Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  He felt that the MPs on those TV and radio programmes were either too busy trying to appear clever and middle-class in a sugarcoated liberal way, or they were on the defensive with regards to the wars in the Middle East and overt fraud by their fellow MPs. However, he didn’t want to add any of his own comments and let the others continue.

  The older man spoke. “In short the country is heading for the rocks – at a very fast rate. We are seeing increasingly well-organized paramilitary types who are now talking about armed resistance and openly challenging the authorities and others in society. So what do the left-wing creeps in the media and political worlds think is actually happening here then? They think that it’s all just a passing fad do they? They don’t understand that communities no longer just dislike our politicians for being corrupt and getting our people killed and mutilated in these forgotten wars; they can’t admit to themselves that most people actively despise them and have turned away from organized politics. This is all the while the politicians, and their fat cat cousins in the banking world, line their own pockets at our expense. I sincerely hope that when the proverbial does hit the fan it’s those bastards who get it first.”

  The other men vociferously agreed with him. Jeff turned to Khalil and asked him what he thought. After a short pause Khalil replied. “Well I hope that out of all this chaos a new and more robust political re-alignment can come about. Why, for example, can’t some of the discontented elements and people like ourselves come together in some kind of alliance? It makes sense. Our collective enemy is the establishment – they are the ones who are undermining our way of life on these islands. But I would hope that people here could challenge the authorities in a constructive way, using some of the legal arguments we put forward.”

  The men looked at Khalil while he sipped his coffee. The older man slowly posed a question. “Do you think that the endgame here will actually involve the ballot box or legal process? As far as I am concerned we cannot hope to win over all those desultory, grey English middle classes through reasoned argument; there will simply be too many of them voting, as some dead mass, for the three main parties for time immemorial. As this society breaks down only the threat of intervention can work: we have to be waiting for that moment and we may then be able to seize it and step into the resulting vacuum.”

  Khalil looked across to the lobby of the restaurant. Two men were sat having lunch and occasionally threw a glance over to where Jeff’s group were sat. Khalil was sweating and tried to look at Jeff, who had started to reply: “We can do something similar and then make our own demands; withdrawal from Europe; followed by complete fiscal change including limited re-nationalization of state assets. We will also demand an end to the presence of foreign-owned parastatals. These are among our basic, core requirements. From those bargaining chips we can progress to issues like education, crime and the re-building of the welfare state. But it’s only when we have one foot in power that we can hope to have an impact. The two main parties will be listening to us as no other parties offer these strategies. And the beautiful thing, gentlemen,” he paused, “is that we have time on our side.” Jeff threw Khalil a hard, expressionless look.

  “What does Jeff want from me?” Khalil wondered. “To crit his work as a master would a student of philosophy or politics? It’s crazy.” But at the same time Khalil thought it was a game; and not one he would be part of for much longer. The two men looked over again and Khalil averted his gaze through the windows of the restaurant.

  ***

  It was 5.00am on the morning after the firefight and the small team headed for the Mastiffs, which would form part of a CLP going back to Camp Bastion after stopping off at Main Operating Base Price. Cam had died not long after being hit by a round from a sniper. Joe and Jez had been told by the sergeant major that the fighting had been intense and the MERT team had done all they could for Cam.

  There would have to be a report on what had happened at the checkpoint and Joe guessed that the men involved would not be happy at the prospect of sharing their experiences with anyone, least of all Cam’s mates. It had been an exhausting time; Cam’s vigil was to take place a few days later. With the temperature increasing day by day the amount of work seemed to rise with it and Joe and Jez had to carry on regardless of what had happened.

  The sun was breaking through by the time the CLP headed off, the orange glow creeping over everything while the top gunner swung his platform round, checked his fifty calibre machine gun and switched on the ECM suite. Joe wasn’t looking forward to going back to Camp Bastion. He started dozing in the back of the Mastiff, partly as a result of having had no sleep at all. He half-remembered a conversation with Cam from a week before.

  “Easy, Tiger,” Cam had said jokingly. “Don’t push your luck; I am in a good mood you know, but that can change at any moment.”

  He woke up with a start not knowing how long he had been asleep. Half an hour later, he jumped off the back of the Mastiff and headed towards breakfast at the cookhouse of MOB Price.

  ***

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The dressings were off his leg at last and the tall, weatherbeaten man was funnelling antibiotics into a container. Az had finished his meal of dried fish and rice gulping it down greedily with a litre of water. The fragrance of cardamom and masala mingled in the baked air of the compound. The tall man looked at Az and back at the leg.

  “You will live and the leg is not in danger yet; but you have to take these. It is imperative.”

  “That’s OK I will do; I am too old to cheat myself these days,” replied Az, thankful that he was being given a new course of painkillers alongside the antibiotics.

  “I know, but there are plenty of fools in this world; don’t be one of them.”

