by Andy McNab
A college building sped past, a car park, then another building, a great grey blur that Liam ignored as he pushed on. He was giving no thought to pacing himself, to starting easy and finishing hard. None of that was important. Just the finish line and getting there as fast as possible. And the only way to achieve that was to dig deep and keep his legs pumping hard.
Jon’s voice yelled out from behind: ‘Come on, Scott! Move it! Fuck me, are you slow!’
In a moment he was right beside Liam and running like a gazelle, hardly out of breath. Liam couldn’t see Cameron, but neither was he about to go looking for him. Sure, they watched each other’s backs, but when it came to situations like this, each needed all his focus on his own performance. NCOs were watching. And sometimes Liam wondered if they wanted them to screw up.
Jon pushed on past, and all that did was to stir Liam to blank out any pain that was telling him to stop, to ignore it completely and just crash on through to the end.
The junior soldiers were thinning out now, the slower ones gradually falling behind. Liam wasn’t going to be one of them – he had Jon in his sights and that was pulling him forward.
At the halfway point, he pushed on with a fresh burst of energy, fired up that he was still powering on. His instincts told him that he was on target to smash his previous time. If he could just do this in under ten minutes . . .
Ahead, Liam saw vomit exploding out of someone’s mouth to land on the grass at the side of the road. It didn’t stop them running. Liam had seen it happen before. Hell, it had nearly happened to him, but he’d managed to swallow it back down before chucking up later all over his kit.
A corner came up fast. As Liam made to zip round it, his foot skidded across the road, then twisted out from under him. He heard something grind or snap, he wasn’t sure, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself slamming into the ground.
Pain raced up his leg, made him yell out. Junior soldiers came at him and he covered his head, ducking to avoid getting kicked in the face as light exploded in front of his eyes like his vision had been blown to pieces by a shotgun blast. He swore.
Someone grabbed him, dragged him to his feet.
‘You all right, Scott?’
Liam shook the voice from his head, ignored the memory, and looked up to see a bedraggled, red-faced Cameron staring at him.
‘Sodding ankle,’ said Liam. ‘You crack on, Dinsdale. Don’t fuck your own time up, mate.’
Cameron ignored him. ‘Can you stand on it?’
Liam tested it. Pain, then a numbness. ‘Leg’s dead,’ he said, trying again – feeling returning this time. Then he was standing on it, hopping a little, but at least he wasn’t on the ground.
‘We’re over halfway,’ said Cameron, still sucking air in like it was about to go up in price.
‘I know,’ said Liam. ‘I can still make it. It’s just a sprain.’ He pushed Cameron away and started to jog. ‘Move it, you twat!’ he shouted through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll see you at the end!’
As Cameron upped a gear and raced off, Liam’s first few steps were like someone had replaced his foot with a lump of wood. Gradually, though, it started to work again and soon he was running properly.
He could see the finish now. Each step hurt like hell, but he didn’t care. Ignoring the pain, he shook his head, wiped his face, spat and dug deep.
A building zipped by, one Liam knew sat at the one-mile mark. He had only half a mile to go. All he had to do was just keep moving, keep those legs pumping, not stop no matter what his brain and foot was telling him.
More pain. Nausea. Both legs like jelly now. He wanted to throw up, pass out. The urge to stop was overpowering. Liam could feel himself burning up, but the finish line was so close.
Keep going, Liam, just keep going . . .
With a final push, he drew on every ounce of energy and determination he had left.
250 metres . . . 200 metres . . . 150 . . . 100 . . . 50 . . .
Liam crossed the line, his limbs flapping in the air as he lost momentum. But it did nothing to stop him slipping again to the ground and he just sat there, his head spinning, his lungs heaving in and out like a blacksmith’s bellows. And his ankle was aching like crazy.
The PTI looked over. ‘Nine minutes forty-seven,’ he said. ‘Well done, Scott. Now get that ankle checked.’
Cameron and Jon came over.
‘Pussy,’ said Jon.
Liam laughed. ‘I’ll beat you one day, Renton,’ he said, standing up. ‘I promise.’
