Sniper one

by Dan Mills

  He could shock us, and he did. It was astonishingly hard core, and really tested the imagination. A lot of it also looked like it was homemade, possibly locally. There were midgets, fat women, old women, gorgeous women, ugly women, pregnant women (particularly sick), veiled women; every imaginable sort of women, getting pretty much everything done to them. Animals always seemed to feature strongly too in Rasheed's movies: dogs, horses and particularly donkeys (an Iraqi favourite).

  Thank God the caretaker never saw any of those. He would have had a heart attack on the spot.

  After the mother of all adrenalin hangovers that lasted at least two weeks, we slowly accepted our plight. It wasn't as if we had any choice. Our job was to just get on with it, like we did everywhere else. Look on the bright side too; in fairness, we'd had two good months of unadulterated fun so we couldn't really complain about four months of tedium.

  Peace was obviously good for Iraq, and battle-scarred Maysan province in particular. The more the place moved forward, the sooner all British troops would all be able to sod off home. Our strategic aim had always been to bore ourselves out of a reason for being there. No need for fighting, no need for soldiers.

  The long and blisteringly hot weeks slowly passed by. The days took on a depressingly repetitive routine. Bed, cookhouse, work, freetime; cookhouse, work, freetime, cookhouse, bed.

  Work took more concentration, because our patrols were so much more mundane. Tasks seemed to last twice as long as they did before.

  Meals became a high point. We lingered over them now, rather than throwing the scoff down as quickly as possible to get back to the fighting. Mealtime chat was always about the menu. The food wasn't bad and Chef would try his best with whatever he was given, but it was always the same dishes. Fish and chips, beans, beef curry, ham with pineapple pizza, pies, spaghetti bolognese. The army prides itself on being able to give you almost the same grub whether you're in Torquay or Timbuctoo. It's great if you're in the middle of a desert; not so when the odours of an Arabic feast sizzling away in Tigris Street's cafes and kebab stalls were constantly drifting over our walls.

  Nobody said anything to Chef, because we didn't want to hurt his feelings. He worked like an ox, and had won massive respect for cooking every day under just his shitty green tent for several weeks of mortar strikes after his trailer had been blown up. But he could start to see it on our faces.

  'I'm really sorry, guys, I wish I could do something else for you,' he'd apologize as we trooped in.

  'Rubbish, Chef. It's fucking cordon bleu, mate. Keep it up,' we'd always reply.

  Sleep was now almost impossible during the day because of the heat, even after the many mortar-damaged aircon units were replaced by the engineers. During the afternoons, they would blare away on ultra cold making almost no difference whatsoever. If you got a night shift, it was just tough shit.

  But what was hardest was how to fill the long hours of spare time we now had on our hands. Every single minute of it had to be spent in Cimic. There were no bars or nightclubs to go too, and certainly fuck all to see, even if we were allowed out on the town – which we weren't.

  To start with, that largely meant watching a shedload of DVDs. A lot of the boys had mini-DVD players or laptops, so you'd plug in a pair of speakers and a few of you could watch together. After a while, we'd watched them all, and any new arrivals were devoured within hours by the whole company.

  No matter how desperate anyone got though, they'd never sink as low as to watch a Blackadder DVD with Chris, no matter how many invites he'd issue. Within a week, he'd already driven the whole platoon mad by saying all the punchlines a second before Rowan Atkinson did.

  Saved from the truth so as not to hurt his feelings, Chris couldn't understand it.

  'What's wrong with you fellas? Blackadder is a comic legend. None of you got a sense of humour?' he'd ask.

  Fresh newspapers too along with any other whiff of the outside world were also ravished in a frenzy. Top of the list of most desired articles after the ceasefire were brand new copies of lads' mags like FHM or Loaded. The blokes who had them sent out guarded them zealously. The rule was they'd only have to pass them on after they'd had a chance to read them cover to cover first.

  Not understanding the importance of this rule, our little hairy companion Tigris wreaked havoc. Like every other dog, she had a habit of picking up newspapers and magazines and depositing them in different rooms. Unfortunately, it took weeks for anyone to work this out. So when someone's most cherished possession went missing and he'd eventually track it down to the floor of some other bloke's room, false accusations would frequently fly.

