War Torn

by Andy McNab

  1 SECTION HAD FINISHED EATING BUT REMAINED GLUED TO THEIR table watching a TV news item about Afghanistan. Since the Taliban were stepping up their use of IEDs, or roadside bombs as the reporter called them, politicians were calling on the Prime Minister to send the troops more helicopters.Angus McCall gave the screen two thumbs-up. ‘That’s it, that’s what we need for IEDs. We need to fly over the fuckers.’Finn said: ‘Yeah, but we’ve still got to get out there on foot patrol. We need wagons the bastards can’t blow up.’‘Well, my dad says that—’‘Aaaargh!’ Finn cried. ‘What does he know about the Taliban?’Angus grew red in the face. ‘My dad knows about fighting!’‘Your dad never fought out here, did he? Everything’s different here! And it’s just a matter of time before Terry Taliban starts taking down our air support.’‘My dad says that Black Hawks are—’Finn pulled a face and stuffed his fingers in his ears. ‘I am so fucking sick sick sick of hearing what your dad says about everything!’‘Because he knows what he’s talking about! He was in the Jedi!’ Angus reddened still more then. Not with anger but because he hadn’t meant to say that. His dad had never actually claimed to be in the SAS. But he’d implied it. When Angus had asked him outright once, John McCall had said: ‘Lad, I can’t talk about that. Not everyone tells every detail of what they’ve done. We don’t all go and write fucking books about our achievements. For some of us, just knowing what we did, and our mates knowing what we did, that’s enough.’So that meant he was in the SF then. Angus knew it. But if his father hadn’t told anyone in all these years, he was sure he shouldn’t have blurted it out in the cookhouse.The head chef’s sudden appearance prevented Finn from taking the discussion further. Taregue Masud was one of the more popular men at the base. But he ruled his kitchen so tyrannically that he was known as the Regimental Sergeant Major. The lads soon learned not to get in his way, not unless they wanted to buy the RSM’s bootleg DVDs or T-shirts he’d had printed with SIN CITY across them in camouflage colours.He stood over Dave holding a large parcel wrapped in a black plastic bag.‘Evening, Taregue,’ Dave said. ‘That was an award-winning steak pie tonight.’But the chef was not in the mood for pleasantries. ‘What the bloody, bloody hell is this thing doing in my third freezer?’He slammed the black plastic bag down on the table.‘Well, I couldn’t exactly say . . .’The RSM was about to explode. The cookhouse fell silent as he untied his apron, peeled it from his polyester shirt and threw it to one of his kitchen staff. There were cheers and whistles but the lineup of young assistants looked too nervous to join in. They knew what was coming.The RSM put his hands on his hips. Suddenly no one was eating any more, or talking or watching TV, despite the fact that it was Arsenal v. Chelsea. Taregue Masud had run army kitchens all over the world and generations of soldiers had learned that when the apron came off fireworks always followed.‘I am informed by my staff – and my staff are very reliable – that you and your men have been keeping this item in my freezer. Now just take a look please, Sergeant, and tell me what it is.’Dave lifted the plastic bag up and weighed it in both hands with an expression of extreme seriousness.‘From the temperature and the general rigidity of the item, I’d say it’s frozen goods.’‘And what is it? What is this frozen goods?’ Masud loomed dangerously over him.Dave turned to Streaky and smiled. Streaky was alarmed enough to look right back at him for the first time in a while. ‘I believe Streaky Bacon can help us here.’The RSM’s eyes narrowed. He’d sold Streaky a Sin City T-shirt only that morning.‘Aha! So it was you who placed this in my freezer! And may I ask exactly when?’Streaky raised his eyebrows and rounded his eyes and was about to protest when he remembered how nobody ever believed his denials. Except sometimes his mum.He took the black plastic bag reluctantly in his hands and appeared to weigh it, just as Dave had. It felt like a slab of frozen meat.‘Open, please!’ the RSM cried.The cookhouse was deathly silent now. Someone had turned off the TV. Everyone watched Streaky. He pulled at the tie. Tiny splinters of ice scattered as he opened it. He carefully withdrew the contents.The piece of meat was wrapped in DPM. At one end was a badly butchered mess of frozen blood. At the other, Streaky saw a foot. A human foot. The toenails were a shade of blue. The heel was pink. The ankle, which disappeared into the trouser leg, was encrusted with small icy hairs. Rifleman Bacon shrieked and threw the leg onto the table.The cookhouse was in an uproar. The lads were laughing or shouting and the RSM was jabbering in Bengali. To prove that he had just been surprised, not scared, Streaky forced himself to laugh along with everyone else. He picked up the leg gingerly and held it up. People stared in fascination. Taregue hopped angrily from one foot to the other. Streaky couldn’t hear a word he was saying, but knew it had to do with a human leg not being a nice thing to find in your third freezer.