Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  After his father had died he had become quite religious for many months, regularly attending his father’s old Baptist Church in North London. Most importantly he respected his father for keeping his own religious beliefs quiet and personal – he had never forced Joe to attend church. Joe’s attendance at services continued intermittently for a few years after the funeral, whenever he could and between spells abroad. But they inevitably diminished. He had later felt a residual guilt while working in the Far East and living in sin with Sita who had joined him for a while. But he had enjoyed his time there and that time had helped heal him of the scars brought on by the grief of losing his father. A wise aunt had told him at the time that while those scars would heal, they would never go away completely.

  His father had taught him to never inflict his own values on other people, and always to value others, especially for their wisdom. It had been a challenge for him when he had come across so many bad attitudes. “What can you do?” he asked himself. “People even brainwash their kids with their abusive attitudes.”

  He reflected that it was probably his time spent living in Beeston that had made him slightly cynical about other people’s attitudes, as living there had been challenging at times. While walking past a mosque one day some of the Muslim teenagers had shouted abuse at him; “Hey your mum fancied black guys did she?” He did the usual thing in Leeds and shouted abuse back. He was big enough anyway and wasn’t scared of anyone, least of all a bunch of local idiots. But he recalled that it had surprised him at the same time.

  Ultimately he had been glad to escape the unemployment, poverty, violence and general malaise of early nineties’ Britain. He knew who was really responsible for the social breakdown in local communities across the country and it wasn’t the Muslims or even local racists. It was the politicians who had deliberately turned a blind eye to what was happening in order to maintain the “status quo” - they would only listen when violence came knocking on their doors.

  As he got his kit together for the long drive north thoughts of what had happened over the years came flooding back into Joe’s mind and sharply into focus. He had always regarded himself as some kind of outsider, a bit-part player. But now the events of the preceding years were finally catching up with him and for the first time he realised that life was far more complex.

  ***

  Az had heard that Khalil was seeing a new girlfriend, Saira. He knew that Khalil was scared what the rest of them would think but he didn’t care himself. The rest of the family could jump on him for all he cared. So he kept his own views to himself. In reality he was far more concerned with the contents of the email in front of him.

  “Every time the Khuffurs lose a soldier or a member of personnel the body of the Infidel will be wounded. So far the Khuffurs have simply been lucky; they haven’t lost many people. But even just a few deaths are a victory and by invading Islamic states western nations and their allies have put themselves in this situation. In our countries under occupation there are only two ways of living. Either you side with the enemy invader or you don’t. There is no ‘third way’ of just getting by as every thing you do is watched by those who may decide your fate. What you do defines you as a person…”

  When Az had finished reading he deleted the email completely from his account. Khalil and Wazir were lolling on the sofa. The exigencies of the day had taken their toll. He didn’t really care about the source of the email or the site from whence it came; nor did he care what the others might have thought. All he knew was that he had to do something to get out of the impasse in his own life.

  ***

  Joe had not been totally honest with Sita; he was actually going on a weekend with the Army Reserve, and not on a camping trip. He had stopped telling people he had joined a couple of years before, having got fed up with the facile remarks. Most of the time people had laughed and made pathetic comments like “weekend warrior!” So now he never mentioned it and would avoid it in conversation. He was in Military Intelligence anyway; “A contradiction in terms,” he joked to himself.

  Once he arrived at the camp it would be full of avuncular NCOs, with rumours about the Middle East and what might be happening in the coming weeks and months. The training was based on recognition skills; in other words recognizing other people’s military kit.

  From the moment he had first joined the unit in June 1998 it had moved between various locations in England. Their job had been to check out the shapes of objects, mostly just silhouettes, including Yugoslav aircraft and heavy armour. Post 9/11 everything had changed; the bigger picture was then about small groups of well-trained militants and the threat of IEDs and dirty bombs, as well as suicide bombings. That meant that forensics and intelligence would be critical to establishing any patterns. It didn’t matter where the bombings took place or even what they targeted. It mattered more that a whole picture of movement, supply chains, patterns and forensics could be put together.

  There was a danger that the work could become too desk-bound the longer you did it so Joe’s aim was to get more into the weapons forensics, which ultimately meant going on various courses. That could take quite a while. Learning about the technical side of the job appealed to his engineering sensibilities so it was worth the extra effort. And there were no time limits; as a reservist you could plan for years ahead if you wanted. Even now in his early thirties he still had time to go up the ranks. He was 5’10”, lean, and a more than capable athlete and he knew deep down that he could go on for years.

  As far as the politics of the situation were concerned, all Joe knew was that for some countries around the world there had been years of wars and civil upheaval. He’d had some first-hand experience himself of civil upheaval while travelling and living in Africa and Asia, but it hadn’t bothered him at all; he just regarded them as life experiences. However, the thought of being asked to intervene and shoot at people was something he’d had put to the back of his mind. In his time he’d heard small arms fire, grenades, mortars and tank rounds. Some of it had been quite close. To have to inflict that on civilians, that was a question he didn’t want to have to answer any time soon.

