The New Recruit

by Andy McNab

  ‘Bring back memories, Scott?’

  ‘Mike . . .?’

  Liam knew he should’ve called Mike by his surname, Hacker, but the fact that he’d known him in civilian life had made it difficult not to use his Christian name. And seeing him covered in blood hit Liam like a runaway train. The similarities between Mike and his brother, Dan, were striking. And just for a second, Liam was no longer dealing with a casualty on a foot patrol – he was back at the accident, back at Dan’s side as they slammed him into the rear of the ambulance and raced him through the streets and the last few heartbeats he had left.

  Liam jerked forward and realized that Mike had him round the neck. He was screaming at him, shaking him like a rabbit in the jaws of a fox.

  ‘He’s fucking going for it, this one, eh?’ said a soldier called Miller, reaching over to stop Mike from strangling Liam. ‘You’d think he wants you dead, hey, Scott?’

  Mike back-handed Miller and sent him sprawling too. Liam saw the soldier snarl and hurl himself back at Mike to restrain him.

  ‘Calm the fuck down!’

  Sergeant Reynolds joined in, shouting, ‘Bloody well sort him out!’ He was up close to watch how they all reacted. ‘He’s panicking. He’s been wounded. He probably thinks you’re the Taliban come to take his flamin’ nuts off! Get him calm, lads. If you can’t deal with this, what sodding use are you to me when the shit’s really coming down? Use your training!’

  Liam could hardly breathe. Like all the soldiers around him, he’d run through scenarios like this before, dealt with injuries in the battlefield. But his experience was little more than classroom stuff, pretend. He knew that some of them had probably done this for real. And it was showing too, with all the experienced guys reacting properly to the situation in front of them. He needed to get a grip, take control.

  The voice drilled into Liam’s head again as the sergeant yelled at him to stop dancing with the casualty and get the situation under control. Then Mike relaxed his hold, only to come at Liam again; this time Liam was quick enough to dodge being cracked in the skull and managed to secure Mike’s arm to the ground.

  ‘You!’ shouted Liam, looking over at Miller, who still looked pissed at Mike for what he’d just done. ‘Grab his arm and start talking to him! Tell him it’ll be all right, that everything’s fine!’

  Miller didn’t look convinced. ‘That fucker chinned me,’ he spat back.

  ‘Just do it, Miller!’ hissed Liam. ‘It’s what we have to do, remember? Keep talking to them, keep them calm, and keep their mind off what’s happened. Now do it!’

  The soldier, hesitant at first, started to do exactly as Liam had said. Liam then looked at the other two soldiers, their names escaping him at that moment. ‘We’ll hold him down, you two check his wounds and hit him with some morphine to calm him down!’

  Mike spat blood into Liam’s face. ‘Having fun, Liam? Is this what it was like with Dan? His blood all over you as he lay there dying because of you being such a fuckhead?’

  Liam ignored Mike and focused on being a soldier.

  In a few moments, after quickly checking Mike over, Miller and the other soldiers had dealt with the wound on his chest – a pressure dressing – then mimicked giving him a hit of morphine; soon they were carrying him out of the street on a makeshift stretcher.

  The whole thing was over in minutes. From a quiet street scene to absolute chaos and back to calm again. The rush was something else and Liam could see that his hands were shaking with the mix of excitement, fear and adrenaline.

  ‘You all right, Scott?’ Cameron was at Liam’s side. His kit was covered in blood.

  Liam wasn’t sure. What he’d just experienced wasn’t simply a case of role-play. ‘That was pretty realistic,’ he said at last. ‘I’m still shaking.’

  ‘They use real amputees, fake body parts, proper horror-movie make-up,’ said Cameron. ‘Worked a treat, didn’t it?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Liam replied, still trembling a little.

  ‘Yours was really going for it, wasn’t he?’ said Cameron. ‘Proper Oscar-winning stuff. Almost looked personal!’

  Liam nodded, then said, ‘It was Mike. The bastard went for me like we were in a bar brawl.’

  ‘Fucksake! Did Sergeant Reynolds see it?’

