragoons, Archie impressed his superiors enough to earn his way up through the ranks. After five years of service he was a sergeant, efficiently bossing a platoon under the command of an appreciative lieutenant. In fact, it was this approving subaltern who happily signed Archie's application for admittance to officer training.

Unfortunately, this was where Archie's devotion to the Royal Regiment of Dragoons went into the toilet.

When he went before the commissioning board of officers, the aspirant's record was looked on with great approval. His verbal skills in the question-and-answer part of the interview increased the board's collective opinion. After the session went on for a couple of hours, the officers withdrew to consider the application.

Meanwhile, Archie went outside for a smoke, nervous and apprehensive. When the corporal-clerk called him back in, the candidate went back to his chair. A quick look at the faces of the board members showed he had scored big. He fought back a triumphant grin as the chairman, a major who commanded one of the companies of another squadron, looked Archie straight in the eye. We have approved your application, Sergeant Sikes, he said in the usual clipped, no-nonsense style of the British Army. You are to be congratulated.

Thank you, sir, Archie said. I promise you won't be disappointed in approving me.

We're certain of that, Sergeant, the major said. Which regiment have you chosen to be assigned to after you've completed your officers' training?

Archie frowned in puzzlement. Why, this one, sir. The Royal Regiment of Dragoons.

The officers looked at each other with amused smiles. The major spoke in a kindly but firm tone. I'm afraid that is not possible, Sergeant. You must choose another regiment. Actually, it can be either infantry or armored.

But why can't I choose this regiment, sir? Archie asked.

Sergeant Sikes, the major said sternly. You would hardly fit into our officers' mess, would you? You haven't the background, the education, the money, or the social graces. I fear we would not find you or any other NCO suitable for either professional or social interaction.

But I know for a fact that Major Brewster was an NCO right here in this same Royal Regiment of Dragoons, Archie argued.

Major Brewster is the regimental quartermaster, the major explained. He was given a commission in that capacity because being a quartermaster is not a gentleman's position. It has to do with the handling of supplies much like a shopkeeper. We, because of our stations in society, will not perform such low-class work. He was chosen for the posting because of his experience as the regimental quartermaster sergeant.

Another board member, a slim captain who was considered the regiment's best polo player, spoke up. He, of course, is not a member of the officers' mess. I suppose the fact he receives a major's pay is compensation enough for being an outsider.

A complete outsider, the major added. Since accepting the commission, he can neither associate with the officers nor the noncommissioned officers on informal or social occasions.

Would you be interested in becoming the regimental quartermaster when the position opens again? the captain asked.

In the meantime, you would have to transfer from your company to regimental staff as a corporal to learn supply procedures. Then, you must wait for Major Brewster to retire. His place will be taken by the present quartermaster sergeant, of course. Then you could take his place when he retires.

All that would take some fifteen to twenty years, the major said. If you accepted a commission in one of the lesser regiments, you would quite possibly be captain or major by then.

I'll have to think about it, Archie said.

Another thing to consider is your manner of speech and deportment, Sergeant Sikes, the captain said. You will need polish on your grammar and etiquette even for a lesser regimental posting.

Archie was dismissed and told to put in his application within two weeks if he still harbored ambitions to become an officer. That evening Archie, despondent and disappointed, went into town, got roaring drunk, and was arrested for brawling in a local pub. This brought about a reduction to the rank of corporal and a cancellation of his appointment to officer training. Within six months, he was a private after being broken down again for drunken misbehavior, and he ended up in the regimental motor pool as an assistant mechanic. This was a misleading job title given to the poor sods assigned to wash and clean the unit's trucks and APCs.

Then the Royal Regiment of Dragoons was sent to Iraq.

Private Archibald Sikes' standing in his regiment was so low that he worked with civilian Iraqis assigned to the humble tasks of keeping the unit's vehicles cleaned up and topped off with fuel. Although he still had no friends among his fellow dragoons, one of the Iraqis became friendly with him. The Arab's name was Khalil Farouk, a thin, scholarly man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. He seemed to sense a smoldering resentment in the Englishman Sikes, and began engaging him in conversation. Archie at first resisted these overtures of friendship, until one afternoon when both were in the troop compartment of an APC cleaning up a hydraulic leak. They worked on their hands and knees, sopping up the sweet-smelling liquid. Even though all the hatches were open, the smell of the spill was unpleasant. Since the hydraulics were out, Archie couldn't lower the rear hatch to allow more fresh air into the interior.

Farouk, who spoke excellent English, dipped his cleaning rag into the bucket of water they shared for the task. As he wrung it out, he said, This is not such pleasant work, is it, Mr. Archie?

