There was an evening storm.
Ash sat by the shore, watching as the clouds gathered on the horizon, slowly growing darker as they rolled towards the island.
There were low rumbles of thunder, and occasionally a few flashes of lightning. Although nature was truly mesmerising, Ash wasn’t waiting to be entertained – no, he was hoping for rain. Fresh, pure, rain.
He had scoped the island and had wandered around the entire shoreline in just a few hours. There had been no signs of food or water. The island was uninhabitable.
If it rained, he had some hope that it might fall into nearby ditches and trenches. Ash could easily survive a couple of weeks, provided he had fresh water to drink. Without it, he probably only had a few days left.
He waited. The claps of thunder were growing louder.
Then, a speeding droplet landed beside him, denting the sand. Slowly, more droplets, more dents. The rain dropped inconsistently, hitting Ash on the shoulder once or twice. Before long, the clouds above burst open, releasing a stream of water.
Ash opened his mouth gratefully as the cold, refreshing water dripped down his throat. He revelled in the satisfaction. The water cascaded down his body, soothing his sunburn, easing the tension – if only momentarily.
The storm rumbled across the sky, putting on a show with spectacular flashes of forked lightning.
He looked out towards the ocean seeing an empty blackness, but it didn’t remain that way for long.
The helicopter was back.
Roaring overhead, the aircraft was accompanied by several fighter jets, circling the skies as if stalking prey.
A burst of light nearly blinded Ash as the helicopter flicked on a spotlight across the ocean. In a panic, he feared that he had been spotted – but no, he was not the target.
Now that the spotlight was beaming down onto the murky depths, Ash could see several dark shadows moving underneath the water, perhaps just half a kilometre from the island. They were enormous and shaped like cylinders.
He climbed a nearby tree, desperate to get a better look. His vision was somewhat skewed in the heavy rainfall, but he could see the shadows were gaining speed.
And then the fighter jets opened fire, unleashing a hellish fury directly at the moving shadows. Bullets penetrated the top of the ocean, but instantly vanished as they entered the deep blue, having little or no impact on the moving shadows. The jets fought relentlessly, desperate to take down the unknown mark.
Ash watched. Hypnotised.
Although he couldn’t be sure what the Australians were up against, it was clear they wanted the target to be killed or destroyed.
However, the Australians had picked an unwinnable fight.
There was an ominous glow from the deep abyss, like a fire burning under the sea – of course, that was not possible – but Ash couldn’t explain what he was seeing.
Something exploded out of the water, striking one of the fighter jets.
The jet seemingly split in two; a clean cut right through the middle. The aircraft began plummeting from the sky, just as the pilot ejected himself from the cockpit.
His parachute was activated. The jet crashed down into the ocean. The pilot tried to gain control over his parachute but the storm had brought along some intense gale force winds, pushing the pilot far out to sea. His parachute had been picked up and was blown away until it was no longer in sight.
Good riddance.
Ash felt no remorse for the enemy.
The glow surrounded the shadows, but it gave away no clues. The remaining jets continued to fire, almost erratically, but then retreated along with the helicopter.
The aircraft dispersed and vanished into the night. Ash watched until the moving shadows could no longer be seen, and the only source of light was the occasional lightning strike.
The sea battle had started and ended within a short space of time, but Ash was left without answers.
He carefully climbed back down from the tree, and then tried to seek refuge from the rain under some nearby palm trees. Feeling a new bout of exhaustion, Ash curled up under the tree and forced himself to sleep.
***
At first light, tropical birds woke Ash from his slumber.
The storm had passed over and the sunrise was eerily peaceful. The skyline was a blend of yellow, orange and deep pink.
He sat upright, feeling his muscles seize up. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Ash stretched his body out and then climbed onto his feet.
It was only dawn, but Ash felt the humidity push down on his chest in an unwelcomed presence.
Say what you want about British weather – he still preferred it compared to this hellhole.
The sun began to rise on the horizon. The light cast over the ocean, almost blinding him. For a few moments, Ash went about his morning rituals like he always did; he took a piss, scratched his stubble and wondered about breakfast.
Reality bit back hard. His optimism did not last long.
Now that a new day had begun, Ash knew he needed to keep busy and keep his mind occupied. He crashed back down into the sand and grabbed his new prized possession – the lieutenant’s notebook.
Ash patted down his trousers and located a pen; he then began to write,
November 11th 2043
Today is Armistice Day.
On this day in 1918, hostilities ceased as the war headed towards its eventual end. However, history repeated itself in 1939, and now again – a hundred years later.
That’s what they’re calling it now – World War III. It doesn’t surprise me. We’ve had this coming for a while.
I’m more than four years into my service, and the war has been long and arduous, but far from over.
I have some news though; last night I witnessed strange shadows moving underneath the water, about a kilometre out to sea. This triggered an aerial attack from Australian fighter jets, but the shadows retaliated by opening fire and brought one of the jets down.
The enemy then retreated. I still don’t know exactly what the shadows were, but it left the Australians running scared.
Yours truly,
Ash Griffin
He then snapped the notebook shut and collected his belongings. He would begin the search for rainwater, and then find a suitable place to build a shelter.
Ash strolled by the shore, consciously keeping his feet on the softer terrain.
He returned to the cove. It was still shady and damp from the previous night’s rainfall, but much to Ash’s appeasement, the rainwater had fallen into a number of rocky trenches. There was enough there to last a week or so. Hopefully.
The cove was still littered with debris too, but today new objects had washed up ashore.
No bodies yet, but it was still early days.
Ash scoured through the debris, finding more pieces of twisted metal and shrapnel. By luck, he also found some clothing – it was a jacket. It had belonged to a Royal Marines Commando, just like himself. After just a moment of hesitation, Ash slipped into the jacket; it was marginally tighter than his own and he felt a little strange about wearing it, but it would prove to be useful in the cooler weather.
He kept a keen eye out for a pair of shoes amongst the debris, but alas, there were none. Ash would have to remain barefoot.
He was about to turn away and continue his search for freshwater, when a white sheet caught Ash’s attention.
The white sheet was lying on the very edge of the shore and was continuously hit by the rising tide. Ash bent down, rolled up his pants and treaded across the wet sand.
He approached the white sheet curiously, but then froze on the spot when he realised what it was.
Not a white sheet. A parachute.
Ash stumbled backwards, immediately on alert. Although he was certain he knew what it meant, the Southern Cross design inked across the top of the parachute confirmed his suspicions.
He took a minute to compose himself. Ash didn’t want to jump to conclusions; perhaps the parachute could have washed up without its pilot?
However, that possibility vanished the moment he spotted the boot-prints leading up from the sand and into the bushes.
By some miracle, the pilot from the fighter jet had washed ashore. Alive.
Ash stepped back and surveyed his surroundings. No movement. The island was calm and still. Regardless, Ash felt a fire brewing within his brain.
The enemy had survived and was now somewhere on the island.
A complication. No doubt.
Worse still, Ash was completely unarmed. Hand-to-hand combat had never been his strong point, but if he could at least make his own weapon, he wouldn’t be as vulnerable.
He just hoped the pilot was unarmed too.
Crouching down, Ash tore the parachute into fragments. He used the largest piece of material to make a swag and tossed his belongings in the centre.
No doubt the Australian pilot would be hostile. He needed to find that bastard and put him six feet under – otherwise, he would risk losing his life at the hands of the enemy.
Throwing the swag over his shoulder, Ash prepared himself for the hunt and kill.