by Andy McNab
They were training daily on Salisbury Plain by going back to basic drills with newer equipment. But now that the lads were nearly all seasoned veterans who had been under fire for real, pretend fire in Wiltshire could never be the same. It was times like this that Dave missed Jamie Dermott. He’d always set an example of serious, focused, professional soldiering, even in training. Jamie Dermott. A man who appeared frequently and suddenly inside Dave’s head. Unfortunately it was usually the dying Jamie, his body bloody, chunks missing from it, his head lolling, his eyes unfocused.
Sergeant Major Kila thought the men were doing well. He strolled over to Dave. ‘Usually when soldiers get back from a tour, you can’t wake them up. This lot are sharp because they know they’re going out there again.’
‘Sharp but sloppy,’ said Dave. ‘Because they think they’ve seen it all before.’
‘Maybe knowing their balls are safe in the new codpiece helps,’ said Iain Kila.
‘How much longer will we be trialling that bit of kit?’
‘Just until the end of the week.’
‘The lads take it off before we get back to camp because everyone who sees them starts taking the piss.’
‘No one’s going to be taking the piss in theatre if it keeps men’s tackle safe.’
They watched in silence as 1 Section, 1 Platoon, pepperpotted forward on a grenade exercise. They were leopard crawling, stomachs down, their knees and elbows sliding through the Salisbury Plain mud. Slindon was the grenade launcher. To his right, about five metres away, stood Binns, covering him with a rifle, and behind was Finn in a yellow safety vest. Further back stood the instructor.
‘Why does the sight of Slindon with a grenade in his hand fill me with horror?’ muttered Dave. ‘He looks as if he’s in a fucking egg and spoon race.’
‘Now give the lad a chance,’ said Kila amiably.
‘The other men in his section are getting tired of giving him chances,’ said Dave. ‘I don’t even need to grip him now because everyone else does.’
‘He’s just out of training! Your men should show some patience.’
They watched as Slindon approached the target, a battered brick structure which was supposed to double as an Afghan mud compound. He got into the right position to post the grenade and shouted a warning as he pulled his arm back to throw.
‘All correct so far!’ said Kila to Dave. He spoke too soon. The grenade left Slindon’s hand but instead of hurtling beyond the wall it tumbled to the ground, bouncing a few feet in front of Slindon.
‘Check fire!’ roared a voice, too late. Binman had already fired the SA80.
Finn darted forward. He moved with such speed that Dave’s eyes were a fraction of a second behind him. He saw the grenade bounce, heard the yell and then watched Finn’s yellow vest leaping on to Slindon, dragging him back into the trench.
‘Fuuuuuuuck!’ said Kila as the grenade exploded on the wrong side of the wall, a jagged white flash which lit up the dull day.
Kila and Dave ran forward. Finn was lying on top of Slindon in the trench. Binns had not got to the trench but he had been far enough away to remain upright and, apparently, unharmed. The others were already on their feet, shouting at Slindon. The instructor was waving his clipboard around. As Dave and Kila reached them, they saw Finn lifting Slindon up by his webbing so that he could punch his face.
‘Fucking, fucking, fucking dickhead!’ he roared. Dave was in time to stop Finn hitting Slindon. But he allowed the lance corporal one blow before he shouted: ‘OK, Finny, that’s enough.’
Sol held Finn’s arm, which was lining up for another punch. Finn, like any other man in the platoon, was powerless when solid Sol held him. But he could still shout.
‘You fucking dickhead, you nearly got yourself killed!’
‘Wasn’t worth living just to get killed by you instead,’ said Slindon reasonably. ‘Stop hitting me, mate.’
‘What happened?’ demanded Kila. ‘Why didn’t you throw it?’
‘I did throw it but it got caught on my webbing just when it left my hand.’ Slindon’s cheek was already swelling where Finn had punched him.
‘When it comes to killing British soldiers, we try to leave that one to the Taliban,’ Kila told him.
‘It’s thanks to Billy Finn that you’re alive!’ Sol said.
‘You are so quick, mate.’ Hemmings looked at Finny with admiration. ‘You were on to it before I even realized what had happened.’