  The weekend went by without any problems and with the ususal night out on the Saturday. He and some mates headed to a night club and eyed up the local girls from the safety of the bar.

  “One thing being around the military teaches you,” one of the other reservists said to Joe at the bar, “is that the direct approach is nearly always the best approach.”

  He thought of all the times as a student he and his college mates had been sat around drinking in pubs and bars surrounded by “hot” girls while not wanting to look uncool by going up to them. Now he had no such fears. Life was too short anyway and the two of them waded onto the dance floor. They both scored but wouldn’t be able to do anything with their drunken friends as they had a 6.00am parade on the Sunday morning. They called it a day at 2.00am and headed back to the camp.

  Whe the weekend was over and he fell across the threshold of his front door, still somewhat jaded, Joe realised that the weekends away and partying were going to be a common occurrence over the coming years. As it was he knew that in the following months would have many events and parties coming up. He had many friends in various haunts around London.

  However, whenever the house parties came round, it was the same type of conversation that cropped up much of the time. Those who attended such parties were the type of people Sita had loved to be around: the type that he had known at college and even whilst working in Africa; invariably middle-class they thought they had all the answers and blamed the US, UK and world corporations for most global problems. He could usually spot them and avoid them if required; a joint hanging out of their mouth, banging on about something or other in the middle of a circle of others. These self-appointed “experts” were often found exhorting about how the Americans “had had it coming to them” with regards the attacks on 9/11. Joe sometimes felt the need to correct these latter-day Che Guevara
’s at the appropriate moment but they were usually too far gone to understand.

  A few weeks after the TA weekend he was at a house party in Highbury when a left-wing girlfriend of a young, upwardly mobile lawyer started lecturing a group of people about civil rights. “Do any of you have any idea about how women are being disenfranchised around the world?”

  “Excuse me,” Joe asserted. “I think I probably don’t know enough about the subject but I really don’t give a shit so please don’t lecture me about it.” The girl gave him a blank look and raised her eyebrows, before moving to another group of people.

  He had a run-in with an altogether different type of urbanite a few weeks later, in the garden of a pub in Brixton, at a friend’s birthday drinks. The man seemed to be worse for wear, shouting his mouth off about politics; he was a muscular, aggressive, conspiracy theorist with blond dreadlocks, stoned and not scared of anyone. He ranted on about his world view until Joe was the only person confident enough to reply.

  “Why don’t you knock it on the head mate? You obviously can’t take your drink.”

  “What?” the man replied. “Are you some sort of coconut – you know white on the inside?”

  It took about one second for Joe’s pint of lager to make its way to the man’s head showering the rest of the people on the table with Stella Artois, once it had impacted.

  “Outside, you fucking tosspot, now,” the eco-warrior shouted while trying to brush lager off his face.

  Some local wit pointed out that they were already outside in the beer garden; at which point Joe, in his rather inebriated and confused state, shouted, “Why don’t you fuck off back to suburbia, you phony, middle-class wanker?” The dazed man got up to throw a punch, but two bouncers were on him already and he was frog-marched out of the pub. Joe enjoyed recalling the incident later that evening to his friend Baz when they met up at Joe’s place but he also forbade himself from any more heavy drinking sessions, at least until he was ready to deal with “his own lack of self-control” as he put it to Baz.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Six months went by and it was February 2003. Joe and his friend Dex watched as the crowds moved along Piccadilly; a sea of placards and brightly coloured signs snaking their way off into the distance. Joe hadn’t thought too much about the scenes in front of him and he knew that listening later on to the speakers would just enforce his own feelings of isolation and solitude, as few people there even amongst that throng would understand what it was like to be asked to prepare oneself for a war. All the grand words and gestures meant little in reality.

  He wasn’t sure why he was there exactly, apart from meeting up with Dex, at Somerset House. He thought it somewhat ironic that Dex wanted to demonstrate against going to war, as he had often worn an old combat jacket and had always been slightly right wing. However, he felt a little unjust at such an observation, especially as Dex was also the most laid back person he knew and generally sported the unkempt look to prove it.

  On meeting at the Strand entrance to Somerset House Dex explained that he had already had an unfortunate “martyr” experience even before joining the march. As he had waited for Joe at the gates the security guards had questioned why he was there whereupon he said he was waiting for a friend.

  “But what are you doing standing here?” the guard had asked more assertively.

  “This is a public building; why would I need a reason?” Dex had replied.

  “It’s the rules, sir.”

  Dex explained to Joe that his appearance had apparently alarmed the guard, who was concerned at the contents of his bag. In the end they had let it pass, finally convinced that Dex wasn’t in fact an anarchist bent on taking over the courtyard in some kind of independent protest.

