by
Part 13: On The Run
I slept like a dead man. I was so exhausted that I lapsed into a long and contented sleep which was so deep, it was more like unconsciousness. I think I woke up in exactly the same position as when I went to sleep. Or it may have had something to do with the softness of the hay that I was resting in. I had expected hay to be scratchy and prickly to sleep on, but it wasn't. It was quite soft and warm and made excellent bedding. We had made ourselves comfortable in a little alcove, surrounded on three sides by stacks of hay bales. It was actually quite cozy in our little corner of the barn, and the hay was good insulation against the chilly weather outside. I was aware, as I stirred and looked around me, that my arms and shoulders were sore from having my hands bound yesterday and the cut above my eye was still tender. There was a clot of congealed blood that had formed a crusty black scab on my eyebrow.
I looked across and saw Simon-Peter still asleep in the opposite corner of the little alcove, with loose strands of hay all over his clothes. He looked like he had been rolling around in it. Perhaps he had tossed around in his sleep. I was relieved that next to him were our backpacks, and of course Howard the bear. I was surprised that the KAPOs had given us back everything when they released us. They had searched us, but evidently did not find anything worth taking. They didn't find my buckwads. The rolls of greenbacks were well hidden. My stash was in a place where I knew nobody would really think of looking. For the time being the Cloud Nine Benevolent Fund was safe.
After the Captain had finished questioning us, and purloined the use of my butt, they let us go. But we were tired and it was late and I knew we wouldn't make much progress in the dark. It was the young KAPO boy who had offered us the use of the barn. He told us we would be safe there till the morning. He knew the farmer and he said he often helped out on the farm before the war broke out. He used to work there tending to the livestock. Now of course, most of the livestock was long gone and the farm produced only a fraction of what it used to. The war had seen to that. Most of its output was requisitioned by the KAPO militia, this being KAPO territory. And the boy himself had been obliged to join the militia, like a lot of the young boys in this region.
It was that same KAPO boy who brought us some food in the morning, all wrapped in a little bundle with some cheesecloth. He woke me up when he scuttled into the barn, and laid the little bundle of goodies on the hay. There were apples and hard boiled eggs and even fresh milk in a little jar. It was all he could find, he said. I didn't question it. I just sat up, smiled gratefully, and tucked into the little feast he had supplied.
As I was eating, carefully putting some aside for Simon-Peter, the KAPO boy sat cross-legged in the hay opposite me, with the food between us. He had his hood up and his Kalashnikov slung over one shoulder. He was wearing loose, baggy jeans that looked too big for him, just like his boots. He didn't say much, but I knew he liked me because he had that same sycophantic look about him. He watched me very closely, but not because he was grudging or suspicious. I got the impression he just liked me. I could feel his dark, pretty eyes roving all over my features, looking at me closely with an expression that looked like he wanted to kiss me. There was this air of longing about him. I had noticed it when we were in the back of the pickup truck yesterday, and I had felt sorry for him even then.
Without saying anything, he glanced tentatively at Simon-Peter and saw he was asleep. Then he turned to me and I knew he had something on his mind.
'What's your name?' he asked, genuinely interested.
'Cloud,' I said, munching on an apple.
'What, like in the sky?' he asked, pointing out of the open front of the barn where the blueness of the morning sky was just visible.
I nodded.
'That's a nice name,' he said, 'very noble.'
I gave a nervous little laugh.
'Hehe, I don't think so,' I said, shrugging off his remark.
He was looking at me so sycophantically, I could almost predict that he was gonna make a move on me. I knew that look only too well.
'What's YOUR name?' I asked, feeling I should reciprocate.
'My name is Aynan,' he said, 'In my language that means "friend".'
'Well, you certainly lived up to your name,' I said.
'It's the least I can do after yesterday,' he said, really quite solicitously, 'I'm sorry my Captain raped you.'
I was puzzled by his choice of words. As a shota boy, we never used the word rape. We had our own, more appropriate terminology.
'He didn't rape me,' I said, 'He forcefucked me.'
'Same thing,' he said, dismissing my differentiation.
'No,' I rebuffed, 'A shota boy is never raped. We know our purpose. Our purpose is to service men's cocks.'
Aynan almost laughed, seemingly unconvinced by that philosophy, and regarded me with a scornful look.
'Even when you don't want to?'
