by Andy McNab
After a few minutes of silence Dave was tempted to move off but he had too much respect for Billy Finn’s instincts to ignore the sign he was making for them to hold firm. He waited with Doc and Angus, scarcely breathing.
Starting so slowly that Dave was hardly aware he was moving, Finn eased his body forward through the water. His hand was still in the air to keep the others holding firm. He seemed not to break the water’s surface or cause a ripple. About ten metres ahead, he froze again.
Dave knew that someone must be here. He waited. Finny was motionless.
Then there was another splash. This time he heard it clearly. It could be an animal, like a rat, jumping into the water. It could be someone moving, like them, through the water. It could be someone throwing something at the water, perhaps in an attempt to attract them into an arc of fire. It was close, that was sure. Sound travelled on a quiet, still night but the splash could not have been much further ahead than Finny.
Very, very carefully, soundlessly, Dave fingered his bayonet. He could reach it easily. Then slowly, so slowly that he hoped even a fish would not hear, he moved up behind Finn.
He arrived alongside him just as Finny leaped up the bank. Billy Finn was a slim, powerful, cat-like animal with the patience to watch its prey and the killer instinct to know when to pounce. He erupted out of the water and fell neatly on something in the bushes. Dave saw a man roll beneath the soldier, helpless with surprise. Finn threw his weight on top of him, twisting the man’s arm behind his back and clamping the man’s hand across his mouth. He could keep the top half of his victim silent and still but down below the legs began to thrash. They were dangerously close to the water, dangerously close to attention-attracting splashing.
Dave jumped on to the man’s legs, holding them firm. The man could not make a sound. He could not move. Nor could he see his captors. But nevertheless protest throbbed through him.
Shit, thought Dave. What do we do with him now? He could see Finn looking at the bayonet, waiting for Dave to draw it. They both knew that the man could not be released, or their journey would soon be over. This unlucky Afghan had to be kept quiet and the only way to do that was to kill him. Except, Dave knew, there was no court in the world which would acquit him of killing a civilian who had no weapon and had committed no crime.
They would have to find a way to detain their victim, at least for a few hours, while they made their escape.
Dave heard more water movement, but this time it came from Angus and Doc. The medic had handed a First Field Dressing to Angus and was now drawing something else from a pouch and handing this over. Angry began to wade towards them. He moved too quickly to be silent and as he did so he opened the field dressing with his teeth. As soon as he was close enough, Dave saw that as well as the bandage, Doc had handed him plasticuffs. Plasticuffs! What a fucking fantastic idea!
They gradually released the man’s hands and feet as Angus plasticuffed them. Being Angus, he was rough. Finn kept his hand over the man’s mouth and Dave covered his eyes but it was not easy to maintain this while Angus bound them in the dressing. The eyes blinked open for a second but before they could take in the sight of three British soldiers looming over him, Angus had the bandage across them. The man was ready to yell the second Finn’s big hand was removed from his mouth but Angus was too quick and only a short, strangled sound, like the sudden quack of a duck, escaped.
Angus ran the dressing tightly under the man’s chin as well to discourage him from emitting any throat noises but by the time Finn and Dave had thrown him into the bushes the man had been shocked into silence.
The soldiers gave each other the thumbs-up and continued on their journey. Doc seemed to have benefited from the rest and was moving a bit faster now.
When a dog barked nearby Dave knew they had to change course. They were crossing a drainage ditch and could have swung west for a field width, taking them away from their target. Dave took a deep breath and changed his plan. Instead of circling cautiously around their destination, it was time to head for it. Sooner or later they would have to cut through the dense population to get to the relief. It may as well be now. He told Finny to head due east.
So they continued to cut their zigzag course through the Afghan darkness, around the occasional field but mostly along canals and drainage channels, watched by a fingernail of a moon and a million stars.
Chapter Thirty-five
JENNY DROVE OUT of Tinnington through rain and high winds. The roads were running with water. A few trees were down. She pulled up outside Adi’s house at last and got soaked just running up the path.
