On the afternoon of his flight Joe had to check in at the airhead the afternoon, but he realised that he had no means of getting the two miles back to his tent from the depot office, where he’d handed back his last piece of equipment, in order to pick up his own gear in time to get back to the airhead. For night flights, check-in had to be completed by 3.00pm. So he had started off across Camp Bastion in the hope of finding a bus going his way from one end of the camp to the other. As he was walking a US Air Force man pulled over in his pick-up.
“Hey bud; you need a lift?” Luckily the American was going to the same place; but for Joe it had seemed as surreal as everything else that week. He couldn’t explain it; maybe the heat was getting to him. It had measured forty-six degrees Celsius on the thermometer at the depot in late afternoon when he had been walking around. Not only did he get to go to the airhead, but Joe managed to pick his gear up at the tent on the way. A troop sergeant did turn up later after Joe had checked in. He was out of breath.
“I managed to get hold of a vehicle about ten minutes after you went Joe – sorry if you struggled.”
“No probs mate,” Joe replied. “I’m sorted.”
The sergeant knew that Joe and Cam had been mates: but Joe wasn’t concerned if things were not working smoothly. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it just wasn’t registering. Hours later he lined up with a company of infantrymen to go up the steps of the RAF Tristar; he had his helmet and body armour in hand and felt a presence beside him as he ascended. He turned sharply and looked around only just managing to steady himself. There was nothing there.
It was 2.00am. The journey through the transit tents had taken ages, with the last ride in an old coach caked in sand and dust. The rest of the soldiers seemed quiet, as they had done all evening. They had been spread out on army cots for the most part in the transit tent. Joe had slept fitfully and couldn’t shake off a nightmare. He couldn’t remember what it was about as he boarded the steps of the Tristar.
He sat down on the aircraft, and strapped himself into the seat, breathing deeply, staring at the ceiling. It took off from Camp Bastion, climbing steeply out of the local airspace. He knew that he would be getting a can of lager at some point. It seemed strange drinking beer so early in the morning, but it would still be cool and go down very well. With the two hour stopover in Cyprus at RAF Akrotiri he remembered from his first tour that there would come views from the terrace of a harbour and a landscape of rolling hills; greener than anything he had seen for months.
“That’s good enough,” he thought. “I will settle for that view.”
He woke up as the plane landed in Cyprus and had another beer from the bar while venturing out onto the terrace. Later, on arrival at Brize Norton, he was picked up by a duty driver and driven with his weapon and kit back to the Reserves Mobilization Centre.
He found the attitudes of one or two colour sergeants to be just the same as when he had left. He was given a sheet with a list of places to go: Weapons Return, Movements, Medical, J1 Admin, and Stores. What had complicated matters was being told to follow a different path by the MO and to go back to the medical unit before visiting Stores. It had left him at the mercy of one of the colour sergeants.
“Why didn’t you follow the numbers like everyone else?”
“I was told to go back by the medic.”
“Doesn’t matter; you are supposed to follow the numbers.”
“Well, I didn’t, Colour!”
He was in no mood for a tongue-lashing by a man who had probably been sat behind his desk for the last sixteen years, not just the last six months. He just stared at him.
“Tell you what, corporal, I will hand you over to the civvy here.” There were no further problems after that.
Having got a rail warrant he jumped on a bus into town; the contrast with his recent existence couldn’t have been more obvious. There were young women everywhere and the bright warm weather had led many of them to remove a layer or two. The real contrast was that he was actually seeing women out of uniform. Joe’s interest in his own mental gymnastics waned slightly at this point. All he could do was think of Alison. He found a bar and was content to while away his time.
On his return to London he stayed with his mother and stepfather for the night. Joe found that they were not really interested in Afghanistan, not that he had much to say on the subject. Libya and the other conflicts in the Middle East had taken centre stage, but it was also obvious that people had grown weary of the wars that had come and gone after 9/11.
