Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Dave became aware of Chalfont-Price in his ear. The boss’s voice was sharp, as though he had been repeating the question over and over. ‘You’re saying he fired at you and missed?’

  ‘By not much.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Dave had not heard the boss nonplussed before. No matter how bad his own cock-ups or other people’s, Chalfont-Price’s confidence never wavered. And now, suddenly, his voice shook.

  Dave said: ‘Luckily I was the first target. He was still adjusting his sights.’

  ‘The practice shot,’ said the boss shakily. ‘And the only one he missed. It seems 1 Platoon has had a lucky escape.’

  And for a moment, no, a fraction of a moment, Dave heard Chalfont-Price recognize his sergeant’s value. He should have enjoyed it, but just talking about the near miss was exhausting.

  When he saw Jamal, the interpreter, Dave hauled him to one side.

  ‘Remember the man on the motorbike this morning?’ he asked.

  Jamal looked hostile. ‘He was only a boy.’

  ‘Not the one who died. The man who arrived with the boy’s family. He wore glasses and you said he was a village elder.’

  ‘Oh yes. I can’t forget that man,’ said Jamal, with unusual spontaneity.

  Dave said: ‘And I can’t get the thought out of my mind that he’s the sniper.’

  Usually Jamal looked away or at the ground when he spoke but now, for the first time, his brown eyes stared directly into Dave’s.

  ‘I have had the same thought,’ he said. ‘That man spoke of revenge for the death of the boy. And he looked at you so carefully. I think he may be a sniper. And if it was your body which they put into the helicopter, I could be absolutely sure of it.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE LETTER HAD an official court stamp which gave the contents weight and finality. Jenny read it quickly.

  ‘Yes, you’re divorced,’ she said softly. ‘That’s all it says.’

  Eugene did not respond. Outside, a horse wearing a blue rug suddenly threw up its head and chased a grazing horse wearing a red rug, teeth bared. The grazing horse jumped and ran off and the pair cantered around the field, nipping at each other. Were they playing or fighting?

  Jenny said: ‘You don’t have to read this. I’ll put it away in the divorce file and we’ll be able to close it now. We can take it out of the filing drawer and put it in the cellar with all the other closed files.’

  He nodded. He did not look at her. Her heart beat sympathy and sadness around her body. Didn’t his wife know how lucky she was to be loved by a good man like Eugene? Was she snuggled up with her tennis coach somewhere now, feeling twinges of regret for all she had given up and all the pain she had inflicted?

  ‘Eugene?’

  ‘Twenty-five years of my life. A closed file,’ he said at last.

  ‘Closed files mean you can open new files.’

  ‘Some people go out together and have a divorce lunch when their decree absolute comes through,’ he said, snorting at the impossibility of doing such a thing with his ex-wife.

  ‘You’ll be friends one day,’ Jenny assured him. Not because she knew this would be the case, but because she wanted it to be. She found the idea of a partner of twenty-five years turning into a stranger unbearable, no matter what they had said or done.

  ‘That’s rather hard to imagine. You know my financial position as well as anyone. Fiona had nothing when I met her and she seems to be rather well off now. I’ve had to borrow vast amounts to hang on to Tinnington. I had hoped it would stay in the family for my children …’

  Jenny did not know what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured.

  He stood up abruptly. ‘I’ll walk the dogs now. When I get back, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to have lunch with me?’

  She nodded as if she would like nothing more in the world, while inside her nodding head she was doing childcare calculations, about the nursery, about Adi. The longer she was out of the house, the harder it was to re-establish a comfortable home with the children. After lunch she would pick them up and then there would be that moment when she walked in through her front door, Jaime crying, Vicky whining and a stack of chores waiting.

  ‘Are you sure you can organize your children?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ll try not to drone on too much about Fiona,’ he promised.

  ‘I don’t mind, Eugene. Say whatever you like.’

  ‘We’ll go to the White Horse, over by the river at Fulton,’ he said, walking out of the room. ‘Could you ring and book a table for one o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll do it now.

