His favourite activity, which he soon came to do with a haunting addiction, was to jump in from a rock above the pool. As he plunged in, the thousands of bubbles that he brought down with him into the water then began to rise, and Tom dreamed, holding his breath for twenty or thirty seconds, that these bubbles were the dust and shrapnel thrown up by an IED he had stepped on, his body engulfed in the cloud of sparkling light, lost in weightlessness. The bubbles rose past his chest, tickling it on their way to the surface, as he hung in suspension and looked up from the bottom of the pool to the dancing mercury underside of the water. He did this again and again, wondering if an explosion could possibly trick a shocked mind and screaming nerve endings into feeling comfortable. Would it feel sore? Or would it be like a dream, with you borne away in silk blankets?
Early one evening, as the late-August sun lit up everything in gold, Tom jogged up the sandy path from the cove to the house. He walked through the garden and saw through the window that the television was on. A news report announced the names of three soldiers who had been killed in Afghanistan the day before. Their pictures appeared on the screen. A sergeant and two privates. Then the scene changed to Wootton Bassett, to where the bodies of another four men had been repatriated that day. Constance was kneeling just two metres from the screen. She didn’t notice Tom at the window as he watched her watch the television and cry.
He stepped away from the window and went to catch his breath. Fifteen minutes later he walked into the house and Constance greeted him: ‘There you are, Tommy! Now what are you going to get me for a drink? I think a glass of wine, please!’ As Tom opened the fridge and uncorked the bottle a terrible feeling swept over him. What was he doing? What was the point of this wretched game?
That night at supper Tom did his best to keep conversation away from the army. But at the end of pudding, just as Tom was finishing off his ice cream, his mouth full, Constance took advantage of the fact that he couldn’t give her any more flannel and told him, ‘Now Tom, I know you will hate me for this, but when you are out in Afghanistan no one will think any the less of you if you don’t always take risks. You don’t have anything to prove.’
‘I know, Mum. I promise you, nothing unnecessary.’
‘We’re all very proud of you, and nothing will change that, so don’t feel as though you always have to be the hero.’
‘Look, Mum. I’m going out with the best soldiers and the most experienced NCOs. I promise you they will look after me. I can’t wait for you to meet them.’ He had made sure Constance, who had a ready ear for gossip, was always up to date with the ups and downs of his troop, and she was always amused by tales of what the soldiers got up to, the ill-advised tattoos they had got or their brushes with the law.
Tom was about to start a story about one of Miller’s tattoos, just to steer the conversation away from Afghanistan, when Constance stepped in again, seeing straight through her son’s plans to obfuscate.
‘You see, Tom, and I do not at all want to put undue pressure on you, but a mother must say this: you are all I’ve got. I know you know that, and you have known it ever since your father died, but I must be allowed to say it again. There, I’ve said it. Please, Tom, come back. Don’t try to be a hero.’
Tom’s throat seized up and his eyes strained. After what felt like minutes he managed to croak out, ‘I know, Mum. I know. I’ll be OK. I promise.’
After Constance had gone to bed Tom sat up for hours with a glass of whisky, on a stool in front of a fire that fought the cool night, looking through the flames as though he were fixed on a point a hundred metres away, as the logs slowly burned out into grey skeletons of ash. Finally he stood, put the fireguard up and pulled his way up the bannister to bed.
On the final day of leave he said a sad goodbye to Sam, and then Zeppo, and then finally Constance, after a tea of cakes and scones. He couldn’t eat them all – she had made a vast spread – and so she gave Tom a full tin to take back and give to 3 Troop the next day. She made the parting mercifully brief, but as Tom pulled away from the house and saw her in his rear-view mirror as she waved him off, he was again almost overcome with waves of guilt. When he got back to the mess that night, he walked into the TV room to be greeted by the other subalterns, looking just as gloomy as he was, slumped on sofas and beanbags and pretending to be interested in a film.
‘Tom!’ Clive piped up. ‘How was leave?’
‘Great, pal, really great. The drive back was miserable though.’
A sea of nods agreed with him. ‘Too right, mate,’ Scott Lanyon answered. ‘I’ve felt like slitting my wrists ever since I left home.’