“So what if I get called up again, I’ll go anywhere,” he replied to an innocuous question about the likelihood of another tour. His mother grimaced. He decided to go easy on them; they weren’t getting any younger and neither was he. He was dazed. While his immediate concerns should have been a new kitchen and dental work he couldn’t think straight. No doubt Alison would have a few jobs for him at her place. “Maybe I should concentrate on that,” he thought.
The following evening when he met up with her she at least seemed interested in what he had been up to, rather than the politics of everything. He was honest with himself in that he genuinely felt that any immediate desires or interests had subsided other than being with her. He didn’t want to talk about his recent experiences, although he felt that he should. However he knew that she would not ask searching questions and they didn’t need to say anything much so he just relaxed into her.
He had several weeks of leave to take and spent the following afternoon drinking with Dex and Baz.
“How’s it feel to be back?” asked Dex.
“Great! Alcohol and crap TV! What could be better, mate?” To his two friends he appeared somewhat jaded, staring into his lager.
“What was it like out there, Joe?” asked Baz.
“It was different this time; hotter and harder. Bastion is just a big, shit industrial estate with lots of ISO containers, but we got out on the ground more and drove around to various bases. It was more rewarding in that respect, but harder work.” He paused. “My mate…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Do you think we will be there much longer?” asked Dex.
Joe shrugged his shoulders. “Well I don’t know; we’re still spending a fortune there. We’ll have to stay for a while.”
“What are your plans now, Joe?” asked Baz, diplomatically.
“Just some domestic stuff; I have a few weeks before I go back to work. Do the kitchen that sort of thing.”
He looked at the other people in the beer garden. It was half past four on a Saturday afternoon in late spring and most of them, like him, were almost drunk. They were all different ages, but all of them gelled into one grey mass – a mass he had no interest in. Joe couldn’t help but hear their loud and over-emotional conversations. They may as well have been from a different planet, for all he cared. The conversation with Dex and Baz drifted onto the banking collapse and economic malaise.
“Jeez, when are we ever going to be in the black again?” Dex snorted.
Across the paved terrace Joe half recognized a man he had known at school. He would normally ignore people he recognized from schooldays, as he had generally disliked most of his former classmates.
“Fuck him,” Joe said under his breath.
“Did you just tell me to fuck off Joe?” Dex enquired, with a concerned sideward glance.
“No mate; there’s a guy over there I knew at school. I think he’s now one of those banking bastards. You know like the ones you’re talking about. I’m sure he probably helped kickstart the entire fucking banking collapse.”
“How do you mean exactly?” Dex replied.
“What I say; at school he was destined to be someone who was only ever interested in lining his own fucking pockets. You know while I’ve been out in Afghanistan that fuckwit has probably made more money in one minute sat at his fucking desk on his fat fucking arse than I did in my whole fucking operational tour.”
“Why don’t you go over there and tell him?�
�� said Baz.
“Too fucking right I will.”
Joe stood up and went to get off the timber seat. He stumbled slightly and put his arm out. He hadn’t been allowed any alcohol for the duration of the tour of duty and noticed his reactions had altered after a few pints of lager. He hadn’t seemed to suffer in Cyprus.
“That’s probably why you shouldn’t bother, mate,” piped up Baz. “Not worth the hassle. If anything happens he and his muckers will say that you went over to them and started a fight. Sit down, Joe.”
Joe stood up resolutely staring in the direction of the men.
“Sit the fuck down, Joe,” repeated Baz. Joe sat down.
As Dex went off to get a round Joe remembered what someone had said to him before he had gone to Afghanistan; that most people didn’t seem to care about these conflicts anymore. He didn’t suppose that the man he had been staring at could give a damn either.
“You know there are two types of criminal: those with genuine malicious intent and those who pursue justice without restraint. Where do you think we fall in those categories?” Joe asked Baz.