‘Thank you, Streaky,’ Dave said as the noise died down. ‘If we weren’t dry here, I’d buy you a drink.’Streaky glared at him.‘But what are you going to do about this alarming thing? Are you expecting to leave a human leg with some sort of medicinal powder around the toes inside my freezer? Because if you are really thinking that then let me tell you—’Dave signalled for the RSM to calm down. ‘The leg belongs to one of our lads who’s now back in Selly Oak. When I next speak to him I’ll ask him what he wants us to do with it.’‘We could get it stuffed for him,’ suggested Mal.‘Look good on his mantelpiece,’ said Angus.‘Or hanging in the fucking National Gallery. Frame it and Steve’s leg could sell for millions,’ agreed Finn.The chef rolled his eyes. ‘This is disgusting. I am not housing a human foot in my freezer with its leg attached. It is not worth millions to me.’Streaky put the leg quietly back in the bag. He was still embarrassed that he had looked scared in front of everyone. He would lose face for that. There were already people here not showing him respect because he was new and now Dave, fucking Sergeant Dave who was always on his back, had made things worse.Dave was watching him. He turned away from the din to Streaky.‘All right, mate?’‘Man, why you fucking do that to me?’ asked Streaky. ‘You got no respect.’In the circumstances, Dave didn’t think he would insist on Sarge.‘It’s all right,’ he said kindly. ‘You did all right.’ But he could see Streaky disappearing inside himself, his face sullen, head down.‘Suck it up, mate,’ Dave told him.Streaky glared at the ground.‘Well then, rap your way out of it,’ Dave suggested.Streaky did not look up. ‘What, man?’‘You said you could rap. You told me you’ve been thinking hard about your raps. Well then, let’s hear you.’Streaky shrugged. He watched as the cooks opened negotiations with the soldiers. Somehow a complicated deal was being struck which involved freezer space for the leg until Steve decided what he wanted to do with it, a consignment of Sin City T-shirts for the whole platoon and some bootleg DVDs.The leg was finally carried back to the freezer, upright like a flag. People were beginning to drift away or gather around the football match.Streaky stood up, his heart beating fast.‘You planning to rap?’ Binns asked, recognizing the look.Streaky nodded.‘I been thinking about it . . .’ He climbed up on the table.‘Oh, yeah!’ said Binns. ‘I’ll beatbox.’They had done this routine at Catterick more times than they could count. Binns knew he was a sprog when it came to fighting but when it came to beatboxing, he was confident. At last here was one thing he could do well and he wanted to show it.He climbed up on the table beside Streaky and put his fingers to his lips and made a series of such extraordinary sounds that everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to the sprogs.‘Hey, listen to Binman!’ said someone. A few people began to clap to the rhythm. Once it was established, Streaky joined in.

  You get hot in Sin City, you get tired in Sin CityYou got a lot on your plate when you live in Sin City.Brother you get hungry here in Sin City,Brother, you get hungry, so what do they do?Brother, of course they offer you stew.They offer you stew but take my advice.Don’t start to chew, just you think about it twice.

  Everyone was swaying now or pointing to the rhythm. Binman, red-faced, was a one-man drum kit.‘Get off that table!’ howled the RSM from the back of the cookhouse. Streaky and Binman could hear him but
they took no notice and neither did anyone else. The whole cookhouse was enjoying the beatbox and waiting for the rest of the rap.

  Take my advice when they offer you stewOh soldier just you think twice before you chew,Get a knife, cut a slice of that belly of pork’Cos it could be marinated Buckle you got there on your fork.His left leg was wrapped up in deep refrigeration,And Buckle leg and carrots are not the best combination.

  People were laughing now as they clapped. Binman’s face was an unhealthy shade of red but he was still beatboxing. The RSM was advancing with a roar: ‘Just get down off my table, please.’ But even his assistants weren’t listening to him and a couple of lads reached out to prevent him closing on the rappers.

  If the carrots are too crunchy then just you consider this, That could be Steve Buckle’s toes you chewing with your chips. I’m telling you man, the cooks in Sin City never run out of meat,I’m telling you man, they got freezers full of soldiers’ feet. We the British Army, we don’t feed no Taliban, We keep British arms and legs just for the British man, We don’t put no tasty morsels on the Taliban shelf, Our lads get blown up, we gonna eat them ourself.

