by Thomas Waugh
Darkness Visible
Thomas Waugh
© Thomas Waugh 2017
Thomas Waugh has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2017 by Endeavour Press.
This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.
“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past .”
William Faulkner.
“If you have a soul you can’t be satisfied .”
Graham Greene.
Table of Contents
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1
Helmand. 2006.
The sweltering, saffron sun threw beams of light along the narrow streets of the ramshackle Afghan village. Michael Devlin moved forward, his gun raised, flanked by two other members of his squad from 3 Para: John Birch and Christopher Connelly.
The two-dozen strong patrol, riding in a convoy of Snatch Land Rovers, had been heading back to their forward base when a voice came over the radio. There had been reports of shots fired from a nearby settlement. The squad needed to check the area. As the radio went silent again an air of trepidation and frustration inserted itself, like a noxious gas, into the vehicles. The soldiers knew that routine patrols could prove anything but routine.
“Fuck,” John Birch, a flame-haired squaddie from Ashford in Kent exclaimed, banging the butt of his rifle on the floor. “God knows what we’ll be heading into now. Military intelligence. What a fucking oxymoron. We could be driving into an ambush, with half the Taliban in the region waiting to greet us. Or it could just be some dippy teen has got his hands on a Kalashnikov for the first time - and he’s fired off a few rounds. And there I was looking forward to “steak night” back at the base. Those greedy bastards already there will probably wolf all the good cuts down before we get back. I’ll be left with a piece of meat tougher than an old shoe. It’ll still taste better than my girlfriend’s cooking though, I expect,” the squaddie joked, grinning at anyone who was listening. Devlin noticed that when his friend smiled his face became rounder, almost cherubim-like.
Christopher Connelly forced a smile in reply. The gangly nineteen-year-old was only six months into his first tour. He had partly joined the army to learn a trade. Jobs and training were in short supply in his hometown of Northampton. His plan was to keep his head down, follow orders and become an apprentice mechanic. Once he was trained up he would leave the army and go into partnership with his uncle to buy a small garage. They’d even picked out a potential site for the business, underneath the arches near his parents’ house. Connelly took a sip and then several gulps of water from his canteen. He was looking forward to getting back to the base too, having arranged with his fiancé to chat over the internet. He also wanted to write another letter to his parents, assuring them that all was well.
Whilst a number of soldiers rolled their eyes or cursed in response to their new orders Michael Devlin’s expression remained unchanged, save for a slight narrowing of his already pillbox-like eyes. Devlin’s countenance, varnished by the sun, was lean and hard. Some might have viewed the paratrooper and considered that life had worn him down. Others would have judged that everything was just water off a duck’s back for the philosophical, or fatalistic, soldier. Whilst other squaddies played video games or chatted on Facebook, Devlin could often be found with his head in a book. He enjoyed a drink as much as the next man (or perhaps even more so), but during periods of sobriety he often kept himself to himself. But although few would claim to have known Devlin, or to have warmed to him, everyone welcomed his presence on a patrol. He had more verified kills than any other soldier in the battalion. On more than one occasion he had taken the fight to the enemy and pulled the squad out of a hole. Devlin was good at his job. Killing.
Yet it had been more than a fortnight since the soldier had engaged the enemy in a firefight. Devlin was beginning to feel a dull ache in his stomach, or yearning to kill – as if he were a drunk who had gone too long without a drink.
The purring engines now growled into life, as the Land Rover gunned towards the target. Birch sensed the tension in the roasting vehicle and told a joke. More than one para closed his eyes and put on earphones, like a boxer closing himself off to the world before a fight.
The village shimmered in the distance, like a mirage. The commanding officer was Major James Hyde and the men duly congregated around him as they climbed out the vehicles on the outskirts of the settlement. The soldiers had visited the village a few months back, providing security for a bunch of DFID workers. All Oxbridge educated - entitled, frightened, nowhere near as clever as they thought they were and zealously good intentioned. But the road to hell, or Kabul, was paved with good intentions.
The village had seemed like a ghost town during their last visit. Most of the Afghans retreated into their houses when the soldiers arrived. The wiser heads among the villagers knew all too well that the British and Americans in Helmand would be but fleeting visitors to their country. Merely passing through. Once the war ended the Taliban would crawl out from under their rocks like cockroaches, or scorpions, and carry out reprisals against any collaborators.
