Rain (5 page)

The letter drooped in Tom’s hand. Will had changed completely, irreversibly, and he wondered how he would be able to talk to him when he saw him next. Part of Tom was appalled that he was thinking of Will with a degree of envy – even if only half of what he was saying was true, then he must be well on the path to some kind of decoration. To be put in that situation only days after finishing his training and not only surviving but actually seeming to be the only thing holding his platoon together virtually guaranteed some sort of medal at the end of tour, a
Mention in Dispatches
at the very least. Tom felt appalled that he had been so indoctrinated to feel this envy. What was this universe he had entered? What cult had he joined, where proportion could be so distorted that you looked upon suffering with envy and guilt that it was not you on the firing line? He looked out the window, eyes lost in the dark blue as the afternoon faded into dark.

All the summer C Squadron were bounced around the country on various exercises preparing them for tour. In June they were in Northumberland, firing their Scimitars in support of
a series of huge infantry attacks down a valley in the training area at Otterburn, safety margins squeezed to the minimum to inoculate young soldiers to friendly rounds cracking metres over their heads. The weather was glorious, and between battle runs Tom and Sergeant Trueman would park the four wagons up on the crest of a hill and let the lads sunbathe. When they got really bored, Trueman introduced them to one of his favourite pastimes, a left-handed throwing competition. He found this hilarious, seeing all the boys attempt to throw stones and rocks while looking like utter incompetents. Tom took part bashfully.

Tom found that on exercise he got to know the soldiers far better than he ever did in camp. He discovered he was harder and more remote from them than he thought he would be, never using a nickname and hating letting himself be seen to be wrong. The boys didn’t really mind this apparent stand-offishness, as Trueman found out by accident one evening. He discovered a half-finished letter Tom was writing to the father of Lance Corporal Miller, in which he introduced himself as his troop leader and said that if Mr Miller needed any information or reassurance about how his son was doing in training or when they got to Afghanistan he should write. Trueman asked around and found that two of them had already had their parents receive such a letter from Tom. Trueman was amazed; he had never had an officer do this before. He thought Tom a bit square if very professional, but knowing about the letters started to forge a bond to him that no one would break.

In the last week of July the squadron was in the west of Wales on Castlemartin Ranges, their last chance before deployment to fire the Scimitars and practise vehicle movement. In between range runs they practised
barma
drills over
and over again, and got lessons from the medics in tourniquet application,
hemcon
bandages, first field dressings and morphine use, until they could do everything in the dark with Trueman firing full magazines of blank rounds next to them. Tom shuddered at the tourniquets, both fascinated and repelled by them. A black strap with thick Velcro on it, it was put around an injured limb or a stump as tightly as possible, and a plastic rod turned to squeeze it so much that blood would, like water from a tap, stop flowing out of it. There was nothing clever or delicate about it, as it treated the human body like a plumbing system, not as a repository of thoughts and hopes.

Trueman and Tom endlessly made the boys practise filling out the
MIST
and
9-liner
cards that they would use in Afghanistan to organize casualty evacuations. After the first session Trueman said, ‘Thing is, fellas, I hate practising casevac. It’s like you’re accepting that it’s going to happen to one of us out there. I agree, it’s not fucking nice. But if we don’t get this now, if something does fucking happen out there, then the lad who may just have survived with a bad injury will fucking die. I mean it. I’ve seen it in other regiments on Herrick 6. If some dumb cunt sends the wrong information up the
net
or doesn’t do it rapid-like, then they send the wrong heli which can’t land at the
HLS
, or they don’t bring the correct kind of stretcher or whatever. So that’s why we’re rubbing your fucking noses in it now, yeah?’

At first the boys were awful on the radio, completely unaccustomed because of their junior role in the troop to talking on one accurately and concisely, but by the end of the week they were delivering multiple casualty reports with ease. Tom led the boys through the lessons, watching in wonder at the sick reality they were entering as Davenport, an
eighteen-year-old who still only had to shave once a week, calmly rattled off a double casualty report as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

‘Hello,
Zero
, this is Three Zero. Stand by for MIST for two casualties. Casualty 1. Mike – explosion. India – double amputation. Right leg amputated above the knee, left leg at the ankle. Fragmentation to genitals and abdomen. Sierra – breathing 12. Pulse 40. Catastrophic bleed. Tango – morphine, two tourniquets and hemcon applied. Roger so far over? Casualty 2. Mike – gunshot wound. India – shot in the knee, femur broken. Sierra – breathing 12. Pulse 80. Some blood loss. Casualty going into shock. Tango – morphine, tourniquet and
FFD
applied. Over.’

