by Andy McNab
The cookhouse was to his right. A pile of stacked food tins, a trestle table with gas burners, and lots of over-sized aluminium cooking pots. Fresh food was going to be a rare thing once again. Next to this was the jokingly called mess, a collection of old tables and chairs for use during meals or when just grabbing a brew.
In the far right corner was what Liam assumed was called ‘the gym’. He’d heard about one soldier employed by the MOD to travel around from compound to compound delivering a gym in a bag. Costing about six hundred quid, each bag contained enough simple fitness kit for any compound, checkpoint or whatever to get set up with a fitness area within minutes. Such an area was vital, not just to help the soldiers keep fit, but also to give them somewhere to let off steam. The kit contained head guards and gloves for just that reason. Sometimes, having a good scrap with a mate was the best therapy any soldier could wish for. It also enabled them to practise unarmed combat. Because, as Liam and the rest knew, no matter how many moves you knew, how many clever ways to block a punch or take someone out, when a real fight happened, it was ninety-five per cent survival, and five per cent getting just such a move right enough to give you the upper hand and get ahead of what your opponent was thinking.
Sadly, though, Liam thought, this place had not yet been reached, and instead everything was home-made, courtesy of squaddie ingenuity. The best example was the weights – a row of scaffold bars, at the end of which were various sizes of tins filled with concrete. There were a number of pull-up bars, some push-up bars too, but that was about it.
‘So where do we doss down?’ asked Clint.
‘Over there, I reckon,’ said Liam, nodding left, not an ounce of enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Under that huge grey tarpaulin and past the sitting area.’
As they walked over, Liam spotted Nicky. Being the only woman out there, she got separate quarters and extra privacy.
The multiple that Liam and the others were replacing had cleared their kit out, but Liam didn’t trust them. Pulling pranks was part of a soldier’s life, and he took some time in sorting out his bed, double-checking it for any lurking surprises.
It was just as Liam was finally sorted, his kit all in good order, that a yell came out from close by.
It was Clint.
11
Liam whipped round. Had Clint been shot at? It was enough to get his heart racing again, as he immediately did a 360 scan, looking for anywhere a sniper could get a shot in, even though he knew they were safe in the compound. If someone had, like Hammond had suggested, leaked intelligence, then anything was possible. As he did so, he caught sight of something huge in the air in front of Clint, something he was trying to slap away from his chest. He stepped back, stumbled into his bed, and fell. Still yelling.
All Liam saw was that Clint was in trouble, and whatever the cause, he was going to sort it out. He jumped over his own bed and dashed across. It was only then, when he was up close, that he realized what the problem was.
‘Don’t move!’ he hissed. ‘The fucker might still be alive!’
Clint went deathly still. Liam pulled out his bayonet.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Seriously, don’t move . . .’
‘But a bayonet? What do you need that for? If you stab me . . .’
‘Stop struggling!’ Liam whispered. ‘You want it to bite you?’
Clint froze, and Liam leaned in closer to the thing on Clint’s webbing. It moved, or at least he thought it did. And with a short sharp jab, he pierced it.
Clint was breathing hard and fast.
‘Camel spider,’ said Liam, examining the creature stuck to the end of his blade. It was clearly dead, probably had been all along. The size of a dinner plate, its body was not far off that of a small rat, and its legs were long and just plain nasty-looking.
Clint sat up. ‘It was in my bed,’ he said. ‘Actually in my bed! I put my kit down and somehow flicked the thing up. Nearly brown-trousered myself. Never seen one up close like that before.’
‘For a moment there I thought you’d been slotted,’ said Liam. ‘Shit, I’m jumpy as fuck now.’
He laughed, but it was as much out of relief as it was humour. The smile on his face helped break the hard shell of horror that was suffocating him after the news about Martin – and the possibility that intelligence about their arrival had been leaked to the Taliban.
‘Piss funny,’ he said, shaking with the mix of emotion, working at keeping his voice calm. ‘Honestly, the funniest thing I’ve seen in months.’
