Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS A relief for the men to gather together again to start work. A relief because the unstructured days of holiday and small demands of daily life had been harder to readjust to than most admitted. A relief because being busy stopped you thinking. And a relief to see their mates again because only their mates understood what had happened to them in Afghanistan.

  The camp was buzzing with rumours that they were about to be sent back to theatre on spearhead. Martyn Robertson’s party would no longer be a celebration of successes on their last tour but, if the rumours were right that they were leaving imminently, would turn into a farewell party.

  Women discussed their dresses and lads without partners worried about whom to take to the Dorchester.

  ‘Your sister’s pretty, Mal …’ said Streaky in barracks the night before they went back into training, glancing at a picture Mal kept by his bed.

  ‘No way are you taking my sister to the party.’ Mal reached out and put the family photo face down.

  ‘Anyone else got a sister?’ asked Streaky, looking around the barracks hopefully, as if there might be one hiding under a bed.

  ‘Streaks, Mal’s sister’s a Muslim so she’s not going to be interested in a man called Bacon. You better let me take her,’ said Angus, picking up the photo and gazing at it.

  ‘I wouldn’t let my sister near you either,’ Mal told him.

  ‘C’mon, mate. I wouldn’t try anything. She’d be like my official partner for the evening.’

  Mal sighed. ‘Don’t you know what she’s wearing in that picture?’

  ‘Is that some sort of Muslim mosque clothes?’

  ‘No, Angry, she’s wearing the stuff you wear when you get a degree. At a university. That’s called graduation. Which means my sister is clever, the brains of the family. Which means she’s not going to be interested in soldiers like you, especially since she’s six years older.’

  ‘I like an older woman. Has she got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Nah. She used to go out with that bastard Aamir’s big brother for a bit. But not for long, not when my dad found out.’

  Angus leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘She won’t be too upset when Aamir dies, then?’ he muttered, glancing around to make sure no one passing down the corridor had heard.

  Mal opened his eyes wide and watched Angus’s immense face while he continued in an undertone: ‘I’ve got it all worked out now. I’ve revised my plan.’

  Mal pretended not to know what Angus was talking about. Angry nudged him.

  ‘In Wythenshawe. Your little problem, Mal boy.’

  ‘I’m not letting you do nothing in Wythenshaw to Aamir,’ said Mal. ‘Or we’ll be out in Afghanistan and you’ll be in prison back here.’

  ‘Nah, it can’t go wrong this time. I’ll nick a TA rifle when they’re out on the Plain doing training. I’ll use it and then I’ll sell it straight on to the black market. So even if it marks the round which kills Aamir and they trace it back to that rifle, they’ll reckon it got nicked and sold on to someone who slotted him.’

  ‘They won’t fucking reckon anything, Angry, when they’re doing a murder investigation.’

  It was dinnertime in the barracks now.

  ‘Scoff,’ the other lads said to each other. ‘C’mon, scoff.’ They trailed off down the corridor in ones and twos until only Mal and Angry remained. And, on the next bed, Jack Binns. He lay with his headphones on and his eyes open.

  ‘Oy, Binman, SCOFF,’ roared Angry at him, assuming he hadn’t heard the call to food over his music. Binman sat up and took off his headphones but he did not follow the others out of the room. He waited until the last footfall had died away and then he turned to Angus.

  ‘What the fuck are you two talking about?’ he demanded.

  Angus’s features thickened.

  ‘Mind your own fucking business. We thought you was into your music over there.’

  ‘What are you planning, Angry?’

  Mal and Angus exchanged looks.

  ‘Why do you hate this Aamir bloke so much?’ Binns persisted.

  ‘Shhhhhh!’ said Angus. He spoke in a low voice. ‘He’s firebombing Mal’s mum and torching his brother’s taxis. Just because Mal’s been fighting in Afghanistan.’

  Binman’s small face knitted itself into an expression of concern and confusion.

  ‘That’s fucking awful. But I mean … well, you should tell the police.’

  ‘They’ve told the police! And the police don’t do nothing!’ said Angus too loudly. He looked anxiously around and ducked his head as if there was a sniper somewhere in the barracks.

  ‘You’re not really planning on …?’

  ‘Listen, Binman, this Aamir could kill Mal’s mum and dad with his firebombs. Someone’s got to sort him out but Mal’s promised his family he won’t do nothing!’

  Binman looked at Mal, who was sitting up now, cross-legged, on his bed. He untangled his ankles from his knees.

  ‘I can’t let you do it, mate. It would be the end of your army career. The end of your fucking life, practically, if they caught you.’

  Binman added: ‘It’s not right, Angry! You can’t just go round killing people!’

  Angry’s face bulged and reddened. ‘Why is it right in Afghanistan and wrong back here? Bloody fundamentalists cause trouble here, cause trouble there, it’s the same thing.’

  ‘I thought there was a UN resolution or something about Afghanistan. There’s no fucking UN resolution about Wythenshawe!’ Binman was reddening too, now.

  Angus swelled up with fury. ‘Listen, what do we do out in Afghanistan? We protect the locals from crazies who attack them so it’s not even safe for them to stay at home. Well, why would we do that for a bunch of Afghans and not for people in Wythenshawe?’

  Mal protested: ‘But it could make things worse for my family if I—’

  ‘You’re not doing nothing, mate. That’s the point. You are running around with the other lads all day hundreds of miles away so everyone knows there’s no way you’ve been to fucking Wythenshawe.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Binman. His tone was one of resignation. With a faint undertone of admiration. Angus was quick to detect the admiration.

  ‘Reckon I’ve devised the perfect crime,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want you to do it for me,’ Mal told him. ‘I don’t want you to take the risk.’

  ‘No risk. And it’s not even a crime, not really. It’s a rescue. See, Martyn Robertson was a hostage so we rescued him. Well, Aamir and his mates are keeping your family hostage in Wythenshawe: you said your mum’s too scared to go out most of the time. So, I’m going to rescue them. Simple.’

  Binman and Mal looked at each other in silence. Finally Binman said: ‘So you’re planning to nick a TA sniper rifle?’

  ‘Yeah, that won’t be hard if they’re out training.’

  ‘Well, I bet there won’t be any TA training out on the Plain before we leave for Afghanistan,’ said Binman. ‘So you won’t be able to commit your perfect crime.’

  Angry grinned broadly.

  ‘I’m going to find out, lads.’

  There were a few changes in 1 Platoon. New soldiers were expected to replace those who had been moved or lost. But there was no word, yet, about a platoon commander to replace Gordon Weeks, who had been sent from 1 Platoon to JTAC to train as a forward air controller.

  ‘Any chance of getting him back if we do go into theatre?’ Dave asked Sergeant Major Kila hopefully.

  ‘Nope,’ said Kila. ‘I’ve already tried that one.’

  ‘So we could be going back on to the front line with another new officer,’ said Dave, who had spent much of the last tour knocking Gordon Weeks into shape.

  ‘They’ll make sure you get someone good in the circumstances. Don’t worry,’ Kila assured him.

  ‘When? We should be training with the new commander now.’

  Kila held two tattooed hands up to his great bald head. ‘I know, I know, I’ve said all thi
s to the major. I think the new bloke’s due soon.’

  They had a kit inspection and immediately afterwards Billy Finn, who never failed to ask a question, looked at Dave. ‘Anyone new starting, Sarge?’

  ‘Don’t know about the new platoon commander. But you’ve got two lads arriving in 1 Section today,’ Dave told him.

  This news was followed by a silence from 1 Section, which, at the end of the last tour, had already been one man short when Jamie Dermott had died. Dave caught himself thinking that whoever the new sprogs were, they could never replace Jamie. And he knew the lads were all thinking the same thing.

  ‘Is Steve Buckle coming back, Sarge?’ Si Curtis from 3 Section was a friend of Steve’s and Dave guessed that Steve had probably put him up to asking this.

  ‘I know he wants to, Si, because he tells me every day. But I’d be very surprised if they let a bloke with one leg back into the platoon.’

  Steve Buckle never gave up lobbying. At first Dave had been patient. Then, as Steve had become more insistent, he had begun to feel irritated.

  ‘It’s not a game, mate. Having a man on one leg could risk everyone’s lives.’

  ‘I’m as fit as the other lads and fitter than some!’

  ‘Argue with the medics, argue with the major, but for Chrissake stop arguing with me because there’s nothing I can do!’ Dave said at last.

  ‘You can put in a word for me! You could think about how to persuade them.’

  ‘All right. I’ll think about it.’

  Sometimes he found himself avoiding Steve and his demands, but today it was impossible because the big man with the metal leg had arrived from Stores with boxes and boxes full of kit. They were training on Salisbury Plain with 2 and 3 Platoons, using some of the new, improved equipment. And specifically they had been asked to try out the next phase of the new pelvic-protection system before it was trialled in theatre.

  They gathered on the tarmac by the vehicles, stamping on the ground to keep warm, and Sergeant Major Kila climbed on to the back of a wagon to talk to them.

  ‘You should already be wearing the mine-protection underpants. Now try the overpants,’ said Sergeant Major Kila, holding up some bulky triangles of camouflage which Steve was handing out. ‘Basically, these are going to stop the British Army from losing its balls. I’m sure we all agree that we don’t mind looking a bit silly for such a worthy cause.’

  ‘They’re not silly, sir,’ said Sergeant Liam Barnes of 3 Platoon, standing at the front by the wagon, arms folded, with the other sergeants. ‘Superman wears his underpants over his trousers.’

  Kila swung his large frame towards Liam Barnes. ‘That’s right, Sergeant, so show us how a superhero should look.’

  Barnes took a step back and then, realizing the kit Kila had sent sailing through the air was aimed at him, caught it neatly.

  ‘Watch closely, men,’ Kila advised. ‘Sergeant Barnes will now demonstrate how to put on the new codpiece, er, I mean pelvic girdle. Come up here, Liam.’

  Barnes, reddening, leaped into the back of the wagon and stood turning the girdle this way and that.

  While he fiddled with the Velcro straps, Kila said: ‘The manufacturers are asking for feedback, so get ready to tell them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. For sensible, constructive comments they’ve got some fucking good prizes: tickets to concerts and shit like that.’

  Dave was watching Liam Barnes. He could see exactly which way round the girdle should go and he was sure that this was because he had changed so many nappies in the last few weeks. The so-called pelvic girdle was nothing but a big, thick nappy in camouflage.

  He stepped forward and helped Liam with the girdle. They both kept straight faces as Sergeant Barnes strapped himself in it to howls of derision. Men hummed strip-show music loudly.

  ‘Not feeling silly, I hope, Superman?’ demanded Kila when the noise had died down.

  ‘I’ll feel a lot less silly when everyone else is wearing them too,’ said Liam, red-faced.

  Men were grabbing the girdles from Steve now and putting them on their heads like bonnets and across their chests like bras.

  ‘The British Army knows its men and has ordered three sizes. Large, extra large and ginormous,’ Kila roared over the noise. ‘I’ve told them not to bother supplying my lads with codpieces that are anything less than ginormous.’

  They climbed into the wagons carrying their kit and weapons, looking around at each other’s faces, bright and sharp. It felt like going out on patrol in Afghanistan. They were doing the job they loved, the job they were skilled at. And it was a lot easier than strapping angry toddlers into the back of the car and storming FOB Tesco.

  Steve was standing nearby, watching the men getting into the wagons, his face long. He was holding a pile of empty boxes. As the men drove off they could see him from the back of the truck. He cut a dark, forlorn figure.

  ‘Poor fucking bastard, he’d give his right arm to get in the wagon with us,’ said Mal.

  ‘He thinks he can do anything. But he can’t,’ said Finn.

  Sol raised his eyebrows: ‘Well, he can run fast on that leg.’

  ‘Yeah, he overtook me the other day when I was running through camp,’ said Bacon.

  The others jeered. ‘Streaky, anyone could overtake you.’

  Finn said: ‘Steve’s trying to persuade everyone to let him back into the front line but it would be a fucking disaster. We’d all be carrying him. Risking our lives for him. I mean, I like him. But not that much.’

  The others agreed. As the truck neared the guardhouse, Steve’s figure got smaller and smaller until he was no longer visible.

  But, driving towards the Plain, Dave could not shake off the image of Steve’s large frame standing, watching them go. The loneliness of the man. He used to be a mate; now he was a problem. The lads had tried to include him when they first got back but gradually, without really thinking about it, they realized that he had stopped being one of them. Wounded soldiers, thought Dave, lived in a no-man’s-land. They could never be real soldiers again but, with their prosthetic limbs, the public could never see them as anything else. And that gave him an idea.

  Dave reached for his mobile and pressed Steve’s number.

  A gruff voice answered. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know I promised to think about how to get you back out to Bastion with us? If we go back?’

  Steve’s voice changed. The same word but spoken louder now, charged with hope.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ve had a sort of idea. Don’t get too excited. It’s probably going to lead nowhere …’

  ‘What! What?’

  ‘I can’t talk now, mate. Don’t know what time we’ll get in from training but I’ll try to drop round at yours tonight to discuss it.’

  ‘Shit, Dave!’

  ‘Don’t get too excited.’ Now what had he done? Well, even if it led nowhere, at the very least Steve would be happy for a day or two while they worked on it. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Right! I’ll get some beer in!’

  Dave heard the old Steve again, strong, confident but not overbearing. He was in there somewhere. It was just a question of cracking this new, angry shell and pulling him out.

  The training ground was wet and cold. However miserable the weather was in camp, you could be sure it would be more miserable out here. They reached the place they were to pretend was an Afghan compound today and, as they broke into sections, Kila appeared with a small group of men in new uniforms. They looked nervous and awkward. The new sprogs.

  The sergeant major distributed the newcomers to the various sections, consulting a list. He reached 1 Section, 1 Platoon last of all when only two men remained with him. One was small and baby-faced. The other was exceptionally tall and thin. Kila was over six feet but this man towered over him.

  ‘Think he swallowed a bottle of growth hormone?’ Mal muttered to Angry who, until now, had been the big man of 1 Section.

  Angry
gave the newcomer a scathing look. ‘He’s tall but he’s puny.’

  ‘Yeah, looks so long and skinny he could snap in two,’ agreed Binman, who was the smallest in the section.

  ‘I’d like to be that big,’ said Bacon. ‘I tell you, no one in Wolverhampton would ever mess with me if I looked like him.’

  ‘What about the other one? Think they’ve started recruiting twelve-year-olds?’ asked Mal.

  ‘Maybe his mum gave him up for adoption and the army took him,’ suggested Finn.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ Sol hissed as Kila approached.

  ‘This is Richard Hemmings, known to his mates as Tiny,’ said Kila. The tall man nodded shyly at 1 Section. Sol held out his hand.

  ‘I’m Sol Kasanita, your section commander. Dave Henley’s sergeant of 1 Platoon. He’ll be over in a minute.’

  ‘And this is George Swindon,’ said Kila, pushing the other man forward.

  ‘Slindon, sir. Not Swindon,’ the lad corrected him.

  ‘Sorry, Slindon,’ said Kila. ‘At least I didn’t call you Milton Keynes.’

  The lads in 1 Section all introduced themselves. Tiny Hemmings was clearly making an effort to remember their names, repeating them to himself.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sol kindly. ‘You’ll learn them soon enough.’

  ‘How tall are you?’ Finny asked Tiny Hemmings.

  ‘How old are you?’ Binman asked George Slindon.

  ‘Six foot seven and a half,’ Tiny replied promptly.

  ‘Nineteen,’ said Slindon. ‘Even if I look fifteen.’

  In answer to their next question, Tiny said he came from London.

  ‘You talk a bit posh,’ said Finny suspiciously. ‘What part of London are you from?’

  ‘Sort of Chelsea,’ said Tiny.

  ‘You sound like an officer, man,’ Bacon told him.

  ‘Well I’m not,’ said Tiny defensively. ‘I’ve just finished at Catterick, not Sandhurst.’

  ‘Jamie Dermott sounded like an officer and he was the best fucking rifleman in Afghanistan,’ said Mal. The others murmured their agreement.

  ‘I’ve already heard about Jamie Dermott,’ said Tiny politely. ‘I’ll bet you miss him. No one can step into his shoes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the lads quietly. You had to hand it to this lanky bloke, he said the right thing. A few of them felt sorry for Tiny and Slindon because they had such a tough act to follow.