War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  ‘Well, that’s better than going back out to get the other leg blown off so we have to go through it all again!’ she replied loudly. There were two Leannes in the room, the Leanne who was so tense and angry she couldn’t stop herself shouting. And a small, calm, quiet Leanne who knew the welcome party was on the brink of disaster and could do nothing to save the situation.

  ‘You can do anything, Steve!’ said a warm voice behind her. ‘If you say you can get back out to that frontline, then I believe you will!’

  Steve looked past his hurt wife to the smiling face of Adi Kasanita.

  ‘Thanks, Ads. I’m glad someone believes in me.’

  ‘Honey, everyone believes in you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Leanne too. She’s so sure you’ll do it that she’s scared to death, poor girl!’

  Adi put an arm around Leanne and some people laughed and joined in and one of the officers said there was a para who had gone straight back out to Afghanistan with a new leg. After a while the voices and the children and the balloons made it seem like a normal party again.

  Leanne didn’t want it to end. Whenever anyone said they had to go she persuaded them to stay a little longer. The officers were the first to drift off, then all the other men in uniform said they had to get back to their offices, and finally the mothers said: ‘You two need some quiet time alone together.’

  Leanne wanted to shout: ‘No, we don’t!’

  But Jenny and Adi took the boys and suddenly the house was still, more still than it had been for months. Even at night when Leanne lay sleepless in her bed, it wasn’t this still.

  Steve sat with his head back in the chair and his eyes closed. Leanne busied herself with the clearing up. Finally he spoke.

  ‘That was a load of shit.’

  She froze, a stack of dirty cups in her hand.

  ‘You could say thank you.’

  ‘What have I got to thank you for? Signs saying I’m a hero? Well, I didn’t even get to the fucking base. I was only in Afghanistan five minutes. I’m no fucking hero. My mates are out there fighting, they’re the heroes.’

  ‘So that’s why you want to go back,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Yeah. I want to go back. Get over it. I want to go back.’

  His crutch was leaning against the chair and he reached for it. He was going to stand up. She moved forward to help and was still moving when she realized that he had picked up the crutch to throw it at her. It hurtled with force across the room. She dodged. It hit the side of her body and bounced off onto the buffet table. With a crash it landed on a pile of plates.

  She stared at the mess of food, broken crockery and crutch and then turned to Steve, her hip throbbing with pain.

  ‘Why did you do that, Steve?’

  But he had closed his eyes and did not reply.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘YES,’ SAID EMILY, GUARDING THE ENTRANCE OF HER ISOBOX SO THAT Asma and Jean could not see past her to its interior. ‘I am indeed coming to the shura. I shall be very interested to learn from the local people how it is to live under British military occupation.’

  ‘Good!’ said Jean cheerfully. ‘We’re here to help you prepare.’

  Emily raised her eyebrows. Asma thought she looked like a bird that wanted to peck you. Her nose was beaky and her alert eyes were very round.

  ‘And what preparation is necessary?’

  Asma explained that they would all be sitting on a carpet.

  Emily shrugged.

  ‘I daresay I shall be a little uncomfortable but I will manage.’

  ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly will you be wearing?’ asked Jean.

  Emily looked affronted.

  ‘I have no plans to change.’

  They glanced politely at her sleeveless blouse and sensible skirt. Her clothes struggled to contain her ample frame.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you really need a loose, long-sleeved top to cover your arms. And you must cover your legs.’

  Asma added: ‘We wear combat trousers and that’s all wrong but at least they’re baggy and they hide us. You can’t go in showing your legs, Professor.’

  Emily’s strong, clever face frightened her. The confidence her intelligence gave the professor was like body armour. It meant Emily had views she was so sure about she wasn’t scared to express them. It meant Emily did not care about her appearance and had no interest in what others thought of her.

  ‘You certainly couldn’t show your young legs but I doubt they will take much notice of an old woman like me,’ Emily said airily.

  Both Jean and Asma rushed to correct her and Emily weakened.

  ‘Well, we’d better have a look at my clothes then. Don’t stand there letting the heat in.’

  She stepped aside. After the fierce light outside the isobox seemed gloomy. They could see piles of papers and two computer screens which apparently Emily had been using simultaneously. A bed was pressed against one wall and it was also covered in papers. But the most amazing thing about the office was its temperature. Asma and Jean closed their eyes and felt the delicious and unaccustomed pleasure of air-conditioning.

  Emily was flicking through clothes on a small hanging rail jammed in beside a computer.

  ‘I have a long-sleeved blouse. But I don’t have a long skirt. And I’m certainly not wearing that ridiculous camouflage stuff. I have no wish to make myself look like a bush.’

  Asma did not want to open her eyes and reply. She just wanted to feel the cool air soothing her.

