“Master Templar, the die is cast for us now. If the plan succeeds, then I shall need to move on to other matters of state. Not least the succession, and how to prevent the French from taking the entire Kingdom.”
April 15th 2010 – Catterick – Awaiting Deployment
The lad from Liverpool was a quick worker. It turned out the drunk blonde from the Blackpool club had a tough home life. She’d been in care until she had turned sixteen. The two years since, had been spent in a series of gritty hostels and grotty bed sits. When she had sobered up by Christmas Eve, Stevie’s number had been discovered in her bag. The previous evening was just a haze, but the girl vaguely remembered his act of kindness.
After a brief phone call, she’d packed a bag and got a train to Lime Street. Stevie had been there to meet her and take her straight back to his mam’s. They’d been inseparable for the entire holidays. Stevie had never met anyone like her. She was beautiful, but tough and funny. She fitted straight in with his mates. He’d always been a bit of a nutter, but he had a crazy traditional streak. Must have been his Irish roots. Anyway, before he left for the return trip to the training camp, he had asked the blonde to marry him. And she had said yes.
The Army had moved with unusual speed and allocated them a small house in the married quarters. And it was in here, that Tom’s squad had gathered for a few last beers before the deployment to Afghanistan.
The evening had started with everyone in good humour. But as the clock ticked towards midnight, the black bin bag in the corner filled with empty cans of lager. The beer had filled up the squaddies and the conversation had turned more serious. Stevie had the floor.
“Look, it’s like back home. People will ask yer if you’re a blue nose or a red nose. Everton or Liverpool see? Everyone’s one or the other. And when you’re a kid at school, yer afta stand up for your own side. If anyone slags them off, yer afta fight. Doesn’t matter what they’ve said, or if they’re in the right.”
Biscuit was prone on the floor. He was struggling to get young Stevie’s point. He attempted to dig down into what he was on about. His broad Lancashire accent was in comical contrast to Stevie’s scouse.
“Fair enough Stevie. But what the fuck’s that got to do with what we’re going to fight for over there?”
“Well, look at the papers. And what’s on the Telly. They’re full of shit about when are the troops coming home? What are we doing there?”
Biscuit still couldn’t see where he was going.
“What’s that got to do with which football team you support?”
Stevie shook his head with frustration. Trying to clear away some of the effects of alcohol, so that he could make a clearer argument.
“Because we shouldn’t take any notice of why we’re fighting. Or who we’re fighting. All that matters is it’s us against them. Our side against theirs. Fuck what the papers or the Telly says. We just fight for each other. No matter what happens.”
The young lad from Liverpool stopped abruptly. The room was silenced. The others wouldn’t have believed he could have spoken with such passion. He’d probably surprised himself. But his usual personality resurfaced. He prodded Biscuit with his outstretched foot.
“Don’t be so miserable yer ginger get. Gi’ us another can.”
July 1216 A.D. – Building Complete
The Abbot left his house and greeted the master mason waiting patiently for him outside.
“It’s ready?”
The mason nodded in the affirmative.
“To plan?”
The builder looked affronted.
“Of course Abbot.”
But Ambrose needed to check with his own eyes. He was still mindful of the exhortation from the Pope to provide all possible assistance. The Abbot had handed the plans from London over to the craftsman the previous autumn. And then he had left him alone. The Templar had emphasised the need to get the work complete before the end of the summer. And the Abbot had in turn passed that date on to the builder.
Ambrose had emphasised the importance of the construction to the master stonemason. He had performed wonders on the Abbey building itself. But this work was not to be observed as a thing of beauty for the monks and the local worshippers. Rather, it was to stay hidden from prying eyes. Nonetheless, it was a fairly complex plan, and had needed a lot of meticulous work from the craftsman and his team.
The Abbot walked into the nave, in the rear of the Abbey church. He could make out one of the builder’s team standing beside the back wall. He was holding up a stone hatch, using a thick rope attached to a sturdy metal ring. The lay mason was carrying a lit torch and beckoned Ambrose forward. As he approached the raised flagstone, the older man could make out the start of a narrow wooden staircase.
All three men descended to the room below. As the Abbot’s eyes adjusted to the flickering light from the torch fire, he could see the result of all the craftsmen’s labours. The roof of the room was low and he could not reach his full height. But the chamber, in which he was crouching, was large, around forty feet long and twelve feet wide.
There was a stone bench that encircled the entire room. Along one side and above the bench were a series of recessed lockers. A wooden door covered each of them. The man holding the torch moved over to the nearest locker, and demonstrated how solid the construction was, by crashing it shut and turning the key. Ambrose walked over to the door and thumped it with his closed fist. It felt very secure. He turned to the master mason.
“Perfect.”
August 1216 A.D. – Dorset – Loading Up
Corfe Castle dominated the Dorset hill on which it had been built. Initially constructed by William the Conqueror, King John had spent a fortune on adding considerably to its defences. It had become a comfortable and secure royal residence. The King stayed here frequently and there were regular arrivals of carts with supplies and goods. This made it an ideal location to assemble his war chest.
