War Torn (6 page)

Nobody took their eyes off the prisoner as he prayed.

‘Looking good.’ The other CSM walked over to them. ‘Looking very good.’

‘So what the hell is going on?’ Kila asked.

‘We’ve passed the first stage,’ Jean said. She had a Scottish accent.

‘Which is?’ Weeks asked.

‘
I’m visiting my relatives and I just got caught up in the firing, I don’t know anything about it.
’

‘So what’s he saying now?’ Kila asked.

‘He’s telling us about Taliban activities in this area. But he’s not telling us exactly where.’

‘The OC wants it all.’

‘He’ll have it. Don’t forget, we haven’t even started on the other one yet.’

Weeks listened to her soft Scots accent and wondered how she had learned fluent Pashtu.

‘Um . . . doesn’t the detainee have a serious leg injury?’

‘Not that serious.’ Kila’s tone was defensive.

‘But he was hit!’ Weeks said.

The woman paused. ‘Skimmed. Not hit. And he’s received medical attention.’ Her voice was stiff, as though the officer had made an accusation.

She moved back to the table and spoke quietly to her colleague. Asma kept her back to Weeks and continued to ignore him. When the prisoner had finished praying, she invited him to return to the table. She started to talk. Her tone was coaxing.

Suddenly the man’s voice rose. He began to shout. He jumped to his feet and roared hoarsely at the beautiful, dark woman. His arms struggled against his plasticuffs. His face thickened with anger.

Asma produced a pistol, so quickly that Weeks hardly saw her. She darted to the prisoner and held it against his head. The man froze. His speech was halted mid-sentence. His eyes stared straight ahead. The room was silent. Jean moved up to his other side and began to whisper in his ear as Asma slid the safety off the pistol. The man heard it. He still didn’t move. Jean carried on whispering.

The detainee swallowed. He sank back down into his chair. And began to talk. The women took it in turns to ask him questions. Boss Weeks recognized the same question more than once. The pistol did not move from his head.

‘What’s he saying?’ Kila was almost beside himself with impatience. But the two women ignored him.

Gordon Weeks was shocked. He waited for Asma to put away the pistol. It remained firmly pressed against the prisoner’s temple.

‘Isn’t this a bit . . . unethical?’

Kila turned to look him full in the face for the first time. He seemed to have trouble focusing, as if the young officer was so insignificant that he was barely visible to the naked eye.

‘This man’s got information. We want it.’ His lips hardly moved.

For a few moments, Weeks did not reply. He found his mouth was dry. ‘Carrying a pistol in an interview, let alone threatening with it, is contrary to all rules of tactical questioning.’

Asma heard him. She gave him a steady glare before turning back to the detainee.

‘We’re not at Sandhurst now. This is the real world. Sir.’

A few minutes later the boss left the tent. He had a sick feeling in his stomach, like the time he’d stumbled across the school bullies at work on a young kid. He’d tried to intervene then. But he said nothing now.

Darkness had fallen. He found his way over to the cookhouse where some of the A Company officers were still eating. He only wanted a cup of tea but the plump little man by the sink who was clattering pans and shouting at his cooks insisted on resurrecting some old lasagne, an operation which caused a fresh outburst of clattering. The soldiers had to yell their
conversation over the pans and the TV, which was tuned to
Flaunt.

The cook had to be the Bangladeshi whom Dave had praised earlier. When the lasagne arrived it was good, but Weeks could eat little. His mind kept filling with disjointed pictures of the day’s events. He had done well enough at Sandhurst, but now, having faced the reality of battle for the first time, he was asking himself if he really wanted to be in the army at all.

On the screen, a woman writhed seductively. Weeks didn’t notice her. He didn’t join in the officers’ chat. He went to find his platoon. They were cleaning their weapons or slumped against the vehicles listening to their iPods or showing each other footage of today’s contact. A few already had their heads down, body armour for pillows, rifles on their webbing away from the sand, helmets over rifles. That must be the way the platoon sergeant had taught them. Dave Henley seemed to have a firm hold over the men and to keep them in good order.

‘Well, sir,’ Dave said, ‘would you like the good news first?’

‘Good news?’ Weeks echoed listlessly. The best news he could imagine right now was that they were all going home.

‘We’ve been told to expect three new men as soon as possible.’ The platoon was already under strength, even without today’s losses.

‘How soon is that?’

‘If we’re very lucky, within the week. There’ll be an experienced machine-gunner for 2 Section. In 1 Section, Jamie Dermott will replace Jordan Nelson on the GPMG and two new lads are on their way. That’s the good news. The bad news is that they’re both straight out of Catterick.’

‘Oh dear . . .’ Weeks’s brow furrowed. ‘It seems you’ll be surrounded by beginners.’

‘We soon knock sprogs into shape,’ Dave said cheerfully.

It was impossible not to like this sergeant. Weeks knew that he was leaning heavily on him.

Billy Finn was sitting nearby. ‘Excuse me, but can I ask if you’re a betting man, sir?’

‘No, Finny,’ Dave growled.

But Weeks heard himself say: ‘I have been known to show a passing interest in the two thirty at Chepstow, Lance Corporal.’

Finn jumped to his feet. ‘I’m taking bets on the new bloke in 2 Section. Five to four on says he’s ginger.’

One of the first things Weeks had noticed when he met his men last Thursday was the unusually high number of red-haired men in 2 Section.