Tom patted him on the back. ‘Good job, Mr Davenport. Let’s just hope that you don’t have to do that in theatre, eh? Who’s next? Ellis, your turn. Three casualties from an
RPG
: one guy’s blinded, one guy’s hit in the gut and the other’s lost his arm. 9-liner and the MIST. Three minutes to prepare and then go.’

After the final attack of the exercise, an apocalyptic array of destruction rained down upon targets for two hours by Scimitars, Javelins, mortars, artillery and air strikes, the squadron parked up their wagons in neat rows. Tom jumped out of his wagon, climbed onto Trueman’s and grinned at him. ‘Well, Sergeant, what do you reckon? With a performance like that there won’t be any Taliban left, will there?’

Trueman scrunched up his nose and looked out down the range, where smoke still rose from destroyed targets and fresh craters. ‘I dunno, sir. This is good for the lads’ morale this, but it’s a turkey shoot. No twats shooting back. No IEDs. This exercise has been good, don’t get me wrong, but it ain’t reality out there. Promise you.’ He saw Tom looking crestfallen, his cheerfulness dented, and tried to make him
feel better. ‘I see what you mean, sir – it’s good crack – but I’m just saying so you know, yeah?’

Tom pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Got it, Sergeant. Sometimes I run away with myself.’

‘That’s OK, sir; that’s what you’re meant to do. And I’m meant to rein it in. And then one day it’ll be vice versa.’

On the bus back from Castlemartin the officers sat at the front reading and trying to snatch some sleep in anticipation of the night out in London they had planned. In the back were the likely lads, led by Trueman in his customary place, the middle seat of the rear row, who did impressions of every member of the squadron in turn, officers included. They were very funny, and Tom couldn’t help laughing as Trueman gently poked fun at his own staid manner. All the bus was roaring, but it wasn’t mean laughter, and Tom was almost sad when Trueman switched to Clive, whose matey manner with his soldiers was completely the opposite to his. Clive and his sergeant, Leighton, even went to the pub together – something Tom would never dream of doing – and he never seemed to use rank when talking with his lads, immediately giving them all new nicknames when he took over the troop. He was content just to be addressed as the informal ‘boss’, where Tom was never anything other than ‘Mr Chamberlain’ or ‘sir’.

Tom’s phone buzzed. He was delighted to see a text from Will.

‘Guess who’s back in town?! Got back to Brize a couple of days ago, now very much in the smoke, keen for a session tonight. Nuclear alcoholocaust. Keen? House party Wandsworth Bridge Road 9ish. Come along! Babes coming too. Get involved. Callsign Weakdrinker!’

Tom tapped back, ‘Oi oi matey, the wanderer returns! Defo bevvies tonight; we’re doing a captains and subalterns’ session in Ken High St so I’m fixed there until 2200.’

Will replied in an instant: ‘Ace fella; buzz me then and we’ll meet up.’ Another text then followed from him, this one suddenly less happy. ‘Thanks for this, mate … really need to speak to someone about it all. So weird to be back. Am properly darked out by this city for some reason.’

Tom frowned, put his phone back in his pocket and went to sleep.

Back in the mess they met the A and B Squadron subalterns, who had been back for hours and were champing to get into town. The de facto kingpin among the young officers, rakish, beanpole-thin Operations Officer Jules ‘The Menace’ Dennis, shouted at them, ‘Come on, slackers; minibus leaves half an hour ago; get upstairs, get your poof juice on, and let’s offski, schnell machen. Go!’

They needed no further encouragement, and soon they were on their way, twelve of them crammed into a minibus, chanting songs as they whizzed up the A3 into London, swigging cold lagers and laughing and singing.

They gathered in their usual pub, just off Kensington High Street. They arrived at eight, dived straight into pints of beer, and by nine they were tackling shots of vodka and tequila. Half an hour later three of them had already been kicked out, another two were about to be, and Jules Dennis was lying beneath the bar as Clive poured a bottle of sambuca with unerring aim into his mouth. Tom, who had tried with only partial success to keep a grasp on his senses, decided to make his escape by pretending to go to the loo and then slipping out a back door. As he left a hand grabbed his collar. It was Jules.