Hyde issued his orders calmly and clearly. Four generations of military command ran through him, like writing through a stick of rock. His men were to watch for IEDS and sniper positions. They would sweep through the village in groups of three. Normal rules of engagement applied. The soldiers nodded, checked their weapons once more and spat out any gum. Safeties were off. Helmets were re-positioned and tightened. They were ready. A sense of professionalism began to oust a sense of trepidation. As people in the army often said and thought, we are where we are.
A thick, familiar film of sand and dust covered everything: buildings, windows, clothes and skin. Birch had recently found himself having a drink with a foreign correspondent, who called the phenomenon “the patina of Afghanistan.” The para scrunched up his face, in confusion and contempt, and called it “sand and dust.” After several bouts of virtue signalling, claiming that the “ordinary people of Afghanistan were some of the nicest and most peaceful souls on earth,” the correspondent finally invited the soldier to speak, rather than just listen. Birch shrugged his shoulders, gulped down the remainder of his beer, and remarked that “the only thing more hostile than the environment here are the people, ordinary or otherwise.”
The sun stung rather than massaged the back of Devlin’s neck as he moved stealthily forward. A few dirty grey clouds, dull next to the cornflower blue sky, crawled along, as slowly as a hearse. Devlin wasn’t sure whether he could consider himself Catholic or not anymore, but he yearned for a God-sent plague to purge the land of wickedness. Of the Taliban and their ilk, who derived a sick pleasure in stoning homosexuals to death, mutilating female genitalia and slicing the lips and noses off those they judged to be friends of the infidels.
Goodness is just an idea. But evil exists in this world, as sure as the sun is in the sky.
As well as checking his fields of fire Devlin kept a watch on Connelly. The young man was jittery. British patrols had been ambushed in similar situations before. Sweat wended its way down his stubble-filled jaw. His head darted everywhere - searching for the enemy - but too fast and frantically to survey the scene properly. Devlin made sure the recent recruit’s finger was off the trigger, lest he discharged his weapon by accident.
Birch uttered a curse underneath his breath, as another blister burst on th
e sole of his right foot.
Devlin noticed movement in a ground floor window to his left but it was just a child, staring wide-eyed at the strange looking soldiers. He was an island of innocence in an ocean of turpitude. His parents soon appeared at the window and ushered the boy away, avoiding the paratrooper’s adamantine gaze.
Something was amiss. It was quiet. Too quiet. Devlin fancied that the squad were akin to a bunch of teenagers walking around a haunted house. Sooner or later something would happen. One of them would be attacked. Bullets could come out from nowhere – and everywhere – in Helmand.
Devlin held up his hand, signalling for Birch and Connolly to halt, when he spotted an old man standing in an alley. A wizened, leathery face was framed by a wispy grey beard and wiry black hair. A solitary front tooth hung down in his mouth. Birch and Connelly remained in the main street whilst Devlin approached the gnomic figure in the alleyway.
Off-white sheets of linen fluttered over them, strung out on a washing line between two houses. A long-tailed rat scurried towards an inviting pile of refuge. The paratrooper made a motion with his rifle for the Afghan to show and raise his hands. Rather than make a gesture of surrender however, the villager raised his twig-like arm and stretched out his bony forefinger.
“Bad men,” he ominously croaked, jabbing his finger in the direction of the end of the street Birch and Connelly were stood on.
Connelly died instantly. The first bullet, whip-cracking through the air, tore half his face off. Further shots ensued. Some struck the plaster-covered buildings on either side of the street. Some spat out from the semi-automatic machine pistol and kicked-up tufts of dust. But a couple also hit the paratrooper in the legs, flooring Birch.
Devlin’s radio crackled into life but he ignored it. Instead he sped towards the mouth of the alley and poked his head around the corner and quickly assessed the situation.
Connelly was beyond help. At the end of the street Devlin observed the gun-wielding Afghani. He was no older than thirty. Rather than wearing the traditional garb of the Taliban his enemy was dressed in a pea-green polo shirt, cream trousers and expensive loafers. His black beard was neatly trimmed. Glossy black curls hung down, parting in the middle of his forehead. His build was slight, serpentine. His bloodshot eyes were stapled wide with violence and narcotics. Yet his enemy was not so out of control that he wasn’t conscious of the need to retreat. Soon other soldiers would descend upon his position. The well-dressed Afghani barked out an order for two of his confederates to hold their position whilst he ran in the direction of his vehicle, a silver Mercedes G-Class Jeep (modified to be bullet and blast proof).
