Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  ‘Forty minutes,’ echoed Major Willingham, with a hint of irritation.

  ‘Sorry about this. However, we have a special steak lunch organized today and those of us who haven’t left the FOB by 1300 hours will go ahead with it. Any of your people who are at the FOB at lunchtime are more than welcome to help us eat steak.’

  Faces all around Dave lit up.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Major Willingham stiffly. ‘We’d be delighted.’

  ‘I can assure you and your men of a quality meal, Major,’ said the American and then suddenly the British were invisible as the Americans rushed to organize their departure and their steak lunch. The air throbbed as first Black Hawks and then Chinooks appeared.

  To keep his team away from the running, shouting Americans, Major Willingham took them over to the exercise bikes and leaned against the handlebars of one to talk.

  ‘The Yanks never miss a chance to get into a tailspin. I can’t imagine why they’ve been given orders to move so quickly, but evidently it’s related to the diplomatic crisis. Since they are drawing down their men sooner than thought, it’s vital that our advance parties are ready to take over the patrol bases at once. It would be highly embarrassing to lose those positions.’

  The 2 i/c handed him a clipboard. ‘Now. All the PBs are irritatingly named after football teams.’

  ‘I believe, sir, that they’re actually baseball teams,’ said the 2 i/c.

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Men, you will have seen from the plan that Boston Red Sox is the patrol base furthest from the FOB.’

  He turned to Chalfont-Price.

  ‘Second Lieutenant, 1 Platoon has been detailed to PB Red Sox and since this is the most exposed, send your advance party there as well equipped as possible. Now, I expect this exposure to be brief. Stores should arrive imminently and we hope to get the rest of the party on their way within a couple of hours, possibly much sooner. But please prepare with the knowledge that there are often delays.’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Chalfont-Price.

  The major organized the advance parties to the other PBs: the New York Mets and San Francisco Giants were also distant. So the advance would travel together, dropping parties on the way until 1 Platoon was left to travel the final few kilometres to PB Boston Red Sox alone.

  The commanders and sergeants turned to go back to their men.

  ‘God, I’m looking forward to renaming the PBs,’ Dave heard the major groan to his adjutant.

  ‘English football teams would be better, sir,’ said Captain Bryan.

  ‘Which is your team, Captain?’ asked the major.

  ‘Charlton Athletic, actually, sir.’

  Dave and some of the others paused long enough to hear the OC scoff loudly. ‘There’s no way I’m naming a PB Charlton fucking Athletic, Captain.’

  The men within earshot guffawed and at the same moment Dave realized that Chalfont-Price had stalked off towards 1 Platoon without him. The sergeants of the other platoons were setting off together with their commanders to gather their men, deep in conversation. The only commander to walk ahead, ignoring his sergeant, was his own. And since they were the platoon going to the furthest PB, they had the most to talk about. He glared at Chalfont-Prick’s departing back. He certainly wasn’t going to run to catch up with the man.

  ‘Sir,’ he said loudly, ‘the most vulnerable party is the advance to PB Red Sox and it’s important to take the right kit with you …’

  He felt ridiculous, calling to the commander’s retreating back about red socks.

  The man replied over his shoulder, without turning around: ‘Not with me, Sergeant. I’m not going.’

  Dave suspected that this might have something to do with an American steak lunch.

  ‘Why not, sir?’ he demanded.

  ‘There will be limited spaces and taking the advance party will amount to little more than a menial admin job. The bulk of the work will be here at the FOB when stores arrive.’

  Dave was so surprised that he broke his stride.

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, with effort. ‘Then I’ll have to go to PB Red Sox since one of us should be there. Because it may be a bit more hairy than a menial admin job if the relief party’s held up.’

  Chalfont-Price had reached the cook area now, where the men, startled by his face and urgent approach, were jumping to their feet.

  ‘The relief party will be right behind. You heard the major,’ the officer snapped, turning to Dave at last.

  Dave said: ‘A lot of things could delay the relief. And if the Taliban take advantage of the situation …’

  ‘I doubt the Taliban are on the ball enough to capitalize on a very slight and brief dip in manpower during the handover,’ said Chalfont-Price crushingly. ‘It may be as little as thirty minutes before the relief gets to you.’

