by Phil Earle
‘It will grow back, you nugget.’
‘Not quickly enough,’ he moaned. ‘It’s nearly autumn, you know. I’ll have a cold by the end of the week.’
‘It’ll be far colder in a secure unit if the police catch up with us, so stop your moaning.’
He lit a cig and smoked it sulkily, going on about being too quick to be nabbed for anything.
Dennis, on the other hand, was chuffed with the result, rubbing his fingers through the mohican that Cam had carved him. It was a far cry from his initial anger when I told him the police might be on to us. If he hadn’t promised Jamm that he’d keep an eye on me, I’d have been picking my teeth off the carpet for days.
His new fin was wobbly and uneven, but Den was so tall it was unlikely anyone would notice. ‘Smart,’ he said, winking at Cam, sending a jolt of jealousy through me.
I wasn’t exactly looking my best either, sat on a kitchen stool with a plastic bag tied round my head.
‘Can I take this off yet?’
I’d never been bothered about my hair in my life, but suddenly I needed to look at it. Now I had Cam to lose.
She checked her watch and nodded. ‘You should be all right. Just make sure you rinse it properly.’ I sprinted for the bathroom, hearing her shout, ‘And be careful with the towels. Your mum’ll kick off if you trash them.’
I did as she told me, not daring to take my head out of the bath until the water ran clear. Only then did I check my appearance in the mirror, a single word leaving my mouth in surprise. It was the same one that all of them shouted as soon as they saw me.
‘Jammy!’ they said, almost in stereo.
‘Up yours! I look nothing like him.’
‘Spitting image,’ Wiggy laughed.
But it was Cam’s reaction that really got to me, despite not uttering a word. All she did was walk towards me and push a hand through my hair. It was a simple gesture, one that had Wiggs and Den looking at each other quizzically.
I should’ve been concerned that maybe she’d given us away. But I wasn’t bothered about that. The only question in my jealous head was this: whose hair did she think she was stroking? Mine? Or my brother’s?
Jammy
The Chinook banked left, taking my guts with it. I tried to ignore the power of the setting sun as it crashed against my eyes, but couldn’t. The effects of its ten-hour barrage clung to my fatigues. It was like the sun had leaned down and licked every inch of me like a dog.
In danger of slipping off the seat, I pulled heavily on my drinking tube, remembering the boss’s words when we’d first arrived:
‘As many litres a day as you can, gentlemen. Anyone going down dehydrated in the first week will have me to answer to.’
We’d nodded, not really understanding until now exactly what he’d meant. It was too late for Tommo, though. He’d caught a bug within six hours of landing and, judging from the smell rising beside me, was still suffering.
I reached into my pack and handed him a dehydration sachet, which he took with a groan.
‘Don’t complain, pal,’ I shouted above the whup of the blades, then motioned towards the boss.
Don’t let him see you’re struggling. It’s too soon.
Tommo understood me. We’d been communicating without words for as long as we could remember. And anyway, he knew I had him, I’d told him that on the day he got over-excited and joined up. The day after me.
‘What are you doing?’ I’d asked him. ‘No need for you to jump in too, was there?’
He’d smiled excitedly, like he’d signed on rather than up: ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you? You think I’d let you have a clear run at hero status? You’re having a laugh, pal.’
He was talking out of his back-end again. He always made out I was the one in charge. They all did, I suppose: Wiggy, Dennis, Hitch, even our Sonny. But that’s not how it was. They led us into plenty of stuff we shouldn’t have been anywhere near, the only difference was it was always me who dug us out, one way or another. Which is why I was here, instead of on the Ghost, thinking of ways to get among Tommo’s sister.
‘You’re an idiot,’ I’d told him. ‘It’s not like I really had a choice. But you? You can barely handle Call Of Duty. What are you going to do with a machine gun?’
He’d laughed again, so I’d fixed him with a look he’d seen a million times in our lives. ‘Are you sure? About all this?’
He’d nodded furiously. ‘I know you’ve got me. Me and my back.’
‘Course I have.’
