Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  Once they had found an available tent, after much searching, they dumped their kit and headed for scoff. After lunch they walked around the camp looking for the ISO container with all the forensics information. It seemed miles away; the camp was enormous and included what was essentially once an industrial area. Most of the buildings had been impacted by some kind of air-dropped weapons at some time and twisted metal was the order of the day. They got to what looked like an old barn being used as an ammunition storehouse; it was one of the best-constructed buildings on the base and home to whole flights of birds and insects. The proximity of a corner of the base meant that the barn was sided on two sides by sangars and high Hesco walls with a small dusty gap between. There had obviously been an ongoing IDF threat and the ammunition point seemed to be in completely the wrong place in the camp. Trailing off into the distance was one whole flank of the base with a cylindrical structure in the centre that looked like it had been built by the Soviets.

  They worked all day checking items brought in by search teams and finished up with some cold drinks outside a small ISO container that had been set up on a discrete part of the camp; everything was refrigerated including the chocolate bars. To Cam and his men that was the definition of civilized. They were then told they would be in the area for longer than a couple of days as they now had to go to the local patrol bases and checkpoints. It didn’t bother Joe, but it did Jez who seemed to want to move constantly from one job to the next; he couldn’t sit still for longer than a day.

  “That’s training for you – always ready for the next job,” Joe said to Cam when they discussed the situation over two cans of Mountaindew.

  “It doesn’t always work that way you know,” replied Cam.

  “I know what you mean; if you rush around too much sooner or later it catches up with you,” Joe replied.

  “Exactly; look at what we have done work-wise, one hell of a lot. The way I see it, you can take as much or as little time as you want; either way you are here for the same length of time no matter what. Would it have favoured us to have gone even faster than we have, especially in this heat?” asked Cam.

  “Of course not,” replied Joe, without pausing.

  “I rest my case,” stated Cam. “You really don’t want to be pushing yourself too hard here. And that includes stag duty you maniac. Although I will put your name down if you insist.”

  Joe adopted a slightly robotic voice: “No, Cam, I am happy with the current situation. I will let you know if there is any change in my demeanour. And I’ll do it if asked anyway.”

  “Using big words again Carney - it’s going against you, you know!”

  “Yeah, I think I have always been aware of that,” replied Joe, tilting his cold can of Mountain Dew at Cam.

  “By the way I think it’ll be ‘smart casual’ at scoff this evening. Don’t forget your cufflinks Joe. I don’t want to have to pull you up again.” Cam grinned.

  “No, I won’t forget that one, sir; thanks for reminding me. But don’t wear the kilt this time, there’s a good chap. It frightens the locals.”

  The following morning they pushed on to some of the patrol bases in a Mastiff convoy; something Cam had dubbed the “Helmand taxi service”. An officer jumped on at one point and obviously didn’t quite know where he was.

  “Is this Mastiff going to PB2?” he shouted down the cab.

  Cam looked at him and replied. “I don’t know, sir, but we’re going to PB4. Maybe you can get off there and flag another one down.”

  Joe and Jez stifled a laugh, as the officer didn’t seem to see anything untoward in the comment. “Oh yes, that’s probably the best way Q,” he replied.

  They eventually got to PB4 and Cam left Joe and Jez in the base to go and check reports of activity around a nearby CP. Some new forensics had turned up. He went in a Husky vehicle with a driver and some paras. When Cam got there he found that the CP was essentially just a couple of small structures in a large compound. It was surrounded on two sides by built up areas with narrow lanes separating them from the CP. Mud walls over ten feet tall fronted the lanes with compounds dotted around. It was the edge of the village and the remaining two sides of the CP looked out over open land. Shrapnel holes through the hessian fabric and timber studwork and pockmarks in the walls were all testimony to recent battles. Cam was surprised at how narrow the access was and couldn’t believe some of the vehicles could get through to the CP.

  According to the sergeant major the local activity was increasing. Moreover, new weapons and explosives finds were being made and that required the attentions of forensic teams. There had also been a few misfires by the soldiers at the CP. Cam replied that he wasn’t there to ruin careers, just to help get to the bottom of what was happening.

  He checked all the locations around the sangars, placing numbered signs for each location and photographing shrapnel holes as well as the area around the sangar closest to the recent misfire blast. When he finished he had a cursory look over one of the walls near the entrance; there was a dogleg in the wall fifty metres down.

  “Surely the lanes are overwatched?” he said to the sergeant major in attendance.

  “Not totally; we do our best with what we have.”

  “Do you ever check the surrounding compounds?”

  “Not all the time; but we have enough sangars and there’s the overwatch capability.”

  Cam mulled it over. “That lane is a VP. I think we should put a Barma team down there,” he said pointing past the dogleg in the lane.

  “Why? I thought you were inspecting the CP and looking at forensics?”

  “I am and I will do it; but I have this hunch that there might be something in the lane.”

  “OK Q - I’ll find some Vallons that work.” Within minutes a corporal had a Barma team equipped with hand-held Vallons. The sergeant major gave them a briefing summing up with: “Right, guys; two outer and two inner to Barma down that lane.”

