War Torn

by McNab, Andy

  Chapter Forty-three

  ‘COME ON IN, SERGEANT HENLEY.’ MAJOR WILLINGHAM’S TONE WAS friendly. He was with the 2 i/c, CSM Kila and Gordon Weeks. The 2 i/c was making mugs of tea as usual. Iain Kila called him, in private, the Brew Bitch.

  ‘Before we get down to business, I’d like to congratulate you both, Gordon and Dave, on the way you and your men dealt with that horrific incident today. You must be very proud of everyone, not least the four men who risked their lives saving the casualties.’

  ‘If there’d only been helicopters with winches available no one would have had to risk their life,’ said the boss firmly. Dave was pleased. The boss was beginning to grasp the fact that the best way of fighting against the enemy was fighting for your men against the big machine of the British Army.

  ‘I agree with that and the point has been very strongly made,’ said the OC.

  ‘Any update on the condition of Connor or Broom, sir?’ asked Dave.

  ‘I spoke to Bastion an hour ago. They just say they’re stable. Which could mean anything.’

  CSM Kila added: ‘But we’ve had three calls from Angus McCall to ask what’s going on here.’

  Dave smiled.

  ‘Scared he’ll miss some action.’

  Iain Kila said: ‘His dad has good cause to be proud of what that lad did today.’

  ‘His dad?’ asked the OC.

  ‘His father was in the Regiment,’ the boss explained.

  Iain Kila raised his eyebrows. ‘Says Angus.’

  The major smiled. ‘If everyone who claims to have been in the Regiment was telling the truth then Hereford would be the size of Canada.’

  He sprawled back in his chair, legs stretched out. On his desk was an open cake tin, its contents half eaten, probably sent by a relative or big-hearted member of the public.

  ‘Now then, I’m sorry to question you about an old incident, Sergeant Henley, when you’ve had such a shit day. But I promised to get a report in about it and now they say they need it by first thing tomorrow. As you know, we’ve got this Royal Military Policewoman here at the base. As well as the woman from the Intelligence Corps. It’s all a bit of bad luck really: the pair of them are only here because they’re fluent in Pashtu—’

  ‘But, sir, they’re good value,’ Iain Kila said. ‘They were good news with the detainees.’

  ‘And their monitoring of the Taliban radios has been fantastic when we’re operational,’ added the boss.

  ‘Oh, they do a fine job both interpreting and diplomatically: we were even invited to the tribesmen’s wedding, as you know, and I’m sure that was something to do with the charm of our interpreters. But the fact is, the RMP won’t stick to her interpreter role, she insists on doing monkey work even when we really don’t want her to.’

  Dave glanced at the boss. He looked tense.

  ‘She’s got a bee in her bonnet about the Green Zone patrol when you dropped five Talis. I can stave off a full investigation if I say the right things in my report now. You know which incident I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yes, sir. After the goat set off the IED for us.’

  ‘Which makes me wonder if we shouldn’t have goats trotting in front of our patrols all the time. Like miners had canaries. Anyway, can I ask you to think back and take me through exactly what happened after the goat was blown up? And please understand that this is a relaxed and informal discussion.’

  Suddenly it didn’t feel relaxed or informal. The OC sat up straight to take notes. The tent was silent.

  Dave told how, after the IED had detonated, he and 1 Section had walked up the track looking for the old man who had been herding the goat. He described the appearance of the four Taliban fighters, apparently going home and unaware of their presence. He said that both he and Jamie had fired at them and all four had dropped.

  ‘Now let’s get this straight. You were searching the dead men, all of whom were in a ditch, when McCall shouted out that one of the bodies was still alive. And you said . . .?’

  ‘I think I said: get on with it.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ echoed the major, giving the words great significance. ‘Can you remember what exactly you meant by that?’

  ‘Well, I knew that our fire would certainly draw enemy fire. It was just a question of when they could locate us. And we were a small, vulnerable group out there in the field. So we needed to move quickly.’

  The major scribbled on his pad, nodding.

  ‘But what did you want him to get on with?’

  Dave paused and glanced at Boss Weeks.

  ‘Isn’t the interpretation of his words by his men more important than what he actually meant?’ suggested the boss.

  ‘Fair point, Gordon. Get on with it. The men could have understood that to mean: remove his weapon and examine his injuries so that we can casevac him if necessary. Do you think they understood you to mean that, Sergeant Henley?’

  Dave looked thoughtful. He glanced at the CSM who nodded slightly.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘I think the RMP here at the base suspects you might have meant: get on and shoot him,’ said the OC nonchalantly.

  Iain Kila said: ‘Well, that’s not how the rifleman searching the body understood it, because he didn’t shoot.’

  ‘Rifleman Bilaal shot him,’ said Dave. ‘But I think he was already dead.’