  Streaky had run out of breath and run out of words. He was amazed he’d got that far. He’d thought each line was the last and then more flow had arrived from somewhere in the back of his head.During the applause that followed he looked back at the smiling faces. They were telling him this was a good rap. He had earned back some respect. Even the officers had enjoyed it, and the civilians were nodding approval.Streaky searched for Dave’s face. For a moment he couldn’t see him. Then he found him standing in the corner, arms folded. Dave nodded. Streaky smiled back.Someone came up and tapped Dave on the shoulder. It was an officer who had just slipped into the tent. He hadn’t heard the rap and he wasn’t responding to the atmosphere. He had a serious expression on his face and he was muttering something to Dave.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  DAVE FOLLOWED THE 2 I/C OUT OF THE COOKHOUSE INTO THE DARK night.‘What’s all the hilarity about?’ He was leading Dave towards the ops room.‘A couple of the lads are rapping.’ Dave would’ve gone on to talk about Steve’s frozen leg if the 2 i/c didn’t look so grave. He guessed he had been called to the OC for some reason. It could be the insurgent they’d shot in the ditch. CSM Kila was always warning there would be an inquiry. Maybe his interview was tonight.‘Well, I’m sorry to interrupt,’ the officer said. ‘There’s an urgent message for you.’Jenny. Dave’s stomach lurched.‘It’s from Selly Oak.’His stomach lurched again. Steve Buckle. The whole cookhouse had just been in uproar over Steve’s leg. And now . . .‘What’s happened, sir?’‘That’s not clear. But his doctor has recommended that you phone him.’The OC was in the tent under a desk light, surrounded by papers. He greeted Dave but carried on working. There were half-opened packets of custard creams on the tables and on the 2 i/c’s desk a crumbling fruit cake that people had obviously been picking at.Dave would have preferred to use the satellite phone in some private place instead of the ops room phone within earshot of officers, signaller and company clerk, but the 2 i/c was already waving the handset at him with a number to dial. The man who answered sounded uncertain. Dave asked to speak to Rifleman Steve Buckle and after a pause the man said: ‘That’s me.’‘I didn’t recognize you, mate! It’s Dave, Dave Henley. How are you?’‘Thank Christ.’ The voice sounded stronger, but it still wasn’t completely Steve. ‘Shit, I need to talk to you.’‘Good to hear you’re in the UK at last!’‘Tell me how everyone is! Please! What’s happening out there?’Since this was the ops room phone, Dave spoke more freely than he could on the satellite. ‘A lot of the time it’s quiet. But we were caught in one fuck of an ambush . . .’‘What happened?’There was a note of longing in Steve’s voice. Dave guessed that knowing his mates were fighting without him was hard. He gave Steve the detailed description of the ambush he knew he wanted.‘If AH had got there much later, we’d have had it. There was one of the bastards already just ten metres away from us and our ammo wouldn’t have lasted another fifteen minutes, even at a very slow rate of fire,’ he concluded.Steve was silent.‘Steve?’Silence.‘Steve?’Nothing.‘Has the line gone dead, mate, or did my bedtime story lull you off to sleep?’ Except it was a summer’s afternoon in England.No response. And then there was a strange, strangled sound. Was Steve choking? He sounded in pain. Maybe his leg was hurting a lot.‘Shit, I wish I was there!’Then Dave knew that Steve was struggling to control his tears.‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dave, what the hell am I doing in fucking Birmingham when I should be there with you knocking the shit out of the Taliban? There’s blokes wandering around this hospital in dishdash! I mean, the hats, the robes, the beards, they say they’re here visiting their sick relatives! And I want to kill them. And the nurse says: no, Steve, they’re British citizens.’Dave cleared his throat.‘We’re not fighting every Moslem, Steve, you know that. We’re not fighting everyone in dishdash. We’re just fighting the Taliban.’‘I wish I was there with you. I’d give anything.’Dave was thinking Steve had already given enough when Steve moved closer to the phone and half whispered: ‘Listen . . . I’ve got something to tell you.’Dave waited. He could hear Steve gathering his strength at the other end and when the words came they were breathless.‘I’ve lost a leg!’‘Oh. Yeah. I know that, mate.’‘How do you know?’Dave thought of the black plastic bag Masud had dumped on the cookhouse table in front of him not thirty minutes ago. He thought of Streaky’s rap. Christ. Had someone really suggested to the whole cookhouse that they get the leg stuffed? Or hang it in the National Gallery? Why had they all been treating Steve’s leg like the funniest thing since Borat? Was it because they all knew the truth was so fucking awful? He felt his face growing red.