by Azi Ahmed
Becky was off like a shot, frantically getting her kit organised. I tidied my hair as best I could and straightened the collars of my smock. It was all I could manage after the beasting this morning. It felt strange the colonel coming here, almost out of place. What did he want? My mind rushed with scenarios; perhaps he was going to tell us what was next on training, or maybe he had come to check we were being treated fairly. Worst case he was here to tell me I was off the course.
To my surprise it was none of these. The colonel took Becky and I to a bank side and sat down with his legs stretched out and head propped up on one elbow. He looked at our exhausted faces, paused for a few seconds, then started telling us a story of the time he did selection, describing himself as tired and wet like us. Some of the men were taking off their wet kit and changing into dry as soon as they got back after an exercise, but he didn’t. The story went on for a while longer. I wondered where all this was going and tried to stay focused in case he asked us questions afterwards. But instead, he got up and left. I racked my brains, trying to figure out what the motto of the story was, but nothing came to mind. Perhaps he saw my wet kit and thought I’d done the same, not realising this was the dry kit I was wearing.
We joined the rest of the lads to get ready for the next exercise. I wondered what they were thinking; would they ask us what the colonel wanted?
I saw the Welsh crowd talking amongst themselves as I headed to my basha patch. They looked up at me as I walked past. My heart slumped as I thought back to the river fall and how I’d let them down. I decided to say something and apologise perhaps. But just as I stopped and turned round I caught one of them smirking at me.
They were mocking me.
These lads would love to have seen me cry and I wasn’t going to allow that to happen. I didn’t care any more … about anything … about being a woman … about having to prove myself. Why? I recalled an incident a few weeks back when we were picking up our weapons from the armoury and I’d overheard a couple of recruits talking about me being a tick in the box. I was so angry I wanted to stand on top of an ammo box and hit them both over the head with my pistol. How dare they? I was going through the same shit as them, carrying the same weight; I was half the size they were, covering the same ground and not once had I moaned. Why couldn’t I be accepted as one of them? So what if I’m a different size, gender, race and religion? My mind was on fire.
I marched into the woods and headed to a patch where the lads normally pee and had one myself; arse in the air, breaking wind as loud as I could.
I will shit where you shit! I wanted to scream, but instead pulled my pants up and purposely walked past some lads with their backs to me having a pee. I sensed their discomfort as their voices trailed off when they saw me. It felt good.
I walked back to the basha area to change back to my other wet kit that I’d hung out to dry. This time I didn’t hide away under my basha or behind a tree but stood outside in full view and got changed.
The lads nearby stopped what they were doing and stared.
‘What?’ I snapped back.
Lewis was the only one who reacted, while the others remained dumbstruck. ‘Nothing, Ahmed,’ he laughed slowly shaking his head. ‘Nothing.’
Sullivan appeared on the scene and stood in my line of vision, trying to get up to speed with the situation. He still had my cleaning kit. I’d tried to avoid him since the run this morning and think he sensed it. My life was complicated enough and I didn’t want to drag him into the chaos. He didn’t deserve it.
CHAPTER TEN
LEARNING THE ROPES
I DIDN’T GET thrown off the course when we got back to London though I got a few surprised looks from the recruits when I turned up for the final phase of training, continuation. The numbers had now spiralled down to around forty men and two women: me and Becky.
Before it began, we got the terrible news that the colonel was retiring from the army. The leaving ceremony was heart-wrenching. All the soldiers and trainers were present in the big hall at the Chelsea Barracks. The usual buzz from the soldiers was now a low hum, which faded into silence as the colonel entered. He was escorted in by the adjutant; a beefy chap with hulk-like biceps bursting at the seams. The colonel stood on the stage behind the lectern, his tall body towering, and calmly looked over his audience. It felt strange to hear the leaving speech, especially as Becky and I hadn’t finished our training yet. We only had a few weeks to go, and it was a shame he wouldn’t be here to see us to the end.
I wondered what the new colonel would be like. I knew he wouldn’t be as special as mine. My colonel had put his career on the line to put girls through selection training. He fought through the trainers’ animosity towards us, kept an eye out for us. I wouldn’t be stood here today if it wasn’t for him. I was one amongst just a handful of women who had had the privilege of training with these men.
I noticed my colonel choking back tears as he came to the end. Tears sprang to my eyes at the reality I would never see him again. The applause was deafening as he walked off stage to be replaced by the new colonel. He was different. He didn’t have the same presence as mine, or the strong aura and striking features. He looked about half the height, with squirrel features. His voice was not as strong, nor could I make head nor tail of what he was saying with all the acronyms flying around. The room was full of sad faces, still stewing over the now retired colonel. I wondered where he would be going. Rumour had it he was off to Whitehall, but nobody really knew anything except that we would never see him again.
I realised the impact that he’d had on me. The confidence to keep going stemmed from my colonel and now he was no longer here. Was I doing this for myself or for him? Both. We both wanted change. I wanted it for my life and he wanted it for the regiment. His absence left a big hole.
