by McNab, Andy
‘Is your mate Gordon Weeks coming again?’ asked Jean.
‘No,’ said Asma. ‘We’ve got a different platoon today.’
‘Shame. That rifleman from 1 Platoon who stood by the door last time is really nice.’
‘There’ll probably be another nice rifleman today for you to smile at.’
‘Well I like that one. Got chatting to him about skiing in the cookhouse. It’s amazing how thinking about snow can make you feel cooler in these temperatures.’
Asma was placing a piece of foam between her toes. ‘That’s an achievement. You chatting with a rifleman. Considering how they all hate monkeys.’ Now she had begun to follow the line of her nails slowly and carefully with the tiny brush.
‘Well, when he’d got over that one he was all right. His name’s Jamie. I worked for one season in Val d’Isère and he used to go every year with his family and it turns out we were there at the same time.’
Asma looked up from her toes at Jean for a moment and raised her eyebrows comically.
‘Skiing with his family every year? And he’s a rifleman?’
Jean pulled a face. ‘And he’s married.’ She opened the red bottle. ‘But he’s all right.’
They both concentrated on their nails, pausing only briefly when another explosion shook their cots.
‘Do you think Iain Kila’s all right too?’ asked Asma.
‘Yuck!’ Jean stopped painting and sank inside her body armour like a tortoise. ‘Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck.’
‘He likes you,’ Asma said.
‘He’s scary. Imagine him in a narrow alley on a dark night when he’s had a few.’
‘All these big hard men are softies underneath. They just need a good woman to help them show their feelings.’
Jean guffawed. ‘And the last good woman was called Trudi.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Nope. Her name’s tattooed on his arm.’
Asma changed feet. ‘Well, at least he’s got an Underslung Grenade Launcher tattooed on his other arm.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘How cool is that?’
‘You are kidding!’
‘Yes,’ giggled Asma. ‘But he’s the sort who would.’
Jean giggled too.
‘I think you like him,’ said Asma.
‘I do not.’
‘You’re always talking to him.’
‘That’s because every other soldier avoids me. Apart from Jamie. They all think I’m trying to arrest them.’
Asma had finished her toenails. She screwed the brush back into the bottle and then tipped the contents of her makeup bag onto her cot. She bent over, sifting through everything, so that tiny bottles fell against one another with soft clinking noises. She said: ‘Well, you did make a big fuss about that guy they shot in the ditch.’
Jean was only starting on her second foot now. ‘The OC’s promised he’ll investigate and write a report. I know they want to sweep it under the carpet but I’m not going to let them. The fact is, they filled a wounded man with bullets.’
‘Course he was wounded. They shot him.’
‘It’s uncivilized,’ insisted Jean. ‘Soldiers storm compounds and see people living cheek by jowl with their animals and wandering around in flipflops. So they decide the Afghans are a bunch of savages. They should look at their own behaviour sometimes.’
‘Keep going with that one and you’ll drop a popular sergeant in the shit.’
‘It’s good to remind people about the RoE,’ said Jean. ‘Keeps their baser instincts under control.’
‘OK, but don’t expect them to like you for it.’ Asma was applying mascara now, holding a little mirror up with the other hand.
‘Well, Iain Kila still likes me. I wouldn’t talk RoE to him, though.’
Jean finished her toenails and sat up and watched her friend’s dexterity with the mascara. ‘Are you putting on your face to impress that tribesman you fancy at the shura?’
Asma giggled. ‘I wouldn’t say fancy. But he’s a very attractive man. And he makes Afghanistan seem a very attractive place.’
‘In other words, you fancy him.’
Asma giggled again and shifted the mascara brush over to the other eye. ‘Think I could be his fourth wife?’
‘You’d get a bit bored stuck at home all day with the other three.’
‘No, I wouldn’t, because I’d be busy having at least ten kids.’
‘So that’s something about Afghanistan you don’t find so attractive, then?’
‘If my mum and dad hadn’t got out, I’d certainly have six kids by now and another on the way. So I’m glad I’m English. But Afghanistan’s always going to have a pull over me.’
‘It’s that tribesman who’s pulled.’ Jean got up, found her camera and took a picture of Asma in helmet and body armour holding her mirror and mascara.
‘Don’t you dare put that on Facebook,’ said Asma, blinking rapidly. ‘How do I look? Need a bit of eyeliner?’
Jean turned away. ‘If you’re trying to look good for some tribesman then I’m not giving you any advice.’
‘Well, Gordon Weeks might be in the cookhouse.’
‘He needs no encouragement. Never stops staring at you.’
‘He held my hand a while ago.’
‘Is that all?’
‘There’s nothing much going on between me and Gordon Weeks. We’re just two saddos stuck in an FOB in the middle of nowhere.’
