War Torn (68 page)

‘Right, lads,’ said Dave. ‘We’ll show you a map of the town and the mosque so you all know what you’re doing. Concentrate. Stay alert. Use your eyes and your heads. We’re undermanned, we all need each other and we’re doing a vital job tomorrow. We’re going to try to find Martyn alive. I don’t have to tell you what happens to him if we fuck up.’

As they approached the town the next day they saw with relief that the place was busy. It was market day. The narrow streets throbbed with people, cattle and goats. The smell of sewage met the smell of spice. Women, their faces covered, their bags bulging, stepped around steaming animal dung. Stalls groaned beneath the weight of their produce, sellers shouted for buyers, bright fabrics were draped psychedelically on top of one another.

To the soldiers the bustle could only mean one thing: no Taliban.

1 Platoon split from the rest of the convoy to go around the outskirts of the town. The men would be dropped at a point nearest their allocated mosque and had been told to make their way towards it rapidly.

Everything went according to plan at first. No one tried to stop them and the locals ignored the presence of armed soldiers in their midst.

‘So . . . er . . . where is the mosque?’ asked Mal, who was point man.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Sol.

‘Well, according to the map, it’s here,’ said the boss.

‘Where?’

They were lingering in a side alley now. Dave, at the rear, said: ‘Get moving, we’re supposed to take the place by surprise.’

‘Get moving where?’ asked Mal. ‘I don’t see a mosque.’

Everyone looked around them.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ said Dave. ‘They could have Martyn gagged, bound and out by now. Half the town knows we’re here.’

‘Can’t we ask the way to the mosque?’ suggested Bacon.

‘How’s your Pashtu then, Streaky?’ Finn said.

The boss, staring at the map, shook his head: ‘I don’t understand. This is supposed to be the right place . . .’

‘What’s the problem? This is the fucking mosque, look!’ Binman was pointing to a tannoy above the door of the low, squat building on their right.

Mal took a step back to stare at it.

‘That’s never a mosque! In England mosques don’t look like this. No one would go if they did.’

‘It’s just an ordinary house . . .’ said Finn.

Sol said: ‘Ordinary houses don’t have loudspeakers to call people to prayer. In you go, Mal.’

‘No minaret, no arches, nothing written on the outside, nothing,’ muttered Mal mutinously. ‘How was I to know?’

‘In you go, mate,’ said Sol.

Mal paused.

‘Go on!’ roared Dave from the back.

Angus finally pushed in front of him and the others followed.

Dave asked Mal, ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I haven’t washed my hands and face.’

‘What?’

‘I didn’t think I cared. But we’re supposed to wash before praying. I don’t usually go in a mosque without . . .’

‘Listen, mate,’ said Dave, ‘you can stay outside with 2 Section if you like. I’m sorry, I should have thought.’

‘Fuck that,’ said Mal, and he stepped into the mosque.

Inside it was almost dark. After a few moments their eyes began to adjust. As the interior materialized they quickly spread out. There were just a few men, kneeling on the mats provided, who looked up in shock at them. Light filtered in through small, high windows. There were arches overhead and at the back some cupboards and a couple of rooms. Without saying a word, the soldiers quickly and quietly searched the place.

An old man came up to remonstrate. He was holding a book, bound in threadbare fabric which looked very old. Angus did not see the man and, after searching a cupboard, swung round to find him there. As he turned, his day sack knocked the book out of the man’s hand. It lay sprawling, face up, on the matting. The man stared at the book as though it was alight, and then he looked into Angus’s face and shouted in Pashtu.

‘Really, McCall. Can’t you be a bit more careful?’ snapped the boss.

Angus turned red and looked at the old man with embarrassment. ‘Sorry, mate, it was a mistake,’ he said.

The man continued to shout.

‘He’s saying: you big, clumsy twat,’ said Binman as he passed.

‘Sounds like my dad,’ muttered Angus.

He bent to pick up the book but the man shouted louder.

Angus paused, unsure what to do.

Mal was watching.

‘He’s saying get your filthy, infidel hands off the Holy Book.’

Angus stood up again and the man picked up the book himself with the greatest reverence and started to dust it down, apparently apologizing to it.

‘I’ve fucking had enough of this,’ said Angus. He went to the door but bumped into a man carrying a sack on his way in. The man stopped and stared at Angus in horror.

‘Christ, everyone’s looking at me like I’m fucking Dracula today!’

The man put down the sack and backed out of the door.

‘It’s yer fangs,’ said Finn.

Angus stepped out after the man to where the other two sections of the platoon were covering. The man stared at the soldiers as though seeing them for the first time. He turned and ran.

The soldiers were all outside the mosque now. Dave looked at Angus for an explanation.

‘Saw me and scarpered,’ said Angus.

‘We should have stopped him. I bet he didn’t just do that because you’re ugly.’

But by now Finn was looking in the sack.

‘Fucking hell!’