  Jean said: ‘Surely you have something that will cover your legs.’

  Emily blinked. ‘Why should I? I am not a Moslem.’

  ‘Trousers?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Nightie?’

  ‘No.’

  Asma opened her eyes with an effort.

  ‘Do you wear pyjamas?’

  ‘Well, I do have pyjamas but if you think I’m—’

  ‘You could wear them under a skirt. That’d be better than nothing.’

  Jean agreed. ‘It won’t look so different from the clothes Afghan women wear.’

  Emily put her hands on her broad hips.

  ‘I am not going out in my pyjamas.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Jean. ‘To the Afghans this is about your body and not your clothes. They don’t care what you wear as long as you cover up. We can only visit them if we show proper respect. Asma and I always cover our bodies and we drape a scarf over our heads when we go to shuras.’

  Asma added: ‘We’re out there and we’re women, that’s bad enough for the locals. Uncovered women are just like: no!’

  ‘That view is of course unacceptable to me.’

  ‘Professor, we’re in Afghanistan, we’ve got to respect Afghan traditions.’

  Emily raised her eyebrows and looked birdlike again. She leaned forward to peck.

  ‘I can’t see how arriving with troops and bombs to kill Afghans is respecting their traditions. However, this obviously matters to you both very much and you know the country and its people. So if you insist, I’ll wear my pyjamas under my skirt. Although I shall feel rather silly.’

  Jean and Asma were ready and waiting with the military escort before the civilians emerged.

  ‘I’m telling you now so you don’t laugh. Emily will be wearing pyjamas,’ said Jean. ‘She’s got nothing else to cover her legs.’

  Sergeant Somers of 2 Platoon and his commander instantly guffawed.

  ‘That’s what you mustn’t do!’ Asma told them.

  The OC looked around the group fiercely.

  ‘The girls are right. It is very important that no one laughs.’

  Emily arrived wearing pink pyjamas, a grey skirt, a pink blouse and pink headscarf knotted under her chin as well as full body armour and the OC was the first to burst out laughing. Despite glares from Asma and Jean, he was closely followed by the engineer and the 2 i/c. Martyn grinned from ear to ear and 2 Platoon muttered jokes to one another and staggered about stifling
laughter. A few took pictures.

  ‘Get on the wagons!’ their sergeant growled at them. And then immediately clamped his hand over his mouth.

  ‘At least all the colours match,’ Asma told Emily kindly.

  ‘And we take our body armour off before we go in,’ Jean said. ‘You’ll feel more comfortable without it.’

  ‘I’m delighted to have brightened up everyone’s day,’ said Emily grumpily.

  ‘It’s all in the interests of building strong local relationships.’ The OC handed her up into the Vector.

  ‘Local relations would be much improved if you didn’t spend so much time peppering them with bullets,’ retorted Emily. Martyn rolled his eyes at the OC and then climbed up behind her.

  When they reached the tribesmen’s house they were once again welcomed warmly by Asad, his father and brother. In the background hovered a large group of men and boys. Nobody here seemed to find Emily’s pyjamas funny.

  As they sat down, Asad caught Asma’s eye and smiled. He was every bit as attractive as she remembered him. He was tall, much taller than most Afghans. His features were strong. And his blue eyes in that brown face were startling.

  ‘It is a great pleasure to welcome you to our home again,’ he said warmly.

  She smiled back, dropped her eyes and told him how honoured the party was to attend the house and meet his family once more. Of course, the officers were supposed to present the greetings and she was supposed to translate them. But you could wait for ever for soldiers to do charm.

  Emily lowered herself onto the carpet with difficulty and clearly did not enjoy crossing her legs. She was introduced and her role explained and the tribesmen listened politely then turned to Martyn with their questions.

  ‘Is your search for Helmand’s natural resources proving successful?’ Asad asked him.

  Martyn said: ‘Yes, we’ve had some very interesting results.’

  ‘Is oil everywhere in this region? Or just in one place?’

  Emily did not intend to be ignored. Before Martyn could answer she said: ‘We are concentrating our activities in the area we believe to be most productive.’

  Asad’s father nodded and turned back to Martyn: ‘And how can you know from looking at the earth that there is oil and gas beneath it?’

  Martyn smiled. ‘I’ve been an oilman all my life. I just know, I can feel it, I can almost smell it.’ He glanced at Emily. ‘Although some people need persuading about my hunches.’

  Emily looked at Martyn coldly and then said to the tribesmen, ‘Naturally our exploration is scientific and our suppositions should be data-based. We carry out an initial rough analysis of the terrain by looking at its predominant geological eras. After preliminary exercises which help us pinpoint where the most likely compression has occurred we do a detailed analysis by, among other less accurate methods, taking seismic readings from the rock.’