  Thanks to Tigris, two lads from Mortars once ended up eyeball to eyeball after one accused the other of heinous FHM theft for the third time.

  'Of course you fucking lifted it, it was under your fucking bed!' screamed one.

  'You call me a tea leaf one more time, and I'll smash your face in,' the other replied.

  'You fucking deny you pinched my FHM again, and I'll do you first.'

  Sensing peace needed to be made, Tigris solved the riddle immediately by picking up the disputed copy of FHM right in front of both of them and trotting off to deposit it in another room altogether. Fisticuffs averted.

  With Molly Phee's departure, we became Tigris's new owners – all 106 of us. She'd earned our full respect by then so we adopted her with pride. All the incoming rocket, mortar and sniper fire that Cimic House had attracted during the fighting had made the compound about the most dangerous place in the city for the dog to live. But she never left, despite ample opportunity. It was good loyalty, and soldiers like that.

  Tigris was no fool. Now that we'd been able to move back into some of the less destroyed accommodation buildings, she plumped for Major Featherstone's bed as her sleeping quarters every night. It was the most comfortable billet in the compound by some distance. The OC never once kicked her out. He couldn't; he was the biggest sop for her out of the lot of us.

  A few of the lads had also brought out PlayStation consoles. Suddenly their popularity doubled overnight. The car racing game Gran Turismo was the most popular. A lot of money used to change hands with the lads' eyes glued to the box and their thumbs working overdrive. Oost was the undisputed video game king. He had incredible reaction times.

  There was also hefty competition on who could compile the best tour home movie.

  Almost everyone could record moving images on his camera or mobile. During the fighting days, nobody had held back. We got some great scrapping shots from our roof too. Since you could edit all that on a laptop by then and even bang a good soundtrack on top of it (always heavy rock or thrash), there were some really brilliant montages put together. It's a shame the TV news boys never made it out to us, because it was the best combat footage I'd ever seen.

  One major salvation was the engineers getting the Internet up and running again in Cimic. A mortar round right on top of the satellite dish had put an end to it pretty early on. Once the CPA left and we had more space, a small room was specially set aside in Cimic for a few computer terminals. The sappers also rigged up a wireless connection, so if you had your own laptop, you could do it from your bunk. Not bad for an outpost in the middle of a war zone. I used it for sending e-mails home and keeping up with Euro 2004. Until England got knocked out in the quarter-finals again . . .

  The young single lads in the platoon loved the Internet for a different reason. They spent hours on end exercising their hormonal frustrations on it. Smudge, H, Sam and Longy (when he wasn't in the toilets) all got addicted to a site called Hot or Not. On it, photos people had posted of themselves would pop up and the viewer would be asked to grade them in terms of looks from one to ten.

  Cimic House would constantly echo with shouts of abuse or disbelief at the various choices the boys were asked to make.

  'You're joking, Ads, she's a total minger!'

  'Not as much of a pig as that last bird you gave a nine to.'

  'Now
she's a real honey.'

  'Shut up, H. She looks like your gran.'

  Then the boys discovered dating sites as well. After that, they hardly did anything else – night or day. It became an utter obsession.

  The self-declared king of the electronic chat-up lines was pretty boy Smudge.

  'Fucking Iraq. I'd be getting laid twice a night if I wasn't stuck out here with you losers,' he bragged.

  Foolish words. Such unchecked vanity was a red rag to a bull for soldiers. Chris and Fitz were quick to meet the challenge.

  Unknown to Smudge, they too joined his favourite dating site, but from Chris's laptop on the broadband connection in the Quick Reaction Force room. They signed up under the name of Natalie, aged nineteen. Natalie had measurements of 34-24-34, and a DD cup size. Then they cut out an extra busty photo of Abi Titmuss from FHM, uploaded it as Natalie's mugshot, and under it posted the message:

  'Hi, boys, I'm Nat. I want to meet a hunky soldier serving his country abroad. Fair hair action men please. Blond on blonde action only for this little bazooka.'

  It was hilarious, if a little unsubtle.

