Book Discription THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING!

The three of us stood rigid in the moonlight, lined up as instructed with our hands on our heads. I could see our two attackers clearly now, both were about six foot and heavy built. They wore camouflage gear with their faces hidden behind balaclavas. The masks had a one-piece hole for eyes with a little slit for the mouth. Both men held short machine guns with side magazines. The Irish one, Paddy, had my rifle.
Dave was first to speak.

“You might want to get a fire going Paddy, the poor boys are shaking like fuck. I think they must be chilly!” he laughed.
“Right yer are Dave,” said Paddy. “Let’s get the feckers warmed up!” He pulled what was left of our hide apart and threw it into the fire pit.

The one called Dave had a southern accent. To me, he sounded educated, although I thought all southerners sounded posh and clever, like they were public schoolboys or gentlemen, the type you saw in old British films. While Paddy made a fire, Dave walked up and down inspecting us with a torch. He kept his distance and the machine gun pointing right at us.

“So boys, what the fuck you doing in our forest?” he demanded to know. No one replied.

           “Come on yer little basterds. Speak up!” Paddy barked from the fire pit. Then Mickey answered, whimpering.
           “We’re only army cadets, not proper army!” I glanced sideways at Mickey and could see he’d been crying.
           “Did I fucking ask what you fucking are?” hissed Dave.   “No I fucking didn’t! I asked what the fuck are you doing in our fucking wood?” Mickey started to cry again. I wished I could cry so easily, but I knew I wouldn’t let myself.

          Dave stepped forward pointing the gun in Mickey’s face.
          “Do you know what this is?” he asked, menacingly.
          “It, it, it’s a Sten gun,” Mickey managed to blurt out.
          Dave shook his head.
          “Not much of a fucking army cadet are you monkey face?” he sneered. I don’t know why, but I took a deep breath.
          “Nine millimetre Stirling machine gun!” I said loudly, “Thirty four round magazine! 550 rounds per minute! Effective range 220 yards!” Phil looked at me in horror, probably thinking I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut and had to show off in any situation. Dave sidestepped smartly so he faced me.
          “And who the fuck might you be ginger nut?” he growled. I stiffened up.
          “Lance Corporal Gustafson!” I answered, importantly, trying to sound confident and not really scared to hell.
          “Did you hear that Paddy?” Dave yelled. “We’ve got a fucking NCO here, knows a bit too. Better torture this cunt first, eh?”
          “Yeh, pull the feckers finger nails out. An’ cut his fecking cock off while yer at it!” Paddy yelled back. My heart missed a beat, and I felt the blood draining from my face.
          “Why the hell did I have to be a smart arse?” I thought, in despair. But Dave just backed away towards the fire pit where the remains of the hide were now well alight. He lit two cigarettes and gave one to Paddy.
          “Suppose we better get matey with our new pals, eh Dave?” Paddy mused, then stood up from the fire and approached Phil.
          “What’s yer name cunt?”
          Phil swallowed.
          “Philip sir, Philip Harris,” he stuttered nervously as Paddy shone a torch in his eyes. He blinked and looked away from the bright light.
          “Yer look fecking Italian ter me son, is yer ol’ man a fecking spick?”
          “No sir,” Phil answered.
          “Well, yer look like one ter me, so from now on yer names Greaseball. Ok?”
          “Yes sir,” Phil mumbled. Then Paddy shone the blinding light on me.
          “From now on, yer name’s Ginger Nut. Got it?”
          I didn’t answer.
          “Don’t go getting fecking shirty with me lad.” Paddy warned.
          “I’ll knock yer fecking teeth out!” and he slapped me across the face. All my emotions welled up; pain, fear, hate, and anger.
          “How dare this Irish bastard hit me?” I thought.
          “Yes sir,” I answered, holding back tears as well as the urge to hit him. Paddy stepped towards Mickey.
          “Yer new names Monkey face. Got that Monkey?”
          “Yes, yes sir,” Mickey whimpered looking at the ground.
          Paddy took a few steps back, never once taking his eyes off us.
          “Right cunts. Me an’ me mucker Dave here are yer new fecking Daddies,” he said, bending down to pick up one of our mess tins, “Do as yer fecking told, an’ yer might see daylight. Be fecking bad boys, an’ yer get some o’ this.” He threw the mess tin about ten feet away, levelled his Stirling, and fired, ‘tat tat tat tat tat’. The muzzle flash lit the wood up like a strobe light in a disco. The tin jumped and bounced as the bullets hit and we flinched at the loud noise.
          The smoke from the gun hung in the air, I could smell the burnt cordite.
          “So their Stirling’s had live rounds,” I thought. They obviously meant business. Now I really was scared.

