Sas Delta: A Modern War Novel

By Anthony North

Anthony North first wrote this novel shortly after 9/11 - the story of a special forces soldier's war. Did he get it right? Maybe we'll never know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony North
• Release date: Apr 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005916718

Anthony North

Thinker & Storyteller****7,453 Words to Save the UK and I,Writer are now FREE. Scroll down to find them.*****1955 (Yorkshire, England) – I am born (Damn! Already been done). ‘Twas the best of times ... (Oh well).I was actually born in the year of Einstein's death, close to Scrooge's Counting House. It doesn't mean anything but it sounds good. As for my education, I left school at 15 and have had no formal education since. Hence, I'm self-taught.****From a family of newsagents, at 18 I did a Dick Whittington and went off to London, only to return to pretend to be Charlie and work in a chocolate factory.When I was ten I was asked what I wanted to be. I said soldier, writer and Dad. I never thought of it for years – having too much fun, such as a time as lead guitarist in a local rock band – but I served nine years in the RAF, got married and had seven kids. I realized my words had been precognitive when, at age 27, I came down with M.E. – a condition I’ve suffered ever since – and turned my attention to writing.Indeed, as I realized that no expert could tell me what was wrong with me, I began my quest to find out why. Little did I realize it would last decades and take me through the entire history of knowledge, leaving me with the certainty that our knowledge systems are inadequate.****My non-fiction is based on P-ology, a thought process I devised to work with patterns of knowledge, and designed to be a bedfellow to specialization. A form of Rational Holism, it seeks out areas the specialist may have missed. I work from encyclopaedias and introductory volumes in order to gain a grasp of many subjects and am not an expert in anything, but those patterns keep forming. Hence, I do not deal in truth, but ideas, and cover everything from politics to the paranormal.When reading my work I ask only: do I make sense? Of course, an expert would say: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I agree. And an expert has so little knowledge of everything.I also write novels and Flash Fiction in all genres.

Book preview

Sas Delta:

A Modern War Novel

By Anthony North

Copyright: Anthony North 2021

Cover image copyright: Yvonne North, 2021

Smashwords Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission

Other books by Anthony North

In 2019 I began publishing 14 volumes of my fiction, inc 7 novels in most genres, & 21 works of non-fiction covering cults, politics, conspiracies, religion, disasters, science, philosophy, warfare, crime, psychology, new age, green issues & all areas of the unexplained, inc ufology, lost worlds and the paranormal. Hopefully appearing at the rate of one a month, check out the latest launch at my bookstore at http://anthonynorth.com or buy direct from Smashwords for all devices at: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/anthonynorth

In addition to the above, you may like my ‘I’ Series – 8 volumes of flash fiction (horror, sci fi, romance, adventure, crime), 4 volumes of poetry & 5 volumes of short essays from politics to the unexplained. Available from same links as above. Also check out my bookstore for news of my books out in paperback.

CONTENTS

Foreword

One - A Warrior Is Born

Two – First Blood

Three - The Big Battalions

Four - A Heart In Hell

Five - The Revolver

Six - A Trojan Horse

Seven - Child of the Gun

Eight - We Are Gods

Nine - No Prisoners

Ten - On the Rocks

Eleven - That Bloody Badge

Twelve - Meeting Florence

Thirteen - Home, Sweet Home

Fourteen - Limbo Man

Fifteen - The Gong

Sixteen - Return of a Friend

Seventeen - The Virgin Soldier

Eighteen - By the Camp Fire

Nineteen - With My Little Eye

Twenty - Eat Dirt

Twenty One - Comrades in Arms

Twenty Two - Back to Nature

Twenty Three - Hail, the Demons

Twenty Four - Boot Camp

Twenty Five - R 'n' R

Twenty Six - For All Eternity

Twenty Seven - The Enemy Within

Twenty Eight - Are You Lucky?

Twenty Nine - Hear No Evil

Thirty - At All Costs

Thirty One - Chasing Armageddon

Thirty Two - The Mole

Thirty Three - The Forest of Serenity

Thirty Four - Unto the Breach

Thirty Five - Seize and Hold

Thirty Six - Last Stand

Thirty Seven - Return of the Lamp

Thirty Eight - A Battle Too Far

Thirty Nine - Soldier, Soldier

Forty - For Grandad

Forty One - Said the Lamb to the Wolf

Forty Two - A Hostage to Fate

Forty Three – Endurance

Forty Four - The Heroes of Hell

Forty Five - A Soldier's Lament

About the Author

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Foreword

I wrote this shortly after 9/11 - the story of a special forces soldier's war. Did I get it right? Maybe we'll never know.

One - A Warrior Is Born

You'd have thought modern tech would have stopped the airframe shaking. The Hercules C180 transport. The most versatile cargo plane in the world. 'The only replacement for a Hercules,' they say, 'is another one.' But they couldn't stop the airframe shaking. Or maybe, as I prepared for my first combat jump, it was me.

'Buddy, buddy.'

We were coming in low; could sense the hostile land beneath us and we checked each other's kit - tightened the straps, pulled the webbing, tapped each other on the helmet. 'Buddy, buddy,' we say, but guarded; they - WE - could soon be dead.

I'm a special forces soldier, the elite, the best in the world. Yet I'm just out of training and green. How can I be the best when I'm unproved? How do I know I'm not a coward?

Oh yes, I've faced danger under training. I've been shot at; been thrown out of planes; been interrogated; climbed mountains. But how do I know that when the time comes I'll pump my M16 at someone's gut; how do I know my knife will cross that throat?

