by Fiona Field
‘I’ve got to be going. You must cease trading forthwith.’ He fled the room, and the house, slamming the front door behind him.
Fuck – she might have misjudged that one.
21
Lee adjusted his body armour and then strapped his helmet on. The rain of the previous few days had stopped and now the weather was bright, but cold.
‘Day four hundred in the Big Brother house,’ he said to Johnny, deadpan in his Geordie accent, ‘and the housemates are making the most of the fine weather.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Johnny, who was loading a magazine into his SA80 rifle. ‘And that’s too close to the truth. Just like them we’re shut up in a compound, surrounded by hostile strangers. The only difference is the inmates might get sex.’
‘And booze,’ said Lee morosely.
‘And you shouldn’t joke about the weather.’
‘Why not?’
‘Good Taliban fighting weather,’ said Johnny.
Lee paused and swallowed. ‘Great,’ he said with bravado he certainly didn’t feel. It wasn’t that he was scared, but no one in their right mind wouldn’t be apprehensive about going out on patrol, with the possibility that they might get killed or injured. ‘Let’s hope we get to slot a few first.’
‘Assuming they don’t get us before we can.’
Lee concentrated on clipping up his chinstrap. ‘No chance,’ he retorted with more false confidence. He hefted his Bergen containing ammo, medical supplies and water – lots of water – onto his back. The other soldiers were equally laden with other necessities: more ammo, more first aid kits, comms equipment, more water. Some of them had filled their pockets with boiled sweets from the compo rations to give to kids they might encounter. ‘Hearts and minds,’ Johnny had said, as he’d raided the food store for the goodies. ‘Maybe if we’re nice to them, the little buggers will be less inclined to kill us when they grow up.’
Lee wasn’t convinced. The British had fought here in the nineteenth century and had had their arses kicked – twice – then the Russians had had a go in the twentieth and they’d lost, so why on earth did anyone think it was going to end with tea and medals all round for the allies in the twenty-first? Still, his not to reason why, his just to do and…
Let’s not go there, he thought.
Sergeant Adams, in charge of their multiple, gave the order for the big metal door to the compound to be opened, and the ten-man patrol made their way out in single file. Johnny slung his rifle over his shoulder and switched on the Vallon mine detector. He wouldn’t start sweeping for IEDs till they got over the Neb canal; the area around the compound was too closely monitored for the enemy to have any chance of laying an ambush on their doorstep, but once they got behind the compounds on the far bank, that was when the danger really started.
‘It’s like going for a heavy night on the lash, isn’t it?’ said Johnny over his shoulder, as he moved forward.
‘How do you work that out?’ asked Sergeant Adams.
‘We might get legless.’
The multiple laughed, as did Lee. The gallows humour was in such poor taste it really was quite funny, and he couldn’t help himself. But even so, he felt his heart start to accelerate. He had been here for several weeks now and the fear at the start of each patrol was just as intense as it had been on his first one. He wondered if the others were cacking it too. Not that it was a question he could ask. The others would rip the piss out of him if he admitted how he felt, no matter that they might be in the same state. Johnny led the way, followed by Sergeant Adams and then Lee, with the others following on.
The metal bridge built by the sappers was about a hundred yards down the canal, and they could pretty much relax till they got to it and crossed over. Despite the fact that it was chilly, the sun was bright in the clear blue sky and the effort of walking with sixty kilos meant that Lee broke into a sweat as he climbed up the berm. Or was it nervous tension that caused trickles of perspiration to run down his spine? Like all the soldiers he kept his head moving, scanning for movement, looking for a glint of sun on metal, checking for any sign of the enemy.
Nothing – or rather nothing that he could spot.
The patrol tabbed on down the berm, across the canal bank and onto the bridge. If there was a sniper out there they’d be sitting ducks here – no cover, nothing. Swiftly they ran over it with Lee’s adrenalin reaching epic levels. Now things could get really dodgy. On this side of the canal, the locals could be intimidated by the Taliban. And, worryingly, it was suspiciously quiet. If there were kids kicking about, playing in the dust or tending goats, you could be pretty sure that there was no chance of an ambush. The locals knew when it was safe and when it wasn’t, and if it wasn’t, they kept their children away from the danger.
