Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  Suddenly voices were shouting from the wagons.

  ‘There he goes, get him, get him!’

  ‘Bastard!’

  ‘He detonated it, go for him!’

  A motorbike was speeding away from them across the rocky desert, its rider leaning forward as though that would make the bike go faster.

  Dave said: ‘Hold firm. Hold fire.’ Even though he, too, was sure from the position of the motorbike and desperation of its rider that he was responsible for the IED. As he spoke, there was a quick burst of machine-gun fire. It might have come from Streaky on top or from one of the gimpys further behind. It coincided with the sound of a single shot. The motorbike powered on for a few seconds. And then it hit a rock.

  Its front wheel was suddenly travelling skywards. It had almost completed a full circle backwards in the air when it dropped like a stone. The rider fell first. Then the motorbike fell on top of him. It reminded Dave of the cartoons he sometimes watched with Vicky, except in the cartoons the characters always got up and ran on, even if they were a different shape, while the motorbike and its rider had become a motionless heap of scrap in the desert. One wheel still spun at an unnatural angle to the ground.

  Dave waited. The driver looked at him. Dave said nothing. His ears were still ringing from the explosion but he was aware of the diminishing roar of engines from the first part of the convoy, pulling ahead as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Well, don’t just sit there, Sergeant,’ snapped a voice in his ear. It was Chalfont-Prick, barking into his microphone as if he was in charge of the whole fucking army as usual. ‘You’re by far the closest to the motorbike. You’d better see to the rider. He may still be alive.’

  ‘I’ve got the medic. We’ll need an RMP,’ replied Dave mechanically as the driver started the engine. Doc climbed in and they swung out across the desert, carefully following the route that the motorbike rider had taken. Dave was sure the man could not still be alive. Maybe that last, single shot had killed him. His death would mean an investigation, more form-filling, endless questions to answer and detailed discussion about the Rules of Engagement.

  A Panther pulled out from the stationary convoy and followed them slowly.

  ‘On my way with the RMP,’ came Iain Kila’s voice.

  They reached the wreck and Dave got out. The temperature was rising daily and it hit him now like a warm wall. Today was nothing more than a balmy spring day but, like everything else in this country, even spring threatened to get out of hand.

  Mal was first out of the back of the Mastiff. He was team medic and he went straight to help Doc with the casualty. While Mal and Doc were disentangling the bike from the body, the other lads covered. The sergeant major arrived.

  Doc had been feeling for a pulse on the crumpled young man.

  ‘Nah, nothing,’ he said.

  As a small crowd of men gathered round, Doc went through the usual procedures.

  ‘This is a complete waste of fucking time,’ he told Dave breathlessly as he pumped on the rider’s chest. ‘But it looks professional.’

  ‘Good if he’s dead!’ said Finn, joining them. ‘The fucker tried to kill us all.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said the Royal Military Police officer gravely, shaking his head. ‘He was under fire before anyone could be sure he was responsible for the bomb. And if he had detonated the bomb, he was no longer a threat. I’m afraid this lad’s death is totally contrary to the Rules of Engagement we are currently operating under.’

  There was a silence while people exchanged pained glances.

  Mal said: ‘So he’s allowed to kill us … but we’re not allowed to kill him. Duh.’

  Slindon stood up straight. ‘That’s not fair, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Angus, shaking his head. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘We must account for Afghan deaths and satisfy ourselves that they’re justified,’ insisted the RMP. ‘We can’t just come to Afghanistan and spray rounds everywhere because we don’t like the look of someone.’

  The men said nothing.

  ‘Who actually gave the order to fire?’ demanded the RMP.

  No one answered his question.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ said the officer.

  ‘I heard Sergeant Henley tell them to stop,’ said Kila.

  ‘He was slow to give that order and it was not effective,’ said the RMP.

  ‘Anyone would be stunned so close to a large bomb,’ Kila pointed out. ‘The large bomb which that boy probably detonated.’

  But the RMP was stubborn. ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘If he wasn’t detonating the IED, why would he be running away like that?’ demanded Binns.

