Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  “It’s Joe Carney; nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you guys too. Did you say Carney?” Dan paused for longer than anyone would have liked. “You know the name ‘Carney’ is very famous in the US military. It was the name of the first black American war hero, William H Carney, who won the Congressional Medal of Honour as a result of action in the American Civil War. Do you have any American relatives?”

  Joe looked astonished. “Actually maybe I do; on my father’s side. He lived in the Caribbean and came over to Britain having served in World War Two in the Royal Army Service Corps in Italy and later on in Europe. But he often spoke of a distant relative who had been from America. There was also a connection to St Lucia, where some relatives worked for a US shipping company.”

  “Well that is truly remarkable. Sorry I forgot your first name again son.”

  “It’s Joe.”

  “Joe; I am so sorry I am always like this with wine. But I’m not making it up. If you want I can check out your family line. I have some friends at the University of California who have done that kind of thing countless times. It’s really fascinating. I will just need your email address.”

  “You know, Dan, I would like that very much,” replied Joe.

  Jeff, Khalil and Shakil all stared at Joe with wide eyes and Jeff was the first to break the silence.

  “Well, every time you come here there’s a spark of some kind, isn’t there, Dan?”

  “There certainly is, Jeff,” Dan replied. “You’ve got some fine young people here. Don’t let them leave.”

  After the two groups of men had shared some anecdotal conversation, along with many more glasses of wine, Khalil turned to Joe: “Look I have to give a short keynote address in a minute; but why don’t we meet up again and have a good chat. Here’s my number.”

  “Sure that would be really good. I’m around pretty much all the time these days; we could meet next week,” said Joe.

  “No problem, Joe. Actually it may sound odd, but I’m getting married in just over a week’s time, and I’m having a bit of a bash with friends and some chaps from here as well. Why don’t you come along? It won’t be a big thing; just a couple of hours next Thursday evening at the Parmenter Bar down the road. It’s part of the Indian Restaurant. It’s at the rear.”

  “Oh I know it; and I know I’ll be free that night. What time?”

  “At 8.00pm or thereabouts.”

  “See you there.”

  ***

  Saira didn’t care much that her bump was really quite noticeable; all she wanted was to get the wedding out the way. She was busy with the seating plan and had left a couple of tables free. She knew that there would be a few extra seats required as Khalil was always vague about plans and some of his relatives might turn up unannounced. What she did know was that cousin Az wouldn’t be there. She sighed with relief at the thought.

  “Deen to Allah,” she said under her breath. She followed that with, “Inshallah!”

  She then started on the arrangements again while listening to the BBC Radio London phone-in and a voice came on.

  “Hi, next caller please; we’re talking about what many believe to be the corruption of our political establishment. Who have we here?”

  “Hi, it’s Jeff Katz.” Saira stopped what she was doing.

  “Go ahead, Jeff; what have you to say about the politicians then?”

  “Well, it seems to me that before the elections there were hundreds of them with their fingers in the till. And exactly how many have they arrested and charged? Five I believe was the last total.”

  “And what’s your point, Jeff?”

  “If it was you or me we would have been convicted of fraud and given stiff sentences for trying to defraud the British taxpayer and rightfully so. The politicians are hardly cleaning up the establishment, are they? It’s a bit like asking a burglar to put himself on trial.”

  “But what can we do to change all this, Jeff?”

  “Well, at the very least the media could campaign for more of them to be brought to justice. I don’t hear the BBC asking for that. You just refuse to ask the right questions of all these corrupt morons. Nor did you ask the right questions over the invasion of Iraq or how we’re being fleeced by the European Union. You seem to be very selective, don’t you?”

  “Have to move on now, Jeff; thanks for the call.”

  “So that was it then; democracy in action,” Saira said loudly as she started on the seating plan again. She made a mental note to tell Khalil about the radio interview.