  ‘How do you know? Did you see the wound or the blood?’

  ‘I saw blood. But I knew it mostly because I’d shot him myself.’

  The major smiled.

  ‘You know you’re a good shot?’

  ‘Good enough to hit a lad when he’s that close. I’d seen him fall into the ditch. He had no body armour – it would be amazing if he could survive, and survive well enough to act dead. So when McCall said he was moving, I thought that it could be a death twitch. I’ve seen that before.’

  ‘There was absolutely no doubt in your mind that the man was dead or very close to dead?’

  ‘I thought this was a dead body twitching. If there had been any movement at all. But the rifleman who was searching him had been in his first real contact. He was showing signs of shock. In that state he could have imagined the body was moving. So I was more worried about him than the insurgent. What I wanted was for the rifleman to stop imagining things, pull himself together and get on with the body search.’

  ‘This was McCall?’

  ‘He froze when we shot the insurgents, although he was at the front and the first to see them. He had another chance a few minutes later and he blew that too. He’s OK now, fighting very well, and he distinguished himself on the minefield today. But like a lot of lads, he fell apart the first time he was asked to face the enemy.’

  CSM Kila nodded. So did Gordon Weeks. The major sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile and the 2 i/c approached with the teapot and his Brew Bitch smile: ‘Would anyone like a top-up?’

  ‘But, Dave,’ Weeks said, ‘the OC might have to explain why Rifleman Bilaal then shot this dead body.’

  ‘Mal thought the bloke was dead too,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve talked to him about it. But he’s McCall’s best mate and he could see him falling apart. He threw down a few rounds just to reassure Angus.’

  The OC sipped cheerfully at his tea.

  ‘Good! I think I have enough there to keep the monkeys off our backs. The Rules of Engagement are misty in places and it’s too easy for people sitting in offices to tell men in the heat of battle how they should have behaved. I hope you’ll hear no more about it now, Dave.’

  Dave had been worried about this interview and he knew that the outcome should have been a relief. But after today’s bloodbath on the minefield, this investigation into a dead insurgent, although correct and required by law, seemed absurd.

  Chapter Forty-four

  BILLY FINN TURNED OUT TO BE RIGHT. ABOUT A WEEK LATER AN announcement was made that, as soon as the engineers had finished building the temporary base at Jackpot, 1 and 2 Platoons would be movin
g there for a week with the civilians. Patrols continued but oil exploration work was halted in the meantime.

  A Chinook arrived, kicking up a spiral of fine dust which reached high into the air like a storm. The back was opened and out came three men in flipflops, shorts and T-shirts. The lads stared at them. They were carrying kit but the most noticeable item was an old tin teapot dangling on a string from a Bergen. They were talking and laughing as if they had just arrived at their holiday destination and couldn’t wait to get their towels out by the pool before any Germans did.

  ‘Who the hell are they?’ men asked each other. But not for long because the mail bags had been unloaded. People pounced on their blueys and took them to their cot or some other private corner to read them, like dogs dragging away bones to maul in private. As usual, Finn, who had nothing, watched other people reading their letters.

  ‘All right, mate?’ he asked Mal.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mal. ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t look too happy.’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Women trouble? One of your babes found a bloke with better wheels?’

  ‘I told you, I’m blowing everything I earn here on a beamer when I get back, and I mean an M3. Women are going to be gagging for a ride with me, there are no better wheels.’

  Finn said in an undertone. ‘Listen. There’s a rumour going around that the blokes who arrived on the Chinook are SF.’

  Mal laughed out loud.

  ‘Yeah, they look like big hard killing machines.’

  ‘Well, who do you think they are?’

  ‘Bunch of tossers.’

  Later, in the cookhouse, the lads were having a brew while Streaky gave them his minefield rap. He had been writing it in his head when he covered the rescue operation. It had taken the edge off his anxiety for Binman but now, a week later, it didn’t sound so special. The others listened impassively right to the end:

  . . . It was a Russian who’s dead now who laid that mine then fled,

  The Russian didn’t guess it would take a British leg,

  A Russian soldier left two British boys for dead

  And the ragheads laughed and fired while Connor bled and bled.

  Binns immediately said it was good. Sol agreed with him.

  ‘Didn’t like the stuff at the beginning about the Paras,’ said Finn.

  ‘You just try finding a good rhyme for Paratrooper,’ said Streaky sulkily.

  ‘Angry snooper,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Mini Cooper,’ said Mal.

  ‘Let’s play snooker,’ said someone.

  They all looked up. It was Martyn Robertson, who was sitting down next to them with a cup of coffee.

  ‘You want a game of snooker?’ asked Angus, hopefully. He’d been allowed back to the FOB with his bandaged arm only if he stayed on Light Duties for two weeks. And playing snooker sounded like a good Light Duty.

