On the frontlines with G Force

OPINION: Dawn. The commander stood in silence on the plain. It was bone-snapping cold.

"G Force," he barked. His breath clouded the air.

Moments later he heard feet running on frosted grass, and the members of G Force gathered in front of him, their eyes like the eyes of puppies. They looked a rag-tag mob. How he'd have loved to put them in uniform. But for urban guerrilla work, uniform was unthinkable. They had to go unnoticed. They had to blend in.

How young they were, skin fresh, eyes bright. Time had yet to lay siege to them, to shell the ramparts of their hopes, to batter at the gate of their self-confidence.

Belief burned in them. And they believed that they would always believe.

He pictured them 50 years hence, veterans bent by what happened to happen, their ideals shredded, the light of delusion long gone from their eyes, the truth scored into their skin.

How many such had he sent over the top? He had lost count. They all merged now into one straggle-bearded youth who stood before him. He groped for the lad's name. Lance, yes, Lance. A good name. But a bad beard. So many of them grew beards during training. They longed to be men. But the beards they grew, those wispy straggles, told the opposite story to the one they wanted to tell.

He'd taught them all he could. How to move unnoticed through a crowd. How to select a target, study and assess it, how to isolate it and how to move in for the fatal thrust. But you just never knew how they would fare in action.

Some always surprised you, taking to it like a puppy to the teat. Others fell apart. Training could do only so much. In the end, it was bred in the bone.

"G Force," he said, as they stood together on the frozen plain, "the time has come. At 0900 hours today, we're going in."

Nobody spoke. But the commander could sense, as a dog can sense an earthquake before it strikes, the yelp of thrill that fizzed through all of them. He loved this moment.

"Let him who has no stomach for this fight," he said, and a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on his words as they misted the air, "let him depart in peace. Our quarrel's not with him. His passport shall be made and money for the bus put in his purse. We would not go in that man's company who fears his fellowship to go with us.

"But he that survives this day and comes safe home, will stand a tiptoe when this day is named, will strip his sleeve and say, 'these scars I got upon that day'. Old men forget and all shall be forgot, but he'll remember with advantages what feats he did upon that day, from now until the ending of the world."

The commander paused. Deep silence. Oh the magic of mangled Shakespeare.

"We few," he said, "we happy few. We band of brothers. G Force, go get 'em."

Weapons were issued. They boarded the unmarked van. The commander drove. He dropped them silently at their prescribed co-ordinates. When the last of them, the boy Lance, slithered like an eel from the back door of the van, the commander's job was done. They were on their own. But he could never resist the lure. He dumped the van in a side street and returned on foot. None ever knew that he watched. Had they known, they'd have crumbled. He flattened himself against a shaded wall.

"Good lad," he said to himself as he picked out Lance on a bench in the crowded street. To the untrained eye, there was nothing about him to alert suspicion. To the trained eye he was a loaded gun.

"There," said the commander to himself, "that one there, the bald one with the dog."

As if acting telepathically Lance rose from the bench and moved casually towards the target. The bald civilian, the victim, would sense nothing untoward. Yet.

"Observe, assess, isolate, attack," intoned the commander under his breath. The lad moved well. No sign of tension. Nothing. He was studying, assessing. He was choosing his moment.

"Now," thought the commander. "Now. Go."

And the good lad went. He bore down on the victim. He drilled him with his eyes. His face was lit with devotional intensity. It was beautiful to watch. Instinctively the victim swerved. But it was too late. He was done, got, trapped. No escape was possible. The commander's heart sang.

The lad stood toe to toe with his target. No one could have seen it coming. It was cruelly beautiful, like pinning a butterfly.

Silently, the lad raised from his waist the standard issue 250-millimetre folding clipboard.

"Have you ever considered joining Greenpeace?" he said.

- © Fairfax NZ News