'When one consorts with lions,' I recited, 'One is sooner or later to get bitten.'
It was a quote I read somewhere, and it was supposed to illustrate that a forcefuck was an occupational hazard to a shota boy. Every shota had been forcefucked at one point or other, each of us to varying degrees. We all had our forcefuck horror stories.
'Whatever you want to call it,' he said, 'It wasn't very nice.'
I smiled kindly at him, really quite touched by his empathy.
He got up and went over the other side of the barn, walking around a big stack of bales so that he was almost out of sight. I peered over and he seemed to be preoccupied by whatever was on his mind. He was kicking up little clumps of hay, apparently deep in contemplation, his Kalashnikov still slung over his shoulder and his hood up to keep out the chill of the Verolino morning. Deep inside the barn we were protected from the elements, though it was still chilly in there.
He called me over to where he was standing, way over the other side of the cavernous barn. It was out of sight to Simon-Peter, who was still soundly asleep.
'Cloud?'
I finished my apple and got up and went over to him. His warm breath billowed into the frosty air as he exhaled. He seemed to be breathing a little fast.
'What is it?' I asked him.
He stood looking at me, his dark pupils glinting out from under his hood which was pulled way down over his eyes.
'Are you really a shota boy?' he asked, sheepishly.
'Yes,' I nodded.
He looked at me closely, his eyes roving all over my face and then down my chest, and all the way down to my feet, as though he was sizing me up and trying to encompass what my young body had experienced.
'Is it true that you're the best?'
My pleas to his brutal Captain yesterday had obviously stuck in his mind.
'So they tell me,' I replied.
He moved across very suddenly and put a hand on my shoulder, showing me that he wanted something. I turned and looked right back at him. He kept his hand there, as though to hold me in place.
'I really like you Cloud,' he said.
'That much is clear,' I replied, making it known that I had already noted his interest in me.
'Can I?' he asked, holding out his arms, inviting me to move closer.
I nodded, acquiescing to his request, and stepped towards him. He leaned in and embraced me gently, wrapping his arms around me. He squeezed me tightly, and I heard him sigh with pleasure as he pressed up against me. His hoodie felt ticklish against my cheek. I could feel him push his crotch forward and his little dick was big and hard in his jeans. He started running his hands over my back. Then he let out a long sigh, as though savoring the exquisite pleasure of getting the feel of a shota boy's body so close to him. I could feel his warm breath against my cheek as he nuzzled his face into my hair.
'You smell so good,' he said, almost in a whisper, and I could almost feel him inhaling my scent.
The longing was apparent in his voice, as though just being in such close proximity to me was an exquisite pleasure for him. He was excited, but he was gentle. I knew he wanted to do stuff to me, but I didn't mind. Underneath that hoodie and the other paramilitary gear, the loose, baggy jeans, the broad belt and the big heavy boots, beneath all that anonymous paraphernalia, was a young boy who had a life and a personality and his own individual needs and wants. Right now I could feel his need right through the thick fabric of his jeans. He was almost trembling with need. As a young boy, who often felt the inherent need in the hardness of my own little dick, I could only imagine how constricted he must have been feeling not having a little playmate of his own to blow his kiddie fuckwad into, or even so much as a hairless little fuckbuddy to cuddle up with at night. I dunno, but again I found myself feeling sorry for him.
'Please let me do this,' he said softly, suddenly letting me go.
I stepped back and waited to see what he was going to do.
He unshouldered his Kalashnikov and laid it down in the hay. Then he removed his hoodie, unzipping it, and peeling it off his arms. He rolled it up into a bundle and placed it next to his rifle. Underneath he wore a rather grubby looking t-shirt, but his slim, slightly muscled physique showed through the thin fabric. He had a very well defined chest, his pectorals and nipples showing prominently through his shirt, and his slim torso tapered down to a trim tummy and narrow waist. His body was perfect, and now, with his hoodie off, I could see his face properly. I loved his thick, black wavy hair, his dark, mysterious eyes and those distinctive kinked eyebrows. He really was incredibly beautiful.
