Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  He passed through the compound where the noise was temporarily deadened, glancing into the box of food the Marines had left to see that the MREs were still there but all the M&Ms had gone. The sun and sound of firing hit him again when he emerged into the yard – where he saw a small hill of sand and rubble with the Mastiff backed on to it so that the HMG could clear the walls. The two drivers were sitting in the cab, doors open, having a smoke.

  They viewed his astonishment with open satisfaction.

  ‘How long has this been ready to roll?’

  ‘About five minutes, Sarge. We were just going to come and tell you.’

  An RPG lit up the sky. There was a break in firing from the compound and then the boys responded simultaneously with grenades, the Minimi, the gimpy and rifles. Dave didn’t hesitate. He climbed up to the HMG himself, fearing that his weight might disturb the vehicle’s precarious balance.

  It rocked a little under him as he fed the belt into the .50 cal, which cleared the high mud walls with only centimetres to spare. But centimetres were enough. Within moments, he was firing up the hillside at the muzzle flashes which kept appearing from around a group of big, pink rocks.

  The entry into the battle of the big gun at first silenced the enemy. Then an RPG dissolved in mid-air into a flash of angry light far beyond the yard. Dave knew he was the intended target and, aware that next time the enemy’s aim might not be so poor, he upped his rate of fire on the machine gun, its deep bass thundering under rifles so it sounded like a man among boys.

  The enemy stopped firing back. Dave guessed they had taken cover and he stopped firing too. There was a long pause. Everyone waited. The pause got longer. The silence continued. Was it too much to hope that the HMG had made the enemy decide to go away and fight again another day? He remained alert, watching the large boulders on the hillside. The rocks were motionless. The ground around them was motionless. Only the sun moved a little.

  Over PRR he told Sol to get someone to relieve him on the heavy machine gun. He slipped down and went back to the men, passing Angus in the compound heading for the .50 cal.

  ‘They’ve gone home, Sarge,’ said Angry miserably. ‘Now I won’t get a chance to fire the .50 cal at them.’

  ‘There’ll be lots more chances.’

  Out in the compound yard men were sitting down by their weapons relaxing and smoking. A few had their hands in their ration packs and steam puffed from a kettle.

  ‘It’s all over,’ Streaky Bacon said sadly.

  ‘You were giggling like a maniac,’ Sol told him.

  ‘Oh no I wasn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes you was!’ everyone shouted.

  ‘That wasn’t laughing. That was crying. Because I only killed one of them.’

  ‘How do you know you killed any of them?’ asked Slindon. ‘I didn’t see the enemy, not one.’

  ‘It was amazing. I got this clear line of fire right between the rocks.’

  ‘You never!’ said Finn. ‘I was aiming for that gap but it was too fucking hard.’

  ‘I did, Finny, I really did,’ said Streaky.

  ‘So how do you know you killed one?’

  ‘Because from my position I could see clear through the gap. Then suddenly I couldn’t. So it must have been someone moving in the way. So I fired and then there was a couple of moments for him to die and then it was clear again.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean nothing,’ said Finn. ‘He might just have moved out of the way.’

  ‘I killed him, man!’ insisted Streaky. ‘I know I did. Because the enemy started slowing up after that.’

  ‘You think you changed the course of the battle?’ demanded Sol.

  ‘I fucking did!’

  Finn looked at Streaky sceptically.

  ‘All right, Streaks, I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.’

  Sol said: ‘It was the HMG which shut them up. And Doc on the Minimi scared them too.’

  Suddenly there was a familiar, crackling voice in Dave’s ear. It sounded smug. The sort of smug which could follow a good steak lunch.

  ‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Chalfont-Price, ‘stores arrived, we’re kitted up already and we’re leaving the FOB now with supplies as agreed. We should be with you shortly. So you see, there really was nothing to worry about.’

  Dave scowled into the mic.

  ‘I’m glad you’re on your way, sir, because we’re badly in need of the ammo.’

  The OC’s voice cut in.

  ‘Patrol Minimize has now been called,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Dave involuntarily. Operation Patrol Minimize meant that dust storms would keep air support confined to Bastion and the FOBs. Patrol Minimize meant that men on the ground should limit their exposure to the enemy.