‘Come in, come in, don’t bring the gale in with you!’ Adi pulled her through the door and slammed it shut.
Most of the children, including her own, were in night clothes. Vicky ran to her, wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs, and burst into tears. Jenny lifted her up.
‘Now, Vicky, what’s all this?’
Seeing her sister in tears, Jaime started to cry as well. Adi rolled her eyes. ‘They’ve both been happy as Larry until you walked in!’
Jenny sat on the sofa with both children in her arms and tried to explain to them why she was leaving them at Adi’s. She did not expect Jaime to understand but the baby seemed to take in every word, blinking her big, blue eyes. Vicky maintained an obstinate silence. Jenny tried to persuade them it would be fun sharing a room with the Kasanita children but Vicky just said: ‘Want to go home.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Jenny. ‘If it’s not too late when I’ve finished, and if Adi’s still awake, I’ll swing by and scoop you up so you’ll wake up at home. How’s that?’
After a bit of persuasion, Vicky accepted this offer.
‘Mummy put you to bed now?’ asked Jenny.
Adi intervened. ‘It’s chaos up there with the extra mattress. I’ll put them all to bed together. They’ll have a bit of a giggle and then they’ll fall asleep.’
Jenny got up to go. Vicky looked stricken. Jenny hugged and kissed her goodnight. At the door, Adi asked: ‘What time do you think you’ll finish?’
‘Another five hours or so. Do you want me to stop by for the kids at midnight?’
Adi laughed. ‘You must be joking, darling. I’ll be dead to the world at midnight!’
Jenny thanked her again and left before Vicky could come padding into the hallway in her pyjamas. She turned the car around and drove slowly past her own house, which was in darkness. The Buckles’ house was lit up. Maybe Steve was helping Leanne put the boys to bed.
At the end of the road she turned into the camp main street, with its small arcade of budget shops, a dry cleaner’s, a café and a counselling centre. On the corner was the Eclipse. She was picking up speed when she saw two figures, oblivious to the rain, striding out of the pub. Under the street lamp she could see them clearly. Steve Buckle and Si Curtis. The two most reluctant members of the rear party: nobody wanted to be in theatre more than this pair. They were probably drowning their sorrows together.
As soon as she was out of the 30-mph limit, she accelerated towards Tinnington.
‘The fucking slag!’ said Steve Buckle when he saw Jenny’s car swish by in the rain. Its wheels threw back a fine spray which had left a thin film of water on his prosthetic leg.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Si.
‘That was Jenny the Slag Henley. A stuck-up bitch who wants to send her kids to a stuck-up nursery. Well, in my humble opinion, she isn’t good enough for Dave Henley.’
‘I’m confused,’ said Si.
‘He’d be better off without her – in my humble opinion. She wants to run off with some general who’s twice her age? Let her!’
‘So … did she have the kids in the car?’ asked Si.
‘No, she didn’t. Why?’
‘Adi said she was coming home at bedtime. When’s that?’
‘Her bedtime’s all the fucking time from the sound of it.’
‘Not her bedtime! The kids’.’
‘Ah
. About …’ Steve consulted his watch. ‘… now.’
‘So if she’s coming home for bedtime, why is she heading out of town?’
They were walking towards the White Horse but now Steve paused and leaned against a wet lamp post to think about this.
‘Why is she heading out of town?’ he echoed.
‘She’s left the kids with Adi. And now she’s visiting him. General Coward. The bloke who ran away at Chalee.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘See, she’s driving in the direction of Tinnington.’
‘Yeah, but she’s not visiting. She’s staying there. She’s left the kids with Adi and she’s staying the night at his place.’ Steve did not move from the lamp post. ‘I’m surprised at Adi. Encouraging Jenny the Slag.’
Si said: ‘Adi believes her, that’s why. She said she’s working late. And Adi believed her.’