‘To you, maybe,’ said Clint, clambering back to his feet. ‘I hate spiders. Can’t stand the things. Make me freak out.’
‘They’re not technically spiders,’ said Liam.
‘See my face?’ said Clint. ‘Look like I care what it is? All I know is it’s got lots of legs and crawls.’ He shuddered.
‘Same thing happened to me last time I was out,’ said Liam, remembering finding a dead camel spider in his own bed. ‘Their bites can get infected easily, but they’re not killers. Creepy, though, aren’t they? Proper horror-movie stuff!’
Clint said, ‘I hate horror movies.’ Then added, ‘At least it made you smile.’
Liam shrugged. ‘Humour’s the only thing that helps keep you sane out here, right?’
It was then, though, that a darker thought stretched out its thin, sly fingers. Liam saw that Clint had noticed a change, heard his laughter die.
‘What’s wrong?’ Clint asked. ‘You’re sure it’s dead, right? It didn’t bite you, did it?’
Liam caught a look from some of the lads who’d been here a while, who were clearly envious of their mates in the multiple that had just left. He gave a thumbs up and smiled. They saluted back, clearly proud their little joke had paid off. Thank God it hadn’t been anything else, he thought. He needed to chill out, not jump at everything, as that could be dangerous. He also knew he had to be alert. If there was someone somewhere giving information to the Taliban, then it was in everyone’s interest to find out who.
Miller scooted over, jarring Liam from his thoughts. ‘Scott?’
‘I’m OK, boss,’ said Liam, registering the concern in the sergeant’s voice.
‘We’ll deal with Saunders’ stuff later,’ said Miller, acknowledging Liam’s response with a firm nod. ‘Until then, I need people up in the sangars and on the wall. It’ll be dark soon enough and I don’t want them thinking we’re slacking up, just because they’ve taken out a Chinook and we’ve suffered casualties. We hammered them hard, but there’s always a chance some other fuckers will be back to have a go.’
Liam saw a couple of other lads making their way up some ladders to the lookouts that stared out across the land surrounding the compound.
‘So I want you two up there,’ said Miller, pointing up at the wall. ‘Stirling and Hammond are up in the other. There’s binos up there, a Gimpy, LASWs. Get your eyes in and inform me of anything that moves. Now we’re out here, my PRR is on twenty-four seven.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Liam.
‘What about the Chinook?’ asked Clint.
‘In hand,’ said Miller. ‘A secure perimeter is in place. There was a brief contact as we pushed back to secure the HLS, but their heart wasn’t in it. They bugged out sharpish. It’s being checked over for salvageable kit now. Then we’ll finish the job and make sure it’s of no use to anyone. Now move it!’
Liam, with Clint following, grabbed his SA80 and zipped across the compound to their designated sangar, a barely standing lookout post with a view from the compound walls and out to the beyond. It was good to be busy so soon, he thought, nearing the ladder. Best thing he could do now was focus on the job in hand.
As Liam grabbed the ladder, he heard Ade swear. Turning, he saw Ade’s kit all over the floor thanks to a broken bed.
‘You do know it’s seriously bad luck to break a bed before you sleep in it,’ said Clint. ‘From now on, you’re a marked man, Ade.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Ade. �
��And what I mean by that is fuck off, just in case you didn’t understand. We’ve had enough seriously bad luck already.’
‘Yeah, we’ve not even started out here and we’ve already been hammered, lost a helicopter, suffered injuries. And Saunders . . .’ said Liam, starting up the ladder.
‘Keep moving,’ said Clint, not giving Liam time to dwell on Martin’s death, ‘I don’t like staring at your backside.’
The sangar was built from sandbags, thick enough to hopefully see off a hit from an RPG. The roof was corrugated steel overlaid with more bags. They had a good arc of sight, left to right, and Liam was happy to see that anyone approaching within 300 metres would be pretty easy to spot. That wouldn’t stop them trying, though, he knew. There was plenty of scrub and brush in the land beyond the compound, and someone determined and patient enough could slowly creep forward. They’d have to have their eyes tuned into any movement, double-check anything that looked dodgy.