‘Finny’s fucking fast and if he wasn’t Slindon would be dead,’ said Mal.
‘So why haven’t you thanked him for saving your worthless life?’ Angus asked Slindon.
Slindon said: ‘Thanks, Billy Finn.’
‘I didn’t mean to save you, Slindon, because you are a fucking load of shit.’ Finny’s face was still lean with fury. Sol had not judged it safe to release his punching arm yet. ‘If I’d given myself time to think, I wouldn’t have fucking saved you!’
While the rest of the section hurled abuse at Slindon and the instructor started a muttered discussion with Kila, Dave walked over to Binns, who was still standing motionless with his SA80.
‘You all right, Binman?’ asked Dave.
‘Yeah,’ said Binns, not reassuringly.
‘Bit startled?’
‘Yeah.’ Binman’s eyes were wide with shock. ‘Slindon nearly banjoed himself there, Sarge.’
‘He nearly banjoed you too, Binman.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You going to puke?’ It had started to rain, a thin, dismal drizzle. Binman’s face had been a deathly white but now it looked grey like the rain.
‘Probably, Sarge.’
‘Get back to the wagons and we’ll have a brew.’ It was no use telling Binman to man up. However bad he felt, he kept going. He turned and stumbled off, mechanically following orders. Dave watched him go. Of all the men in the platoon, Binman would find a near miss like this hardest to take and hardest to forget. He was a sensitive kid. That was what made him so good on the minefield. But when Kila had suggested that Binns specialize in counter-IED work, Dave had shaken his head. He wasn’t sure Binns had the mental stamina to live with the risk, pressure and tension of dismantling landmines day after day.
‘Brew,’ Dave yelled across the Plain and men started to filter back towards the wagons. Sol let go of Finn and made him promise to stay clear of Slindon.
‘I’ll stay clear, don’t worry, I don’t want a grenade up my arse,’ said Finn grimly. Slindon was not a tall lad but he seemed to have more arm and leg than he could keep under control. He climbed awkwardly out of the trench and stood staring at the place where the explosion had taken place. Then he looked around the empty Plain, scratching at his groin-protection system.
Dave turned his back and fell in beside Kila: ‘Slindon’s fucking useless. I don’t know how we’ve ended up with him.’
‘He’s a kid just out of training,’ said Kila protectively. ‘Of course he’s going to look like an amateur when he’s working with a platoon of fucking hard men who’re not long back from Helmand.’
‘His reports from Catterick were nothing special.’
‘He’s just taking a bit of time to settle in. He’ll be ready to go out to Helmand in a few weeks, you’ll see.’
Dave thought to himself that it was doubly hard he had been given this clown to knock into shape because a good soldier like Jamie Dermott had died.
Back at the wagons, the whole platoon had their hands wrapped around mugs of hot tea and 1 Section was telling the other two sections about Slindon and the grenade.
‘Fucking hell,’ Si Curtis, corporal of 3 Section, said to Sol, ‘I’m glad he got allocated to you.’
‘Yeah, but we got Tiny Hemmings too and he’s good,’ said Sol.
‘You’re only as strong as your weakest link,’ Si reminded him.
Sol grinned. ‘I’ll sort him out. Binns and Bacon came after the last tour started and they manned up fast enough.’
Kila gathered e
veryone around and asked: ‘What do you think of the groin protection, then, lads?’
‘I feel like a dickhead,’ said Bacon.
‘You are a dickhead,’ said Mal.
‘Fuck off,’ said Streaky. ‘You need a smaller codpiece. You’re not filling yours up.’
The colour had come back into Binns’s face. Dave wondered if he had sneaked off to be sick behind the wagons. The lad was grinning now. ‘Take it back and ask for extra small,’ Binns advised his mate Streaky.
‘Well, your codpiece makes you look like one of them dancing gits in Strictly,’ Angus told Binns. He was a whole head taller than Binman. ‘And I mean the women.’
Si Curtis said: ‘Show us your pirouette, Binman.’
Binman did not but Kirk and McKinley from 2 Section attempted the tango while O’Sullivan mimed burlesque.