On the opposite side of the street Birch writhed in agony, his face contorted with shock and terror. Bits of bone, as white as mistletoe berries, glinted out from cherry-red flesh from where the bullets had shredded open both his legs. He stared at Devlin and asked – moaned – for help. Birch heard the two men, armed with Kalashnikovs, cock their weapons at the top of the street. He was an easy target.
But the enemy had a new target, as Devlin came out from the alley and into view. The young Afghani on the right, baring his yellow teeth in malice and savagery, opened fire on the British soldier. But the rifle fired him, rather than he fired the rifle. The Kalashnikov wriggled in his hands like a freshly caught eel. A few bullets struck the ground and then he over compensated and shot way above his target’s head. Before the Afghani could adjust his aim however, Devlin let out a short burst of controlled fire – and scythed down both men. On seeing the first round strike the younger man’s abdomen Devlin turned his rifle on the weasel-faced gunman next to him and poured four bullets into him. Centre mass.
Devlin bellowed out for a medic to attend to Birch but then lost no time in pursuing his quarry. When he reached the end of the street however he saw the Mercedes heading off in a cloud of dust. The soldier crouched down, buried the butt of his rifle into his shoulder and fired at the vehicle. As talented a marksman as Devlin was though, the rounds pinged harmlessly off the reinforced chassis and bullet-proofed tinted glass.
The usually stoical paratrooper let out a curse and kicked the ground. He then took a breath however and began to march back to where Birch was receiving medical attention. As he did so he passed the Afghani teenager, who he had shot in the stomach. He was still alive. The adolescent, doubled-over in pain, his clothes soaking up the blood, gazed up at the British soldier imploringly. He was keener to see a doctor, as opposed to seventy-two virgins, Devlin considered.
He shot the youth once in the chest and then once in the face.
Witness testimonies concerning the incident reported that the enemy was reaching for his gun. Many unofficially judged Devlin had shot the Afghani to put him out of his misery. It was a mercy killing. But Devlin executed the whey-faced adolescent because he wanted to. It felt good. Right. He was uprooting one more weed, so hopefully something better could grow in its place. Devlin even heard a voice inside his head, divine or otherwise, as he pulled the trigger.
Kill him.
*
“Promise me, no matter what happens, that you’ll find and kill the bastard who attacked us. Give me your word of honour,” Bitch rasped, as he clutched Devlin’s hand in the evac-chopper, as they made their way back to base. His breathing grew shallow. His usually ruddy complexion grew pale. “If I somehow get through this I’ll butcher him too, for young Connelly.”
“I give you my word,” Devlin solemnly replied, as he bowed his head whilst making his vow to his friend – and to God.
“That fucker wasn’t Taliban. I bet he’s linked to one of those poppy growing bastards. Not that I want to condemn the morphine trade too much right now,” the soldier joked, as he glanced at the drip by the side of him and forced a feeble grin.
Devlin forced a smile too, after leaning over his friend to catch his words above the noise of the thrumming helicopter. The bright, arid landscape below scorched his eyes as he stared out the window.
Devlin nodded, agreeing with Birch about the prospective identity of the Afghani who had wounded his friend and murdered Connelly. Their suspicions were confirmed two days later. Devlin was called into a meeting with Colonel Charles Tyerman, shortly after hearing the news that the surgeons were unable to save his friend’s legs. Birch would be wheelchair bound for the remainder of his life. He had also just spoken to Christopher Connelly’s father over the telephone.
“Christopher often spoke about you. I know how much he looked-up to you and how much you kept an eye on him. You’re a good man,” Peter Connelly expressed, his voice as brittle as egg shells. Devlin could also hear Mary Connelly sobbing in the background.
I didn’t keep an eye on him enough though. And I’m not sure how good a man I am.
Fury, guilt and sorrow entwined around Devlin’s intestines, like barbed wire.
“At ease, Michael. Please, take a seat,” Charles Tyerman remarked. The request sounded more like an order.
