by Andy McNab
‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ said the sergeant, returning to his chair and opening a drawer. ‘You’ve done your two tours, you’ve proved yourself as a regular soldier, a decent one – just not good enough for what Recce Platoon is after.’
‘Scott, Liam . . .’ said Liam. If he’d failed, then they’d have to drag him from there because he wasn’t quitting, not ever. He’d come too far, gone through too much. Despite his exhaustion, he stood firm.
The sergeant stared hard at Liam, a hawk eying its prey. ‘You see, this is what I mean, Scott,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘You’re arrogant! You really think that just because you’ve fired a couple of RPGs in ’Stan you can waltz into this and everything’s fine and dandy. Well, here’s a wake-up call, kid: it fucking well isn’t. Go back to the infantry – you’re not wanted here.’
Welsh had to just be playing mind games with him, thought Liam. If he had failed, they’d have dragged him out by now, surely. Which meant that once this was over, it would be stress positions and icy water yet again. But he was numb to it now, couldn’t feel anything, think straight. They could beat the crap out of him for all he cared; he wasn’t quitting.
The sergeant stood up from his desk. Liam’s eyes came back into focus and he watched as Welsh approached him again. But this time, Liam noticed immediately that something was different. For a few seconds he couldn’t work out what it was, his brain running idiotically slow.
Then it clicked: the sergeant was wearing a black band round his left arm, just above the elbow. Why? What was that about? Was there a funeral? What the hell were they going to do to him now? A mock execution? He wasn’t sure how much more he could take, and a blindfold and a gun against his head might just tip him over the edge. Somehow he had to remain strong, no matter what. Just had to.
‘Well?’ asked the sergeant. ‘You have anything else you want to say?’
But that band bothered Liam. He knew that it was significant. Hadn’t something been mentioned about it during the briefing before the exercise? But what the hell was it? Then, as the sergeant came to stand right next to him again, he remembered. It was a sign, wasn’t it? Yes, that was it, a sign that something was over. But what?
‘You’ve passed, Scott,’ the sergeant said. ‘Well done.’
Then something clicked in Liam’s mind. The band – it meant the exercise was finished. It was a visual signal that would only be used when the interrogation was over.
‘Scott, Liam . . .’ he said, unable to get his thoughts straight.
‘We know who you are, Scott,’ said Welsh, a hint of a smile creeping across his face. ‘You’ve passed. The exercise is over. Well done!’
Liam couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. He’d passed. He’d fucking well passed! It was over. He’d survived the interrogation, the torture. He’d done it!
The elation was overwhelming and it took all of Liam’s will power to stop himself from collapsing to the floor with relief.
‘Seriously? We’re done?’
Sergeant Welsh nodded. ‘Now fuck off will you, Scott? You look like shit.’
Two months later, Liam stood in the briefing room. It was the perfect example of military simplicity: tables, chairs, a whiteboard, and that was it. Comfort was not a consideration. Functionality ruled.
The whole of Liam’s platoon was there, approximately thirty men, all of them reconnaissance soldiers. And he was not only one of the least experienced, but also of the lowest rank, a lance corporal being the bottom rank for an NCO.
‘I bet this is where we find out that Recce Platoon is actually responsible for the sodding laundry and latrines,’ grumbled Pearce.
Liam laughed. Since completing the LRCC, life seemed to have passed in a blur. He could recall snatches of it, but it was all so jumbled up he wasn’t quite sure what had happened when. The training had been intense, exciting, stressful, exhausting and at times downright terrifying – particularly the escape and evasion exercise – but despite his initial misgivings about whether or not he had made the right decision, he’d completed it. Since then, having joined the Recce Platoon back at his battalion, they had been kept busy on numerous training exercises, all designed to hone the skills they had learned, and give them new ones. His feet had barely touched the ground.
An officer strode to the front of the room, walking with purpose.