‘There is something going on and you know it.’
They’d grown so accustomed to the firing that the lengthening silences had become more startling than any explosion. The changing pace of the battle was as familiar to them as music and they knew it was time now to put the nail polish away.
Asma stuffed the makeup bag into her day sack, untied her hair and began running a brush through the ends without taking off her helmet. Only then did she look up at Jean.
‘Listen, Gordon’s so bloody shy he can’t even kiss me, let alone go further. He acts like I’m going to break if he touches me.’
‘That’s sort of nice in a way,’ said Jean.
Asma paused, the brush in mid-air.
‘It is sort of nice. No one ever treated me like I’m fragile before.’
‘That’s respect.’
‘Yeah, well, I like respect but I could handle a snog as well.’
‘You could throw your arms around him and get on with some serious snogging and hope he enjoys it.’
Asma laughed. ‘He’d be so shocked he’d jump right over the hesco like a fucking kangaroo.’
There was the deep rumble of an aircraft approaching low overhead.
‘Great! Air support. Just when it’s ending anyway,’ said Jean.
‘Sounds like an A10. Brace yourself . . .’
A few minutes later came the crash. The ground shook. More debris fell on their cots.
‘Must have dropped it on that hilly bit up the road. At last. That’s always their main firing position,’ said Jean.
‘Nah, too close to town,’ said Asma. ‘That’s why it’s always their main firing position.’
They listened. Apart from the groan of the departing aircraft, there was silence. It was broken by one defiant enemy round. This was greeted by machine-gun fire from the base. More silence. Another round. Another reply. And then nothing.
‘Those guys would delay dying for five minutes just to fire one more time,’ said Jean.
Asma pulled off her helmet, shook her long, dark hair loose and brushed it from the roots down.
‘What do you expect? They’re Pashtun. So do you think the cookhouse will be operating yet? I’m hungry.’
Jean said: ‘Listen, I want to say something. This bloke we’re seeing this afternoon . . .’
‘They’re all blokes. Which one?’
‘The blue-eyed tribesman who’s got you putting on your mascara.’
‘Asad, I think his name is, innit. Short for Asadullah.’ Asma put away
her brush.
Jean looked serious. ‘Iain Kila said something.’
‘What?’
‘I said the civilians weren’t coming under fire because the locals like the idea of oil and gas income. And I told him how Asad and his family wanted to hear about it at the last shura.’
‘And?’
‘And he said: then Asad must be Taliban. Otherwise he couldn’t call them off.’
They were leaving their room now. Outside the sun was bright. The smell of cordite lingered in the air. There were clouds of dust circling as though there had been a sudden storm. As they crossed to the cookhouse men began returning from their firing positions. Sergeant Somers was shouting at one of his lads. Asma stopped.
‘No, Jean. Asad told us there’s a compound in the Green Zone which is swarming with insurgents. We’ve got more intelligence which says he’s right. And he’s going to tell us which compound. He wouldn’t do that if he was Taliban, would he?’
‘I don’t know, Asma. Those guys are complicated.’
‘I really think he wants us to help him get the Taliban off his territory.’
Jean grinned at her.
‘Like you said, you’re a saddo stuck in an FOB in the middle of nowhere. And you fancy him. So I don’t trust your judgement.’
The 2 i/c, carrying a mug of tea, came out of the ops room, saw them and raised a hand to stop them.
‘There’s a very slight change of plan for this afternoon. The Professor will be coming to the shura.’
Jean remembered the last time she had been out with Emily.
‘Oh no!’
‘Sorry. We tried to talk her out of it.’
Asma said: ‘Does she realize she’ll be sitting cross-legged on a carpet?’
‘And she’ll have to cover up,’ added Jean. ‘Her knee-length skirts won’t do.’
The 2 i/c looked embarrassed. ‘I didn’t think of discussing her wardrobe. I’ll leave that to you girls.’
‘You want us to go and tell her?’ demanded Asma.
The 2 i/c nodded sheepishly.
‘You’re all scared of her!’ said Asma. The 2 i/c nodded again.
Chapter Thirty-two
THERE WAS A SMALL CLUSTER OF PEOPLE OUTSIDE LEANNE’S HOUSE. Across the door was a banner saying WELCOME HOME HERO! Several children carried signs: OUR HERO STEVE. The twins wore outsize badges saying: YES HE’S OUR DAD! The welfare officer and a group of uniformed men from the rear party stood talking in quiet voices separately from the women and children.
Leanne clicked shut her mobile. ‘He’s coming!’
Her voice had gone squeaky again. Adi Kasanita was standing closest to her.
