Tag: War Crimes

War Crimes Part 12 – Moira’s Story

Blown Periphery, Going Postal
This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred. Some of the locations are real.

Like most of the important milestones in Edge’s life his marriage was in the autumn, October 14th of 2000 is St John the Baptist Church Instow. It was and is a beautiful church, nestled into the gentle folds of the hills above the estuary of the Rivers Taw and Torridge. Moira Tremain and Mark Edge were married at 13:00 under a glowering sky and predictably it rained all afternoon. He was smart in his No 2s, a Sergeant now with a Military Cross adding to his impressive tally of medals. Nobody asked him and he felt no need to publicise it. Moira knew and she also knew the toll on his mental health being awarded that medal had cost him.
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War Crimes Part 11 – Moira’s Story

This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred. Some of the locations are real.

When Angela found Moira it was obvious that Moira had been crying. Her dark mascara had run from her eyes in blue streaks and those eyes were puffy and reddened. Even her hair looked slightly dull and listless, as though the spark had gone to be replaced with self-indulgent misery. She was sitting on the loading bay, pretending to smoke a cigarette. Moira was drawing in with a huge suck, the cigarette end glowing like the tip of an inquisitor’s poker, then she let out the smoke in gentle puffs, because it was obviously too hot for her oral membranes. Inhaling was out of the question.
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War Crimes Part 10 – SERE and the RAF Loadmaster’s Story

Blown Periperphy, Going Postal
This is fiction.  Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental.  The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred.  Some of the locations are real. 

The Nimrod MR4A had been replaced by a USAF Rivet Joint flying out of Incirlik in Turkey.  The updated Boeing 707 was in a gentle holding pattern, 35,000 feet above Falluja.  It was monitoring cell phone traffic and tens of thousands of bytes of data could be processed every few seconds, the sensors’ electronic brains programmed to detect certain key words and phrases.  CIA trained interpreters would listen in to calls of interest.

Three consoles down towards the less glamorous rear of the aircraft, signals from two Personal Locator Beacons (PLBs) suddenly appeared and were beamed back to the aircraft from a geostationary satellite over the Persian Gulf, one of many.  The USAF Master Sergeant zoomed in her console to show Basra City and the surrounding waterways.  She notified her supervisor.

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War Crimes Part 9 – The RAF Loadmaster’s Story

Blown Periphery, Going Postal
This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred. Some of the locations are real.

The aircraft movements woke him again, specifically a Nimrod MR4A blasting off at 10:00 hrs to commence its eighteen hour patrol, hoovering up electronic intelligence with its 90 antennae. The Nimrod turned north and began the long, cyclic patrol above Iraq, data pouring in from the sensors like Wiltshire Police’s monitoring of 16-year-olds’ Twitter accounts.

Gilmore knew that further sleep was impossible, so he chugged half a bottle of water and headed for the Gym. It was a large, well-appointed and air conditioned luxury and one of the few benefits of being on Ops along with the food. He plugged himself into an MP3 player and listened to the Lightning Seeds’ upbeat and cheerful ditties. He had run five miles and was halfway through a forty minute stint on the cross-trainer, when he became aware someone was lurking just behind his right shoulder, so he paused and turned round. It was his little friend, the MT driver.

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War Crimes Part 8 – The RAF Loadmaster’s Story

Blown Periphery, Going Postal
This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred. Some of the locations are real. The BBC is of course a national treasure because of the unique way it is funded.

Gilmore woke up around 12:00 because he was too hot and the continual aircraft movements made sleep impossible. He went to the ablutions corimec and pampered himself with an enormous piss followed by a Basra shower. Water was a premium in this part of the world, expensive and time consuming to desalinate, then ship into the base by tanker. So the British military had a standard operating procedure for taking a shower:

  1. Enter shower cubicle and turn on the water. The water will run for no more than 20 seconds. During this time you must ensure all bodily parts are thoroughly wet. Do not ingest water.
  2. Turn off the water. Select shower gel, soap or myrrh scented oils of choice and thoroughly lather the entire body. Avoid contact with the eyes.
  3. Turn on the water and rinse off cleansing agents for a maximum of 40 seconds ensuring all residues are removed, to prevent chemical irritation.
  4. At this point Male personnel are to shave. This stage is optional for female personnel.
  5. Ensure all sensitive body areas are well moisturised because the highly chlorinated water is likely to irritate sensitive skin to buggery.