  ***

  Haq was on the phone to Shakil: “So it will be the flight from Karachi. I think it gets in at 1800, but check the flight reference.”

  “That’s OK I have all the details. He’ll not be staying with us but I will meet him.”

  “I understand. Where will he go?”

  “I think the safest place is in Sheffield with an old college mate of Wazir. He’s away for a while. Az can just chill up there until he finds his feet.”

  “That might take a while Shakil.”

  “Whatever. I will pick him up and take him straight there.”

  Haq didn’t know whether to tell him about the real reasons for his injuries or not. He decided to let him find out for himself. All it might do was cause more problems in the short term.

  “I appreciate this, and tell Wazir that he is being very kind to Az. He has had a bit of a hard time.”

  “Yes I’m sure Az will tell me all about it.”

  “And how are Khalil and Saira, getting ready for the big day?”

  “Looks like it; I think they’re both very busy. They are quite useless now when it comes to anything else. But it is sweet as well.”

  “These will be memories to treasure, Shakil; and you will have it all yourself one day.”

  “I hope so.”

  Shakil thought about the distress Az had brought to their father; about the fact that Az had never shown any propensity towards getting a career nor towards long-term, committed relationships. It was also embarrassing for Shakil that he was having to trouble Wazir to give Az a helping-hand in life. He sighed and shook his head.

  ***

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “We need to be careful how we let Europe expand,” said Dex. “I mean Serbians, Turks, Albanians; Jesus they’re all gangsters.” Joe, Dex and Baz were in the pub in the old village in Walthamstow for their Sunday evening regular drink.

  “That’s a bit of a sweeping statement, Dex,” replied Joe. “Why are Turks all gangsters?”

  “They massacred the Armenians in a genocide at the turn of the last century,” replied Dex. “Hitler even referred to them in a speech in 1936 when he asked the question ‘Who remembers the Armenians now?’ He already knew what he wanted to do to the Jews.”

  Based on his own experiences Joe hadn’t had a great opinion of what he had seen when he had worked in the Balkans; the threat of violence was real enough and the presence of fraud and corruption was also very apparent. Few people seemed to actively want to bridge the ethno-religious barriers. But he had a natural antipathy towards sweeping judgements even if he’d made a few himself. He didn’t really want to talk about these issues, but knew the other two enjoyed such debates, especially after a few beers. “You have a point, but I still don’t agree. We can’t walk away from these places,” Joe stated. “They’re not all gangsters.”

  “We shouldn’t be dying there either,” said Baz. “This is the twenty-first century. We need to tell all these crap countries what was made clear to the Japs and Germans at the end of World War Two: that they need to sort themselves out.”

  Baz was more pissed than usual, but Joe was concerned that he meant everything he said. There was a wild look in his eyes and he seemed full of hatred. Baz carried on: “Joe, answer me one question: why the fuck did you go and risk your neck for all those fuckers? Is it because you felt guilty about something? If it is you’re crazy. We don’t owe anyone in this world Jack man – not any
more!”

  Dex nodded. “Sorry mate, but I agree with Baz. We have to stop all this crap about how we need to help people like we’re fucking world policemen. This is not the USA. We can’t afford it. The reason the Germans, French, Chinese and Russians don’t do ‘Regime Change’ is because they have learnt their lesson. I’m sick of hearing about nineteen year old British lads getting blown up; for what exactly? The politicians are leading us down the wrong path.”

  “Everything is so fucking simple for you two pissheads, isn’t it?” Joe replied vehemently. “Black and white - like you two know what you’re fucking talking about, you silly bastards. When have you ever travelled or seen the real fucking world? Have you ever done any aid work? Ever even helped an old lady across the street? For you it’s all football, beer and shagging. Basically stop giving me your stupid fucking opinions on everything; you don’t have the answers and you’re as bad as all these fucking armchair pundits in the media and wherever. Just fuck off and get a life.”