Lee reached to the back of his belt kit and undid the straps of what the army coyly called ‘tier two’ personal protection, which was designed to protect his tackle, should he get his legs blown off. The soldiers called it the combat codpiece or the armoured nappy but, whatever its name, it did wonders for morale. The idea of being an amputee was bad enough but being an impotent one was far worse. Knowing that his knackers were safely tucked away behind some serious protection was a big comfort. He pulled the front of the nappy-shaped piece of kit between his legs and attached the clips at the side, then he carried on walking, although his level of vigilance had racked up again. His nuts might be safe, but the rest of him was pretty exposed, and there was no point in meeting trouble halfway, as his mum liked to say. Keeping a sharp lookout, he also concentrated on putting his feet exactly where the sergeant had placed his.
The object of this patrol was to go and meet the head man of the next village. They had a couple of ‘terps’ tagging along with them so when they got there they could discuss a proposal to de-mine the village square, which the Taliban had booby-trapped thoroughly. None of the multiple had more than a few words of Pashto at best, so it was essential to have local interpreters with proper language skills to help out. If the head man, the malik, agreed to allow them to go ahead with the de-mining, it would bring some semblance of normality back to another little community as they would be able to trade and re-establish their market. Well, that was the theory, Sergeant Adams had told them. Lee and Johnny were sceptical. What was to stop the Taliban rocking back in the future and buggering it up again? They couldn’t be there twenty-four-seven to prevent it. But if it made the Brass back at Bastion happy, then who were they to argue?
Except, of course, the meeting had had to be arranged, so there were a number of people who now knew exactly where this patrol was heading for – and it was perfectly likely that not all of them would be happy for the soldiers to arrive. That was another thought that Lee put to the back of his mind.
At the edge of the bare field behind the compounds ran an irrigation ditch, bordered on each side by reeds and some scrappy trees. They headed for that, Johnny sweeping his metal detector in an arc in front of him, while everyone else followed assiduously in his wake. At the water’s edge they all jumped in. IEDs didn’t function when waterlogged, so the water might be freezing and smelly, but it provided safety for the moment.
They trudged through the water to the next field, which was full of uncut maize. The ditch pretty much dried out at this point, but the maize provided another safe route for the next few hundred yards, or at least Lee reckoned it did, as he looked about him. Surely it would be difficult to bury a device and not noticeably disturb the crop, and a sniper would find it hard to get a bead on the patrol moving through the densely planted stalks? He began to relax a little.
They were halfway across the field when a shot rang out. So much for being safe from snipers. Lee dropped as if he himself had been wounded and his heart rate went mental. No one yelled ‘man down’, indicating an injury, but instantly there were shouts and commands from the more senior, experienced members of the patrol. For a couple of seconds it seemed as if chaos reigned while the patrol tried to identify the direction of
the shot.
‘Bravo one four,’ bellowed the radio operator into the mic. ‘Contact, wait out.’
Lee and the rest of the patrol began to leopard crawl through the tough maize stalks, heading, as near as they could tell, towards where the shot had been fired. Despite his fear, Lee’s training had taken over, together with the most powerful feeling that he couldn’t let his mates down. The stony soil jagged into his knees and the dry leaves of the corn had razor-sharp edges which slashed at his bare hands, but he ignored the discomfort, as he ploughed on. After a couple of minutes, he could tell he was nearing the edge of the field. He slowed down; the last thing he wanted to do was barrel out into the sniper’s line of fire. Carefully, he peered through the stems.
Lee jumped out of his skin, as a machine gun rattled off next to him.
‘Ten o’clock, in the treeline,’ yelled one of his colleagues.
