War Torn (8 page)

Sol didn’t catch his eye. Dave remembered that the Fijian was a practising Christian. He never mentioned it, but Dave had seen the Bible by his cot and back in Wiltshire he’d seen Sol, Adi and
the kids all bundled into their rusty old car in their best clothes on Sunday mornings.

About an hour after the Chinooks, the convoy of Vectors finally set off, carrying the last of A Company back to Bastion. They roared past the sangar sending up choking clouds of powdery dust, which hung in the air long after the vehicles had disappeared between the town and the mountains.

‘Goodbye and good luck,’ Angus McCall muttered insincerely. At lunchtime he’d got into a heated argument with two men from A Company, insisting that Manchester United led the Premier League in 2005. Later, Dave had told him quietly: ‘You were wrong. It was Chelsea. They were defending champions and they won it again.’

Angus had looked sheepish. ‘I remembered that halfway through. But I wasn’t going to give in to the bastards.’

That night, he booked some phone time with his father. He said: ‘I hate marines.’

‘A lot of them are big, strong, brave men,’ his dad said. ‘The sort of man you should be, Angus.’

Angus immediately regretted the argument in the cookhouse and thought that he’d probably never be that sort of man, like a marine, like his dad. If he was, he’d have backed down from the Premier League argument and admitted he was wrong.

‘Did you know any marines?’

‘Course I did. Marines, Paras and . . .’ John McCall dropped his voice. ‘SF.’

There was always something in the knowing way his dad talked about Special Forces which made Angus sure his dad had been in the SAS. He knew that John McCall had fought with distinction in the Falklands, although the medals themselves had been stolen many years ago.

His parents were divorced and since early childhood he’d spent every Saturday afternoon with his father. From the moment that John McCall turned the sign around in his newsagent’s so that the door read ‘OPEN’ from the inside and ‘CLOSED’ from the outside, Saturdays were war stories, war films, war games. And whenever his dad talked about the SAS, Angus knew that he would apply for
Selection himself one day. Even though he was sure he could never be good enough to get in.

‘So!’ said John McCall resuming his normal tone. ‘Was the journey to the base OK?’

‘Had a contact.’

If he’d told his mum that, she would have panicked. But he could hear the shrug in his dad’s voice. ‘Oh, well, start as you mean to go on.’

‘Now we’re two men down in my section.’

‘Two men down already? What’s the matter with them?’

‘One lost a leg, the other had burns.’

‘Dear oh fucking dear. They didn’t last five minutes, did they? Where are they now?’

‘I had to carry my mate who lost a leg to the helicopter. They were flown to Bastion. Soon as they’re stable they’ll be back to Selly Oak.’

‘Helicopter!’ scoffed John McCall. His accent was still strong although he had left Scotland years ago. ‘A helicopter! Sitting there waiting, was it? On the TV they’re always saying you boys haven’t got enough helis. Turns out they’re on hand twenty-four seven. Fuck me, warfare’s changed.’

Angus felt himself deflate. Of course his dad was right. All that fear and excitement he’d felt during today’s contact had been sheer cowardice. Because there was always air support waiting to bail you out.

‘I was scared,’ he admitted. ‘Until a Harrier came in to sort them out.’

‘There you are! You knew a big machine would come and save you! Och, you lads have got it good. I mean . . .’

But now the line was breaking up. There had been a two-second delay which meant the men kept talking over each other. Angus lapsed into silence. He wasn’t sure he should have told his father anything about the contact over the satellite phone. John McCall’s voice came and went in his ear.

‘I have to finish now, Dad,’ he shouted. ‘I have to ring Mum on this card.’

But his father didn’t hear.

‘Air support . . . Harrier . . . Goose Green . . . weather conditions . . .’

Angus finally hung up.

‘All right, mate?’ Corporal Curtis from 3 Section was next in line for the phone.

‘Yeah.’ From the day Angus had joined up, conversations with his father had left him feeling flat. He’d thought his father would be ecstatic at his enlistment but he’d received the news quietly. Then, during the passing-out parade at Catterick, Angus had stumbled over his own big feet. It was something he’d never forgive himself for. He’d immediately, anxiously, looked into the crowd, to the place where he knew his divorced parents were sitting together in hostile silence. He’d been in time to catch the look of contempt on his father’s face.

That night, the base came under attack again. 1 Platoon advance party knew where to go and what to do this time. As the rest of the company floundered they slid easily into their positions while the new arrivals dithered.

The contact was brief. It consisted of one badly aimed grenade, which almost missed the base completely, and ten minutes of light arms fire.

‘You were a fat lot of fucking useless tossers,’ Finn said to the newcomers.

‘Better sharpen up a bit,’ Jamie added.

It was a while before they had a chance to do so. There were few contacts on patrols through the town or the desert. Attacks on the base were minimal. Each day a small party of contractors, escorted by 3 Platoon, left and came back reporting no threats. And there were no sightings of Emily around the civilian area.

‘Because she doesn’t exist,’ Sol said. ‘That’s why.’

‘Ever thought the marines were winding you up?’ Jamie said.

Lunch had been sausage, egg and chips, Finn’s favourite. He pushed his empty plate away and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m absolutely sure that Emily is in those isoboxes. She just doesn’t come out much.’

‘Well, why doesn’t she come to the cookhouse with the others?’