  Asma and Jean looked at each other in despair.

  ‘I can’t translate that,’ said Jean.

  Asma attempted it and the tribesmen nodded as though they’d understood. Asad asked Asma: ‘Who did you say this woman is?’

  Asma explained again that Emily was an eminent professor who knew more about geophysics than anyone else in the UK.

  ‘So we can be sure, then, that the site is a true one?’ asked Asad.

  Asma translated this and Emily nodded vigorously. ‘Certainly!’ She glanced at Martyn. ‘I do not make mistakes.’

  Martyn grimaced.

  Major Willingham was impatient. He said: ‘Last time we were here you mentioned that you believed there was a Taliban training centre nearby.’

  Asad’s father nodded.

  ‘We do believe that. We believe people are coming from all over the world to train at that centre. Some of them even come from England!’

  The OC ignored this. He asked: ‘What effect are the Taliban having on this area?’

  ‘We live in fear. They arrive at our homes and demand hospitality, they eat our food, take our animals and steal from our shops. They even bring drugs into our households,’ said Asad’s father passionately.

  ‘So you would like the area cleared of them?’

  ‘Yes. We would like them to go back to their own countries and leave us to our Afghan traditions.’

  ‘Then why don’t you fight them yourselves?’ demanded Emily.

  ‘We are powerless in the face of their international strength.’

  ‘You said you would tell us exactly where the Taliban training ground is. If you do so, we can help you clear this area of their influence,’ said the major. He was trying to appear relaxed, thought Asma, but a slight breathlessness in his voice gave away the importance of the question.

  ‘We have discussed this among ourselves and we can tell you exactly,’ said the father.

  Asad said something to one of the boys hanging around at the side of the room. The boy ran off and, while they waited for his return, hot, sweet tea was served by old men.

  Emily tried to take advantage of the break to stretch out her legs but Jean stopped her at once.

  ‘Don’t put your legs forward!’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘It just isn’t OK.’

  Asma’s face was reddening for Emily. ‘You can stand up, but you can’t stretch out.’

  The boy returned with a map and everybody pored over it. Martyn was quick to find the Early Rocks.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about that place?’

  ‘It is a very holy shrine,’ said Asad’s father. ‘A great Sufi poet lived at the rocks and when he needed water he drew water from the ground and there has been water ever since.’

  ‘And,’ added Asad, ‘women believe that drinking this water will give them a boy child. In the past it was a very popular location on holy days. But people today realize that these old shrines are more like superstitions than anything the Prophet would have approved. So no one goes there much now.’

  ‘Of course you know it,’ said Asad’s father, ‘because it is near your oil site.’

  Martyn and Emily looked surprised.

  ‘But how do you know where the oil site is?’ demanded Emily. ‘Has Martyn told you?’

  The men smiled and the younger brother, who had remained silent until now, laughed out loud.

  ‘This is our world,’ said Asad. ‘We know everything.’

  ‘What is it called?’ she asked.

  ‘The place you visit so often with your box?’

  Asad’s finger rapidly moved across the flat desert to settle at the edge of a mass of contour lines. He had pinpointed the site exactly. The OC and the 2 i/c exchanged glances.

  ‘It has no name,’ said Asad’s father.

  ‘We should give it one, since it is a place of some significance. What will you call it, Father?’

  The older man thought for a moment, stroking his beard. Then he said: ‘Allah is bountiful.’

  There was a murmur of assent from all around the room before Asma could translate.

  ‘Allah is bountiful? That’s the name they’ve given it?’ asked Martyn. ‘Maybe it works in Pashtu but it doesn’t do a lot for me in English.’

  ‘I think what they’re saying,’ said the 2 i/c, ‘is that they regard the oil and gas site as Helmand’s winning lottery ticket.’

  ‘They would be quite right,’ added Emily.

  ‘They probably feel that Allah doesn’t leave a lot to chance,’ said Asma quietly. ‘And I’m sure they disapprove of lotteries.’

  ‘I get where they’re coming from,’ said Martyn. ‘What they’re trying to call the place is Jackpot.’

  ‘Jackpot,’ echoed the OC with approval.

  ‘Jackpot!’ said the 2 i/c.

  ‘OK,’ said Martyn, ‘I’m sold on that. Jackpot it is.’

  During this conversation Asad had been talking intently with his father. Although it was clear, from the way Emily and Martyn kept rearranging themselves uncomfortably on the carpet, that the visitors were ready to go, the
father now spoke to them all. Jean translated.

  ‘We would like to extend an invitation to everyone here today. My daughter is to be married next month. We would be very honoured if you would consider joining our family and friends for the wedding celebrations.’

  The invitation was received in shocked silence. Even Emily and Martyn looked to the OC for a reply.