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Chalfont-Price. ‘We’ll turn around and come back, then.’

  For a moment, Dave was speechless. Then he echoed, helplessly: ‘Turn around?’

  ‘Please repeat, Second Lieutenant?’ demanded the OC, as if he hadn’t quite heard.

  The boss’s voice sounded a bit less steaky now. ‘Since we’ve only just left the FOB and Operation Patrol Minimize has been announced, we’ll turn around.’

  ‘No fucking chance, Second Lieutenant,’ snapped Major Willingham. ‘You’re through the gate, now get out there to your men.’

  Dave wanted to shout: ‘Thank you!’ Somehow he remained silent. So did Chalfont-Price. When he spoke the officer simply said: ‘Continuing to PB Boston Red Sox. Sir.’ Dave’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Sol. The men could not hear this exchange but they had been watching Dave closely throughout.

  Dave said: ‘The rest of the platoon should be here in just over an hour. But there’s no chance of any air support from Bastion: the dust storm’s grounded them.’

  The men looked out of the compound across the desert for signs that the sand was moving here, too. If there was a sandstorm, the chances of further attack diminished. But although a warm wind blew around the compound, there was no disturbance in the sand.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  IN WILTSHIRE THE weather was changing. The temperature was dropping and a cold wind blew darkening clouds across the sky. Severe weather warnings were issued. Parents took their children out to play before the torrential rain hit the south. Adi bundled all her charges into their coats and somehow managed to move her entourage to the playground and they all scattered at once. The place was full of mothers and children.

  ‘Might not get outside for days now,’ they were saying as Adi pulled the buggy and a snake of children through the gate.

  She saw Steve Buckle and Si Curtis. ‘Hi, boys. Haven’t we been lucky to have such a run of good weather? I’ve loved every minute of that sunshine.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it. That was summer,’ said Steve dismally.

  ‘It’s even been raining in Afghanistan,’ said Si. ‘So God knows what it’s going to do here.’

  Steve and Si were the only fathers at the playground: most of the others were away fighting. They stood together, separated from the mothers by swings, while their kids rushed around.

  Si Curtis’s leg was out of plaster. ‘How’s it doing?’ asked Adi.

  Si looked miserable. ‘This leg isn’t what it was.’

  ‘Whose is?’ Steve said.

  ‘Sorry, mate, I shouldn’t moan. But I thought I might get out to Afghanistan and they say it’s still not strong enough.’

  Adi said: ‘It will heal.’

  ‘Well,’ said Si, ‘I can’t even run on it yet.’

  Steve had been looking into the buggy. Jaime was sitting up and grinning at him. He did not grin back. ‘That’s Jenny Henley’s kid, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s Jaime!’ said Adi, stroking the baby’s cheek.

  ‘You’ve got her kids on a Sunday!’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘And who’s she off with?’

  ‘She’s not off with anyone. She’s working.’

&nbs
p; Si and Steve looked at each other.

  ‘Like hell she’s working,’ said Si. ‘Was she working when we saw her laughing and giggling at the theme park all over that old bloke she’s having it away with?’

  Adi looked at him with extreme disapproval.

  ‘Simon, please. There are children here.’

  ‘They can’t hear us. Only Dave’s poor little kid and she’s too small to understand.’

  ‘Poor little kid,’ echoed Steve. ‘What a mother.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Si. ‘She’s got to work late and she’s asked you to take the kids all night.’

  Adi knew she looked shocked at their accuracy; she just hoped she had managed to hide this before the men noticed. But Steve was too quick.

  ‘She is! She is!’ he howled.

  Adi said truthfully: ‘She’s coming back at bedtime.’

  That seemed to stop them for a moment. Then Si sneered: ‘Whose bedtime? Theirs or hers?’

  ‘Now just stop it, you two. You’re spreading gossip.’

  But Steve’s eyes were narrowing and his cheeks were growing shadowy with anger.

  ‘Dave’s been a good mate. I don’t like to see his wife making a fool of him. If I could put a stop to it I would.’

