Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  The main programme involved eight-mile marches with webbing, Bergens and weapons, early morning range shoots, physical and medical tests and a range of in-country briefings. In reality much of it wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before. What made it enjoyable were some of the personalities, including those who regularly left webbing lying around, and forgot standing orders; or were not really aware of them in the first place.

  Cam had already had a minor run-in with one highly strung officer whom he had accidentally bumped into turning a corner at the facility.

  “Do you know who I am?” barked the officer.

  “Look pal, if you don’t know who you are how am I supposed to know?” shouted back the diminutive Scot and strolled off. The officer’s tail stayed firmly between his legs for the rest of the training course.

  One sergeant instructor at the briefings stated that there was only one thing you could do if captured by the Taleban: “Give them the name and address of your ex-wife. Or alternatively, just don’t get captured.”

  “It was the best advice I have ever heard,” said Cam over a brew in between sessions.

  For Joe there was more than enough information to take in and an impossible amount to remember – but that was the easy part. It then had to be applied to the various scenarios soldiers were put through to see if they had taken things in or not. Acronyms relating to evading capture, IED strikes, assessing ground signs and a range of drills invaded the memory like unwanted guests. Trying to blag it was not going to work.

  At a briefing on health matters the trainer talked about the general state of the British “Toms”, or soldiers. “Why is it important to keep clean in Afghanistan?” he asked his audience. It seemed a bit of an obvious question. There was no reply so the trainer interjected explaining very carefully how most soldiers spent a lot of time eating “shit sandwiches” owing to their general failure to wash their hands after going to the ablutions. “That’s why we get so many going down with D and V; you don’t want it believe me.”

  The late summer was particularly warm and the various personnel being rotated through were large in number. Generally, in the main hangar, on most days there were around four hundred at the briefing sessions. However, the days had finished early enough to take in some sunshine and maybe go for a jog down the country lanes.

  Deployment would not be directly on completion of the training; there would be a few days off to sort out kit and say goodbye to loved ones so Joe would at least get a weekend with Alison. He would deploy through a regular army unit a few weeks hence and he and Cam had their own specialist training to do over that time including weapons forensics.

  ***

  Az had been in the mountains of Waziristan for several weeks being trained in hit-and-run methods, observational techniques, evading UAVs and reccying troop movements amongst a myriad of other things. He had been sent there straight from the Yemen after discussions with some of the commanders. They had decided that he was ready for something more serious than taking part in “those games” as they had put it. He was now having a tough time explaining to his family that his regular trips to the Middle East were “normal” working holidays. Moreover, they asked, how had he got the resources to sustain himself? If it hadn’t been for the pay he had received in the Yemen he couldn’t have financed himself any other way and they knew it.

  Despite the tough conditions and the technical challenges, he was enjoying it. He wasn’t surprised to admit that he struggled with his fitness, but found he could make up for it in other ways; for example, carrying large items over distances. For that he had earned some respect for his stamina, upper body strength and positive attitude; he was not ‘haram’ as he feared he might be called.

  He still had a bit to learn and knew that he would not actually see any action for a while, unless the area was compromised. They had come close a few times as the Pakistani Army had flown over in helicopters. His main concern was that while he was particularly looking forward to putting IEDs together he didn’t much see the point of using remote control devices, as the enemy had to know that the main threat would be from a conventional attack. If not the two sides would merely end up trying to nail each other in a virtual reality war. That wasn’t what it was about for Az. He had spoken to too many of the ‘Righteous’, many of whom had lost limbs either fighting the Soviets or in other more recent conflicts. Their wars hadn’t been “remote” contests.

  ***

  Khalil and Jeff Katz met up at a café restaurant in Green Park as they both had business in the West End, Khalil with a client and Jeff with a foreign delegation near Lancaster Gate. It was arranged at short notice by Jeff after Khalil had sent him his mobile number and it was only a short trip across from Green Park.

  “I feel like I am being both controlled and mentored by Yanks,” said Jeff in an open expression of concern to Khalil. “They really think they own this world, you know.”

  “I often feel that about Americans. It’s only natural when you think about the cash they have and the influence. My family are all Pakistanis and you would be amazed at the way Pakistan interacts with them. It is one of the main reasons why our country is so screwed up. We hate them and revere them at the same time. No other country has quite the same relationship.”

  After a pause Jeff replied: “Khalil whenever I talk to you it feels refreshing. You will be a great asset for us and there is a bright future for you in this party. You just have to go for it.”

  “I am not the sort of person to go headlong into something Jeff, as you already know; I take my time developing contacts and business. But I promise that I will give it a go.”

  “Yes I understand, take it at your own pace. But don’t let anyone put you off. If you meet negative people try and see a way round them. Or get in touch with me, Khalil. There are some stupid, selfish people as I’m sure you already know. We all come across them and they have to be dealt with, even in this organization.”

  “I appreciate the concern, Jeff, but I will be OK. Don’t worry about me,” Khalil asserted himself.

  After another iced tea Khalil and Jeff agreed to meet up more regularly than they had been. Amongst other things Khalil would edit some of Jeff’s “press releases” although Khalil wasn’t clear what that meant exactly. And Jeff would see if he could send some work his way.

