by Andy McNab
The Why-Oh-Whys was the name that had inevitably got stuck to the YOI Cadets – probably the first time someone said the name out loud. It certainly summed up Sean’s feelings after that first, intense session in the gym.
‘You back with the real army, then, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘Recruiting for the Why-Oh-Whys was only a brief posting while I got sorted out after Afghanistan, Harker. Yes, I’m back, for my sins.’ He pulled off the blouse to reveal the standard smock of a Personal Clothing System Combat Uniform, with his three sergeant’s stripes clearly visible. From his pocket he pulled a dark blue Fusiliers beret, which he set on his head with precise, millimetre accuracy. The red and white feathered hackle ruffled proudly in the breeze.
‘And guess what, lads,’ Adams added. ‘I’m your new platoon sergeant, so it is my pleasure to be the first to tell you that what I just saw was an absolute fucking disaster. Lance Corporal Marshall’s gorillas came into the room guns blazing. If it had been live ammo, there’d have been a neat row of holes stitched right across my chest, just prior to tearing my torso apart.’ He clapped his hands together with a big smile. ‘So I can see I’m going to have the time of my life setting you lot straight.’
*
The three Warriors were parked up in a half-circle around the cottage, while Franklin took them all through the exercise – what had gone right, what had gone wrong, quite apart from the small detail of having killed their hostage. A light drizzle drifted over them.
The platoon was split into three sections, each commanded by a corporal, with a lance corporal as his second in command. Above them was the sergeant, second in command of the whole platoon, and above him was Franklin – the Rupert, the officer in overall charge, with a piece of paper signed by the Queen to prove it.
In real life, Franklin would have been the one getting it in the neck from his own superiors for the hostage’s death, so he was probably being nicer than anyone deserved.
‘OK, so you weren’t expecting a hostage. Not important. I didn’t tell you to expect one. Not important. I might not have had the full gen from Intel either. Or the hostage might have been acquired more recently than the latest report. Or there might not have been a hostage at all, but there could have been valuable intelligence for the Green Slime’ – he meant the Intelligence Corps – ‘on planned attacks or the placement of Improvised Explosive Devices – anything that would serve the army better if it was retrieved in one piece, rather than vaporized along with the people who put it there. That was why we went in on foot in the first place, rather than just taking the place down with a Light Anti-Structures Missile. And if you were on patrol in Helmand province, or anywhere, you might get orders to go in somewhere without me or Sergeant Adams to look over your shoulder and make sure you don’t spray hostages with bullets as you go into the room.’
‘It’s only training—’ West muttered, and broke off when Adams wheeled round on him.
Franklin gave half a smile. ‘Care to take this one, Sergeant?’
Adams didn’t need to be asked twice. ‘“Only” training, did I hear you say, Private whose name I won’t bother asking because I will then have you for ever pegged as Private Whoever Who Says Fuck-Stupid Things? There’s no such thing as “only” training. It’s only ever one step away from the real thing. You train hard to fight easy, because if you train easy, then you fight hard and you die. We’re at full readiness for deployment at all times. We may have bugged out from Afghanistan, but it doesn’t mean that some other pile of shite isn’t going to come and land on us any time soon.’
‘IS,’ said someone.
‘IS,’ Adams agreed, ‘who would just love you lot to crop up in a home movie on their Facebook feeds. Meanwhile the Russians are getting arsy again, Christ only knows what’s going on in Asia, and an Italian gave my wife a funny look the other day.’ There was a ripple of slightly nervous laughter, dented by his obvious sincerity beneath the joking. ‘It’ll happen, lads. Attacks on the continent, foiled plots in our own country – it’s just a matter of time before it all blows up in our faces.’
A silence hung over the platoon for a few seconds, before Franklin asked: ‘Any other questions?’ He surveyed the assembled platoon.
Mitra put a hesitant hand up as far as his shoulder, then seemed to decide What the hell, and thrust it into the air.
‘What is it, Private Mitra?’
‘Sir, can we get a cork for Private Bright’s butt? Or at least make him ride up top next time?’
After the tension of getting their arses publicly torn off, it was like pricking a balloon. Everyone pissed themselves laughing.