‘Come on, sir. You give me five dollars and you get nine back, that’s including your stake, if he turns out to be a ginger pisswizard.’

‘How did you arrive at those odds?’

Finn gave him a cheeky smile. ‘I used to be a bookie’s runner, sir. I was offering eleven to ten on but there weren’t many takers.’

‘And how many men in 2 Section already have ginger hair?’

‘They’ve only got seven lads at the moment and five of them are pisswizards of one shade or another.’

‘Yeah,’ Mal agreed. ‘2 Section’s a freak show.’

‘They can’t take their helmets off or aerial surveillance think we’re under enemy fire,’ Jamie said.

Finn’s eyes sparkled. ‘A fiver at five to four on says the eighth bloke’s a ginge, sir.’

‘I’d rather bet on him not being ginger.’

‘I can do that, sir. Would you like me to calculate the odds for you?’

Dave groaned.

‘No, I’ll give you a fiver at five to four on.’

‘Yessir!’ said Finn, jumping up and producing a wallet to receive the boss’s money. He gave Dave a wide grin.

‘How many dollars have you taken, Finny?’ Dave said.

‘A bookie never tells. Let’s just say most of the lads in the platoon like a flutter and these are very generous odds.’

‘You sure you’ve got the money to pay out if you lose?’

‘Trust Billy Finn!’ Finn cheerfully pocketed the fiver.

Dave offered Weeks a brew and the pair of them sat down a little away from the others, talking quietly into the Afghan night.

‘No further news of the casualties?’

Weeks shook his head sadly. He hardly knew the injured men but Dave was sure he felt their loss acutely. Dave had been hearing Steve’s screams inside his head. He’d listened to men screaming in agony before. Sometimes he heard it again months later when he
was far away. In his sleep, or without warning in the back of his head late at night when he was driving on the motorway. As though there was a casualty lying on his rear seat.

The boss yawned. Dave yawned too. Around them men were falling asleep. Dave felt ready for some kip himself. He’d just phoned home, talking first to little Vicky and then to Jen. It had been the usual chatty stuff. Gradually the Wiltshire camp with its wide, wet streets and its rows of houses and his own living room had formed again in his mind. But when he put down the phone it had all vanished in the hot Afghan air.

JENNY KNEW SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED. DAVE WASN’T ALLOWED TO
say anything about anything on the army phone but she could still tell that he was keeping something from her.

He’d used up every one of his thirty allocated minutes. He and little Vicky had cooed idiotically at each other for at least ten of them. The strange gaps, the overlaps, the complications that always occurred when there was a two-second delay on the patchy line never mattered to Vicky. It only mattered when two adults had things to say to each other.

Jenny had told him all the small stuff from home. Everyone said this was the right way to talk to your man when he was away and over the last few years she’d been given plenty of opportunities to perfect her technique. So it was a quick reference to the broken gutter before moving swiftly on to what the nursery had said about Vicky being ahead of her age, the date the hospital was going to scan the baby, her mum inviting his mum over . . . she sometimes listened to her own voice, wittering on, and wondered what he was thinking. Did it mean anything when people were trying to kill you in an alien land that the gutter on a house in Wiltshire was leaking? They both had to pretend it did. But today he wasn’t pretending as well as usual.

She put the phone down with that all too familiar feeling. Loss. Regret. Disappointment. The knowledge that all the important things had not been said. Phone calls were a brief interlude in her life and his. And then they went away and lived in their
separate worlds, waiting always for the next disappointing call.

She picked up Vicky, who seemed to share her sadness. They stood at the window. A grey day was melting into a grey evening. The street was wet. Irregular patches in the pavement were filled with water. The houses looked ugly. Sometimes, when the lights were on in the living rooms and the TVs flickered, she felt cosy on a dark evening. Not tonight.

Headlamps travelled slowly up the street. As the car passed Jenny could see it was Agnieszka Dermott’s old Vauxhall with Luke in the back. Where had she been? Agnieszka never shared the details of her life with the other women. Within a day of the men leaving for Afghanistan the wives at the camp had got together in each other’s houses. Even if they hadn’t said anything in particular there was a sort of strength in knowing that everyone felt the same way. But Agnieszka hadn’t joined in.

Jenny and Vicky stood at the window so long that night fell and the glass began to throw their own reflections back at them. Jenny saw herself, tall, blonde, angular, Vicky sitting on her hip with one leg stretching across the bump of the baby.

More headlamps. A car drew up outside Leanne Buckle’s place. And in that moment, Jenny knew what Dave hadn’t been telling her.

There was an endless pause before a man got out. He was carrying a briefcase. Jenny recognized him at once. The Families Officer. That could only mean one thing. Jenny felt her throat constrict and tears press behind her eyes. She tried not to cry for Vicky’s sake then saw with relief that the child had fallen asleep.

So she let her tears spill as the Families Officer walked up the front path to Leanne’s door. She watched him ring the bell. Leanne’s bell didn’t work and when nothing happened after a few minutes he had to knock. Leanne answered, carrying a twin, legs hanging. The other one was probably behind her somewhere, bawling, the way they did when Leanne only picked one of them up.

Jenny couldn’t see Leanne’s face but, before the man even had time to speak, it was clear she had guessed why he was there. Her hand went up to her head as if she was warding off a physical blow. Her body swayed. The man stepped inside and the door closed behind them.