He got down onto his knees and reached for my belt. His breaths were now quite quick and shallow. I could see he was trying to undo the front of my pants. His excitement made him a little shaky and uncoordinated, so I helped him. I loosened my belt and then he was able to undo my flies and open the front of my faded pants, exposing my boxer briefs. He pulled out the hem of my shirt and lifted up the front, revealing my tummy. He stopped and just looked at it for a moment. My tender young skin was now exposed to the atmosphere and I could feel the burning heat of my clothed body now cooling in the stagnant air of the barn. Aynan was still on his knees in front of me, staring at my tummy, his face only inches away. My stiffie was straining with hardness in my boxers. The truth is, Little Cloud was awkwardly trapped in the elastic fabric of my boxer briefs and I needed Aynan to take him out. I welcomed his move to draw down the waistband of my boxers and I sighed with pleasure as he dug his little hand into my underwear. It was exquisite feeling his warm hand down there as he took my stiffie out, holding it by the base. He looked at it closely, levering it this way and that as though he was trying to memorize its proportions. I must admit I liked people looking at it. It was a nice dick. I was particularly proud of Little Cloud. He was a good size, long and straight, with a beautiful compact head, a tight foreskin that didn't overhang, and always stiffened up at a nice angle, pointing upwards, standing out eager and proud. Most of all, Little Cloud spunked real good, and tightened up in such profound ecstasy. Yup. That little soldier gave me so much pleasure.
Aynan did no more than just look at my dick. He admired it for a while, holding it in his fingertips, but made no attempt to jack it, or squeeze it or even roll the skin back. He just tucked it back into my boxer briefs. I was a little disappointed because I thought he wanted to suck it. But he didn't. All he did was scoot forward on his knees and lean in, and he kissed my little innie belly button, ever so gently, ever so lightly, and I could see him close his eyes in stolen pleasure as he savored the moment. Then he pressed his face right into my tummy, and I could feel his nose jabbing into the tight skin. The tip of his nose was cold from the morning air, but his lips were warm and wet, and he kissed and licked my tummy. It tickled, but it was also infinitely arousing. I held onto his head, digging my little fingers into his thick black wavy hair, and he seemed to be nibbling at my tummy, sucking on my skin, almost reveling in the feel of my soft young flesh against his face. He was loving it.
When he was done, he drew back, leaving his wetness on my tummy. He looked up at me, overawed by having elicited this stolen pleasure from me, brief though it was. It was funny, I thought, that yesterday, when we were prisoners of KAPO, I was supposed to be at his mercy, but at this moment it seemed the other way around. He was totally in my power and he was looking up at me subserviently.
'Thank you,' he said, still breathless with awe, 'I've always wanted to do that.'
He got up and dusted the hay off his knees, and I think he was about to pick up his rifle and hoodie. But I stopped him. He may not have wanted to play with my little cock, but I certainly wanted to play with his. I stepped forward, my pants still open and my shirt still hanging out, and I put my hand gently on his crotch. I felt for his dick. It was still hard, a big elongated lump of potent boy meat trapped awkwardly against his abdomen. To my delight, he didn't stop me. I squeezed, my little fingers barely able to grasp the turgid organ through the folds in his pants, and he exhaled sharply, closing his eyes in sheer pleasure. I loved it when I had that effect on other boys.
I don't think he expected what I did next. I wanted to see that little cock. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to wrap my fingers around it and feel its heat. I wanted to suck it. I wanted to make it squirt. I wanted to usher it into a state of paradise so it would give up its load for me. I wanted to taste it and ingest his seed. He was an anonymous, nondescript little boy soldier, who probably didn't want to be here. His desire to kiss my tummy and bury his face into my soft flesh convinced me that he had an inherent appreciation for a pretty shota boy like me. He had only looked at my stiffie, and made no attempt to suck me off, and because he had not taken advantage, and had respected me, I wanted to do this for him. So I undid his belt and opened his pants and I pulled out the stiff little rod from his underwear. As I lowered the front of his underwear, his erect little cock fell out. It was a beautiful cock - long, straight, perfectly cut, with a proud slightly pointed head that was almost like an arrow-tip - perfect for punching into tight little holes. He even had a few tight little curls of thin black hair at the base of his dick. He was much more well developed than me. I hoped that meant he spunked a lot more too. I got on my knees and kissed his little dick. Then I encased it in the wet warmth of my lips, and buried it into the depths of my expert little mouth, so that my head was impaled on that iron-hard appendage. He gasped quite loudly above me, but I couldn't tell if that was from shock or pleasure. Whatever it was, I could feel his knees trembling from the sheer electricity of the feelings I was giving him. That's right, let Cloud Nine take you to the heights of shota boy heaven - just float around up there with me for a bit, with your little preteen cock driving in and out of my magical little lips. Go on, shoot your kiddie fuckwad into my head as hard as you can, and let me taste the fruit of your pubescent little balls.