  Dave reddened with the effort of not contradicting him. He felt sure that the Taliban were on the ball enough to recognize any chink in their armour.

  ‘How many men can I have for the advance party to Red Sox, sir?’

  The lads were all on their feet, staring at them, looking from face to face, trying to gauge the degree of tension between the commander and his sergeant. But Dave had no intention of wasting time arguing. He had a nasty feeling that if they did not arrive at the PBs when the Marines were told to draw down, the Americans were capable of just going, leaving the British to win the bases back again.

  He waited for Chalfont-Price’s reply and the man looked away from him as usual, running his eye over the low concrete buildings, the desert sands which had taken a little rain and changed everywhere to a new, darker colour, the distant hills and the glittering Helmand River, snaking across the valley.

  ‘Take 1 Section to the furthest PB,’ the commander finally ordered. ‘2 and 3 Sections follow with the equipment when it arrives. It may be that a few of us are kept back in the FOB.’

  ‘Right, I’ll need two Mastiffs to go to Red Sox,’ said Dave. ‘With a .50 cal on one of them. I’d like a tripod for when we arrive, ideally.’

  ‘You can’t have everything. Tripods are limited until stores get here and there are other advance parties,’ snapped Chalfont-Price.

  Dave sought Sol’s eyes among the faces which were turned to them: ‘1 Section, get your ammo and weapons sorted out for immediate departure. I’ll be coming with you.’ He swung round to meet the stony gaze of the young officer. ‘And you will be following with the relief. Right, sir?’

  He heard his own insistent voice. Even Chalfont-Price could not ignore its tone, but he sighed in protest.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, I have already told you that I will do my best to accompany the relief.’

  Angus put up his hand. ‘Sarge, can’t the US Marines stay at this Red Socks place until Stores arrive and we can all get there together?’

  ‘No, Angry,’ said Dave patiently, ‘the Marines are drawing down fast. That’s why we have to get moving now.’ He said to Chalfont-Price: ‘I’d like to take a generator. I doubt that the Marines will leave us theirs.’

  ‘Sergeant, you’re overreacting to this situation. You will be fine for half an hour without one. We will send a generator in the relief wagons.’

  Dave did not argue. He had thought of something much more important than a generator.

  ‘I’ll need a signaller and a medic.’

  Chalfont-Price rolled his eyes.

  ‘You will have eight men! Rifleman Bilaal is very capable with his bandages if one of you trips over your boot laces. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Mal’s good but in the circumstances I’d like to take Doc Holliday. With any luck he’ll be able to operate between all the outlying PBs. But I’d like him based at Red Sox, at least until all the relief parties have arrived.’

  Chalfont-Price shook his head. ‘I’m surprised at you, Sergeant, hogging so many resources for yourself. You certainly can’t have a signaller and the main medic.’

  Luckily, at that moment, the sergeant major arrived.

  ‘
I want to take Doc Holliday to PB Red Sox, sir,’ said Dave.

  ‘Fucking right you should,’ said Kila without hesitation. ‘If the Taliban aren’t watching every step of this handover and don’t start flexing their muscles to impress the advance party, I’ll eat my hat.’

  Involuntarily everyone glanced at his cap.

  Chalfont-Price scowled but did not challenge the sergeant major. Anyway, Kila was already walking away. ‘I see you’ve got things under control in 1 Platoon as usual. I’ll sort out Doc,’ he said over his shoulder. Dave knew the compliment was meant for him. But probably Chalfont-Prick would assume it was his.

  A few minutes later Dave was checking off ammo and handing it around 1 Section to distribute the load. Each man carried fifty rounds for the Minimi. The UGL men had twenty-two rounds each. ‘If anyone’s got any room in their day sack, take some more Minimi rounds!’ roared Dave, throwing ammo into his own Bergen. ‘Mal, can you find me a couple of .66 rockets?’

  Mal disappeared.

  ‘Sol, have they all got pistols?’

  ‘Pistols and two magazines each,’ confirmed Sol.

  ‘Slindon? You got your pistol?’