A blade of light cut through the room. Motes of dust danced in the air. A fan hummed in the corner and blessedly kissed Devlin’s sweat-glazed forehead. He quickly surveyed the office. Photos of Tyerman’s wife and children sat either side of his desk. Maps and satellite imagery hung on the wall, as well as a large poster which read, “Don’t be the best you can be. Just be better than 1 & 2 Para.”
Tyerman’s compact frame betrayed time spent in the special forces. His hair was streaked with grey, his aspect steely and unflinching. Tyerman valued efficiency over flair, competence over courage. He seldom asked someone under his command to do something which he had not already done during his own career. He valued the lives of his men and always made sure the base’s bar and library were well stocked. When he spoke to the Connellys about their brave son he passed on his private phone number and email and said that they were welcome to get in touch at any time. And meant it.
The Colonel was better at giving orders than following them – and as much faith as he had in the men under his comman
d, he cultivated a thinly veiled contempt for his paymasters. Tyerman believed in having a Plan A and Plan B. But the British government, whether embodied in a junior civil servant or the Prime Minister, didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have a clue. The veteran officer didn’t suffer fools gladly, as much as he was always glad to see fools suffer.
Tyerman noticed Devlin glance at the balled-up piece of paper littering the left side of his desk. The Colonel made a fist with one hand and cupped it in the other. He smiled or sneered – breathed or snorted – and spoke:
“That there is a printout of an email from an overpaid, underwhelming mandarin who works at the Ministry of Defence. He has promised that the right equipment and more helicopters are on their way. He quotes that the Prime Minister will be as good as his word. Which is what worries me. Politicians. They should all be strung up at Traitor’s Gate. John Reid, a sack of shit in a cheap suit if ever there was one, declared that we could complete our mission here without having to fire a single shot.”
Tyerman shook his head in disbelief and disdain. His hands now formed themselves into two fists.
“But I have not called you in to talk politics, Michael. I have called you in to depress you in a different way. The good news however, if we can deem it as such, is that we know who our gunman is. Rameen Jamal. He is the son of Hakim Jamal, a local drug lord. Rameen is fond of driving to certain villages in the province and, along with his coked-up associates, raping young women. Some as young as twelve. As you know we found several girls in the settlement who had been sexually assaulted. Thankfully we disturbed the bastards before they could have their way with all the women they picked out to abuse. We know he’s guilty and Hakim knows he’s guilty. But we will be unable to bring him to prosecution, for any of his crimes. Not only is Hakim close to Karzai but he is also an ally of ourselves and the Americans. He sided with us rather than the Taliban so we turn a blind eye to his poppy farming – and his son is similarly untouchable. This is not to say that the snake won’t stab us in the back at some point. The result is that - officially - Rameen wasn’t even at the village. He has several witnesses who will testify that he was home, at prayer. But unofficially, if you see that bastard in your sights, take the shot. God knows, I’ll do the same. You’re an outstanding soldier, Devlin. Not because you follow orders or keep your kit in good order. No, I consider you an outstanding soldier because you’re good at killing. If I gave you and another ten men a knife or gun and ordered you to go into the woods together – I’d have every confidence that you would be the last man standing. Out of all the soldiers under my command you intrigue, or scare, me the most. I still can’t work you out. I pulled your file again this morning. Although you were an orphan it seems you were eventually placed with a good foster family, who brought you up well. You do not have a criminal record but I know you’ve been in more than one scrap over the years. I noticed on one form that you marked you were a Catholic - but then you crossed it out and put Atheist. You never attended university but I warrant that there is no one better read in the regiment. I remember I once saw you in the library, reading a copy of A Gun for Sale. I asked you what you liked about Greene’s books and you replied that you sympathised with his characters. That good men can do bad things and bad men are still capable of a shot at redemption. But I am still unsure which kind of character you are, or will be. You do not seem to want to progress in your career in the army, as much as you’re capable of doing so. You’re not interested in medals or citations. In another lifetime, you might have been a Templar Knight. You seem to be on a personal crusade. You signed-up after nine-eleven, because you wanted to help defeat the Taliban. But maybe you signed-up to defeat – or find – something in yourself. The truth is that I don’t know. You may not know either. But as much as you intrigue and unnerve me I have no desire to change you - just in case I somehow, in fixing the man, break the soldier in you. Every time you take the life of an enemy you are saving one or more of our own. So, my advice to you is keep on keeping on.”