What else could I say, regardless of the unease eating me alive?
I turned my attention back to the horizon, the red mountains fading as the sun dived for cover behind them. My head whirled with how surreal this all was. A Chinook, for god’s sake.
I’d reckoned the six of us might have managed a trip to Ibiza one day, if we’d finally got lucky and they’d changed the laws on robbing banks. But this? Well, it wasn’t how I’d intended it.
The adrenalin I’d taken off with still gripped hard. Hardly surprising when the boss told us they’d lost a chopper on a previous run to the base.
‘Keep your legs crossed until we land,’ he’d shouted as we’d got on. ‘Second thoughts, scratch that. You won’t need to think with your tackle for the next three months at least.’
It was a line he’d obviously delivered before, enough times to realize it wasn’t funny. We’d groaned like a bunch of kids in front of their embarrassing uncle, when actually we all knew we’d need the boss more than anyone until we found ourselves back home. Long as we had him and each other, like they’d taught us, we had a chance.
Of making a difference. Surviving.
I understood what they meant as soon as they’d said it. I get the whole brotherhood thing. No big deal. It’s how it’s always been.
My attention hurtled left as we banked again, and for the first time the Forward Operating Base fell into view. A mash of buildings: some permanent, some temporary, all ugly. I smiled despite knowing this was the dangerous bit: somehow it reminded me of home.
The fury of the helicopter blades couldn’t hide the sound of sliding machine-gun catches beside me. I’d no idea how many times these gunners had flown virgins like me into this place, but I couldn’t believe they were any calmer than we were. The closer we were to the ground, the closer we all were to the Taliban, to a row of bodybags.
I swallowed the thought before it settled. Not going to happen.
The boss’s voice scratched our ears through the headset.
‘One minute, gentlemen, then a hundred metre sprint to the gates. No daydreaming, we’re not tourists any more. And there’s no glory in arriving unless we are complete. Equipment checks.’
There was a chorus of clicks as chambers engaged. I made sure my armour covered everything vital, then checked Tommo was doing the same.
He was sweating like a pig. Leg bouncing on the floor, knee knocking against mine. I pressed my leg against his, the message clear.
Calm. Breathe. Calm.
The shaking stopped momentarily. Then it started again, small tremors this time.
I checked the other lads, their reactions. Some seemed outwardly calm, others had gum clacking between clenched teeth. Only Giffer looked truly focused, but he’d been here before. Iraq, too. There was no twitching from him, no tics. His movements were calm and measured as he loosely wrapped a strip of black material around his gun arm. I wondered what that was about. Superstition? Mourning? I flashed him a look – Why? – but only got back, Later.
He was in the zone, where I should be. You don’t survive as many tours as him without doing things right; without being lucky too.
The ground grabbed the Chinook’s feet and held on tight, the boss hollering without hesitation, ‘MOVE MOVE MOVE!’ arms windmilling madly.
JC was first out, grit etched into his face, too tense to chew any more. Caffeine next, then Pee, El Guido, Boz, Slasher.
I shuffled along, closer to the hatch, but co
uld see only dust and darkness.
There was just Tommo in front of me now, gripping his gun so hard the veins were popping round his knuckles. High blue veins like Helmand contours.
He was terrified, I knew he was. Shoulders twitching, head down, for a second I thought he was crying. Fifteen years and I’d never seen him leak a single tear. This wasn’t the time for it. Not now. Not when we hadn’t even begun.
‘A hundred metres!’ I yelled in his year. ‘Thirty seconds. It’s almost the distance from your front door to mine. Let’s have it!’
I don’t know if it was the mention of home, or a new wave of adrenalin, but it kicked Tommo forward. I heard him yell as he disappeared into the dust cloud, my eyes flicking to the boss: had he seen what I had? Did he know Tommo was flaking already?
He gave nothing away, every cell focused on delivering each member of his regiment safely, so I sprinted on, feeling the rotors kick pebbles on to my calves, biting like gnats at the height of summer.
