The New Patrol

by Andy McNab

  Liam had actually noticed this already and had got the ANA lads, Zaman particularly, to help him with a few specific phrases. And he was enjoying learning with them. They were a good bunch, and a laugh too.

  ‘It’s always helpful to have soldiers who can communicate well with the locals,’ said the lieutenant. ‘And you might even turn out to be a bit of an ace card for us, for all I know. Will do you good too, I shouldn’t say. Excellent stuff for that CV if you want to further your army career after this tour. What do you think?’

  ‘What do I think about what, sir?’

  ‘I’m sending you out on a patrol with Harper,’ the lieutenant explained. ‘Eastwood, Miller and Harding will be there too. Their role is to run the patrol as normal, observe, collect any intelligence. You, however, will be there specifically to support her, to work with Shah and the locals. I would advise you to do what she asks. As we all know, she’s a bit of a ballbreaker, is Harper. Not that any of us would have her any other way.’

  Liam smiled. The lieutenant really did seem to know everyone very well indeed.

  ‘As I’ve said, Zaman Shah will be going with you,’ said Steers. ‘You clearly get on well, it seems, and we think we may keep him close for that reason, not just here, but when we move to the next PB. Any stability we can give ourselves in being able to deal with whatever we find is always useful. And your help with this, and your clear ability with speaking Dari, will be much appreciated.’

  Liam was pleased. He and Zaman were already becoming good friends, the Afghan having a great sense of humour and being not only easy to talk to but very happy to help Liam learn new words and phrases and to practise them with him.

  ‘Should be a nice little jolly, Scott, don’t you think?’

  ‘Really, sir? A jolly?’

  ‘The route there is clear,’ replied Steers, ignoring Liam’s sarcasm, ‘and the village very friendly. They kicked the Taliban out months ago and have managed to stay that way, which is no easy task here in Yakchal. You’ll be helping Harper give out much-needed medical aid, and at the same time improving your own language skills, and showing the security forces in a positive light.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good!’ said the lieutenant. ‘I’m glad you agree. One other thing to be aware of is that weapons may be hidden in or around the village. Nothing to write home about, but be aware of it, just in case.’

  ‘But you just said it was free of the Taliban . . .’

  ‘It is,’ said the lieutenant. ‘But that is relatively recent in the grand scheme of things. The Taliban may leave, but it’s not so clean-cut that once they’re gone, that’s it. Some may have connections with the village. Family. It’s pretty easy to hide an AK47, and even easier to keep its whereabouts secret. See you in half an hour in the mess.’

  The village was a battle-scarred collection of typical Afghan dwellings, clustered along a dirt track, which itself was a dot-to-dot of weather-worn craters from IEDs and the scars of long-ago floods. The only colour in the place was from the drapes hung over doors and windows, and Liam could just about make out reds and blues and greens, all stitched into patterns, hiding behind years of dirt and dust. He had no idea when the region had last seen rain, but he knew that when it hit, it came in hard. Often, with the ground so dry, the water would just spill across the surface, building to a flood frighteningly quickly. The houses in the village, if they could be called that, were one-storey buildings mostly built from mud brick, with some parts constructed with oddments of metal and wood. They seemed to rest on the ground like scabs on skin, wounds dried and cracked. Doors and windows were little more than holes covered with planked doors or folds of dusty, worn cloth. Carts that would’ve looked old in medieval times were dotted here and there.

  Entering the village, Liam, like the rest of the patrol, worked hard to look calm and relaxed, while at the same time keeping his eyes and ears tuned in to any sign of a possible threat. The lieutenant may have said the village was friendly and safe, but Liam knew that to let down his guard wasn’t just foolish: it was dangerous – to him, and to those he was with. Not only because of what the lieutenant had said about possible hidden weapons, but also because of what Rob had suggested. Liam had found it difficult to shift the thought that someone on their side might be leaking information to the Taliban.

  As they walked along, the villagers came out to meet them. Liam nodded, smiled, waved. He saw Clint and Miller do the same. Tim, though, he noticed, didn’t seem so relaxed, didn’t wave once, his face stern, eyes darting about nervously. Liam wondered how someone like Tim had made it through training, never mind out into theatre. There was something bothering him, that was clear. Not enough to make him a danger to the rest of them, but sufficient to make Liam notice it.

