War Torn (4 page)

The prisoners remained in one of the vehicles and Dave put a couple of men from 3 Section in charge of guarding them. He took a quick look at the Taliban fighters first.

‘Have you seen to his leg?’ he asked the medic.

‘Yeah, nothing much wrong with it.’

‘I thought he took one of my rounds.’

‘You missed.’

‘Shit. So why all the blood and limping?’

‘The limp’s what footballers do when the other team looks like they might score a goal. The blood’s because you nicked his shin. But it’s nothing much.’

Dave stared at the handcuffed prisoners. They stared back at him. Since the contact they had lost some of their fear. Now they tried to muster their dignity. One of them spoke to Dave in Pashtu, spitting out the words like a curse.

‘Thank you very much and fuck you too,’ Dave said politely.

‘Make sure they get some water,’ Company Sergeant Major Kila told the lads guarding them.

Then he and Dave and the boss strode off into the network of tents and old mud-walled buildings, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust.

The platoon stretched. They breathed the afternoon air deeply. They spoke little. The men who had been in the explosion found the event replaying inside their heads, felt the helplessness of their limbs in the force of the blast again, experienced the same mixture of fear and resignation.

‘I thought it was the fucking end,’ said Rifleman Mal Bilaal.

‘So did I,’ said Rifleman Angus McCall. ‘I thought what my dad would say if I died before I’ve even had a chance to brass anyone up.’

‘I couldn’t understand why I was taking such a fucking long time to die,’ said Lance Corporal Billy Finn. ‘And then I realized I was still alive.’

Rifleman Jamie Dermott had believed that he was dying, too. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms as the blast hit him as though he was stretching out for Agnieszka and the baby.

Even the men who weren’t in the blast and weren’t actively thinking about what had happened to Riflemen Nelson and Buckle felt the knowledge of it lodged inside them. And anyone who had seen their bodies flying through the air knew he would not forget it, even if he never talked about it again to anyone. Today’s contact had been a warning of what was to come.

Jamie Dermott leaned back against the wheel of the Vector and closed his eyes. He was thinking that even Dave, who had years of training and experience and had seen two tours of Iraq, had probably fired more rounds today than in all of his previous contacts put together. Well, they had joined up to fight. They had trained to fight. And now that’s what they were going to do. No one would admit that the suddenness and ferocity of today’s contact had been a shock. But it had.

Jamie reached surreptitiously for a picture of his wife and baby. He liked to look at it during odd moments when Wiltshire began to seem far away. He liked to remind himself that there was another world, less barren than this one.

He glanced at his watch. Four thirty in Afghanistan. Midday at home. Agnieszka would be in the kitchen now, maybe moving smoothly around Luke’s high chair on her long, long legs, spoon in hand, singing softly under her breath. For the next six months, she would be there and he would be here. Six months. Luke would change a lot by the time he got back. Jamie would have experiences which he couldn’t imagine now and which he would probably remember for the rest of his life. He sighed and looked around at the FOB, a bleak collection of isocontainers and tents and mud buildings that would become home.

1 Platoon lit cigarettes and found a tap and refilled their Camelbaks and water bottles and drank deeply. In a movement that had already become so instinctive they didn’t even think about it, they ran their fingers round the top of the bottle to wipe off the sand before they swigged from it. The water was warm. A few people organized a brew.

Jamie wasn’t hungry but he could work out where the cookhouse must be from the activity of A Company, now emerging from their tents and heading to the centre of the FOB. Lance Corporal Finn and Rifleman Bilaal worked it out too.

‘Fancy some scoff?’ Finn said. Mal nodded. Corporal Sol Kasanita, their section commander, was looking away. They slipped behind the Vectors and around the back of some mud buildings.

The other men were watching A Company.

‘They’re big blokes . . .’

‘Marines,’ Sol Kasanita said.

‘I thought they looked like boot necks,’ said Angus.

Even Dave, touring the base, was taken aback by how much bigger and older and tougher the outgoing A Company looked than his own men. He glanced back at his platoon, lounging around, smoking and gulping tea by the vehicles, looking skinny even in body armour. And they looked younger still because they were clean-shaven new arrivals while the commandos hadn’t shaved for weeks and their uniforms were shabby and worn.

The outgoing company sergeant major, who was showing them around, indicated the cookhouse. Dave glanced inside. Among the hulks of A Company were two noticeably smaller men.

‘Lance Corporal Finn and Rifleman Bilaal get out of there NOW,’ Dave roared.

‘But, Sarge, we were only—’

‘Out! You’re on boil-in-the-bag until A Company goes.
Now get back to the wagons!
’

It was always the same. Whenever there was food, you’d always find soldiers doing their own strike op on the cookhouse.

Mal and Finn went back to the group, persuading two members of A Company to accompany them.

‘Thank fuck you’re just the advance party. If they’d sent the whole shitload there wouldn’t be room to breathe here,’ said the men from A Company.

‘The rest are coming in by air when you go,’ Finn said.

One of the men pointed at a ginger-haired rifleman from 2 Section. ‘Careful, mate. We’ve had some big mortars incoming lately and two of them landed right where you’re standing!’