‘No fucking chance,’ said Jon. ‘You’re crap. I’m awesome. Deal with it.’
6
IT WAS ALMOST the end of the final term now and the junior soldiers had been bussed up to Scotland to spend seven days and six nights out in the field, using all the skills they’d developed while at the college. It was live firing too, and Liam knew that this was about as real as it was ever going to get without actually having an enemy trying to kill him.
Sitting in a crappy shelter, his shoulders hunched up uselessly against the wind and the rain, he could hardly believe how cold it was. The night before, his water bottle had actually frozen solid. And today – their third – it hadn’t seemed like it was going to get any warmer all day.
In some ways he was glad the training was nearly over. It had been tough, frustrating and scary, as well as exciting and exhilarating; there had even been moments when he’d thought about giving up. Then he remembered Matt, binned because of a medical discharge and felt he’d been lucky himself, avoided serious injury, and made it.
Where the hell had the time gone? It didn’t seem long since he’d been trying to get used to Army life, which at the start of the course had all seemed so completely and utterly alien. He laughed, remembering how stupid it had seemed being shown not just how to iron a shirt and a pair of trousers with the perfect crease, but even how to take a shower. Did the Army really think people didn’t know how to keep their balls clean? Seriously? Apparently so, because they’d had to witness one of the corporals, butt naked, soaping himself up. It was an image he’d tried – unsuccessfully – to forget.
By the end of the first term, Liam had been fitter than he’d ever been in his life – far fitter than he’d ever been when free running – could read a map, strip, clean and fire an SA80, do basic first aid and deal with a bullet wound or a broken limb. His teamwork and leadership skills had improved thanks to a stack of outdoor activities like climbing and kayaking.
The second term, though, had upped the military side of things even more and he, like the rest, had made his final choice of which battalion or corps he wanted to join. Sitting in a grey classroom with a group of other junior soldiers and a young officer, Liam had stared at the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him that gave him his options. The officer had laid it on thick how important a decision it was and how it would affect their Army career from that point forwards, but none of it had meant anything to Liam: he had already made his decision. He was joining the Infantry. Nothing else had interested him in the slightest, not least because they all knew that, with the Infantry, there was a greater possibility of them going operational and being sent to Afghanistan. To use his hard-earned skills. To go into action. For real.
Cameron and Jon had chosen the same option.
The final term had been split into three, starting off with all the junior soldiers having to decide if the Army truly was for them or not. If they signed up, then it wasn’t for a year or two but for a minimum of four from their eighteenth birthday. For Liam it was a no-brainer; he’d signed up for four years without a second thought. He was turning eighteen within a few days of leaving Harrogate, so those four years were going to start soon. At least now he knew he wouldn’t be heading back home in the near future.
Now, though, it was the third night of the final field exercise and the darkness was drawing in with a horrid, soupy gloominess. Liam was having as many conversations with himself to stay motivated as he was with those who’d been p
ut under his command. His command. He still couldn’t believe it.
Jon was lying on his front, looking out over the lip of the ditch where they’d been placed by one of the other corporals, told to wait for further instructions. That had been twenty-four hours ago. Liam was responsible for one of two light support weapons his section had charge of. Although the LSW was being replaced by a new weapon, it was still used on exercise, particularly with junior soldiers. After all, there was no point in binning a weapon that was still capable of firing its rounds accurately enough to hit a target at up to 1,000 metres. It was essentially the same weapon as the usual SA80 but differed by having a longer free-floating barrel and bipod. Fired in short bursts, it looked more like the kind of rifle that should be belt- not magazine-fed. And that had been its downfall; it just couldn’t provide the level of suppressing fire required by soldiers in theatre in the middle of a fire night.
‘See anything?’
Jon shook his head. ‘Not a thing. Is this going to kick off soon or are we just stuck out here freezing our arses off as some joke by McKenzie and the rest of the happy Officer and NCO club?’
By now Liam and the others were used to Jon’s surly attitude. It didn’t detract from the fact that he was one of the top junior soldiers in their intake that year. Hard, grumpy, fit: born to be a soldier.