  Liam noticed a steeliness in Cameron’s look that almost knocked him back.

  ‘Mike didn’t just get me,’ he said, almost worried about what Cameron was gunning for. ‘Had a go at Miller too.’

  ‘That bastard—’

  Liam cut Cameron off. ‘Mate, it’s not worth it.’

  ‘Bollocks it is,’ said Cameron, and made to walk over to one of the corporals.

  Liam grabbed him. ‘Seriously, Dinsdale,’ he said, ‘Don’t. You’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘Will I?’ said Cameron. ‘He’s with us in Afghan, Scott. You thought about that?’

  Yes, Liam thought, it’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking about. But there’s fuck all I can do about it.

  12

  BACK AT BARRACKS, Liam joined the end of a long queue at the end of which was a photographer snapping a shot of a squaddie. Judging by the awkward look on the man’s face, Liam could tell he felt like a complete idiot. He was doing his level best to make sure that the shot was of his best side, which from where Liam was standing was a tough choice – both sides were covered in acne. Like the squaddie, and every other soldier in the queue, Liam was holding a sheet of paper in his hand. On it was written his name, rank, number and regiment.

  An officer Liam had never seen before headed towards them. ‘Right,’ he called out, his voice clear and precise, ‘for those of you who’ve just turned up, the whole point of this is, if there’s a hoo-hah in theatre and we need to get a picture of you, for any reason what soever, and the clerk on duty doesn’t know who you are, we can go through the photograph files and find you nice and easy. That’s all there is to it. Happy with that? Good.’

  Liam shuffled forwards. He’d never before heard someone refer to anything as a ‘hoo-hah’. It didn’t seem to quite fit with what the officer was describing – a live firefight or an explosion. But then he’d noticed this more and more during his time in the Army, and particularly since joining 2 Rifles. A sort of blasé attitude to the shit hitting the fan.

  He heard a cough and turned to find Mike standing directly behind him. A few other soldiers were nearby, and at the sight of Mike they moved back. At first it reminded Liam of kids in a playground when the bully walks past. But then he realized it was something else. The others were in awe of Mike, like he was some kind of hero to them, a soldier to look up to. And maybe he was, thought Liam, but that didn’t alter the fact that he was also a full-on walking tosser.

  ‘You know what these are, right?’ said Mike. ‘Death photos. Only ever used when someone’s killed and we need to identify them.’

  ‘What about the voluntary DNA samples?’

  Both he and Cameron had decided to follow the advice they’d all been given and provide a voluntary DNA sample. It was nothing more than a swab from inside his cheek, but the point of it was clear: if something bad happened, and their bodies were in too poor a state to be easily identified, DNA was the only way certainty could be guaranteed.

  ‘You know the odds are some of us won’t be coming back, don’t you?’ said Mike.

  ‘Risk is part of the job,’ Liam replied, wishing he would just sod off and leave him alone.

  ‘So you’re happy with the fact that you might get killed?’

  Mike’s face was too close now and Liam could smell cigarette smoke on his breath. He leaned away, but Mike was pushing him, getting in his face, and he’d had enough. He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  ‘What’s your problem, Mike? If this is about Dan . . .’

  The queue shuffled forward. Liam wanted to get away from Mike, and fast, but he still had his photo to do before he could make a break.

  Mike smiled coldly, rested a hand on Liam’s shoul
der and said softly, ‘Afghanistan’s a dangerous place, Liam. More dangerous than that stupid factory roof my brother followed you up on to.’ His eyes hardened. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’

  And with that, Mike turned round and walked off, leaving Liam with his sheet of paper and enough to make him think that when he got to Afghanistan it wouldn’t just be the Taliban he was going to have to worry about. Mike was gunning for him and that made Liam’s gut twist.

  ‘Oi, Scott – what do you think?’

  Liam looked over at Cameron, who was wearing a Multi Terrain Pattern helmet perched on top of his head. Photos done, they were now both standing in a warehouse filled with countless brown boxes, all of which were being quickly unpacked and their contents distributed to a slowly moving line of soldiers. Everyone was there, from Major Edwards down. The battalion was getting kitted out for its tour.