‘He’s coming, he’s coming!’ she boomed, so that everyone could hear. People stopped talking and straightened, the signs were held aloft and, as a small army car drove slowly up the road, there was cheering.
Leanne’s heart beat so loudly that she could hardly hear the cheers. A twin was wrapped around each leg, waiting, and all she could think for one stupid moment as Steve’s face became visible through the windscreen was: what happens if one of the kids tries to grab his leg? And finds it’s not there? Because she had tried to explain but they were just too young to understand. They were too young to understand what was happening right now. They were too young to understand that the man who had just arrived was their dad.
When he got out of the car Steve’s face was white but he was smiling. The driver ran around and tried to help him. The small crowd stayed back and Leanne went to help too.
Steve’s smile slipped.
‘I can fucking do it myself,’ he growled.
She felt something inside her curl up as though it had been singed by a hot fire. She fixed her smile and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Sweetheart, welcome back.’
She would have liked him to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately the way he did after a long time away. Right here in front of everyone. But he was reaching for his crutch.
He moved unsteadily down the path to renewed cheering, Leanne behind him, the driver hovering close by. Everyone smiled and spoke to him as he passed. He grinned back without focusing on anyone. Rosie McKinley started singing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!’ Everyone joined in.
‘He wouldn’t use the wheelchair,’ the driver was explaining. ‘Wouldn’t even let me put it in the car.’
Jenny was holding the boys’ hands now, as well as Vicky’s. They made no attempt to run to their father but looked up at him with big eyes. Leanne grabbed them.
‘Don’t you dare cry,’ she muttered to Jenny, who was biting her lip. She began to drag the twins reluctantly along behind. A glance around at Agnieszka and Adi and Rosie and Sharon and all the other women whose husbands were in Afghanistan told Leanne that every one of them was close to tears. They all wanted their men home too. But not like this.
Steve entered the house under the banner and made his way to the living room where Leanne had laid out some food. There were balloons in all the corners, huge bunches of them, and red, white and blue paper bunting around the wall which a group of mothers had made at playgroup.
Leanne could see that Steve was relieved to sit down in a chair. His face was twisted with pain. She hadn’t been sure the big welcome was a good idea but her friends had wanted to do it. Now that she saw his strained smile she knew it had been a mistake.
The boys were sneaking closer to their father. One of them grabbed his good leg. Then . . . oh no! He had swiped at his father’s other trouser leg, found it empty, and was now examining it with disbelief. Steve laughed, a deep belly laugh, a Steve laugh, and the tension in the room suddenly dissolved.
‘You won’t find a lot in there, mate!’
Everyone laughed at this and the boys ran around giggling wildly, picking up their father’s empty trouser leg, hooting and putting it down again.
The adults clustered around Steve with questions. The room became noisy. Leanne buzzed about with sandwiches and crisps and drinks. She watched Steve out of the corner of her eye. He had always liked being the centre of attention. You could often hear his voice above everyone else’s at a party. She listened now. He was talking to Jenny Henley.
‘Dave had a stoppage and he went down to sort it out and I got on top and that’s when it happened . . .’
Leanne saw Jenny’s face turn white.
‘Yeah,’ Steve continued loudly, ‘a few seconds’ difference would have meant it was him and not me. Dave must be one of the few blokes in the British Army to be saved by equipment malfunction . . .’
Jenny said something and Steve shrugged.
‘He certainly owes me a bloody drink . . .’
Leanne knew that Steve had replaced Dave on top of the vehicle just fifteen seconds before the bomb blast. Because of those fifteen seconds, Jenny had been comforting her for weeks instead of the other way round. She had struggled with this knowledge quietly in the night and sometimes, for a few minutes, she’d even hated Jenny. But not enough to tell her. And now Steve had not hesitated to blurt it out.
His voice was booming across the room again.
‘When I get to Headley Court on Monday morning they’ll start fitting me up for a leg socket. As soon as that’s right I can try out some new legs. Then I just have to pass a fitness test and I can get straight back out there!’
And in answer to another question: ‘Yes, there’s a chance I can make it back out to the FOB before this tour ends . . .’
Leanne didn’t take time to think. She found herself striding across the room.
‘You’re kidding!’ she said, smiling broadly as though he had just cracked a very funny joke.
‘No, darling, I’ve already told you.’
‘I thought you must be kidding!’
‘Leanne. I’ve trained to fight. I’ve lived to fight. There’s nothing else I can do.’
‘The army’s full of interesting jobs, you don’t have to serve in the frontline . . .’ She heard herself. She sounded aggressive. This
wasn’t the time and it wasn’t the place but she couldn’t stop.
‘What do you want me to do? Go and work for the quartermaster handing equipment out to other blokes?’
The party noise was dampening a little now. People were stopping their conversations to listen.
