War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  Dave ignored him. ‘Jamie, you start over here and work your way towards Connor. McCall behind you. Then I need two men to start from over there and work towards Broom. I’ll have you, Binman. And Mal follows.’

  The men he had chosen blinked at him as if they had just woken up.

  ‘Right, Dermott and McCall here, Binns and Bilaal there. Bergens off, bayonets ready, GET GOING.’

  The men began to struggle out of their Bergens.

  ‘Make sure you’ve got water, man behind must have a stretcher, carry only what you need, something to eat but not much. Of course, trauma kit. Give them some extra field dressings, someone. OK, then down on your belt buckles and it’s look, feel, prod with your bayonets before you move forward. Remember that one? Look, feel, prod. Got mine markers? Got mine tape?’

  They were taking off their pouches now, rummaging through them at the same time for mine tape, grabbing their bayonets. Binns looked skinnier and skinnier as the pouches came off. Finn moved in to help him.

  The two front men got into position and eased down onto their stomachs at the edge of the minefield.

  ‘Gently! DON’T HURRY!’ roared Dave. ‘Or you’ll be lying there too.’

  At a double moan from both casualties Jamie and Binman from their separate positions began to scrape urgently at the surface of the soil with their bayonets.

  ‘GENTLY! This is your new-born baby. It’s a bag of fucking eggs. It’s a MINE and it’s going to explode!’

  ‘They’re coming,’ lads called to the casualties. ‘They’ll soon be getting you out of there.’

  Broom was moaning more quietly now he had a shot of morphine inside him. Connor had fallen ominously silent.

  ‘Ryan’s still breathing,’ shouted Kirk. ‘I can see that.’

  Kirk and O’Sullivan were the two members of 2 Section who had been stuck in the minefield when Dave had ordered them to freeze.

  ‘If I go forward on my stomach from here,’ called Kirk. ‘I can get to Ryan faster than Dermott and McCall.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Dave. ‘I want you two back safely, not bumping around the casualties in your Bergens in a minefield.’

  Kirk started to argue.

  ‘Shut the fuck up and tell me what you can see from there,’ ordered Dave. ‘How much leg has Broom lost?’

  ‘About half. Maybe a bit more.’

  ‘Connor?’

  ‘Dunno. Can’t see what’s wrong with him.’

  ‘Shrapnel, maybe. But he’s got two legs, two arms?’

  ‘I think so, Sarge, but there’s so much blood . . . he could be missing a foot.’

  ‘All right, Kirk. Now, you and O’Sullivan get your bayonets out, mine markers ready.’ They reached carefully for their bayonets, wobbling dangerously because they could not move their feet.

  ‘Sarge, I don’t have mine markers,’ called O’Sullivan miserably.

  No matter how many times you did kit inspection, no matter how often you reminded men, they were guaranteed not to have the vital bit of kit when they needed it.

  ‘Why the fuck not, O’Sullivan?’

  ‘Erm . . . I used them for something else . . .’

  ‘What else can you do with mine markers? For Chrissake?’

  O’Sullivan stood helplessly in the minefield, his face gawping.

  ‘Oh don’t bother to tell me now. Got anything else you could use?’

  ‘There’s markers here, Sarge,’ said McKinley. ‘Can I try throwing them over to him?’

  ‘Can you fuck! We’re trying to get him out alive, shithead.’

  ‘Use your peanuts!’ shouted Corporal Baker to O’Sullivan.

  ‘His peanuts? His peanuts?’

  ‘Yeah, Sarge. O’Sullivan buys up the peanuts from everyone else’s rations, he loves them, his Bergen’s full of bags.’

  ‘We need something that will stick in the ground.’

  ‘He could anchor them with stones. Run a bit of mine tape between them.’

  ‘It’s better than nothing.’ Dave shouted to O’Sullivan: ‘Got your mine tape?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Right then, you two. Remember, no hurry. Go slow and live. Now crouch down. Take a look at the ground all around you and then feel it with your fingers. That includes the ground between your feet. Go behind you, go in front, go to the side. Then use your bayonet to prod. Do that until you’ve got a box around you big enough to lie in. So after that it’s down on your belt buckles, sort yourselves out and start moving this way. SLOWLY.’

  There was an urgent voice at his side.

  ‘Sarge, I could start this end and make a path towards—’

  ‘No, McKinley. I’ve already got eight men out there. I don’t want to lose a ninth.’

  On the radio the boss’s voice said: ‘I’ve been trying to get EOD but they’re all tied up. Thought an engineer with mine-detecting equipment would help but we haven’t managed to extract them yet . . . there should be some on their way soon . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dave. ‘Yeah. Soon. OK.’

  No helicopter, no winch, no mine detectors and no fucking EOD. Just two men bleeding to death and six more in danger.

  ‘The casualties seem to have gone rather quiet,’ said the boss.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dave was tired of shouting. He was tired of talking. He was wet with sweat. And he felt powerless. The screams and moans of the wounded had worn him down, as though he had been the one screaming and moaning. Now that the men he had sent were out there doing their jobs, their lives were in their own hands.