He checked over the GPMG. Capable of 750 rounds a minute, and with a range of up to 1800 metres, the L7AT General-Purpose Machine Gun was the infantry workhorse. It was astonishingly reliable, belt-fed, and fired 7.62 rounds. Liam had used one before. It was deadly.
Clint was on the range-finder binos and doing a quick sweep of the harsh wilderness that lay before them. It was rough ground, rock and dirt and plants so hardy they could probably survive a nuclear attack. The ground rose in front of them gradually, the horizon dropping off at about 400 metres, and beyond that were distant mountains, their heads covered in a grey shroud of cloud. It was a landscape that was hauntingly quiet. The air was dry and what wind there was simply stirred up the stale aroma of soldiers living closely together and all that entailed. It was a smell you got used to, but never missed.
‘Nice area,’ Clint said. ‘Pretty and rural.’
‘The bastards will still be out there,’ said Liam, staring down the iron sight of the GPMG, checking his arc of fire left to right, pinpointing any areas he thought had the potential to hide anyone wanting to slip close and have a look-see. He didn’t say it, but deep down he was itching to get one back for Martin. And he knew he wouldn’t be alone in that. All soldiers felt the same. They were warriors, it was what they did. And if one of their own got hit, then it was a natural thing to want to fight back, and harder.
Clint grabbed a bottle of water from a stash in the sangar, handing another to Liam.
‘I guess we’re going to be up here a while,’ he said. ‘Ever played I-spy?’
It was closing in on three hours later when two other soldiers finally relieved them. Down in the compound, life was busy, with the cookhouse running a late supper, a few lads using the gym area, and the rest keeping themselves busy with anything from stripping weapons to writing home. Rob was, unsurprisingly, listening to his iPod. Liam had his, but found he didn’t use it as much as he’d expected. After a while the music grew more annoying than the hustle and bustle of the world around him. Power wasn’t a problem either, because if there was one piece of kit all squaddies had it was a solar charger.
‘All right, lads,’ said Clint, as the two replacements came up top. ‘Make yourself at home.’
‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’ It was Tim Harding. His bright red hair looked even brighter next to his pale skin; he wasn’t exactly built for desert survival. ‘We’re already fucked.’
Liam caught the remark and threw it back. Soldiers griped – it was all part of the job – but he noticed a real edge to Tim’s voice, a bitterness. And he didn’t like it.
‘Not if you do your job properly, we’re not,’ he said. ‘And by that I mean all of us.’
Tim shook his head. ‘You were on the Chinook when we were hit, right? I mean, how fucking unlucky is that?’
Liam noticed Clint staring at him. Luck had nothing to do with it, he thought, and wondered what Tim knew or suspected, if anything.
‘It’s what happens,’ said Liam, working at staying calm, already taking a dislike to Tim. ‘You start talking and thinking like we’re already screwed, that’s when mistakes are made.’
‘Who made you an NCO?’
‘I’m just saying, that’s all,’ said Liam, then softened his voice as best he could, thinking that perhaps he wasn’t the only one hit hard by Martin’s death. ‘Just don’t let it get to you, right?’
Tim shook his head. ‘Those fuckers were waiting,’ he said. ‘Knew we were coming, had to. Too many of them to just be hanging around by chance.’
Liam kept quiet. He didn’t want to add fuel to Tim’s fire, make him even more jittery by agreeing with him or suggesting that he was thinking the same thanks to what Rob had said.
Tim muttered under his breath and turned to the binos.
Walking back to the sleeping area, Liam mentioned Tim’s attitude to Clint. ‘He’s more pissed off than he’s got a right to be,’ he said. ‘We’re all in this together. What’s the point of being a moany arse? No use, that, is it?’
‘We’re not alone in thinking something was up,’ said Clint. ‘Folk are going to be jittery after the firefight.’