‘Where you going?’

‘Just for a piss.’

‘Bollocks. You’re pulling
Op Cat Flap
, aren’t you?’

It was no use lying. ‘Um, yes. I’ve got a mucker from my platoon at Sandhurst who’s back on R & R tonight, and I need to see him.’

Jules’ tone changed. ‘Why didn’t you say? Of course you’ve got to see him. Before you go though, I just want to say one thing.’

Here it comes
, Tom thought. Jules, who had already done two tours, one of Iraq and one of Afghanistan, both of which had seen heavy fighting, and who now as operations officer was the commanding officer’s right-hand man for the tour, was famous in the mess for telling new officers exactly what he thought of them.

‘Before I get too pissed, although to be honest I think I passed that mark some time ago, I just want to say that you’re doing an awesome job.’

‘Thanks, Jules. Er … that’s very kind of you.’

‘Shut up, crow. It’s not about being kind; it’s about being truthful.’ He dragged Tom closer and continued, conspiratorially, ‘Trueman was in my troop in Iraq. He tells me everything. And he likes you. Which is impressive because he’s one of the hardest NCOs to win over in the whole regiment. He says he’s never met someone who cares more for the lads. Good job. Keep it up, Tom.’

They were interrupted as a group of men swarmed past them on their way into the pub and they had to step back. Jules muttered under his breath, ‘Tossers.’

The two at the rear of the phalanx stopped, surprised and aggressive.

‘What’s that, mate?’ one said, burly and wearing a Harlequins rugby shirt.

Jules took a long drag on his cigarette and said, with innocence writ across his face, ‘Nothing, pal. Nothing. Sorry, just wondering, are you guys in the army?’

The man sneered at him. ‘Are we fuck, mate. Bollocks to that.’

Jules nodded and said, again innocuous, ‘Oh. Sorry. Just wondering, that’s all. My mistake.’

The man, puzzled, went inside the pub to join his friends, and Tom looked at Jules quizzically. ‘What was that all about?’

Jules smiled. ‘Nothing really. Just wanted to stir some trouble, gauge what those blokes were like. And there you have it: most people in this country, most blokes anyway, think we’re mugs. He said it himself.’

Tom left Jules, went to the house party and was let in by a horsey-looking girl wearing a hairband. Tom hadn’t seen anyone with a hairband since he was eight. Someone thrust a thimbleful of lukewarm wine into his hand. He mumbled his thanks, realizing that he was by quite some distance the drunkest in the room. He talked to a few people. Everyone seemed to work in banking or for hedge funds.
For fuck’s sake
, Tom thought,
can everyone just stop working for hedge funds?
He’d now asked about twenty people what they were, and even he, a relatively sentient being, hadn’t been able to understand the explanations.

At least, he thought he was the drunkest until Will came staggering in, having just been sick. The raw and beaming smile that tore over Will’s face was glorious, and he ran forward, and he and Tom hugged each other. Tom could smell the vomit on his breath, but he still clung to his friend with fingers driven into his back. He couldn’t believe how much he had missed him. The rest of the room looked on nervously. Tom quickly felt self-conscious, and he and Will went out to the garden to smoke and escape the oppressive sitting room.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Will as he lit a cigarette. The small flame threw a glow over his dopey eyes. ‘
Why the hell has Will dragged me along to a party that makes chess club look like Ibiza?
’ He grinned.

‘No, mate, not at all … ’

‘Don’t worry, they’re all right.’ He flicked ash into a plant pot. ‘They’re some maniacs I went on a cookery course with in my gap year. They always have this annual reunion. They were dull then and they’re duller now, and normally I fuck it off, but the thing is there are these two absolute babes who are meant to turn up later on, and I’m just thinking that if
civvies
lap up Afghan as much as they say they do, with this Help for Heroes malarkey and everyone wearing some kind of military wristband, then I can’t fail to slay. What do you reckon?’

‘What about the others?’

‘You kidding? Did you look at any of them? I wouldn’t touch them with a telescopic barge pole. Not even Afghan makes you that desperate.’