  He paused in the doorway. She looked him full in the face and admitted to herself that, yes, he was still a handsome man, but he was old. His eyes looked hollow, his skin puckered as though someone had hit him.

  ‘Jennifer, a piece of advice,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever get divorced.’

  Back in their caves, the men were subdued. A simple protection exercise had left them with three men down. Only the arms cache stimulated interest. Everyone wanted to have a look and get their mates to photograph them with enemy weapons.

  ‘You look right Taliban with that AK!’ said Slindon, snapping Mal.

  ‘Yeah, put on a dishdash, wrap a scarf round your head and I’d open fire,’ Angus told him.

  Binns and Mal exchanged glances, reminded that Angus had told them several times that he intended to deal with Aamir in Wythenshawe as soon as they were back in the UK.

  ‘Can you print that picture when we get to Bastion?’ Mal asked Slindon. ‘So’s I can send it to my mum?’

  ‘Oh man, take one of me with the AK for my mum, too!’ pleaded Streaky.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Iain Kila, standing over the box of Taliban weapons. ‘EOD’s on the way and they don’t need to see us poncing about with the arms cache.’

  ‘What’s in there?’ asked Dave. Kila had promised him phone access as soon as possible, but of course all the phones in Helmand were down while relatives of the dead and wounded received their bad news.

  Doc Holliday was leaning over the box.

  ‘Er, twelve Kalashnikovs,’ said Kila. ‘And …’

  ‘Two, no, three pistols, semi-automatics,’ said Doc. ‘And four PK machine guns. And will you look at these bolt-action rifles?’

  ‘That one’s old,’ said Dave.

  ‘Lee-Enfield,’ Kila said.

  Dave held it and felt the weight. ‘It’s the sort of weapon that sniper today could have used. Nice long range.’

  Doc took it and lifted it into a firing position. ‘Got to be World War Two.’

  ‘Some lads from B Company found an arms cache with a Lee-Enfield from 1915,’ said Kila. ‘And the Taliban were still using it. There was a stash of .303s right by it.’

  ‘I think they found a Martini-Henry too,’ Doc told them.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ said Kila.

  ‘Late nineteenth century, left over from the last time the Brits tried to fight here. But it wasn’t in good working order. Probably couldn’t get the ammo any more. It takes .450s, I think.’

  ‘Well, that’s been out of production for a hundred years.’

  Dave drew one of the PK machine guns from the box.

  ‘Look at the stock. Laminated. Is it plywood?’

  Doc took it and examined it, blowing out cigarette smoke.

  ‘Well, it’s an old PK variant and the stock must have snapped a while ago. So they’ve sorted it with a few strips of metal and some nails. Bloody amazing. These little old guys squatting outside holes for workshops are probably doing this kind of thing all the time.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to shoot with it,’ said Dave.

  ‘It’s usable,’ said Doc. ‘But not very accurate.’

  ‘How do you know so much about these old weapons?’

  ‘I’ve always had an unhealthy interest in old weaponry,’ said Doc. ‘I’ve got a collec
tion at home. Totally illegal, of course.’

  ‘It’s not more unhealthy than your cigarettes,’ said Kila, flapping his hand across the funnel of smoke which rose from Doc’s mouth.

  ‘I know, I know. But everyone’s allowed one vice.’

  ‘You’ve got several,’ Dave pointed out.

  ‘My wife would say I’ve got the lot.’ Doc drew out an AK47. ‘This old lady’s in a state. Pitting, corrosion. But I bet if we opened it up we’d find the working parts are all oiled, up together and ready to use.’

  ‘They probably pass them down from father to son,’ said Dave.

  Doc said: ‘If I passed my collection down to my son, he’d shoot me with it.’

  EOD came for the box of Taliban arms the next day while the company was back in the poppy fields. This time spraying continued in the face of only small-arms fire. The sniper had apparently evaporated.

