Rain

by Barney Campbell

  On Sunday they had the O Group, with the CO and Jules conducting it around a giant model of the town in front of fifty officers and NCOs. The OC of Pilgrim, who had cabbied back in a Mastiff for it, gave a presentation about what they could expect north of Jekyll. He had lost three KIA and eleven wounded in the last six weeks, and despite his tired eyes a blazing energy still burst out from his gruff, weary countenance. The RSM and the doc outlined the resupply and the casevac plans; the ATO gave his piece about devices.

  They went from the orders to wargame it for three hours, ignoring the heat, now about thirty degrees, all fixed intently on the planned dance of the battle group’s players through the town. Ops Box Republic had five objectives. Jules had named them after code words for American nuclear defcon states, which delighted the US Marine contingent. The first objective, four hundred metres north of Jekyll, was Fade Out. Objectives Double Take, Round House and Fast Pace lay beyond it, with Cocked Pistol the final one at the edge of the town. The CO had insisted on a bit of Britishness in proceedings, and the controlling phase lines for the op were named after the equipment from the second verse of ‘Jerusalem’; Phase Lines Bow, Arrow, Spear, Chariot and Sword were all traced onto maps and memorized.

  At the end, with the sun now low in the west, the CO spoke to them. He spoke loudly and slowly, to allow the interpreter next to him to translate for the ANA, who somehow were still looking keen and sharp.

  Sweat gathered on his forehead beneath his tight-cropped hair, a faint pepper of grey dusting his temples. ‘I don’t do eve-of-battle speeches as a rule. They overblow things. But this one is justified, I think. This is our defining operation this tour. Its importance lies in the seizure of the north and what that will mean for Taliban supply routes. If we can get these northern compounds we cut them off all the way to Baghran.

  ‘But you all know it’s more than that. It’s the symbolism. We’ve been on the back foot here since the start. I’m a cavalry officer; movement is my stock-in-trade. Without it I’m nothing. Our movement has been clotted by their IEDs all tour, down to a trickle at one point. Back in November, with all the dramas on Canterbury, we were on the verge of failure here. No matter how many of them we kill, no matter how good our drills, equipment and vehicles are, if we cannot move with impunity, and are seen by the locals to be unable to move, then we lose. Simple as that.

  ‘We can change that now. We can show the entire population that we own the town with one bold stroke. And then once we’ve shown them that, we give it to them, and then they can breathe commerce into it. And then we all get to go home. But we must, I say again must, be seen to win this in the clearest, most unequivocal way. We steamroll them. This is going to be annihilation. Any Talib unwise enough not to take the hint that we are coming and who stays and fights, gets blitzed. We will unleash on him an overwhelming, ruthless, focused application of raw, savage violence. And that responsibility rests on every trooper. Everyone with a rifle in this battle is my personal representative. Tell your boys that, and tell them that well. Whatever they do in the coming days, if they do it with the honest belief that they are doing the correct thing, they can count on my support to the hilt. To the very hilt. But remember, the moment the enemy run, and some of them will run when they see what we are bringing, then we let them run and we let people see them run.

  ‘Perception in counter-insurgency is everything, and we will propagate the perception, because it will be true, that we own the town. We own it by day, and we own it by night, and we will show the world that the Taliban and their brand of business have no place in a town that looks not to the rule of fear, but to the rule of law, that looks not to rule by the gun, but to rule by the ballot box. And we guard the law, and we guard the ballot box, with our lives. End of story.

  ‘So go to your men and tell them this message. Just as we will win this fight, so we will win this war. There will be casualties; this is going to be a hell of a fight. I will not hide that from you. But it is worth the flame. That I can promise you. God speed, and for God’s sake tread lightly.’

  The ensemble broke up. The C Squadron officers and seniors went to Frenchie’s tent to run through the plan once more. Afterwards Tom and Trueman briefed up the troop, who wrote down all the information in their notebooks as if savouring every last drop of the final operation they would conduct on this long tour. It was as though, somehow, they were already starting to miss it. They went to scoff and got an early night. They were moving out at midday.