  ‘Er …’

  This desert FOB was certainly front line, its PBs were front, front line, and now they were going to the furthest and most isolated of these, undermanned and underequipped. Just Dave’s luck that, of all the men in the platoon, Slindon was going too.

  ‘Found it, Sarge!’ said Slindon happily, producing the pistol from his webbing with a look of total surprise and an enormous smile.

  ‘Amazing, Slindon. The Taliban had better watch out now. Is everyone carrying hand grenades?’

  ‘Yes!’ chorused 1 Section.

  ‘How many?’

  Sol said: ‘Should have two each. Slindon, have you got your hand grenades?’

  Slindon was thrown into confusion. He grabbed his Bergen and began frantically searching through it. Dave ignored him.

  ‘Night-vision goggles, everyone?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Laser light markers?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Hand-held illumes?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two each, Sarge.’

  Mal was returning with the rockets as a Lancer from the Kings Dragoon Guards appeared, looking miserable. He was a tall man with a long face. He yawned.

  ‘Sergeant Henley? I’m Lancer Dawson. I’m driving you to this bed socks place,’ he said unenthusiastically.

  ‘You don’t look too pleased about it, Lancer Dawson,’ said Dave, shaking hands with him.

  ‘Yeah, well, the Yanks are doing steak while they wait for the men to get back from the PBs and they’re serving up to anyone left in the FOB,’ said Dawson. ‘And that was supposed to be me. Except now I’m going to the back of beyond with you lot instead.’

  ‘Sorry about the steak, Lancer. But I think you’ll find my lads are always ready to divvy up their MRE Lancashire Hot Pot.’

  ‘Great,’ said Lancer Dawson wretchedly. ‘That’s just fucking great.’

  ‘We’re taking two Mastiffs. Who’s the other driver?’

  ‘Lancer Reed. Here he comes, look.’

  Another forlorn face appeared.

  ‘Have you heard about the steak?’ he said to Dawson. ‘I mean, they’re serving up fucking steak and we’re going to miss it!’

  ‘Morning, Lancer, I’m Sergeant Dave Henley and we’re scheduled to depart in five minutes.’ Dave tried to remain cheerful in the face of the men’s gloom.

  Lancer Reed’s shoulders sagged. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Lads!’ yelled Dave to 1 Section. ‘Use each wagon. Who do you want on the heavy machine gun, Sol?’ Then he turned back to the drivers. ‘Let’s just check one thing: batteries. We’ve got no generator. Have we brought enough batteries for the radios?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ The two Lancers, sounding more bored than doleful now. ‘Sorted.’

  Doc Holliday arrived. ‘Hi, Dave!’ he said happily. ‘A distant PB with insufficient men and equipment? It’s looking like fun.’

  Dave grinned back but the drivers looked at him with disgust.

  ‘Yes, yes, oh yes, we’re heading for action!’ said the medic. He rubbed his hands.

  The drivers shook their heads. ‘Glad someone’s happy about missing a fucking good steak dinner.’

  ‘Who cares about steak when Taliban’s on the menu?’ asked Doc Holliday. ‘If all the rumours about PB Red Sox are true, I reckon I could double my ears collection.’

  Dave looked around rapidly for Americans but luckily none of them was close enough to overhear.

  The men were ready and waiting now.

  ‘Streaky on the HMG,’ said Sol.

  Streaky Bacon’s face lit up and he scrambled into position behind the .50 cal at the back of one Mastiff. The other had a gimpy on top.

  ‘Angus, you go on the GPMG.’ Angus’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘The rest of you inside,’ Sol told them. ‘Now.’

  The men heaved their Bergens into the backs of the vehicles. Binns could barely lift his and Angus had to help. The packs bulged with weapons and ammo. Sol gave them all a hand and then jumped into the front of the second Mastiff beside Lancer Reed.

  ‘You’re commanding, are you?’ asked Reed. ‘Owing to the manpower shortage, I don’t even get a proper commander.’

  Sol grinned broadly at him.

