Carter's Recourse - 3. Chapter 3

Cyprus, tucked away in a small corner of the Mediterranean, was a place of deep-seated resentment, bitterness and anger. So much ancient history mixed with ancient hatreds, Cyprus's Greek population and Turkish population boiled beneath a thin veneer of civility.

Sitting, riding in the passenger seat of the Land Rover Defender, Lieutenant West Harding gripped the roll bar as they bounced along the streets heading for the base. His packs were tucked into the back of the heavy vehicle, fresh in on a reassignment from Berlin, and already he was feeling awkwardly out of place.

It was the combination of the hard stare of the sergeant in the seat beside him, combined with the young private who rested his hands lovingly on the heavy machine gun mounted in the back of the vehicle, that did it. West was used to the relaxed atmosphere of duty in one of the relic bases of the cold war; to suddenly be thrust into a combat unit in a different climate was going to take some getting used to for him.

The Rover raced around a corner, climbing steadily towards the old base that was to be their home until deployment. That was a terrifying thought. West had been lucky to avoid deployment in Afghanistan; so many of his friends and fellow officers had been sucked into the first round of the War-on-Terror grudge match. Now, it looked like he wasn't going to sit out this war in a German beer house.

He scratched the nape of his neck, the sun already beginning to burn it. He should have put some sun block on before getting off of the plane, but as usual hindsight was twenty-twenty and really, when he had gotten his reassignment papers that morning he hadn't had time to get anything.

He stared at the narrow buildings whipping past him, the people that seemed painfully oblivious to the heavily armed Land Rover with the foreign soldiers in it. They had been a near constant presence since the sixties, so common to the people of Cyprus that they didn't seem to care.

West couldn't imagine it; he'd grown up in Ottawa, high school and running the streets, trying to get into bars and dodging the police. He'd been lucky to get into the British army, and he knew it, and he was one of a few Canadians that had managed to accomplish it. He looked at a couple of kids kicking a football around on a side street, in the shadow of war.

The Land Rover roared into the base compound, past the MP guards on the gate, and braked to a stop before the larger building that was company headquarters. West turned and nodded to his driver, grabbing his pack as he hopped down from the Rover, the sarge already driving off as he walked up the steps and entered the building.

A sergeant who sniffed and blew his nose into a handkerchief occupied the desk outside the commandant's office. One of the reasons they were in Cyprus was acclimatizing themselves to the Middle Eastern heat. Better here, while waiting for deployment, than to suffer on the push to Baghdad. It took time to get used to the heat, the sweat and the sun.

The sarge looked up miserably from his handkerchief and thumbed to the door, "He's through there."

West excused the rather informal greeting for an officer and pushed his way into the stuffy office where a couple of officers were clustered around a map. The man that immediately caught West's attention was the regal-looking man with lieutenant colonel's crowns and stars on his epaulettes, standing in a no-nonsense kind of manner that was only typical of combat veterans. This wasn't your typical British colonel, all swagger and overconfidence, this was the hard-edged kind of man that led men into combat.

Colonel Carter, the man who had moved mountains to get him into Sandhurst and his patron in the service, focused a set of discerning eyes on West, and in one simple gesture measured the young officer, before speaking. "Lieutenant Harding," he greeted. "Drop your pack and join us."

West complied, setting his pack alongside the two others in the room and walked over to join the other lieutenant at the map. The other man, not much older than himself, nodded a greeting as he returned to a map of the area.

The briefing was short and to the point. There were three Range Rovers per officer forming the company, each section was to complete their objectives and report back in to Company Headquarters. Simple, direct, and there was little room for error.

West glanced over the map and nodded; he wasn't going to get a chance to settle in, but then that was probably the colonel's point. He wanted to see what he was getting from the transfer of a lieutenant to his command.

West saluted Colonel Carter, walking back out, glad that he had taken the time to get changed into his desert fatigues before the trip. The green camouflage he had grown accustomed to wearing in Berlin would have stood out like a sore thumb.

* * *

He was stretched out on his hard cot, hands behind his head, trying to move as little as possible in order to ease his aching muscles, thinking over the day. His professional pride had taken a bruising; they'd come in dead last. The colonel's squad naturally pulled in first, Lieutenant "Mags" Maguire's squad only a few minutes later. The smiling Irish lieutenant grinned at West as their squad pulled in a good twenty minutes behind everyone else.

He was sore from too many hours of driving all over the island in the passenger seat of the Rover with a map balanced across his knees directing his men as best he could through completely unfamiliar terrain with landmarks he could barely recognize.