The war with Prince Louis of France was proving difficult. It seemed likely that King John would need to procure the services of additional mercenary knights. He intended to have the means to secure their loyalty with him at all times. In this dangerous and precarious period, he was not willing to rely on Letters of Credit from Templars or from monasteries. He’d reviewed this plan with the Earl of Pembroke. In fact if he remembered correctly, William Marshal had actually suggested it.
Allard was pleased with the security arrangements. He was looking round the castle’s cellar, which acted as the King’s Repository, with the King’s Treasurer. The man was nervous and anxious. He was sharing his concerns with the Templar. As he listened, Allard gazed around at the assembled goods and thought the man was right to be nervous. He could never have imagined riches such as this. And they were all gathered in one place.
Stacked carefully in the far corner were the Regalia of the Lady Empress Mathilda. There were collections of jewellery and enamel. Next to those was a great crown, a dark purple royal pallium with encrusted belt, a sceptre and golden wand, a gold cup, gold cross and several swords.
Along the far wall was a second set of crown jewels. This included a red belt with precious stones, a jewelled collar, a red samite jewelled tunic, ten pairs of basins and various pairs of gloves, shoes and sandals.
The King had gathered all his deposited treasure from the religious houses around the country and they were in a separate pile in the centre of the room. The extent of this wealth was such that Allard couldn’t count it all, but a glance at the Treasurer’s inventory helped him out.
On the document were listed amongst others, one hundred and forty cups, fourteen goblets, fifty-two rings, two thimbles and three gold combs. The list went on and on. Finally the King’s man pointed out four rings which had been presented to King John by His Holiness Innocent III ten years ago. They were set with emerald, sapphire, garnet and topaz. The Treasurer turned to the Templar.
“The preparations are complete. It is time to bring up
the cart and start to load the valuables. You have secured trusted men?”
Allard nodded.
“I will carry the treasure myself. The cart is strong and should suffice for the entire collection. Two of my fellow knights will accompany me at all times.”
“Very well.”
The Treasurer drew his cloak round him and briskly climbed the stairs at the entrance to the cellar. With a final glance around, Allard followed.
April 30th 2010 – Arrival at Kandahar
The tri-star jet looked, and felt ancient. The boisterous behaviour at the start of the flight had quietened down a little. Lots of people were in a world of their own. Even the officers were in a contemplative silence. Tom was nervous. He was pretty sure everyone on the plane was. But no one really discussed it openly. They stuck to joking and messing around. Just with a bit less energy than usual. The three scousers were their usual irreverent selves. Biscuit was wrapped up in some book, but was exuding his customary calm.
Tom thought back to the discussion at their Catterick base before they’d left. He rewound the arguments in his head. What did he think about it? Tom hoped that there was more to it than just us versus them. He knew about 9/11 and that the terrorists who’d caused that had been trained in Afghanistan. But he had to admit he was a little hazy on how the Duke of Lancasters’ mission, was going to stop them coming back to train. Not unless the Brits stayed over there forever.
He scolded himself. He was doing too much thinking. Closing his eyes, Tom forced himself to concentrate on thoughts of his little daughter. That was much more pleasant. He tried to drown out the noise of the ancient engines and the visions of what was to come. Within a few minutes he’d succeeded, and he drifted off into an uneasy slumber.
May 2010 – Camp Bastion
The troops were ready to get going. The waiting around had seemed interminable. Although Tom had his moments of feeling apprehensive, his greatest emotion was that of frustration. After all the training it was time to get to work.
Eventually, the word came for the Duke of Lancasters to board the Hercules transport plane. The reality of the situation began to set in, and his frustration relieved, Tom started to shit himself. It was all getting a bit serious these days. He was just grateful he had a good bunch of mates with him.
Stevie was still his usual self. He always had a joke ready if anyone looked a bit too serious. Constantly taking the piss. And despite the sweat constantly dripping from his large frame, Biscuit still seemed unflappable and unconcerned. It would be a lot harder without them.
The Hercules flew high over the desert on the way to Helmand. Out of the range of any potential missile attacks. Tom looked through the window of the transport aircraft as they approached Camp Bastion.
It was nothing like he’d imagined. For starters it looked massive from the air. It was an oasis of sorts, standing out from the bland, arid features of the surrounding desert terrain. It was a patchwork quilt of buildings all baking in the Afghan sun. The transport plane landed and disgorged its latest batch of lambs to the slaughter.
The dry, scorching heat seemed even worse than Kandahar. And the air was filled with a thin cloying dust that soon got everywhere. In clothing and equipment, but mouths and noses as well, making it an effort to breath. There was plastic sheeting on the floor and trucks to spray the ground with water. But the dust remained everywhere.
The troops picked up their packs and followed directions to the pods that would be their next home. They consisted of a sort of long white tent. They could hold up to twelve soldiers. But Tom and Biscuit only had eight in their pod. It would make their stay a little less claustrophobic.
Time to check out the food. Tom and his tent buddies sought out the mess hall. Before picking up their meals they’d been warned to make sure their hands were wiped completely clean with alcohol gel. It would be all too easy to pick up some sort of stomach bug here. And there were too many other threats to the soldiers’ health, without anything being self-inflicted.
