War Torn

by Andy McNab

  Chapter Twenty

  THE FLAT WAS ONE SPECIALLY RESERVED FOR FAMILIES VISITING wounded men at Selly Oak hospital. It was lovely, at least it had been before Leanne filled it up with all their stuff. There was no lift and she had made many journeys carrying baby paraphernalia up and down the stairs, the twins screaming and trying to follow her each time she left them for the next load.There was no sign of her mother. Because she was lost. Of course. And probably too flustered to use her mobile.Leanne looked at her watch again and again, aware that visiting time had begun and that Steve was waiting for her. Maybe she should just go, and take the twins. But everyone had told her not to do that. She would be unable to have the conversation with Steve she had waited such a long time for. And the hospital couldn’t really want children on these wards, not for long.The old Leanne would have blustered her way in. But now she didn’t have the confidence. Steve had lost a leg and God knew what else, while she had lost some other things that probably didn’t even have a name. Bits of herself. The bits that usually didn’t worry and thought they could cope with any crisis. She had always been good in a crisis. But this wasn’t a crisis. This was the rest of her life.At last she heard the sound of her mother’s car outside.Leanne jumped up with a twin under each arm and ran down the stairs.‘Nana! It’s Nana!’ she told them. That tone of anticipation again, intended to whip kids up into a frenzy of excitement. The same tone everyone used when telling the twins they would soon see Daddy again. Except that the boys were only eighteen months old and might already have forgotten who Daddy was. They probably thought he was some sort of chocolate bar they’d get if they were good.Leanne’s mother sat behind the wheel, her face red, her hair dishevelled.‘What a journey!’ she said to Leanne before greeting the boys.Leanne put down the twins and crossed her arms. ‘You got lost. Just like I said you would.’‘Well the signs aren’t clear enough. They don’t tell you anything!’As her mother heaved herself out of the car, Leanne glanced at her scalp. Her mum’s roots were showing and a lot of them were grey now.The boys ambushed their grandmother. She picked one up but the effort made her breathless. The other pounded with his fists at her skirt.‘Oh, Leanne, I’ll have to sit down for a while before you leave me with them,’ she said. For a moment, Leanne hated her. She hated her mother for getting older. One day she would be too old to help at all.‘But visiting time’s going to end soon, Mum.’‘They’ll have to let you in anyway, Leanne. If they try to keep you out they’ll have me to answer to.’Leanne recognized in her mother the firm, confident woman she herself used to be.They went up the stairs and Leanne’s mother admired the flat and Leanne made her a cup of tea and saw to her amazement that her own hand was shaking as she put the sugar in.‘You not having a cuppa?’ asked her mother.‘Mum, I really want to get to the hospital. And I have to walk there because of the parking.’ Leanne never walked anywhere if she could help it.Her mother pursed her lips.‘Switch on the telly!’ Leanne suggested, switching it on herself. She fetched her handbag. Its familiar, shapeless bulges felt reassuring, like an old friend.‘I must go, Mum. You’ll be all right.’Her mother put down her tea with a pained expression. Both the twins ran to Leanne and hung onto her.‘I’m going to visit Daddy now,’ she told them. She wanted to say something nice. You can see Daddy for a very little while tomorrow. I’m going to give him a big hug from you. I’ll be back soon bringing lots of love from Daddy. Nana’s so pleased to have you all to herself. But no words came out. The twins mobbed her and she had to squeeze out of the door silently, their cries pursuing her all the way down the stairs.Outside, the sun shone. Leanne sweated as she walked. It felt weird not to be dragging a twin on either side, as though a part of her body was missing. But it was Steve who was missing the body part, not her. She tried to prepare herself. She was seeing Steve again and that did make her heart beat faster because she loved him and missed him. But then, she was seeing a different Steve. A Steve who had been thrown in the air and come down another Steve.She reached the hospital and stood outside for a moment to force back down something that kept trying to push its way up inside her body. Was it vomit? Or just an enormous sob? She struggled to control herself and, when she felt numb enough, stepped through the door.She was directed to his ward. Now she walked slowly through it, looking for Steve. She knew she wouldn’t recognize his body, so she only looked at faces. Every bed contained a man with some part of his body bandaged. The wounded. Men who had photos of themselves smiling under the hot Afghan sun wearing camouflage and body armour and helmets, carrying Bergens and a lot of kit. Looking big and whole. They would never look that way again.There was a whiteboard behind a desk with a list of names.Buckle 313.It must be a bed number. She walked on. No, it was a room number. She found 313. Outside was another board. You could see where the names of previous patients had been rubbed out underneath. Steve’s name was scrawled in purple over them.The door was open. She went in. The man in the bed was sitting up. There were sheets pulled across him haphazardly as though he didn’t care whether he was covered or not. His eyes were open but he didn’t look at her when she entered the room. Her heart gave a jump. It was Steve, definitely, recognizably Steve. He looked just exactly the same! What had she expected? That he had turned into some kind of a monster?‘Sweetheart!’ she said.And suddenly, for the first time since the Families Officer had called that evening, it didn’t matter that this was Steve minus a leg. He was here and he was alive. She took his hand and kissed his face and tears fell down her cheeks. They were tears of relief and of joy. For Chrissake. Why had she been so scared? Nervous about seeing Steve, her Steve! She could not stop kissing him and she could not stop crying.It took a few moments for her to realize he was not kissing her in return.Leanne pulled her head away from his. Her face ached with smiling. She hadn’t smiled since his accident. Not at the boys, not at her friends, not at her mother who had driven all the way from a small Northamptonshire town today just to help out. She had created a world without happiness for everyone around her and it must have been terrible but it would be OK now. Steve was back, he was all right and they would be happy again.They looked at each other. Steve grinned sheepishly at her, as though he was ashamed of causing her tears. She smiled back. Her tears kept falling. Steve didn’t like women crying. If she had cried in the past he had shown impatience or made a joke of it. She waited for a joke now. He remained silent, still smiling. Was he embarrassed? He reached out and wiped her wet face with his finger.‘Oh, Steve, I love you. Oh, thank God you’re back,’ she said. If only the tears would stop. She kept touching his face. It was unmarked. He had shaved recently and the skin was smooth. His smile did not falter. Yes, he was pleased to see her.She leaned close to him. She whispered: ‘Speak to me, Steve!’He said: ‘What do you want me to say?’I love you, I’ve missed you, it’s so good to see you, I’ve been lying in hospital at Bastion thinking about you, are you OK, where are the kids, what’s been happening at home . . .?‘Isn’t there anything you want to say to me, then?’ she asked. She had sat down on the bed now but her face was no longer close to his.He shrugged.‘I’d like to know how the lads are getting on.’‘Which lads?’Let him mean the twins. Please let him mean the twins and not . . .‘1 Platoon. Are they all OK?’She swallowed.‘Yeah. So far as I know. I spoke to Dave Henley and he didn’t say there were problems, we haven’t heard about any casualties. Except the lad who was hurt with you: Jordan someone.’‘How is he?’ asked Steve, showing the first sign of real interest.‘He’s got these bad burns but he’ll be OK. He’s gone home to his mum for a while, I think.’Steve nodded. His eyes slid off around the room.‘Are you looking for something? Is there anything you want?’ she asked.‘No.’His hand was held in hers. She loosened her grip as she realized he wasn’t looking for anything. He just didn’t want to look at her.‘Steve . . .’ she said. His eyes swivelled back to her.‘Can you remember my name, love?’There was great sadness in his face. She realized it’d been there all the time, even when he’d smiled at her. She just hadn’t chosen to see it befo
re. He closed his eyes as though he didn’t want to see her reaction to his next words. His voice was quiet.He said: ‘I’m not sure who you are.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  SO HE HAD GIVEN ORDERS ONCE MORE AND GIVEN THEM BADLY. Thank God the sergeant had bailed him out yet again. Gordon Weeks went to the cookhouse and ate alone.He was toying with his shepherd’s pie when someone put their plate down directly opposite him. He looked up and saw that it was Asma. This was so astonishing that for a moment he did not speak.‘Hallo!’ he said at last.‘Forgotten your Pashtu?’‘Well, I think I might be losing it. But there wasn’t much in the first place.’‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so miserable.’Her big almond eyes looked levelly at him. She half smiled. He had never seen her smile fully, let alone laugh, not even with her friend the policewoman. He looked away. She was too beautiful to stare at for long. And perhaps a little bit too sad.The FOB was a strange place, he decided. He’d been to boarding school and then university and he’d mixed almost exclusively in his own social circle all his life, even at Sandhurst. In the UK he’d have acknowledged this girl’s beauty but kept her at arm’s length. She had a strong London accent which, when she had translated at the shura, had kept emerging coarsely from under her Pashtu, and spoke of a landscape he didn’t really understand.But here at the FOB, things were different. Many of the officers were from similar backgrounds to himself, Major Willingham included. However, the personnel he found himself respecting most, like Dave, were from a completely different world, one he had previously barely acknowledged. Asma too – and yet he found her the most attractive woman he had ever met. And she was sitting opposite him now, inviting him to confide in her.‘Sometimes,’ he said slowly, ‘the gap between where I am as an officer and where I want to be seems a little daunting.’‘You haven’t been doing it for five minutes,’ she said gently. ‘When did you pass out of Sandhurst?’‘Just before I came here.’‘There you are then!’He tried not to notice the way she held her knife and fork. ‘I think I manage pretty well in theatre. I’ve been trained for that. But when I’m here at the base doing everyday things, trying to communicate . . . I’ve just given the men orders for tomorrow and . . . well I’ve never been much of a public speaker. If it wasn’t for the sergeant yelling at them, I’d lose control.’‘But you’re OK when you’re out there fighting?’He nodded. ‘So far.’ He felt himself blushing again.‘Better to be that way round. I’m on patrol with you tomorrow and I’d rather be with a platoon commander who can lead against the Taliban than someone who knows how to deliver an after-dinner speech.’‘I wish I could do both,’ he said quietly.