  ‘We’re heading up there,’ said Nicky, signalling to a building ahead on the left. ‘It was a derelict house so they use it as a makeshift medical centre. And trust me – the key word there isn’t medical.’

  With Nicky leading the way, the rest followed. As they entered the building, Clint, Miller and Tim stayed outside, while Liam, as Lieutenant Steers had ordered, kept alongside Nicky.

  ‘See?’ she said, when they walked in. ‘Honestly, how these people survive is sometimes beyond me. They’re tough, that’s for sure.’

  The house was derelict, Liam quickly discovered, because half of it had fallen down. The repairs, a mix of bodged rebuilding with oddly balanced wooden beams jostling for position with sheets of corrugated iron, did their job, but barely. Liam couldn’t work out how any of it was still standing. However, it had been tidied as best it could be, and a large carpet spread on the floor.

  Zaman came over. ‘The villagers will make their way over here soon now that they have seen us arrive. I will go and speak to them.’ He and the other ANA soldiers then walked across the road to meet an older man halfway. They exchanged greetings and walked into another building.

  ‘That’ll be them for a while,’ said Nicky and mimed having a drink. ‘Tea is a big part of getting to know the locals,’ she explained, ‘and the ANA lads really help in making sure people are at ease with our presence. They’ve worked very hard and in very dangerous conditions to get the locals onside. They’ll be playing board games in there in a few minutes, I promise you.’

  Liam asked Nicky, ‘So what exactly are we doing here?’

  ‘Building bridges,’ she said, unpacking medical supplies and arranging them on a single rickety table standing in front of them. ‘If all they see is soldiers with guns, that is all they will remember – that the violence of the Taliban was replaced by the violence of us.’ She held up a plaster. It had a picture of Scooby Doo on it. ‘Put this on a young kid’s cut knee and you’ve done more to help the peace process than the US and UK forces put together.’

  Liam wasn’t so sure that was entirely accurate, but he understood what Nicky was getting at.

  A shadow slipped across the floor from the open door and Liam looked up to see a woman bringing in two young boys. Zaman was with her. He entered first, then smiled and beckoned them over, talking gently to them.

  ‘Salaam aalaikum,’ Liam tried, and the woman lowered her eyes and replied, ‘Wa’alaikum salaam.’ Liam was delighted – his first attempt to speak Dari to a non-military Afghan and he had been understood!

  ‘The older boy has a stomach-ache,’ said Zaman. ‘The younger boy an infected cut on his arm.’

  Liam watched as Nicky dealt with the two boys, Zaman helping by constantly reassuring the mother.

  ‘They remind me of my own brother and me,’ said Zaman when the family eventually left, both boys sporting Scooby Doo plasters, even though the oldest didn’t actually need one.

  ‘My parents only had me,’ said Liam. ‘If you met them, you’d think it was the best decision they ever made.’

  An older man came in, limping badly and leaning on a stick in his right hand. Liam noticed how the man still walked with pride, though, and he wondered how hard it must be
for someone like him to ask them for help. A younger man was with him and his eyes were dark, flicking from one soldier to the next nervously. It was obvious to Liam that not only did he hold the older man in great esteem, but also that he didn’t trust any of the soldiers, ANA or otherwise.

  As the old man drew closer Liam noticed a strong smell, acrid and rotting.

  ‘This is going to be interesting,’ said Nicky, as she helped the man to sit down, then started to unravel a dirty bandage on his left leg.

  When the bandage finally came off, Liam saw where the smell had come from. The old man had a hole in his calf muscle about the size of a cricket ball. The wound was weeping, bloody and filled with pus. As Liam stared at it, doing his best not to gag, he noticed then that something was moving in it: maggots.

  Nicky got on with cleaning it up. ‘The maggots are probably what’s saved the limb,’ she said, gently cleaning the old man’s leg. ‘They live on the rotten flesh and that will have stopped this getting worse than it is, or slowed it down at any rate.’

