War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  ‘Can’t he talk, Dave? I mean, has he lost the power of speech?’ Leanne asked, her voice cracking and a sob breaking through. The good jokes began to seem a long way off.

  ‘I’ve already told you, Leanne, he can talk but he doesn’t always make sense. Probably because of the morphine.’

  ‘Probably! Dave, is my Steve brain-damaged? Are they sending me back some sort of fucking vegetable?’

  ‘No. But he took the full force of a big blast. He has to recover from the shock.’

  He tried to distract her by asking about the arrangements that had been made for her in Birmingham.

  ‘We’ve been given an army flat for a week. My mum’s meeting me there. She’ll take care of the boys for me and I’ll mostly go in by myself.’

  Dave could tell that inside her head she had walked into Selly Oak hospital and experienced her reunion with Steve at his bedside many times. He wondered what it would be like when it finally happened.

  Leanne and Jenny stood by the car in front of Leanne’s house. Everything was loaded for the trip to Birmingham. The car was so full of high chairs, travel cots, toys, a pair of sit-on scooters, packs of nappies and suitcases that there was hardly room for the driver. The two small passengers peered from their seats at the back, still and quiet as though they knew something important was happening.

  Leanne seemed reluctant to drive away.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she said.

  Jenny was learning not to be surprised by the new Leanne. If the old Leanne knew what fear was, she never would have admitted to it.

  ‘What sort of scared?’ Jenny asked. ‘First date scared? Walking down a dark street and someone’s following you scared?’

  Leanne drew on her cigarette. She had started smoking again. She did not want the twins to see her so she leaned out of windows or rushed into the garden or hid in the car to smoke. Now, she was leaning against the bonnet with her back to them, as though they wouldn’t notice the smoke if they couldn’t see the cigarette.

  ‘Horror movie scared. Like, when someone goes up the creaky stairs and opens a door and you don’t know what’s behind it? But you know it’s something awful?’

  Jenny looked at Leanne’s large, unhappy face. Leanne had put on weight. Since Steve’s accident, she could not stop eating. She reported how her sleepless nights were punctuated by frequent trips downstairs to the fridge. She had always been large but the new Leanne did not joke about it or constantly announce to the world that she would be starting a new diet tomorrow.

  ‘Is your mum meeting you at the hospital?’

  ‘At the flat. If she can find it. God knows how she’ll manage to drive through Birmingham, she even gets lost in camp.’

  There was almost no cigarette left but Leanne seemed to want to smoke it anyway.

  ‘I’d better get going.’ She did not move. ‘Before the boys start yelling.’

  Jenny put her arms around Leanne. There felt like an ocean of belly between them both.

  ‘Wish I was big for the same reason you are,’ said Leanne.

  Jenny pulled back in surprise.

  ‘Do you want another one? You always said the twins were more than enough!’

  Tears were gleaming at the edges of Leanne’s eyes. She sniffed.

  ‘’Course I want one. Now I know I can’t have one.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jenny asked.

  Leanne sniffed again. ‘How much of him got blown away, Jen? Did it stop at his leg?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘Oh, c’mon. If he’d lost his private parts they would have told you!’

  ‘It might all be there, but will any of it work? Now they’ve cut his nerves and blood vessels and things? And what sort of a marriage are we going to have if he can’t . . .? And even if he can, I’m not sure I’ll want to. With a bloke who’s got a stump for a leg.’

  ‘You’ll want to because he’s your Steve and you love him and he’s gorgeous, leg or no leg.’ Jenny’s voice was firm.

  Leanne looked at her doubtfully.

  ‘Know what you’re doing, Leanne? You’re in the horror movie, walking up the creaky stairs and trying to imagine all the things behind the door. That’s how horror movies work. You scare yourself imagining things that aren’t even there.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leanne had turned to face the car, its outsize load and the waiting twins. ‘Yeah, well by tonight I’ll know, won’t I?’

  ‘Ring me,’ said Jenny. ‘Just ring me and tell me. I’ll listen.’

  Leanne sniffed again. She squeezed Jenny’s arm but did not look at her. Jenny knew she was trying not to cry. Leanne climbed in and slammed the door. Her face, behind the wheel, was pale and puffy.

  She wound down the window.

  ‘I’ve waited to see him so long . . . and now I don’t want to go,’ she said, her voice turning squeaky at the end.

  ‘Go,’ Jenny commanded her. ‘You’ll feel better once you’re on your way.’

  Vicky, who had been occupied picking daisies from a strip of lawn outside Leanne’s house, came and took her mother’s hand. The pair of them waved as the car drove slowly down the road towards the entrance of the camp.

  Chapter Nineteen

  DESPITE A SERIES OF MINOR STRIKE OPS, INTELLIGENCE AND aerial surveillance, it was impossible to pinpoint the location of the Taliban training centre. Regular skirmishes with the enemy had not led to another contact as serious as the one that had greeted their arrival. The river crossing had been the focus of most of the fighting, and occasionally the base itself.