  ‘You can’t stop a slag being a slag,’ Si said.

  ‘Nah, there’s probably no stopping her,’ agreed Steve.

  ‘Now then, that’s enough,’ Adi told them sternly. She glared at Si and he began to look sheepish.

  ‘Sorry, Adi. We were both out on the piss last night and our heads are hammering today.’

  ‘That’s nice for Leanne and Tiff,’ said Adi.

  ‘They married soldiers,’ said Si. ‘What did they expect?’

  ‘We miss our mates. They’re fighting and we’re stuck back here. Of course we go on the piss,’ said Steve.

  ‘I’m a section commander with no section! And I still worry about them and about how Jason Swift’s managing. I worry all the time,’ added Si.

  ‘Here’s how I get through,’ Steve told her. ‘I take pills when I wake up in the morning. And I get rat-arsed at night.’

  Adi shook her head disapprovingly. ‘That’s not a way of getting through anything. I saw enough of it in Fiji.’

  Si and Steve exchanged glances.

  ‘Hair of the dog,’ Si said. ‘Gets us over last night. And it means I can avoid my mother-in-law. We’ll start this afternoon at the Duke’s …’

  ‘Moving on to the White Horse …’ added Steve.

  ‘And not forgetting the Eclipse in between. So by the time I get back, my headache will be over and the mother-in-law should have gone home.’

  The lads from 2 and 3 Sections of 1 Platoon were relieved to be out of FOB Nevada. The Americans had a way of possessing the place with all their hurry and shouting. The British had crammed themselves into the corners trying not to take up too much space while the Americans rushed around yelling into their radios. Even when the steak lunch had been served, the British had clustered around the far edges of the cook area.

  Stores had arrived and from the second they touched down 2 Section’s Corporal Aaron Baker had been pushing the men to load up and get away fast. He knew there was a firefight going on out at the FOB and he knew Dave was undermanned and he just wanted to get there.

  But after their big lunch the men had moved slowly. He and the acting corporal of 3 Section, Jason Swift, had shouted and cajoled. The platoon commander, who had got into some kind of political or strategic discussion with a group of American officers, had occasionally torn himself away from it to shout at the men too. But it seemed to Aaron that everything was happening too slowly.

  However, the lunch had been very good. To prove it, after about ten kilometres, Jonas and Gerry McKinley had a burping competition as they bumped along in the Mastiff.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said the corporal. ‘I can’t stand it no more.’

  ‘But why don’t we get steaks like that?’ Danny Jones demanded.

  ‘Because the Americans like their soldiers and think they’re worth it,’ Patrick O’Sullivan told him. ‘All the British think we’re worth is damp, falling-down houses and not enough peanuts in our rations.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Aaron Baker. O’Sullivan never missed a chance to moan about the army and the way it treated them.

  ‘And the Yanks get M&Ms,’ added Jonas miserably. ‘It’s not fair.’

  Andy Kirk suddenly produced a small, brightly coloured candy bag from his webbing. He threw it at Danny, whose face lit up.

  ‘Holy shit! Who gave you these, Skirt?’

  ‘No one. I went round nicking them out of their day sacks.’

  Everyone looked admiringly at Kirk.

  ‘How did you do that, Skirt?’

  ‘When they served the steak. I could have nicked their wallets and their pistols and everything because nobody cared about nothing but getting that steak in their mouths.’

  A few of the lads began to throw Kirk suspicious glances.

  ‘Sure it was just the Yank day sacks you went thieving from, Skirt?’ asked Max Gayle.

  Kirk looked mysterious. He had very fair skin and red eye-brows, which he raised now, stretching the skin across his face.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  ‘What? What!’ said the lads, tearing through their day sacks to check their rations.

  A shout went up from O’Sullivan: ‘Where’s my peanuts?’

  Andy Kirk could barely suppress his laughter.

  ‘Wassup then, Sully?’ he hissed, heaving with the effort of not corpsing.

  ‘WHERE’S MY PEANUTS?’

  A snort escaped Kirk. O’Sullivan was famously partial to peanuts, so partial that he had been known to buy up all of 2 Section’s peanut rations. Sometimes he tried to buy them from the whole platoon.

