All too quickly, the VIP’s that needed an escort had thinned out, until they virtually dried up completely and it was then inevitable that he, along with the other five members of his squad that were posted with him were reassigned back to his Brigade of the Royal Regiment of Scotland. They had all arrived back just in time to hear the briefing for the Operation, Operation Denial that they were to rapidly take part in.
Before Jason had time to properly register what was happening, he found himself climbing into the back of the transport truck he now found himself in, squeezed between and bumping shoulders with his mate Den on his left side and an unfamiliar squaddie on his right.
The Major who had briefed them earlier told them that they would be entering London from the West and then moving East into the city. Each squad was to exit the transport when ordered, go past the troops and barriers that were already stationed all along the North Circular Road and follow their armoured escort into the city. Their task was to eliminate all hostiles they had contact with and clear their area street by street and house by house if necessary and keep moving East. The briefing included a description of the area of London they were entering, a place called Acton, and squad leaders were given maps of London but there weren’t enough maps to go around the rest of the troops.
Jason finds his head is spinning as he sways around in the back of the claustrophobic truck, squashed in against the other members of his squad. There is no air, he thinks to himself, finding it hard to breathe; there are too many people in here for the oxygen and the heat is almost overpowering, sweat running down his back. At least three people have been sick on the floor that he has heard, and he is starting to feel nauseous. The smell of the vomit wafting from all around isn’t helping. Trying desperately to take his mind off the rising feeling that he is also going to be sick at any moment, determined to not suffer that embarrassment in front of his comrades, Jason tries to take his mind off it and think of something else.
Jason turns to look at Den, whose face is covered in sweat and is looking as green as Jason is feeling; his eyes look like they are almost glazed over too. Deciding that Den is at least as nauseous as him, Jason decides to try and take Den’s mind off his stomach at the same time.
“What time have you got, Den? Jason says loudly, above the noise of the truck, but Den doesn’t seem to register Jason’s voice. “Den, what time you got?” Jason this time almost shouts at him, whilst nudging him as best he can, already pushed up tight against him.
This time, some life returns to his mate’s face and eyes and Den pulls his arm up, which has been squashed down against the man next to him.
“I got ten thirty-five,” Den eventually says after struggling to focus on his watch.
“We should have been at our drop-off point by now. They said ten-thirty at the latest in the briefing?” I question Den, partly to try and keep him lucid.
“I dunno mate, but if we don’t get out of the back of this truck soon, I’m going to spew!” he tells me, without an ounce of humour in his voice.
“You’re not the only one mate, it can’t be much longer, try and hold it together,” I encourage him.
“I am, believe me!”
Jason suddenly has images flash through his mind of those war films that show men in the boats on their way to the beaches of Normandy being sick on the floor, or into their helmets. He never really considered what effect this would have on their ability to function properly, never mind go into battle and fight when they actually landed on the beaches. He understands now because all he wants is his bed and maybe a bowl to throw up in!
The truck comes to an abrupt halt and everybody jerks towards the truck's cabin, squashing them together even more. Light hits Jason’s face followed by fresh air as the curtain at the back of the track is whipped open, but this comes as only a tempered relief because it means they are about to exit and go into battle.
“Squad A7, move, move, move!” the Sergeant at the back of the truck shouts as the hinged rear barrier swings down and crashes against the back of the truck.
The light entering the confined space increases, as men start to jump down from the rear of the truck and Jason’s squeezed body starts to feel some relief until suddenly, he is looking at empty floor space with bright light beyond.
Jason’s jelly-like legs move him forward as quickly as they can. He pauses at the back of the truck’s ledge trying to compose himself, giving his legs a chance to prepare for the jump.
“Move it, Soldier,” rings in his ears as he jumps off into the air, concentrating hard in a desperate attempt to control his landing and not land on any of his squad that have not controlled their own landing and are splayed out on the road, their legs letting them down, still not recovered enough to make the simple jump they all have done many times before.
Jason staggers but manages to stay upright, sharp pains travelling up his legs as if he has broken the bones in his feet; his brain tells him that it’s because his feet were asleep, though. Beside him, Den lands, but his legs look like they aren’t going to hold. Jason grabs his arm, steadying him and pulling him forward at the same time, to get him out of the way of others that are jumping.
“Thanks, mate, I was going over then,” Den says.
Their squad looks a shambles