  ‘You look like a dick,’ said Liam. ‘And I mean that literally as well as the other way.’

  ‘You mean figuratively,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Yeah, that.’

  Cameron removed his helmet, slipped it into a large bag, then tried to pull on a pair of tough-looking gloves. ‘Not every day you get to just walk into a shop and take loads of free stuff, is it?’ he said, looking at the gloves. ‘Wrong size. Typical. I’ll have to see if I can get them changed.’

  Liam glanced over at the pile of stuff in front of him. Everything was provided, from socks to battle pack to Kevlar plates, all of it new, clean, and wrapped in individual cellophane packets. The whole lot together weighed an absolute ton and Liam knew they’d be picking up their weapons later too.

  ‘Not so sure about these Jesus sandals,’ said Cameron, walking over, half carrying, half dragging his bag of kit. ‘Looking like a twat isn’t why I joined up.’

  ‘At least you won’t cut your feet to shreds if you’re in the shower and there’s an enemy contact,’ said Liam, remembering what they’d been told about why the sandals were provided.

  ‘Doubt I’d be too fussed about my feet if the shit kicked off when I was bollock naked in the shower,’ said Cameron. ‘Reckon I’d be more worried about engaging the enemy with my dick hanging out!’

  Laughing, they picked up the rest of their kit, then headed back out of the warehouse, their bags on their shoulders, then on to their quarters.

  ‘One final inspection by Major Edwards, then it’s our last leave before we fly out,’ said Cameron. ‘Lock and load, right?’

  Liam noticed that, for once, despite the jokes, his mate didn’t sound so confident. He wasn’t alone.

  A few hours later, Liam joined the rest of 2 Rifles outside the barracks, all of them dressed in their civvies. Major Edwards was standing in front of them to give them a final nod before they went on their last leave before heading off to Afghanistan.

  Liam was excited and nervous – he half wished they didn’t have to take any leave at all and could just get on a plane and into theatre. He’d never been good at waiting around. But a few days out on the piss would do them no harm – a taste of normality before the immensity of what was ahead.

  ‘First of all,’ said the major, ‘well done on what you’ve achieved so far. We’re ninety per cent of the way there, so don’t slacken off. Those skills you’ve been working on so hard, we’re going to keep working on them. That way, I know I can be confident in you and what we are all there to do.’

  He paused for a breath.

  ‘And last of all, before you head off on leave, remember this: keep your fists in your pockets. Anyone gives you grief, just walk away, stay out of trouble and come back here ready for the job you’re all trained for. We don’t need any dramas, understand? Now, off you go. And enjoy.’

  A few days later, Liam was on a transport plane, an eight-hour one-way flight to Camp Bastion. Behind him, the seemingly endless rain of England and months of training. Ahead, the heat of the desert, and the war he was now a part of.

  His tour was beginning.

  13

  THE MOON WAS high and clear, and the light from it gave the world around a sort of weak orange glow as the plane came in to Camp Bastion.

  Like most other air traffic, they’d landed at night to reduce the risk of attack; the plane’s internal lights were shut off as they made their approach to make them harder to spot by any Taliban feeling trigger-happy with an RPG. It was nothing like being on a commercial airliner and Liam had done his best to stay and look calm, as though what they were doing was something he did every day, had done a dozen times before. But he’d still felt nervous as hell when they swung round to make their approach to land, convinced they were about to be blown out of the sky by a well-aimed RPG and scattered all over the desert in a billion tiny pieces of flesh and metal.

  Walking away from the plane that had brought him and the rest of 2 Rifles on his first-ever tour, relieved to be on firm ground, Liam had caught sight of the huge earth-filled bombproof bags that surrounded the camp and had given it its name – a bastion. The place truly was a fortress, and one that Liam was more than aware was under constant threat of attack, both from the outside, and from those trying to get in past the guards to blow themselves up and grab a fast track to paradise.