  The police officer continued to look grave. ‘He might just have been a curious kid watching the convoy.’

  ‘He was running away,’ insisted Binns.

  ‘He might have been rushing off because he knew his mum would be furious with him.’

  Doc Holliday, who had been looking at the boy, stood up. ‘I’d say he’s about sixteen. Although it’s hard to tell with these Afghans.’

  The body was stretched out on the ground. There was a thin covering of sand over thick rock here and at a gust of wind the sand blew across the dead face. The boy’s eyes were closed. He looked peaceful.

  ‘Search him,’ ordered Dave. Angus and Streaky stepped forward to check the body for weapons or ID. In a thin hide purse, which had perhaps once been around his waist but was now tangled with his clothes, they found a printed card. They handed it to the interpreter. In another bag, which had probably been slung over his shoulder, were two mobile phones.

  ‘One of those is your detonator,’ said Dave.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ insisted the RMP officer.

  ‘Why would he have two phones otherwise?’ asked Doc.

  ‘We’ll have to investigate that.’

  Dave, Kila and Doc exchanged glances. Whose side was the RMP on? Did the Taliban have their own military police to tell them off every time they killed the enemy?

  ‘I heard a gimpy. Who fired it?’ asked the RMP officer, looking around the faces of the men.

  ‘Me,’ confessed Streaky. ‘Someone said get him, so, man, I got him.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ said the RMP officer.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ said Doc quietly.

  ‘I did!’ protested Streaky.

  ‘You didn’t, mate,’ Mal told him. ‘There are marks on him from the bike. But there’s no sign he got hit by a round. It was an accident.’

  ‘You fucking missed, Bacon!’ roared Angus. ‘And how far away was he? One hundred and fifty metres? And how many rounds did you fire? Huh!’

  Streaky’s face curled itself into a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment.

  ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘So it wasn’t me! But someone else fired a rifle …’

  ‘They missed too,’ said Mal. Doc nodded agreement.

  Kila said: ‘For once I’m glad our marksmanship is so fucking awful. He was killed when his bike hit a rock and no one …’ The sergeant major turned pointedly to the police officer. ‘… no one can get us for that.’

  ‘Hmmmm. But he seems to be unarmed. And did he swerve and hit the rock because he was under fire?’

  Everyone turned to look at the track left by the bike but by now it had been obscured by wagons and men’s feet.

  ‘I was watching and he didn’t swerve,’ said Dave.

  ‘Hmmmm. But was he riding recklessly because he was fleeing under fire?’ asked the RMP.

  Suddenly Jamal, the interpreter, spoke up. ‘This card says that he is seventeen years old and he is committed to the Taliban.’

  ‘Streaky, you wanker,’ said Finn. ‘How could you miss the bastard?’

  ‘I thought I hit him,’ said Streaky mournfully.

  ‘You shouldn’t have been firing! This platoon obviously needs a reminder about the RoE,’ said the police officer.

  ‘We didn’t kill him,’ Dave insisted. ‘I saw it all. The bike was going in a strai
ght line. It didn’t swerve. It went straight into that rock and bounced.’

  Iain Kila gave the police officer a triumphant grin. ‘Well, your police report should be straightforward enough. Taliban fighter dies riding his motorbike recklessly while trying to escape from a bomb he detonated. Look, here comes his family now.’

  A man was roaring towards them on another motorbike. Behind him was a small, dusty pick-up truck. It looked as if it had been made in a factory in Eastern Europe many years ago. It bounced unhappily across the hard, desert floor.

  ‘How do we know that truck’s not full of suicide bombers?’ asked a gloomy voice from the circle of men around the body.

  ‘Usually there’s just one suicide bomber in a vehicle, Blue Balls,’ said Dave patiently. ‘It’s a bit of a waste to blow up a truck full of your own men.’

  Slindon looked more closely.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, seeing that the ancient vehicle was packed full of people. It screeched to a halt nearby and five men climbed out. They ran to examine the boy’s body. One was yelling and crying and jerking at the boy’s arm as if to wake him. All of them talked at once. Some were shouting at the soldiers.