‘You love it, really, Kama Sutra,’ said Bright. ‘The bouquet is exquisite.’
West’s hand rose. ‘Sir? Shitey just said “exquisite”. Isn’t that a court-martial offence?’
‘Only if he can spell it,’ Franklin said, without missing a beat. ‘Right, that’s enough for today. Dismiss them, Sergeant.’
There was one more surprise that day. As the Warrior engines fired into life and the sections loaded themselves up, Heaton called, ‘Stenders!’
And when Sean looked over at him, he jerked a thumb up at the turret of the Warrior that carried their section. ‘Up here, with me.’
The infantry section sat in the compartment inside the rear hull. The driver had his own personal world in the front hull, and the commander and gunner took the gun turret on top. Heaton was the commander, and for the time being there was no gunner, so that space tended to be handed out on a whim.
Sean was surprised to find that it was his turn, but he wasn’t going to argue. It beat squeezing in with everyone else, so he flashed a big smile at his mates and climbed up nimbly. He dropped himself into the gunner’s hatch and ignored the shouts of ‘Wanker!’ from below. He would have done just the same in their place.
A few moments later, Heaton climbed up into his own hatch. The two of them were side by side, emerging from the waist up. Heaton pulled on his headset. ‘In your own time, Penfold,’ he said into the microphone.
The Warrior lurched into motion and followed the others along the rutted tank tracks that crisscrossed Salisbury Plain. This was the army’s training ground in the south of England – a world within a world that civilians could only know from looking at Google Maps.
For a few minutes Heaton just leaned his hands against the coaming of the turret, looking out across the rolling grassy landscape. Then he pulled the microphone down from his mouth and put his hand over it, so that only Sean could hear him. ‘You never said you were in the Why-Oh-Whys.’ Somehow he made it a question.
Sean looked at him sideways and shrugged. ‘You never asked.’
Technically, that was giving lip to a superior, but Sean reckoned there was enough informality around – and a small enough gap between their ranks – that he could get away with it.
Truth to tell, no, he hadn’t mentioned that bit of his past. He appreciated that in the army, no one leaned on their mates to get their life stories. The Why-Oh-Whys had been his way of leaving the past behind, and that was where they belonged.
‘Right . . .’ Heaton said softly. His mouth twitched into a faint smile. ‘So what were you in for?’
Sean drew his head back with a frown. That was a bit like asking When did you last have a wank? No one’s business, and not something he had to answer.
‘OK, I’ll make it a little easier for you,’ Heaton said, maybe guessing why Sean had hesitated. ‘Breaking and entering, me. Feltham. Course, we didn’t have any cadets in my day. Had to work ourselves out the hard way.’ His eyes and his smile had narrowed.
So Heaton had been in a YOI too. Sean still thought it was none of his business, but OK, he appreciated the confidence.
‘Taking without consent,’ he said. ‘Burnleigh.’
‘Well, ain’t we a pair, then? Bad lads together, that’s us.’ Heaton paused, frowned. ‘But the sergeant . . . ?’ There was just a hint of uncertainty in his voice, and Sean
burst out laughing.
‘Hell, no! No way. He’s straight up. Straight as they come. No, he was just in the Why-Oh-Whys for . . .’ He paused. ‘Well, I dunno, to tell the truth. I mean . . .’
And it was then that he remembered Adams hadn’t always been as straight as they come. He had heard it from the horse’s mouth and seen the evidence in his tattoos. But he wasn’t going to say it. It was Adams’s story to tell, not his.
However, Heaton smiled grimly. ‘He said it himself. Makes jokes about traumatic flashbacks, said he was getting sorted out after Afghanistan. Reckon our sergeant has had a touch of trouble . . .’ He tapped his head and whistled.
Sean scowled. The chance to ride up in the turret was getting less and less enjoyable. ‘Is that important?’
‘Just like to know what I’m up against.’
‘Why are you up against anything?’ Sean said it before he could think.