Tom selected chicken pie and baked beans, which seemed to be all that was on offer at this time of day and settled down on the nearest bench to try it out. Biscuit had disappeared. Ten minutes later a dripping mess stumbled up to Tom’s seat.
“Those shithouses are fucking unbelievable!”
Sweat was pouring down his mate’s face. And Biscuit’s uniform was completely soaked through.
“It’s like having crap in a sauna!”
The rest of the pod was laughing unsympathetically. Tom joined in with them.
“Go and get cleaned up mate and get some of this stuff in you.”
Two days later they were briefed about the following morning. It would see them transferring further north in Helmand. Their destination was to be Forward Operating Base (FOB) Alpha. They would be travelling in a convoy of Mastiff and Viking armoured vehicles, driven by Royal Marines. But it was not completely safe. Not by any a long chalk.
Wherever possible the drivers followed existing wheel tracks. To try and minimise the danger from buried mines. The vehicles in the convoy would be exposed to attack both from RPGs and roadside bombs, Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). It would be from FOB Alpha, that their real operations would start. And where the danger to Tom and his fellow Lancasters would be maximised.
The young soldiers had nearly completed their journey. From the Catterick base, through the UK airport, Kandahar, Camp Bastion, FOB Alpha and then out on the ground in Helmand. It seemed to Tom, as if he was travelling through a dark tunnel of gradually constricting concentric circles.
He lurched forward as his vehicle came to an abrupt halt. He’d just avoided crashing into Biscuit, who was sitting directly opposite from him. Within two minutes of stopping, the heat was already building up without the cooling flow of air from the vehicle’s movement. And despite all the training, his mate from Blackpool was still carrying a couple of extra pounds.
“We’re going to boil if we get stuck here for long. Or I am”.
The situation nearer the frontline was very different from the base at Kandahar. It felt more dangerous and it was more dangerous.
May 2010 – On Patrol
The word was passed along. Expect contact within the hour. But they were expecting rifle fire, not an explosion. There were sixteen of them walking in a crouching position, carefully making their way up the ditch. It was maybe four feet deep, with the banks covered by grass. A small collection of mulberry trees was casting some welcome shadow.
The group was spread out along the gully. There were two men walking on either bank, keeping a close and vigilant watch on the surrounding buildings and fields. They’d been going for around three hours and the initial anticipation was starting to dissipate a little. Their nerves couldn’t stay at such a high level of tension for such a long time.
Then the air exploded with noise. All the soldiers either ducked or lay flat instinctively. A variety of expletives filled the air. But they were drowned out, by horrific screaming from the front of the line. Someone was badly hurt.
When the first shots came, it seemed unreal. Back at camp, Biscuit and Tom were big fans of old westerns. But the reality of being under fire was nothing like the movies. Nothing at all. Tom was lying spread-eagled on the ground, tightly hugging the contours of the filthy mud floor of the gully.
Their squad leader, the Corporal on his second tour of action, was already in full battle mode. From his lying position, he bobbed up, took a quick aim and fired off a round in the direction of the incoming shots. Ducking back down again, his lungs bellowed to the rest of them.
“Return fire! Return fire!”
Biscuit and Tom exchanged glances. They’d been through this scenario in training a dozen times. But this was no exercise, and these bullets were for real. Biscuit went first. He followed the Corporal’s example, stuck his head over the top of the ditch and started firing. Before he ducked down again, Tom had joined him, directing his rifle towards the spot
from which he judged the Taliban bullets were coming.
Afterwards, he realised that he had no memory of either bobbing up or down in that first contact. Although he knew he must have done. It was just the memory of returning fire that stayed with him. The feeling of lying on the rocky ground, with shots coming from all directions, was sticking in his mind. But a few minutes later, it was all over. Silence erupted over the landscape. The sound of the soldiers’ laboured breathing echoed in all their ears.
The Corporal broke the silence.
“Get the fuck out of this ditch. Move into those buildings over there. And watch out for those fucking Afghans!”
Tom and Biscuit chose the second of the mud buildings. They were in a row about twenty yards from the gully. Checking for an enemy presence, they entered the first door, with their weapons poised and at the ready.
The rooms were all empty. There were four of them evenly arranged, with the one at the back brighter than the rest. A gap in the back wall led out to a sun drenched dusty courtyard. Gun shots could be heard from the direction they’d come from. The two soldiers looked at each other. Tom was first to move. He ducked through the doorway, crouching low, his weapon pointing left and right alternately. He shouted to Biscuit.
“Nothing here. Check over by the back of the yard and I’ll make sure there’s nothing following us!”
Tom turned back to face the open doorway, as his mate passed him, rifle pointing in the opposite direction. Kneeling, his weapon pointing straight ahead, Tom could feel his heart threatening to burst through his chest wall. He gasped for air and tried to slow his breathing down. He was wondering if there was going to be a lull in action, when a rifle shot cracked out behind him.
The Furness Secret Page 15