“Isn’t there a third?” replied Baz after a somewhat pregnant pause. “Those who see a crime and walk away and ignore it - in some countries that’s a crime in itself: criminal negligence.”
“But where do I fall?” repeated Joe.
“What do you mean, where do you fall?” replied Baz.
“Are we pursuing justice in Afghanistan and Libya and wherever or are we blowing the crap out of innocent people? Are we just fucking vigilantes?”
“Don’t know, mate. I really don’t know.”
“Then if an intelligent guy like you doesn’t know then how the fuck can anyone else? There are no real objectives any more are there!”
“That’s what I have been saying for a long time. But to be honest there are a lot of life experiences out there that don’t involve carrying a gun on behalf of the British establishment. But you’re just another…” Baz stopped himself. “Err; we are all just victims in that respect.”
“No, we’re not,” replied Joe. “You two are only victims of these conflicts in that you’re paying for it. The real victims are the people being blown up and mutilated. I’m actually part of the machinery of war.” He gulped the rest of his pint down and grinned. “Not that anyone here gives a shit anyway.”
***
“What do we tell Khalil and Saira?” Haq was on the phone to Wazir from his office.
“I don’t know; how about Az was injured in an accident as you’ve already told me that uncle.” Wazir faltered; he didn’t expect to be asked this by someone he respected as much as Haq. It wasn’t something he had predicted and he resented the fact that he had been put in this position. There was no doubt that Az had been somehow injured, but Wazir suspected that Haq wasn’t telling the whole story. Traffic accidents don’t usually require cover-ups and Wazir didn’t understand why his uncle was being oblique. He suspected that Az had been up to something much worse than he had already imagined.
There was no question that it should be a problem for Wazir’s side of the family; it was for Shakil and the rest of them to sort out. The last thing Wazir wanted was some one-legged idiot turning up at Saira’s wedding; that’s if he didn’t get arrested at the airport on the way back to Britain. That would be the end of the affair for all of them and lead to the two sides of the family splitting apart forever.
“I will talk to Khalil and get back to you. How bad is it?” Wazir stumbled with his words.
“He cannot walk properly; the doctor says that it may get worse. We had a terrible time getting him to my private doctor for treatment. It has been awful, Wazir; quite awful.”
Wazir knew that his uncle was a decent old man and didn’t have a bigoted bone in his body. His business had led him to strike deals with all nationalities and he had treated everyone as equals. He wasn’t even angry with the poor dental work carried out by a Hindu dentist in London two years before. If it had been Khalil he would have been blind with rage.
“Look I will have a word with Khalil but I can’t promise that we can have him here. What about putting him up in the Midlands?” Wazir raised his voice slightly.
“They are not as understanding as you two,” replied Haq.
“Well; I can’t commit to anything.” Wazir paused and reflected on what it might mean for Khalil and Saira.
The receiver went dead and Wazir felt terrible. Poor old Haq! He was probably going to get taken in for questioning in Pakistan if Az had been stupid enough to leave any evidence behind of any misdemeanours he may have helped carry out. Wazir realised that he had probably been in Afghanistan. Indeed both he and Khalil had been guessing what Az had been up to on his travels – it had been like some kind of ridiculous game. But now it was for real.
Khalil had told him that some Afghans who had been trying to get into England through northern France were being arrested. Military Police in Afghanistan had got their DNA from IEDs they had planted and they were being lifted when they went through ports around the world. Az was doomed. And where did that leave Khalil and Wazir? All they had ever done was try to help him. They had tried to get him back into work. ‘How has he repaid us?’
***
Khalil was involved in a heavy political conversation at a gathering at the HQ in London. Shakil was stood next to him, silently observing. The American delegates were guests of honour.
“Do you know what the difference between Britain and the rest of the world is, boys?” Conrad, the Treasurer, asked - Khalil didn’t know whether to hit him or stare at him. Shakil just grinned and stood motionless.
