by Andy McNab
‘He’s going to be fighting!’ said Jenny in amazement.
‘Well, not officially. But you know Steve. He won’t let them keep him in Bastion.’
‘But a P3 can’t go to Afghanistan at all, let alone out of Bastion!’
Dave had told Jenny that. He had said that no matter how good Steve was on his metal leg, it wasn’t safe out of Bastion for him or the other lads who would have to support him.
‘Yeah, well, that’s my Steve! He doesn’t care two hoots about your P3s!’
Jenny glanced at Rose in time to catch the concern on her face before the other woman looked away, saying loyally: ‘I’m pleased if you’re pleased, Lee.’
Leanne must be the only wife in camp who was delighted that her husband was going back into theatre, Jenny thought. Leanne, who seemed to read her mind, blushed.
‘Well, I know I used to be against it but I am pleased, girls, because it’s what he wants more than anything else. And I don’t think he’s going to settle until he’s done it.’
‘How did he persuade them?’ asked Jenny.
‘It was all thanks to Dave!’
Jenny stared at her.
‘Dave?’
‘It was his idea!’
Jenny was incredulous. ‘For Steve to fight with the platoon?’
‘Sort of. After that woman from the local paper came and wrote the article about him. Dave said he should go the MoD press office about doing more interviews and publicity and promotion and stuff …’
‘So what’s he promoting?’
‘He’s showing people how losing a leg doesn’t stop you living and doing your job. They’re going to take pictures of him at Bastion and he has to do interviews when journalists visit … Major Willingham wasn’t too keen, but they overruled him.’
There was no time to talk further. The room was thinning now and Jenny could feel Vicky’s tiny hand clutching more tightly at her leg. Shona, across the room, was free. She was picking crayons up. Rose rustled out of the door, Tiff took her daughter and Leanne neatly grabbed one of her twins by the scruff of the neck as he ran past her.
‘See you later!’ the mothers called to each other as Jenny marched across the room to Shona.
‘Don’t slip on the crayons. They’re all over the floor,’ warned Shona. She was a relaxed and smiling Australian whom Jenny had liked until she had started to notice how badly supervised the nursery was.
‘They’re all over the floor because a bunch of kids were throwing them at Vicky!’ said Jenny, her own words generating a new surge of anger.
Shona stood up. She did not look concerned.
‘Is that what Vicky told you, Jenny? I don’t think it’s true.’
‘She didn’t tell me anything. I saw them through the window.’
Shona looked pained. ‘Well, Vicky can sometimes antagonize the other children.’
‘Antagonize them! They were antagonizing her!’ exclaimed Jenny.
‘She’s a lively child who’s beginning to learn how to develop relationships but she does have issues with some of the boys.’
‘Issues! With boys! She’s three!’
‘She needs to assert herself more,’ said Shona, shaking her head. ‘Vicky tends to burst into tears before they’ve even done anything.’
‘Just because you didn’t see them, it doesn’t mean they didn’t do it,’ Jenny retorted.
Shona’s face was serious. ‘Well, Jenny, I think we need to look at why Vicky cries so easily. Maybe we should ask ourselves if perhaps that’s how she gets attention at home? Or maybe we should look at whether we’re incentivizing her to cry in some other way.’
Jenny’s anger was checked. It was all her fault. She was a bad mother. The other kids were picking on Vicky because her own mother had turned the little girl into a pathetic, sobbing victim. And didn’t Dave always tell her not to mollycoddle the child?
‘You see, Jenny,’ said Shona, smiling kindly because Jenny’s discomfort was obvious, ‘everything a child does here at the nursery is a reflection of her home life. We can pick up the pieces but you mothers have to work on the fundamentals at home.’
That did it. Afterwards Jenny thought the expression ‘pick up the pieces’ had been the trigger, as if Vicky experienced anger or violence or neglect at home when all she got was love. But it might have been Shona’s patronizing tone. Jenny knew then and there that Vicky was not coming back to this nursery. So there was no point shouting. There was no point telling Shona that she should stop blaming mothers when their children were unhappy in her badly run nursery.