  The four soldiers came forward. They started donning the kit and testing the signals on the hand-held detectors.

  On the NCO’s command they set off down the lane. Cam watched as the corporal directed the team. After a few minutes the shout “Stop!” came back. One of the men on the side nearest the compound walls to the left had picked up a signal.

  “I don’t know what it is, sir, but I will check when I get closer to the wall of the compound.”

  “OK,” replied the sergeant major. “Just see if you can get a closer ID.”

  Cam had noticed that there had been a total absence of activity in the streets leading up to the CP. The atmospherics had altered from when they had arrived. It was now mid-afternoon and the real heat of the day was upon them. The soldiers were also checking for ground signs and differences in wall colour; all obvious areas where something could have been dug in.

  The sergeant major shouted to the team: “Have a good look up the walls and around the area. Use the weapon sights, guys.”

  The soldiers carried out the checks; the front man was nearly at the gate of the compound. “I can see some discolouration in the wall; something has been dug in. There’s a wire coming out.”

  “That’s good enough for me. All of you slowly make your way back,” said the sergeant major.

  As the last man was nearing the gate of the CP there was the sudden sweep as air rushed out of their lungs. The shock wave followed blowing everyone off their feet. Dust, debris and mud came flying past. The entire place was engulfed by the blast and its impact. Solid matter came raining down. Then there was a momentary silence as people checked around them.

  “I need an immediate report,” shouted the sergeant major. “Casualties now. Check all your mates.”

  His immediate concern was for the Barma team he had sent out, but anyone could have been hit by flying debris, especially if they hadn’t been wearing their helmets and eye protection. When it became obvious that no one was seriously injured the crack of sniper rounds could be heard.

  “Everyon
e hit the deck; can anyone give a target indication?” bawled the sergeant major.

  One of the Barma team shouted back, “It’s coming from the place we have just been; I think it’s the overhanging roof set back near the dogleg.”

  Cam could just about make out the roof through a gap between the gateposts and wall.

  The sergeant major carried on shouting orders. “Get the sniper onto that location and the fire team. All teams to cover their arcs.”

  After locating his fire teams he got a SIT REP sent to PB2. They didn’t need a “9 liner” yet as there were no reported casualties. But in the back of his mind was the fact they would need to radio a “10 liner” for an IED team once they had cleared the compounds. And they might also need a MERT or PEDRO if there were any casualties.

  For now they got men into locations and the snipers went to work picking targets. They soon had the enemy snipers under control and the sergeant major’s men were laying down deliberate fire on the compounds. Several volleys of 40mm grenades hit elevated areas of the compounds from where the fire was coming.

  “Give a range and indication,” the sergeant major barked at one of the section commanders.

  “I have 150 metres quarter-right from the pole, sir.”

  “Anyone; are there any more Dragunovs sighted?”

  “No sir, but we have seen movement.”

  “Make bloody sure they’re not civilians; to all call-signs.”

  Fewer rounds were hitting the CP. They were therefore winning the firefight. After a few minutes they were observing all round defence, only firing when targets were clearly identified, which was difficult enough given the sun’s location. There were still the occasional cracks of gunfire but the sergeant major hadn’t noticed what had been happening immediately around him. It was only after the fire was suppressed that he looked around and saw Cam sprawled out on the ground.

  ***

  On the other side of the compound walls Az had been cursing his men. “We should have detonated earlier. Let’s get some more rounds down on their location.”

  Two men jumped out with AK47s ranged precariously at head height. They were firing aimlessly over the compound walls. However, one sniper had managed to get a number of shots onto the checkpoint.

  “Stop wasting the rounds; only fire if you have confirmed targets,” shouted Az.

  Suddenly, well-aimed sniper rounds were hitting their position and taking their toll. Two men were hit in quick succession and were dragged out of the way. As it became obvious that they were up against superior firepower Az realised that they had to pull back from the front areas of the compounds.

  “Everyone fall back to the rear line,” barked Az. The fighting continued for two more minutes. It seemed like hours and then a 40mm grenade hit a wall much to the right of Az who had been shifting position at the rear of the compound walls after every burst of fire.

  “Right we don’t have enough firepower – where’s the RPG?”

  “He has been wounded by shrapnel; some of the others have been hit as well,” replied one of the men. Az stole a second to think and then glanced at the front area of the compound nearest the road.

  “We may as well blast the other two walls now,” he thought, although he knew it wasn’t going to make any real difference as the opportunity to hit the British soldiers had passed. He went to initiate the command wire: nothing! He cursed and tried again. It wasn’t going to initiate. The cable had probably been fragged by the first blast or one of the 40mm grenades that had hit the walls around them.

  “That’s it. All the preparation has been for nothing.” He commanded all the remaining men to retire through the compounds and get ready to extract. He had already packed his kit ready for this eventuality. He and another member of his team started to make for the mousehole in the compound wall. He only recalled the flash much later; once he had come round. The 40mm rifle grenade had detonated some metres to his right as he entered the mousehole.