‘Er . . . well . . . I’ve seen it.’‘You’ve seen my leg?’‘I mean, I saw your leg getting blown off.’‘Fucking hell. You saw it. So what happened? People keep asking me and I’m fucked if I can remember.’Dave described the ambush on their arrival here. It seemed such a long time ago now that it already felt like a dream.‘So you went down with a stoppage . . .’ repeated Steve.‘. . . and you took my place on top, mate. Yeah. And that’s when it happened. If you’re thinking that it could have been me . . . well, you’re right.’There was a long pause.‘Fuck me,’ said Steve very slowly.Dave did not know what to say. Finally he spoke into Steve’s silence. ‘I don’t know why it was you and not me. I’ve asked myself that a lot of times.’‘Yeah . . . yeah . . .’‘When are they giving you a new leg?’‘What?’ Steve wasn’t listening.‘Your new leg. When do you get it?’‘Oh, soon. They have to do a bit of an operation on the stump but not much. Then I go to Headley Court and join the British Paralympics team.’‘And you’ve seen Leanne and the boys?’‘Yeah, yeah.’ His voice was flat.‘How are they?’‘Well, they’ve all still got two fucking legs so compared with me they’re all right.’‘Come on, Steve, it’s hard for them as well.’‘Some bloke’s coming round to see about adapting the house.’‘What sort of adaptations?’‘For a disabled person.’ His tone was bitter. Of course his tone was bitter.Dave said: ‘Mate, I’m not going to give you all that shit about blokes with no legs who climb mountains and win races and—’‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Dave, listen. There was this para who lost a leg and they gave him a new one and he went back out to Afghanistan. Someone said he got back out on the same tour! Think there’s a chance I can do that?’No!‘Yes!’‘Really?’ Steve’s voice became loud and excited, more like the old Steve.I’m leading him up the garden path. He has to accept life won’t be the same with one leg. Or does he? Or could he really get back to the frontline? What’s the right thing to do?‘Well, I mean, it depends how good you are on your new pin. You might not be able to do everything we do . . . or anyway, not on this tour . . . but anything’s possible.’Dave had heard about that para who rejoined his mates. He just wasn’t sure the bloke really existed.‘I want to do exactly what you and the lads do. Prosthetic–’ Steve stumbled over the word. It took a couple of tries before he could say it smoothly. ‘Pro
sthetic legs are amazing now, you can do anything, you can carry kit and fight . . . I have to get back out there with the lads, Dave. That’s all I want. If I know I’m going back, then I can stand Selly Oak, Leanne crying all over me, all the crap.’‘Well, that’s something to aim for.’Steve’s response was robust.‘I’ll show you, mate. They’re not fobbing me off with a desk job. I’ll be out there for your next ambush.’Dave finished the call wishing someone would tell him the right way to handle Steve. He wondered if anyone had told Leanne. He thanked the officers and went outside to see if by any chance the satellite phone was free so that he could call her. Rifleman Ben Broom from 2 Section was just sneaking off with it.‘Did you book that phone?’ asked Dave.‘Yes, Sarge.’‘How many hours a week do you spend talking to her, Broom?’ ‘I like to keep an eye on my bird, Sarge. If I don’t keep calling her, she might fly.’‘You and Jamie Dermott are never off the fucking phone.’‘Funny you should say that, he’s booked in after me.’But all those calls were not enough to keep Agnieszka from flying, thought Dave. He went to the list to book himself in for some phone time with Leanne but the schedule worked one week in advance and few slots were available. Men were getting up in the middle of the night to speak to their loved ones. Dave saw a space tomorrow morning but it was no good: from 0700 1 Platoon was out all day. Because, for the first time, they were on civilian escort duty.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE CONTRACTORS WERE LATE, AS USUAL. WAITING TO LEAVE SIN City with them were all three sections of 1 Platoon plus support staff including engineers, signallers, medics, the Company Sergeant Major and Jean Patterson as interpreter. The hardware was the usual light weapons and machine guns in the Vectors, two WMIKs, one with a .50 cal heavy machine gun and a gimpy, the second with a 40mm grenade machine gun and gimpy.