  'He'll never go for it, it's too obvious,' said Fitz, as he and Chris guffawed their way through the delicate enterprise.

  'Of course he will. He's Smudger, isn't he? You wait and see.'

  He did go for it. Like a rat up a drainpipe. Smudge couldn't wait to tell the other lads about his find, and to warn them off her too. Natalie was his.

  'Fucking 'ell, boys, there is the hottest chick you've ever seen who's just come up on the site. She's after squaddies on Ops too. She looks like a model, fucking unbelievable. Her name is Natalie. Lovely name too, don't you think? I've already messaged her, so none of you bother, OK? Anyway, she only likes blonds, and you're all too ugly.'

  How he didn't recognize it was Abi Titmuss we had no idea, especially since she was on the front cover of every lads' magazine around at that time. The reality was he didn't want to. Natalie was his dream come true.

  Sure enough, the next day Natalie messaged Smudge back, with no small amount of giggling coming from the QRF room. In no time at all, they were getting on like a house on fire.

  Natalie was keen to know what Smudge had been up to, and what a big brave boy he'd been. Smudge knew he couldn't give away too many operational details on an open Internet line, but he couldn't disappoint the poor woman either.

  His reply: 'let's just say baby that i've seen a few things, you know what i mean? of course, i can't talk about it because it's top secret. apparently i'm going to get a big bravery medal, and the SAS want to see me too. but i don't do it for the glory. i do it because someone's got to keep the world safe haven't they?'

  That had Chris and Fitz rolling around on the floor crying their eyes out.

  It was only a matter of time before the messages went dirty. Smudge initiated it, and Natalie was more than happy to take it even dirtier. They discussed their various sexual preferences, with Smudge particularly keen to learn Natalie's views on one certain position that I thought was still illegal.

  Worst of all, he even confessed to wishing he could give himself a blowjob so he could keep himself happy when away on tour.

  It went on for a good couple of weeks. Smudge was coming up to his allotted two weeks of R&R. He had an announcement for the platoon.

  'Guess what, lads, Nat's agreed to spend the whole of my R&R with me. We're going down to the seaside and we're going to have two weeks of nonstop perfect sex. Can you fucking believe it! It's more than just sex though, guys, OK? I'm really falling for her, and she really likes me too. Do you think I should introduce her to my parents yet, or is it too early, Danny?'

  'Oh, er, no, I wouldn't do that just yet, Smudger. Don't you want to see your mates instead?'

  'Fuck them. This is the real thing. Look, I'm not going to cut my hair down to the bone any more so I can grow it a bit longer for Nat. She loves it like that. That's OK with you, isn't it?'

  It was awful. He was head over heels in love with Natalie. He had planned to spend his entire R&R with a stunning woman that only existed inside Chris and Fitz's heads. Not in their wildest dreams did they ever think they'd get him that badly. Word spread around the whole platoon about Natalie's real identity, so everyone was now having a good laugh behind poor old Smudge's back.

  As the platoon commander, I did my best to stay aloof from the wind-up. It was going to end in tears sooner or later, and as the responsible one it was best I stayed out of it. But I couldn't resist having a peek in every now and then.

  As his R&R date got closer, Smudge spent more and more time in the washing block perfecting the best look for Natalie. At last the day itself came, and he sorted out his best civvies for the occasion. Nat had even offered to meet him off the plane at Brize Norton.

  A few of us made a deputation to Chris and Fitz.

  'Look, you two, you've got to fucking tell him before he leaves. What happens when he turns up at Brize and she's not there? Chris?'

  'I know, I know, Dan. We have to. I just can't think how the fuck we're going to do it.'

  They decided there was no point in beating around the bush with it. In what was supposed to be Smudge's very last online conversation with Natalie before they were due to meet, Chris and Fitz chucked in the hand grenade.

  This is how their last messaging went.

  Smudge: 'can't wait to see you tomorrow baby. you got the instructions through from me on how to get there ok yeah?'

  Natalie: 'yes i did, my little warrior. but there's just one problem.'

  Smudge: 'what's that baby?'

  Natalie: 'i'm not going to be there darling.'