I wanted to ask Becky if she felt the same way but it didn’t feel right. My relationship with Becky was still distant. She was a natural on the hills, which didn’t surprise me considering she went rock climbing with the lads from the Para regiment. Recently I’d learnt she had also been the world champion in this sport.
For some reason I thought continuation would be easier than selection, mainly because I’d heard one of the trainers telling the lads that it was the best part of training. It was certainly different to the repetition we got on the hills. Continuation was focused on developing our skills in weapons, combat and covert. The one thing not mentioned was the sleep deprivation. I thought the hills were bad, but this was a killer. It was hard not to close my eyes, but once I did, it was deep, especially in lectures and demonstrations that required a lot of concentration.
We still worked in the field and were given a new set of trainers, which meant we got rid of Briggs, thank God. Not that these new trainers were any kinder. A few weeks into continuation, the number of recruits dwindled down to twenty lads, as well as me and Becky.
One evening, when we were sorting some food out before our next exercise, Becky came over with my cleaning kit.
‘Thanks,’ I said, putting it in the front pouch of my Bergen. I scanned the close vicinity for Sullivan. He was sat with some lads a few metres away. I felt terrible that I’d scared him off so much that he’d had to get Becky to give back my cleaning kit. Admittedly, I’d walked off a few times when he tried to approach me and ignored him when he tried talking to me – but I couldn’t risk getting kicked off the course. Perhaps I was overreacting. Becky was talking to the lads all the time on the hills but no conclusions were drawn about her, so why did I think the situation was different with me? Maybe it was my deep-rooted culture still simmering beneath the surface, which I couldn’t shake off.
My eyes came back to Becky, who was looking straight at me. I felt my face flush and had to turn away.
‘Do we know what the exercise is tonight?’ It was the first time I’d attempted to spark up a conversation with her.
‘Same as always, we don’t.’ Her response was blunt and I could feel her still looking
at me.
It was a strange feeling; it was as if she was my mum and I’d been caught talking to a boy. I tried to fight it off, telling myself that all we’d done was share a beaker of water to heat our ration packs. Maybe she could see the guilt on my face or maybe someone had said something. I looked around again and noticed Digsby going to the next exercise. He was ten minutes early, as always, so that he could be acknowledged by the trainers. Sometimes it’s not good to be noticed, especially here. Pity he never came first on the hills. The muscle men had long gone from the training, along with the big mouths – all except Digsby. I had no idea why he was still here, but then again, I had no idea why I was either.
To our surprise and sheer delight, the evening exercise turned out to be a demonstration and talk by a medic on ‘attending to an injured buddy’. We sat in a semicircle in the middle of the woods as he demonstrated on a dummy how to put a drip into someone. It was dark and the only aid was a dimly lit torch.
I could tell from the rest of the recruits’ faces they were thinking the same as me – they couldn’t believe we had been let off so easily tonight. We’d had a day of arduous training and had just eaten, so being sat here not moving was making us feel mellow and relaxed. I leaned back on my Bergen and stretched my legs out. Becky was sat a distance away from me watching the medic curiously. I couldn’t stand needles and had to look away, even though the medic was demonstrating on a dummy. There was something about veins that made me squeamish.
The medic finished, then brought out a pack of drips and told us to pair up. We all suddenly looked around in a panic. I jolted upright; I would rather tab another fifty miles than let any of these lads poke a needle into my arm. By the look on everyone’s faces I’d say they were thinking the same. Nobody was coming forward to partner up with anyone. We just sat there. Then, for the first time, the lads looked at me and Becky, hoping to buddy up with us.
Perhaps they thought that, being girls, we would be gentle. The only thing I’d seen of these lads was aggression and I couldn’t even contemplate buddying with Sullivan, who seemed the most capable of them all. Becky and I shot a glance at each other then she got up and made a beeline for me. She almost ran in case one of the lads caught her on the way.
The lighting we had was bad, which was purposely done. Luckily Becky was gentle and I hope she thought I was with her too. I rolled up my sleeve and presented my arm, then turned away watching the others. It was a funny sight to see the lads looking so scared. Tempers were up, too, more so than I’d seen during night navigation on the hills. I could hear the stress in their voices threatening each other: Do it properly mate! … Easy now! … It’s there! Are you fuckin’ blind?!
It was a tense exercise but if anything it brought Becky and I closer together. We began to partner up more and talk openly with each other. All this was rewarding, a step forward with Becky, but I still couldn’t tell her about the double life I was leading with my family.
Sullivan was still on the radar. I thanked him for giving back my cleaning kit and he asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat one afternoon when we were unloading the truck back at Chelsea Barracks after training. I was taken aback by his offer, not sure how to react, then nodded without thinking.
The Stockpot restaurant across the road was not quite the place I imagined we’d end up. It was one of the few places I hadn’t ventured because a lot of people from the barracks went there and it definitely lived up to its reputation as a community of vibrant characters out of uniform.
‘Looks really busy in here…’ I stopped Sullivan at the bottom of the stairs, catching a few faces looking up, their eyes flitting between us. ‘Why don’t we try somewhere down the road?’
But Sullivan wasn’t having it. He guided me to a table where people were just leaving.
