War Torn (13 page)

It took a while for people to notice the new lads hanging around by the empty cots and to realize who they were.

‘Which section are you in?’

The two younger lads, one black, the other small and fair, said they were in 1 Section. But all eyes were fixed on the third newcomer.

‘Are you in 2 Section?’

‘Yeah. 1 Platoon. I’m Ryan Connor. Moved over from D Company. They sent me because I’m a gimpyman.’

‘Yes!’ yelled everyone who had taken a bet with Finn. ‘Yes!’ Rifleman Connor was strawberry blond.

‘No, no, no!’ cried Finn. ‘We said ginger. This man’s no pisswizard.’

‘He is fucking ginger.’

‘Come on, mate, you’re beat, he’s pure pisswizard!’

‘He is not!’

Finn started to pull Rifleman Connor out of the tent into the sunlight. Connor was a tall, gangly man with uneven skin and scars on his face. He allowed himself to be dragged for a few paces before he grabbed Finn by his shoulders and swung him around.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

Finn looked at Connor’s face for the first time and saw the street there.

‘Sorry, mate, very sorry.’ He offered his hand. ‘Billy Finn, 1 Section second i/c.’

Rifleman Connor looked at him uncertainly. Then he shook hands.

‘Basically,’ continued Finn, ‘these guys are trying to screw me out of a lot of money because of the colour of your hair.’

‘What’s the colour of my hair got to do with anything?’

‘Just walk into the light, mate, and I’ll explain.’

Connor stepped out into the burning sunlight. He was taller than most of the men around him.

‘Just crouch down a minute, bruv, so we can all see the top of your head.’

‘Is this a joke?’ Connor still wasn’t sure whether to be angry or amused. ‘I mean, I didn’t expect to get to the FOB and have everyone running their fingers through my hair.’

‘It’s more red in some parts than others.’

‘He’s definitely a pisswizard.’

‘He’s ginger, totally ginger, here on the side.’

‘Bollocks,’ Finny kept yelling. ‘This man is blond.’

‘This man is a ginger pisswizard. I got my fiver down at five to four on, Finny! You owe us money.’

Finn caught sight of the reddest of the 2 Section redheads. ‘Oy, Broom, get over here and put your head right next to Connor’s.’

‘I’m not snuggling up to no man,’ Broom protested but Finn had him now in an iron grip.

‘Crouch down here and shut up.’

Broom was small enough to push around. He squatted shoulder to shoulder with Connor, still protesting.

‘Now, lads. Broom . . .’ Finn announced triumphantly, ‘is a pisswizard.’

There was silence as everyone contemplated the two heads.

Broom said to Connor, ‘You’re probably thinking this is one of them weird initiation rituals.’

‘I’m thinking someone’s taking the piss,’ Connor said.

‘Thank you, lads, for your patience,’ Finn said.

‘It’s running out,’ Connor warned ominously.

‘Side by side,’ Finn went on, ‘you can see that this is red.’

He pulled a tuft of Broom’s hair.

At that moment, Sol limped past, looking for 1 Section’s new recruits. They were standing at the edge of the group.

‘You’re out on patrol,’ he told Finn. ‘Now.’

‘Corporal Kasanita! Let Sol decide.’

Sol glowered at them. His ankle was hurting and the medic was still refusing to let him do anything but light duties and he hated to miss another patrol.

‘I’m not deciding anything,’ he said. ‘Finn, you’re acting section commander. So you shouldn’t expect me to get your men to the vehicles on time.’

‘Shit!’ Finn looked at his watch.

‘You should have them ready over there right now.’

‘OK, OK, but just tell us something, Sol. Is this man’s hair red or not?’

Sol barely glanced at Rifleman Connor. ‘Not really,’ he said.

Finn’s face broke into a broad grin.

Sol ignored the howls of protest. ‘Adam Bacon and Jack Binns? You’re in 1 Section, 1 Platoon and I’m your section commander, Sol Kasanita.’ He held out his hand.

He thought how young these two kids looked. The black one could not take his eyes off the furore behind them, where the row over Rifleman Connor’s hair threatened to turn nasty. Sol saw Dave striding purposefully out of the ops room.

‘Come over to the cookhouse and we can talk away from these idiots,’ Sol said. ‘The sergeant’s going to sort them out.’

Even from the cookhouse it was clear that the redhead debate was turning into a fight. As they sat down, Sol heard Dave’s voice booming over the chaos. Then there was silence.

‘That’s our platoon sergeant. He’s put a stop to their nonsense,’ Sol said. ‘Dave Henley. He’s the best. He takes good care of us. He’ll be having a word with you soon.’

The recruits nodded nervously. The sound of Dave bawling out the lads had not been reassuring. It was followed almost immediately by the sound of everyone rushing to get ready for the patrol.

‘They’re going out now,’ Sol said. ‘I’d be with them if I hadn’t twisted my ankle. Next time, you’ll go too. With Lance Corporal Finn as your acting platoon commander.’

They nodded glumly. They already knew who Finn was.

‘When will your ankle be better?’ Binns asked hopefully.

‘Oh, a few days more.’

‘Then you’ll be back in charge again?’

Sol nodded.

Bacon said: ‘Does it matter what colour the bloke’s hair is?’