‘Fuck it, do the civvies get a whole mortar platoon as well?’ asked Finn as they waited by the vehicles. ‘And how about an A10 fly-past?’Angus lit a cigarette. ‘Ever have the feeling civilian lives are more important than ours?’Jamie said: ‘Yeah, but we joined up and they didn’t. Anyway, when they’re protected, we’re protected.’Dave was striding past for some more ammunition. ‘Fucking right. I think we’re in for an easy day, lads.’They were sitting with their backs against the Vectors. Sol’s shadow suddenly fell across them.‘OK, 1 Section, there’s a hold-up so let’s do a few checks while we wait. Bacon, your weapon isn’t clean, sort it out when you get back.’‘I cleaned it last night!’‘Well, clean it again. Angry, sorry to hear you broke your wrist.’‘But I didn’t!’‘Then unhook your sling and get your arm out of it. Mal, don’t forget the shotgun.’Mal rolled his eyes. No patrol left the gates without someone reminding him about the shotgun.Sol was frowning at Jack Binns.‘You don’t look right . . . get up.’Binns tried to do this but the weight he was carrying pulled him back. Sol took an arm and tugged him to his feet, then looked him up and down.‘What is going on with your kit, Binman?’‘Don’t feel right.’‘If your webbing’s on wrong, everything’s wrong. Let’s take a look. Get your pouches off.’Binns began to struggle with his Camelbak and his pouches. He handed them to Jamie, who was sitting nearby.‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting things in the right place . . .’Sol shook his head. ‘Have you been like this since you got here?’‘It used to be all right . . .’‘So, Binns, how much are you eating?’‘Dunno.’‘I reckon you’ve lost a lot of weight. I see you in the cookhouse but I’ve never thought to check how much food’s on your plate.’Streaky Bacon spoke up.‘Sometimes Binman doesn’t eat nothing at all.’Sol looked at Binns for an explanation. Binns stared at the ground.‘It’s too fucking hot to eat and I’m too fucking knackered carrying all this kit around.’‘What about your rations when you’re out?’‘They don’t taste nice. That boil-in-the-bag chicken stuff just makes me want to puke. I always give it to Angry.’Sol turned to Angry who looked defensive.‘Yeah, well I like it.’‘Don’t eat the sprog’s rations!’ said Sol. ‘You can swap but you can’t eat his or he’ll die of starvation.’‘But I get hungry! And he doesn’t want it!’Sol ignored him.‘The Lancashire hotpot’s good,’ he told Binman. ‘Try finding someone who’ll swap you a chicken for a hotpot. And they’re bringing in a lot of new flavours now.’Binns looked unconvinced.‘He’s a vegetarian, that’s the problem,’ said Bacon. Binns shot his mate an angry glance.Finn hooted.‘Fond of little furry animals, are you? Well, so am I! Served up with brown sauce.’‘I just don’t eat meat,’ said Binns. ‘I wouldn’t call myself vegetarian.’‘There’s some no-meat meals,’ said Sol. ‘We’ll have to sort you out. Why didn’t you tell us before?’Binn glared at the ground. ‘I’m not gay.’Sol looked around dangerously at the others. ‘Does anyone here think gay men don’t eat meat?’‘No, Sol.’Sol glanced at the isoboxes to see if there was any sign of the civilians. They were already half an hour late.‘Give your meal bag to Mal and he’ll get it changed if there’s time.’‘The colour won’t give you any new meals. They’re all his own personal property. He buys them with his own fucking money,’ said Finn.Binns searched through his pouches for the bag and handed it to Mal, who headed off to the CQMS.‘And don’t you nick it! Change it for a vegetarian one!’ Sol yelled after him.‘I did try and eat the meat. Only it made me puke,’ said Binns miserably.‘Listen, man, no one’s going to make you eat pukey stuff, but you got to eat something. You’re worrying me. This is a harsh climate and we’re doing a hard job and you’ve got to take care of yourself. You drinking enough?’‘Yeah. My Camelbak’s full.’‘Good. Show me your pouches.’‘You mean . . . open them?’‘Yep. You show it for kit inspection. But now I want to see where you keep it. Where’s your ammo?’‘Here.’‘On your right hip, good. Make sure the rounds are facing away. What else is in there?’‘Nothing.’‘Where’s the rest of your ammo?’‘In my day sack.’‘What good is it there?’‘I can get it out when I need it.’‘No, Binman, you don’t want to scrabble around in your day sack under fire. You need to be reaching into the pouch on your belt. What have you got in your left pouch?’Binns opened it and pulled out a toilet roll.‘Try throwing that at Terry Taliban, he’s never seen it before,’ said Finn.Angus said: ‘Yeah, he’ll be scared shitless.’‘Toilet roll should be somewhere out of the way,’ said Sol. ‘Keep the rest of your ammo in your left pouch and a bit of gun oil there too.’‘Er . . . I’ve got gun oil here somewhere . . .’ Binns was frantically opening and closing pouches.‘No good. You have to be able to put your hand on it when you need it. That’s why I keep mine in my front left. Where’s your bayonet?’