  As they made their way back to the FOB, rain began to fall. It did not start slowly and then thicken: the clouds suddenly released a torrential downpour. At first the lads inside the Mastiff, hearing it pattering on the vehicle’s armour, thought that they were under fire. When they realized it was rain they were delighted. Rain would freshen the FOB, replenish water supplies and deaden the dust.

  It was still raining without showing any sign of easing when they arrived back at FOB Carlsbad. After another hour the lads were beginning to feel that was enough rain. But the skies remained uniformly leaden.

  Kila came to Dave.

  ‘Phones are open now. I’ve got one for you.’

  This was a favour, since the men were given very limited opportunities to use the satellite phone at the FOB.

  Dave dialled his own number slowly and deliberately. He was not going to blow this call. He wanted to hear Jenny’s voice. Even the way she said hello would tell him everything he needed to know. And he had a lot to tell her too. Not the fallen men, the arms cache, the sniper, the job or the rain had distracted him from his resolution to make sure she understood that he still loved and cared for her. She had been a good wife. He was not going to allow his anger to drive her away. He had known that for sure when the sniper’s round had nearly killed him and he had kept the knowledge alive in his mind until he could phone her.

  Click clunk. He was through to England. Ding ding. He was through to home. Across mountains, seas and land masses, the phone in a hallway, living room and bedroom in Wiltshire was ringing. His heart seemed to beat in time with the rings. He waited, waited, for her voice. Ding ding. Ding ding. After a few more rings it seemed to mock him. And after a few more came a man’s voice: ‘Hi, we can’t answer right now so leave a message after the tone.’

  A confident, happy family man. Sure of his world, sure of his wife. The Dave Henley he used to be before this fucking country had turned his life upside down.

  He did not answer his own invitation to leave a message. He hung up and dialled Jenny’s mobile instead. Ding ding. He hated the fucking ring tone. Hated the way it went on and on and on and on. Until: ‘Welcome to voicemail!’

  He hung up and went back out into the rain. It dripped down his neck from a rock edge and he did not care. He stood still until he was drenched.

  ‘What’s up, mate?’ asked Doc Holliday, appearing at his side.

  ‘Fucking women,’ said Dave.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. Because she’s not there. As usual.’

  Doc Holliday’s head was wet now. Rain dripped from the end of his nose. He had not shaved for some time and his facial hair was matted by water.

  ‘Fucking women,’ agreed Doc.

  The next day, Gerry McKinley from 2 Section took Dave aside.

  ‘Sarge, I’m not sure if I should tell you this …’

  Dave paused. He had been loading ammo for today’s tractor protection and keeping it dry in this weather was a problem. The earth was pooling now because the rain had not stopped overnight, so you couldn’t put anything down.

  ‘The thing is, Rose saw Leanne Buckle yesterday. You know Leanne leaves her boys with Adi while she’s working. I think your Jenny does too. Anyway—’

  Dave braced himself. He put his hands on his hips. Gerry’s voice began to fade a bit, as if he was wondering if he should have started this.

  ‘Well, a couple of days ago, Jenny rang Adi and asked her to keep the baby for the afternoon.’

  Dave shrugged. ‘She probably had a good reason.’

  ‘Yeah. She said she was going out to lunch with her employer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It was important not to show any emotion. It was important to make that ‘oh’ empty of pain, of shock, of anything, to keep it as clear as a piece of ice.

  ‘Well …’ Gerry backed off rapidly. ‘I just thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry,’ said Dave, starting with the ammo again. ‘Thanks for telling me. It’s good to get news from home.’

  They loaded up and set off to meet the tractors. And all the time Dave’s heart was thumping with anger. Lunch. Employer. Adi telling Leanne fucking Buckle, who for a fact would tell half of fucking Wiltshire. There had been a postal delivery that morning and from Jenny there was nothing, nothing at all. As if being angry with one another could make the other person just cease to exist. He felt his heart harden again. The reordering of priorities he had experienced after his near escape from the sniper was already disintegrating. If Jenny wanted to play stupid games with him, let her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  LEANNE DROVE INTO headley court. Usually she zoomed up the motorway feeling anxious, wondering what mood she would find Steve in. But when she arrived she always relaxed. Headley Court didn’t feel like a hospital. It was normal to be wounded here. One-legged, no-legged servicemen buzzed around, busy and focused on a tight work and exercise regime. Nobody stared or made excuses for them or looked at them with pity. Only when he got back to Wiltshire was Steve distanced from everyone else by his injury.

