War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  ‘The weapon should have been removed during the routine search. And apparently another soldier did remove it at once.’

  ‘He was killed because he was a threat,’ Weeks insisted.

  ‘No. He was killed because the sergeant ordered it. The soldier who was searching the insurgent quite rightly hesitated. But another soldier followed the sergeant’s order and shot the man.’

  Weeks never physically brawled and seldom got into verbal arguments but he recognized the surge of adrenalin that was suddenly pumping through his body as fighting adrenalin.

  He leaned forward. ‘Jean . . . may I call you Jean?’

  ‘Certainly, Gordon.’

  ‘Jean. The sergeant saw that his men were in danger because they were in intimate contact with a member of the Taliban. That man may have been feigning death while perfectly healthy. What would you have done under the circumstances?’

  Jean leaned forward too. ‘Gordon. Since the man was lying wounded in a ditch, I’d have treated him as a casualty.’

  ‘Jean. He was a Taliban fighter. There can be no question about that, he was fully armed. Of course he had to be dealt with like any other armed insurgent.’

  ‘He may have been an insurgent but he was also a member of the human race. He—’

  ‘Jean—’

  ‘Gordon!’

  Weeks was aware of the delightful Asma laughing at them both. He did not allow himself the pleasure of looking at her. He supposed they were comical, but he was so angry now he did not care.

  Jean raised her voice. ‘The man was no longer armed and he was wounded. He required medical treatment.’

  ‘How do you know? My men certainly fired on him, and his comrades were certainly killed. But he might have been unhurt and feigning death. It is, after all, a common enemy tactic.’

  ‘Your men have all described him as wounded.’

  ‘My men aren’t doctors and are not trained to spot the difference between someone who is wounded and someone who is pretending. And do you know what order, precisely, the sergeant gave to shoot him?’

  Jean nodded confidently. ‘He said: “Get on with it.”’

  ‘I’m not familiar with that order. Are you?’

  Jean sighed.

  ‘In fact,’ the boss went on, pressing home his advantage, ‘I don’t remember ever hearing that order before. I don’t think I learned it at Sandhurst. So I’m surprised you recognize those words as an order to kill.’

  Jean leaned back in her seat. There were red circles in her white cheeks.

  ‘His men knew what he meant.’

  ‘Have you asked Dave Henley what he meant?’

  ‘Sergeant Henley has a reputation,’ Jean said. ‘He’s considered a very tough and no-nonsense sort of sergeant who might not tolerate legitimate hesitation on human rights grounds by one of his soldiers.’

  ‘Sergeant Henley is considered an outstanding NCO precisely because he’s tough and no-nonsense,’ Weeks snapped, ‘and this is the best protection for his men after body armour.’ Her accusation made his heart pump faster, dispersing anger through his body. ‘He has a humane and compassionate side which does him great credit. Before you make any assumptions or accusations you should ask him what he meant by those words.’

  ‘It isn’t appropriate for me to ask him because this is not yet a formal investigation. But I’m not going to let this one get swept under the carpet. I expect someone in his unit to question him very closely.’

  ‘And so we will,’ Weeks said. He believed he’d won this skirmish and it was therefore better to stop the battle.

  He glanced over at Asma at last. Incredibly, for a few minutes he had actually forgotten she was there. Now he felt happy to see her again, as though she had just walked in. He remembered that she had said she would be out on patrol with him tomorrow. When he looked more closely, he was surprised at the expression on her face. It was something like admiration.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘NOW THEN, THIS SHOULD DO IT . . .’ DARREL CROUCHED DOWN beside the television. ‘And if it doesn’t, I’ve got another idea.’

  Agnieszka set his coffee on the table and then knelt down to watch him. The baby lay on the floor nearby. Luke liked that. He liked just lying there, staring up at the ceiling, rearranging himself from time to time. When the atmosphere was tranquil he became tranquil too.

  ‘How you know what to do?’ Agnieszka stared at the nest of wires and the way he flicked through the buttons and settings on the machine.

  He looked up and gave her a quick grin. His eye was caught by a picture behind her, the large one at the back of the room. Jamie was in uniform and smiling, his eyes shining as he looked over the camera as though a mountain was looming right there behind the photographer and he was about to climb it. Agnieszka loved that picture. Steve Buckle had taken it when the platoon was training in Kenya. She had enlarged it and then bought a nice frame.

  Darrel gazed at the photo for a few moments longer than politeness demanded. Then he turned back to his wires and answered her question.

  ‘I’ve always been good with this sort of stuff. When I was a kid I used to take things apart to see how they worked. And my dad always made me put them back together again myself, he wouldn’t help me. Sometimes I hated him. But it meant I learned a lot.’

  She watched him work. Now she knew his face better she could see that he was handsome. The first time she had met him she had liked his smile but found him ordinary enough. Since then the tapering lines of his face had pleased her more and more.