The distance meant nothing, nor did time. I could have been running for hours and not noticed. All I could think about was making it inside the gates and sorting Tommo out. Before the boss or one of the others did.
Eventually, quickly, the gates loomed out of the dust and I piled through, almost running straight into Tomm, bent double, laughing like a loon.
Make your mind up, will you?
But I didn’t say it. Instead I slapped his pack roughly and drew heavily on my drinking tube.
It was a small step. Well, a couple of hundred of them. But it was a start. We were here. Our war was beginning.
Jammy
The sun melts everything around here, including time.
From the moment it breaks above the mountains you can feel its anger. It’s like the Taliban’s had words with it, got it onside to pummel the strength out of us before they get stuck in.
None of us know what to do with the heat, even the vets like Giffer shuffle around, attempt to start something positive like cleaning a gun, then start flagging after fifteen minutes. If the enemy knew how many half-assembled weapons there were in this place they’d be on us in a flash.
At first it was almost funny, like we’d landed in the lousiest campsite on the planet, with the worst-smelling bogs and a distinct lack of totty. But at least it’s different, so different to the summer monsoons going on back at home. Anything but that.
Each day the heat sucks you dry. But no matter how much water you drink, it’s never enough to stop the dust feeling like it’s blown in through your ears and nestled in your brain.
Sleep is patchy, and not just because of the carnival of noises and smells that rip through our digs. The fans whirr and cough throughout the night. By rights, with all that noise we should be frozen to our cots, but we’re not. Useless things don’t kick out enough chill to dry the sweat on our toes, never mind anything else.
When three a.m. crawls on top of you, though, and you’re still not under, your head starts to twist, asks you to name the beds that’ll be empty by the end of the tour, describe the reasons each of your friends vacated them: mortar attack, sniper, improvised explosive device, friendly fire; on and on it goes. But I don’t let myself, couldn’t bear it if one of those messed-up prophecies actually came true. After what we’ve been taught about what we have to go through together, as family, it would be traitorous to let myself.
I don’t even entertain the thought of my own death. Although given half a chance, my mind would be rampant at the possibilities. I’ve enough people to be strong for here, without even thinking about the idiots I have to be tough for at home.
Instead I let dawn crawl around, feel the fans wave the white flag at the first sign of the sun, then wait for the dawn chorus of yawns and farts to bounce off the temporary walls. I’m up before the smell gets the chance to invade my nostrils.
If it’s the heat that’s slowly defeating me, for others it’s boredom. By eleven o’clock the sun’s banished us to kick our heels in the shade, but even that’s melting quickly, forcing us together almost into a scrum.
It’s too much for Caffeine, his shaven head the same colour now as our berets.
‘I’ve had enough of all this.’ It’s not the first time he’s sounded off since he arrived. If I have to hear this isn’t what he joined up for once more, I might go mad.
‘Right. Battle bingo,’ he declares.
‘Do what?’ says El Guido, his bare, rubbery gut soaking up a dangerous amount of sun.
‘I heard the septics playing it yesterday.’
‘The who?’ Guido can’t cope with sun and slang.
‘Septics. Septic tanks, Yanks. You know, our American friends.’
‘Oh I know ’em,’ moans Guido. ‘They speak better English than you for starters, you nugget.’
The quality of banter is even suffering due to heat exhaustion, but Caffeine goes on, arms waving madly as he lays out the rules.
‘It’s a wishlist,’ he grins. ‘Military Christmas list. The guns you want to fire, missiles you want to launch, number of heads you want to pulp before we go home.’
He says it so matter-of-factly he makes it sound like a game of noughts and crosses.
There are a hundred ways I want to tell him to shut up, that his list should only include doing his job and having two arms and legs left at the end, but I don’t have to. Giffer does it for me. Does it better than I ever could.
‘Good soldiers, the Americans,’ he says.
Why is it the Welsh always sound like they’re singing, even if they’re tone deaf, like Giffer?
‘Skilled. Focused. Machine-like almost.’
