War Torn (5 page)

Before everyone was seated, Dave began.

‘We had a tough time getting here, lads. We’ll give you news of Steve and Jordan as soon as we get it. Most of us didn’t think we’d be firing that many rounds so soon but you responded well. I was proud of you, and pleased to see your training pay off.

‘Unfortunately, because of the contact, A Company can’t get away today after all and the rest of our company can’t get in. The handover has been postponed until tomorrow and that makes the FOB a tad overcrowded tonight. We just have to keep out of the way until they go. So it’s boil-in-the-bag until A Company’s out of here.’

There was a groan. Jamie imagined how A Company must be feeling. Bags packed, ready to go, minds on home and still stuck at base.

Dave moved aside for the boss. Gordon Weeks tried to step into the space Dave had left him. But without Dave’s energy and certainty to fill it, that space was suddenly immense.

‘Er . . . thank you, Sergeant . . . er . . . that is indeed the case. Welcome to FOB Senzhiri. Popularly known, I gather, as FOB Sin City. Er, because of the crowding situation, I suggest that we sleep around the Vectors tonight, or until A Company has vacated. Now. Er . . . Um . . .’

Dave’s face remained expressionless. But Jamie could guess what he was thinking. Weeks just didn’t know how to speak to his men.
He’d already tried at Bastion and had been a mumbling wreck. He wasn’t doing much better today.

‘Er . . . well . . .’ The young officer’s face reddened as he floundered. The men began to look at Dave for help. Boss Weeks seized this idea.

‘Er, um . . . I think perhaps we’ll start with Sergeant Henley’s, um, health and safety information,’ he said at last.

‘OK, lads,’ Dave said. ‘The first thing I want to say is about washing. There are civilian contractors here and the boss is going to talk to you about them. But remember this. Those civilians get to shower every day; you don’t. That’s the way it is. I don’t want to hear anyone whingeing about it. You take showers every other day at most, and for no longer than three minutes, or there won’t be enough water. I’m only going to shave every three or four days. No one should shave more than that.

‘You’ve all got sun block: use it. You’ve all got water: drink it. Lots of it, more than you think you need. Aim for nine litres a day and definitely not less than six. When we’re going out on a short patrol, take at least three. Fill your Camelbaks and take bottles too. It’s fucking hot today and it’s going to get hotter. Out there in fifty degrees with a lot of kit you could die if you don’t drink. So drink.

‘Get out of your boots whenever you can. I don’t want to catch any lazy bastards who can’t be bothered to take off their boots before they go to sleep. That is very, very stupid. Get the air to your toes on every possible occasion. You’ve got foot powder: use it. Your heels crack, you’ll be miserable and no one’s going to be sympathetic.

‘Your hands could also crack in this heat and when you use gun oil those cracks are going to hurt. A lot. You’ve got cream. No one will think you’re stupid if you use it. They’ll think you’re stupid if you don’t.’

No one shuffled or stared unseeingly or had that distant look in his eyes which meant he was thinking about food or home or sex. Everyone in the Cowshed was alert and listening to every word. Jamie saw the boss looking at Dave with respect and amazement. He was studying his sergeant’s technique. Jamie could have explained to him that there was no technique. Dave was just a man other men listened to.

‘Right,’ Dave said. ‘The boss is going to tell you about Sin City.’

Gordon Weeks coughed.

‘The sergeant has mentioned the, er, civilians. What you really need to remember is that FOB Senzhiri is not just here for military reasons but strategic reasons also. There is a multinational contractor team working from the base on an oil and gas project and they must be treated with respect. Now, er, I understand relations between the soldiers here at the base and the contractors have sometimes been, er, strained in the past but, remember, the civilians are not your enemy. They are French, American, er—’

‘Sir, did you say something about a civilian called Emily who’s French?’ Finn called. ‘We can’t hear too well at the back!’

There was a rustle of anticipation at the mention of Emily’s name. The boss looked confused.

Dave was quick. ‘No, Lance Corporal, clean out your ears. He said the civilians are not your enemy and some of them are French. There is no civilian called Emily. Now shut up.’

‘Oh,’ said the boss. ‘But there is. I’ve just met her. She seems very nice.’

There was more rustling and suppressed laughter.

‘Was she, by any chance, whistling, sir?’

‘Shut up,’ Dave growled. ‘We’ll take questions at the end.’

‘Anyway,’ the boss went on, ‘the point is that the civilians must not feel harassed or annoyed by us in any way. Please don’t speak to them or attempt to strike up a conversation unless they speak to you first. Remember that we are here to protect them and that’s our first task. Their exploration work, er, necessitates frequent field trips and it is our duty to ensure they can, er, carry out their work safely and successfully.’

Jamie thought: Just tell us not to piss off the civilians. He hoped Dave would run over all the points again afterwards.

‘The contractors have access to alcohol. We, of course, are dry. Apparently problems have arisen when civilians have invited soldiers to, er, partake, er, with them.’

The men exchanged glances. No need to ask which civilian liked to booze with the lads. It had to be Emily.

‘The rule is, even when offered drink, please don’t take it. However, one bonus, well, a few bonuses, we can thank the
contractors for, are the gym, er, the covered toilets to spare their blushes and, er, the catering staff. We have, er, Mr Taregue Masud in charge of the cookhouse who I understand has been something of a catering legend since the Falklands.’ The boss turned to Dave. ‘Do you know him, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir, from Iraq. A very good cook.’