  His eyes swept across the minefield. The two casualties, baking in their own blood like cookies under the strengthening morning sun. Jamie, making painfully slow progress on his belly across the field, the large shape of McCall behind him. 1 Platoon, stretched out around the clearing, many backs to the action, searching the woodland for enemy movement. A collection of drawn, anxious faces, chiefly those of the shocked 2 Section, fixed on the two rescue teams. And, most surprisingly, the small, skinny shape of Jack Binns, followed by Mal, ootching with skilful speed towards the body of Ben Broom.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  WHEN BINMAN HAD HEARD HIS OWN NAME, STANDING IN THE woods watching the casualties’ blood pump into the soil, he’d thought Dave was gripping him. Because, as usual, he must be doing something wrong. It took a few moments to realize that he’d been selected to clear a mine path to the casualties.

  As he struggled to find his tape he thought to himself that he must have been chosen because Dave wouldn’t mind losing him. Then he remembered that Jamie Dermott had also been chosen, and Dave would certainly mind losing Jamie. Only then did it occur to him that Dave had picked him to do this work because he might be good at it. And Mal, who was much quicker and better at everything, had been told to follow him! Mal was a fantastic medic but until they got to the casualties he could do nothing more than follow on his belly, maybe widening the mine path a bit, because, incredibly, Binns had been put at the front.

  By the time Binns was on his knees at the edge of the woodland, liberated from his Bergen, bayonet in hand, he felt lightheaded. He had been selected to do the most difficult job. Along with good-at-everything hot-shit soldier Jamie Dermott. It was incredible.

  His best mate, Streaky Bacon, clasped his shoulder.

  ‘Good luck, Binman. I’m going to write a rap about this . . .’

  The seriousness of Streaky’s face reminded Binns of the danger ahead. So did one of the casualties, who gave a sudden, sharp scream of pain.

  Binns didn’t know Ben Broom well. But he knew he had to save his life. And if he failed, his failure would stay with him for ever. He closed his eyes and thought about what he had to do.

  Look, feel, prod. Go. He worked vigorously on his knees and was soon able to move forward onto his belly, until Dave gripped him for it.

  ‘Slower, Binns, for Chrissake!’

  Binman soon decided to keep the bayonet for prodding and use his fingers to feel the ground.
It was weird to scrape his hands across the rough Afghan soil. He had helped his grandfather in his allotment at home in Dorset where the soil was nothing like this: it was dark and friable and always damp beneath the surface. This soil had been roasting in the cruel sun for years. There was no moisture. It felt thin and lifeless.

  The earth was gritty beneath his palms. He swept aside handfuls and let them fall gently. He dug his fingers into it until his nails were packed solid.

  He heard Dave instructing O’Sullivan and Kirk to do the same.

  ‘Sarge,’ shouted O’Sullivan, ‘can I pull these weeds up? It’ll be easier to feel the soil.’

  ‘No!’ Dave roared back. ‘We don’t know how deep the root system goes.’

  Binns had already worked that one out. So far he hadn’t encountered many weeds but he worked carefully around them when he did.

  It took hours and hours to move one inch. It took for ever. Binns concentrated so hard on his hands and the soil beneath them that days might have passed. The rest of his body didn’t exist. He had turned into sharp eyes and gentle hands. Every time one of the wounded let out a cry, he felt himself speeding up.

  ‘Ignore everything except your work, especially ignore the casualties!’ shouted Dave. ‘Don’t hurry. Are you hurrying, Binman?’

  Binns shook his head but did not speak. He was squeezing the point of his bayonet into earth his fingers had loosened, and then easing his body forward a bit more. Then a bit more. And then a bit more.

  He heard Mal behind him.

  ‘He’s working fast, Sarge, but he’s being well careful.’

  To Binman, Mal said: ‘You’re doing a fucking good job. I just hope the Taliban don’t move this way. Because I’m feeling exposed out here.’

  Binman heard Mal’s words but he was working patiently now on a particularly resistant mound of earth. He scraped at it very, very gently. The earth did not want to move. Was it caked to something solid beneath? He tried a new tactic.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked Mal.

  ‘Blowing,’ said Binns.

  ‘Oh. Thought you were just dripping your sweat on it.’

  Binman became aware how hot he was. His helmet was a metal oven and his head baked inside it. His body was manoeuvring under a hot blanket.

  ‘Binns, have you had any water yet?’ bellowed Dave from the side of the clearing. He sounded further away now, but the casualties looked no closer.

  ‘He hasn’t, Sarge!’ shouted Mal.

  ‘Drink!’ ordered Dave. ‘Get your tube in your mouth and pause.’

  Binman was blowing harder now on the resistant earth. This time it turned to dust and puffed up into his face. His eyes filled with grit. He shut them and kept blowing. When all the loose earth had gone he found himself staring down a steep indent. Just visible at the bottom was something hard and probably metallic. He stopped. For the first time since he had started this long, slow journey on his belly, he was still.

  ‘Use your Camelbak,’ Mal said.