  ‘I prefer pool myself,’ said Martyn patiently. ‘But the point is, Angus, Let’s play snooker rhymes with Paratrooper.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Angry. He reddened. Why did Topaz fucking Zero always put him down? Then Martyn surprised him by flinging an arm across his shoulders.

  ‘You’re a good kid,’ he said. ‘We can’t play pool but you’re very welcome to join in with the blackjack.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Angus, mollified.

  ‘So, guys,’ said Martyn, ‘who’s seen the Green Berets? Or whatever you call them in Britain.’

  1 Section sat up straight.

  ‘That would be the SAS: Special Forces, Jedi, Blades,’ said Finn, with a meaningful look at Mal.

  ‘I’ve seen three geezers in flipflops,’ said Streaky.

  ‘Yup, they’re here on some special operation.’

  ‘The Regiment!’ said Angus. ‘Here!’ He tried to hide his excitement in case anyone laughed at him. ‘I mean . . . those guys with the fucking teapot?’

  ‘They look like new oil engineers,’ Binman said.

  Martyn frowned. ‘Oil engineers have better taste in shirts.’

  ‘But . . . I’m bigger than they are!’ said Angus. The Jedi. SF were here at Sin City.

  ‘They might be hard, though,’ Jamie said.

  Binns shook his head. ‘Seem a bit ordinary to me.’

  ‘How do you know this, Martyn?’ Sol asked. Martyn just looked mysterious.

  Before the Chinook could take off again, the base came under fire. This invariably happened with the arrival or departure of a Chinook. The insurgents knew about the vulnerabilities of the old machines: an RPG in the right place could do a lot of damage. The contact was sufficient to delay the helicopter’s departure. Although AH support was requested, all the Apaches were busy so the occupants of Sin City threw themselves into putting down the attack. It took at least an hour and in that time not one of the SAS men was seen.

  ‘You’d think the cream of the British Army would give us a hand,’ Finn said when they were finally told to stand down.

  ‘Maybe they’re busy sorting out weapons and making plans and stuff,’ Angus said. ‘For their special operation.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ said Mal, ‘they’re lazy bastards.’

  ‘Bet they get paid shitloads of money, too,’ added Binman.

  ‘Think they’ll let us cabbie their weapons?’ asked Angus.

  Mal said: ‘Oh wow. They have the best shit in the world.’

  ‘One thing’s for sure, mate, the Regiment don’t leave their weapons lying in dope fields,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Mal amiably.

  ‘They’re in the Cowshed. Reckon we can go and talk to them, Sol?’ asked Finn.

  Sol shrugged. ‘I suppose they can only tell you to go away.’

  Angus, Mal and Finn found the men having a brew with their feet up apparently oblivious to the fact that the base had been under attack. They looked like ordinary soldiers, perhaps a bit older, on R&R.

  ‘Didn’t you want to fight?’ asked Finn.

  One of them was reading a dog-eared paperback. He looked up.

  ‘No way. I joined the Regiment to get away from all that army shit.’ And he went back to reading his book.

  ‘So can we have a butchers at your weapons?’ Finn persisted.

  One of the other men got up and fetched a weapon for them. It was long and thin and mean.

  ‘You can have a butchers but not a cabbie,’ he said, passing it to Finn.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ said Angus who was always badgering Dave to send him on a proper sniper course. He was already the team’s sharpshooter. ‘Is that the . . . could it be the . . .’

  ‘The L115A3.’

  ‘Holy shit, how long have you been using it for?’

  ‘Not long. It’s replaced the L96A1 now.’

  Angus was like a kid who had just broken into a toyshop. ‘Fuck me, how many rounds will it do?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘And what’s the range?’ Finn was holding it up and looking through the sights.

  ‘Well, it’ll do two kilometres. But closer is better because I’m not sure the sights are as good as the weapon.’

  ‘So you’re all in different places, then?’ asked Mal.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a button here, right by the trigger, see, and when we get a good sight picture we press it and the signal goes to the liaison officer. When he’s got three lights on, he’ll tell us to fire. Or maybe just two lights. One isn’t enough.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Mal. Angus was speechless.

  Finn handed the rifle to Mal. He said: ‘That is high precision. One man two kilometres away.’

  ‘We’re targeting some kind of a family party,’ said the SAS man. ‘So we’ve got to be accurate. Don’t want any kids running up to their dad at the wrong moment.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ breathed Angus. ‘What a life. You just fly in, slot this guy and fly out again.’

  ‘We fly in and we hope we slot him,’ said the SAS man. ‘It doesn’t always happen that way.’

  ‘B
et you never make mistakes,’ Angus said to him.

  ‘Oh yes he does,’ chorused the other SAS men, refilling the teapot.