‘I know; the central reservation never looked so tempting.’
‘How was leaving home? Dreadful?’
‘Yep, pretty much. I’ve never felt like that in my life. It made the first day at Sandhurst feel like going to a fairground.’
‘I know. And all those KIAs out in Afghan didn’t help, all through fucking leave. My ma and pa were just glued to the TV. I just felt like a total bastard.’
They all grunted agreement.
That was the Monday night; they were to deploy on Saturday morning. The week was a whirl of administration and rituals. On the Tuesday morning Tom helped Trueman to check that all the squadron’s bergen rucksacks had a small blue and black marker painted on them, to identify them as King’s Dragoons bags in the airports at Brize Norton, Kandahar and Bastion. Then in the afternoon he had to help the guys make out their wills, as well as write his own. On the Wednesday morning they had an eight-mile run and that afternoon lessons on the Vallon metal detectors, and then they practised their barma drills. That night Tom and Trueman took 3 Troop out for a curry and few drinks, but nothing spilled over into a particularly late night.
On the Thursday morning they packed up their rooms, putting all their kit, posters, pictures, books and trinkets into boxes and leaving them in the middle of the bare rooms, so that if they were killed it would be easy to get all their property back to their next of kin. In the afternoon they were issued their dog tags – lining up in the gymnasium to receive them from the regimental clerks – as well as their medical documents, and had all their passports checked. It all started to feel as though they were going on some kind of extreme package holiday.
Immediately they got their dog tags Tom and Clive debated how they were going to wear them. They came on a beaded metal necklace, and detailed in shallow punched capitals the bearer’s army number, his initials, blood group and religious denomination. There was great mileage in discussing how one wore these millstones of mortality. The rule was that they were to be worn around the neck, but there was an urban myth that it was bad luck to do this, as what would happen if your head was blown off and they were both lost? So some soldiers had one tag tied to a belt loop of their trousers or strung on one of their bootlaces.
Tom, always content to take the path of least resistance, had his around his neck and thus avoided exasperating Frenchie. Clive went with what the allyer soldiers were doing, stringing one on a bootlace and hanging the other around his neck, substituting the metal necklace with a piece of coloured string. ‘This is what they’d have done in ’Nam, mate,’ he told Tom before being discovered by Frenchie and then rather pathetically having to scrabble around in a bin for the necklace so he could wear them properly.
Tom was amused at how much attention soldiers devoted to these bits of trivia. No one ever seemed to talk about the rights or wrongs of Afghanistan, still less about the picture on the ground in the country. They just knew that once they got there Brigade would give them a task, and they’d just crack on and do it; the tour would look after itself. What they did spend all their time doing was debating things like how to make their helmet look cool – how much scrim netting to put on and whether or not to surreptitiously Vietnamize it with slogans. How much sniper tape to put on their rifle, GPS, torches. Where to keep pictures of wives and children – down the front plate of their body armour or in the padded lining
of a helmet? What tattoo they would get to commemorate the tour. What tattoo everyone in the troop should get if someone was killed.
On the Friday morning they paraded again in the gymnasium and everyone had their ‘death photo’ taken; this would be released to the media if they were killed. Frenchie and Sergeant Major Brennan stood behind the photographer and checked each photo, making sure no one had pulled a silly face or was looking too vacant. As Tom stepped onto the podium and stood in front of the regimental colours – the backdrop – he looked as white as a sheet, and Frenchie said to him, ‘Come on, Tom; it’s not that bad! Try to look a bit more cheerful.’ Tom flashed a bit of a grin, but still felt that the result, when he saw it, made him look as though he was on day release from prison. Clive, on the other hand, posed and pouted for the camera, saying, ‘Still need to impress the chicks from beyond the grave.’