‘Only if you’ve put some money on it. Finn was running a book. He’s always running a book. If there were two flies crawling up the wall, Finn would take a bet from you on the first to get to the top.’

The recruits grimaced.

‘The lads don’t often argue like that,’ Sol said. ‘We’re usually very good mates. We have to be. Our lives depend on it.’

He paused.

‘So, how long you two been in for?’

‘I only joined before Christmas, me,’ Rifleman Bacon said.

‘Me too,’ Jack Binns said. ‘I’m working in Currys and we’re having a one-day special September sale and I’m getting really fed up and I think, right. So in my lunch hour I go over to Army Recruitment and I sign up. Just like that.’

Sol gave his wide, lazy smile.

‘Currys’ sale in autumn. Theatre in summer. Not sure which is worse.’

The engines were roaring now. The platoons were leaving the base. Leaving without Sol, yet again. He tried not to listen.

Binns said he came from Dorset. ‘See, nothing ever happens there.’

‘How about you?’ Sol asked Adam Bacon. ‘Much happening where you’re from?’

‘Yeah, there’s a lot happens in Wolverhampton. Sometimes too much.’

‘So you came here for a bit of quiet?’

Bacon smiled.

‘My mum thinks it’s safer in Afghanistan than round my manor. But it’s the wrong time for me, maybe. I like to rap, see. And it’s all just started taking off and then it’s all over because I’m away training to Catterick.’

Sol smiled back at him.

‘There’s a lot of lads like rap here. They’ll want to hear what you got.’

Bacon grinned. He didn’t want to admit that his greatest hope was not that he’d go home alive but that he’d get a chance to rap for his new mates.

Sol heard the sound of the convoy fading into the distance. Soon it would be nothing more than a silent dust cloud making its way towards the Green Zone.

Mal had been selected to use the new shotgun: he was obviously delighted but Sol would have liked to keep an eye on him. He didn’t believe that Finn gripped 1 Section fiercely enough. One man down and Sol knew he would blame himself and his stupid ankle for ever. Dave had told him he’d stay alongside them. But Sol knew Dave already had enough to do.

‘OK.’ Sol turned back to Bacon and Binns. ‘Let me tell you some of the things you lads need to remember if you’re going to stay safe. I’ll start with foot powder . . .’

MAL SAT WITH THE BENELLI M
4
SHOTGUN ON HIS LAP, CRADLING IT
lovingly as the Vector bumped its way across the desert.

‘Yes!’ he’d said, punching the air, when Dave told him he’d be the first to use the new weapon. ‘Let’s hope we get into close combat so I can use it!’

‘Yeah, let’s hope so.’ Dave had rolled his eyes. ‘Never mind the rest of us.’

Dave was still annoyed with Finn for leading the platoon into a punch-up. Since the new gunner from 2 Section had hair which might or might not be red, Dave had declared the betting void and told Finn to give everyone their money back.

‘I don’t want any more bets,’ he’d said to Finn. ‘You’re a fucking soldier, not a bookie, and you’ve made the whole platoon late for a serious operation.’

They were clearing a river crossing today. The OC had intelligence that the Taliban was planning to take control of it. Almost the entire company was involved and the civilians had been told they were confined to base with minimal staffing. Martyn Robertson had objected strongly but the OC had overruled him, explaining that if the Taliban took this crossing then getting the oil exploration team across the river would be almost impossible.

They dismounted and left the track on foot. At first it was a relief to plunge beneath the canopy. Mal moved ahead with the shotgun. The only downside was that he was expected to carry his SA80 as well. The heavy rifle was like an old friend who’d overstayed his
welcome. Until they came under distant fire, when he reorganized himself to use his SA80 and the shotgun felt like a gatecrasher at the party.

The other sections of 1 Platoon advanced towards the firing on their right flank. Dave heard the new gunner giving it some with the gimpy. Poor bloke. Off a Chinook into a crowd of lads all staring at his hair like farmers at a sheep auction, then straight onto patrol before he’d drawn breath. But his fire was effective. The combination of Jamie with his GPMG on one side and Rifleman Connor with his on the other brought silence. Dave guessed the enemy had moved. The incoming rounds had been more of a warning than a threat.

1 Platoon moved forward to the river, 1 Section on the left flank. They emerged from the trees and crossed an irrigation ditch into a field of high crops.

Although it was early the sun showed them no mercy. Clouds of pollen were released by the plants, its pungent odour magnified by the heat.

‘Christ, do they make their animals eat this shit?’

‘It’s giving me a headache.’

‘I feel ready to get me head down . . .’

‘Stick some in your pocket for later and you’ll be fucking glad you did,’ Finn said.

Dave’s eyes narrowed. He looked closely at the exotic plant. Each leaf consisted of delicate fingers, like a hand in a lace glove.

‘Is it what I think it is?’

His question was met with smothered laughter but no one replied. The plant certainly wasn’t a poppy: they had passed a field of these further back, their pods closed tightly like tiny purses. There were brown slits down the side of each pod where the resin had been extracted.

It must be cannabis.

‘Anyone caught trying to sneak this weed out of here’s in big trouble,’ Dave snarled. ‘Did you hear me, Finn?’

‘Yessir,’ Finn said cheerfully. ‘I never touch it these days.’