Liam said, ‘Give us a hand then to sort Saunders’ kit?’
‘Honoured to,’ said Clint.
Waking the next morning, Liam was surprised that the night had gone by without a single round being fired. After the contact of the previous day, he’d half expected the Taliban to come back to really hammer the message home that visitors were not welcome.
Washed, and with breakfast inside him, Liam was already lining up at the door for a foot patrol with Clint, four lads he knew by name only, and a bloke called James Stirling, who was on point. Armed with a black combat shotgun slung at his side, and carrying a combat metal detector, James had the look of an excited puppy about him, his face always bright and keen, but that was partly the fault of his eyes, which were blue and shone with a laser brightness beneath caramel-coloured hair. All that Liam really knew about James was that he liked to dance. He didn’t even need music. And he was doing it now, head moving side to side, feet doing a jig, like he’d swallowed an iPod and couldn’t turn it off. Nicky was with them too. Liam was glad. He’d seen just how well she worked under fire.
Their role here was different from Liam’s first tour. It wasn’t just foot patrols, like he was used to. Instead, they would be visiting a number of Afghan patrol bases and checkpoints throughout the Yakchal, and up and down Highway One. The aim was to spend a day or two at each base, work alongside the ANA, then head back to Patrol Base 1 between each visit. And they would be getting to each of the ANA patrol bases by foot and by vehicle.
Miller, having gone through today’s route with them half an hour before, marking it all out on the ground as best he could, was leading the show. Lance Corporal Clark was also with them, the Fijian with a hard face and hands like shovels. Liam had yet to hear him say much. All he knew was that the NCO was a crack shot and was carrying the Sharpshooter. He would be bringing up the rear.
With them were four ANA soldiers, one of them a gruff-faced officer who looked hard enough to split granite with a stare. They were from the nearest of the Afghan PBs and were here for additional training and experience, to give the new arrivals some immediate experience of working with the ANA, and to help build and improve working relationships between the British forces and the locals. It was both political and sensible. No one was complaining. Anything that helped get the job done was good in any soldier’s eyes.
‘This is our first patrol,’ said the sergeant, with everyone gathered around. ‘You’ve all seen the route,’ he continued. ‘This is to show face more than anything. Let all those fuckers who joined in yesterday, and who are probably keeping a watch on us, see that we’re here for the duration and don’t take any crap. We’ll be out for two hours, following the track that leads out beyond the front of the compound and over the ridge. I want us all to have a good idea of the land around us and to identify possible areas the Taliban may use to sneak up and cause trouble.’
Liam liked Miller more and more. He was a straight-talking soldier and obviously knew his job inside and out.
‘We’re here to help keep this place secure,’ said Miller, ‘work with the locals, and help the ANA eventually take control when we move out. We’ll do foot patrols to start, get our eye in and show that we’re here to do our job, not hide away behind these walls. Then we’ll be moving out to other Afghan PBs in the Foxhounds. Any questions?’
No one spoke.
‘Right, then, let’s get a fucking move on, eh? Move out!’
The door to the compound opened. With James out front, the rest following behind, Liam was out in the open and back on patrol.
Liam was acutely aware of how his senses heightened with each step he made. The air, dry and laced with the scent of grass and pollen, carried with it endless squalls of dust, which whipped up around the patrol’s feet, chasing them as they went. Far off, mountains rose like huge fossilized teeth. The clouds were high, dotting the blue sky with smudges of white. It was beautiful country, he thought. Harsh, unforgiving, but still beautiful. And it all seemed so at odds with the violence and terror going on within its borders, a violence that wasn’t just part of what had happened with the Taliban, but stretched back centuries. Afghanistan was a country unconquered and unconquerable. Liam thought how that would probably never really change, no matter what anyone did.
No one was speaking, and with it being a first patrol, Liam was pleased. It meant everyone was focused on what they were doing. Out here, the risk of attack was clear and present, be it from a sniper, an ambush or an IED. And every step further away from the compound was another step away from relative safety.