  It occurred to her now that she could draw those clean lines. On impulse she fetched her sketch pad. It was at the back of a cupboard where, despite Jamie’s encouragement, she barely looked at it these days. She settled on the sofa sketching his dark features as he bent over in concentration. He was older than Jamie and that made his lines deeper and stronger. Jamie was certainly good-looking but his face still had youthful curves which reminded you of the boy he’d been until a few years ago. Whereas Darrel was more of a man.

  Luke, on the rug, murmured sometimes to himself. Otherwise the room was quiet except for the scratching of her pencil strokes. Darrel did not know she was drawing him until he looked up. He stared at the pad.

  ‘Show me!’

  ‘When it finished. You please continue.’

  ‘But I have finished. Look.’

  He retreated to the armchair where Jamie usually sat, pressed some buttons on the remote and the TV sprang into life, its picture clear. He turned down the sound and then zapped through the silent channels to prove that he could.

  Agnieszka was delighted. She watched the pictures rushing past with a smile on her face. That game show was here again, the one where you watched the faces of people who had won a million, or won it and then lost it all. And then that channel was gone, replaced by leopards on a wildlife programme which gave way to a splinter of a soap opera with sulking, angry faces, which was rapidly replaced by a serious newscaster who turned suddenly into a football match. The whole world, in its infinite variety, was galloping past as Darrel zapped his way through the channels. Agnieszka thought: That’s how my life feels. As if the whole wide, colourful world out there rushes by while I sit here alone in Wiltshire.

  The picture disappeared altogether and Darrel turned to her.

  ‘Oh, Darrel, that very clever what you done!’

  ‘You can tell me I’m clever if it’s still working next week.’ He looked pleased. ‘I’ll phone you to check. Now let’s see what you’re drawing.’

  She sighed. ‘I only start five minutes ago . . .’

  But he was delighted with her sketch. He looked carefully at every line and then held it at arm’s length. He told her how good it was until she went pink with pleasure.

  ‘Please, take this home with you. Maybe your wife like it also.’

  She’d seen his wedding ring, of course. She’d noticed it the first time she met him at the garage. They’d met at the superstore, then he’d co
me to the house to diagnose the problem with the TV and she’d given him a cup of tea and they’d talked. He’d said she needed some gadget and now here he was installing it. That was three, no four meetings. And he’d never once mentioned his wife. Today was Saturday. Didn’t she ask him where he went? This thought filled Agnieszka with apprehension. She wasn’t sure why.

  ‘My wife won’t like this picture.’ He smiled at her. ‘Because it looks just like me.’

  Agnieszka blinked at him.

  ‘I’m separated.’

  ‘Long time ago?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since I had that cup of coffee with you.’

  ‘But that was only . . .’

  ‘A month ago.’

  ‘You just separate!’

  ‘Listen, Aggie, these things don’t happen overnight. Everything’s wrong and you put up with it and think this is just the way things are. But everyone’s unhappy. And sooner or later you have to admit it to yourself. And do something about it.’

  Agnieszka felt her heart beating faster but she did not know why. Anyway, whatever her heart was doing, her head needed time to go through this slowly and methodically.

  ‘So one day, the day of superstore coffee, you say: Enough! And you leave your wife?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Not exactly?’

  ‘My wife was in the store that day and she saw us.’

  Agnieszka leaned back on the sofa, her head tilted, and looked at the ceiling. She didn’t know where else to look. Her long, slim neck swept up to her jawline, her chin jutted towards the roof. Darrel watched her. Agnieszka rolled her eyes.

  ‘Oh God, God, everyone was in superstore that day. Was it half-price special offer day, maybe?’

  Darrel smiled.

  ‘You, me, my wife . . . who else was there? Oh yes, your neighbour with the little girl.’

  ‘The sergeant’s wife. She didn’t see you.’

  ‘I made sure of that. But I didn’t realize my wife was around as well. And she saw us talking.’

  ‘So marriage ends?’ Agnieszka stared at him now, her blue eyes very round. ‘Marriage ends because you take coffee with me?’

  ‘It was ending anyway, Aggie. Coffee just finished it off.’

  ‘But she must understand we only take coffee!’

  Darrel shook his head.

  ‘She saw me talking to you. Like I really wanted to hear what you had to say? Like I found you interesting? And she said it was years since I talked to her that way. And she was right.’

  ‘And marriage ends?’ Agnieszka was leaning forward. She was whispering. Just saying the words felt sinful enough. ‘Marriage ends because of way you talk to me?’

  He shrugged. He did not look sad, contrite, hurt or anything a man at the end of his marriage might look.

  ‘After many years?’

  ‘Eight.’

  She shook her head as though she was trying to shake it clear.

  ‘Because of coffee? With me?’

  ‘Because it had already ended years ago. So all it took was one coffee to finish it off completely.’