  ‘We mustn’t get lax; we should guard the oil-exploration team even more carefully,’ Major Willingham announced. ‘The Taliban are probably hoping that by staying away from the contractors, our protection will slacken.’

  The civilians themselves did nothing to make the soldiers’ job easier and the OC devised increasingly complex strategies to fool the enemy. It was Boss Weeks’s job to explain the strategies to his platoon. Dave dreaded these explanations. The platoon commander was increasingly good on the ground, particularly under fire, but he was still shit at giving orders.

  As the men filed into the Cowshed, he kept clearing his throat. Ahem. Ahem.

  Dave counted the lads in. Twenty-three, twenty-four soldiers plus support. All here and gradually getting their arses on the ground, while the boss shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Ahem. Ahem.

  Dave tried not to gag on the lingering aroma of unshowered men working in spiralling temperatures combined with the whiff of long-departed goat. He wondered what would happen to the Cowshed when the troops eventually left and the base was dismantled. Probably, like the other mud-walled buildings, it would stand here for centuries more, patched up and used once again to house a family and their stock. From recent house assaults in the Green Zone he had learned that animals and humans mixed easily in the indoor/outdoor world of Afghan compounds. In fact, he suspected that the animals had more freedom than the women.

  By the time the last two men arrived, Boss Weeks was clearing his throat almost continuously.

  ‘Right,’ Dave said. ‘Sit down, shut up. In a minute the boss is going to deliver. First I want to tell you about Buckle and Nelson. Jordan’s at home with his family and expected to make a full recovery although he had severe burns so he’ll be no oil painting. Steve Buckle’s a lot better and he left for the UK yesterday. He should be installed in a comfortable bed in Selly Oak and he’ll see his family again today.

  ‘Next I want to bring you up to speed on the Rules of Engagement.’

  Dave glanced at Weeks. He wanted to forget the wounded Taliban fighter in the ditch, but the boss had warned him that the OC still intended to question him about it.

  ‘Every so often we all need a reminder about the RoE. So here it is. We’re operating under Card Alpha. That means we can only engage the enemy if we know they’re enemy and we only know that if they’re armed. There are a lot of grey areas. Like if you believe your life is in danger, maybe from a suicide bomber, no one’s going t
o blame you for taking action. But if we remember the basic rule we should be OK. Right?’

  The platoon looked back at him. A few people nodded.

  ‘Over to you, sir.’

  The boss cleared his throat before he began.

  ‘Now our . . . er . . . American, er, friends have decided that there is a new, er, necessity for them to concentrate their exploration activities in one, er, specific area, and indeed some of you may have noticed that, er, this has, er, indeed been the case.’

  For Chrissake, thought Dave. The boss sounded as though he’d come from another planet. A good officer, and Dave had worked with a few, had the common touch. A good officer knew how to adjust his language – and occasionally even his accent – for the men. But Boss Weeks was incapable of any adjustment at all. He had so many plums in his mouth he was practically choking.

  ‘The contractors will be guarded by, er, 3 Platoon and 1 Platoon will be acting as decoys. So it has been decided that we are to send out, er, the first decoy at, er, first light. The second will leave thirty minutes later and the third thirty minutes after that. While those who are travelling direct to the destination site, will, er, be 3 Platoon leaving thirty minutes after that . . .’

  Weeks turned to the map Dave had pinned to the wall. He looked about vaguely for a pointer. Dave handed him a stick.

  ‘Er . . . 1 Section will set off west, cross the river here, swing north and then east to go around the . . . er . . . er . . . Early Rocks after crossing the river . . . er . . . here.’ He tapped the map. ‘You may recognize that this is the river crossing we cleared recently. 1 Section is not just a, er, decoy but a patrol establishing our continuing presence by the river crossing. 1 Section will carry out the, er, useful function of ascertaining that our recent attempts to keep the Taliban from this area remain successful.

  ‘Thirty minutes later, 2 Section will travel due north, then turn east and then travel south along the main highway where the Americans are extremely active and where we don’t, er, anticipate too many problems. One hour after the departure of 1 Section, er, 3 Section will go directly south and then travel back north on the highway. And thirty minutes later, er, 3 Platoon will leave with the civilians. They will proceed due east and then, er, north towards the, er, er, Early Rocks . . .’

  Dave groaned inwardly. All the boss needed to do was give them a general picture and then tell each section precisely what they were doing, where and when. The lads didn’t need a strategy meeting and they didn’t need a load of waffle. Dave shut his eyes while the platoon commander floundered on.

  ‘. . . and so in that way,’ Boss Weeks finally concluded, ‘the enemy is liable to be, er, thoroughly confused.’

  The Cowshed was silent.

  ‘Well they’re not the only ones, sir,’ someone said from the back of the room.

  There was a murmur of agreement. The boss swallowed hard. Dave didn’t need to open his eyes to know who’d spoken out. He glared directly at Finn but it was too late. Finn’s dark eyes were shining.

