War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  DAVE FOLLOWED THE 2 I/C OUT OF THE COOKHOUSE INTO THE DARK night.

  ‘What’s all the hilarity about?’ He was leading Dave towards the ops room.

  ‘A couple of the lads are rapping.’ Dave would’ve gone on to talk about Steve’s frozen leg if the 2 i/c didn’t look so grave. He guessed he had been called to the OC for some reason. It could be the insurgent they’d shot in the ditch. CSM Kila was always warning there would be an inquiry. Maybe his interview was tonight.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to interrupt,’ the officer said. ‘There’s an urgent message for you.’

  Jenny. Dave’s stomach lurched.

  ‘It’s from Selly Oak.’

  His stomach lurched again. Steve Buckle. The whole cookhouse had just been in uproar over Steve’s leg. And now . . .

  ‘What’s happened, sir?’

  ‘That’s not clear. But his doctor has recommended that you phone him.’

  The OC was in the tent under a desk light, surrounded by papers. He greeted Dave but carried on working. There were half-opened packets of custard creams on the tables and on the 2 i/c’s desk a crumbling fruit cake that people had obviously been picking at.

  Dave would have preferred to use the satellite phone in some private place instead of the ops room phone within earshot of officers, signaller and company clerk, but the 2 i/c was already waving the handset at him with a number to dial. The man who answered sounded uncertain. Dave asked to speak to Rifleman Steve Buckle and after a pause the man said: ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I didn’t recognize you, mate! It’s Dave, Dave Henley. How are you?’

  ‘Thank Christ.’ The voice sounded stronger, but it still wasn’t completely Steve. ‘Shit, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Good to hear you’re in the UK at last!’

  ‘Tell me how everyone is! Please! What’s happening out there?’

  Since this was the ops room phone, Dave spoke more freely than he could on the satellite. ‘A lot of the time it’s quiet. But we were caught in one fuck of an ambush . . .’

  ‘What happened?’

  There was a note of longing in Steve’s voice. Dave guessed that knowing his mates were fighting without him was hard. He gave Steve the detailed description of the ambush he knew he wanted.

  ‘If AH had got there much later, we’d have had it. There was one of the bastards already just ten metres away from us and our ammo wouldn’t have lasted another fifteen minutes, even at a very slow rate of fire,’ he concluded.

  Steve was silent.

  ‘Steve?’

  Silence.

  ‘Steve?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Has the line gone dead, mate, or did my bedtime story lull you off to sleep?’ Except it was a summer’s afternoon in England.

  No response. And then there was a strange, strangled sound. Was Steve choking? He sounded in pain. Maybe his leg was hurting a lot.

  ‘Shit, I wish I was there!’

  Then Dave knew that Steve was struggling to control his tears.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dave, what the hell am I doing in fucking Birmingham when I should be there with you knocking the shit out of the Taliban? There’s blokes wandering around this hospital in dishdash! I mean, the hats, the robes, the beards, they say they’re here visiting their sick relatives! And I want to kill them. And the nurse says: no, Steve, they’re British citizens.’

  Dave cleared his throat.

  ‘We’re not fighting every Moslem, Steve, you know that. We’re not fighting everyone in dishdash. We’re just fighting the Taliban.’

  ‘I wish I was there with you. I’d give anything.’

  Dave was thinking Steve had already given enough when Steve moved closer to the phone and half whispered: ‘Listen . . . I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Dave waited. He could hear Steve gathering his strength at the other end and when the words came they were breathless.

  ‘I’ve lost a leg!’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. I know that, mate.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Dave thought of the black plastic bag Masud had dumped on the cookhouse table in front of him not thirty minutes ago. He thought of Streaky’s rap. Christ. Had someone really suggested to the whole cookhouse that they get the leg stuffed? Or hang it in the National Gallery? Why had they all been treating Steve’s leg like the funniest thing since Borat? Was it because they all knew the truth was so fucking awful? He felt his face growing red.

  ‘Er . . . well . . . I’ve seen it.’

  ‘You’ve seen my leg?’

  ‘I mean, I saw your leg getting blown off.’

  ‘Fucking hell. You saw it. So what happened? People keep asking me and I’m fucked if I can remember.’

  Dave described the ambush on their arrival here. It seemed such a long time ago now that it already felt like a dream.

  ‘So you went down with a stoppage . . .’ repeated Steve.

  ‘. . . and you took my place on top, mate. Yeah. And that’s when it happened. If you’re thinking that it could have been me . . . well, you’re right.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Steve very slowly.

  Dave did not know what to say. Finally he spoke into Steve’s silence. ‘I don’t know why it was you and not me. I’ve asked myself that a lot of times.’

  ‘Yeah . . . yeah . . .’