  Camp Bastion was a world away from anything Liam had ever experienced in his life before. It was nothing like when he and Cameron had turned up to join 2 Rifles – more like walking into a settlement on Mars. Dust was everywhere, kicked up by passing traffic, covering Liam’s clothing within moments, and he could taste it in the back of his throat and up his nose. He felt parched almost immediately and was glad of the bottles of water that had been thrust into their hands.

  Moving away from the runway, he soon realized that going anywhere in the camp at night would be nigh on impossible without a torch. There were no pavements, no street lights. Hardly any light seemed to manage to escape from the tents or other structures they passed as they snaked through the camp; all were hidden behind huge walls of sandbags to protect them from any ordnance landing inside the camp’s perimeter. Liam knew that it had happened, if not regularly, certainly frequently; and he was glad to see that even here they were given some protection.

  Since the start of the war, Camp Bastion had grown to four times its original size, housing thousands of Coalition troops. And with over six hundred flights each day, it was as busy as most civilian airports back in the UK. The size of it was not lost on Liam as he was taken to where he would be bedding down. They would stay here for the next five nights while they acclimatized to life in Afghanistan. It was a huge canvas tent which could sleep up to thirty-two soldiers on bunk beds. Other accommodation was provided – metal pods with hard roofs – but these, Liam knew, were used only by VIPs. He wasn’t so sure they were any better off, though; the beds weren’t the best he’d slept on, but neither were they the worst. And as for having to live under a tin lid, he’d take his chances with canvas. VIP or not, it didn’t strike him as any kind of luxury, not with Afghanistan capable of hitting a temperature of 55°C in the summer, then freezing in the winter.

  The next day he got a better view of the camp, and was even more awed by the place than when they’d landed. He knew the figures – that it could easily house between 20,000 and 30,000 troops and associated staff at any one time – but the sheer scale of it was almost impossible to comprehend. It was a desert-locked city built by the military, and though it may have been temporary, Liam couldn’t for the life of him see how such a place could ever just disappear again and leave blank Afghan desert.

  What seemed like thousands of huge tents and other part-canvas, part-steel structures vied for space with other freight containers that Liam had really only ever seen before on lorries or ships, or rusting away in some of the rundown factory sites and derelicts that he’d explored as a kid. Dogs were everywhere, patrolling and sniffing for drugs and explosives, as well as standing guard at checkpoints.

  As he would only be in Camp Bastion for five days, Liam knew that his time there would
be seriously busy, his hours crammed with training and fitness. And for that he was grateful. Not just because he wanted to be as switched on and prepared for what he was to face as possible, but also because it didn’t look like the kind of place he wanted to have to stay around for too long, anyway. Despite the vast number of cafés, restaurants and gyms that were dotted around the enormous camp, Liam wanted to be where the action was. He couldn’t wait to go on patrol.

  Chinook helicopters, or cows as he’d heard many of the experienced soldiers in 2 Rifles call them, seemed to fill the air, constantly ferrying equipment and troops in and out of the camp, filling the air with an everlasting and choking fog of orange dust. Liam had no doubt that some of them were carrying either injured soldiers back to the camp hospital, or surgeons out to a casualty to start working on saving lives as quickly as they could. As well as the Chinooks, Apache choppers buzzed around in formation, sweeping across the camp like great angry wasps.

  Liam saw Warrior troop carriers, Jackals, the Foxhound – the replacement for the Land Rover Snatch – and plenty of other vehicles he’d only really ever seen before on film or in pictures. Land Rovers were still used inside the camp and there were motorbikes too, two-wheeled and quads. The speed limit of 24kph (15mph) didn’t seem to make that much difference whenever the huge and imposing Mastiff drove by. A six-wheel drive, heavily armoured vehicle, it looked like it had been designed with the sole purpose of scaring the hell out of anyone in its way. The ground shook as it rolled by, almost as though it, too, was afraid.

  ‘So, Dinsdale, who’s briefing us?’

  Liam had experienced his first night’s sleep on Afghanistan’s soil but was still tired. He also knew that from now on sleep was going to be a luxury and he’d have to grab what shuteye he could whenever he got the chance.