  Joe stormed off. He went back to his flat. Alison was staying there more often now her son was away at college. She was busy doing some ironing.

  “How did it go, Joe? Did you have a good time meeting up again with your mates?”

  “No: not at all. It was like they both ambushed me over the situation in all these countries, like I can do anything about it. They seemed to be blaming me for all this crap. I wasn’t even interested and in the end told them to get lost and came back.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it; don’t bother yourself with those two idiots. I’ve always suspected from what you’ve said before that they’re a couple of no-hopers anyway.” Joe had learned that Alison had always preferred this phrase to “losers”, which she’d said was much too American.

  “I know you have; I’m just angry that’s all. If they’d ever done anything other than talk crap I would be more bothered,” replied Joe.

  “By the sound of it they just can’t handle other people doing something decent with their lives,” Alison replied. “And it wouldn’t have made any difference if you’d been doing something else overseas like aid work. They would have still had a go; you know why, Joe – because they’re jealous.” Alison didn’t look up as she talked and ironed. “True multi-tasking,” Joe thought.

  Alison was always critical in her summing up of people or situations; her own training in legal affairs had made her as sharp as a razor. But Joe also knew that what Baz and Dex had said was precisely what many, maybe even most, of his friends were thinking. His own family had made it clear on his return that they were glad he was back, but they didn’t want to talk about what had been happening in the Middle East. Not that he had prompted any conversations. At least he had Alison; she seemed to be attuned to his own thoughts and he realised now where his own life was heading. He suddenly felt happier and put his arms round her. She squealed struggling to get the iron out of the way.

  They embraced and kissed for a while; Alison keeping one eye on the iron. Joe let her go and smiled.

  “It doesn’t add up though, does it?”

  “What do you mean?” Alison replied.

  “Well, it doesn’t really make sense; the threat from some of these countries isn’t that real when you do the maths. Is it?”

  Alison looked at him slightly confused. He was clearly agitated.

  “You know, you’re a typical engineer - you work things out mathematically in your head. Why don’t you just relax? I’ll get you some tea.” She looked him deep in the eyes and headed to the kitchen, ensuring that he didn’t see her concerned expression as she turned. He was still not acting quite like the man she had first met.

  ***

  Az had been staying in the terraced house in Sheffield for a few days. He knew that Khalil’s wedding was only a week away and that he hadn’t yet been invited. His leg was improving and the scars, although visible, were now healing. Shakil was visiting for a couple of days along with Wazir who was keeping an eye on the house as well as Az.

  “You can’t stay here forever; what are you going to do?” asked Shakil.

  “Well, I’ve decided I’ve had enough travelling and I think I’ve overdosed on the cultural stuff. So I’m going to get myself sorted, bruv; flat, job, you name it.”

  “That’s great news, Az. Really great news. Why don’t you come to Khalil’s wedding?” Shakil seemed exultant. Wazir nearly fell off his chair.

  “To be honest I don’t want to embarrass them. They don’t need me there.”

  Wazir turned around and sighed deeply as he left for the kitchen. Shakil continued. “Az, you’re my brother, and Khalil’s cuz. Of course you have to go.”

  “I think I can talk to Khalil,” piped up Wazir, who had deliberately stayed in earshot. “He’s OK really; he just needs to work on Saira. But I can’t promise anything. Just let me talk to him.”

  “Well, give him a call and ask him; and then let me know,” replied Shakil.

  “I don’t want to upset them,” interrupted Az. He turned to his brother. “I had another question, bruv; what’s the chance of coming to work with you?” Wazir made a loud choking sound from the kitchen.

  “I’m not so sure, bruv,” Shakil replied. “The other people there are a bit weird; they seem to almost completely lack interest in life itself, like zombies, man. The office is a bit dead when I’m not around anyway, but with the others there’s nothing. No sign of life. It’s a land of the undead if you know what I mean – I don’t think you’d like it.”