  Joe and Dex walked with the crowd as it made its way through the West End towards Hyde Park. Joe had been on a few marches as a student, having been mildly political at college, but that had only meant the occasional dope smoking and trying to get off with some of the more attractive and politicized females in the Students’ Union when he was a barman. He had soon found that chasing politically-aware women didn’t get you anywhere. To be following this large and serpentine crowd while now in his thirties seemed a little weird.

  Women were struck by Dex’s untamed appearance and every now and then one would throw an admiring glance his way. Joe finally had to admit that they were not directed at him. All the while Dex was completely oblivious to their attentions, taking in the enormity of the day.

  When they reached Hyde Park Corner they adopted a space not too far from the stage in readiness for the speeches. The damp cold was now beginning to get under their skin. One speaker piped up that “the case for war has not yet been made and it will prove disastrous if Saddam did in fact have nuclear or chemical weapons; the rational course of action is to give the weapons inspectors a few more months to finish their report. Shabbily assembled dossiers are not evidence enough.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Joe said too loudly for Dex who threw him a side glance.

  They both agreed that the Reverend Jesse Jackson was the most eloquent speaker. A Trade Unionist declared that there would be strike action to prevent troops getting to the coast. “Good Trotskyite stuff,” Joe said to Dex. Dex clapped enthusiastically. It grew colder and the damp in the air seemed to subdue the crowd.

  The large manila envelope that was to come through Joe’s letterbox two days later had “On Her Majesty’s Service” written on it and was not held up by strike action. “I didn’t realize I was a spy,” he joked to himself. He knew the contents. He didn’t open it; he just stared at it.

  While there was a definite “rush to war” (at least as far as the media were concerned) when he attended his reservist unit that Tuesday there was something missing from the normal atmosphere. When he had joined the unit he had promised himself that if ever asked to do something extraordinary without clear guidance and without the required training he would question it. That was now how he felt about this particular operation; the notion of being sent to a country for which there had been no prior training rendered him dazed, regardless of the political motives of the politicians.

  No one at the centre had any real understanding of what the actual reasons for action were, despite loose talk about Saddam Hussein being involved in 9/11. Nor did anyone know any soldiers who had received specific training for the Middle East environment. All the OC could say was that they didn’t know how many people would actually be required to appear at the main reservist mobilization centre in the Midlands a few days hence.

  People at work were mostly ambivalent. To be fair he hadn’t met anyone who had said that they supported the war anyway; just about everyone he knew was against it. There was one man who was a myopic racist and kept saying that the “Arabs should be nuked” but Joe just felt sorry for him. His boss said that while he couldn’t spare him he hoped that he would be deferred, as the period of notice stated on the paperwork was too short for the company to cover. To that end he signed the request for deferral and faxed it to the Glasgow office stated on the forms.

  As it was, a fax confirming deferral came through the evening before Joe was due to appear at the mobilization centre. Joe bought his boss and some others a drink that Thursday night and his boss told him to take the following week off. He decided to visit some college friends and spend a couple of days walking in the Peak District. He needed some space to clear his head. It was too short notice to ask any of his London mates to come along, but he wanted to be on his own anyway.

  As he walked over the peaty moors, he mulled over the recent events. He reflected that the invasion would probably have much the same impact on the civilian population of the country being invaded as a weapon of mass destruction. There might not be the short intervention the politicians and their compliant media were claiming; just a lot of civilian deaths and more disillusioned people around the world who would hate the USA even more than they did already. There wouldn’t be justice for those polit
icians who had practised to deceive and supported Saddam Hussein in the first place. But other politicians involved in the invasion would no doubt later appear on celebrity TV shows before flogging their signed memoirs a few years down the line.

  “Maybe future suicide bombers will target them rather than ordinary people,” he thought. “At least then they wouldn’t be able to appear on TV again.” He paused: “I really don’t want to be a part of this shit in the future.” He thought of the civilians who would never be able to leave the conflict zone courtesy of his own nation’s intervention. He wrote a letter stating that he wanted to leave the Army Reserve and posted it from a Post Office in Edale. He then went in a pub at the end of the day’s walking. There were three old local men he got talking to.

  “So what brings you up here then, son?”

  “Oh you know; I just needed a break. Work and that.”

  “Where you from?”

  “London,” Joe replied. He was expecting there to be a chorus of “the Smoke” – something he had got used to when he had lived in Yorkshire. But there wasn’t; they just nodded. The conversation got onto politics and the impending war. Joe didn’t shy away from it; he wanted to know what some of the older generation thought.

  “So what do you think of Saddam then?” he asked.

  “Get rid of the bastard; he’s had it coming a long time,” said one.

  “What about the fact he might have nukes? Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “No; who cares. If he had them he would have used them by now.”

  “So if he hasn’t got these weapons they say he has, why are we invading?”

  “I don’t know; just to get rid of him. You have to support the lads whatever.”