We sat down across from each other. The waitress came over, cleared the table and handed each of us a laminated menu, then disappeared. I was hungry but more concerned that someone from the barracks would see us together. The room became noisy as more people arrived. My heart skipped a beat each time someone came down the stairs and walked past us.
I felt guilty because Becky had asked if I wanted to go for coffee but I’d said I was going home.
The waitress came back to take our order.
‘What you having, Pixie?’
I looked across at Sullivan. Pixie? Was that my nickname amongst the recruits or just with him?
To my dismay, Sullivan ordered pork belly and so I had to sit across from him and watch him eat pig.
‘Thanks for my cleaning kit … giving it back I mean.’ It came out all wrong but I’m sure he got the general gist.
He looked down at his dirty fingernails. I noticed a smile creep up on his face, making dimples appear in his cheeks. ‘I think you’re fuckin’ mad.’
Here we go. ‘To be doing the training?’
‘Why the fuck? What do your family think of all this?’
‘What do yours think?’
‘They don’t know, but that’s different.’
I cocked an eyebrow, enjoying the banter. I didn’t get my horns out for a fight, I just wanted to know what he thought.
He leaned across the table and held his gaze with mine. I’d never looked a man in the eye so intensely before, it felt strange.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re brave.’
Brave? I wasn’t sure about that word.
‘But I would be concerned about your safety if you were … you know, put on the frontline.’
‘A distraction?’ I offered.
‘Your safety.’
‘More so than a bloke?’
‘Yes.’
‘A hindrance?’ Monty’s words came back to me.
‘Yes … no.’ He battled with his words, which didn’t give me much confidence.
But it didn’t matter. I suddenly saw a very caring side to him, more so than I’d seen in the field. Were all the lads like this or just him? I was so used to doing things on my own, fighting every battle single-handedly; leaving home, getting through college, running my business, buying property, travelling abroad. I’d never been surrounded by the support of family or partners. It became the norm to do everything on my own. But being there with Sullivan that day somehow didn’t make me feel that way.
Things had finally settled with my family. The whole hajj palaver turned out in my favour when Auntie Pataani turned on the waterworks about being alone. It made my parents’ feel guilty and they offered to take her with them. I tried to hide my relief when Mum called up to give me the news. For some reason she thought I’d be disappointed. She tried to compensate by saying ‘God willing’ they would take me with them next time.
In some ways I was glad to have them out of the way. My feelings towards Sullivan were getting stronger. My heart pounded every time I saw him. It ran deep and I was afraid he could sense this. He’d catch me sometimes looking at him and I’d quickly look away with an exaggerated turn of the head.
After training I’d always hope he’d ask me out to the Stockpot again. Sometimes he would and I’d find myself applying a touch of mascara and lip gloss. We’d sit downstairs in one of the coves. I’d do most of the talking, encouraged by his trail of questions about my family and my life in London. I’d try to turn the conversation around but he’d always find a way of flipping it back.
Most of the time he’d leave the barracks with the lads, at which point I’d look for Becky and we’d end up going for coffee and cake then head home. I began to learn a lot about Becky and discovered parallels in our lives. Her father was in the armed forces in South Africa. She left the country after apartheid and took up rock climbing; became an international champion then decided to join the British Army. Perhaps, subconsciously, we were both trying to take a son’s role in our fathers’ lives. The thought freaked me out.
My parents’ trip to Mecca extended to Pakistan. They arrived back at the tail end of the continuation phase of the training. It felt like ages si
nce I’d been to Manchester and when I did go, I found that things had changed. The war on terror had intensified; Blair’s and Bush’s claims were hitting the headlines fast and furious.
The debates flared in the living room, dominated by anger over the British intervention in the Middle East. Visitors stayed longer, which meant there were more cups of tea to be made. My mum would sit in the middle like a political adviser and talk about what people already knew … yes, the Twin Towers had been hit, yes, the government blamed bin Laden, and yes, America created the monster in the first place. The chatter was fascinating; Blair’s conspiracy, Bush’s cunning plan to get the oil. I gave the whole topic the benefit of the doubt. If there were weapons of mass destruction, which would endanger the lives of millions, then something needed to be done.
My political history wasn’t great so whatever snippets I captured from the news I tried to piece together. Although there was anger at Bush’s response in attacking the Middle East, the community mourned the dead. Lives were lives at the end of the day, and the media wasn’t helping by televising the terrorists and promoting Islam as a terrorist religion.
I didn’t see Shazia during my visit and perhaps it was for the best. I’d heard she was now wearing a full burka.
Back in London, security was tight at the barracks. The lads in my unit wouldn’t ask me directly what my views were on 9/11; some of the less educated would pull a face when I walked past, which was good because I knew not to waste any time with them. I’d seen this kind of behaviour happen in many communities throughout the years; a few individuals who spoilt it for the majority.
Sullivan’s behaviour, however, surprised me more than anyone’s: he became protective towards me. He’d go out of his way to be by my side; be it on exercise, in the classroom or on parade. Sometimes he’d even make a beeline for me, causing a stir amongst the recruits. But I think he purposely did this to send a message.
‘Alright, Ahmed?’ he’d say.