Kila rolled his eyes. ‘That’s enough, lads. I had all this crap from other platoons yesterday. The question the manufacturers want answered is: Does it make your balls feel safer? Hemmings, I bet you can give me a sensible answer.’
Tiny reddened. ‘I’ve got nothing to compare it to, sir. I’ve never been operational without the codpiece.’
‘Well, I can give you a sensible answer, sir,’ said Slindon. Everyone stared at him. Dave raised his eyebrows. In the short time he had been with the platoon, Slindon had not earned a reputation for sensible answers.
‘No,’ said Slindon.
‘No what?’ demanded the sergeant major.
‘No, sir. It doesn’t make my balls feel any safer.’
Everyone continued to stare at him and Slindon looked back at them defensively.
‘Well, it doesn’t,’ he insisted but the other men in his section were already shouting.
‘Stop throwing grenades at your balls and that’ll help!’
‘It won’t save a fuckwit who tries to blow himself up, Slindon!’
‘It’s to stop the enemy getting your balls. It’s not for blue on blue balls …’
‘Hmmmm,’ said Finny. ‘Blue Balls Slindon. There’s a good name for you.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Slindon.
But Finn was considering carefully, as if deciding who would win the four thirty at Cheltenham. ‘Yeah, that’s it, that’s your new name, mate. Blue Balls Slindon.’
‘What’s wrong with my old name?’ asked Slindon.
‘Blue Balls?’ muttered the lads. ‘Good one, Finny. Blue Balls Slindon.’
Slindon responded by getting out his iPod and sticking his headphones into his ears. He wandered off with his tea, unhearing, while the lads continued to criticize him.
‘He’ll just get himself into trouble in Afghanistan.’
‘And if Blue Balls gets into trouble, chances are we do too.’
‘Steve would be better on one leg than fucking Blue Balls Slindon on two!’
‘Let’s keep Tiny Hemmings and send Slindon back to the shop and get our money back.’
Kila raised a hand and they were immediately silent.
‘Slindon’s new, he’s learning and he hasn’t had the benefit of your experience,’ Kila told them. ‘No one’s injured, thank God. Now just give the kid a chance.’
Kila was a hard man who didn’t suffer fools gladly, so why the soft spot for an idiot like Slindon? Dave wondered if he knew Kila well enough to ask whether Slindon was his secret love child. He decided he didn’t.
A Land Rover was approaching them. You could see it coming from a long way off because the Plain was so flat. There were deep ruts left by other vehicles and the Land Rover crossed them like a boat plunging over brown waves of mud.
It finally pulled up nearby and Major Willingham’s adjutant, Captain Thorp, jumped out. So did another man. The lads shifted their mugs of tea into their left hands and saluted with their right.
Kila approached the Land Rover. ‘Sir!’
Dave was looking hard at the newcomers. He knew Captain Thorp, of course. It was the other man who interested him. Could this be the new platoon commander at last? He decided after a moment that was impossible. Anyone who was arriving to take charge of his first platoon would be looking at his men with keen interest. The small, square, unsmiling officer barely glanced at them.
‘This is Second Lieutenant Chalfont-Price,’ said the adjutant.
The second lieutenant stared over their heads expressionlessly.
The adjutant smiled. ‘Let me introduce you to the new commander of 1 Platoon.’
Chapter Seven
JENNY HAD NOT told dave that she was going to see the new nursery this morning. They had barely discussed it since that horrible row when they had shouted at each other about money.
She dropped Vicky off at the camp nursery and then drove the five miles to the Magic Cottage. It was situated in the grounds of a big house, up a private road and surrounded by fields and woods. The building itself was a converted barn of timber, brick and flint and one wall was solid glass so that the children could look out on to a green world.
‘The other day we watched a fox trotting past and last week we saw an owl in the daytime!’ said the teacher as she showed Jenny around. ‘Of course, the animals vanish when we go outside. And we do spend a lot of time outside. We think it’s healthier for the children, even if it’s cold, as long as they’re wearing the right clothes. That’s our play area.’
Jenny watched a small group of children climbing on beautiful wooden equipment. Two staff joined in, talking to some, holding the hands of others. The children were laughing together. Inside, there was a lot of light and more wooden toys and art equipment. The atmosphere was one of quiet industry. All the children seemed calm and happy. Jenny wanted to sign up Vicky then and there.
