War Torn (10 page)

He extracted a mobile phone from his pockets and folded papers and some beads which looked as though they might have religious significance. There was a laminated ID card, too, with a photo and indecipherable script. Dave didn’t waste a second examining it. The sound of their rounds would certainly draw the enemy and it was just a matter of time before they came under fire again.

The second insurgent had been dragged down into the ditch by the weight of his ammo belt. As Dave pulled up the soaking body, he heard Angus.

‘He moved! Christ, he’s fucking alive!’

Dave stared along the ditch. ‘Get his weapon away!’

Angus had failed to clear the weapons before starting his search. Mal moved rapidly from the bank to swipe the AK47 out of arm’s reach.

‘Get on with it!’ Dave said.

‘I lifted him and he moved!’ Angus had dropped the body back into the ditch and was now staring at it, his face horrified. The man was covered in blood and showed no apparent signs of life.

‘
Get on with it!
’

Angus did not move.

Mal raised his SA80 and fired twice at the man’s chest. Blood appeared like a fast-blooming flower. The weapon’s report was followed by silence.

Angus remained motionless.

‘
Now search him!
’

Dave’s roar finally seemed to wake Angus from his dream. He grabbed the body and started to search it correctly but his face remained blank.

Dave watched. His men had done this often enough in training, but searching a real body methodically and professionally – without thinking destructive thoughts about how the man had a mother and maybe a wife and small kids and a bunch of mates he’d been to school with all waiting for him to come home – was something else again.

He heard a nearby volley of fire. Their own shots had certainly drawn the enemy, who must now have found the convoy. He wondered how long it would take them to discover that a small group from the Vectors was in an exposed field with the bodies of four of their fighters. And all because of an old geezer with knobbly knees.

His second body was bigger and stronger. The man wore more serious kit, solid sandals, and had a Pakistani passport in his pocket. This was not a local, but a professional Taliban fighter.

He slipped the passport and personal effects into his evidence bag and, when Angus had finished, they climbed out of the ditch and ran back to the cover of the woods.

‘Firing from all sides.’ Boss Weeks’s voice crackled in Dave’s ear. The column of men advanced slowly and quietly through the trees. Dave told the convoy to move forward for them. They remained hidden as they waited for its slow advance. Dave saw the thin, anxious faces of his men, looking for the enemy on all sides. Angus looked up.

‘Fucking hell, Sarge . . .’

Almost directly above them was a foot. The foot was attached to a thin, brown leg. The leg was attached to a man and the man was attached to a weapon. The weapon was trained on the path of the oncoming convoy.

They understood the man’s stillness with one glance. From the rigid position of his head, his neck frozen like a frightened animal’s, they knew that he was unable to disengage his weapon from the branches to aim it at them. He’d turned to stone in the hope they wouldn’t look up.

‘McCall, step back to fire,’ Dave said. ‘So you get something a bit more useful than his arse.’

Angus had frozen when he had a clear view of four insurgents crossing a field. He’d frozen when he found one of them wasn’t dead. Now Dave wanted to give him another chance but he saw the lad’s face was rigid with alarm. He’d experienced enough death for one day.

Finn said: ‘I’ll do it.’

He stepped back.

The Taliban sniper looked down at them, knowing what was going to happen. Dave stared up into his brown eyes. The man looked back at him and started to speak. He didn’t cry or yell and he showed no fear. He spoke in a strange, soft way, without pleading. It was affecting, more affecting than any cry or shout could have been.

There was a flash and the report of a weapon. The man slumped forward.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Dave said quietly.

A mobile phone fell from the man’s clothes and Jamie caught it neatly. The convoy drew level with them and, under fire, they piled into the back of the first two Vectors.

‘Let’s go.’

Dave thought about the man in the tree, whose pleas for his life he’d ignored. Technically, it was a legitimate killing: the man’s weapon had been trained on the convoy. He told himself that the man wouldn’t have spared him if their positions had been reversed. All the same, he found himself wishing he had brought him in as a prisoner. He didn’t feel uncomfortable about the insurgent Mal had shot in the ditch, even though he was aware that this might be harder to explain under the Rules of Engagement.

Finn said: ‘That’s the first time I’ve killed someone.’

‘Me too,’ Mal said.

‘All right with it?’ Sol looked up at them as he nursed his ankle.

‘Yup,’ Finn said. ‘’Course. That’s what we’re here for.’ But his face was hollowed and drawn.

‘It did feel well weird.’ Mal sounded uncertain.

Angus said nothing. He examined his feet, his cheeks hot and red, as the convoy sped out of the Green Zone.

BOSS WEEKS COLLECTED HIS MEAL IN THE COOKHOUSE THAT EVENING
and, without giving himself a chance to think about it, joined the two female interpreters. His heart started beating faster and his senses were suddenly extra alert, symptoms he now associated with enemy contact.

The women, who’d been talking intently to each other, looked up without welcome when he sat down.

‘
As salaam alai kum
,’ Weeks said awkwardly.