It didn't take long. That's what I loved about all boys - they could spunk anywhere. Didn't matter where they were or what the circumstances, all they had to do was make wood and jerk their cock - or have it sucked by an expert little mouth like this - and it was possible to induce a self-contained orgasm. No sooner had they squirted out their load, within seconds they could go back to whatever they were doing. It was just so perfect. So compulsive. So convenient.
I knew when he was about to spunk. His rising orgasm made him breathe heavier and faster, gathering momentum like an approaching train, and he started thrusting his dick into my mouth, by now totally in the grip of the impending pleasure that was about to overwhelm him. Then he stopped just before the paradise stroke and let me finish him off. I grabbed his denim clad butt with both hands and pulled his little cock into the back of my throat as far as it would go, giving a real hard suck on his entire organ. He shook violently and let out a strangulated gurgle, and there was a short delay where he froze, just as his dick pulsed in my mouth. I wrapped my tongue around it and tasted his kidsperm as it was ejected from his cockhead. It was a lot more than I thought. A lot more than I expected for such a young boy. His little balls had certainly been busy. I remember thinking that I wished I could squirt that much. How come he was the same age as me, and yet he was able to produce so much cum? He spunked so much I struggled to swallow it all. I gulped it down in big mouthfuls. His fluid was scalding hot. It tasted salty and pungent, and felt thick and substantial on my tongue. It was delicious. I suckled on his little cock until it stopped pulsing and he had stopped thrusting into my head, and I licked his cockhead clean before I let it go. He squirmed from the sensitivity of my tongue on the tender head of his still engorged cock. Reluctantly, when his cum was over, I let his little dick fall from my mouth and pulled back. I looked up at him, still on my knees. He had that familiar look of dazed incredulity on his face, like he couldn't believe how good that was. He smiled at me gratefully. I smiled back conceitedly, reassured that I hadn't lost my touch, and got up. He looked deep into my eyes as I rose to my feet again, and I could see that familiar look of respect and admiration. It was the same look worn by most of my first time tricks, the look they had after the first time I blew their minds, the first time my magical little bouche blew their cocks and the first time they had blown their load into me. That look always gave me a feeling of intense satisfaction.
'Thank you,' he said breathlessly, 'that was the best ever.'
When we had both recuperated from our little cockgames, we readjusted our clothing and sat in the hay to recover. Aynan was looking a bit flushed. I thought the reddish glow in his cheeks was quite fetching. As Simon-Peter still slept, we chatted amiably and I told Aynan of our plans.
'How far away is the airfield?' I asked Aynan.
'Twenty, maybe twenty five miles,' he suggested, vaguely.
'We need to get there by nightfall,' I said.
'It's a long walk, but you can make it,' he said, with a spark of optimism, 'If you start now.'
Later, when Simon-Peter woke up, I gave him what was left of the food.
After breakfast, we prepared to leave. When we left, Aynan gave us some things for our journey. Cigarettes were always good currency, and Aynan stuffed a handful of them into my breast pocket. It was Aynan who took us to the road that would lead us to the airfield. I like to think that he did it as a gesture of appreciation, and to reciprocate for his quick, if fleeting, trip to boysex paradise. He even pointed out what route we should take and explained exactly how to approach the airfield perimeter.