‘In my day sack.’‘How’s it going to help you there, Binman?’‘Well, it’s on the side so I can reach in and . . .’‘It goes on your webbing! Frog edge on, tie it in with something. There’s no point having a weapon if it’s not to hand. Last time I checked you had everything in the right place!’‘It all went wrong when I started losing weight and nothing fit me any more.’‘Right, open that pouch for me . . . let’s take a look. Hexi, water, peanuts, picture of pretty girl, OK. Where’s your morphine?’‘Left map pocket,’ responded Binns automatically.‘Good. Okay, let’s get your kit on so it fits.’The lads watched.‘That webbing wouldn’t even go around Angry’s arm,’ Finn said.‘Wouldn’t even go around my dick,’ Angus said.‘Dream on,’ Jamie said.‘Take no notice of them and try this,’ Sol told Binman. When Binns nodded, Sol passed him his pouches to hang on it, working his way carefully from the back round to his hips.Mal appeared holding a meal pack.‘Pepper risotto with cheese. The colour said he’s got an impressive array of vegetarian dishes produced to the highest standard and he looks forward to sharing them with you and hearing your comments.’‘The colour boy said that?’ asked Sol, astonished.‘Nope,’ said Mal, flopping down on the ground with the others. ‘He said: look through this box, find one of your gay meals and then fuck off, nancy boy.’‘Ah, that sounds more like him.’Angus was shuffling about, smoking impatiently. ‘If an entire platoon of men and support and a fucking convoy of vehicles can be ready to go at 0700 hours, why can’t Martyn Robertson get himself out of
his isobox on time?’‘I could have stayed in my cot a bit longer,’ said Mal, who was always last to get up.‘Which wagon are the contractors in?’ asked Jamie.‘See that one up there with the cushions, the air-conditioning, the reclining seats, the bar and the satellite TV?’ said Finn.At that moment the civilians appeared. Martyn was surrounded by a cluster of young engineers, but marching determinedly ahead of the group, handbag over her shoulder and a bulging shopping bag in each arm, was Emily.‘Oh no!’ said Sol, who had heard all about Emily’s last outing.‘That’s why they’re late, they’re bringing a woman,’ said the lads, pulling each other up. ‘Because ol’ Emily’s been getting sexed up in front of her mirror.’The vehicles started and men began jumping aboard. The boss greeted them and gallantly helped Emily into the civilians’ wagon before jumping into the front himself.CSM Kila, throwing Dave a crafty look, opened the door at the front of the second Vector, where Jean was seated.‘Mind if I join you?’She gave him a faint grin and he leaped aboard as the convoy moved off.‘Funny the way the civilians hardly ever get attacked,’ he remarked, settling himself next to her.‘Because the Afghans want this oil and gas project to go ahead.’‘But what do a bunch of flipflops know about oil and gas?’Jean pursed her lips. ‘At the shura the town headman was friendly and showed a real interest in the exploration.’Kila thought for a moment.‘Listen, diplomacy isn’t my strong point. I’m a soldier and I just say what I think.’‘And you think . . .?’‘Well . . .’ He looked at her. ‘I think that you are very beautiful.’Jean began to colour. He watched as a pink glow, turning to red, rose from her neck up to her cheeks. She glanced involuntarily at the driver, hoping he hadn’t overheard.‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Kila hastily. Although he didn’t look sorry. ‘Got distracted for a moment there. What I meant to say is that I think the town headman may not be so friendly.’‘You weren’t even at the shura.’ Her voice was cool.‘If he can call off the Taliban because he likes the oil exploration project then he’s got to be Taliban himself. At a high level. Otherwise they’d just tell him to fuck off. Oh!’ He looked shocked at himself. ‘Excuse my language!’Jean reddened but said nothing. Instead she pursed her lips again and indicated that she had picked up something on the radio which required her intense concentration. Kila smiled.Their destination was a parched place at the foot of hills which were themselves at the foot of mountains so that layer upon layer of rock towered above them on one side. On the other the desert was so hot and flat that when the men dismounted it was like stepping into a giant frying pan. Heat radiated up as if it came from the centre of the earth.The contractors debussed.‘You want to watch this little lot,’ said Kila to Dave. ‘When you’ve got your engineering degree you might be back here doing a bit of oil exploration yourself.’‘As a civvie?’ said Dave. ‘Guarded by 1 Platoon? No way, you can kiss my swingers.’Kila lit a cigarette, waved the match out and threw it away. It bounced a few times on the thin, hard desert floor.