Captain Owusu was in his early thirties. Tanzanian by birth, but brought to the UK as an infant by his parents, his accent was part African home life, part Brixton, all overlaid by British army officer speak. Average height, but not average build, he spent his spare time chasing adrenaline by skydiving, mountain biking, surfing – indeed, doing any sport that had the word ‘extreme’ in the description. His only mode of transport was a weary Transit van, the white paint of which was fighting a losing battle with the rust it tried to hide. The captain couldn’t care less that it was an eyesore in the car park. As far as he was concerned, it held all his kit, and that was what he cared about. The captain, like most officers, had a reputation for not just keeping up with his men, but bettering them – Captain Owusu wasn’t the kind of person who would ever ask anyone to do something if he couldn’t do it himself.
Liam and the others fell silent. This was no ordinary briefing and the atmosphere was thick with anticipation.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Firstly, thank you all for taking time out from your busy schedules to be here. I promise I won’t keep you for long.’
A rattle of laughter skipped around the room. Liam, like everyone else, knew that the meeting wasn’t optional.
‘In two weeks the battalion will be deployed to Kenya,’ said the captain. ‘This is a routine six-week exercise at the British Army Training Unit in Kenya, called BATUK for short.’
So far nothing new, thought Liam. So why had they been called in specially?
‘As I’m sure you are all aware,’ continued Owusu, ‘the local troops – the Kenyan Defence Force – have a job on to deal with the threat of the terrorist group Al Shabaab. Our task, as the battalion’s Recce Platoon, is to go out there and help them. While everyone else at BATUK will be taking part in training and live-fire exercises, we will be teaching the KDF the kinds of skills that I hope each of you is now expert in.’
Al Shabaab. Liam had seen the name cropping up now and again in the press. The militant group was a serious threat, linked to a slew of horrific attacks.
‘I will now hand over to Lieutenant Young, who will give you a quick recap on exactly who the Kenyans are dealing with.’
Lieutenant Young took the floor. He was the polar opposite of the captain, all height, blond hair and public school upbringing. And yet, like Owusu, he spoke simply and directly. Liam had heard that Young’s parents had wanted him to become a lawyer and had been none too impressed when, after graduating, he had gone straight off to Sandhurst.
‘Al Shabaab, as I am sure you are all aware, is an affiliate of Al Qaeda. Based in Somalia, it is fighting an insurgency against the recognized Somali federal government, based in Mogadishu.’
Now that was a name Liam knew, thanks in no small part to the movie Black Hawk Down. Based on the Battle of Mogadishu, it gave a graphic, if not entirely accurate, account of the United States’ attempt to capture a Somalian warlord called Mohamed Farrah Aidid.
‘Due to the group’s capacity to carry out attacks beyond its borders, notably in Kenya itself,’ said the lieutenant, ‘anything we can do to help the KDF not only prepare for attacks, but also prevent them being carried out in the first place, is vital. The Ethiopian military is doing the same – there is a concerted regional effort to stop the terrorists.’
Liam remembered his last tour of Afghanistan. He had gone up close and personal with the Taliban. He had no doubt that this new enemy was just as capable and ruthless.
‘The group,’ continued Young, ‘has targeted peace-keepers, civilians and the military, and it seems to be showing no signs of backing down or easing off. It has a strong inf
luence on the ground; its leaders are all members of a Shura Council. This council has not only put together its own policy for Somalia, it also fully expects local administrations to abide by it.’
When Liam had first heard about the training exercise, he had been expecting something in line with what he had been used to as a regular soldier in 2 Rifles – some kind of activity that involved all of them working together to learn and become better soldiers. Here, though, in Recce Platoon, it was something different. Instead of focusing only on themselves, they were heading out to aid others. And he liked the sound of that.
The lieutenant sat down and Captain Owusu was at the front once again.
‘The KDF is building up to going on the offensive,’ he said. ‘Following recent events in the capital involving Al Shabaab, the government there has decided against simply preparing for another attack. Instead, it wants to deploy into Somalia to deal with the terrorists there before they even have a chance to cross the border. And that is where we come in.’
Liam was listening intently now and he leaned forward to make sure he didn’t miss a single word.