  ‘When are they giving you a new leg?’

  ‘What?’ Steve wasn’t listening.

  ‘Your new leg. When do you get it?’

  ‘Oh, soon. They have to do a bit of an operation on the stump but not much. Then I go to Headley Court and join the British Paralympics team.’

  ‘And you’ve seen Leanne and the boys?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ His voice was flat.

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Well, they’ve all still got two fucking legs so compared with me they’re all right.’

  ‘Come on, Steve, it’s hard for them as well.’

  ‘Some bloke’s coming round to see about adapting the house.’

  ‘What sort of adaptations?’

  ‘For a disabled person.’ His tone was bitter. Of course his tone was bitter.

  Dave said: ‘Mate, I’m not going to give you all that shit about blokes with no legs who climb mountains and win races and—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Dave, listen. There was this para who lost a leg and they gave him a new one and he went back out to Afghanistan. Someone said he got back out on the same tour! Think there’s a chance I can do that?’

  No!

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Really?’ Steve’s voice became loud and excited, more like the old Steve.

  I’m leading him up the garden path. He has to accept life won’t be the same with one leg. Or does he? Or could he really get back to the frontline? What’s the right thing to do?

  ‘Well, I mean, it depends how good you are on your new pin. You might not be able to do everything we do . . . or anyway, not on this tour . . . but anything’s possible.’

  Dave had heard about that para who rejoined his mates. He just wasn’t sure the bloke really existed.

  ‘I want to do exactly what you and the lads do. Prosthetic–’ Steve stumbled over the word. It took a couple of tries before he could say it smoothly. ‘Prosthetic legs are amazing now, you can do anything, you can carry kit and fight . . . I have to get back out there with the lads, Dave. That’s all I want. If I know I’m going back, then I can stand Selly Oak, Leanne crying all over me, all the crap.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to aim for.’

  Steve’s response was robust.

  ‘I’ll show you, mate. They’re not fobbing me off with a desk job. I’ll be out there for your next ambush.’

  Dave finished the call wishing someone would tell him the right way to handle Steve. He wondered if anyone had told Leanne. He thanked the officers and went outside to see if by any chance the satellite phone was free so t
hat he could call her. Rifleman Ben Broom from 2 Section was just sneaking off with it.

  ‘Did you book that phone?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘How many hours a week do you spend talking to her, Broom?’ ‘I like to keep an eye on my bird, Sarge. If I don’t keep calling her, she might fly.’

  ‘You and Jamie Dermott are never off the fucking phone.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, he’s booked in after me.’

  But all those calls were not enough to keep Agnieszka from flying, thought Dave. He went to the list to book himself in for some phone time with Leanne but the schedule worked one week in advance and few slots were available. Men were getting up in the middle of the night to speak to their loved ones. Dave saw a space tomorrow morning but it was no good: from 0700 1 Platoon was out all day. Because, for the first time, they were on civilian escort duty.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE CONTRACTORS WERE LATE, AS USUAL. WAITING TO LEAVE SIN City with them were all three sections of 1 Platoon plus support staff including engineers, signallers, medics, the Company Sergeant Major and Jean Patterson as interpreter. The hardware was the usual light weapons and machine guns in the Vectors, two WMIKs, one with a .50 cal heavy machine gun and a gimpy, the second with a 40mm grenade machine gun and gimpy.

  ‘Fuck it, do the civvies get a whole mortar platoon as well?’ asked Finn as they waited by the vehicles. ‘And how about an A10 fly-past?’

  Angus lit a cigarette. ‘Ever have the feeling civilian lives are more important than ours?’

  Jamie said: ‘Yeah, but we joined up and they didn’t. Anyway, when they’re protected, we’re protected.’

  Dave was striding past for some more ammunition. ‘Fucking right. I think we’re in for an easy day, lads.’

  They were sitting with their backs against the Vectors. Sol’s shadow suddenly fell across them.

  ‘OK, 1 Section, there’s a hold-up so let’s do a few checks while we wait. Bacon, your weapon isn’t clean, sort it out when you get back.’

  ‘I cleaned it last night!’

  ‘Well, clean it again. Angry, sorry to hear you broke your wrist.’

  ‘But I didn’t!’

  ‘Then unhook your sling and get your arm out of it. Mal, don’t forget the shotgun.’

  Mal rolled his eyes. No patrol left the gates without someone reminding him about the shotgun.

  Sol was frowning at Jack Binns.

  ‘You don’t look right . . . get up.’

  Binns tried to do this but the weight he was carrying pulled him back. Sol took an arm and tugged him to his feet, then looked him up and down.

  ‘What is going on with your kit, Binman?’

  ‘Don’t feel right.’