  The force was gathered on the wagons in the tank park, a mass of men and machines. They had been good to go for two hours already, and the boys on the Scimitars sat on their turrets or the front decks, smoking and chatting. The Mastiff crews and their passengers hung about outside them sharing brews and reading magazines. Tom was with Clive and Henry beside his Scimitar. They were all in the zone, raring to go. This tour had been odd for their relationship. They had spent so long with their soldiers rather than with each other, unlike when back at home, that their friendship had almost been put on ice.

  Tom looked at his friends as they argued about who had the better helmet cover. They both looked so much more grown-up than they had a few months ago. They didn’t flap about anything, had much easier laughs and had shaken off the insecurities that had bugged them all at the start. Driven into their faces were hardness and austerity. He looked at his watch. 1130. He leaned forward and flicked Henry’s ear just like they always used to do to annoy each other back in Aldershot. ‘Lads, you’re boring me now. I want to bonnet-brief the troop.’

  ‘Bonnet-bore them more like,’ hit back Henry. ‘Here we go. Just when there’s any danger of morale breaking out Thomas Chamberlain crushes it mercilessly. Captain Fun to the rescue.’

  They sloped off back to the Mastiffs, and 3 Troop gathered themselves around Tom’s Scimitar.

  Tom took a moment to study them, the eleven boys clustered around his front deck. They looked at him, keen and expectant. He had feared that it was going to take them some time to get back into the swing of things, but now it was as though leave had never happened. Tanned and lean, they shared the flint in their gaze that he had just seen in Henry and Clive. ‘Lads, you all know the plan. I just want to say the usual stuff really. Nothing revolutionary, just me teaching you, as ever, how to suck eggs. Just watch your arcs, that’s all. Watch your arcs, and watch the ground. It’s nothing we haven’t done a thousand times before. Just remember how we moved and operated in Shah Kalay, and we’ll be fine.’ He turned to Jessie. ‘When we get into those alleyways, you’re my eyes and ears. Anything at all you don’t like just let me know. If necessary we can always break out into the desert, OK?’

  Jessie replied breezily, ‘Hey, boss, what’s not to like, threading a fifty-year-old vehicle through a medium-density minefield? I’m just waiting for the insurance payout for my legs so I can get me a Lambo.’

  The boys laughed, and Tom continued: ‘Just three days, lads. Three days. I wish I could say it wasn’t going to kick off, but we all know it’s going to. Just keep it calm out there, OK? I know you will, but it’s never worth forgetting that. I’ll see you all tonight. Christ, I don’t know why I’m doing this really, but it never hurts. Take care on the drive up and I’ll see you in Jekyll. You can crack on now. Lecture over.’

  They split up and mounted their wagons. Tom, Dusty and Davenport strapped on their headphones and did some final checks in the turret. The CO came down the line and shook the hand of every vehicle commander, and then at 1200 on the dot the long column, twenty vehicles crammed with soldiers and kit, started out of the gate, snaking its slow course up Route Glasgow.

  By the evening they were set in their positions for the next morning. Jekyll was packed full, the infantry there clearly resentful of the newcomers invading their home. It was a ramshackle base with no comforts. A stream ran through the middle of it, used for washing and bathing. The base was on the fringe of the green zone. Only four hundred metres north was the first objective, Fade Out, c
entred around an area known as the Farad gardens. This was apparently where the old governor of Loy Kabir’s house had been, and the area was densely planted, featuring cypress trees that rose fifteen metres in the air, far higher than the normal scrub of the green zone. Pilgrim had had contacts from the gardens all tour. In the late-afternoon sun the gardens looked like a lush oasis from Jekyll, and Tom, watching from a sangar with Trueman, was intrigued about what would be there. The walls around it, he could see through his binoculars, were studded with holes from mortars and strafing runs from helicopters and A-10s.

  At 1800 the barrage began. The CO wanted to scare the Taliban away and had ordered a massive show of force. There was a prominent hill to the north, three kilometres from the town and visible for miles around. It was barren, completely empty. On cue the guns from Newcastle and mortars from Jekyll started a five-minute bombardment. Shells crashed down on the hill, the flashes of the explosions visible amid huge plumes of dust, thumps reverberating back down the wadi. The guns fell silent, and a minute later their battered ears picked up a rumbling from the south, and then up the valley, right on cue, streaked two American F-16s, flying brazenly low, shooting up the wadi, flinging out flares as they went and then at the end of the town pulling up and barrel-rolling into the darkening sky, before wheeling around to do their run again.