On the way to the airfield, we encountered a long convoy of trucks. We heard them coming long before we saw them. Far behind us, a distant roar of engines was closing in, and a long plume of dust was rising somewhere towards the horizon where the road disappeared over a ridge in the middle distance. Simon-Peter looked at me, alarmed. I took his hand and we jumped into the hedgerows at the roadside, deciding to hide out until the convoy had passed. The convoy approached with frightening speed, a long column of trucks, speeding past us with lots of noise and dust. We could even feel the heat haze off their engines as they passed, each one puffing clouds of diesel fumes, roaring at full speed, heavily laden with troops and equipment. They were VLA trucks - distinctive with the VLA insignia, the familiar silhouette of a two-headed bear, skulking across the blue and white base colors of the flag, seemingly looking forward and behind at the same time. Truck after truck was crammed to the gunwales with food, fuel, arms and ammunition, and those that were not overflowing with supplies were carrying VLA troops - distinctive in their regulation field gray uniforms and all waxen-faced, solemn and anxious, no doubt gearing up for the struggle which lay ahead. No wonder the UN were pulling out. All sides were squaring up for this conflict. They were spoiling for a fight so much that you could almost taste it. But this was not about mere real estate. Of course Verolino was symbolic to them both, but there were also long running animosities between KAPO and the VLA, some of which went back centuries, to say nothing of their diametrically opposed religions and political doctrines. Now, they were resolved to settle their differences once and for all.
I held Simon-Peter's head down as we peeped out of the gaps in the foliage, and we waited for the column to pass. It seemed to take an eternity to end. From start to finish, that column took about fifteen minutes to pass, during which time hundreds of trucks must have sped past. The sheer volume of resources they had committed to this struggle was frightening. But they certainly outclassed KAPO both in terms of numbers and the superiority of their equipment. The VLA were organized, ruthlessly efficient and deadly, and the KAPOs were relatively ill-equipped and ramshackle. It was going to be a titanic battle. I felt a stab of pity for Aynan. I only hoped he was going to be okay.
We walked for miles. We spent almost the whole day walking it seemed, taking little rest and soldiering on in our trek to the airfield. It was our only hope of salvation, and it was only with that thought in mind that I ignored my aching feet and the tiredness in my back and legs. My muscles protested, and yet we kept right on walking. On the way, I held Simon-Peter's little hand. His little legs walked almost in a canter to keep up with me, and I was tugging on his hand, encouraging him to keep going. It was strange. As we walked, I remember looking down at him, and he would look up and force a little smile, just to reassure me that he was okay. I smiled back in acknowledgement. My responsibility towards this boy almost felt like he was a little brother to me. I wondered if that was what Ciggy had felt towards his little brother - what was his name? Oh yes, Allie. The little brother that had tragically drowned. Inevitably my thoughts turned to Ciggy, and I reminded myself of the whole point of this journey - to rendezvous with Ciggy who was going to get us out of this hell hole. He was going to get us on that transporter and within a few hours we would be flying, courtesy of the RAF, to the NATO airbase in Turkey, just as we had planned. Tell the truth, that was the only thing that kept me going. When I started to feel the exhaustion, I just thought of Ciggy, and that spurred me on to keep right on walking. When Simon-Peter was too tired, I carried him. He hopped up onto my back, and collapsed on me, his sweet head lolling about limply with his chin resting on my shoulder, still clutching Howard the bear in his little fist. I carried his weary little frame as far as I could while he recuperated from the demands of this unwelcome odyssey.
As the afternoon wore on, we began to hear shelling in the distance. At first it was a faint rumble, almost like distant thunder, too far away to be of any concern. But that shelling became louder and more frequent, until we could almost feel the shudder of the explosions as they pounded the earth just a few miles away. On the horizon, ribbons of black smoke rose diagonally into the sky. It was very worrying. UNVERO had not yet withdrawn. Officially they did not relinquish control of Verolino until tomorrow morning. But the warring factions were champing at the bit, already emboldened by the UNs impending withdrawal and had clearly decided not to wait. They ignored the UN and their artillery were already engaging each other in battle. I realized, with frightening clarity, that we were heading right into the shelling. It was probably in or around the airfield, right where we were supposed to be going.
We walked on regardless. We had no choice. Our only hope of salvation was to get on that transporter, even if it meant we had to negotiate the shelling. It wasn't even clear who was shelling who. All I knew was that every thirty seconds, a shell would explode with ear-shattering intensity. And the closer we got, the louder and more tangible the explosions. In fact, it all became so relentless, and the frequency of the shelling so intense, that there were more explosions than silence. The warring factions did not wait for the UN to withdraw. They advanced anyway. Then, to compound the already grave situation, with no coalition aircraft to enforce the no-fly zone, the skies were now open season. That afternoon, not even twenty four hours after the UN withdrawal was announced, the unmistakable roar of supersonic bombers filled the sky. The distinctive whistling engine note told me they were Russian-built MiG29s. They were mean-looking aircraft, with eagle-like nose fairings, swept-back wings and twin tail fins. Tremendously versatile and deadly, designed for air supremacy. They were nationalist aircraft, with VLA markings, sent to cleanse Verolino of civilians and any remaining military - leaving it ready for the ground units to move in and claim it. Pretty soon it was like we were walking through a pyrotechnic display - with the sky being lit up by flashes and flames, whistles and roars, just like fireworks. It really was like all hell had broken loose. It was exactly what I imagined hell looked like. Verolino had been turned into a boiling cauldron of fire and explosions, a veritable maelstrom of flames and destruction. Our only option was to head for the airfield in the hope that the UN still had control of it and we could get away, still mindful of what Ciggy had said - that the last transporter would take off before nightfall.