  ***

  “Maniacs; you’re all maniacs,” Cam cried out across the air-conditioned tent. He unfurled the flag of St Andrew and placed it across the end wall.

  “Cam you always have to overreact. It’s just a flag man.” Joe smiled having removed Cam’s flag only minutes before from the wall of the tent.

  “Yeah; and I can put it back up just as easy as you take it down. But I bet you won’t this time.”

  “I could take it down again – you’re right about that at least.”

  And it stayed there for the rest of the time they were in Camp Bastion. It was day two of the in-country training and they were just completing the RSOI training package; eight days of running around the desert outside the walls of the base, with live firing, FOB defence, casualty evacuation and other drills. It seemed like a lifetime had passed from when they had flown in at night on a C17, at what was an impossibly steep angle, presumably to avoid any ground fire. The serried ranks of soldiers in the half-light took up almost the entire hold and in that dark grey world Joe could see the reflective patches on the back of the section commanders and officers’ helmets. It was introduction enough.

  The intense heat was hovering around forty-four degrees, but no one was counting. Joe and his mates just got through it, knowing that they only had six days left to complete; the infantry had nine.

  The FOB defence involved the discharge of rounds from every type of weapon going, in an amazing orgy of gunfire. Joe couldn’t actually see what it was supposed to achieve apart from wasting a lot of ammunition and deafening everyone in the process. True to form his own SA80 rifle (which was scrupulously cleaned before the exercises began a
nd over whose working parts he had carefully placed half a reel of green tape) had managed to clog full of sand and dust early on in the activity. Joe then tried helping out the Guardsman next to him who was struggling with his General Purpose 7.62mm Machine Gun. The latter weapon also ceased to work soon after. “God help us when we have to do this for real,” he half-joked with the Guardsman.

  Trying to keep the sand out of the weapons seemed to be one of the main pre-occupations. One exercise involved live firing in section formation towards an obstacle, taking hold of a casualty and then dragging them back a distance followed by giving the “9-liner” and “MIST” reports for casualty evacuation. Joe was the casualty and as a result sand was dragged down his backside via the top of his pants in a form of capillary action as two others pulled him backwards two hundred metres. This exercise had involved a great deal of movement and live firing on the move. Guns were jamming frequently, mainly as a result of the dust devils that blew sand and dirt into the working parts.

  The casualty evacuation reports didn’t go very well. They were to be given by the section at the end of the exercise, and were supposed to itemize all that had taken place; what the state of the casualties were as well as giving directions for landing a helicopter. But they hadn’t even got a laminated “Tactical Aide-Memoire” between the seven men in the section. Cam assured the training staff that they would rectify the situation and showed them the correct TAM the following day.

  “The TAMs are really a part of being in the armed forces,” stated Cam when they were all sat around under canvas. As a staff sergeant he was the most senior rank in their group. “So why haven’t we got any between us?” The instructor painfully reminded them all that it was a lifesaver for those going out on the ground.

  After the searing heat of the day they made their way off the ranges and a crowd of locals including small children descended upon the area scavenging for all the spent cartridges they could find. They seemed to have come from nowhere. The soldiers climbed into the Bedford trucks to make their way to the edge of the training area in order to be then marched back to the main camp. Young boys ran alongside the open-sided and outdated old four tonners: one was giving a one-fingered salute whilst shouting “fuck you” at the top of his voice. His other hand brandished a live 7.62mm round, possibly acquired from the “Gimpy” gunner Joe had been sat next to. One Guards officer shouted “fuck you” back at the kid who put up a spirited defence and ran for quite a way, gesturing with both hands.

  After a while the trucks stopped and the men disembarked to begin the Tab back into the camp. The troop of forty soldiers kicked up sand as they marched. Soon they were engulfed in a cloud of dust and those in the middle were struggling severely with their breathing. Joe and Cam were on the edge and so were luckily free of the dust cloud. It was still over forty degrees. One or two men had to be helped back to the tents from where they had passed out. It was, as Cam put it, an “emotional day”. But it was still nothing compared to the real thing. Kenny, another from Joe and Cam’s unit, broke the gloom when they were back in the tent.

  “Fuck this; I’m off for a wank!”

  “Do you feel you deserve a wank, mate? I can’t believe you have the energy,” said Joe.

  “After that shit anyone deserves a wank. And there’s nothing better than when you deserve one; let’s face it. And hey, I’m sweating like a rapist anyway,” Kenny replied.

  “He’s got a point. He is a rapist,” said Cam once Kenny had left the tent.

  “One thing’s for sure: Dave’s not going anywhere,” said Joe.

  Dave was flat out on his face. He was one of those who had passed out and the others were keeping tabs on looking after him, with a wet towel over his face to keep him cool. Joe had once passed out himself playing football in thirty-eight degree heat in Africa. This was worse.

  “Things can only get tougher!” Joe added.

  “And another thing’s for sure; we need more Screech guys,” Cam said loudly as if soliciting for help in getting more supplies of the powdered fruit drink. His favourite was raspberry, but no one was bothered what flavour they got; just dealing with the heat, having been incinerated “in-country” for less than a week was enough torment for now.