He had to adapt, he knew that, but even still he couldn't help but feel painfully out of his element. Staying calm, and looking composed in front of his men was one thing, but doing so while lost and trying to beat a clock was something else entirely.

He had found the men already standing about his three Rovers, a typical mix of fresh faces with the stronger faces of vets. So fresh on the heels of the Afghanistan conflict there were a lot of men who had seen action. They were fortunate to have a couple of them mixed into the group; at least he had a couple of pros under him. And they seemed to take to him after a few cursory nods. His driver/sergeant that had given him a lift from the airport was tucked up behind the wheel of one of the Rovers, smoking a cigarette and giving him a sneering look. It always took time for a sergeant to get used to a new lieutenant, West didn't think any more of it.

It hadn't been a good first day.

The colonel hadn't looked pleased; he'd offered up a grunt of disapproval before he had dismissed the men back to their barracks and he himself had retreated to his office. And West had gone back to his own room trying not to fret too badly about it. He'd just arrived in a new climate after a long flight; he was on unfamiliar terrain with a new squad that he had never met. He would be able to do better the next time.

Mag's stuck his head around the door jamb and looked down at the young officer. "Sorry, mate," he apologized, the eager Irishman grinning with a light in his eyes. "Want to catch a drink over at the officer's mess?"

"Sure," West replied, getting up and grabbing his shirt, tucking it in as he followed Mags out into the base. Gravel roads between prefab barracks--it was the same as bases the world over. Land Rovers driving past rows of sinister-looking Chieftain tanks, all of which were undergoing repainting into desert camouflage patterns--there was a sense of readiness that didn't sit well with West.

"So, do you think we're going back to Iraq?" Mags asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, gesturing to the tanks.

"They're going to cave," West said. "Saddam can't seriously think he can stand up to another war. It's just stupid."

"He's hoping the US doesn't have a set," Mags sighed with a grin as they strolled along the roadway.

"No," West agreed, "but then it seems the President's too eager to prove him wrong."

"So what do you really think we're after?" Mags grinned.

"Oil," West said simply, "what else? Have you seen the gas..."

"Petrol," Mags corrected with a flick of his cigarette.

"Petrol prices back home?" West glanced up towards the sky, "We need the oil there, and everyone knows it. Just... all this BS just to appear the noble champion rather than the conquering Imperialist..."

"So what's the deal?" Mags asked. "Are you a yank?" He asked the question directly that had been on everyone's mind in the unit since West had first arrived on Cyprus.

"Canadian..."

Mags warmed up immediately, "That's more like it." He clapped West on the arm, "What the hell brings you here, and in a British uniform no less?"

"The old man," West replied, the two of them pushing into the officer's mess, taking seats at the worn wooden bar, as a boisterous Greek man poured them a couple of drinks without asking what they wanted and waiting while Mags paid him.

"Oh?" Mags asked, turning in his chair, adamant that he was going to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the Cannuck.

"Yeah, he went to bat for me, getting me into Sandhurst..."

"Oh-la-la," Mags said with a grin. "The old man never does anything half measure; he got you into Sandy, did him? Not too bad, you know we beat West Point this year..."

"We beat them every year," West said with a grin, referring to the yearly competition between the two premier military academies.

"So what, you're the colonel's golden boy?" Mags teased, draining his glass and banging for another one.

"No." West shook his head, copying Mags in downing his glass, shaking his head against the pungent liquor. "Ouch!" he murmured.

"Figured you'd like it," Mags smiled. "So what's the story then? Why would the old man help you?"

"I knew his son," West said, blowing out a sigh as the Greek poured him another glass. "They pulled a few strings and here I am..."

Mags tilted his glass and swirled it around, draining it again, smacking his lips and sighing contentedly, "Well, it's good to have you here, what with this second ‘feckin' war about to kick off..." He shook his head, "Bloody Yanks whistle and we come trotting along like some kind of lap dog..."

"We're honouring a promise," West replied. "Our ally..."

"Spoken like a true officer," Mags grinned again. "Ye sure yer not British?"

West chuckled at Mags, the red-headed Irishman's words slurring as his third drink tipped back down the hatch, "Hey, just saying, we've got to keep our promises, right?"

"Absolutely," Mags replied. "It's what sep...sep..seper... keeps us different from the rest of them... you know... that we keep our word."

"Right," West said with a smile. "For queen and country..."

"Hah!" Mags smirked. "For town and country, more like it..."

"The magazine?" West glanced over, "Right... you're drunk."

"Am not!" Mags declared boldly. "I'm simply mildly inebriated bordering on pleasantly pickled..."