‘Er, let me, er, remind you that, while protecting civilian operations is our prime objective, I should perhaps reiterate that we are also here to reinforce the pressing demands of our NATO commitment.’

The men looked at Dave as though Boss Weeks was speaking another language and Dave was his interpreter. Dave remained expressionless. The young officer cleared his throat again. It was hot in the Cowshed and his cheeks were round and red. He looks younger than me, Jamie thought.

‘Ahem. The people of Afghanistan are not our enemies. Despite the unpleasant welcome we received in the town this afternoon, most are glad of our presence. Er, without us they would be overrun by the Taliban, many of whom come from faraway countries, do not speak their language and wish to dominate and suppress them.

‘Um . . . er . . . the people of Afghanistan want peace and by holding back the Taliban we can support their elected government and bring stability to their country. But the Taliban are driven by religious fervour and hatred of the West, they observe no rules and, er . . . er . . . they are formidable opponents.

‘I have been asked to remind you of an unfortunate statistic that we should bear in mind throughout our work here.’

He took a deep breath.

‘One man in ten will go home in a body bag or badly injured. One in ten.’

For the first time, Boss Weeks stopped staring over the heads of the men he commanded. He looked directly into their eyes. His gaze slid from face to face, row to row. All eyes were upon him. Everyone was still. There was silence.

‘There are about thirty men in this room now,’ said the boss. ‘Which means it is highly likely that three of us won’t be going home.’

The boss remained silent. As the silence continued, his words penetrated more deeply. Faces reddened. Men fiddled with their boot laces. They avoided looking at each other. They stopped thinking: It won’t be me. They began to think: Don’t let it be me. They stared at the ground. They couldn’t look at each other knowing that three of them would die here, wondering: which three?

BOSS WEEKS HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE MUD-WALLED ROOM WHERE
the detainees were being questioned.

Just before he entered, he was halted by a scream, a horrible, animal sound. What could Iain Kila be doing to the Afghans? Gordon Weeks barely knew the Company Sergeant Major. The man had been polite when they had first met at Bastion but he had made it clear that, as the veteran of countless contacts, he regarded Weeks as just another in a long line of young, inexperienced and uninteresting officers.

Inside, the boss was surprised to find that Kila was nowhere near the two Afghans. The CSM stood silently, hands on hips, in a shadowy corner with the CSM of A Company. At a battered table in the centre sat the blue-robed prisoner, his wrists still tied in front of him.

Far from being terrorized by big men, he was being questioned by two small women. One was speaking to the detainee in a soft voice. The other was watching silently. Second Lieutenant Gordon Weeks understood instantly, instinctively, without thinking about it, the way he didn’t have to think before firing back at the enemy, that this silent woman was beautiful. He had to stare at her. There was no choice.

She was leaning against the edge of the table. He could tell that her figure was slim and well shaped beneath her body armour. She was brown-skinned, large-eyed, dark-haired. Her cheeks slanted, her jawline was sharp. Weeks thought she must be used to every
man at the base staring at her all the time but, when she became aware of his gaze, she turned to him. Their eyes met. Her look was icy and it said that she found his stare intrusive. He felt his face redden. He looked away from her at once.

The seated woman had fair hair and sharp features. She wore a Royal Military Police badge. She was pretty enough too, but in a more ordinary way. She glanced up at him. But the flow and rhythm of her words to the detainee did not falter.

CSM Kila came over.

‘What are they saying?’ Weeks asked in an undertone.

‘Fuck knows,’ Kila said.

‘Aren’t these women supposed to interpret for you while you conduct the interrogation?’

Kila glared at him. ‘They act as interpreters. But Jean’s Royal Military Police, Asma’s Intelligence Corps.’

‘Was it the detainee who screamed?’

‘Yeah. But nobody hurt him.’

‘Then why . . .?’

‘They’re headfucking him,’ Kila said.

Weeks tried not to show how much he disliked the man’s language and the aggressive way he used it.

‘How long have these women been here?’

‘Long enough for the CSM from A Company to know they’re hot shit. You noticed Asma, sir. Admiring her Intelligence?’

Weeks avoided his meaningful glance.

The atmosphere around the table was electric. Asma leaned over the man and joined in the questioning. Weeks strained to hear her voice. It was without harshness. The women passed words back and forth like skilled footballers passing the ball. He wondered what they were saying. They spent a lot of time agreeing with each other, that much was obvious. The gentleness of their tone was eerie because the effect of their words was dramatic. The detainee responded as though to a series of blows.

Suddenly the man cried out and started to talk. At first he muttered, looking down at his feet. Then his voice grew stronger.

He was thin and his bones protruded. His face was clouded by anger and resentment.

‘What’s he saying?’ Kila asked.

‘Just a minute.’ Asma broke into English. ‘Give us a bit of bleeding time. We’re getting there.’

She obviously was English. She had some sort of accent, maybe London. Disappointingly rough, thought Weeks. Although she didn’t look it.

The detainee sighed and said something and the women backed away. Asma looked at her watch. She pointed to something and the man turned his chair to get a closer look. Weeks tried to see what she had shown him, without success. He looked at Iain Kila for guidance.

‘Saying his prayers. He got disoriented by the blindfold so she had to tell him which way to Mecca.’