After the photo session they formed up, all the administration now done. The buses collecting them from the barracks to begin the journey to Bastion were due at midnight. Frenchie spoke to them. ‘Right, fellas, that’s it all done. Go home now and get some final time with your families. I know that that’s only going to help those who live on the patch; as for the others, do whatever you want. Go to the cinema, go to the pub, have a few drinks, but only a few. I want you all back here, good to go, at 2300. If any one of you cocks up and doesn’t make it, or gets arrested, or whatever, then I will formally charge him. And then make him lead Vallon man for the duration of the tour. With no batteries in the Vallon. See you tonight, boys.’
Most of the squadron were delighted by this, many being able to spend a final few hours at home, but the officers moped around pathetically. They couldn’t get drunk, they couldn’t go home, and the idea of watching films in the mess for twelve hours was too depressing for words. Just as they were contemplating a trip to Thorpe Park to stave off boredom for even a few hours, Tom decided to strike.
‘Guys, actually, I can’t do this. I’m going into London to meet a friend.’
‘What mate? Who?’
‘I need to go and mend some bridges. See you guys tonight.’ He sprinted upstairs, threw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, and Scott drove him to the station. In the car he texted Cassie: ‘Hi Cass, it’s Tom. This is so out of the blue, but I am about to go away and it would mean so much if I could see you today for even five minutes. I understand if impossible. I can come wherever.’ He sent it, arrived at the station and got the train into London.
No reply came. The train went on into town; still no reply. He was going to feel very stupid if nothing came of this. The train wheezed through Clapham Junction and then sidled along the Thames past the MI6 building, Tom glimpsing the Houses of Parliament, the Ministry of Defence, the buildings that were responsible for him going to Afghanistan tonight. The train pulled into Waterloo and he sighed. A wasted journey. The train halted. His phone buzzed. He looked at it in his sweating palm, expecting it to be abuse from Clive or Scott. It was from her, and he almost dropped the phone. ‘Hi Tom. Yes please, I’d love to see you! On gardening leave anyway. Yippee! Zero’s behind Sloane Square at 1?’
He texted straight back, ‘Great news; see you then! Tx.’
He was hardly able to breathe. Soon though his excitement gave way to fear. How on earth was he to play this? How the hell was he going to be able to reintroduce himself to her after what had happened over the last two years? He crossed the river and made his way down Whitehall to Parliament Square, turned along Birdcage Walk and passed Buckingham Palace, not noticing the hordes of scuttling tourists and working out what he was going to say to her. He arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, went to the bar and sank a gin and tonic before ordering a bottle of white wine and being shown to a table in the middle of the crowded brasserie.
For a moment he regretted ordering the wine – what if she wasn’t going to drink? But then he’d just have it all himself, he decided. He sat down and waited, losing himself in the chatter, trying to store it all up to remember in Afghan. It felt surreal. He was woken from his trance by Cassie standing over him wearing a blue dress and a mock-serious frown.
‘Well, well, Thomas Chamberlain, I hope you’re not going to be punching anyone to the ground this time. You’ll definitely get arrested if you try it here.’
Tom squirmed from his chair to stand and kiss her on the cheek, but he was so shocked that she had actually turned up that he only managed to semi-headbutt her. At first he was lost for words. ‘Oh … er, hi, Cassie … You look amazing,’ he fumbled, feeling like a dying fish. Then he broke into a grin. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘Yes please!’
She sat down and Tom poured her a glass, trying not to spill any and cursing the gin for making him feel so clumsy, though at least it had helped to knock a bit of edge off the whole thing. She looked at him, tilting her head to one side like she used to do in tutorials while pondering a question. ‘You know,’ she said finally, as though she had just examined a strange object in a museum, ‘I’d never have recognized you. In the street, I mean, out of context.’
‘How do you mean? Have I changed?’
‘Changed? You look completely different. The hair for one; where has it all gone? Did they make you shave it off? Your face has changed shape, and there’s not an ounce of fat on you; you just look like one big lean muscle now. You’re a bit gaunt though. We must feed you up this lunch. Christ, I sound as though I’m your mother.’ She paused and drank her wine. Tom noticed she took somewhat more than a sip; clearly she was needing some help too. At this rate they’d be on to a second bottle even before the food arrived.
‘Look, I’m so sorry for the other night. You see—’
She interrupted: ‘What, for shattering Jonty Forbes’ nose or for completely ignoring me?’