‘Jean reckons the Taliban aren’t targeting the civvies because they’re keen on some oil revenue.’‘How are you getting on with the monkey, then?’ asked Dave. ‘I’ve seen you with her in the cookhouse.’Kila looked sly and drew on his cigarette. ‘I’m finessing her.’They heard the sound of raised voices: Martyn’s deep and slow, Emily’s fast and high-pitched. They were taking it in turns to grab a site map and jab their fingers at it. The boss was attempting to broker peace.‘He should just bang their fucking heads together,’ said Iain Kila.Dave smiled. ‘Finessing is definitely your strong point, Iain.’The work started. The young engineers carried a black box where they were instructed, mostly by Emily, and everyone was ordered to switch off machines and engines and be silent whenever it was in place and the engineers were taking readings.Angus started a dirtiest joke competition and soon everyone was joining in. Raucous laughter swept across the desert. Men in 2 Section not on look-out or covering the contractors challenged 3 Section to a poker game, which also became noisy. The sun moved slowly in the sky. People munched their way through their ration packs.Mal, Angry and Streaky had a meal but Binns, pale and puffy-faced, did not open his bag.‘What’s up, buddy?’ asked Martyn as he passed.‘He’s right off his rations,’ said Angus.‘I’m not surprised, they look like crap and they smell like crap,’ said Martyn. Binman looked grateful.‘He’s going to puke,’ Streaky said knowledgeably. ‘His face always goes puffy first.’Martyn said: ‘Wait here.’He came back with a bag of sandwiches.‘We get ours made for us by the chef and they’re good. Go on, try one.’‘What’s in them?’ asked Binns miserably.‘Egg and mayonnaise, stuff like that.’Binman, with great reluctance, bit the corner of one sandwich. His face brightened and he ate some more. Martyn’s face broke into a smile as Binns began to tear pieces off the sandwich hungrily.Angry watched with disgust. ‘You’ve spoilt him now. He’ll never eat his ration pack.’Martyn turned to glare at Angus.‘This kid just needs to eat, it doesn’t matter what. He looks half starved.’‘That’s because Angry always eats his rations,’ said Mal.‘Makes sense. I’m hungry, he’s not.’Martyn glared at Angus, shaking his head.‘Just clean up your act, son. He’s your buddy, you should take better care of him.’Angus’s large, round face turned bright red. He looked as though he wanted to reply but he said nothing.Martyn turned back to Binns. ‘Finish it up, I don’t want it. I have to get back to Enemy now or she’ll make my life hell.’He strode off across the sand.‘Fucking nosy American know-all,’ said Angus McCall, as soon as he was out of earshot.‘Oh, come on, he’s a nice old guy,’ said Mal.Binns nodded, his mouth full.‘He’s an American shitbag,’ said Angry. ‘They all think they know everything. Binman has to eat rations like the rest of us.’But the sandwich had fortified Binns and now he was opening his risotto. After the first slow taste he began to spoon it into his mouth enthusiastically. Sol, on stag, swung around in time to see this and gave him a thumbs-up.Jamie was watching the contractors.‘What the hell are they doing?’ he asked Dave. They had built a wooden pier and were now bending over this and its accompanying paraphernalia.‘Could be preliminary passive seismic measurements,’ said Dave knowledgeably.‘So they’re measuring earthquakes?’‘If it’s a seismometer they’re supposed to make some sort of noise, like an explosion, so they can measure the sound that comes back. Maybe it’s a gravimeter . . . I dunno, Jamie.’Watched over by machine guns and surrounded by WMIKs, Vectors, soldiers, poker and dirty jokes, it soon became clear that Emily was agitated. She and Martyn frequently raised their voices. On one occasion she marched up to Weeks.‘Mr Weeks,’ she said angrily. ‘Would you please ask your men to be quiet!’The boss passed on the instruction, along with a warning about the nature of the jokes. There was silence for a while. Then the talk and laughter started again.Emily, her large face red with the exertion of working in the sun, confronted Weeks again.‘Mr Weeks!’ she said. ‘Not only are your men creating unnecessary noise but so are your machines.’‘What machines, Professor?’ asked the boss. ‘You told us to switch everything off and we did.’Martyn appeared at Emily’s side.‘They say their machines aren’t on!’ Emily told him.He rolled his eyes. ‘Emily means your radios.’‘You want us to switch off our radios?’ said Boss Weeks. ‘We can’t possibly do that.’‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Emily said irritably. ‘No wonder our equipment isn’t performing! It’s picking up your frequencies.’