The last child was being wrapped inside a coat, hat and scarf. In a moment everyone apart from the staff members would be gone and several already had their coats on. One was jangling her car keys loudly in her pocket. Jaime squirmed in Jenny’s arms and began to gather her body up the way she did before she cried.
‘I’ll give that one some thought, Shona,’ said Jenny carefully. ‘I can see you’re all in a hurry to get home. But after what I saw today I have to tell you that I’m finding another nursery for Vicky.’
Shona’s face contracted. Her eyes narrowed.
‘I’m sorry you feel like that. We got a ninety-two per cent approval rating from parents in our last survey.’
Jaime was crying now and Jenny was forced to shout to make herself heard: ‘Well, when I see kids bullying my daughter and no one stopping them, you can put me in the other eight per cent.’
The staff stared at her in hostile silence as she helped Vicky with her coat, her arm aching from holding Jaime. No one moved to assist her. She could feel that her face was flushed. Vicky’s was swollen from crying and Jaime was wailing miserably. Jenny did not look at anyone or say goodbye as she left the nursery.
Outside, the shock of the cool air stopped Jaime’s tears and she opened her big eyes wide. Jenny paused for breath. Shit. She felt the first twinge of regret, the way she usually did after a row with Dave. Had she been hasty withdrawing Vicky before she had found anywhere else for her to go? Although she had, of course, found somewhere else. Unfortunately, the Magic Cottage cost an arm and a leg and Dave would never agree to it.
Jenny decided, as she lifted the children up to the car and strapped them into their seats, that she would not tell him what had happened today until she could also tell him that she had found a job which would help pay for the new nursery. She had made several applications and had received one very encouraging acknowledgement, from the Market Street Bakery. Maybe she would even have a job by the time he went away.
Chapter Eight
AT THE ARRIVAL of the new platoon commander, Dave called the men over and they straightened up and stretched and yawned and stood around him in a ragged circle, most still holding their mugs. Dave tried to see them through the eyes of the new, young officer. They did not look impressive. They looked ally. And slapdash. Particularly since Slindon’s ear was now clamped to his mobile. Dave tried glaring at him but Slindon did not meet his eye.
It crossed Dave’s mind that he had been too easy on his platoon. Since they were back recently from theatre with their battle skills still sharp and shortly to return there, it had seemed unnecessary to jump down their throats right now about every little thing. He hoped this new commander, Something-Price, would understand this. And he hoped the man would notice the lads’ affable and shy grins of welcome.
Captain Thorp said: ‘There were not just one or two men here who showed distinguished service in theatre recently; the exceptional contribution of the entire platoon has been widely recognized. They played an extremely important role in the Special Forces release of the American hostage Martyn Robertson. They also sustained a number of casualties in an old Soviet minefield and it is entirely due to the bravery, fast thinking and painstaking work of their colleagues that the casualty list wasn’t longer …’
The lads shuffled their feet and looked at the ground and exchanged embarrassed looks. Even Dave felt himself reddening a little. The adjutant introduced Dave
next.
‘You’ll be safe in the hands of one of our finest sergeants, Second Lieutenant.’
‘And,’ said Chalfont-Price quickly, ‘he will be safe in mine. Pleased to meet you.’ He spoke in a clipped accent, his eyes barely meeting Dave’s, his mouth scarcely moving. Dave felt a flash of irritation. Who was in whose hands around here and how could you be pleased to meet someone if you didn’t even look at them?
He made sure his voice remained warm and even. ‘Welcome to the platoon, sir. We’re all looking forward to working with you. If you’ve noticed we’re wearing superhero underpants on the outside of our combats, I should explain that we’re trying out the new anti-mine pelvic girdles.’
At this some of the men obligingly turned and gyrated their hips, while others pointed helpfully at the girdles or struck mannequin poses. Captain Thorp and the sergeant major laughed out loud. Only the new officer remained unsmiling.
‘Sergeant, when exactly are we deploying?’ he demanded grimly.
Dave gave him the date, although it was hard to believe he didn’t already know it.