Lee swivelled, as another bullet cracked past, this time very close. He didn’t see where the bullet went, but he was pretty sure he could identify where it was coming from. The crack-thump of the shot had almost no discernible time between the two parts. The crack was the supersonic shock wave in front of the bullet as it passed by and the thump was the ordinary sound wave of the rifle actually being fired, which followed – like the flash and bang of lightning and thunder. The closer together, the closer the proximity. This crack-thump had been almost simultaneous; the sniper could only be about a hundred yards ahead.
Lee lay as still as he could and peered through the stalks, to try to see a movement. This guy, if he was still in the area, was either stupendously brave or stupendously stupid. How on earth could he possibly hope to survive, when the odds were ten against one? And the odds had just got shorter: Lee could hear the radio operator sending coordinates for some air support. Lee hoped to God the map reference was correct. He did not want to be picked off by some trigger-happy Apache pilot, mistaking him for the sniper. In this thick vegetation, he had no doubt that they would be relying on thermal imaging, and his signal would be just the same as the other bastard’s. The glow from his body heat on the screen would look no different – human was human, no matter if you were a terrorist or not.
Trying not to let his growing feeling of apprehension get the better of him, he lay as quietly as he could, waiting to hear the sound of the approaching chopper. And after a few minutes, because he knew what to listen for, he heard it: barely more than a whisper in the distance. And then, from out of nowhere, the earth a hundred yards ahead of him exploded. The bang was monumental, and the ground Lee was lying on shook and trembled. Lee had had no idea that the Hellfire missile had been launched, and neither would the sniper. One moment he would have been lying there, trying to get a squaddie in his sights, and the next – oblivion. Clods of earth, stones, bits of tree clattered down and, if it had been a direct hit on the gunman, Lee didn’t care to think what else.
‘All clear,’ said the radio operator after a quick exchange with the Apache pilot.
Feeling very shaky, Lee rose to his feet, staggering once again under the weight of his pack.
‘What you done, Perkins?’ asked the sergeant.
‘No idea what you’re on about,’ said Lee.
‘Your leg.’
Lee glanced down. The left leg of his multicam trousers was torn and his knee underneath had a cut, pouring blood. ‘No idea, Sarge. Must have cut it on a stone or something, in all the excitement.’
‘Get it washed and put a dressing on it.’
The rest of the patrol waited while Lee took off his Bergen, rolled up his trousers and sorted out the worst of his cut. After slathering it in antiseptic cream and putting on a dressing they were ready to set off again.
‘You keep an eye on that, Perkins,’ ordered Sergeant Adams. ‘I don’t want to have to send you sick, understand?’
But by the time they got back to base that evening, it was obvious that that was exactly what they were going to have to do. Lee’s knee was very painful, to the extent he could hardly walk on it, plus it was red and swollen and pus was oozing from the cut. Their medic took one look at it and declared that he didn’t think he had strong enough antibiotics in his kit.
‘Besides, boss, there’s a chance the infection might spread. If he gets septicaemia it could all go shit-shaped really quickly.’
‘You’ll be going back tomorrow on the supply truck,’ said Adams. ‘Fucking waste of space you are. Battle casualty replacement means you’re supposed to replace the guy that got injured, nor bring us a new injury to cope with. Tosser.’
22
Seb stared at Major Milward across his desk in his office in stunned silence. Finally, he said, ‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope. God’s honest truth. The woman actually made a pass at me. I mean, if putting your hand on someone’s thigh counts as a pass – and it does in my book.’
Seb just managed to choke back the question, ‘Why you?’ He’d met Jenna, he knew what a stunner she was, and Alan Milward was not babe-magnet material. But then he thought of the note on Perkins’ file about Jenna having caused fights in Tommy’s Bar. The inference had been very clear: she was free with her favours and not too picky about who with, but Alan Milward…?
Seb brought his thoughts back to the main problem. ‘But did she agree to cease trading?’ he asked.
‘No, but I gave her an ultimatum.’
‘Is she likely to abide by it?’
‘I don’t think she’ll be doing hairdressing from her house. Even Jenna Perkins isn’t that stupid. She can earn money from hairdressing in the wives’ own homes, I can’t stop that, but I can stop her from trading from her quarter.’