  The young man hovered around the elder, nervous and jumpy. And whereas the older man smiled gratefully, despite the pain he was clearly suffering, the younger man scowled at everyone in the room with a stare that wanted to burn through them. Liam kept his eyes on him, trusting him about as far as he could spit him. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even offered a greeting, and it was getting more obvious by the second that what he’d read as distrust was more like barely disguised hatred.

  ‘So why did you choose bomb disposal?’ Liam asked Zaman, as Nicky wrapped a fresh bandage around the old man’s leg.

  ‘It is a useful skill,’ said Zaman. ‘It saves lives. That is important. Anyone can kill another. I prefer not to.’

  ‘What about your brother?’ asked Liam. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He is with the Taliban,’ was Zaman’s reply.

  Liam did a double take, could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Shah?’ said Nicky. ‘Can you tell them that they need to clean the leg twice a day, and wrap it in a clean bandage.’

  Nicky handed the younger man some bandages, who snatched them off her, his lip curled. Zaman did as she requested, explaining what they were for. Then the old man, aided by the younger, made his slow way back out into the street. Again, he was grateful, and again his helper said nothing.

  ‘It is more common than you probably know,’ said Zaman, glancing back at Liam.

  ‘What is?’ replied Liam, then understood and asked, ‘Why didn’t he join the ANA with you?’

  ‘It is often down to the wish of the parents what their children do,’ said Zaman. ‘And it is sensible to think of family.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If the Taliban or the ANA win, it does not matter,’ said Zaman. ‘Whatever happens, whoever wins, the family will survive. That is what is important. Above all else.’

  14

  It had been unusually quiet for the past few days and Liam was up in a sangar, hands resting on the GPMG. It was mid morning and he was fantasizing about what a proper breakfast would be like. There was often no rhyme or reason as to what they ate, or when, and he was never really surprised to find himself eating pasta at seven in the morning. All he wanted, right then, was a plate piled high with everything a full English was about: eggs and bacon and mushrooms, black pudding and sausages, fried bread and beans. With the daydream making his mouth water, he stared out over the landscape before him.

  He had never really been prepared to find the terrain so breath-taking, but it was. He was restless, though. It wasn’t that he was desperately looking for the Taliban to come along and have a go, more that he was getting a little edgy. Actually wishing for a fight was something no soldier did. But sometimes the boredom and routine would get to you and you’d yearn for some action.

  By now the routine of military life was running like clockwork. Liam knew what to do and when to do it. He kept his kit in good order, had carried out his stints in the cookhouse, and had taken to hanging out more and more with Zaman and the other lads from the ANA because it was not only helping him to improve his Dari and Pashto, but giving him a better understanding of what life was like for the people who lived in this war-ravaged country.

  Standing with Liam in the small lookout was Neil Carter. Every movement seemed deliberately posed, like he knew the world was watching and in awe.

  ‘So, GQ, how is it that you always manage to look so clean?’ Liam asked, leaning forward against the protective sandbags.

  ‘It’s called having a wash,’ said Neil, his eyes hidden by a pair of seriously expensive sunglasses, his jaw action-hero strong. ‘You should try it some time.’

  ‘So I should stop rolling around in the shit every day, is that it? If only I’d known. Thanks, GQ.’

  ‘It would be a start,’ said Neil. ‘You’re an ugly fucker, though, so whatever you do, it probably won’t make any difference. It’s the surgeon for you, mate, I reckon. Something to spend that five grand bonus on that we get for being out here on tour, right?’

  Money wasn’t the reason Liam had headed back out into Afghanistan so quickly, but it was certainly a perk. Out here, there was nothing to spend your earnings on, so the money just built up in the bank. With a take-home of nineteen hundred pounds a month, and the bounty, as it was generally called, he’d arrive back in the UK with around sixteen thousand quid in the bank. Liam knew that most lads spent that on a car, but he’d not decided himself what to do with his money. Not least because he’d hardly touched what he had from his last tour, and that meant that altogether he’d actually have around thirty grand to play with, more than his parents had ever had in the bank in their whole life.

  He stopped thinking about money and focused once more on his arc of fire. ‘Is arrogance part of the training for becoming a sniper then, GQ?’ he asked.