As she left, the teacher warned her: ‘We only opened three months ago but we’re almost full already. If you’re really interested, you’d better move fast.’
‘I will,’ Jenny assured her. She strapped Jaime into the car and threw the bundle of literature she had been given on to the front seat. When she reached the camp nursery she was twenty minutes early and Jaime was fast asleep. She reached for the information pack.
The more she read the more she wanted Vicky to go there. Until she saw the page headed Schedule of Fees. There was a hefty and non-returnable deposit which added up, with other deposits, to about eight hundred pounds. Eight hundred pounds! There was no way Dave would agree to that. Because if one child went there, Jaime would have to go as soon as she was old enough, and that would be sixteen hundred in deposits alone. Then there were the fees, which were substantially higher than camp nursery fees.
Other mothers were gathering now. It was the usual scrum until the automatic gates swung open, when mothers surged forward, a tide of coats, hats and scarves, into the play area. But the nursery doors were still firmly shut.
The mothers regrouped, talking and laughing together. Adi Kasanita was at the centre as usual; you could hear her laugh ringing over everyone else’s. Jenny sneaked to the window and looked in.
A circle of children sat around one staff member who was reading to them. Another circle was at the play-dough bench but the children were throwing the play dough instead of modelling with it. Behind them boys were running wildly around, a teacher shouting at them over her shoulder to stop. Other staff members were busy clearing up pots of glue and small, brightly coloured pieces of paper. Where was Vicky?
Then Jenny’s heart stopped. A throng of children, Leanne’s boys among them, had been colouring an enormous picture on the floor but they were finishing now and were hurling crayons. Specifically, they were hurling them at one child. Vicky. Who sat hunched in the middle of the group as if she could not make herself small enough, her face pinched with misery, clutching at her hair in a strange, cowed gesture which seemed to bring her comfort.
Jenny’s heartache was rapidly annexed by fury. She banged on the window. A couple of the mothers outside paused in their chatter to stare at her. But no one inside heard over the commotion.
&n
bsp; As soon as the doors opened, Jenny found Vicky standing by her coat hook waiting anxiously. She wasn’t howling, but tears fell silently down her small, pink cheeks.
‘Darling, I saw them!’ cried Jenny, scooping her up despite the fact that she was already holding Jaime. ‘Why didn’t you tell a grown-up?’
Vicky clung to her mother, sobbing. Jenny cuddled her and looked around for Shona, who was in charge of the nursery. She was locked in conversation with another mother.
‘Right. We’ll get your things and as soon as Shona’s free we’ll talk to her about what happened. Mummy is very angry,’ said Jenny, letting go of Vicky in time to swing Jaime out of Tiff Curtis’s way.
‘Sorry,’ said Tiff, grabbing her daughter’s scarf. ‘Didn’t see you were carrying the baby.’
Leanne arrived, steaming through the crowd of mothers to the twins’ coat hooks.
‘I’m late, I’m late! Where’s those boys? Causing havoc as usual?’
She was right. Ethan and Joel were currently shelling the play house with pretend mortar.
‘STOP THAT AND COME HERE!’ roared Leanne. The boys looked up at her briefly and then mortared the Quiet Corner.
Jenny wanted to tell Leanne angrily that the last bombardment had been aimed at Vicky but Leanne did not pause for breath.
‘Guess what, Jenn, guess what, Rose. Tiff! Adi! Just guess.’
The mothers did not stop gathering their children and putting on their coats and gloves but their focus was now on Leanne.
‘You got the job at the garden centre?’ suggested Rose.
‘Nah, I was shit at the interview.’
‘What then?’ asked Tiff Curtis.
‘Steve’s going to Afghanistan with everyone else!’
For a moment Jenny forgot her fury with the nursery and that her small daughter was crying.
‘To Afghanistan? On spearhead?’
Leanne grinned widely. ‘Yup!’
‘Not … not with 1 Platoon?’ asked Rose.
‘No, he’s a storesman. Until he sneaks out to the front line, that is.’