  Jamal the interpreter joined in. Dave listened to the sound of their angry Pashto but cutting through it all, as though there was complete silence all around, was the grief of the man who tried to tug the dead boy awake. This was certainly his father, Dave thought. Then he became aware of the man who had arrived by motorbike. He had not dismounted but sat very still, his face impassive.

  Dave looked at him and the man looked back. Unlike almost any other Afghan Dave had seen, he wore glasses. Dave realized the glasses masked a strong emotion, and the emotion was not grief. It was hatred. There was nothing he could do or say to stop this man hating him. His instinct was to explain that the boy had died because of a rock, not a round, but probably the interpreter was saying this now and the news was having no effect.

  He continued to watch the motorcyclist. There was something unswerving in his gaze and in his hatred which made him a threat.

  ‘Make sure you cover the geezer on the motorbike,’ he said to the lads. ‘He may have a pistol.’

  The man became aware that the attention of the soldiers had shifted to him and he gave a half-smile which spoke as plainly as words. I despise you.

  Meanwhile, the other Afghans were locked in an angry discussion with Jamal. They yelled and the interpreter fired back a volley of words. What were they saying? Emotions were running high but Pashtuns often sounded just as passionate when they were exchanging routine pleasantries. Dave wondered how soldiers sounded to these people who judged them only by tone, volume and facial expression.

  ‘Have you said that he drove into a rock?’ Iain Kila asked the interpreter.

  The terp nodded and continued rattling away in Pashto. The men shouted back. Jamal raised his voice more.

  ‘I don’t trust that bloke on the bike,’ Dave muttered to Kila. Jamal heard him.

  ‘He is an elder. Look at his turban.’

  Metres of dark blue fabric were wound around the man’s head and then hung loosely over one shoulder.

  ‘If he is a village elder, he has power to resolve disputations and sort out marriages and other, various personal affairs. You only have to look at him to know that he is important man in community.’

  ‘Try speaking to him,’ Dave suggested. He was unsettled by the man’s hawkish stare. ‘Explain to him how the kid died.’

  Jamal ignored the clamour of the other Afghans and addressed his words directly to the elder. The man listened. Then, when he spoke, his voice was deep, slow and precise. Jamal paused before interpreting the man’s words.

  ‘What? What? What did he say?’ demanded the sergeant major.

  ‘Well, I’m just noticing from his accent that he is not from this village or this area. His accent is different. He comes from somewhere else, somewhere in the mountains probably. I think he may have travelled far and next I must ask him why he is here in Helmand …’

  Iain Kila was impatient. ‘But what did he say?’

  ‘He said: This boy died because your men fired at him. Allah gives those he loves good aim. The aim of your men is poor but it was enough to frighten this young boy into riding badly. Your rounds did not hit him but because of them he is dead.’

  The other Afghans had heard his words and were all speaking at once again, indicating their approval. The man spoke again and they were silent.

  ‘In our culture we take revenge for such a killing,’ Jamal translated. ‘And remember, Allah gives good aim to those he loves.’

  The man looked from face to face as if committing their features to memory. He stared at Dave long and hard; Dave felt uncomfort able, but he looked back into the man’s eyes unwaveringly.

  Jamal fired a question at the motorcyclist. Dave guessed he was asking why he was so far from home. It was clear that Jamal suspected the man was an insurgent. The man uttered a few words in reply and Jamal did not translate them. Dave thought the interpreter reddened.

  ‘He not tell why he’s here,’ he said.

  ‘What did he actually say?’ asked Dave. It could drive you mad working with interpreters who had conversations they did not translate.

  ‘He says he has more right on this soil than you,’ Jamal muttered reluctantly. His face was so red now that Dave guessed the man had criticized him for working with the army.

  Iain Kila gave a gesture of impatience. ‘OK, Jamal, do they want us to carry the body somewhere or do they want to deal with it?’

  This was translated and the questions produced another angry torrent from the group.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Jamal.

  Exasperated, Iain Kila demanded: ‘But what did he say?’