  ‘So, sir, 1 Section goes west and then up around the, er, er, Early Rocks, 2 Section goes north, 3 Section goes south and the civvies are going due, er, east then north with 3 Platoon, are they, then, sir?’

  ‘Er . . .’ the boss began.

  ‘Yes, Lance Corporal,’ Dave growled, ‘that’s what you’ve been told.’

  ‘Correct, yes, that’s . . . er . . . correct . . .’ Boss Weeks said.

  ‘I think the decoy teams should be out first and last and the civvies heading straight to the oil site should go out second,’ Finn said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mal said. ‘If the flipflops are watching they’re less likely to target the second team.’

  ‘Much more likely to follow the last one,’ Angus said sagely.

  ‘If the aim is to protect the civvies then they should be right in the middle of things, not at the tail end,’ Finn said.

  Next to them sat the two new lads, Bacon and Binns, now universally known as Streaky and Binman. Dave knew Finn had taken the two lads under his wing and right now the pair, who knew no better, were nodding vigorously in his support.

  Muttering broke out all over the Cowshed as the boss floundered in response to Finn’s suggestion.

  Dave waited. Order was gradually slipping from the boss’s control and he wanted to give the young officer a chance to wrestle it back. He glimpsed Jamie Dermott sitting silently at the back, his face a deep shade of red as the boss lost the meeting.

  Gordon Weeks’s eyes bulged and he swallowed again and for a moment he did not speak or move. Then he started to explain things once more to the closest group while the noise grew louder around him.

  Dave decided that it had all gone far enough.

  ‘Right!’ he roared. ‘Wind your necks in!’

  There was instant silence.

  ‘This has been decided and we’re not interested in hearing what you think about it. Order of march is: 1 Section, 2 Section, 3 Section out first as decoys, then 3 Platoon takes off with the contractors. Got it? Now we’ll show you where you’re going and when and you can shut up and listen because we’re not saying it a third time.’

  Dave proceeded to give the orders.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Boss Weeks looked around. ‘Any questions?’ He was obviously hoping there weren’t.

  Finn opened his mouth. One look from Dave and he shut it again.

  ‘Sir, are there enough medics for each section?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Good question,’ said the boss. ‘The strategy we’ve devised for the civilians is stretching all our resources. The remaining medic will be with 1 Section because they’re going through the Green Zone.’

  ‘I’ll also be with 1 Section and so will the boss,’ Dave said. ‘1 Section is crossing the river at a hot point. We’ve cleared it once and the Taliban have given every indication they’re keen to take it back so God knows what we’ll find there. But thanks to the demands of Topaz fucking Zero we’re so undermanned that we won’t be able to do anything about it except report back.’

  ‘Does 1 Section get the WMIKs?’ another lad asked.

  ‘Always nice to have the fire power,’ Dave said.

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed the boss. ‘That’s why the civilians get the WMIKs.’

  ‘Will 1 Section get a shotgun?’ Mal asked.

  ‘So you can try giving it to the Taliban again?’ someone called.

  ‘A shotgun would be nice, too,’ Dave said.

  ‘Very nice,’ the boss agreed. ‘That’s why the civilian escorts get the shotguns. I don’t believe we get a mortar man either.’

  Finn made himself heard above the noise of disbelief. ‘So there’s just one medic, then, for 1 Section? That’s all the support we get because the civilians have got the rest? Even though we’re going through the Green Zone?’

  ‘That’s right, Lance Corporal,’ Dave said firmly.

  ‘Do we get a driver?’

  ‘Nothing to drive, we’re not getting any vehicles!’ said Corporal Baker from 2 Section.

  ‘Apart from drivers, obviously, the only personnel the civilians can spare are two engineers, a signaller and an interpreter,’ the boss said.

  ‘And a fat lot of fucking use they are,’ Dave said, ‘when all we can do is keep moving.’

  There were no more questions.

  ‘Good, well then, rehearsals will be at 1930,’ the boss said. ‘Synchronize watches. In one minute it will be 1635 . . .’

  Everyone looked at their watches in silence. The minute passed slowly.

  ‘It will be 1635 in ten seconds. Five, four, three, two, one. Mark one, two, three, done.’

  Boss Weeks left, looking relieved.

  Nobody moved. They knew what was coming next. As soon as the commander was out of earshot, Dave started.

  ‘Right, shitheads, I don’t ever want to hear that fucking backchat again. Not ever. Anyone who gives lip in this platoon gets gripped by me. And you know I’m not nice. Because lip in the FOB is soon goin
g to turn into lip the other side of the hesco and if shitheads don’t do what they’re told out there then there’s only one fucking outcome. And that’s more casualties. Got it?

  ‘Since some of you have got such short memories, I’m going to remind you what we told you before deploying to Afghanistan and what we told you when we got here. One in ten of you goes home in a body bag or fucked up for life. And it’s going to be a fucking sight more than that if you don’t work in a team. Look around you. Look at the lad sitting next to you. He might not go home. He’s looking at you. You might not go home. Think about it before you try to be funny next time. Because corpses can’t laugh.