Duty Bound?

[Tom Benson]

Gary felt pain throughout his body. He opened his eyes and gasped. A small monkey that had been studying him from six inches away shrieked and scurried along the high branch. Gary slowly looked around. At 26, he was young for a Royal Air Force fast jet pilot. Instructors had assured him that he was 'the best'. His blue eyes widened and his lips curled as he looked around. He murmured, 'Being the best might be tested here....'

Dangling under his silk canopy in the jungle, Gary cast his mind back to the mission. Only two aeroplanes were used. Thirty minutes after take-off, the ground erupted in smoke and flame as they dropped ordnance on enemy locations. Both pilots had known the risks, but a successful mission would save many fleeing refugees. Gary and his partner Jonah had gone in low and fast. As they pulled up to leave, warning lights and alarms sounded in their cockpits. Knowing there was ‘incoming’, Gary selflessly slipped into Jonah’s slipstream. He screamed into his headset, ‘Go! Jonah! Go!’ The frightening impact of the missile shook the plane and sent the controls haywire. Jonah's aircraft became a speck in the distance whilst the damaged aircraft banked. Gary glanced at his instruments then pulled the handle that no pilot wants to use.

Whilst descending under his parachute Gary had seen where his plane went down. It didn’t explode. He estimated that he was still twenty miles inside enemy territory. A mental calculation told him the plane travelled four miles before crashing. Every mile between him and his aircraft would be a bonus. It was closer to hostile forces. On the down side, during briefing, the pilots were told not to let their aircraft fall into enemy hands.
‘There may come a day,’ his father had once told him, ‘when duty and survival may not go hand in hand. You’ll be compelled to make a hard decision.’
‘Survival is instinctive dad.’ Gary had replied and laughed.

Gary hung there now in his snagged parachute, looking around anxiously, thankful for the protection afforded by his flying helmet and suit. He was also grateful for the dense jungle camouflage. A glance told him his parachute was secure. Tropical fragrances drifted in the air. Birds, silent on the final part of Gary's descent were now squawking and chirping. He wondered how rapidly enemy patrols would organise a route of approach from the wreckage. Would they be more interested in the plane, or the pilot?

Imitating the Scottish accent of Sergeant Murray, his survival instructor Gary whispered, 'Basics first son....' He gently moved his neck then limbs to check working order. There were bruises but no fractures. Gary pulled the small homing device from a breast pocket and pressed the switch before replacing it. Now somebody would know he’d survived.
Gary saw that the closest tree was out of reach. He commenced raising his knees, kicking out, then back. It was exhausting, even for a fit man. Time flew as his efforts continued. Normally calm, logical and humorous, Gary was now saturated and feeling frustration and the fear of capture. Nothing to laugh at now, he thought grimly. He stopped swinging, his usually agile mind trying desperately to arrive at another solution. To undo the harness would free him, but with no idea of the drop. Gary started bending and kicking his legs again, teeth clenched now. It was agonisingly close. He thought of all the gym sessions and the mantra, ‘no pain... no gain.’ He struck out hard with both feet and caught his ankles around a branch. 'Hold it mate.' he whispered to himself. Gary hung there grimacing, suspended between his trapped parachute and the trunk of the tree. The parachute strings strained. Gary’s body ached but he was determined to get free.

Gary’s arms trembled violently with the effort to pull his body weight against the branch. He reached around desperately with one hand and hugged the branch. The harness pulled back. Gary yanked sharply on the release buckles. Finally unhindered, he wrapped both arms and legs around the tree and allowed himself two minutes rest. ‘Thank you Lord!’
Fifteen minutes later, following a massive effort he reached the ground. The flying suit had survived undamaged. Gary looked up. He now realised, had he simply released the harness he would have killed himself. Removal of his helmet eased some pressure. His normally immaculate blonde hair was soaking. He listened to the green world that surrounded him. Gary was about to hide his helmet in the undergrowth when the voice of his instructor came back to him, 'Never leave a sign without good reason... especially equipment.'

A fateful decision was his to make now. Four miles east to his aircraft would mean he could follow the policy of destruction. Fifteen miles west led to the coastline and possible rapid rescue. Gary sighed and said quietly, ‘Okay dad,’ his lips curled, ‘my decision is made. I hope it’s right.’ He walked quickly a few metres away from the tree. It took two minutes to create a bad job of hiding his helmet. That should slow them he thought. He adjusted his mini compass and set off.

Mixed with the tropical fragrances, Gary’s nostrils could not ignore the aroma of decay on the multi-coloured jungle carpet. After a few minutes of fighting his way through undergrowth Gary stopped and checked the magazine on his pistol. He cocked the weapon quietly so that it was ready to use. He had never used it in anger, but the realisation that he might soon was not lost on him. Bomber pilots know they will kill people, but unlike soldiers, pilots don't get close to their work. His pistol slipped back into it’s shoulder holster, Gary set off again, slow and determined.