Caffeine rolls his eyes as soon as the older man begins, but Giffer doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
‘But don’t you believe that any of those lads you heard have seen any more action than you, you hear me? Cos I’ll tell you this for nothing, Caff. If you’ve actually fired a missile that levels a house, and if you’ve seen the bodies that your missile blew apart, then you wouldn’t brag about it. You certainly wouldn’t want to shout “house” or “bingo” or any such rubbish. You’d rather not have fired it at all. You’d almost do anything not to have had such an itchy finger. Believe me.’
I believe him. The others do too, though Caffeine can do nothing but pull himself to his feet and declare he’s off for a dump.
‘Be the most excitement I’ll get today,’ he declares, his last moan until he realizes there’s no paper left in the bog. The thought makes me smile. Giffer lies back, eyes closed, wisdom shared.
He’s obviously seen stuff. Plenty of it, and I’d imagine a lot of it is burnt into his head. I try to imagine what that might be, but stop when I see Tommo chewing the inside of his cheek nervously.
I try and cajole him, get him grinning, but give up when he refuses to play. Instead I settle for a call to Sonny, and listen to him gabble like he’s chock-full of speed.
‘What’s the news over there, then? You going all Rambo or what?’
‘Hell, yeah. You know me. Never seen without a hunting knife between my teeth.’
‘Cracking,’ he laughs, though he knows I’m joking. ‘I’ll tell the lads.’
‘How are they? Keeping you out of bother?’
‘Totally, they’re only letting me out when I’m on a lead. Though Den said I can lose the muzzle in a week or two.’
‘Well I’d better give him a buzz, tell him not to rush it.’
‘You’ll never guess what happened last week, Jamm.’
Calls are often like this. Random, scattergun.
‘Some girl from Pickard House gave birth in the lift. Poor cow was living on the fifteenth and got stuck halfway down. Two and a half hours till they got it moving and when the doors opened it was like something out of a slasher movie.’
‘Was the kid all right?’
‘Yeah, apart from the shock of what someone had written about his mum on the wall he was fine. Imagine that being your introduction to the world?’
&
nbsp; ‘Enough to make him want to climb back inside.’
‘Ha! Too right.’
It was good to hear his voice, even when I pressed harder about what he was up to and the inevitable pushback came.
‘You don’t need to worry about Mum, Jamm. I’m telling you, she’s fine.’
‘But you’re keeping an eye on her, yeah? Doing your bit?’
‘I am when there’s nothing on the box …’ I heard him sigh with frustration. ‘Course I am. I’m not an animal, you know.’
‘But I know what Mum’s like. She’ll run around all day if you let her.’
‘Well I’m not letting her. Not that you believe me, clearly.’
‘Sonny, come on. We can’t do this over the phone. I can’t reach to give you a slap!’
‘You don’t need to, my ear’s already bleeding.’
And that cut the tension again, letting us get back to the smaller stuff. He told me about places I know, people too, and it settled me. Made me remember I won’t be here forever, despite what it feels like now.
The conversation ends like it always does. With the same line from him.
‘Look after yourself, you hear? And don’t forget to duck …’
I can’t put the phone down without him saying it. I might not need reminding what could be waiting out on patrol, but somehow it feels like his advice keeps me safe anyway.
Jammy
Shortly after my phone conversation with Sonny, the waiting was interrupted by a call to the briefing room that turned into a stampede, dust kicking up and sticking fast to our damp skin.
‘Intel suggests there will be movement inside the town today,’ barked the boss. ‘Heroin being transported. Large quantities. Amounts that could bankroll Taliban fighters for months, fund an upgrade to weapons, strengthen their dominance in the area.’
Heroin. It’s not new to me and Tommo. We’ve seen plenty of it passing between palms back at the Ghost. Watched it suck the life right out of people. People we knew, schoolmates, family. But we’ve not been close to the manufacturing end. By the time it’s dealt at home, it’s cut, diluted, tied up like a bomb in a baggie. Out here you see the poppy fields, can almost hear the crop ticking, waiting to be cut, processed, primed. It’s stuff they’d literally die for.