  “The modern office environment, it’s not for the faint-hearted,” Wazir exclaimed as he walked back in with the tea.

  “It’s what drives many people to take up a new life somewhere else I reckon, bruv; like all these TV programmes,” continued Shakil. “Maybe you need to consider some alternative means of earning a living. Let’s look for something else; we’ll get you something, but go back to college for a while first, even if it’s just night classes.”

  “Yeah, I promise I’ll do that,” replied Az. “I have already got onto the next semester; I rang them earlier. They said that my last completed semester still counts so it should be fine.”

  “You know; that’s the best news I’ve had for a long while. Welcome home.” Shakil embraced his brother.

  A couple of hours later Shakil was on the phone to Khalil. Wazir had left for London. “Yeah man; salaam. Look Az is here right. He really wants to come to the wedding; what do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Shaks; he’s not been himself and Saira’s not going to be happy about it.”

  “I know, which is why I suggest that me and Az give you both a much bigger wedding present; we both want to and feel it’s right.”

  “Shaks, that sounds like a bribe; but hey, I am open to bribery any time. And anyway it’s more for Saira than me. I’ll put it to her gently. We have allowed for some extra tables so he might be able to slot in with you at the back.”

  “Yeah, that would be great; I know deep down Az would love to be there, cuz. Thanks for that.”

  “I’ll text you; if she’s really angry about it we may have to leave it,” replied Khalil.

  “That’s OK; just let us know.”

  ***

  “Joe, I’m sorry about ragging you the other night,” Dex stated while on the phone to Joe. “We were both pissed. It was well out of order.”

  “Yeah; I know. It doesn’t bother me particularly, but I think I’ll give the drinking sessions a miss for a while.”

  “Absolutely – totally understand, mate. Especially as you’ve only been back a short while. I don’t know what me and Baz were thinking of. I feel really gutted.”

  Joe realised that Dex was genuinely upset, but it didn’t make him feel any different; he wasn’t up for meeting with them any time soon. “Yeah, well don’t worry about it. I’m going to sort my bike out. There’s a bike shop down the road. I’ll be in touch mate.” Joe hung up.

  Joe thought about some of the things they had all said when they had been
in the pub. He had struggled to bring himself to think about it and hadn’t been able to talk to anyone on the subject; but it wasn’t going away.

  “Why am I feeling so shattered?” he exclaimed louder than he wanted. Alison called out from the bedroom.

  “Did you say something, love?”

  “No, you’re OK, Al,” he replied picking up the newspaper while positioning himself on the sofa.

  “Maybe Dex and Baz have a point after all,” he continued quietly to himself. “I sometimes wish I’d never got into all this military crap.”

  Somehow he was still blocking out certain thoughts as much as he could. He didn’t see the point of talking to anyone about it. “Why bother? It won’t change a thing,” he asserted to himself.

  He thought about the training they had received and what the Talebs he had been guarding had been like. They were ordinary types really, listening to pop music and kicking footballs around. They were probably just press-ganged into fighting anyway. They hadn’t seemed to be a direct threat to the UK; and most people now seem to regard them as freedom fighters or at the very least underdogs.

  “Maybe our so-called ‘superior culture’ is not so superior after all; at least compared to them. Kids here are encouraged to act and dress like adults and young teenagers are force-fed violence. Even the computer games are too much.”

  His own youth had been a simple one: kicking a football around parks at all hours, washing neighbours’ cars without fear of being abducted and not worrying about falling out of trees. He’d forgotten the names of some of his schholmates – ‘Dave and Raz: I remember them. What was that other lad called?’

  At that point he reached a conclusion that frightened him, as much by its sheer energy as what it meant in reality. He could no longer see what he and Cam had been fighting for; there was no real establishment or society. All the enemy had wanted was for the West to keep its influence out of their own countries. He also remembered what Jeff Katz of that political group had said at the meetings - “that they had all been let down by the state” - and some of the man’s views had chimed with his own.