  ‘I’m proper,’ he said cheerfully. He was happy, thought Dave, because he was going into serious action at last. All the men knew this might not be an easy journey but no one looked nervous or apprehensive. They looked sharp, keen and alert. They seemed only distantly related to the lads who had stood around in the pub in Wiltshire one icy night moaning about wives and girlfriends and wishing they were still at the front line.

  The other wagons in the convoy, taking other sections of other platoons to their advance positions at other PBs, were revving up. Dave joined Lancer Dawson at the front of the Mastiff with the HMG and the two 1 Section vehicles fell in at the back of the line. Iain Kila watched them go from behind large sunglasses, his arms folded. He nodded to Dave. Further back, Chalfont-Price was visible, leaning on an exercise bike with another officer and a couple of high-ranking Americans. He was deep in conversation and did not turn to see his men leave.

  Dave knew the boss couldn’t hear him but he roared, ‘Enjoy your steak!’ anyway. Then they were out of the main gate and surrounded on three sides by featureless desert. They had to cross the Helmand River. It lay ahead of them, shining in the sun, snaking through the heart of the strange green world it nurtured.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  THEIR ROUTE TOOK them over many bridges – across the river, its tributaries and canals. Dave knew that the Royal Engineers had put most of these in. They were counted a success story because the locals were using them as if they had been there forever. Today there were children and old men herding goats over them, women returning from market on foot, the occasional overloaded car passing and, on one, a camel that had got halfway and was refusing to go further despite the men who surrounded it shouting and waving sticks.

  Gradually the convoy got shorter and 1 Section found themselves nearer the front as two wagons peeled off each time they passed a PB. Dave checked in at the bases without stopping. There were no incidents. The Green Zone was lush and quiet today. He heard a few shots but the firing was not close to them.

  ‘They don’t sound serious. Maybe they’re just out bagging a rabbit for lunch,’ suggested the driver. He cut up the tracks with confidence. ‘We’ve got an easy run. They didn’t have much rain here, the mud’s all dried out and the Yanks have pretty well guaranteed this route is clear of mines.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ said Dave.

  ‘Their surveillance systems are fucking good these days.’

  The driver was right. It was a warm spring day, the chance of IEDs was slim, the Taliban apparently could
n’t be bothered to fire, the fields looked fertile after some rain and the newly dampened ground was a lot less dusty than usual. There was no reason not to relax and enjoy the ride. Except Dave couldn’t. He shifted from right to left. His body was tense. When his neck started hurting he became aware that he was sitting at an awkward angle. Christ, what was wrong with him? Was it that phone call to Jenny? Or was it that uncomfortable feeling he got inside when things were kicking off? Because, right now, nothing was kicking off anywhere. Nevertheless, he felt his gut do a little backflip inside him.

  ‘You’re clutching your stomach, Sarge. Not going down with D and V are you?’ asked the driver anxiously.

  ‘Nah,’ said Dave, trying to sound relaxed. He knew that thinking about Jenny could cause a bit of gut twist these days. Which is why he didn’t think about her if he could help it.

  They checked in at Detroit Tigers, Chicago White Sox, Texas Rangers, Pittsburgh Pirates, Cincinnati Reds. The PBs varied from concrete bunkers wrapped in Hesco to old compounds to a row of deserted shops. Then they climbed up to the edge of the Green Zone, driving around a sand and rock cliff to resume their journey along the other side of the zone. The track now ran alongside a wide canal. The sun glimmered on its surface. They passed women with baskets of washing. At the sight of the convoy some of them ran to hide behind the bushes, others continued their work with stoicism, ignoring the soldiers and wagons. The children who played nearby stared and a few waved. Dave threw a boy a sweet in a red wrapper and the child caught it neatly and then opened his hands to survey it with awe.

  ‘You always keep sweets in your pockets for kids?’ asked the driver. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘You never know when you may need to bribe them,’ Dave said.

  The convoy had begun to feel very short now. Ahead was PB New York Mets, some three kilometres further on PB San Francisco Giants and about three kilometres after that lay PB Red Sox.

  ‘See you later, 1 Platoon,’ said the commander of 2 Platoon over the radio as his Mastiff peeled off. ‘Good luck out there at Red Sox.’