  ‘If your webbing’s on wrong, everything’s wrong. Let’s take a look. Get your pouches off.’

  Binns began to struggle with his Camelbak and his pouches. He handed them to Jamie, who was sitting nearby.

  ‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting things in the right place . . .’

  Sol shook his head. ‘Have you been like this since you got here?’

  ‘It used to be all right . . .’

  ‘So, Binns, how much are you eating?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘I reckon you’ve lost a lot of weight. I see you in the cookhouse but I’ve never thought to check how much food’s on your plate.’

  Streaky Bacon spoke up.

  ‘Sometimes Binman doesn’t eat nothing at all.’

  Sol looked at Binns for an explanation. Binns stared at the ground.

  ‘It’s too fucking hot to eat and I’m too fucking knackered carrying all this kit around.’

  ‘What about your rations when you’re out?’

  ‘They don’t taste nice. That boil-in-the-bag chicken stuff just makes me want to puke. I always give it to Angry.’

  Sol turned to Angry who looked defensive.

  ‘Yeah, well I like it.’

  ‘Don’t eat the sprog’s rations!’ said Sol. ‘You can swap but you can’t eat his or he’ll die of starvation.’

  ‘But I get hungry! And he doesn’t want it!’

  Sol ignored him.

  ‘The Lancashire hotpot’s good,’ he told Binman. ‘Try finding someone who’ll swap you a chicken for a hotpot. And they’re bringing in a lot of new flavours now.’

  Binns looked unconvinced.

  ‘He’s a vegetarian, that’s the problem,’ said Bacon. Binns shot his mate an angry glance.

  Finn hooted.

  ‘Fond of little furry animals, are you? Well, so am I! Served up with brown sauce.’

  ‘I just don’t eat meat,’ said Binns. ‘I wouldn’t call myself vegetarian.’

  ‘There’s some no-meat meals,’ said Sol. ‘We’ll have to sort you out. Why didn’t you tell us before?’

  Binn glared at the ground. ‘I’m not gay.’

  Sol looked around dangerously at the others. ‘Does anyone here think gay men don’t eat meat?’

  ‘No, Sol.’

  Sol glanced at the isoboxes to see if there was any sign of the civilians. They were already half an hour late.

  ‘Give your meal bag to Mal and he’ll get it changed if there’s time.’

  ‘The colour won’t give you any new meals. They’re all his own personal property. He buys them with his own fucking money,’ said Finn.

  Binns searched through his pouches for the bag and handed it to Mal, who headed off to the CQMS.

  ‘And don’t you nick it! Change it for a vegetarian one!’ Sol yelled after him.

  ‘I did try and eat the meat. Only it made me puke,’ said Binns miserably.

  ‘Listen, man, no one’s going to make you eat pukey stuff, but you got to eat something. You’re worrying me. This is a harsh climate and we’re doing a hard job and you’ve got to take care of yourself. You drinking enough?’

  ‘Yeah. My Camelbak’s full.’

  ‘Good. Show me your pouches.’

  ‘You mean . . . open them?’

  ‘Yep. You show it for kit inspection. But now I want to see where you keep it. Where’s your ammo?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘On your right hip, good. Make sure the rounds are facing away. What else is in there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Where’s the rest of your ammo?’

  ‘In my day sack.’

  ‘What good is it there?’

  ‘I can get it out when I need it.’

  ‘No, Binman, you don’t want to scrabble around in your day sack under fire. You need to be reaching into the pouch on your belt. What have you got in your left pouch?’

  Binns opened it and pulled out a toilet roll.

  ‘Try throwing that at Terry Taliban, he’s never seen it before,’ said Finn.

  Angus said: ‘Yeah, he’ll be scared shitless.’

  ‘Toilet roll should be somewhere out of the way,’ said Sol. ‘Keep the rest of your ammo in your left pouch and a bit of gun oil there too.’

  ‘Er . . . I’ve got gun oil here somewhere . . .’ Binns was frantically opening and closing pouches.

  ‘No good. You have to be able to put your hand on it when you need it. That’s why I keep mine in my front left. Where’s your bayonet?’

  ‘In my day sack.’

  ‘How’s it going to help you there, Binman?’

  ‘Well, it’s on the side so I can reach in and . . .’

  ‘It goes on your webbing! Frog edge on, tie it in with something. There’s no point having a weapon if it’s not to hand. Last time I checked you had everything in the right place!’

  ‘It all went wrong when I started losing weight and nothing fit me any more.’

  ‘Right, open that pouch for me . . . let’s take a look. Hexi, water, peanuts, picture of pretty girl, OK. Where’s your morphine?’

  ‘Left map pocket,’ responded Binns automatically.

  ‘Good. Okay, let’s get your kit on so it fits.’