  ***

  Shakil, Wazir and Khalil were sat down for lunch with Saira and a couple of her girlfriends. Wazir had already shown an interest in one of them, a quiet, pretty twenty year old. Saira was doing her best to facilitate, but was more pre-occupied with her own “situation”; a term she used for her pregnancy.

  “You make the best pakoras, our Saira,” observed Wazir.

  Khalil was annoyed at Wazir’s use of the term “our Saira”.

  “As if he was a bloody northerner,” he thought to himself. He had to stop himself saying “you mean Saira then” to Wazir; he didn’t want to “diss” him in front of the girls.

  “Yes, well, Saira does make great food generally, Wazir,” stated Khalil stressing the words “Saira” and “Wazir” only sufficiently for his brother to understand.

  “So are you wearing your blue dress to the wedding, Wazir?” asked Shakil. The girls fell about squealing with laughter. Only Wazir wasn’t laughing.

  “You’ll be wearing one wrapped round your head in a minute,” replied Wazir.

  The petite counterpart threw Wazir a concealed glance catching his eye. He immediately felt some warmth and didn’t care what Khalil or anyone said.

  “So Khalil, what of this political organization – you’re a member I hear?” asked Shakil. He continued, “Are you deliberately keeping it all a big secret? Is it clandestine or something; James Bond and all that?”

  “No Shaks; why don’t you come along some time. You might find it useful,” replied Khalil; aware that Shakil had known all about the Justice Party from discussions with Wazir and bits of literature left lying around Khalil’s office. ‘Maybe Shakil just wants to see Saira wince a bit,’ Khalil decided. He knew that Shakil was aware that she didn’t like the idea of Khalil working with a political party.

  “Yes; OK. Let me know when and I will come,” Shakil replied with a grin on his face suggesting that he knew that Khalil hadn’t expected such a reply. “What about you, Waz?”

  “No, not me! I let my brother get on with his own business these days.” Wazir smirked.

  “Very sensible too,” said Saira. “At least someone in your family has some common sense, Khalil,” she said only half joking.

  Khalil raised his eyebrows theatrically at the girls present and they fell around giggling. “Well, it looks like I have been told,” he stated theatrically.

  ***

  Jeff and Khalil were having lunch the following day at a restaurant in Shepherd’s Market, in London’s Green Park, with two senior members from the Justice Party HQ. Jeff had wanted Khalil to meet them for a while and now after many weeks of last minute cancellations he had succeeded in getting the two distinguished looking men to at least have a one hour meeting with Khalil.

  Khalil was looking forward to it not because of the political angle, but because he was now almost guaranteed the maintenance contract to sort out the HQ’s main computer hub and various other office terminals over the next two years. He hoped that this meeting would seal it beyond all doubt.

  “The two main parties are just two sides of a bad penny,” began one of the men, who was the oldest and tallest with only a few strands of grey hair left above an oval face. “They represent an establishment run for the elite and by the elite, which is hopelessly out of touch with the great mass of people in this country, especially those that matter when it comes to the day-to-day running of the place. Most of us feel we are being turned into wheeler-dealers by a corrupt ruling elite, mortgaged to our eyeballs because of disastrous political practices. That is what is happening to our society and we have to have the guts to stand up for our people.”

  Khalil respected the man for his passionate way of speaking. He could see where Jeff had been tutored in some of his own methods.

  “This is a land ruled by fear, contempt and division,” the slightly younger colleague interjected. “In the past deference was used as a weapon against the working classes; they were expected to put up with ‘their lot’ - whatever that meant. But that is no longer th
e case and radicals are leading the way. We have to undermine and remove the corrupt political classes within our country. We just need to find a way.”

  “Everything our brave people fought for in both world wars has been destroyed,” Jeff interjected. “The neighbourhoods we live in, the welfare state, free universal education, even our culture and way of life. We have no choice but to fight, and deal with those responsible. And what will be the result? The answer is simple: a new nation state where everyone has a share in the welfare system, where there are real jobs, where their neighbourhoods are safe from drug dealers and organized crime.”

  The younger man started again. “My main concern is that the only way to achieve all this is not through the ballot box; it is through direct action and confronting the State, possibly by the threat of violence. Few people really understand what this kind of commitment requires. But many of the politicians and financiers are just criminals who are selling our birthright and destroying our way of life. They have to be brought to account.”

  Khalil realised that for these men it was obvious that relations with the ruling politicians had now broken down so much that no amount of political rhetoric would make any real difference. To be fair, thought Khalil, the situation in some towns across Britain was possibly very difficult, with communities divided against each other for various reasons. He admitted to himself that he could not have known what it was like as he was from a reasonably affluent suburban background.

  He had watched or listened to a number of media debates about what had been happening in some areas that were economically and socially run-down, but the commentators had never asked why tensions had been allowed to grow in these communities. Nor had they debated why politicians didn’t seem to be interested in what was happening in areas of mass deprivation.