  Binns did not move.

  ‘Oy! You going to puke?’

  Binns lay still, waves of heat rising from the hot soil around him.

  ‘Water!’ Mal prompted him. ‘Now!’

  Jack Binns tried to speak. But the inside of his mouth was coated with dry soil. His throat was dry. His eyes were dry. The only water was his own sweat, dripping down his face and off his chin.

  ‘Eh?’ demanded Mal.

  ‘Something might be there.’

  Mal said: ‘Might be. That’s enough for me, mate!’

  Binns looked up then and managed to find the delivery tube of his Camelbak. He sucked on it long and hard. The water was almost cool and it cleaned out his mouth and as it trickled down his throat he realized he had been concentrating too hard to notice his deep, deep thirst. The joy of the water was so intense that he did not know how long Mal and Dave had been shouting at him.

  ‘Back! Go back!’

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘You have to fucking go back to go round it,’ Mal said, grabbing hold of his feet and dragging him.

  ‘I don’t want to go back!’ said Binns. But he was powerless as Mal pulled him a metre back along the path he had so neatly marked.

  Binns sat up then to get a better view of the mine and how he should go around it. He saw the bodies of the wounded ahead. He had felt as though he was making no progress at all but now he realized he was a little over halfway to Broom. One of Broom’s legs disappeared into a pool of blood. Flies were gathering around it in swarms.

  Binns remembered the golden hour. You had to get your casualties to Bastion inside the golden hour. How many hours had he already been here carving this route with his hands? And now he had lost one metre of the few he had gained.

  Broom lay still. He was so quiet he might be dead.

  ‘He’s still breathing,’ said Mal.

  ‘Go left, Binman,’ shouted voices. A few said: ‘Try right!’ Jack Binns thought of his mother’s living room, how he and his mother and brother would watch TV game shows, shouting at the contestants what they should do.

  Another voice cut through the others.

  ‘Binns! Cut left and you’ll link up with the path O’Sullivan cleared. Unfortunately it’s marked out in peanuts. You can eat them if you like, as long as you mark it properly.’

  It was the boss. Binman swung his body to the left. The brief break had reminded him how hot he was and how dangerous the work. His heart thudded as he rounded the mine. Suppose it was enormous? Suppose he hadn’t swung wide enough? If it exploded under him his innards would be ripped out. There would be a few moments when you knew you were dying. He shut his eyes. Yes, for a couple of seconds, you’d know it was happening. He would feel pain and sadness and loss because he was leaving it all behind. He’d think of his mother and Ally. Then it would all be over. Death would be a sort of blackness where nothing ever happened and he wouldn’t know or care. Ally would cry at his funeral and then marry someone else and have kids and grow old and he wouldn’t see any of it. Because he wouldn’t be there. He wouldn’t exist.

  He felt sick. His hands became less systematic and then they stopped.

  ‘Binman!’ Mal sounded worried. ‘I know you’re going to sick up. I know it.’

  Binns could not tell him that he was suddenly, halfway between a casualty and the edge of a minefield, paralysed by fear. Out of the corner of his eye was the distant line of Jamie’s Camelbak, with Angus’s following. They were heading towards Connor at a snail’s pace. Jamie paused and put his head up to drink. He looked over at Binman. His face was filthy. You could see sweat lines running through the dirt even from here. They exchanged distant glances.

  ‘How are you moving so fucking fast, Binman?’ shouted Jamie.

  Binman summoned all his energy. ‘Hands. And blowing.’

  ‘Blowing. Good idea.’

  Jamie lowered his body back down, his face distorted in pain. Binns remembered how this man had taken a machine gun round and just carried on working as though nothing had happened. He watched as Jamie disappeared behind some weeds. The field was full of bodies. The casualties were on their backs. And on their bellies, inching in their different directions, inching towards possible death, were Jamie, Angry, O’Sullivan and Kirk.

  ‘Binman!’ hissed Mal. ‘Don’t fuck up. You’re doing a great job. Don’t fuck up now, mate.’

  Slowly, Jack Binns took his bayonet and pushed it into some soft ground ahead of him which his hands had already massaged. Nothing happened. There was no explosion. He was still alive. Heartened, he began his fast, concentrated work again.

  ‘Sarge!’ shouted Mal. ‘How did you know Binman would be so good at this?’

  Binns turned briefly to glance at Dave, who was standing at the edge of the minefield. You could see his helplessness. He could yell, warn, cajole. But the situation was outside his control. His face was red with the heat, the effort of yelling instructions and the extreme tension. He had even
forgotten, Binns noted, before turning back to his worm’s eye view of the dry earth, to take off his Bergen. Next to him stood the boss. His face was anguished.

  ‘I watched his fingers when he was beatboxing with Streaky,’ Dave called back. ‘In another life, that lad would have been a concert pianist.’

  Binns heard them talking about him but paid no attention. He felt as though he was inside his own hands as he scraped and prodded. He stabbed another little mine marker into the ground and crawled forward again. Mal was right behind him but he seemed a thousand miles away.