The frustration in Jon’s voice was clear and Liam said, ‘All I know is all you know, mate. We’ve been tasked with maintaining this position until the enemy location is identified.’
‘That it? Nothing else? Just lie here on our arses until some fucker sends up a flare?’
Liam nodded. He knew that they were all pissed off. An important part of soldiering was understanding that it involved a lot of waiting around and doing nothing, which was exactly what they’d been doing. And that was stressful, because when something did eventually happen, it could be full-on.
‘When everything kicks off, our job is to provide covering fire during the attack,’ he added.
Liam was impressed with how he sounded. A year ago, none of what he’d just said would have made any sense to him at all. Now, though, he not only understood what the words meant, but could say them with conviction.
‘Well, it’s bone, Scott, that’s what it is,’ said one of the other recruits. ‘All of it. Completely and utterly bone.’
The other two recruits with Liam were Chris Stevenson and Adam Hurst. It was Chris who’d spoken, a small wiry bloke from Manchester who Liam thought strutted round like a proud cockerel and whose thick Manchester accent still, after all this time, irritated the living shit out of him.
‘Bone?’ said Jon, turning on Chris. ‘What the fuck are you on about, you knob?’
‘Crap,’ said Chris. ‘Bollocks. Bag of shite. Whatever. It’s bone. My brother warned me it would be like this. Can’t wait to join him out on tour. Do this for real, right? Slot some Taliban bastards.’
‘Best thing you can do is shut the hell up,’ said Jon. ‘And just focus, right?’ He looked over at Liam. ‘Did we really have to be stuck with this dickhead?’
Then the sky lit up and all hell broke loose.
Liam saw the flare, a bright orange ball of fire lighting up the sky like a hot sunrise, floating down from above, its fall stalled by the parachute it was attached to.
Gunfire opened up everywhere and the dark evening was blasted apart with bright muzzle flashes that went off like giant exploding fireflies.
Liam’s heart was hammering hard. He forced himself to think.
‘Stevenson!’
Chris, though, was just staring, mesmerized by the flare as it floated down.
Liam punched him on the arm. ‘Covering fire, Stevenson, you fuckwit!’ he yelled, kicking Chris hard. ‘Fucking well open fire!’
Chris just stared back, his eyes wide. He wasn’t doing anything. Just breathing, and cradling his weapon, and grinning stupidly.
‘What the hell’s wrong with him?’ shouted Jon.
‘He’s frozen!’ shouted Liam. ‘All that fucking gob on him as well, the twat! Rapid fire! Now!’
Jon and Adam opened up on where Liam had ordered. The sounds and smells and emotions were awesome. It was as exciting as it was terrifying. And now Chris sparked up and was on his weapon too.
Liam saw one of the other sections coming in from the right, advancing on the enemy position, no doubt practising their fire-manoeuvre drills as they went. Watching them, his senses were on full alert. As commander of a fire team, he had to be seriously careful now. Suppressing fire was all about giving cover to those carrying out the attack. And they had to make damned sure that they didn’t go spraying the advancing rifle group with live rounds. It was all about providing that covering fire until the last safe moment and no longer.
‘Stop!’
Adam and Jon obeyed immediately, easing back on their triggers, their weapons falling silent. Then, as Liam was about to look out to see how the attack was doing, Chris let out a war cry and pulled the trigger.
‘Hold your fire, Stevenson!’ yelled Liam. ‘Hold your fire!’
Chris did nothing of the sort.
‘I said stop firing! What the fuck are you doing?’
‘You called it too early!’ Chris shouted back, and squeezed the trigger again.
‘Bloody well hold your fire and that’s an order, Stevenson!’ shouted Liam, his voice breaking into a scream. ‘Now!’
At last Chris did as he was ordered, but he turned immediately on Liam.
‘Don’t you fucking order me about!’ he yelled. ‘You sound more like McKenzie than he does! And what are you anyway? Just a junior soldier like me, that’s what. You’re fuck all, Scott. So shut your mouth and piss off until you know what you’re talking about!’