‘But in the, er, er, event of a-a-a-attack we’d be powerless to communicate!’‘In the event of attack there would be far too much noise for us to continue working anyway!’ Emily evidently regarded enemy attacks as nothing more than an inconvenience. ‘So you would be welcome to turn the radios back on.’‘I’m s-sorry, but no,’ said the boss.‘But if you keep your radios on then you will invalidate all of our work!’‘No.’‘Mr Weeks, I insist.’‘It’s Second Lieutenant Weeks, actually,’ he told her.‘I have little respect for military rankings or protocol,’ she said. ‘And I realize that every time you come out with us you are hoping to fire your guns and shower any passing Afghan with bullets but I have no interest in your war games and I must ask you to co
operate.’‘I can’t switch off the radios,’ said Weeks.‘But you will invalidate our work!’‘I’m s-s-sorry. But it would be too dangerous to switch off.’‘Then our work here today must be at an end.’‘All right. Back at the base we can agree with the OC how to deal with this problem in future,’ Weeks concurred.‘If only they had sent a more senior officer, he might have been able to make a decision here and now!’‘No, er, er, officer, however senior, would agree to switch off the radios.’Dave and CSM Kila were watching.‘I didn’t know he had it in him,’ said Kila.‘He’s come a long way. Still can’t give a good set of orders, though.’Kila said: ‘Think we ought to give him a bit of support?’‘He’s coping. And if he can cope with her he can cope with anything the Taliban throws at us.’‘I am here making a major contribution to the development of Afghanistan, Officer,’ Emily was saying. ‘I understood you were here for the same purpose. Now I find another perfect example of how the needs of those engaged in the peaceful activity of reconstruction have been ignored yet again in favour of war, war.’‘The radios are needed for your p-p-protection.’ Weeks’s face was beetroot red. ‘There’s nothing warmongering about maintaining radio contact.’‘I’m sorry to say that since I have been at the base my views have been confirmed that the British Army is a warmongering force. The best that can be said is that it keeps some very aggressive young men off the streets of the UK.’The lads who were listening looked at each other.‘Does she mean us?’ they muttered.‘Unfortunately,’ continued Emily, ‘the poor Afghans are on the receiving end of this aggression.’She instructed the waiting engineers to return with the gravimeter while Martyn shrugged helplessly at Weeks. The boss ordered the men to pack up.‘Congratulations, sir,’ Dave said.‘Fucking well done, sir,’ agreed Kila. The boss blinked in surprise, since Kila had never called him sir as if he meant it. ‘That was one hell of a handbagging.’Weeks was still red-faced. He did not reply. He was thinking that if standing up to Emily won him this much respect, he wished Asma had been here to see it.As the convoy prepared to leave, Martyn Robertson climbed into the front of the Vector with Weeks.‘There’s no way I’m travelling at the back with Enemy, she’ll be moaning all the way.’Their route took them across the empty dustbowl of the desert, around the strange shapes of the Early Rocks which jutted eerily from the flat landscape. Gordon Weeks studied their distant outlines.‘I’d sure like to visit that place,’ Martyn said. ‘It’s a weird formation. Natural although it looks manmade.’‘Reminds me of Stonehenge,’ Weeks said.‘Those rocks are so big they’d make Stonehenge look like it was made out of pebbles. You can’t tell the size of them when there’s nothing near to compare them with.’At that moment a shabby, dusty car, driven by a man but full of women passengers, their brightly coloured headwear flapping from the open windows, cut across the desert. As it neared the rocks the massive outlines towered over the car as if it was a tiny toy.‘Pilgrims,’ explained Martyn. ‘The place is some kind of holy shrine, that’s why we aren’t allowed to go there.’Weeks made a mental note to ask Asma about the Early Rocks.After this landmark the desert was featureless, apart from the occasional town or village, until the straight lines of FOB Senzhiri were visible in the distance. Usually they could expect some enemy fire if they approached to the east past a small, hilly zone but today they continued unhindered.It was strange, thought Weeks, the way no one took a potshot at them when the civilian wagon was in the convoy. Without the civilians, they were guaranteed at least some token firing.Martyn was evidently thinking the same thing.‘They sure leave us alone these days,’ he said. ‘Must have finally understood that there’s nothing to gain from getting in our way.’Weeks was silent. He feared Martyn was wrong.