The combined messing facility was getting busy when he piled his body armour and helmet by the door. If the rocket and mortar alarm were to go off, a stampede of around 200 people would rush to find their kit among the piles of identically camouflaged personal protective equipment. Some tube had made a decree that body armour was not to be worn in the combined messing facility, so that was it. Gilmore elected to have a freshly cooked ham and tomato omelette with French beans and found a quiet corner of the mess hall to sit. There was no sign of Flight Lieutenant Mount or Flying Officer Skelton.

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War Crimes Part 7 – The RAF Loadmaster’s Story

Blown Periphery, Going Postal
This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred. Some of the locations are real.

Son of a gun
You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner they’d be your partner and

You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you

You’re so vain (you’re so vain)
I bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you don’t you?

Carly Simon

Just before midnight on a late October evening in 2005, a Puma helicopter took off from Basra Air Station (BAS) and headed north. The aircraft showed no lights, a contrast to the city passing on its starboard side and the gas and oil separation plants (GOSPs) in the desert that were lit up like Christmas trees. Once clear of the city, the helicopter swung right and picked up the River Tigris that wound its convoluted path through the desert, southeast towards the Persian Gulf. The Puma was heading in the opposite direction, north-northwest towards Maysan Province.

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War Crimes Part 6 – Morrison’s Story

Blown Periphery, Going Postal
“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”

This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred.

Morrison came down to breakfast and looked at the offerings the Pacific Plaza hotel had laid out for their delectation. He baulked at the fried rice and eggs and knew that misery followed the consumption of the freshly peeled fruit on ice. He settled for white rolls and conserve. Even with the air conditioning, it was getting hot and immensely humid and it had rained for most of the night. He saw Mitchell dressed similarly to himself in a dark suit. Opel Canyon Securities insisted that all of its operatives dressed in dark suits for city business and airport runs, a lightweight linen suit for work in the field. Smart professionalism at all times. He joined Mitchell at the table and ordered coffee from the Philippino waitress, slightly puzzled.

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War Crimes Part 5 – Cynthia’s Story

Blown Periphery, Going Postal

This is a work of fiction and depicts a London that no longer exists. Thank goodness that the nation’s capital is now such a diverse and culturally enriched metropolis of civilization.

On a day in April 1977, the same day that German Federal Prosecutor Siegfried Buback and his driver were shot by two Red Army Faction members in Karlsruhe, a young woman left Tottenham Court Underground Station and walked down Soho Street to Soho Square. The Curzon Cinema on Shaftsbury Avenue was showing “The Eagle Has Landed.” The private cinema on Romilly Street was showing “Swedish Nympho Slaves.” A cold front had moved south with accompanying winds, but the streets were dry and her overcoat blew open. She was wearing a short skirt and diaphanous blouse. The cold wind was nipple stiffening.

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War Crimes Part 4 – A Far-Right Terrorist Hate Crime

Blown Periphery, Going Postal

This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred.

The legal organisation does not exist outside of this story. There may be others whose activities are just as questionable as this fictional account of one man’s persecution and the terrible, fictional repercussions. Some of the locations are real.

This is dedicated to Thames Valley Police who in 2004, allowed two women to die and badly wounded family members to be denied medical aid after a shooting at a family barbecue. This was because Thames Valley Police conducted a safety assessment that was more about protecting its officers, than members of society the Force was supposed to serve. It took 67 minutes before police officers entered the property and 87 minutes before paramedics were allowed in to treat the casualties.

Source Stewart Payne Daily Telegraph 7th October 2004. Telegraph

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War Crimes Part 3 – Nefarious Activities

Blown Periphery, Going Postal

This is fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental. The events outlined have never to my knowledge occurred. The legal organisation does not exist outside of this story. There may be others whose activities are just as questionable as this fictional account of one man’s persecution and the terrible, fictional repercussions. Some of the locations are real.

Warberton and his sidekick returned the following morning, as promised. Edge watched the car come up the lane from his observation post in the hedge. It turned in and it was the same routine as yesterday; Warberton got out and made his way to the cottage’s door while the wingman came out of the car and laid the camera on its roof. Edge was amused to see they were both wearing country jackets and Bekina wellies, brand new on expenses from the outdoor shop in Barnstaple. Edge slipped out of cover and came up silently behind the cameraman, reaching over and grabbing the digital SLR. He opened the flap on the camera’s base and removed the battery pack. The sheer speed and commitment of Edge’s move left the cameraman powerless and speechless.

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