End of the Road (The Rozzers) Read online

  I watched his futile efforts as I questioned my judgement. Donk was right, of course; we were always told to carry on mouth-to-mouth until a doctor says stop – we couldn’t say he’s dead, but everything about him told me he was beyond help. Should we continue?

  I looked across at the battered Land Rover. There could be others inside that vehicle, guys who did have a chance. Maybe this wasn’t even Tommo?

  “Donk, leave it. He’s gone, mate, he’s gone!”

  Donk blew again; he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Donk was a big guy, strong as an ox and in desperation he blew harder and harder. He was blowing so hard into the corpse that the man’s eyes began to come out of their sockets. I wanted to vomit again. That was far too many eyes hanging out for one night. I put my hand on Donk’s shoulder and shook him, looking into his eyes.

  “Bruce,” I practically growled, “leave it, mate; there’s nothing we can do for him. He’s gone. He’s fucking brown bread.” I stared into Donk’s eyes as he slowly realised the truth of what I was saying. I nodded towards the Land Rover. “There might be others who need our help in that thing. Come on, mate, give us a hand; I don’t wanna do this alone.”

  His shoulders slumped as he stared down at the body lying before him. We stood up together and I became aware of a bloody hand-print on Donk’s shoulder where I’d shaken him. I bent down and wiped my hand clean on the grass.

  I took a deep breath and looked at the wreck of the vehicle. I didn’t want to go in there and see more horrors. I prayed that there weren’t any more people involved. Donk was subdued and obviously in shock, so I spoke to him gently.

  “Now help me search this Landy for any more people, okay mate?”

  Donk nodded and I grasped his clean shoulder as we moved towards it.

  “Where are the fucking cops?” I asked, staring off at the long line of car headlights stretching off into the distance just visible beyond the hill. It seemed like everybody had come to this remote spot tonight except for the God-damned emergency services.

  Donk went to the rear of the vehicle whilst I climbed in through the open driver’s door. I knelt on the seat and looked around. It was full of chaotic darkness, shapes and shadows. I fumbled for the light, found it and flicked it on as Donk lifted the rear canvas flap, which was hanging down over the open tailgate. We knew that soldiers routinely travelled in the back of these vehicles, and this vehicle contained a lot of military webbing – belts and equipment, stuff that was darkly camouflaged that made a search of the vehicle quite difficult even with the cab light on.

  There were large dark stains on the far door-frame and dashboard where the passenger – presumably the guy with the eye injury – must have smacked his head open. I decided to stay away from that side of the seating.

  The front was clearly empty, both occupants now accounted for. Separating me from Donk was a heavy duty metal panel, used to fix huge military radios on. I leant over to look in the back and help Donk, accidentally casting a dark shadow over the rear.

  “Fucking ’ell, Dave!” hissed Donk, annoyed at losing the light.

  I twisted in the seat with the intention of getting out and joining him at the rear. I put my hand on the grey coloured metal frame as I did so, jumping back as if electrocuted.

  “What’s up?” asked Donk, concerned.

  I didn’t reply. I raised my hand up to the cab light and my stomach heaved. I fell out of the Land Rover and threw up in the grass as Donk ran to me.

  “Dave?” He was full of concern. “What’s up? What is it?”

  The palm of my hand was covered in cold, sticky, light-coloured goo. I frantically tried to wipe it off onto the grass, but it resisted.

  I looked from my hand to the nearby body. I remembered the hole in the back of his head. His proximity to the driver’s door meant he had obviously been the driver. This sticky matter had been on the metal frame just behind the driver’s head. I vomited again, desperately wiping every last trace of the poor man’s brains from my hand.

  “I’ll be fine in a sec,” I said to a worried Donk, between breaths. “Is the back clear?”

  “Yeah, there’s no one in there; just him, I guess.”