Well, we headed for the airfield. By then the daylight was already starting to fade. We made it to the perimeter of the airfield, approaching from the higher ground to the west, just as Aynan had advised. I immediately understood why. From up there, we could see the checkpoint at the airfield entrance, and had a clear view of everything that was going on down below. The ground sloped gently down towards the road where UNVERO personnel had positioned their distinctive white vehicles, blocking the main gate to the airfield. The reason was pretty clear. As we approached, rising up just behind the ridge at the top of the slope, we heard the distinct roar of an angry crowd. As we looked down, we were confronted by the sight of a big, noisy mob of civilians. They were milling around outside the gate in confusion and desperation, pleading to be allowed in. But UNVERO were not letting anybody in. They had the gates closed and their six-wheeled APCs parked in front of the gates. UNVERO troops stood on top of them with their SA80 assault rifles pointed at the crowd. Below them, the crowd were screaming, shouting and pleading. Children were crying, frightened and confused. Mothers were holding up their babies to be saved. It was like the end of the world. We could see through the double rows of mesh fencing that surrounded the airfield perimeter, and on the runway stood a solitary C130 transporter, with RAF markings, its rear cargo ramp down, all four propellers spinning, with armed UNVERO troops on the runway surrounding the rear of the aircraft. Outside the gates there was no orderly queue, only a great mass of humanity all clamoring for a space on that aircraft. The troops had their guns aimed at the crowd, ready to fire should they be overrun. They were tetchy and nervous, shouting hurried commands and warnings to one another. They had accents much like Simon-Peter. I assumed they must be British, part of the last of the UNVERO forces to withdraw - a rearguard that had remained on the ground to protect the airfield and facilitate the evacuation. Only they weren't doing a very good job.
It looked hopeless, but we had to try and get on that aircraft, if not just for Simon-Peter's sake. We did go down and fight our way through the crowd, joining the surging throng of civilians, all equally as frantic to get to the aircraft. We fought our way right into the mass of people. I elbowed my way through, pulling Simon-Peter along with me, and lugging our backpacks through the writhing mob. We pushed forward and managed to get to the gate, till we were right up against the mesh fencing. But there was no way in. Simon-Peter put his little nose up against the fence and peered through. There was an UNVERO sergeant on the other side, in full combat gear, complete with body armor, his SA80 pointed through the gate just above our heads. We called out to him, but he ignored our pleas. He avoided making eye contact, nervously panning the muzzle of his assault rifle at the crowd. I pushed Simon-Peter right up against the fence and pinned him there, so I wouldn't lose him in all the shoving, then I took Howard the bear from his hand. Trying to keep the rest of the crowd behind me, I fumbled about with the stitching in Howard's back, parting the seam from where I had crudely removed some of his stuffing, and dug my fingers in. I pulled out a thick roll of greenbacks and stuffed them through the mesh of the fence, hoping that the sergeant would take the bait. He looked. Even amidst the craziness and confusion, he could see the juicy wad of greenbacks I was offering him. He called to his colleague.
'Hey, this boy's a Brit.'
His colleague, equally as jumpy, looked at Simon-Peter, and they seemed to nod in agreement with each other. Between them they decided to open the gate by just a few inches. The sergeant pulled the roll of greenbacks through the fence and stuffed it into his body armor, then he grasped Simon-Peter's arm and hauled him through the gap. I managed to slip through behind him. It worked! We were in!
Without looking behind, I took Simon-Peter's hand and focused on the distance we had to cover to reach the aircraft. It seemed a hell of a long way away once we were actually on the runway. We hurried towards the deafening noise of the waiting giant. There was a great sense of energy about that Hercules as it stood there, not moving, for now its tremendous power unsummoned. I was literally pulling Simon-Peter forward as we ran headlong towards it.