  “I’m afraid I already fall into that category; I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Az was not the worst of those injured by the volley of 40mm grenades that had devastated the compound. One man had died of his wounds soon after the battle; a grenade round had impacted on the rear wall and blown his leg off along with part of his back. How the rest of them had escaped so easily was difficult for Az to explain. The only real reason he could think of was that the Brits were trying to avoid civilian casualties and had stopped in their counter-attack. While they had regrouped his men had been dragged out by a second team and dispersed into separate locations to be driven away; with the wounded (himself included) and the dead man in the backs of small trucks and the others on the backs of scooters. When the soldiers searched the compounds later they had found the undetonated charges and some weapons, which were taken in for analysis. The surrounding area was also thoroughly searched and other material taken away. That was as far as Az had been informed.

  Az knew that he hadn’t handled the weapons in the compound. Moreover for the last few months he had used gloves when working on IEDs and charges. So any DNA found would likely be someone else’s; including that of people in Pakistan who made and packaged the commercial detonating chord. Az felt warmed by the prospect of British forensics teams sending information to Pakistani intelligence on innocent Pakistanis in Islamabad or somewhere. It would lead them up the garden path for months. He had even got a dog to lick one of the containers once they had finished it.

  For now he wasn’t feeling anything. He half-remembered a line of Shakespeare, “Where honour should be there is only a void.” He couldn’t recall where it was from, but it seemed to sum up how he was feeling.

  “I really don’t want any complications with this leg.” Az said to himself quietly. “I hope this guy knows what he is doing. I just want to get the fuck away from Afghanistan.”

  The truck had stopped on the way to the border; they would cross at nightfall and switch to another vehicle. The border guards had already been primed and paid so it should just be a formality. The tall medic finished dressing Az’s leg and disappeared.

  “This war business is a little hard on the knees!” Az joked to one
of the men in Pashtun in his vehicle and for once he got a smile and a grin back. In all his time in this part of the world he thought how grim a lot of the people seemed; there was little life in some of them. The younger Afghans had laughed and joked amongst themselves, but to the foreigners they offered little humour. You could give your life for these people, he wondered, and how would they acknowledge it?

  Many hours later Az awoke as the old Humber van made its way along the back street in Karachi and stopped short of the four-storey house, the front wall of which had a wrought iron fence and secure compound roof made of corrugated metal. Men started shuffling boxes off the back and looked around furtively. Slowly they lifted him off and carried him up the steps and under the awnings where he was no longer visible from the street.

  The shooting pains had ceased, but he couldn’t put any pressure on his right leg due to the wounds where shrapnel had penetrated lower down. He was propped up in the living room. The men sat down with his father and drank Chai Masala. Az would have preferred iced water after the long journey.

  One of the men turned to Haq: “Salaama Alaykum. The doctor said that after such a bad road accident your son will need more painkillers and antibiotics. The leg wounds will heal. Make sure he takes it easy.”

  “Don’t worry, he isn’t going anywhere,” Haq said in a mildly threatening manner.

  Az said nothing and stared into space. He’d done enough for a while – hopefully for good. He’d not seen any objectives achieved by his teams although he had heard of actions by others in the region going according to plan. That somehow made it worse. He knew that his father wouldn’t buy the road accident story but he also knew that his father was more concerned about him recovering and wouldn’t pester him: he respected him for that. Eventually he would find out what actually happened.

  However, Az was also concerned that as British soldiers had worked their way slowly through the compounds that had been involved in the fighting they would have come across blood from bodies that had obviously been dragged away at some speed. Forensics teams would be forming a picture of the people who had attacked the checkpoint that day just as they had been doing for many areas all over Afghanistan of the groups involved in the insurgency.

  ***

  Khalil was in the local Justice Party HQ listening to a lunchtime meeting being chaired by Jeff Katz; there were no women just eight fifty to sixty year old men and Khalil. It was more of a diatribe against the sitting MP for the area. The first speaker, a large and very angry, red-faced man, started off: “Is he not just another establishment crony who supports the government’s failed social and economic agenda no matter what? Whatever, he is just another British MP who has helped create legions of jihadis against the West and forced our brave troops to fight doomed campaigns on many fronts. It is not the soldiers who have committed war crimes; it is the cowardly politicians who hide behind them and lie. These same politicians were responsible for the failed strategies that led to these wars and they will pay for their crimes. They will not get away with it; they have brought dishonour to our country and are a threat to our future on these islands.”

  Khalil thought it was just as heated as other recent meetings and he had started to get a bit bored with the same vitriolic arguments. Jeff seemed much less animated than normal as he sat listening to the talk and the thought crossed Khalil’s mind that he was acting quite differently to when he had first known him. Khalil drafted some notes and carried on listening.

  The group broke for refreshments and Khalil’s intention was to have a word with Jeff about his own desire to have a break from helping to build the office. However, before he could say anything one of the men began talking. “The way I see it we are one step away from real problems in this country and it’s not going to be between ethnic groups or even classes; it’s going to be right-minded people against the scum that’s undermining our society. The righteous against the corrupt; which includes the politicians as well as the overpaid filth in the banking sector and all those corporate bastards who have been lining their own pockets. Even rioters are our allies in all this; they haven’t been defrauding the state like our so-called politicians, have they!”