  “Thank fuck for that.” I slowly got to my feet and looked at Tommo, lying like a discarded animal in the middle of Salisbury Plain, his skull smashed in. As I wiped my hand on my trousers one last time I felt such sorrow at the loss of the guy. He was younger than me, just a lad, and his family didn’t even know of his death yet. I thought of the poor sod who would have to tell his mother, and of the family’s anguish.

  We stood staring at him, a ridiculous urge to say something over his broken body interrupted by the sound of a distant siren.

  “About bloody time. Come on, Donk; we need to tell them about him.” I then remembered the guy trapped in the car and Cat sitting in there with him on top of all that fuel. It seemed like so long ago; surely they must be out of the vehicle? No, this was the first siren I’d heard – no other emergency crews had arrived and that guy was still trapped in there. With Cat.

  I ran like hell.

  Part one of THE ROZZERS by DIEM BURDEN

  o0o

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was a cop car, a traffic patrol car no less. The blue strobe lights were visible for miles, and I stood impatiently as it crawled past the stationary queue of traffic. Its progress was occasionally hampered by a frustrated driver who decided to do a u-turn, often right in front of the approaching cop car, despite its blaring siren.

  I’d run past the fuel-soaked car towards the start of the line of traffic. As I did so, I’d sent a silent thought of encouragement to Robin, still trapped inside, hoping he was still alive. If he was, he’d have heard the emergency siren approaching too. If I felt relieved that they were finally here, how the hell did he feel? I’d also sent Donk back to be with Smudge as they were both looking more and more stressed.

  The cop car came to a casual stop, angled across the road, its headlights illuminating the cause of the tailback. Come on guys, this is serious. I ran forwards as two male cops ambled out, both wearing fluorescent yellow jackets. They looked up and down the road, at the mess in front of them and finally at me as I approached them.

  It was probably the after-effects of the adrenalin, but I was very angry that a young soldier was lying dead out there, all alone in the darkness. I was angry that we had been so helpless and isolated, abandoned to deal with this hell alone. I was angry because they hadn’t been here doing what they were paid to do, and their seemingly casual attitude was the last straw.

  “What the hell took you so long?” I shouted. “This bloody thing…” I indicated the carnage a few metres behind me, “…happened about forty fucking minutes ago!” I wasn’t really angry at them, but, like most members of the public unexpectedly dropped into a surreal, tragic situation, I hit out at the cops, those who had arrived first to help us. It was all I could do.

  “All right, all right, son, calm down; we’re here now,” said the passenger. He was mid-thirties, calm, smart and friendly. “We came as soon as we got the call, all the way from the other side of Salisbury – we were the nearest traffic unit. Update me please; what we got?”

  I looked from him to the driver, who turned away and spoke into his pocket radio as he went to the rear of the cop car and opened the boot. I looked back at the passenger cop. Salisbury? I knew how far away Salisbury was. Seriously? You’ve come that far? I felt bad – they had actually got here very quickly indeed, considering the distance. I regretted my outburst. Update? Military speak, the training kicked in again.

  “One dead – a squaddy, out there in the darkness; nothing to be done for him.”

  The cop looked like he was about to ask me a question and I guessed what it was. How do you know he’s dead? Somehow, he knew I knew; I saw it in his eyes.

  “More importantly,” I continued, “we’ve got one man trapped beneath that lot, and I mean seriously trapped. We don’t know the extent of his le
g injuries for sure, but they’re probably life-threatening although he’s conscious and talking – or he was when I last spoke to him.” I looked back. Poor sod. “It doesn’t look good. My mate’s in there with him and the place reeks of fuel – not sure if it’s petrol or diesel or a mixture of both, but it’s all over the road.”

  As I spoke, he scanned the wreckage in front of him, his mind clearly working quickly. I anticipated his next question. “The digger’s diesel, but I think the car is petrol. We can’t get him out of there; we’ve tried. We need heavy lifting gear to get that thing off him.” I glanced back at the mess and lowered my voice, “Or you’ll have to cut his legs off, if they’re still attached to him.” I paused for breath and listened as the cop spoke rapidly into his radio.