The men crowded round.

‘Opium?’

‘Weed?’

‘There are two . . . Well, they’re round and they look like . . .’

He reached into the sack.

‘Careful,’ said Dave. ‘Be very, very careful.’

Finn pulled out a mortar round. The men instinctively backed away.

Dave took the bag gingerly and pulled out the other round. It was partially wrapped in brown paper but it was clearly the twin of the first and attached to it were battery and wire.

‘So that was going to be a roadside bomb for us,’ said Boss Weeks. ‘Nice of him to hand it over.’

‘I wish you’d told us to stop that geezer,’ Dave said. ‘We’ll never catch him now.’

Finn’s voice was higher than usual.

‘I wish I wasn’t standing here holding this fucking thing.’

‘We’ll put them down very, very gently . . .’

‘What, here?’

‘No!’ Sol pointed down the alleyway. ‘Over there where it’s a bit wider. It’ll be easier for us to cover.’

Finn and Dave carried their bombs carefully, their tread slow, their bodies stiff. The boss walked ahead.

‘No, down here, it gets wider still.’

Finn looked miserable.

‘Well, why not walk all the way back to the fucking base with them and see if they blow up on the way?’

‘Just ten more metres,’ coaxed Sol.

They set the mortar rounds down in the dusty alleyway and the boss radioed for someone to deal with them.

The men waited.

‘Well, this is going to help us find Martyn, innit?’ they said. ‘Sitting here in a fucking alleyway.’

After three hours EOD arrived to dismantle the mortars.

‘They would have been enough to see off a lot of men,’ the bomb disposal expert said cheerfully. ‘Shame you let the bastard walk away.’

Back at Sin City it emerged that today’s operation had annoyed the locals in some parts of the area. Troops had been in contact, others had been stoned by angry crowds. In a few mosques, caches of weapons had been found. But there was still no sign of Martyn.

SIN
CITY
WAS
TURNING
INTO
A
MEDIA
CIRCUS.
A
PLANE-LOAD
OF
journalists was to be flown in so they could record their pieces to camera from the FOB.

The OC sat in the cookhouse running his hands through his hair.

‘As if we haven’t anything better to do! We’re expected to spend our time protecting journalists who like putting on body armour for the camera. Apparently one has already asked us if we can lob a few grenades in the background. Another wants us to go linear across a poppy field so they can film us from the air with him in the middle position. And a third has put in a request for everyone at the base to go to their positions and fire as though we’re under attack. But only when there’s no enemy around.’

‘How is that going to find Martyn?’ roared the men. ‘We’re running out of time!’

‘Can’t we say no, sir?’ asked Dave. ‘On the grounds that we’re soldiers and not film extras?’

The OC rolled his eyes.

‘The government thinks this crisis is good for the war. The threat to Martyn’s life is mobilizing British public opinion. As far as they’re concerned, the more journalists the better.’

At that moment Martyn’s face appeared on the TV screen and the noisy cookhouse was instantly silent. The anchorman explained that the hostage still had not been located and his kidnappers were still refusing to negotiate. There was one week to go until his
execution and an appeal for his release had been made by a close friend and colleague.

A cheer went up in the room when Emily appeared.

‘Martyn is a man who was working in Afghanistan because of his interest in and compassion for the Afghan people. He holds them in the highest regard and his work was designed to help their economy and improve their standard of living. I therefore appeal to his kidnappers to recognize him as a friend and supporter and to treat him as an honoured guest.’

‘If Martyn sees Emily,’ said Angus, ‘he’ll beg the Taliban to finish him off.’

Finn said: ‘The Sex Grenade’s talking bollocks. Martyn didn’t give a shit about the Afghan people. He was paid a fucking fortune and he’s got shitloads of ex-wives to support. That’s why he was here.’

‘Think Emily’s appeal will make any difference, sir?’ asked the commander of 2 Platoon.

The OC pulled a face.

‘We have just seven days and I’m not sure the diplomats can achieve anything in that time.’

‘But we can!’ said the men. ‘We could search a lot of houses in seven days! Let’s get out there and fight!’

The OC shook his head helplessly.

‘I’m powerless to authorize any house searches. Or fights. The colonel’s here and he’s working with the Foreign Office. It’s right over our heads, boys.’

But the journalists’ visit was abruptly cancelled. Suddenly there were rumours that intelligence had located Martyn. The company would go operational as soon as the SAS arrived.

Although the OC would not deny or confirm the rumours, commanders quietly told their men to prepare for a major operation. But as the deadline for Martyn’s release approached, nothing happened.

The men waited. Much of their talk was about Martyn but many of their thoughts were about home. One month left here. Some people had barely dared allow themselves to think about their loved ones before now. Involuntarily, as they stood over the green bowls washing in an inch of water, the possibility of a warm bath
began to occur to them. Or a long shower. When they sat in the cookhouse with mugs of tea they thought about pub gardens and cold beer.