Liam worked hard to stay calm, but it wasn’t easy. Chris was getting right in his face, and that accent was making him feel violent.
‘What you just did was potentially life-threatening . . .’
Chris pushed Liam in the chest. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I told you to piss right off!’
‘Back off!’ ordered Liam, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘Back off and sort your head out, Stevenson!’
Chris did anything but: moving in, and with no warning at all, he cracked Liam across the cheek with a fist just hard enough to make him yelp.
Liam breathed deep as he saw Jon and Adam close in behind Chris. He held up a hand to get them to stop, not least because he saw blood in Jon’s eyes.
‘I could have you back-termed for that,’ said Liam, now staring at Chris. ‘You’re a fucking liability, Stevenson. What the hell are you on?’
‘And you’ve got witnesses,’ said Jon.
‘Two of them,’ added Adam. ‘And I’d be happy to see this dicksplash gone.’
Chris sneered. ‘You wouldn’t fucking dare.’
‘He doesn’t need to,’ said a voice from the dark as Corporal McKenzie, ever-watchful, stepped down to join them.
‘Bollocks,’ said Chris.
‘You could say that,’ said McKenzie.
But Chris was lucky. When the exercise finally came to an end, and the junior soldiers were bussed back to Harrogate, he got off with the same as Liam had received for his misdemeanour with the SA80 – a fine and a hefty bollocking. He could easily have been back-termed, or even binned completely.
The remainder of Liam’s time at Harrogate flew by and it was suddenly graduation day. He’d have put money on his parents not being up in the grandstand at the side of the parade ground with those of the other junior soldiers. A small part of him hoped that they were, if only so that they could see he wasn’t going to end up like his dad, but the part that had accepted his parents’ complete lack of interest in anything he was doing didn’t really care. He’d joined up because he’d decided to go there. All they’d done was sign a piece of paper.
The wind was cold like a blast from an open walk-in freezer, but Liam didn’t notice it. He had other things on his mind – mainly not screwing up as
the company sergeant major, who was taking the drill parade, barked his orders. Like he’d been marching his whole life, Liam, in formation with the rest of the recruits – Cameron to his right, Jon to his left – wheeled round the edge of the parade ground. The sound of their steps was a steady, mechanical beat that seemed to ricochet off the ground like slow bursts of bullets.
Liam was focused, didn’t want to mess this up.
Another order, and he came to a dead stop, turned to face the CSM, snapped to attention.
All Liam could hear was his own breathing, deep and steady. Eyes forward, he sensed someone approaching from his right, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Corporal McKenzie and the CSM walking down the line, checking the recruits. Another officer was with them – a lieutenant colonel, the commanding officer of the college. Strange, Liam thought, how he’d miss Corporal McKenzie after the graduation; his respect for the man had grown throughout the training and he knew he’d never forget him – his hard training, and the serious bollockings.
‘Mr Scott,’ said the lieutenant colonel, now standing directly in front of Liam, having spent the past few minutes going down the line of recruits at Liam’s side.
‘Sir!’ said Liam, his voice clear and loud.
The lieutenant colonel held out his hand. ‘You’ve reached a major milestone in your career with the British Army. I hope you reach many more. Well done! This is a day to be proud of, so make sure that you are, yes?’
The lieutenant colonel moved on down the line.
A while later, parade was over.
‘We nailed it,’ said Cameron, turning to Liam. ‘Fucking awesome.’
‘Fuck knows how,’ said Liam. ‘I’m knackered.’
Jon joined them. ‘Time to go meet the olds, right?’ he said. ‘Assuming you’ve actually got parents, Dinsdale.’
‘Oh, I’ve got parents all right,’ said Cameron. ‘Look.’
As he pointed to the grandstand, they all saw, at the same time, a couple standing apart from the others. The man was clearly uncomfortable, his suit a deep green tweed that didn’t quite fit around the shoulders or stomach. The woman was wearing something similar, with a skirt, and the addition of a big, Sunday-morning-at-church hat.