  ‘You’ve had my fucking peanuts, Andy Skirt! I’ll kill you for this!’

  He jumped up and grabbed Andy Kirk, and Gerry McKinley and Aaron Baker pulled him back.

  ‘Sit down, Sully.’

  ‘He’s thieved my peanuts!’

  ‘Give him back his fucking peanuts before I go mad,’ Baker ordered.

  Kirk opened his day sack and produced handfuls of small silver bags which he began hurling at O’Sullivan. They slithered around his legs and between his knees like silver fish as he tried to catch them.

  ‘What is going on?’ demanded the boss’s voice on PRR. ‘Corporal, is there some sort of a fist fight in the back? If so, please sort the men out.’

  ‘For Chrissake! Everyone sit down and shuddup,’ said Baker, trying to sound like Dave, whose orders the men always followed without question. The Mastiff fell silent.

  Aaron looked around. Faces were hot and red and dusty. He glanced at his watch. Only another few kilometres to go.

  ‘It’s fucking roasting up here,’ moaned a voice in his ear. It was Mara, up in the turret.

  ‘OK,’ Aaron radioed back. ‘Come down and I’ll go up on the .50 cal for the last few k.’

  Once on top he realized they had nearly passed through the Green Zone. They were going around some sort of a hill or a cliff. Behind them the next vehicle kicked up a cloud of dust. The river below them moved lazily through the heart of the Green Zone like a long, curling reptile in the sun. Men, women and children stumbled along tracks of their own around the crops, apparently deaf to the convoy.

  At least they don’t hate us, thought Aaron, who had been spat and shouted at by people in the streets of the last town they had patrolled. But that had been in the heart of the poppy-growing area. Here there were a lot of poppies but other crops too and the farming was less organized. The fields were smaller and looked as if they had many different owners. Compounds were more scattered among them.

  Chalfont-Price was evidently thinking the same thing.

  ‘This area doesn’t feel like such big business for the Taliban,’ he said on PRR.

  Baker felt a moment’s disappo
intment.

  ‘Maybe there won’t be any action after all,’ he said.

  ‘Apparently this is an important trading area for poppy resin,’ the officer told him. ‘And there’s been a lot of action so far. 1 Section has been under almost continual fire since arriving at the PB.’

  At this, Aaron looked around him more keenly. He saw PB New York Mets disappear into the distance as PB San Francisco Giants came into view and then the last vehicles in the convoy peeled off and 1 Platoon was alone in the two Mastiffs, heading towards PB Red Sox alongside some kind of tributary or canal right on the edge of the Green Zone.

  After less than ten minutes, Aaron Baker could see in the distance a compound which the boss immediately identified as the patrol base.

  ‘Looks like home, sir,’ Aaron said, although he could barely distinguish the base from the desert out of which it had grown. When he next turned to look back at PB Giants, it was already gone.

  He looked ahead, across the rocky desert again and, to his surprise, PB Red Sox was no longer visible. He scanned the horizon. They were plunging into a dip. He could see no PB behind and no PB ahead. They were in no man’s land.

  Aaron waited for the boss to stop the convoy. When he did not, the corporal said quickly: ‘Sir, we’re in a dead zone here. We’re not overlooked by either patrol base.’

  ‘I’m sure Red Sox will reappear imminently,’ said Chalfont-Price. He sounded sleepy, thought Aaron. That good steak lunch had done more harm than good. ‘It’s only about two k away.’

  Jason Swift from 3 Section in the Mastiff behind came on the radio, as if he had not heard Aaron Baker talking to the boss. Since he was only acting commander in Si Curtis’s absence, most of the time he was unsure of himself. But now his voice was sharp.

  ‘Sir, we’re in a dead zone here. Should we stop and Barma, sir?’

  Chalfont-Price yawned.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need.’

  ‘It’s out of sight, sir. The ragheads could have planted an IED.’

  ‘It’s all right, Swift. The Americans have only just cleared the area. They will be aware of the personnel change and I believe they have been monitoring this dead zone from the air. We’ll just keep an eye out for disturbed earth.’