  The small group of regulars and reservists had already been shunted out of another air-conditioned tent that had been more to their liking, after having made some makeshift but bespoke furniture out of packing cases. Some warrant officers from REME had turned up claiming their pieces of paper took precedence. It had turned out that the tent next door was for diarrhoea and vomiting sufferers so Cam was more than happy to relent in the end. “They’re welcome to it,” was his parting comment.

  “The way I look at it you can either have a shit time or a good time; whatever, you are here for the same length of time so it doesn’t matter,” Cam had commented, as they lugged their way across camp with all their gear.

  In fact their final destination was almost perfect and a good base for their time in Helmand as it was much closer to the centre of the camp activities, but at the same time close enough to the pick-up point to get to the helipads. From the new tent they also had a short cut to the Bastion 2 cookhouse, NAAFI facilities and the gym. They were only using the camp as a hub as after the training had finished they would split up into small groups and go off to the FOBs and PBs to work for a few days or weeks at a time. The tent was always going to be a nice, clean, handy place to come back to. The job involved travelling round various units and by whatever means necessary (combat logistic patrols or helicopters) to check on forensics, incidents or anything intelligence-related that came up.

  The units rotating through preferred to be at the other end of the run of transit tents near the wash areas, which meant it was quiet at their end most of the time and great for watching films and getting heads down. As the vehicle pick-up point was only fifty metres away hauling kit to get to the “helis” was a relatively painless affair.

  However, after a few days tempers were beginning to flair as the temperatures increased. But that soon subsided as they split off to do different tasks in small groups. The occasional boredom was often alleviated by Dave’s party piece; dangling his member in someone’s face while standing butt naked and saying, “See this; this is a man’s body.”

  “It certainly is, mate; just keep it away from mine and we will be sweet,” replied Joe.

  “Oh yeah!” Dave sometimes exclaimed suggestively, and began to make moaning noises.

  “I apologize on behalf of the British Army for Dave’s behaviour,” Sergeant Lomax, a regular soldier, commented. He was going to be doing a lot of apologizing in the coming weeks and months and not only for Dave, or “Dangerous” - as Dave was more normally known.

  “It’s OK,” said Cam about Dave over breakfast one morning. “He may be a fuckwit, but he’s our fuckwit.”

  Together Lomax and Dave were fine examples of unreconstructed, turn of the century manhood. Lomax was twenty-five, hirsute with a reasonably well-sculpted body, which owed more to the empty jars of protein shakes lying around than any real attempt at natural body development. He was also sporting a slightly grotesque moustache as a result of the competition he and several of the others were engaged in.

  During their downtime they mostly they sat in their pews watching movies lifted off the Internet. It felt like it would be a privilege to waste two dollars on a “Chogey” DVD: the ramshackle shops run by the Afghans near the centres of Bastion 1 and 2 contained large amounts of stuff that no soldier would ever want on camp, or anywhere for that matter, including “hooky pipes”, the Afghanistan national football strip, and a lot of polished pewter items.

  “What did they think we are going to do?” muttered Dave. “Turn our tents into Afghan brothels?”

  “Do the Afghans have brothels? I mean it’s against their religion and all,” replied Lomax.

  “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find out when we are amongst the Chogeys; you know – out there!” Dave retorted, a
nd with that he winked and grinned and went off to the ablutions.

  “As mad as a box of frogs,” retorted Cam.

  In many respects Dave was the opposite of Lomax; he couldn’t grow a proper tache and wasn’t interested in body sculpture. He was more into sleeping and smoking, and idle conversation. He appeared slightly contorted; Joe remarked that he looked like he was in the early stages of werewolf development - “Teenwolf” would probably have been a better nickname than “Dangerous”. In addition Joe noticed that the very first thing Dave did on getting out of bed was make weird grunting noises. It was actually slightly frightening and Lomax had confirmed that in the two years he had known Dave this was his own opinion as well. He used the word mongtard as a descriptive term for this rather strange behaviour.

  The other members of the group were Kenny and Jack, who along with Joe and Cam formed the reservists. Lomax and Dave were the regulars. Joe began to think about why, at his time in life, he was sat in an army camp in the middle of one of the hottest and most inhospitable places in the world. The other reservists weren’t young either and this had balanced things up for him. Maybe they were all going through some kind of mid-life crisis; certainly Jack was. He had been in the regular army for many years and the reserves for many more, and had settled for being a “Stripey” or sergeant. Some said he was in the First Zulu War; Joe suspected he had been in Afghan at the time of the Second Afghan War in the nineteenth century and had somehow escaped. He looked rough, like he would chew you up and spit you out. But actually his bark was not so loud and he was friendly enough beneath the bluster.

  Kenny’s claim to fame, as a young lad, had been that when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up he had said to the teacher, “A black, male porn star.” He didn’t get asked many questions after that. He hadn’t succeeded at school; his answer to a question about Adolf Hitler in his GCE history exam was that Hitler had in fact been “a secret agent for the British all along” - so joining the Army on leaving school had been a kind of salvation. In truth there wasn’t much else he thought he could do or wanted to do.