  ‘So now what you do?’

  ‘I’ve moved out. I’m staying with my mother, for the time being. Until I can get myself sorted. Gillian and the kids have stayed at home.’

  ‘You have kids?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Three!’

  He laughed at her amazement.

  ‘Well, it’s not so unusual in this country. How many do people in Poland have? Ten?’

  ‘Usual to stop with one. Sometimes a long, long time before two. And three not very ordinary.’

  But it wasn’t the number of children itself which amazed her. It was the nonchalance with which he could end the marriage that supported so many. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling: unease with her own role in this. How could meeting a man in a shop and having a coffee with him result in such a thing? Had the wife, watching unnoticed, detected an interest in Agnieszka which Agnieszka had been unaware of? Or had she been aware of his interest but chosen to ignore it because she wanted her TV repaired? The thought made her curl up on the sofa. It made her feel unclean.

  Darrel said quietly: ‘It’s not your fault.’

  But she did not uncurl. So she had unwittingly ended this man’s marriage. It wasn’t her fault. But did that leave her with some responsibilities towards him?

  She heard him get up. What was he doing now? Crossing the room? She did not uncurl to see. She shut her eyes and ears and said Aves to herself to keep them shut. Then she remembered. She should pay him for repairing the television, for the gadget he had bought. If she didn’t pay him then there was an implication of friendship. Or obligation.

  She jumped up. The room was empty except for Luke, now asleep on the floor, his mouth open and his hands up as though he was under arrest. Her sketch lay on the sofa.

  She ran to the door but she was too late. His car was just pulling away.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE MAIL ARRIVED MINUTES BEFORE 1 SECTION LEFT FOR ITS PATROL and the boss delayed by ten minutes so that the men could read it before they jumped on the Vectors.

  Dave got a letter from his mother, a letter from Jenny and, ominously, a letter from Jenny’s mother too. He started the one from Jenny, then left them on his cot and went to count the men into the vehicles.

  ‘We’re a decoy, so don’t let’s delude ourselves we’re a fire team,’ he reminded them.

  Sol was standing at his side.

  ‘Just help me with my English, would you?’ he muttered. ‘What’s the difference between a decoy and a sitting duck?’

  Dave rolled his eyes.

  ‘You don’t need any help with your English,’ he said. ‘Today there is no difference.’

  Sol’s ankle had healed and Dave had been relieved to have him back commanding 1 Section.

  He turned to the lads jumping on board the Vectors right now. Streaky Bacon and Jack Binns were still battle virgins. They’d been on patrol and escorted contractors and been caught in sporadic, low-key fire fights but they had not yet been involved in anything more serious. Although they insisted that they were ready and eager to do so, neither had fired a shot.

  ‘You’re not going out for a fucking picnic!’ Dave barked at Streaky. ‘Sling your weapon, sprog, and get two hands on it.’

  Binns, climbing in behind Streaky, undid his sling clip rapidly before Dave could see. He looked sheepish when he saw Sol watching him.

  Dave jumped in beside the driver of the first vehicle as it pulled away. The boss sat with Asma at the front of the second.

  As they rumbled across the desert Dave felt on edge. His eyes scanned every ripple in the landscape. Ever since that goat had exploded so spectacularly right in front of him, he’d been forced to accept that IEDs had become impossible to spot. Before then he had tried to persuade himself that, if he was alert enough, he couldn’t be caught on the wrong end of an explosion.

  Nevertheless, he kept his eyes peeled for a pile of stones or recently disturbed earth which might hint at something beneath the surface. He stared hard at a young man watching the convoy from his motorbike whose mobile phone could be a detonator.

  It was common knowledge that the Taliban were stepping up their use of IEDs. Their explosives were getting bigger and better and the capacity of the Vectors to withstand their blasts was now in question because most of their armour was on top rather than underneath. Since 1 Platoon had arrived in Sin City, news had filtered in regularly of British soldiers elsewhere in Helmand Province who had been killed or injured by mines. There were antipersonnel mines and anti-tank mines and, if you managed to avoid all these, there were always the Soviet-era legacy mines.

  As they crossed the featureless desert they passed the first train of camels Dave had seen here. It was a biblical sight, the line of humped backs and long necks making slow and rhythmic progress across the sand.

  ‘Could be two thousand years
ago,’ the driver said.

  ‘Except for the IEDs.’

  ‘This route has been cleared.’

  ‘Cleared last week doesn’t mean it’s still clear today.’

  ‘You’re not your usual self, Sarge. Having a bad day?’

  ‘I’m pissed off with being sent out undermanned. There’s just not enough of us. And one’s a woman and two are sprogs. The civilians are forcing us to spread ourselves too thin. So we’re a decoy and we’re supposed to keep going but the Taliban don’t know that. To them we’re just the enemy.’