‘Well, for the punch too, I suppose. But to be honest he had it coming. No, I wish I’d been able to stay, honestly, but I had to go with my friend. He was in a really bad way. But I wish I’d stayed. I must have looked so rude.’
‘Well, it was quite amusing you guys taking that oaf down a peg. He can be a pillock sometimes.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Well, after trying to scoop up what he could salvage from his cocaine supply he stormed upstairs, spitting daggers about you both, to clear himself up. I saw him at another party the other day. His nose is completely healed – just a tiny scar – and I overheard him trying to tell someone that he got it playing rugby. No one believes him, obviously; the real story spread like wildfire. But I almost think he believes it himself now. He’s that kind of boy.’
‘What, the absolute twat kind? If I were his parents I’d be ashamed to have produced something like that. What a waste of space.’
‘His father’s my godfather.’
There was silence for a few seconds before she tossed her head back with a huge laugh. ‘You idiot. I’ve missed you so much. You are so good at putting your foot in every situation that ever comes your way.’
After that it all flowed. The other bottle of wine duly followed, and they found themselves caught up with memories and news and jobs in London and thoughts on Afghanistan all tumbling out among one another. As their puddings were cleared away and coffee put in front of them and they paused for a moment’s breath, Tom said, ‘Cass?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Can I ask you one thing? Like, a big thing. Don’t worry; I’m not going to ask if we can go out again.’
‘OK’, she replied softly, trying to look amused and curious when in fact her heart was racing. She wasn’t sure whether or not it was the coffee.
‘It’s just that now I’m about to go away, in about –’ he looked at his watch theatrically ‘– oh, all of nine hours, I can’t get out of my head what you said to me back in Graz. When you said I was wasting everything. Whether what I’m doing isn’t just me taking every single bit of love that has ever been thrown my way and throwing it into the gutter. There is a very real, very real chance that something might h
appen to me in Afghanistan. That’s not me being special; it’s the same for about six thousand other blokes in the brigade who are going to get out on the ground. You have to acknowledge it as a possibility. Everyone does.
‘But, you see, and this is where I think you were right, I’m an only child. If one of my soldiers dies and leaves his parents having to bury one of their children, at least they have the consolation that they probably still have maybe one or two other children to love. But in Ma’s case there’s none. None at all. What am I doing?’
He sat back, looking into space over Cassie’s head and speaking as if to himself. ‘Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I don’t see what I used to see, which is what everyone else sees in a soldier – an upstanding pillar of society, a selfless young man who is going off to fight for his country blah blah blah and lead men blah blah, and they hold parties in our honour and everyone says how great we are. When I look in that mirror now, I see a scared little boy who’s doing not something great and selfless but something so selfish that he’s about to rob his mother of the only thing left in her life. And not because our country’s in danger, because it’s not. The Taliban aren’t ever going to be goose-stepping down Whitehall. Me going out to Afghan won’t protect this country one bit. The only reason I’m going there is to try to look like a man because I’m not imaginative enough to think of another way. As soldiers we think we have the monopoly on heroism because we wear a uniform that’s dripping in history and we have medals and things that everyone in society knows about, like the Victoria Cross, Trooping the Colour, Dunkirk, H. Jones …
‘But we don’t have that monopoly; that’s bollocks. We’re no different from militias in the Sudan – drugged-up little twats who cruise around burning straw huts to try to impress the girls back in their shit little villages. No different to gang members in some council block in NW18; they have their own slang, their own hierarchy, their own uniforms, just like us. The only difference between us and gangs is that they’re hunted every day by the same police who provide the protection for our medal ceremonies in Buckingham Palace. But the motivation of a fifteen-year-old who joins a gang is the same as mine was to join the army: he wants to be part of a club, and get kudos from his mates and girls. And by scratching that itch, that little boy probably gets stabbed to death in some concrete jungle five miles north of here and I probably get shot through the face in some desert five thousand kilometres away. It’s just the same. At the end of the day we’ll both be rotting flesh and leaving families who have been destroyed by our selfish stupid wish to join a gang.’
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