“Well, let me tell you: the grape and the grain. We in Britain have the grain, and those French and Spanish have the grapes. And it shows in our characters; we are earthy, robust and pack a lot of strength in the way we do business. Whereas the Europeans are wishy washy; they don’t know what they want and will spend enormous amounts of our cash finding out.”
“Are some of them red and others white?” asked Shakil shaking slightly. He couldn’t resist asking the question but he was close to cracking up and had to turn away from Conrad. Khalil nudged him in the thigh.
“Yes, I believe that is the case as well,” said the old man, swaying slightly. “I must say I am glad to see a couple of fine young men like you here. It’s really very good.”
Shakil had to physically prevent himself from laughing, so much so that tears formed in his eyes. He’d had enough practice that morning when Saira had referred to the party as the “BJs” on their way out of the house. The practice session in restraint failed as he eventually cracked, laughing with genuine tears and had to turn away completely from Conrad and the other men who had congregated around them. He pretended he was coughing.
Khalil just grinned. He wasn’t really listening, and he could feel the phone vibrating in his pocket. It was Wazir. He made his excuses to the group and took the call. “There’s no way that fruitcake is staying with us. He can sort his own fucking life out. And anyway I think we should all keep away from him for a while Waz.”
“Uncle Haq is at his wit’s end,” Wazir shouted down the phone. “He has to get him out of Pakistan as he is worried the police will come after him.”
“If he has been involved in anything then they will probably get him at an airport. Don’t get too close, Wazir. Let him stay there.” Khalil looked back into the hall at Shakil who was standing slightly apart from the group on his own.
“Look, Khalil, I have a mate from college; he lives up north. He’s a good guy. I will see if he can put him up for a while.”
“Yeah; get him to take him out on the moors. And lose him. Seriously, if you do get him there let me know his movements and whereabouts and keep him away from us. I need to talk to you about the wedding; don’t let me down, bruv!”
Khalil moved back to where Shakil and the others were standing. At that point someone entered the room that Khalil recognized – he had seen him at least nine
months previous, when they had shared a few ideas. They were not much different in age either. Thankfully the man was walking his way; he might drag them away from the drunken buffoons.
“Hi; I seem to remember you from a while back. Where have you been?” asked Khalil.
“Oh, I had a couple of holidays, busy at work that sort of thing,” replied Joe. “What about you; solving the world’s problems are we?”
“No – we were just discussing the question of Eastern European integration in the European Union,” replied Khalil.
“Union my arse,” bellowed Conrad.
“Shall we get some nibbles over here; I didn’t catch your name,” asked Khalil dragging Shakil by the arm. Khalil, Shakil and Joe moved towards the buffet table and started on the cheese crackers.
“It’s Joe, Joe Carney. And you?”
“I’m Khalil, Khalil Ahmed. So what do you do for a living again, Joe?”
“I’m an engineer by profession. Civil.”
“What do you do?” asked Joe.
“Oh, I run my own business: IT consultancy. This is Shakil, my cousin. He is currently working with me. He’s also trained in IT.” Joe shook Shakil’s hand.
“It must be challenging. How is it?” asked Joe.
“Yeah, challenging!” Shakil stated with a somewhat surprised tone in his voice. The three men talked for a good twenty minutes. Eventually Jeff sidled over to them and said loudly, “Khalil, chaps, come and meet the Americans.”
Joe, Khalil and Shakil walked over to where the American delegates were standing.
“Oh, hello; I remember you from last time,” observed one of the Americans, looking straight at Khalil. “You were very perceptive I seem to recall with regards to the political situation, both here and in the States. It’s nice to see you again. I’m Dan by the way.” Khalil shook his hand.
“Thanks for that, Dan. I’m Khalil. I seem to remember that evening; it went too quick. It’s great to see you back again so soon. This is my cousin, Shakil, and this is Joe.”
They all shook hands and Joe smiled at Dan.
“Sorry what was your name again?” Dan asked.
Carney's War Page 20