‘I’ll bet, when you stand in front of the boys, you’re too busy thinking about all the differences between you and them. See what I mean?’He shook his head. She was mesmerizing. It was hard to listen to a word she said when he just wanted to study her lovely face. The skin on her cheeks was supernaturally smooth and soft. Did women in FOBs get up in the morning and put on their makeup? Or did she just look this way without even trying?’‘See, you’re different,’ she continued. ‘You can’t imagine their lives back home, and they can’t imagine yours. No way. But when you’re fighting, you’re united. There aren’t any differences; it’s you against the enemy. So it’s easier to communicate then, innit?’He thought about this and decided she was right. He was just about to tell her so when her friend Jean sat down beside them.Weeks gritted his teeth. Not just because he was enjoying these uninterrupted moments with Asma but because he’d begun to dislike the policewoman. He knew his men avoided the RMPs like the plague. Boss Weeks had been brought up to believe only those with something to hide avoided the police, and he had nothing to hide. Yet he’d also found himself avoiding the sharp-faced, sharp-eyed Jean.She smiled at him. ‘As salaam alai kum.’‘Good evening,’ he replied.‘I’ve had an informal chat with the Officer Commanding about that incident in the Green Zone . . .’Weeks looked at her gloomily. ‘Which incident? There have been so many.’For the first time he saw Asma laugh. He wasn’t sure why. But he watched with pleasure as her face changed shape, broadening to reveal a row of even teeth. He loved to hear the giggle bubbling up from inside her like a spring. From that moment, it became his private mission to make her laugh again. It was a challenging mission. He knew he was seldom funny.Jean Patterson did not laugh.‘The only incident I’m aware of took place some weeks ago when your men opened fire on a group of Taliban fighters. While their bodies were being searched, one turned out not to be dead. We’ll never know the extent of his injuries because he was then shot at point blank range.’‘He was perceived to be dangerous. He was reaching for his weapon.’‘The weapon should have been removed during the routine search. And apparently another soldier did remove it at once.’‘He was killed because he was a threat,’ Weeks insisted.‘No. He was killed because the sergeant ordered it. The soldier who was searching the insurgent quite rightly hesitated. But another soldier followed the sergeant’s order and shot the man.’Weeks never physically brawled and seldom got into verbal arguments but he recognized the surge of adrenalin that was suddenly pumping through his body as fighting adrenalin.He leaned forward. ‘Jean . . . may I call you Jean?’‘Certainly, Gordon.’‘Jean. The sergeant saw that his men were in danger because they were in intimate contact with a member of the Taliban. That man may have been feigning death while perfectly healthy. What would you have done under the circumstances?’Jean leaned forward too. ‘Gordon. Since the man was lying wounded in a ditch, I’d have treated him as a casualty.’‘Jean. He was a Taliban fighter. There can be no question about that, he was fully armed. Of course he had to be dealt with like any other armed insurgent.’‘He may have been an insurgent but he was also a member of the human race. He—’‘Jean—’‘Gordon!’Weeks was aware of the delightful Asma laughing at them both. He did not allow himself the pleasure of looking at her. He supposed they were comical, but he was so angry now he did not care.Jean raised her voice. ‘The man was no longer armed and he was wounded. He required medical treatment.’‘How do you know? My men certainly fired on him, and his comrades were certainly killed. But he might have been unhurt and feigning death. It is, after all, a common enemy tactic.’‘Your men have all described him as wounded.’‘My men aren’t doctors and are not trained to spot the difference between someone who is wounded and someone who is pretending. And do you know what order, precisely, the sergeant gave to shoot him?’Jean nodded confidently. ‘He said: “Get on with it.”’‘I’m not familiar with that order. Are you?’Jean sighed.‘In fact,’ the boss went on, pressing home his advantage, ‘I don’t remember ever hearing that order before. I don’t think I learned it at Sandhurst. So I’m surprised you recognize those words as an order to kill.’Jean leaned back in her seat. There were red circles in her white cheeks.‘His men knew what he meant.’‘Have you asked Dave Henley what he meant?’‘Sergeant Henley has a reputation,’ Jean said. ‘He’s considered a very tough and no-nonsense sort of sergeant who might not tolerate legitimate hesitation on human rights grounds by one of his soldiers.’‘Sergeant Henley is considered an outstanding NCO precisely because he’s tough and no-nonsense,’ Weeks snapped, ‘and this is the best protection for his men after body armour.’ Her accusation made his heart pump faster, dispersing anger through his body. ‘He has a humane and compassionate side which does him great credit. Before you make any assumptions or accusations you should ask him what he meant by those words.’‘It isn’t appropriate for me to ask him because this is not yet a formal investigation. But I’m not going to let this one get swept under the carpet. I expect someone in his unit to question him very closely.’‘And so we will,’ Weeks said. He believed he’d won this skirmish and it was therefore better to stop the battle.He glanced over at Asma at last. Incredibly, for a few minutes he had actually forgotten she was there. Now he felt happy to see her again, as though she had just walked in. He remembered that she had said she would be out on patrol with him tomorrow. When he looked more closely, he was surprised at
the expression on her face. It was something like admiration.