‘Information is key to this, and our mission is to ensure that we teach the Kenyans how to be proper sneaky bastards.’
This got a laugh, but the captain’s face didn’t move.
‘If the Kenyans can establish exactly what Al Shabaab is up to, where it is located, and anything else deemed important, then it has a much higher chance of success than simply going in hoping for the best. So, needless to say, I will be depending on all of you not just to demonstrate your professionalism, but to do so with a skill set that will allow us to arm the KDF with exactly what they need to carry out their role and face down the threat of Al Shabaab effectively. Any questions?’
No one raised a hand.
‘Good,’ said the captain. ‘So let’s all get a shift on and ready ourselves. Dismissed!’
Two weeks after their initial briefing, Liam and the rest of his platoon were flown to the Kenyan capital, Nairobi. From there, it was a 200km hop north by helicopter to BATUK in Nanyuki. And the flight was almost over.
Liam was strapped into the back of the Chinook. It had been bumpy and noisy, but that hadn’t made it any less awesome. Around him sat other soldiers from the platoon, their kit piled up between them. Now they were coming in to land.
Liam did his best not to smile, but it was almost impossible. He had done some amazing things in his army life, but all as a regular soldier. Now, though, as the Chinook touched down, the ramp dropped open, and swirls of dust danced up to greet them, he was part of an elite group. This was where he was meant to be: a new life, a new experience and, now, a new enemy . . .
6
‘Not a bad place for a holiday,’ said Cordner, as Liam followed him into where their eight-man section would be bunking down together at BATUK. ‘Wonder what the room service is like?’
It was late afternoon and the fierce heat of Kenya was a shock to the system after life in the UK. The air was bone dry and the temperature had been enough to start him sweating almost immediately. To Liam, it was like he’d fallen asleep en route and woken up back in Camp Bastion in Afghanistan, and the time that had passed since his last tour had been nothing but a dream.
Bastion had housed approximately 28,000 people and was the size of a large town. BATUK was considerably smaller, but nonetheless had a familiar feel to it. This was in part due to the landscape. Though visibly greener in places than the Afghan desert, with nearby craggy hills displaying thick foliage, it was similarly hot and dusty. The snow-capped Mount Kenya was visible in the distance, clouds hanging thick around it like damp towels.
It was why, six times a year, the British Army sent soldiers out here to train. The army had a specially-designed Afghan village somewhere in the forests of Norfolk, but for soldiers being sent to theatre in hot countries BATUK provided a more realistic training environment. Surrounded by a bombproof wall built of Hescos – huge canvas bags filled with sand, grit and soil dug up from the surrounding area – the camp included a hospital, helicopter landing area, gym and mess hall. It really was a mini version of the UK’s presence in Afghanistan.
The accommodation, however, wasn’t quite up to Bastion standard. Green canvas tents, going grey in the sun, housed the constantly rotating groups of soldiers from the UK. A small, dusty parade ground was flanked by an area hung with lines to dry clothing and doss bags. And if the wind was heading in the wrong direction, the distinct whiff of chemical toilets would drift by.
Their section included Biggs, Pearce and Cordner. Liam had only really got to know the other four in the eight-man section since joining the Recce Platoon proper after completing the LRCC. Over the next six weeks they’d be living in each other’s pockets, so he hoped they’d all get on. One of the platoon, Callum Waterman, was already settled in and Liam nodded a hello; they had spent some time together before the flight out.
‘Home sweet home, hey?’ said Waterman. ‘You’ve not been out here before, have you?’
Liam shook his head as he started to sort through his kit. Making anywhere, even a hole in the ground, feel like home was something all soldiers did. Usually a few family photographs would appear, a poster or two, some random souvenirs. Liam’s photographs were not of his family, but of some of the lads he’d served with during his past two tours. He had little contact with his parents: his father was a total tosser, and his mum, though proud of what Liam had gone on to achieve, was rarely in touch.
‘Finished my LRCC a few weeks back,’ said Liam. ‘Before that I did two tours in Afghanistan. So this is a first. Reminds me of Bastion.’