  The boys on the ramparts of Jekyll whooped and cheered, holding up their cameras in delight as the jets switched on their afterburners to break the sound barrier over them. Trueman looked at Tom and said, ‘That will have sent the fear of God through ’em. Talibs should run a mile after that little lot.’ Tom was about to agree but then remembered Castlemartin back in the summer, when he had said the same thing to Trueman after a similar display and the sergeant had poured cold water on his overconfidence. Tom knew deep down that no Talib was going to be cowed by the display, that all the jets in the world weren’t going to stop IEDs and shoot and scoots. He was going to remind Trueman of what he had said but checked himself at the last minute. He didn’t want to appear a smart arse. He just nodded and said, ‘Too right. That’ll show them we’re not mucking about.’

  They climbed down from the sangar and walked through the base to the wagons. All around was quiet, loaded, battle prep. Soldiers fiddled nervously with their rifles, endlessly cleaning them in a well-worn ritual. Some read, sitting against the walls of the compound in the space where they would sleep that night. The CO was walking around, talking to the boys and getting an easy smile from everyone he talked to. He would cadge a cigarette from a young private soldier and then the next moment earnestly quiz a grizzled corporal about what he thought about the op and its chances of success. He called all the platoon and troop leaders to him, and Tom, Clive and Henry, the Vixen callsign OMLT officers and the three Pilgrim platoon commanders gathered around him at the back of an ISO container.

  He looked at them fondly, like a father about to tell his sons how to behave at a party. ‘Chaps, game face on.’ He gestured behind him to the men scattered all around the compound. ‘These boys’ll be looking to you for the next few days. Keep smiling, keep calm and keep thinking. If you get into trouble just call us for help. I’ll be right behind you with Tac, and we can get you all manner of things to come and help. I will be on your shoulder from here until Cocked Pistol. You know as well as I do it’s going to go noisy from the off. I’m not going to treat you like imbeciles.

  ‘You know,’ he said, stepping outside his tough shell, ‘when I look at you I think back to when I was your age. What you boys have done for the last few months has been way beyond anything I did as a young lieutenant. When I joined, in the early 90s, the most action I could hope for was a good old-fashioned riot in Ulster. Which was good, but it wasn’t daily warfighting, like you’ve done. But you lot? You volunteered knowing full well you were going to get to sandy places. And so you’re different from me. And I just want you to know that I admire you hugely. You won’t realize the enormity of what has happened to you out here until you get back, but let me assure you what you are doing now is years, and I mean years, beyond what anyone your age, even my age, back home could ever do. Just remember that. I take my hat off to you.’ As they all seemed to puff out their chests and carry themselves a little bit straighter he put back on his spartan shell. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you off this op. I will drive you into the ground if I have to. We must make this succeed. But then, soon, we’ll all get to go home, and we can forget all about these charming environs.’ They laughed, and he sent them away. ‘Go to your lads. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  The CO went back to the Jekyll ops room and the rest of them returned to their men. Tom hung around the wagons with the boys until it was pitch black, and then they crawled into their crew shelters at the sides of the wagons and went to sleep.

  The sun was high in the sky, almost at its apex. Tom looked down at his shadow, tiny and barely spreading beyond his shoes. He was standing beside the wagon, spent 30 mil shells scattered over the front deck. He swigged from a water bottle, took off his helmet and poured some over his forehead. Dusty was in the turret. To the north all was silent; the advance had stalled since the early success of taking Fade Out in the morning.

  It had been a two-hour contact to take the gardens, but they had done it after the Scimitars had pummelled its walls from the fields while the infantry stole up along hedgerows and broke through with mousehole charges. Tom and Jessie had surged up to follow them, crashing through a gap in the wall and helping out in the close-quarters fighting inside. Rounds had whacked off the wagon as they stormed through the breach, Tom and Dusty stuck firmly inside the turret knowing that if they put their heads out they’d be taken off.