The best in the world. Ha!

'Go.'

The rush of wind as you leave the aircraft is orgasmic. Your hair, your clothes, your skin is a flutter as you head Earthbound at the speed of light. Then a rush of silk, a light tug and an upward lurch as the parachute opens, its mushroomed canopy a friend above, as if a textile angel. And then feet together, knees slightly bent, a kiss of earth and a gentle role. And in seconds you are crouched, your assault rifle your new friend, your saviour, your self.

Straight away comes the crackle of gunfire ahead. You wait, strain your eyes, crouch further down, wishing you were home, in bed, at peace, safe. But that bloody crackle pumps ahead. Then - it stops. Itchy fingers?

An electronic excitement in the ears. 'The hills,' comes the command, 'get to the hills.'

They're a hundred metres ahead, a darkness sticking out of the ground, monolithic, primeval, omnipotent with the darkened sky. And you rush ahead, zig-zag, crouch, wait, squelch.

Squelch?

I look down, feel sick. Not itchy fingers, but a patrol.

And I take my boot out of the Arab gut.

Finally, the comfort of the hills. Finally, you feel above the action, comforted by the rocks about you, rocks which hide, which deflect the bullets, and you want to cuddle them as you cuddled a teddy in your youth when the Bogeyman was stalking.

But you are no longer young, no longer comforted, for you're a special forces soldier. And since the towers fell, it's a new world, and you're at the front, the spearhead, dicing with death. And suddenly, the action, the activity, the rush - it's over and a spooky calm descends.

It's cold on the hills. You know it's cold for you can feel it, see the frosted breath. But inside you feel so warm, as if burning insects are fuelling the furnace in your gut. Your palms sweat. Your fingers are cold, but the palms sweat and your temples throb and dryness exists in the back of the throat.

Around you there is only silence, yet your heart thumps inside, fills your ears, your very mind and you know you're with your comrades, but you don't see them and you feel so very very alone.

And you look upon this darkened void about you, the lack of undergrowth, and the rocks seem like rocks on the moon and you think, will I choke from lack of air, and how far am I from civilization?

But civilization is nowhere to be found. Not in this place.

Not in the near future. Maybe not ever.

And certainly not in your fragile heart.

The night sticks to you as you wait, crouched, still, and eons of time seem to pass. You know your task, but first you must know you are safe. But how do you feel safe in a hell like this? How do you feel safe when the shadows flit and everyone could be a crazed tribesman about to cut you to shreds? But you stay still, crouch, and ready. And time goes by slowly but incessantly. Time goes by as you hear the 'arrgh! to the front, to your side, but see no one.

And finally, you see a lightening sky, a rising sun, a warming of the mind as you realize you've survived your first night of combat unblooded. And as the patrol moves off into the mountains, you know you've met the enemy.

Fear.

Two – First Blood

Do they know I'm out here? Do they know back home? Do they know I'm here, in these freezing mountains, saving their freedom? Do they know I'm here, putting my life on the line for THEM!?

Do they care?

It's a week into the mission now. We've no real intelligence; no real battle plan. We just keep buggering on in the hope that we'll find something to kill. That's how war goes, much of the time. But it doesn't stop my feet getting cold.

It bites into you does the cold. I know, we've got all the equipment to keep it out, but you're out in these conditions, in these altitudes, day after day and night after night; it creeps in through the mind. And no clothing - and no equipment - will keep it out.

Variation would help a bit, I'm sure. But for nearly a week now it's been the same. Join the special forces and guarantee an exciting life, we were told. And we swallowed it, thinking we could break the mould of war, of 5% action and 95% boredom. But war is war and the unwritten rules hold and my feet are cold.

Do they know I'm out here? Back home?

And on we yomp - and on. Over that rise and through that valley in a never ending up and down up and down world. And so silent, so surreal, so uninviting. Of course, the 5% will come. It has to. You can't invade a country for a week, forever on the move, forever breaking cover, without eventually being seen and intercepted. Not if it is a real army we're fighting.

And finally that moment comes.

It's only a small village we spy from the top of the rise. It's about a mile ahead, down in the valley, peaceful and warm, the odd puff of smoke from some cozy and warm house. But those trucks don't look civilian. They look military, don’t they?

The first indication of action came ten minutes later as we moved imperceptibly down the slope. Honed to notice the slightest movement ahead, the forward scout crouched instinctively and fired as the head popped up from the rock and took a shot. He was dead before his bullet whizzed harmlessly past our position.

I'd wondered how I'd perform when it came - that first firefight. I'd feared the time with the same intensity that the adrenalin pleaded for it to come. But now that it was here, and I was in the action, I don't think I thought about it at all. Maybe all the discipline, all the shouting, all the stupidity and pettiness of our training pays off.

I went straight into an instinctive roll down that slope, controlled and headed straight for the cover of the rocks. In position, I came up to a crouch, brought the M16 to the shoulder and looked to my front. There must have been a dozen of them out there, firing and charging and rolling and crouching as they attacked.

Always aim for the biggest part of the body, we were told, then you're guaranteed a kill, and my weapon spat, thudding its butt into my shoulder with its recoil. And I saw one fall in a fountain of blood, followed by another.

It was an intense firefight. It seemed to go on forever, but I doubt it was more than twenty seconds before they began to retreat down the slope. Controlled, always covering each other, we descended after them, hoping to catch up before they reached the cover of the buildings in the village.

Most of them we got before they reached it, and I never thought once about the morality of shooting fleeing people in the back.