  Neil was the only soldier with them, other than Sergeant Miller, badged as a sniper. And he liked people to know it. Liam didn’t mind. As far as he was concerned, if you were good at something, there was no point not being proud of it. And it gave the rest of them a good laugh.

  ‘You have to fill in this checklist before you’re even allowed on the course,’ said Neil. ‘Makes sure only the best get through.’

  ‘And they check if you’re good-looking?’

  ‘All kinds of stuff,’ said Neil. ‘Fitness, brains, how fucking sexy you are. Snipers can’t be total heifers, mate.’ He tapped, almost affectionately, the scope of his L115A3 rifle. It was one serious weapon. And Neil knew it. ‘Imagine some ugly twat like you using one of these? Wouldn’t be right, would it? Army knows better than that. It’s why they chose me.’

  Liam shrugged. ‘Mate, I’ve heard that rifle’s so accurate that anyone could use it,’ he said, intent only on winding Neil up. ‘Even Sunter.’

  ‘You’re talking bollocks now,’ Neil replied. ‘And you know it, you tosser. Sunter’s an idiot. Good soldier, but not the brightest, know what I mean?’ He tapped the side of his head.

  Liam laughed. ‘I’m not sure you even know how to use it,’ he said. ‘For all any of us know, it’s an airsoft toy you’ve had shipped out to big yourself up, make you look cool.’

  Neil pulled a spare magazine from a pouch. The rounds were noticeably larger than what Liam was used to, the 5.56 of the SA80. ‘See that?’ he asked, pointing at a blue dot on the round. ‘Snipers get the first five hundred rounds out of the mouldings. Means these are seriously accurate and we don’t have to put up with rounds changing trajectory between shots.’

  Liam knew that if there was one thing soldiers did well, it was talk about weapons. It wasn’t bloodlust or anything weird, they just loved the kit they worked with, and knew it inside and out. A soldier who didn’t like weapons was as rare as a rally driver who didn’t like cars.

  ‘That’s really fascinating,’ he said. ‘What else can you tell me? It’s all so interesting.’

  ‘Fuck off, Scott,’ said Neil. ‘You just can’t han
dle the fact that when stood next to me I make you look shit.’

  Liam laughed and glugged down some water. It was warm: the heat was relentless, even worse in the sangar, and it still felt good. Intensified by the reinforced tin roof and its small size, it was like sitting in an oven and slowly cooking yourself to well done.

  Putting the bottle down, he went to stand by the GPMG he was manning and stared out, relaxing his eyes on the middle distance. Carter might have the sexy weapon, he thought, but when it came to sheer firepower, the Gimpy was hard to beat.

  Movement.

  Liam switched from the GMPG to the range-finder binos. Huge, and so heavy they required a tripod, he stuck his face up against the eyepieces and stared.

  ‘What’s up, Scott?’ asked Neil, immediately focused. ‘See something?’

  Liam was quiet for a moment, turning all his attention onto forcing his eyes to pick up any movement, no matter how small.

  There it was again.

  ‘Left,’ said Liam. ‘Five hundred metres. Nine o’clock.’

  Judging range was another skill Liam had developed during his time as a soldier. It was a vital skill, allowing a soldier to quickly judge how far away the enemy were and to decide on the best way to engage them, or indeed if engaging was the best option at all.

  Neil leaned into his own weapon, eye pressed up against the rubber eyepiece of its impressive sight system.

  ‘Nothing, mate,’ he said.

  ‘By that big bush,’ said Liam. ‘The one with those two trees sticking up out of it like horns. Trust me, I saw something.’

  ‘That’s narrowing it down.’

  Liam explained further. ‘OK, start left, a hundred metres out at the tree stump,’ he said, helping Neil track his own weapon out to exactly where he was looking himself. ‘Directly above that you’ll see a clump of about five or six trees, yes?’

  ‘Eyes on,’ said Neil.

  ‘OK, now track up again and move left. Nine o’clock, yeah? See the bush now?’

  Neil breathed out slowly. ‘On it now,’ he said. ‘So what did you see?’