  “Believed one fatality at this location. Further casualty trapped with fuel leak; request fire and rescue and heavy lifting gear.” He turned to me. “How heavy’s that thing?”

  “Twelve-tonne digger; maybe fifteen max with trailer.”

  “Sufficient for eighteen tonnes, plus ambulance and a supervisor please.”

  He was passing on my update to his control room. He spoke in a language I recognised and appreciated – concise, accurate, efficient language that military personnel use on radios. I realised that what I was saying to this officer was important enough to cause a man to die if I got it wrong. I seriously concentrated as the driver returned with heavy duty torches and a decent-looking first aid kit.

  “There’s another guy with a serious head-cum-eye injury over there. There’s an arsy civilian first aider with him, although she seems to know what she’s doing. He’s another squaddy and his eye’s hanging out.” I forced the image from my mind. The driver made to go until I said, “He’s okay, though. He’s in good hands; nothing more to be done for him now until he gets to hospital.”

  “Whiskey Tango 1-9 further,” said the passenger.

  “Go ahead,” came back the female voice.

  “Will need two ambulances at this location; repeat: two. We have one further casualty with a serious head and/or eye injury. The road is completely blocked; will need to close it both ends at ...”

  As he continued updating his control room the driver asked me to show him what was what. He switched his radio off as we walked around the fuel-soaked pile-up so as to not ignite the fuel vapours. He leant in through the rear window and spoke, introducing himself and reassuring Robin that help was on its way and that he’d be out of there soon. I was so relieved to hear Robin’s voice.

  “Is there anyone we can contact to meet you at the hospital?” asked the cop.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I’ve got that here.” I ripped out the page from my notebook and held it out to the cop. “It’s Robin’s wife’s details.” My hand trembled. The cop looked from my hand to my face before taking the paper. He shone a pocket torch on it, checking its legibility.

  “Nice one, thanks.” He put his head back inside the car. “We’ll get a car around there straight away, okay Robin?”

  I heard a muffled reply.

  He turned to me and squeezed my shoulder as we walked towards the small group huddled around the injured sergeant.

  “Nearly done, soldier.” He looked me in my eyes and I felt his strength and understanding. “Now, just go with PC Jones and show him where the fatality is, will you? I’ll get this sorted out.” He waved the paper at me and smiled. I felt another hand on my shoulder and turned to see the other cop again.

  “Come on, son, show me where he is. Did you know him?”

  “No, he’s not one of ours,” I replied. I led him off the side of the road as he illuminated the plain with his monster torch. We spotted the Land Rover straight away – it was about twenty metres from the road. We made directly for it and found Tommo where we’d left him. The cop knelt and examined him.

  “Poor sod; at least he didn’t suffer.”

  I wondered how often he had to do this sort of thing and how he managed to deal with it. Traffic cops; must be a way of life for them.

  “No doubt here, soldier. He’s definitely dead.” He looked up at me. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Sapper Burden, Officer.”

  “Well, Sapper Burden, I was hoping you had a name.”

  I smiled. “Sorry, it’s Dave.” For a moment, I forgot that we were chatting to each other over a dead body.

  “Well, Dave, my friends call me Jonesy. I often get called other things but Jonesy suits me just fine.” He smiled at me as we stood up. I took comfort in his presence. “Did you pull him out of the Jeep?”

  “No, I didn’t. Donk – that’s the guy who found him – might have; he was with him when I arrived. Or the driver might have done – that’s the guy with the eye injury – he appeared out of the darkness some time after the accident.”

  “Has anybody searched the Jeep and the surrounding area for any more casualties?”

  “Yeah, we have. We’ve searched everywhere, but without torches.”

  “Okay, better make sure you didn’t miss anything.” He stood up and flashed his torch around the smashed-up vehicle, the beam illuminating the area clearly, as he spoke into his radio.

  “Whiskey Tango one-nine, confirmed one fatality at this location. Military personnel.”

  “Roger one-nine, confirmed one fatality; will notify RMP.”