‘What?’ Jean stared at him.

He tried to smile back. He didn’t dare look at Asma.

‘
As salaam alai kum
,’ he repeated, more clearly this time. His food suddenly looked less appetizing.

‘Oh-oh,’ Asma said. ‘We’ve got another Captain Boyle here.’

‘Captain Boyle?’

‘He was with A Company.’

‘A marine?’

‘Engineer. He had this book:
Speak Pashtu in Six Weeks
,’ Asma said. ‘He used it like a car instruction manual.’

Weeks permitted himself to look at her, but only briefly. She really was stunning. Those large, almond-shaped eyes and slanting cheek bones. Why wasn’t every man in the place writing her poems and offering to clean her weapon?

‘
Kur-see
,’ he said, pointing to the chair. ‘
War!
’ He pointed to the entrance. ‘
Meez.
’ He tapped the table.

‘Oh Christ.’ Asma rolled her enormous eyes.

Jean started to giggle.

‘How long have you been learning it?’

‘For months.’ Weeks gave a gesture of helplessness. ‘I still can’t complete a sentence.’

‘Most people give up when they get to the sentence structure.’

‘The alphabet alone makes me feel like coming out with a white flag. How did you two crack it?’

They both looked as though they’d answered this question a thousand times before.

‘I was in Kabul as a kid,’ Jean said. ‘My parents were aid workers out here until I was twelve. Asma came to the UK at about the same age.’

Asma nodded. ‘My parents managed to slip through the Soviet net and, well, it’s a long story but we ended up in London. My mother never did learn much English. So I’ve been translating for her for most of my life.’

‘Your family’s Pashtun?’

‘Yes. We lived in Kandahar province.’

‘Do you remember it?’

‘Of course.’

‘So does this feel at all like home?’

She smiled sadly and shook her head.

‘An FOB doesn’t feel like home. Even after a month.’

‘How does your family feel about . . .?’

‘Me doing this job?’ She looked even sadder and studied the table in front of her. She held an empty water glass in her long, slim fingers. She turned it around and around.

‘I don’t have any contact with them,’ she said. ‘I married a man who wasn’t Pashtu, wasn’t even a Moslem. So they don’t consider me a member of the family any more.’

Weeks felt a rush of emotion. She was married. But his disappointment didn’t overcome his compassion. To be exiled from any family must be hard, and the Pashtuns were a proud and close-knit people.

Jean was watching him closely. ‘It’s worse than that. She’s ended up with no husband
and
no family.’

‘Wouldn’t your family take you back when . . . when . . .?’

‘When I divorced?’ Asma shook her head. ‘When you get to
understand the Afghan people a little better, you’ll know there can only be one answer to that question.’

He looked down awkwardly at his meal.

‘Eat up!’ Jean said cheerfully. ‘I hear you’ve had one helluva day. You went out on a routine patrol and ended up with five Afghan bodies on your hands.’

‘We had a very . . . interesting . . . patrol,’ he said carefully.

‘You might need to go over the RoE with your men. From what I’ve heard, there are some questions to be answered.’

‘We’ve discussed the matter fully and I’m satisfied that the Rules of Engagement were observed.’ He’d been aware of a certain amount of hesitation on Dave’s part in the debriefing, but had decided not to pursue it.

‘I think Major Willingham will want to satisfy himself too,’ Jean said. Her smile was both bright and determined.

Weeks felt his jaw muscles clench. He’d watched these two contravene every rule in the tactical questioning book. And now they were suggesting his men had ignored the RoE. He felt his face redden further. He cursed this stupid habit. He cursed his entire blood supply.

‘Obviously, the police don’t get involved unless the OC is worried. But this is a small base and I’ve offered the major my help if he wants to look into it,’ said Jean.

Weeks tried to suppress his anger. He was aware that she was still watching him intently. He was also aware of the steady and unnerving gaze of the beautiful Asma.

‘My men only narrowly avoided being blown up by a double landmine. A goat took the blast instead. They were confirming that there had been no civilian casualties when they encountered the enemy. They faced the stark choice of firing or being fired upon.’

Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure you’ve been told all the details?’

Weeks thought about that. Well, no, of course he couldn’t be sure that he’d heard the whole story. But he wasn’t going to admit that. ‘Their actions were entirely justifiable.’ He hoped he was right.

Dave had taken Sol a meal and been told that his best corporal had a twisted ankle and had to keep the weight off it for at least a week, maybe two.

‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’ he asked the departing medic.

The man turned and shrugged. ‘Shoot him?’

‘Good idea.’

‘Sorry,’ Sol said miserably. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘How the hell did it happen?’ Dave asked. ‘If it had been Finny or anyone else I’d know they were pissing about. But you . . .’

‘I was on top. I was firing. Then I shifted my weight around and . . . well I stumbled and the next thing I knew I was falling.’

The Fijian was built like a brick shithouse. He’d fallen on Dave during an impromptu football game and Dave still had the bruises.

‘Not the lads below playing some stupid fucking trick on you?’