The sticky heat did not come across in films or training, and that, combined with the smell was irritating. Gary was renowned for his ability to see the positive side of situations. To ease pressure on himself he simply had to remember how things could have turned out. As it was, Jonah got away and he himself had survived. He knew Jonah would land on the carrier cursing his mate’s sacrifice. His lips curled briefly. He stopped to listen. Not to the birds and insects, but for anything else. Sergeant Murray taught, ‘An enemy trained to fight in jungle terrain will not disturb wildlife, but if in a hurry to catch a downed pilot, patrols might move with less care.’
‘Well that’s okay then.’ Gary had suggested that day, amusing all but the instructor.

After an hour there was a mechanical buzzing. Gary stopped, held his breath and listened. The noise seemed to stop, only to return and grow louder. The jungle affected the sound waves. A helicopter? When explaining the hazards of survival Sergeant Murray had told the pilots, ‘If you land in jungle it works differently. You may hear movement in the air or on the ground, but you won’t know who it is, or which direction they’re travelling.’ You got that right Sergeant Murray, Gary now thought as he craned his neck. The sound disappeared after a few minutes and Gary decided it had been a helicopter. Had the enemy found the wreckage? Were they looking for him?

Fear was ‘healthy’ and never forgotten as Gary continued his advance. Inside his suit was saturated with perspiration and outside was covered in slime. His face was constantly lashed by long damp leaves and springing branches. His legs were caught and whipped by thick undergrowth and his feet held by low branches and clawing mud patches. It felt like the ultimate physical training test. He found himself once more thinking back to Sergeant Murray as he approached a broad leaf plant and pulled out his collapsible water container. He eased one of the massive leaves down and caught some of the rainwater. It looked clear, but he still dropped a sterilising tablet into it. Knowing that he would be able to have a drink in a few minutes gave Gary renewed confidence as he set off again. 'Thank you Sergeant Murray.' he whispered and smiled.

Not for the first time Gary submerged to his knees in green sludge. After cursing, he used branches to pull free of the tugging, stinking mud. A look at his watch told him it had only been three hours since he had come down from the treetops, but it felt as if he'd been fighting jungle all day. He was close to exhaustion. Jungle never truly knows daylight he’d been told but it was definitely getting darker. He would persevere. He suddenly thought of his mum. She hated having both her husband and son on active service.

When it felt as if he could go on no longer Gary stopped and took another sip of water. The sterilised water had an acquired taste. Gary’s laboured breathing was brought under control as he calmed, considering his progress. During the brief respite he noticed the eerie silence. A twig broke underfoot a short distance away. Gary slipped his pistol out and lowered himself stealthily into the undergrowth.
He was a good shot, but could he shoot a man? Could he kill? He checked his watch but otherwise stayed still, listening. His mouth slightly open to improve hearing, he now felt insects investigating the moisture on his face. The ‘open mouth’ idea works Gary thought, and made a mental note. He’d thank Sergeant Murray, if they ever met again. Deep inside, Gary felt a knot. In future he would have greater respect for soldiers. Soldiers like his dad, twice decorated for conspicuous bravery. He wondered what his dad would make of this latest decision.

The birds were chattering again. Gary put his pistol away and checked his watch. Before moving he realised twenty minutes was lost hiding in the damp leaves. An hour later and tiring, Gary stopped again aware of his vulnerability. He felt the hairs standing on his neck. The noise had reduced again. Was there a patrol? How far had he gone? Calculating a walking pace in jungle was not easy. He was confident with his compass, but not time and distance in this terrain.
Gary set off using both hands to move greenery aside, keeping progress steady and quiet. Sergeant Murray’s words registered again, ‘The enemy has more time than you and they can afford to wait.’ An occasional stop was all Gary could afford now. Jungle sounds and smells abounded. Whilst there was nothing to see, he would concentrate on listening. Thirty minutes later Gary checked his compass and allowed himself another sip of water. As he set off again he parted the branches. Briefly, his eyes narrowed and his lips curled. He could see fuselage and a wing. His plane was up ahead. He drew and gripped his pistol. When he had first set off he had been apprehensive. Now his stomach was churning. A cold sweat formed over his entire body and he stood still, hardly breathing. It was unnaturally quiet. Gary’s eyes were on stalks. His tongue moistened dry lips and he swallowed hard. He heard his own gulp.

Simultaneously from behind, strong hands grabbed Gary's pistol and covered his mouth. He found himself powerless, being lowered rapidly and silently to the ground. Whilst immobilised by two assailants another camouflaged man knelt down beside him, a forefinger touched Gary’s lips. The kneeling man turned his shoulder around slightly and Gary focused on the red dagger insignia of the Royal Marine Commando. There was a deafening explosion and heat blew over their bodies.

Fifteen minutes later in the helicopter Gary looked around at the smiling camouflaged faces of six men. They had arrived at his aircraft twenty minutes before him and rigged it with explosives. One man spoke. ‘We’re all proud of you son. Good decision.’
Gary looked into the eyes of Sergeant Murray, his survival instructor and said, ‘Thanks dad.’


The end