‘So,’ said Second Lieutenant Chalfont-Price, ‘at this stage, so close to redeployment, I’d have expected things to look a bit less ally, Sergeant.’ The men shuffled and straightened sheepishly but Chalfont-Price did not stop. ‘I’m seeing men with dirty boots and uniforms askew, I’m seeing body belts hanging loose, I’m seeing a man on the phone, I’m seeing some weapons which look as if they need a good clean …’
Dave stared at him, too shocked to reply. Kila’s face, topped by his great, bald dome, was frozen in surprise. Captain Thorp’s mouth was open.
Dave wanted to say: Fuck off. Even if the commander was right – and he probably was – this was no way to greet your men for the first time. But hadn’t Kila just said (about Slindon, whose mobile Dave would like to smash to the ground now, since it was still clamped to his ear) that any man joining the war-torn platoon at this stage would look like an amateur? The new commander was simply another new boy who didn’t know how to behave. And it would be Dave’s job to show him.
‘Well …’ he said politely. ‘I have relaxed a bit over the small things for this brief period between tours.’
Chalfont-Price interrupted him. ‘We might as well start as we mean to go on. You’ll soon discover that I believe the secret of a sound fighting unit is the small things.’
Everyone listened to the short, square officer. The men were still now, their eyes wide. Even Slindon had sensed that something was up and had put away his phone.
‘If we get the small things right, we’ll get the bigger things right too. That’s my philosophy. So just let me see the men looking like this again and I’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks, Sergeant, because sloppy presentation nearly always means sloppy fighting, in my experience.’
There was a long silence. Dave suppressed an urge to punch him. At the very least, he wanted to ask this arrogant young man just what experience he was referring to. There had apparently been a delay in replacing Gordon Weeks after his departure for JTAC because his successor hadn’t finished his post-Sandhurst training at Brecon. So this self-important twat had no experience at all beyond training.
Captain Thorp broke the silence. ‘Well, Dave,’ he said, with forced cheerfulness, ‘it seems it’s time to tighten that vice-like grip for which you’re so well known. Now then, there’s a lot of paperwork waiting for your new commander but tomorrow he’ll be joining you out here in training.’
The two officers returned to the Land Rover. Dave bristled as he caught a fragment of Chalfont-Price’s words: ‘… have to get behind the sergeant to knock them into shape …’
The platoon watched in silence as the Land Rover roared back across the furrows of mud. Then they erupted, their voices incredulous. Kila came over to Dave.
‘Fucking hell,’ he said, scratching his bald head vigorously, his face surprised, as if he had just discovered hair there.
‘Fucking hell,’ echoed Dave. ‘Just out of Sandhurst and telling us about his experience when we’ve come back from theatre!’
‘He’s a bit up himself,’ admitted Kila.
‘Up himself! If I met him in the pub, after a few pints I’d want to punch him. Is he going to speak to me like that in theatre?’
‘You’ll be good mates when you’ve all spent a few weeks training together.’ Kila didn’t sound convincing. ‘He’s just trying to impress you.’
‘He hasn’t impressed me.’
‘He’s probably a different bloke when you get to know him.’
But Dave could feel anger pumping around his body like an intruder in his blood vessels. The more he thought about the new commander, the angrier he felt. ‘He didn’t say a word to his men!’
‘The army doesn’t need people to be nice. In theatre it needs them to be hard. And it’s not easy to look hard when you’re as small as he is.’
‘Self-important bastard,’ Dave muttered. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Chalfont-Price.’
‘Chalfont-Prick.’
Kila pointed. ‘He was standing over on that mound, look. I reckon that’s why he didn’t come any closer, because he’s a head shorter than most of his men. Even Binns has got a few inches on him.’
‘Yeah, well, being four foot nothing shouldn’t have stopped him looking at his men or speaking to them.’
‘He looked at them. He just looked a bit too closely.’
Gordon Weeks had been easy to work with because he admitted all his faults, recognized how much he could pick up from his sergeant and learned fast. Whenever he tried to give orders they went pear-shaped but, all the same, he made sure he had a personal relationship with every lad in the platoon. It was hard to imagine this distant, unsmiling, dissatisfied young man doing that.