‘I suppose that’s fair,’ said Seb.
‘To be honest, I’d have probably turned a blind eye to it, if it had just been a bit of illicit hairdressing, but she’s made unauthorised alterations to her quarter. Straws and camels’ backs and all that.’
‘And then she made a pass at you.’
‘Indeed. Don’t think I’ll be telling Cath about that last bit.’
Not if Alan Milward had any sense, thought Seb. He remembered meeting Cath at Susie and Mike Collins’s dinner party and the word ‘formidable’ had been invented for her.
‘But I could mention to Cath,’ continued Alan Milward, ‘that Jenna mightn’t be the best person for the officers’ wives to go to, if they want to get their hair done. I’m not going to let Jenna Perkins get away with this.’
‘Isn’t that a bit draconian?’ asked Seb, forgetting he’d effectively told his wife exactly the same.
‘She broke just about every rule in the book. Plus she’s done her damnedest to undercut Zoë. I had her complaining to me, only the other day, that there is no way she can compete with Jenna if Jenna isn’t paying business rates, or VAT, or anything like that. I’m sorry, Seb, but that woman is a liability and she’s going to be real trouble.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Seb.
He couldn’t argue with Alan’s assessment. Hadn’t he come to much the same conclusion himself? However, he wasn’t convinced that Alan would be able to put an end to the problem of Mrs Perkins. ‘And what are we going to do about her behaviour towards you?’
‘My word against hers, but next time I’ll take a woman with me, as a chaperone. I’m pretty certain I’ll be going back there. There’s going to be a family breakdown to deal with before too long, if that’s the way she goes about getting herself out of trouble. Can’t see this marriage going the distance, can you?
Seb sighed. Perkins was a bloody good soldier and deserved better than this. The last thing he needed, while he was on an operational tour, was to be distracted by problems at home.
‘There’s a mate of yours, just come in,’ said Major Tomlinson, as he entered the ready room where the crew waited on standby. He saw Chrissie’s eyes widen in fear and quickly added, ‘Minor injury. Nothing to get too excited about.’
‘Who?’ Chrissie had made friends other than Lee and Phil since bei
ng out in Bastion, but the nature of the place was very transitory. Soldiers arrived, did their initial training and then went into Helmand; the people based in Bastion came and went, so she wasn’t very close to anyone outside of her MERT and as far as she was aware, everyone in that was alive and kicking.
‘Chap called Perkins,’ said the major.
‘Lee?’ Her heart gave a little bounce of pleasure at the thought of seeing him again.
‘If that’s his name. Got a message to say he’s asking for you.’
‘Really?’
‘The Lee Perkins you vommed over on exercise?’ asked Phil Johns, joining in the conversation.
‘The one and only,’ said Chrissie.
‘And he still wants to talk to you?’ Phil’s face was a picture of incredulity.
Chrissie nodded.
‘Must be a head injury,’ said Phil.
Chrissie threw her paperback at him. ‘Fuck off,’ she said amiably. ‘Can I go and see him, boss?’
Tomlinson nodded. ‘Of course, except if they call Op Minimise while you’re away, I want you straight back here.’
Chrissie nodded back. She knew the form well enough now. Op Minimise might well presage a call-out for themselves, and no one would thank her for delaying their departure when minutes, even seconds, counted.
‘Anyway,’ asked Phil, ‘what’s Perkins doing here? 1 Herts are still tucked up in Kent.’
‘He’s a BCR for 2 Herts. Want to come with me? Talk man-talk with him: football and crap like that. He’ll probably find it more interesting than me banging on about the shortage of soft loo paper, or the lack of Mills & Boons in the camp bookshop.’
Phil laughed at that and arched an eyebrow. ‘Not sure I’m the best person to talk about footie, but I promise I’ll do my best. Besides, I could do with a leg-stretch. You sure?’
Chrissie nodded, why not? Besides, she didn’t want Lee thinking there was anything between them other than a casual friendship, even if her own emotions were doing their level best to undermine her resolve.