Steve began to laugh. A hollow, joyless laugh. ‘Yeah, right, she’s working late with General Coward on a Sunday night. That’s really believable. Good story, slag.’
‘Poor old Dave.’
Steve echoed: ‘Poor old Dave. Shame he’s too far away to teach her a lesson. Maybe someone should do it for him.’
Doc Holliday’s limp was worsening. Finally he allowed McCall to walk supporting him and Dave knew from this that they must be reaching the medic’s limit. They were moving so slowly that, although Dave remained alert, his thoughts had fallen into the dull rhythm of his walk.
He was thinking about Jamie Dermott. He was wishing he was in this mess with him now. He missed Jamie in different ways. There was the rapid, early-morning acknowledgement of his absence when he woke up and remembered that one soldier he wouldn’t exchange a few words with today was Jamie. Then there were constant reminders in the working day because Jamie had been one of those key men who raises everyone’s standards. Like now, a time of peril when top-level soldiering was required. And then there was that painful level of personal loss. Jamie was a mate but he was gone now, out of Dave’s life and all the other lives where he mattered. He had simply disappeared. You had a stock of memories, stored away like snapshots, which you could pull out of the albums from time to time. But the stock dwindled as months passed and there would be nothing more to add to it. Until all you were left with was a sense of the man, a sort of cipher which your mind recognized as being Jamie.
He wondered if he was thinking about Jamie because he was a dead man and death felt uncomfortably close right now. The water had lost the day’s heat and their slow movement through it and the freshness of the Afghan night air had caused body temperatures to fall. They were cold and hungry and they had a very lame man. They would have to stop soon.
Then Finny did stop. But so suddenly that Dave almost ploughed into him.
Finn held up a hand and all four of them stood, tense and motionless, in total silence. All the thoughts which the long walk had generated were left behind. Their senses strained ahead of them. The only sound Dave could hear was his heart thumping.
Just a few metres down the canal something started to splash. It was followed by a strange, deliberate scraping sound. There was someone just ahead.
Dave knew one thing. Whatever the scraping sound meant, the splashing was unselfconscious. It did not come from a crouching enemy but from a human who had no idea they were here. Dave reminded himself which pouch his plasticuffs were in. It seemed like poor drill to leave a trail of plasticuffed people lying across Helmand Province, but it was a lot better than leaving a trail of dead civilians.
Then he heard something which sent an electric impulse through his every nerve: the sudden and unexpected sound of a human voice a few metres away. For a moment Dave could not hear the voice over the thump of his own heart. He felt engulfed by a sense of crisis. The voice must be talking to someone, maybe to two or even three people. How could the soldiers fall on so many, keep them quiet, tie them up and, even if they managed this impossible feat, get away at this slow pace before one of these people was missed? And how many First Field Dressings did they have between them anyway?
As he listened the voice became clearer and Dave formed an impression of the speaker. He was old. He did not suspect the soldiers’ presence. He was chattering and the tone of his voice was a moan. In fact, it sounded a bit like Dave’s dad. Involuntarily, Dave rolled his eyes.
He waited for someone to reply. No one did. Maybe it was like the way his patient mum and stepfather sat and listened when his dad showed up at their house unannounced and drunk, droning on about how unfairly life had treated him. The pause went on a long time. Perhaps there was a woman with the old man. Perhaps Afghan women were so oppressed that they never spoke back to their husbands. Dave caught himself thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if British women were a bit more like that.
The old man started speaking again. The scraping noise began again too. Then there was a sudden thump and a brief silence followed by angry muttering. Dave couldn’t speak Pashto but he knew the tone: the man was swearing. To himself. Because no one else was there.
When the scraping started again Dave decided it would drown more distant sounds, so he moved forward until he could see the man in his night sights, crouched down on the other side of some reeds. The scraping and thumping were the sluice boards of a channel the old man was trying to open so that water from the canal would flow along it. He was the night irrigator. Dave’s stepdad watered his vegetables at night during hot weather so that the crop was immersed before the water could evaporate, and Afghan farmers did the same.