The lad skipped rapidly to one side to a chorus of laughter.

‘Come on, bruv,’ said Mal, offering the marines cigarettes. ‘Tell us a bit about the place. Can we use that gym over there?’

He pointed at treadmills, exercise bikes and other equipment arranged in two neat lines, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

One of the commandos took a cigarette. ‘That’s the civilian area. The contractors live in the isoboxes.’

The gym was surrounded on two sides by isoboxes which looked as if a big crane had lifted them off the back of a ship straight into the heart of the desert. They were arranged in an L-shape with the spine of the L turned sulkily against the rest of the camp.

‘The contractors have got air conditioning.’ There was no mistaking his disgust.

‘They haven’t found a way to air-condition the gym yet.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Since it’s in the open air. But it’s just a matter of time.’

‘Is that gym just for the civilians, then?’ Finn asked.

‘We can use it too. So long as we don’t disturb them.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ his companion said. ‘No disturbing the civilians. No whistling at Emily. Unless she whistles at you first.’

Mal swallowed hard. ‘Who’s Emily?’

The marine took a long, slow drag and rolled his eyes. His mate licked his lips.

‘What can we say about Emmers?’ They shrugged theatrically.

‘Well, let’s just say she’s hot . . .’ said the smoker.

‘Very hot.’

‘In fact, she’s a sex grenade.’

‘Waiting to explode. Any fucking second.’

Finn grinned and sucked on the end of his roll-up. ‘Maybe it’s not going to be too bad here after all.’

The marine finished his cigarette and threw it to the ground. ‘Oh, it’s bad. But Emmers has a way to make you feel better. Know what I mean?’

The lads knew what he meant.

‘Senzhiri? Sin City more like.’ The marines turned back to the cookhouse. ‘Just listen for Emmers’s whistle and you’ll see what we mean.’

1 Platoon looked a lot more cheerful now.

‘I’m glad to hear the British Army is beginning to recognize our needs . . .’ Finn tried to inhale the last of his roll-up.

Sol shook his head. ‘They’re winding you up, Finny.’

‘She’s here doing civilian work,’ Jamie said. ‘Not to entertain the troops.’

There was a yell from Company Sergeant Major Kila for the prisoners to be unloaded. He handed two pairs of blacked-out goggles to the 3 Section guards and the detainees were led away across the FOB, stumbling sometimes, hands tied in front of them.

Their appearance caused a sensation. People moving to the cookhouse stopped in their tracks. Everyone stared. A few came over to ask for the story.

‘I’ve been here six months and I’ve never seen a choggie close-up until now . . .’

‘I’ve never seen one at all . . .’

‘So you’re the cook and you don’t get out of the kitchen?’ Angus McCall said.

‘No, mate, I’ve been on patrol almost every fucking day. You can get brassed up by ragheads but you just don’t see them.’

The whole platoon stared at him. ‘You never see the flipflops? Ever?’

‘A choggie boot up a tree or a shadow behind a hedge, that’s the closest you fucking get.’

‘And they clear up their dead so fast you hardly even see a fucking body.’

The platoon talked about today’s ambush and Jamie watched A Company’s faces as they listened. These men were tired. Numb. They looked as though if they’d wounded an insurgent carrying an RPG, they might not have bothered to search for him down a side street.

‘You’re ready to go home, mate,’ he said to the commando standing nearest.

The man nodded.

‘I don’t want to waste my time decompressing in Cyprus. I just want to get back.’

That was how Jamie felt right now when he thought about Agnieszka. And he’d only just arrived.

They started the vehicles and the pressure cookers and opened their boil-in-the-bags. After eating they sat around in the evening sun. The heat was still merciless although it was almost night and barely summer.

‘What’s it going to be like in a couple of months?’

‘How’re we going to carry forty, sixty, eighty pounds of kit in this?’

They had another brew and smoked and farted while they waited for Dave to call them.

At last he did.

‘Prayers. In that building over there.’

The men stared at a small, low shed with sagging roof and ancient mud walls. It looked a thousand years old.

‘The Cowshed,’ Dave said. ‘They say you can still smell the shit.’

Sitting on the floor of the Cowshed, packed in tightly with the rest of the platoon and their Bergens, Jamie thought he could detect the smell of long-departed goat. Or was it just the whiff of rancid soldier in a tight space?

He watched the new boss with curiosity. Second Lieutenant Weeks was standing at the front, clearing his throat and looking nervous. Jamie felt sorry for him. Fresh out of Sandhurst, he’d only met his men for the first time a few days ago at Bastion. He’d faced
a fire fight on the way here and two men were already down. It hadn’t been a good start. Thank God he had Dave for his platoon sergeant.

Dave was waiting for all three sections of the platoon to file in. He was rocking impatiently onto his toes and then back on his heels. ‘Get a move on, you lot,’ he barked, glaring at the last men in.

‘There’s no room with all this kit on the floor, Sarge,’ someone protested.

‘Then make fucking room.’

Jamie watched Dave counting the men. The Officer Commanding of the outgoing company had expressed admiration for the way they’d taken two detainees but he knew Dave would happily have traded them for Steve Buckle and Jordan Nelson.