‘All he did was criticize.’
‘All right,’ conceded Sergeant Major Kila. ‘So the bloke’s tried to show he’s hard and he’s made a twat of himself. Now he’s got a lot of ground to make up. It’s your job to help him.’
Dave knew the sergeant major was right. He went over to the men, who fell silent as he approached. He could guess the kind of things they had been saying.
Angus asked loudly: ‘Is it true he only left Sandhurst yesterday, Sarge?’ His face was red with indignation.
‘And the week before that he was in short trousers at fucking Eton,’ Dave heard someone else say, probably Finn.
Dave made an immense effort.
‘It doesn’t matter when he left Sandhurst or where he went to school. What he said was right. We do look ally. Wearing these fucking pant things doesn’t help. But tomorrow I want everyone looking their best. That includes you, Fife, Kirk, O’Sullivan, Slindon, Bilaal, Jonas …’ He looked around. Well, why name names when every last man could improve? ‘You all looked fantastic for the medals parade. That’s the standard tomorrow. We’ve made a bad first impression and we’ll have to work fucking hard to change it.’
‘What about the bad first impression he made on us?’ It was Lance Corporal Billy Finn again, the man with an answer to everything. ‘I mean he’s going to have to work fucking hard to change that.’
Dave tried not to look as though he agreed with Finn. Which he did.
‘OK, back to work. Slindon, do you know what you’re doing now? Slindon? Slindon!’ Slindon was staring into the middle distance, eyes glazed.
‘Christ,’ said Dave. ‘What’s up with him?’ Recently there had been a lad in 3 Platoon whose expression had been similarly glazed just before he had an epileptic fit.
‘Blue Balls!’ hollered Sol in Slindon’s ear. The lanky lad started and tugged at the earphones which were hidden inside his helmet.
‘I’m talking to you. And you’re listening to your fucking iPod!’ Dave roared.
‘Sorry, Sarge, I thought we was still having a brew.’ Slindon began winding the earphones carefully.
Dave looked at Sol in disbelief.
‘He nearly kille
d himself and others. Has he listened to his safety talk?’
Sol nodded. ‘He won’t do that again, will you, Blue Balls?’
Slindon was concentrating so hard on winding his earphones that he didn’t hear.
‘SLINDON!’
The lad jumped. Even Sol, always patient, invariably smiling, looked pained.
‘Sorry, Sarge,’ Slindon said nervously.
Dave and Sol exchanged glances. Would this lad ever be ready for Afghanistan? They were deploying in ten days.
That evening, when the children were asleep and Dave and Jenny had sat down in the kitchen together with a brew instead of tackling the pile of washing up, Dave said: ‘I wanted to punch a bloke today.’
‘That’s funny, I wanted to punch a woman today. Shona at the nursery …’ She stopped, and Dave thought she was bracing herself to tell him something. But instead she said: ‘Who did you want to punch?’
‘Our new platoon commander.’
‘He’s arrived!’
‘He can go back where he came from as far as I’m concerned.’
She looked at him uncertainly.
‘He’s a twat,’ said Dave.
He told her what had happened and then wished he hadn’t. Her face clouded with concern. He found himself downplaying the way the new officer had behaved but it was too late. She was biting her lip, always a bad sign.
‘It’ll probably be all right,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘When he’s settled in.’
But Jenny had taken on that white, worried look.
‘So you’re going back into theatre with a man who sounds like a complete idiot in charge. It’s just not safe.’
Dave made a superhuman effort and managed to shrug.
‘We’ll see what he’s made of when we’re training in Brecon next week. I expect we’ll come back the best of friends. We’ll probably be getting Martyn Robertson to invite him to the Dorchester with everyone else.’
Jenny knew Dave well enough to recognize this as sheer bravado. She just looked at him, chewing her lip. He tried to cheer her up.
‘Don’t forget that tomorrow morning you’re going to shop until you drop with Leanne. And don’t bother to come home without a party dress in a big, posh bag.’