It's the bluddy shit, Archie growled.

Why do you do this? Farouk asked. Are your officers mad at you?

Archie's first inclination was to tell the Arab to mind his own fucking business, but he said, Yeah. They're good and mad at me. I told 'em to sod off. That's wot I did.

Oh, you were defiant to them, were you?

Archie stopped working and straightened up, still on his knees. Right. I wanted a fucking commission, yeah? I was a sergeant and a damn good one, let me tell you that straightaway, hey? But they wouldn't let me be an officer in this regiment. Suddenly, the words began tumbling out and he voiced all his bitterness at the system in which the enlisted men were not only considered inferior in rank, but also in worth. Everything that had gone wrong in his life, from school days to the monotony of the warehouse job, was gone over. The gist of his complaints was that none of this was his fault. He was never properly understood. He was a good man who was not being allowed the opportunity to perform at a superlative level; thus, he was unable to make a name for himself.

Farouk was sympathetic and fed into the other man's discontentment. For the next couple of months, he was always at Archie's side during the chores in the motor pool, listening to him and making subtle inquiries and probes to get the man to open up. When the Arab got the chance, he spoke to some of the other Brits, learning that Archie's description of his former status in the regiment was not an empty boast. He had indeed been an outstanding leader and NCO, and the inability to get a commission in the regiment he preferred had turned him into a disrespectful, sullen professional private.

Farouk had a reason to pursue the possibilities he saw in Archie. He finally got the chance he had been waiting for when the soldier's company sergeant major called Archie in and told him he was going to be kicked out of the Army as soon as they returned to England.

Farouk then made his move.

He told Archie he was in the wrong place. An able man like he was would never get the respect he deserved in the Western world. Islam recognized real men and gave them opportunities to go as far as they were able. It didn't matter about their families' status in society. Men were men, by Allah, and women were subordinate in Islam. They were chattel to bear children and keep their homes to please their husbands. If a man so desired, he would be allowed to marry as many as four of them. But Farouk wisely played down the religious side at this point. Instead he spoke of the holy war jihad against the unjust. Archie listened intently as Farouk explained that a soldier with Archie's abilities would be welcomed with open arms in the Muslim struggle. He would be a battle leader, eventually leading large units of mujahideen against the infidels.

Archie let the jihad aspects of Farouk's lectures slip past his conscious consideration. But the chance of being a grand field commander stirred those deep emotions he'd had when he first decided to become a soldier. The other matter foremost in his thoughts was that he no longer had a future in the British Army, thus no hope for great accomplishments in the UK.

Chapter 3

SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN

6 APRIL

1000 HOURS

THE C-130 taxied off the runway onto the airfield proper, following a rather ragtag individual riding a battered Italian Vespa motor scooter. The aircraft's turboprop engines whipped up the thin dust layer on the hard-packed earth as it moved toward a hangar on the far west side of the facility. The weirdo on the scooter suddenly whipped off to the side. He pointed at the hangar, and the pilot took the transport over to a large cement parking area and came to a halt.

The SEALs inside the troop compartment noted the cutting of the engines with a sigh of relief. The eighteen men were crowded in an area packed with various gear, crates, boxes, and three DPVs, all making the flight from Station Bravo both discommoding and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, there was a bright side to the situation. The cargo was for their use only during Operation Rolling Thunder.

The loadmaster appeared from the cockpit, going to the rear of the aircraft. Within moments, a loud whine broke the silence and the rear ramp slowly opened and lowered to the ground.

On your feet! SCPO Buford Dawkins commanded. Grab your gear and unass the aircraft. The Brigands obediently secured their equipment and other personal belongings and filed down the fuselage to follow the senior chief out into the open. He quickly formed them up into two ranks and had them set their burdens down. Okay. We had to push those DPVs aboard, so it stands to reason we'll have to push 'em out. Leibowitz! Puglisi! Murchison! Miskoski! Malachenko! Dawson! You six on the vehicles. The rest of you see to the other crap. Do it!

The men trooped back into the aircraft to find that the loadmaster was already loosening the strap-downs. They helped him with the job, then the half dozen chosen for the vehicles pushed them down the loading ramp and out onto the parking area. With that done, they returned to help with the rest of the unloading.

Lieutenants Bill Brannigan and Jim Cruiser watched as the work moved into high gear. Now the Vespa rode up sputtering and coughing. The rider got off and walked up to the officers. He was a short, skinny kid in bad need of a haircut and shave, and he wore a blue T-shirt with a wordy announcement in yellow letters that stated: