Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  They asked Slindon where he came from but he did not reply. His mobile was ringing and he had turned his back on them to answer it.

  ‘Probably his mum making sure he’s wearing a warm vest,’ muttered Mal. ‘Nineteen, my foot. That bloke can’t be a day over twelve.’

  Sol said: ‘That’s enough. Welcome, Tiny, welcome … er …’ He looked around for Slindon, who was still on the phone. ‘Right, now let’s move. It’s important to get Tiny and Slindon working as part of the section. They haven’t been in theatre with us and we have to share our knowledge with them. Because if we do go back to Afghanistan, we all have to work as one unit.’

  Chapter Five

  JENNY DIDN’T KNOW whether to be shocked or angry or upset about the rumours that the men were returning to theatre on spearhead. At first she and Dave didn’t talk about it. She knew he was waiting for her to say something. She didn’t. She stayed quiet, hoping spearhead would just go away. Even though, wherever she went, from the camp nursery to the dry cleaner’s to the supermarket, the rumours were in overdrive.

  ‘Have you got a dress yet for Martyn Robertson’s party?’ Dave kept asking.

  And Jenny wanted to say: You may not be here for the party. It might be cancelled because you’re flying back to theatre. That was the rumour at nursery.

  She said: ‘Well, I’ve got that blue one. It should do.’

  Dave shook his head. ‘Nope. You’ll need a new dress for the Dorchester Hotel.’

  ‘But I’ll probably never wear it again.’

  ‘There’ll be other parties. Please. Whatever it costs. I want to take my beautiful wife in a beautiful dress.’

  Then Leanne had announced that she and Jenny were going shopping. They were at Adi’s house and the living room was vibrating with small children.

  ‘But—’ began Jenny.

  ‘But nothing, Jenny Henley. The men have got this one worked out between them. Not this Saturday because it’s my mum’s birthday and we’re going up to see her. But next Saturday. The men are looking after the kids and we’re spending the day in retail therapy, my girl.’

  ‘Are you buying something to wear at the party?’ asked Adi.

  ‘Yeah, wanna come?’

  ‘I’m making my dress,’ said Adi shyly. ‘I just hope the party isn’t cancelled.’

  ‘No way! So the boys get shipped out to Afghanistan. We can still make whoopee at the Dorchester without them!’

  Jenny got up to go.

  ‘I’d better make a move. I want to stop at Agnieszka Dermott’s on the way home to say goodbye.’

  As usual, at the mention of Agnieszka’s name the temperature dropped a few degrees.

  ‘I didn’t phone. But I put a farewell card through her door,’ Adi admitted.

  ‘What’s taken them so long to come and pick the Polish slag up?’ demanded Leanne, her voice harsh.

  Battered old cars and a van had arrived from Poland. The drivers did not park outside Agnieszka’s house but around the side roads at the fringes of the camp as if they did not want people to know that they were there, or why. All the same, everyone guessed.

  Adi gently removed Jenny’s car keys from a small child’s mouth and disentangled one twin’s hand from the other’s hair. ‘Well, I think there was a delay because the compensation for Jamie’s death only just came through.’ Adi always knew everything.

  ‘She’s a rich bitch now,’ said Leanne.

  Jenny picked up the baby, the other Jaime. She said quietly: ‘Money won’t bring Jamie back.’

  ‘She didn’t want him back!’ Leanne retorted. ‘All that money for a bloke she was ditching anyway!’

  Jenny did not ring Agnieszka’s bell because the door was open, the lights were on and people were moving in and out of the house with furniture and bags and boxes, loading them into a couple of small Polish vans which had pulled up at the kerb. She intercepted Agnieszka as she appeared carrying a transparent bag full of Luke’s toys.

  ‘You must be going back to Poland,’ said Jenny.

  Agnieszka surveyed her coldly. Jenny had always thought her beautiful but the Polish girl had avoided her for such a long time that Jenny had no idea how thin she had become. Her cheeks were too gaunt, her blue eyes too large, too sunken now. Jenny recognized the face of widowhood.

  ‘I leave tonight. I take boat.’

  ‘Agnieszka, I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘Thank you, Jenny. Goodbye to you also.’ The words were spoken without feeling. Jenny was stung by this.

  ‘We used to be friends. And I’ve never blamed you for anything. A lot of people around here have judged you. But not me.’ She looked down for a moment. ‘It’s been really hard for you, Agnieszka. I’ve tried to understand what you’ve been through.’

  Agnieszka raised her finely plucked eyebrows.

  ‘So what you think you understand, then? Understand how it is to lose husband? No, Jenny, you don’t understand nothing.’

  She was probably right. Jenny didn’t want to understand that. She said: ‘I hope you recover from your loss in Poland and go on to have a calm, quiet, happy life, Agnieszka. I really hope all the bad things are over for you now. Good luck to little Luke too. You know our address. If you decide to keep in touch, we’ll be more than happy.’

  For a moment Agnieszka seemed to soften. Behind her a woman passing with a pile of cushions for the van muttered something in Polish but Agnieszka ignored her.

  ‘Thank you, Jenny. You nicer to me than anyone else here. But you can’t understand. I don’t know if I keep touch or not.’

  ‘We’ll never forget you. And we’ll never forget Jamie,’ Jenny said, putting her arms around the Polish girl. Agnieszka felt so thin and brittle that she might break. She did not return the hug. ‘And I’ll never forget how kind you were to me when you visited the hospital just when I was having the baby. Thanks for that.’

  They pulled away and for a moment the two women looked at each other in the dark, the dim light from the hallway falling softly across their faces.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ said Jenny, turning abruptly. She was fighting tears. Why? She had never been close to Agnieszka and since Jamie’s death the Pole had barely spoken to her. Why did this young widow and her isolation touch her so deeply?

  ‘Good luck, Jenny,’ Agnieszka called after her, animation in her voice at last. But Jenny found that her throat was too tight to produce a cheery farewell. She turned around and waved instead. Agnieszka, her tall, thin figure framed by darkness in the soft pool of light, waved back. Jenny knew she would never see her again. It was as though someone else had died.

  When she got home, both the children were asleep in the buggy and Dave was there, still in uniform. He did not ask her where she had been. He helped her with the buggy and picked up Jaime quietly without waking her. Before he turned to take the baby upstairs, Jenny saw his face clearly. Quiet, serious and a little sad. She knew what it meant.

  ‘You’re going,’ she stated flatly, all emotion drained from her voice. ‘You’re going back into theatre.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘We deploy in less than three weeks,’ he said. His voice was flat too.

  They continued to stare into each other’s eyes over the children in the darkness, the sound of the TV chatting meaninglessly to itself from the living room, a studio audience laughing softly. Jenny felt tears sting her. She turned away.

  At the Buckles’ house, Leanne was pinned down on the sofa.

  ‘I just don’t know what that shit letter’s trying to tell me!’ Steve Buckle roared. He was pacing the small living room, pirouetting on his prosthetic leg every time he reached the end.

  Leanne waved the letter. ‘It says that—’

  A toy pinged against her shin. Whenever Steve passed a toy on the floor he kicked it vigorously in Leanne’s direction. This was the third time he had scored a direct hit and now she heaved up her legs and lay down on the sofa, pulling some cushions in front of her for protection. Just in ca
se Steve decided to throw the toys as well as kick them.

  ‘I know what it says. But they haven’t told me no yet! They haven’t actually said no!’ He aimed another toy at her. It skidded ferociously across the floor. He was a large man who was dark-haired and dark-eyed anyway but when she glanced up at his face she thought it looked as if a storm had hit it.

  ‘Steve, they’ve said you’re a P3. And everyone knows that a P3 can’t fight in the front line.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I can’t do things! I know I can fight like I used to. I’m as fit as I’ve ever been.’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything. It’s the army,’ she said soothingly, because the boys were upstairs in bed and supposed to be asleep. Although a few telltale bumps overhead had told her they weren’t.

  ‘Listen, what the army needs to understand is that I’m as good as the other lads. I overtake some of them when I’m out running.’

  Leanne had seen Steve overtaking people early in the morning. They would be jogging along, thinking their own morning thoughts, oblivious to the fact that they were targeted as hot competition by a runner coming up behind them. Steve would charge past, a blur of sweat, metal and muscle. Sometimes he would shout things. Not a cheerful good morning, either, more like triumph or even abuse. He shouted it in a jokey way but he was not jokey enough and the runners he overtook looked startled and perplexed because they hadn’t realized they were in a race.

  This Steve was a caricature of his old self, the man she had married, a soldier who was full of life and laughter. He thought if he became a soldier again he could get his old self back. But he couldn’t. Because that man was gone forever.

  Leanne tried not to look sad. She knew how much it annoyed him. Luckily he hadn’t seen her face; he was too busy searching for more toys to kick around. The twins were into little cars and there were always a few to stumble over around the sofa and at the edges of the room.

  ‘I’m fucking going!’ he roared loudly. A small, anxious face suddenly peered around the door.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ Leanne demanded.

  A little boy scuttled out like a mouse, grabbed a tiny metal ambulance which was perilously close to his father’s foot and, head down, scuttled rapidly back. As if they wouldn’t notice him if he didn’t look at them.

  ‘You’re supposed to be in bed,’ said Leanne sternly. Small feet could be heard scampering up the stairs. A rescue mission. Ethan had been rescuing the ambulance from his scary dad. The thought made her even sadder. Upstairs there was silence now.

  Leanne said: ‘Well, I hope you get what you want, Steve.’ Her voice was so quiet that he halted suddenly and looked at her. When he replied his voice was quieter too.

  ‘I will, Lee. Because Dave Henley’s got an idea.’

  Leanne raised her eyebrows.

  ‘An idea which means you’ll go back into his platoon?’ Her voice was deepened by scepticism.

  ‘I dunno what the idea is. I’m waiting for them to get back from training and he’ll tell me.’

  ‘They’re back. I saw Danny Jones going home when I looked out half an hour ago.’

  ‘Shit!’ Steve leaped for the phone as if she had given him an electric shock. Leanne sat, unmoving, on the sofa, hearing Steve’s end of the conversation, guessing what Dave was saying. That he’d just got home, that he was helping with the kids, that he was eating a meal, that Jenny …

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll see you in an hour!’ said Steve, after failing to persuade Dave to come sooner.

  He paced the living room waiting for Dave’s arrival, kicking toys, moaning about the P3 letter, occasionally shouting at Leanne. When she got up to clear the kitchen he did not follow her. She could hear his footsteps, the prosthetic leg noticeably heavier than his own, clumping back and forth, back and forth. She wondered if there was a more horrible sound in the world.

  When Dave finally tapped at the door, Steve put his head inside the kitchen.

  ‘Leave us alone to talk! We don’t want you in there!’ he snapped at her.

  Dave knew, as soon as Steve answered the door, that he had returned to a state of anger and hopelessness. His face was shadowed, his mouth discontented and Dave was barely inside the hallway before Steve shoved the letter at him.

  Dave followed him into the living room and sat down. Steve remained standing, watching as he read. The promised beer did not materialize. He could hear Leanne moving around upstairs but she did not appear.

  ‘This is just one of the standard letters they send,’ Dave said. ‘It’s computer-generated. No one’s sat in an office saying: Oh we must send that Rifleman Buckle a letter telling him he’s a P3.’

  ‘Leanne told me that.’ Steve was pacing the room. He found another toy, one which had ricocheted back when he kicked it last time, and took a swing at it.

  ‘Steady on, mate.’ Dave caught the small metal car neatly. ‘Kicking your kids’ toys into touch isn’t going to help, is it?’

  ‘What’s your idea? Whatever it is, it can’t work, not now I’ve had the letter.’

  Dave eyed Steve with alarm. He looked dangerous, as if he could hit someone. It crossed his mind that he might sometimes hit Leanne. Or the kids. But Leanne wouldn’t take that lying down. She’d march into the street and shout at him where everyone could see her, or she’d go to Welfare or the doctor, or at least she’d tell Jenny. Wouldn’t she?

  ‘Didn’t you mention something about beer?’ Dave asked mildly.

  Steve started.

  ‘Oh, yeah, beer!’ He looked in too much of a hurry for Dave’s idea to think about beer but Dave sat back and crossed his legs and tried to look relaxed, like a man who was expecting a beer to arrive any minute. Even though he felt far from relaxed.

  Steve went into the kitchen. Dave could hear him banging the cupboard doors open and shut. Eventually he appeared with a couple of bottles.

  ‘Well, sit down!’ Dave told him when Steve showed every sign of hovering right in front of him.

  Steve sat and this seemed to calm him. He stretched out his prosthetic leg on a coffee table which was so well rubbed you could see that the leg lay there often. He took a first sip of beer and then another and Dave thought he was relaxing a bit. Before talking about work, Dave made a point of discussing the beer with him, which was made by a small local brewery. It was expensive and Dave only bought it as an occasional treat. Steve just about managed to hold a normal conversation, although he was still agitated.

  Finally Dave said quietly: ‘I can’t stay long because I should be at home with Jenny. She’s upset.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Steve wasn’t interested.

  ‘It was confirmed today. We’re going back.’

  Steve leaned forward. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Probably only for a month or two. While the Americans are busy annihilating the poppy crop they need a bit of extra support.’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  Steve groaned. ‘I’ll never be able to persuade them to let me go that quickly.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Dave. ‘Now listen. You did an interview with the local paper, didn’t you?’

  Steve leaned back again. ‘Yeah, but the stupid bitch got my age wrong and spelt Leanne’s name wrong and—’

  ‘The point is, a lot of people read that and found it moving. You and Leanne were honest about how it felt to lose a leg in battle and how it had affected your lives.’

  Steve looked interested. Just a bit.

  ‘Yeaaaah?’

  ‘And didn’t the MoD tell you it was a good interview?’

  ‘Yeaaaah …’

  ‘Maybe there’s some way you could go back out to do some PR? To show that, despite losing a leg, you’re back in Bastion, that you’re still fit and able to serve …’

  ‘In the front line!’

  ‘Steve, I don’t know about the front line.’ Not the front line. Not when it endangered the lives of the rest of the platoon. ‘Let’s just start wit
h Camp Bastion. You’d have to go out with Stores and do your job and do it seriously. But they’re always flying journalists in. You could do pictures and interviews. It’s good PR for the army to show that wounded soldiers are still useful soldiers.’

  Steve looked thoughtful.

  ‘Hmmm. And once I’ve proved myself, maybe they’ll let me out of camp. If I’m still a fighting soldier, that’s even better PR.’

  ‘Look, it’s just an idea. I can’t guarantee it’ll even get you to Bastion, mate. But maybe it’s worth a try.’

  Steve’s enthusiasm was mounting.

  ‘You bet it’s worth a fucking try!’

  ‘We’ll start by talking to Iain Kila. And then get back to whoever OKed that interview at the MoD and talk to them about it.’

  ‘Let’s do it, mate! You’ll back me up, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Steve leaped over to the sofa where Dave was sprawling and seized his hand, shaking it vigorously.

  ‘Shit, Dave, that’s one helluvan idea. And I thought you didn’t care. I mean, lately it’s seemed like you’re trying to get rid of me all the time. And now you’ve come up with this! And you’ll back me!’

  ‘Don’t expect too—’

  ‘You’re a real friend. If you ever need me, mate, I’ll be there for you. I promise.’

  Dave disentangled his hand.

  ‘Don’t get too excited, Steve. It may not work.’

  But Steve was unstoppable.

  ‘I’m going to make it fucking work!’ he announced loudly.

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Dave, ‘you’ll wake your kids.’

  Too late. Steve was roaring up the stairs: ‘Leanne! Leanne! You’ll never believe it, come here, woman! Dave’s had one helluvan idea. It’s going to get me out to Bastion with the boys!’

  Chapter Six

  TINY HEMMINGS WAS proving a success in 1 section. He got on with the other lads, took the taunts about being too new and too tall on the chin and tried hard during training. George Slindon was another matter. Dave had gripped him more than once because he wasn’t ready for kit inspection, didn’t have the right kit or listened to his iPod during an exercise instead of PRR.