          The two men sat by the fire watching us, and we stood with hands on our heads watching them. We only had socks on so our feet were getting cold. The sweat of the initial panic and fear was cooling now, but with my hands on my head, my arms were really starting to ache.
          “Who are they?” I thought, “And why would the IRA be here? It didn’t make any sense. Why bother with us? How could they know about the BDF?” I was desperate to ask Phil what he thought but didn’t dare in case they heard. I wondered if they’re just some nutters from the army? They could kill and bury us, no one would ever know. Whatever was going on, it was bad. Should I risk making a run for it?

          Dave had Phil and Mickey’s rifles beside him. He picked one up.
          “Tell you what Paddy, I’m bloody glad we don’t have to lug these old bastards about any more.”
          “Fecking too right there Dave,” replied Paddy, picking up my 303. He noticed the hammer was cocked.
          “Fecking bad practice leaving it like that, weakens the spring,” he stated, knowingly. Then raising my rifle, he aimed at us. My heart missed a beat and fear gripped me again. But Paddy just lowered the rifle and pulled the bolt back ejecting the round. Dave picked it up.
          “Hey Paddy, look at this!” he exclaimed, passing him the round.
          “Jesus! The little bastards ‘ave live rounds!” Paddy gasped in disbelief. Then something dawned on him and his surprise turned to anger. He jumped up pointing his Stirling at me.
          “That bastard ‘ad one up the spout! He was gonna fecking shoot me!” he said angrily.
          Dave checked the other rifles.
          “These are clean,” he told Paddy. I filled with fear again and my heart beat faster.
          “Empty yer fecking pockets. Now!” Paddy screamed at us.
          “In fact. Fecking strip! Come on, all of yer, get yer fecking clothes off!” he snarled.
          The three of us just looked at each other.
          “Don’t just fecking stand there! Fecking strip!” he yelled. So I pulled my jumper off slowly, and dropped it on the ground, followed by my shirt and combat trousers. All I had now were socks, underpants and T-shirt.
          “An’ yer fecking socks!” Paddy demanded.
          We took them off as ordered. The cold air was biting and I began to shiver. As Dave checked our pockets Paddy confronted me.
          “You! Point a fecking loaded gun at me would yer?” he spat, punching me in the stomach. I fell over groaning and doubled up. I’d never been hit by a grown man before, the force of the blow was crippling. Then he kicked my backside.
          “Stand up!”
          I struggled onto my knees, my eyes filling with tears.

            “Why you doing this?” exclaimed Phil, “We haven’t done anything, we’re just cadets!” Paddy swung round on him slapping Phil so hard he flew off his feet sideways and hit the ground. I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer so I tried to fight it with anger.
          “Fucking Irish bastard!” I mumbled. Paddy heard me and slapped me sideways too.
          “What yer fecking say yer ginger cunt?” he growled.
          “Noth, noth, nothing!” I stammered in between gasps.
          “We haven’t done anything!” Mickey cried in desperation, obviously terrified. Paddy gave Mickey the same hard slap and he joined us on our knees. Mickey burst into uncontrollable tears as Dave called out, “Here Paddy, look,” and held up the clip of four remaining rounds. Paddy stared at the bullets for a second, then turned back to us.
          “Put yer hands on yer fecking heads, an’ stop snivelling yer fecking queers!”
          Dave came over and joined him.
          “I didn’t know the fucking cadets walked about with live ammo, did you Paddy?”
          “Fer sure I didn’t Dave,” he said, “What yer got live rounds fer cunts? Planning ter shoot poor ol’ Dave an’ Patrick was yer?”
          I raised my head.
          “Mickey found 'em, I was gonna give ‘em to our sergeant,” I said shivering.
          “Yer mean Monkey boy ‘ere?” he asked, shining his torch on Mickey.
          “Stand up Monkey.” he ordered.
          “But I haven’t done nothing,” Mickey pleaded.
          “If I say stand up. Fecking stand up!”
          Mickey stood there, shaking from fear and cold. Paddy noticed Mickey’s worn and faded T-shirt.
          “The fecking Bay City Rollers. Likes ter keep up with the times our Monkey does!” he said, sniggering sarcastically, then added, “Personally, I fecking hated the longhaired Scotch bastards. Take it off!” Mickey did as he was told and started crying again. Standing there in only his underpants he looked a sorry figure. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his skinny frame; he could have passed for a Jew in Belsen.

Paddy wrapped the T-shirt around a stick and plunged it into the fire. The nylon caught alight quickly. Holding it up, he watched the burning material. The hot plastic dripped little fireballs; zip, zip, zip, zip they went as they fell to the ground.

          Dave raked about in the remains of the hide.
          “You got any fucking food in here? I’m getting peckish.”
          “Only compo rations,” Phil mumbled. Glancing at Phil I could see he’d been crying too, it made me feel better. Now he couldn’t laugh at me for breaking. Paddy came back from the fire, holding up the burning T-shirt with the stick.
          “Any o’ you’s cold?” he grinned evilly.
          No one answered.
          “I’ll warm yer’s up if yer want?” he snarled, and swung the burning stick close to Mickey’s face. Mickey ducked and fell backwards. Paddy just laughed at him.