Finn looked at Dave, waiting for orders. Dave could see he was ready to spring. But that might not be necessary. Because the old man had turned now. His back was towards them and he was kneeling, his back almost parallel with the ground. Dave was sure neither his dad nor his stepdad could hold such a position: the old man had been doing this all his life. It took a few more moments before Dave realized the man was praying. The sluice was being stubborn and the man was praying for help. Dave could hear him mumbling to Allah irritably, expecting Allah to sort it out when all he probably needed was a screwdriver.
Dave could tell that Finn thought this was a good moment to pounce on the old geezer but instead Dave gestured him forward. The sluice was jammed in a barely open position and the water was trickling very slowly but noisily beneath it and the board was banging. This would help to cover up any noise they made. If the man was devout he would be praying for a few minutes and in that time they could be gone.
Finn looked surprised and disappointed, but followed orders. He disappeared silently and swiftly down the canal ahead. Dave put his finger to his lips and gestured for Angus and Doc to do the same. Doc did his best to move fast. From behind, Dave could see just how lopsided the medic had become. He was leaning heavily on Angus.
Dave followed them, heart in mouth, his eyes fixed on the old man’s crouching figure, his ears focused on the old man’s muttering. Doc and Angus were the noisiest movers and, as they crept past the praying man, he seemed suddenly to sense their presence. He stopped mumbling abruptly and Dave could tell that he had become alert. Angus and Doc were beyond him now, continuing up the canal, their passage hidden by reeds. But Dave was still level. He froze. After a moment the man began to mumble again and Dave was just about to move when he finished his prayer. He remained kneeling but his back straightened slowly.
Dave had a choice. He could dash on behind the others and risk the old man turning. Or he could wait here quietly until the Afghan had finished his sluice work. Either way, it might mean plasticuffs.
Dave decided to take a risk and the split second he made that decision he knew he had to act on it. Gambling on the possibility of arthritis, the unhurried pace of old age and the man’s general air of weary dissatisfaction, he pressed on through the canal water. He wanted to forge ahead, stomping fast, splashing, making waves. But he could move only as fast as he could move silently.
His eyes on the kneeling man, the water swelling all around him,
his heart beating and his nerves tingling, he waded slowly ahead. When he nearly tripped over an underwater boulder he decided to look where he was going and keep his weight balanced. He tore his eyes away from the man. Not until he was under the safe cover of some reeds thirty metres on did he stop with the others and look back.
The old man was bending over the sluice, seeing if Allah had helped solve the problem. He was muttering to himself. He had no idea that four British soldiers had just passed a couple of metres away.
Chapter Thirty-six
THEY HAD TO divert twice more for barking dogs. Dave listened constantly for the chilling sound of a hunting pack but they must have dispersed or were looking in the wrong place. The threat now was the compound dogs. The nearer they were to dogs, the nearer they were to humans.
All the time he was watching and listening, Dave was thinking. He did not need to cajole or scare Doc forward the way he would a younger, more inexperienced soldier. He knew the medic would walk until he dropped. And he knew that wasn’t much further.
When he turned round and found that the medic had halted completely, he tapped Finny on the shoulder and made his way back. Even big Angus looked exhausted. He had been bearing Doc Holliday’s weight all this time, often loping alongside in places where the canal was scarcely wide enough for two.
‘Are you finished, Doc?’ whispered Dave. He breathed the words, barely forming them, but it seemed to him that they were loud in the Afghan night. Everywhere was quiet now. Firing had stopped and there was no distant thud of artillery.
Doc Holliday hung his head miserably. His face was white. His leg dangled limply. One arm leaned on Angus, the other on a stick. He didn’t look like a man who was on a mission to save another man’s life.
‘We only have about two k to go,’ Dave breathed. He hoped he was right. Without GPS he couldn’t be sure of anything.
The medic said nothing but shook his head.
‘We’ll rest. Then we’ll start off first thing,’ said Dave.