  ‘He says keep your filthy infidel hands off this son of the village,’ said Jamal. ‘And he says that you must pay for your crime before you have travelled much further.’

  ‘This son of the village tried to blow us up! He’s the one who committed a crime,’ said Dave.

  ‘To such a man your very presence in this country is criminal,’ said Jamal. He looked back squarely at Dave. Was he echoing the anger in the tone of the Afghans or was this the interpreter’s own fury? Not for the first time, Dave asked himself if this Jamal, who lived and worked with them, was trustworthy.

  The interpreter pointed to the crumpled face of the dead boy’s father.

  ‘I think we leave him to grieve.’

  They returned to the wagons. They were almost at the poppy fields now: close enough for these men to be the poppy farmers. Dave glanced back at the strange tableau in the desert. The group of village men, clustered around the elder on the motorbike. The tangle of dusty metal and human flesh on the ground. The father bent over his son, almost lying on top of him, sobbing. Dave felt sympathy pull at his heart. Then he remembered the elder’s threats and decided that instead he should be doubly alert.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LEANNE APPEARED AT Adi’s house at 7.45 a.m.

  ‘You’re early, darling. That’s not like you!’ said Adi when she answered the door, cereal box in one hand, spoons in another and giving the strange impression of having a third hand attached to a small child. The twins twisted out of Leanne’s grasp and catapulted into the kitchen.

  ‘Shit, Adi!’ said Leanne. ‘Oops, sorry.’

  Adi looked at Leanne’s face and then looked again more closely.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve had a call from Headley Court.’

  ‘Is Steve all right?’ Although Adi could tell from Leanne’s face that he wasn’t.

  ‘They’ve asked me to go and pick him up.’

  ‘Oh! When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Adi nodded. ‘So they think he’s better.’

  Leanne’s loud response was half a scoff, half a sob.

  Adi said: ‘I’ll take the boys when you go, and of course you won’t have to pay me.’

  ‘Thanks,
Ads. I’d like to go early and spend a bit of time at Headley Court. See the doctor. About how to deal with him.’

  ‘Oh Leanne. Will you be able to cope when he’s home?’

  Suddenly the house seemed very quiet. Even the children, who had just been quarrelling in the kitchen, were quiet.

  Leanne looked close to tears. Strands of hair were escaping from the clips around her blue bakery cap. Her face was white and doughy. Adi pulled her off the doorstep and inside the house, shutting the door.

  ‘He used to be so angry but it’s all gone out of him now. Like a burst balloon. I mean, ever since he got back from Headley Court the first time he’s been a fucking balloon, sorry, Adi, bouncing around everywhere full of air. And now the air’s all out and the balloon’s gone down. I think it’s gone for good …’ She dabbed her eyes with a ragged tissue. Adi put an arm around her.

  ‘What does the psychiatrist say?’

  ‘She doesn’t know anything!’

  ‘But what does she say?’

  Leanne took a deep breath. ‘That he’s never really accepted he lost a leg. And when the second explosion happened it was a sort of reality check.’

  Adi watched Leanne’s features pulling themselves into new shapes as if someone was pummelling her face.

  ‘Well, I think that’s what she said. I can’t understand all that psychobabble.’

  ‘They must think he’s better or they wouldn’t let him come home,’ said Adi, patting her friend comfortingly.

  Leanne looked back at her with red eyes. ‘What does better mean? Better than he was before? Or back to how he used to be?’

  Adi said: ‘It takes time, darling.’

  Leanne had not completely given way to tears yet, although her eyes were very damp.

  ‘That’s what the shrink said. She said this is all part of recognizing and accepting change. But if this is change, I don’t want to accept it!’ Her voice rose. ‘Steve had to fight to go to Bastion. Then he had to fight to be let out of the gates just to zero his rifle. Then he gets out into the desert and …’ Her words cracked and a water valve seemed to burst. ‘… another fucking explosion! And now all the fight’s gone out of him!’

  ‘I’m glad you’re working at the bakery,’ Adi told her between sobs.