  She went to look for him and passed another patient she recognized.

  ‘Hi, Sergeant Smi!’ she said and Smi spun around on his prosthetic leg, grinning at her. He was an immense Fijian, broad as well as tall. He’d had a reputation for being a tough sergeant before he was blown up but Leanne couldn’t imagine him being anything but fair and generous. If only Steve was more like Smi. He had accepted the loss of his leg with a sweet grace and devoted his time to supporting and encouraging others.

  ‘Hey, Leanne! You coming to take the boy away?’

  She nodded. He frowned.

  ‘Well, baby, you don’t seem too pleased about it.’

  That was all it took. Smi’s concerned look, his sympathetic voice and suddenly, without warning, she was crying.

  ‘Oh shit, Smi, sorry!’ she sobbed.

  He gestured to a seat in a corner away from all the busy people.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ he demanded. ‘Is it harder to love a man with only one leg?’

  Sobs shook her. ‘No!’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief for a one-legged man to hear.’

  She still could not speak. Smi waited. Finally he said: ‘You won’t believe this, but Steve had everyone laughing till their prosthetics fell off yesterday. In a group session.’

  She did not believe it.

  ‘He’s a funny guy,’ said Smi. ‘If he wants to be.’

  Gasping for breath, as though the sobs had robbed her of air, she said: ‘He used to be. He hasn’t been funny for a while.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve seen him make roomfuls of people laugh quite a few times.’

  Steve: relaxed, chatty, thinking out loud, coasting further and further with some mad idea while anyone around him picked up the thread and followed it, laughing loudly. She had seen it often enough. But not lately, and certainly not since that second IED.

  ‘He’s not like that at home, Smi. At home he’s really angry or he’s really withdrawn. And when he laughs it’s not nice. He’s laughing to make a point
or he’s laughing at me. And he’s ratty with the kids.’

  ‘Was he ratty with the kids before he lost a leg?’

  Leanne considered. Well, actually, yes. ‘Sometimes,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Before his accident, if he’d been sitting around at home or doing things he didn’t enjoy, how would he have been?’

  That one was easy: she only had to think about Steve with flu or Steve off work to do a bit of DIY. ‘Impatient and nasty.’

  ‘So it’s not losing a leg which is a problem for Steve, it’s losing all the things he used to do. Listen, Leanne, I can’t talk for Steve, I can only talk for myself. I was a good sergeant and I want to be a good sergeant again and I want to be useful and busy and work hard and look after my family. That’s all it takes to make me happy. I haven’t changed that much, personally. I still want the same things. I just have to achieve this in a different way.’

  She pulled out a matted tissue. Her pockets were always full of disintegrating Kleenex these days.

  ‘I wish Steve was a bit more like you.’

  ‘Oh, baby, I wish I was a bit more like Steve. That is one clever guy! But it seems to me that all the problems he’s got now he’s always had. He dealt with himself by joining the army, soldiering, doing a job he loved. Now he has to find a different way, that’s all.’

  Leanne allowed herself, briefly, to think the unthinkable. That Steve had not been a lamb before his accident but difficult, demanding, bad-tempered. That the army had channelled his anger and aggression. Shit, it was true. He had masked it with his humour and his charisma; that’s why she had married him. And now the mask had gone.

  Smi seemed to read her thoughts.

  ‘Let’s not be too harsh. Before he lost that leg, apart from being difficult, was he kind?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Was he generous?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Was he funny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he love you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He put a weighty arm around her shoulders. ‘See, the psychiatrists keep telling us we have to accept change. I think what we amputees have to accept is that nothing’s changed. It’s just some of the things we used to cover up are exposed now.’