Heaton looked at him coldly, then suddenly smiled. ‘You’re totally right. I’m out of order. Wouldn’t want anyone talking about me like that. Just old habits . . . Shit, you know what I mean. In the – let’s say, in the old days, you had to know what was what out on the streets, unless you wanted to get shanked. So I basically like to know everything. What I’m getting into, who I’m with. Don’t rely on anyone else to get it right, even if they have got three stripes on their arm.’
Sean didn’t want to make an enemy of the corporal, and he could certainly relate to that. So he breathed out. ‘Yeah. Damn right.’
‘It’s good to talk to someone who understands.’ A pause, and then Heaton barked a harsh laugh. ‘I mean, there was this time I was with this mate, Eamonn, and we accidentally wandered off our turf. And it was only the frigging Yardies on the next patch, right? Kind of sensitive about wandering white boys. I think they could see we were just kids, so they didn’t take real offence, they just wanted to scare us, but they had us surrounded and they asked our names. And Eamonn was just getting them more and more pissed off every time he opened his mouth, and neither of us could understand why – until I clocked it: they thought he was taking the piss out of their accent. Every time he said his name they thought he was saying Eh, man.’
‘Yeah?’ Sean snorted and laughed. It sounded exactly like the neighbourhoods he had known – and some of the people. ‘Well, you know how I got my nickname?’
Heaton was outraged when Sean told him. ‘No fucking way do you sound like some ponce actor pretending to be a Cockney! Bloody yokels don’t know a proper accent when they hear it. I knew this guy once . . .’
The convoy of Warriors rolled up to the depot, with Sean and Heaton laughing together like old mates.
Whatever else you did in the army – whatever else was going on, whatever other plans you had – in the absence of an all-out invasion by enemy forces, your kit came first. Your uniform had to be pressed, your boots had to be sparkling. Your weapon, your kit, yourself: that was your order of priority.
But after that, if you weren’t on duty or bivvied out on the Plain, your time was your own. And that was how Sean came to be sitting behind the wheel of Clark’s bright red Cosworth, parked with the bonnet up in one of the spaces outside the barracks where they both lived in Single Living Accommodation, in en suite rooms costing all of £58 per month, all bills included.
The Cosworth was hardly recognizable as the car it had once been, thanks to spray jobs, body kit, roll cage, massive performance upgrades, and a sound system that would put a nightclub to shame. Sean grasped the steering wheel in both hands and breathed in the perfume of the leather seating, while the engine throbbed gently in the background like an animal that would be severely pissed off if someone woke it up.
Gaz, mate, you should be here . . . he thought. He still sometimes – but only sometimes – thought of his old friend, and at least he could do it now without the feeling of a knife going into his heart.
‘OK,’ Clark called from behind the bonnet. ‘Give it a tap . . .’
Sean trod gently on the accelerator. The engine’s throb slid rapidly up the scale, from barely contained threat, to dangerous, to The fuck do you think you’re doing?
Nice! It had been a long time since he’d sat behind the wheel of a car, pumped the engine, and felt the machine respond to his demands.
Once upon a time his reaction to a car like this would have been to nick it. Then he would have driven it to within an inch of its life and probably dumped it in pieces, ruined – unless of course he decided to hand it over to Gaz for stripping down.
There were moments when he wished he could go back in time to meet his younger self and smash the little prick’s face in. A car like this deserved to cherished. He wondered if he would ever get the addiction to motors out of his system. Maybe when they let him drive the Warriors.
‘OK!’ Clark shouted. There was the tiniest change in the note of the engine. ‘That’s it. Thanks.’
Sean reluctantly took his foot off the pedal and the engine rumbled back down to its usual idle. He climbed out, and found to his surprise that they had an audience. Corporal Heaton, in civvies, stood a short distance away, hands thrust into his pockets.
‘Nice car, Stenders.’
‘Thanks, Corp,’ Clark said.
‘Mind if I have a word?’ Heaton said. Yet again, Clark might as well not have been there, which struck Sean as bloody rude. He and Clark looked at each other, but she diplomatically rolled her eyes and buried her head in the engine again.
‘Sure.’ He wandered over and looked quizzically at Heaton.