A distant sound caught him off guard. It was a strange howling noise that set the hairs on his neck on end.
‘That’s the great thing about coming out here,’ said Waterman. ‘You get a free safari trip thrown in!’
‘What the hell was that?’ Liam asked. The sound had reminded him of a school trip to a zoo when he was a kid.
‘Hyena,’ said Waterman. ‘Get used to it. The wildlife out here is as beautiful as it is dangerous. And most of it wants to try and eat you.’
Waterman was a corporal, and as far as Liam had so far gathered he had only two interests: heavy metal music and horror. If he wasn’t listening to one then he was watching or reading the other. He had a fair number of tattoos too; whereas Liam had just the one – the Rifles insignia on his left arm – Waterman clearly viewed his skin as a canvas, somehow just keeping it in check enough not to annoy the army. He’d once given Liam a guided tour. It had been like a trip on a ghost train, with most of the tattoos representing some horror icon or another.
‘I’ve been to worse places,’ Waterman continued. ‘The bar is out of bounds to non-permanent staff, but unless you’re a complete alcoholic then you should be able to handle that, right?’
‘A beer goes well in the heat, though,’ said Liam, remembering thirsting after one in Afghanistan on more than one occasion.
‘And at least we get to do decent stuff with our time out here rather than just playing at soldiering,’ added Waterman. ‘That’s half the reason I went Recce. Got a bit tired of just training exercises out here – figured there was more to do than that, so here I am.’
Liam hoped Waterman was right about everything he’d said; he liked to stay busy. And although he was sure he’d dealt with his self-doubts, now and again he still wondered if joining Recce had been the right decision. Time would tell, he thought, and six weeks here was undoubtedly just what he needed.
Three other lads bumbled into the sleeping area to join them. Like Waterman, they were experienced Recce Platoon soldiers and clearly knew each other well, launching straight into handshakes and swearing and man-hugs. They were followed by Pearce, who immediately clocked the photographs Liam had put up.
‘That taken during your last tour?’
The picture Pearce was referring to was of Liam standing with another soldier. They were both tanned, dusty, weighed down with
kit, and beaming the grins of two lads happy in the moment.
‘My first,’ said Liam, unpacking his bergen. ‘That’s Cameron, good mate from Harrogate and Catterick. He didn’t come home.’
‘Sorry to hear that, mate,’ said Pearce. ‘That’s properly shit.’
There was no fake mourning or awkwardness in Pearce’s response, and Liam appreciated that. What he’d said was straight to the point and honest. A soldier talking.
‘Mortar round got him. He was a bloody excellent soldier. Messed me up a bit, losing him.’
‘I lost a mate too,’ said Pearce. ‘Fucking sniper slotted him while we were doing a foot patrol. Never found the bastard, either.’
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Biggs and Cordner were with them.
‘Ah, crap,’ said Cordner as he and Biggs wandered in and lobbed their own kit onto the two beds opposite Liam and Pearce. ‘Is there nothing I can do to get away from you two shitheads?’
‘Admit it,’ Pearce replied. ‘You requested to be with us. Couldn’t live without a little midnight cuddle from RB.’ He chuckled at his own joke and Liam grinned; his mate never missed the opportunity to take the piss out of him over the ration bag incident.
‘Not much point trying to settle in straight away – we’re all wanted in the briefing room sharpish,’ Biggs said.
Liam hadn’t forgotten about the briefing – he just wanted to make the most of whatever time he had, and settling in was important. Seeing the photograph of Cameron had reaffirmed his view that joining Recce Platoon had been a good decision. He had seen up close and personal just how fragile life was. Cameron’s death had made him realize that he had to make the best of everything that came his way. It was why he’d managed to somehow get a transfer from 2 Rifles to 4 Rifles on returning from his first tour, so that he could get back out into theatre as quickly as possible. It was also why he’d gone for the LRCC.
Lieutenant Young popped his head into the sleeping area. ‘Get a shift on, lads. Briefing in a couple of minutes.’