Suddenly, there was a shout and a roar of dismay rippled through the crowd behind us. Shots rang out, but were drowned out by the shouts of the unruly horde and a loud cheer went up as they all tried to force their way through the gap in the gate. The UNVERO troops were overrun, routed by the sheer weight of numbers, and suddenly the crowd were all swarming into the airfield. The UNVERO troops ran in all directions, loathe to fire at civilians. But they were still way behind us and as we headed towards the loading ramp of the plane, there were two crewmen in their flight overalls standing at the top of the ramp, just inside the fuselage, holding out their arms to help us aboard. They were beckoning us toward them, hurrying us along. They were about to leave! We were running as fast as we could, but suddenly Simon-Peter stopped and I tugged heavily on his arm. I stopped to see what had happened. He had turned and was trying to go back.
'Howard! I dropped Howard!' he cried out.
He wrested his arm free, severing our handhold, and turned to run back to get Howard. Meanwhile the rest of the crowd were gaining on us, wildly screaming and running towards us at frightening pace. Simon-Peter didn't seem to notice them. He ran towards them oblivious, focused only on finding Howard. I had to run after him. Inevitably he was knocked down by the panicking mob that soon enveloped both of us, running towards the plane, and I watched as he fell backwards, hitting his head on the concrete. I threw myself over him, afraid he might be trampled and held him down protectively as the screaming horde passed over us. I realized by then that it was too late. I looked up as we both lay on the cold, hard concrete, and I knew that there was no way we could make it to the aircraft. Even the mob that were now between us and the plane weren't going to make it. They stopped and stood still suddenly, watching in despair, screaming obscenities at the RAF. The rear cargo ramp was raised shut and the aircraft started to roll. The engines powered up and the plane seemed to spin on its axis. It was leaving! The troops on the runway turned their guns on the crowd, as though fearing they might run after the aircraft. Simon-Peter and I didn't even attempt to get up. We watched helplessly as the weighty machine trundled heavily along the length of the runway, gathering speed as the engines throttled up to full power. Finally its nose lifted, the mighty aircraft lumbered into the air, catapulted upwards, its turboprop engines screaming under the strain. I will never forget the sense of helplessness and despair as we watched that Hercules climb steeply into the darkening Verolino sky. Ciggy was aboard that aircraft. He had probably waited for me. I only hoped that he understood that something prevented me from getting to him. I hoped that he wasn't thinking that I had changed my mind, or that our tryst wasn't important to me, or that I had broken my promise to him. Whatever he was thinking right now, I just hoped he knew that I hadn't forgotten about him. And so, as that aircraft gained height and banked steeply, turning its nose towards Incirlik, anxiety turned into despair, and we watched our only hope of salvation slowly disappearing into the darkness. The plane got smaller and smaller until it was just an indistinguishable dot in the distance. Ciggy was gone, and I was probably never going to see him again.
Heartbroken, disappointed and desperate, I looked down at Simon-Peter as we laid there, still stretched out on the runway, and saw how much his hopeful face was relying on me. But it was all pointless. Our efforts had been in vain. We were now marooned in this nightmare from which there was no escape. To the east, the KAPOs were closing in. To the north, the VLA were bombing and strafing everything in sight. Finally resigned to our fate, we picked ourselves up and I stood facing Simon-Peter. He understood exactly what had happened, but at least he had found Howard, and he was clutching the bear tightly to his breast. Thankfully we were both unhurt. We turned and headed back towards the unmanned gate, which was now wide open. The APCs were still parked there, apparently abandoned. I took Simon-Peter's little hand and reluctantly led him away. We walked away from the dispersing and disappointed crowd, gradually leaving the noise and commotion behind us, and headed back towards the town. That night, we wandered the war-torn streets of Verolino, lost and bedraggled, with no clear idea of where we were even going. We were already exhausted from our all day trek. We were hungry and we were cold. We trudged the bombed-out streets looking for somewhere to rest for the night. And as we tramped amongst the desolation, picking our way through the rubble, I was grateful for the cover of darkness, so that Simon-Peter wouldn't have to see the enormous tears that were gathering in my eyes.
* * * * * *