  “If I may,” interrupted Jeff. “Maybe we should try and put all this in some kind of overall context. What we have in this country is essentially a very, very poor situation where large numbers of people feel extremely aggrieved, and rightfully so I might add.” At which point there was a chorus of approval. He continued. “There are those who, not through merit, but through cunning and graft have engineered themselves into high political position and well-paid jobs with huge bonuses. If we do ever end up with anything like the situation they have in some parts of southern Europe then God help those who have helped themselves is all I can say.” At this there were loud cheers of Hear, hear!

  Jef continued: “The phrase I think we all know is, ‘If you pay peanuts then you get monkeys.’ Well the real phrase I think we should be using is, ‘If you pay too much, then you still get monkeys!’” At that people smashed cutlery against the tables and slammed their fists down.

  Another man at the table added: “We are the only people in this bloody country who are going to stand up and be counted. Mark my words; the rest will follow one day like the sheep they are, because they will have no alternative.”

  Khalil couldn’t hear himself think for the commotion. He was completely lost in the moment and forgot what he was going to say to Jeff; that he wanted to cool it completely for a while especially with his wedding now on the horizon. He also wanted to warn him about something, but before he could say anything a familiar voice piped up. It was one of the older men again. “I think all immigration has done is bring thugs and cretins to our shores; as if we didn’t have enough of them already.”

  Jeff looked like he was about to blow a cylinder head. “That’s it; I’ve had enough. Of course there are issues, but I have had it with the unreasonable outbursts, especially as we have members from ethnic minorities present at this meeting. They deserve better than this, Jack. I am suspending you from the group. You can’t say it hasn’t been coming to you, can you!”

  “I am sorry, Jeff, I didn’t mean to…”

  “Don’t apologize to me; apologize to Khalil.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Khalil; it wasn’t directed at you.”

  “I know it wasn’t, but we all probably need to watch what we say; even me. Just because I’m Asian doesn’t make me immune.”

  Jeff smiled – a smile that thanked Khalil for his candour. Khalil suddenly felt scared and wondered if he could exit quickly as he felt out of his depth. The meeting was brought to a swift conclusion by the elderly chairman and then Jeff prevented Khalil from leaving too early: “By the way, Khalil, the Americans were so impressed with us they are sending a bunch over again. I have emailed some of the others as well.”

  Khalil said nothing and nodded. He had thought to himself, “Why did I bother with this lot in the first place?” Then he realised why; he would have been a “nobody” in the local mainstream parties and he had wanted those ‘business contacts’ after all. The other parties already had plenty of ethnics locally; but the Justice Party had none. He had been somehow important, even if only a token presence amongst the white faces.

  Khalil then remembered the real and present importance of why he was there as another thought flashed through his mind. He was struggling to keep his perspiration levels as low as possible and cupping his hand over his top pocket he said quietly to Jeff: “Saira’s expecting me home soon Jeff. Thanks for everything.” He walked out of the room.

  ***

  They had arrived back from the patrol bases on the Friday afternoon. There were a few debriefs, but the OC told him and Jez to get their personal admin sorted out – once that was done he would be able to relax in the NAAFI in Bastion 2 that afternoon.

  Later on Joe went for a jog and wandered into a depot area the size of a football pitch where ammunition had been stacked as high as
a house; masses of artillery shells with their charge bags in separate containers, along with 81mm mortars and the whole range of other unit stocks. It had all been marked for disposal. The containers had been sat in FOBs, MOBs and PBs for ages gradually degrading in the heat. There must have been hundreds of millions of pounds worth of ordnance, all shipped into the operational theatre and all about to be blown up in the desert.

  “So this is the true graveyard of the British taxpayer,” Joe muttered to himself. “What with all these bases that need supplying with ammunition every day: not to mention the food and water.” He felt a wave of hatred at the whole situation shoot through him followed immediately by a hollow feeling. He shrugged it off.

  The following day Joe spent the morning catching up on paperwork – and then, along with everyone else on camp, he had to attend Cam’s vigil on the parade area, a large dusty windswept expanse with a podium on one side. After it started Joe watched as one or two personnel fainted in the heat around him; they were all closely lined up in ranks. The padre and several others spoke for a while but he could hardly concentrate. Afterwards he felt numb and decided to go for another walk around the north part of the camp. He circled the area and then walked back down the windswept, sand-laden lanes. He could see a blade of grass amongst the dust and sand.

  “It’s a bit odd the way you could pick out an individual blade from amongst the dust,” he thought. “You don’t get much grass here.” He then remembered what the padre had said; that Cam was “one amongst millions.”

  Joe and several others would be heading back to England ten days later after completing the reports on what they had been doing in the NES South area. He found that the period for handing back stores, including body armour, morphine and ammunition, as well as bundling the weapons, had been cut short. Everything was a rush, but in the end they had managed to get it all done the day before the return flight was booked.