The corporal looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Say, this is going to sound kind of weird, but, uh . . . you got any plans for the weekend?’ And then, just as Sean was asking himself in disbelief, Is he trying to chat me up? he burst out laughing. ‘Shit, that sounded like a come-on, didn’t it? Wasn’t meant to. I’ll try again. On the total understanding that we’re both one hundred per cent straight, have you got any plans?’
Still weird, Sean thought. And of all weekends, this wasn’t the best one for Heaton to decide they were suddenly going to be mates. Sean didn’t want the corporal declaring that they were going to hit the town together.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Saturday, I’m heading into London.’
‘OK, that’s cool. But, uh, Friday evening? Reason I’m asking – my girlfriend’s coming over, and she’s got a college friend staying with her, and they’re both from our old neighbourhood too, and the friend’s going to be at a loose end unless . . .’
Sean’s eyes went wide. ‘You trying to fix me up?’
‘Well . . .’ Heaton flashed a grin. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans?’
Sean was still inclined to say No, thanks, on principle. He had never needed to be set up with a girl before and he didn’t want to start now.
On the other hand . . .
Someone like Clark would only ever be a good mate, and it had been a long time – a long time – since Sean had got the chance to be with a girl, one to one, instead of shouting over the noise of half a dozen pissed squaddies in the pub.
‘Yeah. OK then. So, how do I get to yours?’
Heaton gave his shoulder a friendly punch. ‘Be at the gatehouse, eighteen hundred, Friday evening. I’ll give you a lift.’
Sean went back to the car, still wearing a slightly puzzled frown.
Clark looked up at him from the air filter she was unscrewing. ‘Did I just hear you get fixed up on a blind date with the corporal’s girlfriend’s girlfriend?’
‘Uh. Yeah? I think you did.’
‘Well, enjoy. And if you can’t be good, be careful.’
She laughed when he gave her the finger.
Another of the many things Sean had learned from the army was to be punctual. He was at the gatehouse at 17:55, Friday. It was a modern, red-brick building with parking spaces just inside the barrier, and a large sign warning that the threat level was SEVERE. Which, Sean knew, meant that in the opinion of people cleverer than him, an attack on UK forces, somewhe
re, was considered highly likely.
The sentries were taking it seriously. The barrier was down; every incoming driver had to produce ID before it went up for them. Every now and then a car would be picked out at random to pull over into the spaces so that they could check under it with a mirror. Bonnet and boot would be popped, and a dog would be sent in to sniff for the chemicals associated with explosives.
Sean appreciated the effort, but right now he was wondering if he had overdone it when he gelled his hair and spritzed himself with aftershave.
Heaton was waiting for him, leaning casually against a metallic blue Subaru Impreza – 4-wheel drive, 2.2-litre engine and a hood scoop to feed its greedy oxygen habit. Sean whistled. Another car Gaz wouldn’t have minded getting his hands on – though probably just to strip straight down. It had come like that out of the factory – it didn’t have the hand-made artistry of the Cosworth. But still . . .
‘Man, that is sweet.’
The corporal grinned. ‘If you look at Debs’s mate like you’re looking at my car, you’ll get a slap in the face, you dickhead. Get in.’
‘Shit, I thought Clarky was the petrolhead!’ Sean said as he secured the seat belt. ‘How do you afford this? And it’s new, isn’t it? Fucking hell . . .’
Heaton punched the accelerator, blasting them out of the barracks and onto the road. The surge of acceleration that pushed Sean back into his seat was like a hug from an old friend.
‘Clark’s car is just like her,’ Heaton said. ‘All colour and in your face about it. Nothing on the inside.’
OK, that was not cool. Several responses ran through Sean’s mind, but he was the guest in a sweet car, so he bit his lip and let it go. The corporal eased back on the speed, dropped a gear, and hung a right. The Impreza took the corner like it was on rails. Heaton punched it again and the roar of the exhaust made the air throb.
‘You go to war,’ Heaton continued, ‘you’ve got to be united, all the guys together, heart and soul. Yeah, yeah, Clark can cut it in training and there’s probably a space for her somewhere in the army. But front line, like you and me? Nah. See how long she lasts when it comes to the crunch.’