  Tom directed Dusty onto targets less than a hundred metres away in the rich green surroundings of the gardens. When he saw the infantry get close to enemy positions he stopped firing as they went through the bushes and ditches with grenades and bayonets until the position was declared clear at 0830. The infantry recocked, the ANA now taking the lead as Pilgrim reorganized themselves. Two hours later Pilgrim headed off again, leaving a section as security for the gardens.

  It had been a blunt use of the wagons, as brutal as it had been unorthodox. The Taliban were used to the Scimitars being long-range sniping platforms, but in the gardens they had been used as battering rams. Now though the CO held them in the rear while the road was cleared up through the town to Double Take. Occasionally a contact broke out, but then died down again almost as soon as it started, as the Taliban sniped from the green zone at the REST searching the road for IEDs. Progress was painfully slow. They were finding a lot of devices. At times the road was so narrow they couldn’t mark and avoid, and the ATO had to go forward to blow them in place.

  Frustration seeped into everyone. They knew the infantry could easily find a route over the compound walls to get to the objectives, but there was no point them doing so unless they had a secure route along which they could be resupplied and get casevacs out. They were tied to Route Glasgow, as the REST made its painstaking, nervy way northward. By evening they were still four hundred metres short of Double Take and couldn’t even see it amid the web of compounds. The CO came over the net. Tom could hear the disappointment behind his voice, even though he tried to sound upbeat. ‘Charlie Charlie One, Minuteman Zero Alpha. All callsigns to go firm in their current positions tonight. Pilgrim Zero Alpha, Vixen Three Zero Alpha, Tomahawk Zero Alpha acknowledge over.’

  For the next thirty minutes the net rang with acknowledgements and orders as commanders all along the route prepared to guard their positions for the night. Another jet was ordered in, again filling the valley with its roar and barrel-rolling its way up to the stars, but the boys watched it with indifference this time. The day had been a stalemate at best. They had lost all momentum, and now that they knew the extent of the IED seeding to the north, each of the three hundred stomachs north of Jekyll felt empty that evening.

  As the dusk descended, the gardens s
tarted to feel chilly and gained a strange, ghostly air that spooked the boys. None of them wanted to leave the safety of the wagons, as though fearing some kind of evil spirit. None of them slept well that night, their imaginations fearing what would happen if they lost consciousness.

  The next day progress was better, as the CO decided to sacrifice security for momentum. The REST remained on Route Glasgow, but he ordered the infantry from the route and they headed over the open fields for Double Take, which they found unoccupied but riddled with devices. There were no locals in the area; there had been none since the operation began. Three Troop were now called up to help with the push north to Round House. They drove away from the gardens, glad to be leaving the eerie shadows.

  As they moved onto Route Glasgow and drove up it, Tom realized how draining the day before must have been for the search team. The route was impossibly narrow at times, and he counted eight craters where devices had had to be blown. Given how much time this normally took, it was amazing they had made the progress that they had. In the north there was a contact going on as a sniper harassed some ANA callsigns, but in general all was quiet. Again it was a clear and beautiful day, and Tom felt excited. He knew how potent the wagons were and how scared the Taliban were of them, and he felt like a prizefighter walking out into the ring.

  They came to where the CO had broken away from the route, the place marked by one of the Mastiffs, and Tom could see the REST still sweeping away with their Vallons up the road. They turned off and drove over the fields, new crops ankle-high and bright, vivid green, and picked their way towards Double Take. Tom took his rifle out of his side bin, dismounted and, leaving Trueman in charge, walked up the safe lane marked with yellow spray-paint into the compound.

  BG Tac were in a corner of the compound. The FAC was on the net to an Apache high above, the RSM was talking to Newcastle about resupply that evening, and Jules, looking up from a map, beckoned him over. He had taken off his helmet and Tom could see how tired he was. Tom went to him, making sure he stayed in the safe lane, a mere two metres wide and parallel to the wall. All around lads were sweeping with Vallons and extending the area of the safe zone in the compound. Looking over the wall Tom could see the REST emerge from the cluster of compounds around Glasgow and push towards them. This was good. Once the search team got here they would be balanced and could push on. Jules pointed out Round House to Tom. ‘There you go, Tommy. Got it? Large compound. Orange door.’