The civilians were becoming a familiar sight in the cookhouse. They generally sat together in one corner with their food and their cans of beer. Their boss, Martyn Robertson, and a few of the others
mixed with the soldiers. But most looked as if they’d prefer to have their own cookhouse in their own quarter of the camp.

‘Miss Emily work very hard, she mostly take her meals in isobox,’ said a cook, who happened to overhear them. ‘I take her meal over now.’

Mal, Angus and Finn looked enviously at the lad. He was small and brown-skinned.

‘I go now. You go if you want.’ He held out a tray.

‘Go where?’

‘You ask questions! You take Miss Emily lunch and you find out answer!’

The lad handed Finn the tray.

‘Thank you!’ said Finn, balancing it expertly on the tips of his fingers. ‘Miss Emily, here I come . . .’

Mal and Angus leaped up to join him.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Finn said.

Mal’s expression was deadly serious. ‘We’ll need to form a cordon.’

‘I’m the second i/c of your section and you’re staying here. That’s an order, McCall.’ Finn swept out, tray held aloft.

The boss came into the cookhouse in time to see Finn waltzing away with the tray. Jamie noticed him smile rapidly at the dark-skinned woman from Intelligence, who was sitting alone. The woman did not smile back.

‘Where’s Finn going with that tray?’ Weeks asked as he sat down.

Jamie grinned. ‘Undercover.’

The boss looked concerned.

‘I hope he’s not going to make a nuisance of himself.’

Finn still had not reappeared when the others went back to their base duties.

‘We’re out on patrol at 1500 hours,’ Sol said. ‘And there’s going to be big trouble if Finny’s not back.’

‘He’s probably just helping Emily sync her iPod,’ Jamie said. But neither of them was now so sure that Emily the sex grenade was just a joke.

Finn did reappear by the vehicles at precisely 1445, adjusting his clothes and grinning broadly. He winked at Angus and some of the other lads.

‘Whoops, I seem to have forgotten something!’ He bent ostentatiously to tie his bootlaces.

Sol put his hands on his hips.

Finn straightened, beaming and stretching lazily. ‘She just wouldn’t let me go! Fuck me, I could use a cigarette . . .’

‘Shut up and get into the wagon, you lazy bastard,’ Dave said.

Once the convoy was under way, Finn’s PRR went into meltdown.

‘Sorry, lads,’ Finn said. ‘Can’t say too much. Ongoing mission . . .’

‘Is she hot?’

‘Rocket-propelled, mate. So hot she’s on fire.’

‘In your dreams, Finny.’ Jamie shook his head.

‘You were right about one thing, Jamie. She’s no grenade. She’s heavy fucking artillery.’

‘Lance Corporal Finn,’ Dave snapped, ‘if you don’t can this crap and start looking pretty fucking sharp you’re going to experience some heavy fucking artillery from me.’

PRR went silent.

DAVE’S HEAD FELT LIKE A WAR ZONE. HE KNEW HE’D FAILED TO
follow his own instructions and drink enough water today. He’d spent the morning shovelling admin shit and drawing up rotas. By lunchtime the names and numbers looked like he was squinting at them through a heat haze, the ops room was an oven and he was dripping with sweat just leaning against the wall under a large piece of paper on which someone had written:
Living The Dream???
And now here was Finn boasting about having sex with one of the civilians. However bad your headache, Billy Finn was guaranteed to make it worse.

Dave had to stay alert.

The Helmand River snaked through the centre of the Green Zone like an artery. They drove past orchards crisscrossed by irrigation ditches, collections of houses that were almost villages, lonely compounds with goats outside them, small towns walled like fortresses, fields, woodland, high crops, jungle.

The two women interpreters had wrung information out of the detainees about a Taliban stronghold. The detainees couldn’t or wouldn’t pinpoint the compound, but they’d said enough to confirm the outgoing Officer Commanding’s suspicions.

So now the convoy was putting his theory to the test. Dave wasn’t pleased that they’d been sent with less than a full platoon. He’d told CSM Kila he didn’t feel at all happy about crossing this part of the Green Zone with so few men. Kila had agreed but Major Willingham had refused to revise his plans.

‘Don’t get out,’ Kila said. ‘You’ve not got the manpower. Whatever happens, just keep going.’

‘Why can’t we take more men and do a proper foot patrol?’

‘Too busy guarding the FOB and protecting Topaz fucking Zero and his mates.’

Topaz Zero was Martyn Robertson’s call sign. Whenever Kila referred to him, he swore. So did most of the officers. Dave had even overheard Major Willingham muttering incantations under his breath which might have included the words Topaz fucking Zero.

‘He should care a bit more about men’s lives and a bit less about his precious fucking oil,’ Kila said.

Everyone on board the vehicles was bad-tempered. Sitting in a scalding hot metal box for two hours was no one’s idea of fun, and they knew the chances of getting out in that two hours were slim. They took it in turns to go on top with Jamie, who’d replaced Steve Buckle on the GPMG.

The attack was sudden and intense. There were trees on either side of them, and poppy fields beyond. The poppies were taller than a man. They grew so thickly that, even from the air, Dave knew it was virtually impossible to catch sight of anyone moving through the crop. Muzzle flashes sparked up from all sides. The men on top of the vehicles returned rapid fire without any sense of the precise location of their targets.

Dave watched tracer rounds whiz past from his seat at the front of the lead Vector. He longed to debus and give the choggies a proper fire fight. Speeding through like this felt too much like running away. But the boss followed orders and kept the convoy going.