  Smudge: 'why not??'

  Natalie: 'because i don't exist. this is chris and fitz in the QRF room, and it has been all along, YOU FUCKING KNOB!!!!!'

  I was in the QRF room with them. Smudge was in the Internet room alone. There was silence from it for a good thirty seconds. It took a little time for what he had just read to actually sink in. Then we heard a chair hurled on the floor, a couple of screamed expletives, and the rapid thump of boots down the corridor.

  Smudge kicked the QRF room's door open so hard it practically came off its hinges. His face was puce with rage. Not only had the woman of his dreams just disappeared in a puff of electronic smoke, but he'd got nothing planned for his R&R any more – and he was the laughing stock of the whole platoon. He went crazy.

  'You fucking cunts! I can't fucking believe you fucking did that to me! You fucking mean bastards. That's sick, that is. I really fucking liked her, you know!'

  'Er, yeah, we know, Smudge. We were on the other end, remember. Look, relax. It was only a joke . . .'

  But Smudge was gone. He kicked the iron bunk beds, stamped a wooden chair to bits and repeatedly punched the walls. Then he ran out into Cimic's garden, where he sat for an awful long time, until his transport arrived to Slipper City and the flight home. He was truly heartbroken.

  19

  When Smudge came back from R&R two weeks later, he'd relaxed a bit. He never really saw the funny side of the joke, but at least he'd stopped breaking things whenever Natalie was mentioned. It also helped considerably that, despite his terrible grief, he'd also managed to pull a half-decent bird while he was on leave.

  More importantly, he brought back with him an update from the hospitals in the UK on all the serious casualties we had suffered.

  Private Beharry had been downgraded from VSI (very seriously ill) to just SI. That meant there was a decent chance he'd live, but nobody knew in what state yet.

  Adam Llewellyn, who got petrol bombed, was going to be OK too. He was having skin grafts. Baz Bliss, who took a slug in the lung, had lost a lot of weight but was doing well too, and Kev Phillips, who got shot in the neck with the CO on 18 April, was shaping up the best of all. The nutter had even already got a tattoo of the words 'entry' by the scar on his neck where the bullet went in, and 'exit' over the scar on his shoulder where the round had left his body.


  Pikey also went away for R&R around the same time. He hadn't pulled, but he was just as chuffed because he'd had a decent pub fight instead. True to form, he'd also managed to lug back with him seventy-five trendy shirts, the sort of things you'd wear to a glitzy party. He just couldn't help himself.

  'What are you going to do with that lot, Pikey?' I asked. 'This is the desert you know. There isn't a nightclub in 500 miles. Nobody's going to buy them here, you fool!'

  Pikey knew better. 'Ah, well, we'll see about that, Danny. You want one yourself? Lovely quality, look, just feel that will ya?'

  He'd correctly worked out that here we were, a lot of very bored blokes in the middle of nowhere, with not a bloody thing to spend our money on. Given a chance at a bit of consumerism, we'd all tear his arm off. We did. He'd flogged the lot within two days. To my utter shame, I ended up buying one too.

  We'd do literally anything to relieve the boredom. Sam even proposed a day-long wank-athon competition against Longy. Sam never got close. He readily conceded at lunch-time when Longy was already four ahead.

  A better idea someone else had was to get the compound's swimming pool up and running again. It had taken a fair few bits of shrapnel but no direct hits, so the lining was sealed up pretty quickly. A hose was found, the pump was fixed, and it was filled full of river water treated by the onsite plant.

  By mid-July, four weeks into the ceasefire, it was ready for use again.

  A rare day off was declared to celebrate its opening day, a Friday. Almost the whole company flocked to it for a cooling dip and a bit of sunbathing. Its reappearance spread a coltish, holiday atmosphere around the camp. It was a novelty, something different to break up the routine. The only important thing was not to look too closely at the colour of the water.

  'Faarkin' 'ell, Danny, this could be the Algarve,' said Dale, as he spread his not inconsiderable girth down on his towel. 'Fetch us a Pina Colada will you, mate?'

  'More like Butlins from the 1950s, I'd say. We all look the bleeding same!'