  The Royal Military Police were now on their way. Like most soldiers, I had an irrational fear of the RMP. I thought of the interrogation Cat would have to go through. Presumed guilty before they even got here.

  “Good, there are no others,” said Jonesy.

  We both looked up at the sound of a siren. Blue lights could be seen approaching in the distance.

  “Ambulance, thank God.” I couldn’t see the vehicle, just its blue lights. I looked at the cop quizzically.

  “It’s the sound, Dave. When you’ve been doing this job for as long as I have, you get to recognise the sound of an ambulance approaching. Sometimes you pray for that sound.” He stared into the distance as the ambulance duly appeared over the rise.

  “You see.” He smiled. “Come on, there’s nothing we can do for him now; it’s the living who need our help.” We headed back to the main crash site.

  On arrival I was surprised to find so many people there. We had been isolated for so long that the group of people standing on the road seemed like a crowd. The other cop was taking details from the injured sergeant. He was much calmer and had been bandaged up quite neatly. Where his dangling eye was, I had no idea.

  Donk and Smudge were standing with several civilians I hadn’t seen before. Passers-by, I guessed. I went up to Smudge and introduced him to the cop.

  “Jonesy, this is the man in charge of us, Sergeant Smith.” They shook hands.

  “You and your men have handled this very well, Sergeant Smith; well done.”

  I looked into Smudge’s eyes and realised he wasn’t looking too good. He was in shock, real shock, not the simulated shock I was used to. He too was a victim, yet he had had to keep playing his part, playing the sergeant. He might be a military man but he was just a career construction man, never seen action in his life and he was really suffering that night. He’d been through what I’d been through, but he also carried the burden of responsibility for all of us, and his job was on the line too.

  Was I in shock? Were we all suffering? I looked at the civilian first aider. Yes. I looked at Donk and Pizza who were milling around. Yes. I glanced back at Cat, still inside the squashed car. Yes, of course. Everybody caught up in this tragedy was suffering from shock; everybody, it seemed, except for these two cops, two men who seemed to be in complete control.

  I glanced after the other cop who was now directing the reversing ambulance up to the back of the toppled digger. So in control, directing and organising. Me? I just wanted to sit down at the side of the road and have a good cry. Is that how we all felt? When did the cops cry? Do cops cry?

  The paramedics removed Cat from the back of the car
before climbing in themselves. If anybody should be crying, it should be Cat. He walked towards us and I hugged him. A great big man hug.

  We all turned and looked up at more approaching sirens, with so many blue lights flashing through the darkness it almost made me dizzy.

  “Here come the cavalry,” said Jonesy. “Sergeant, keep all your men together. Your work’s done for now, but we’ll need to speak to you all before we’re finished up here and it might take some time. I presume that’s your truck?” He nodded up the road at our semi-illuminated lorry. “Get everybody in there and wait around, would you? Take a breather but whatever you do, do not move that truck from where it is.”

  “Understood,” replied Smudge.

  We walked along the road in total silence, heads down. Back to our truck, a place of warmth and comfort, a place that had been full of jovial, meaningless conversation less than an hour ago. Several tears were shed by those big, strong soldiers on that short walk back to normality. Nobody said a word until we reached the truck.

  Cat went to the rear to examine the towing eye again. I joined him there. I frowned as I bent down to see what he was looking at. I couldn’t understand what he was holding in his hand.

  “Cat! Can you believe it?” I shouted, relieved. He just smiled back at me, his relief clear even in the darkness.

  I reached into my pocket and took out the souvenir I’d taken from the church yard earlier. I briefly looked at it before chucking it into the ditch at the side of the road.

  “Now where the hell did you throw all of that beer, Sarge?” I asked, and the sergeant forgave me my cheek and laughed heartily.

  We all did.

  Part one of THE ROZZERS by DIEM BURDEN

  o0o

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I swallowed deeply as I always did before entering any office of authority, and this man was the authority – the ‘Old Man’, the boss, the officer in command of my squadron: Major ‘Arty’ Cummins