40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Cartmell, Wendy

  ***

  Arriving back at his barracks he found Billy and Kim updating themselves on the day’s events and going over the athlete’s schedules for the evening. As he entered the communal office, they stood to attention.

  “Sir,” they called in union.

  “Billy, Kim,” Crane nodded to each in turn and they settled into the hand over, pulling up chairs at the conference table in a corner of the large space.

  Crane explained that for the moment things were running smoothly. There were no complaints to deal with, nor any special requests from the BOA.

  “So, for tonight,” he concluded, “it’s just a matter of doing the rounds every now and again and being on hand should an emergency occur. Obviously any problems should be phoned through to me at home immediately.”

  “Okay, boss,” said Billy, the only member of Crane’s team who addressed him in such a casual way. Crane found it hard to be offended by the title Billy naturally gave him when they first started working together last year. A fine young soldier, Billy was well built and muscular, with a shock of blond hair constantly falling into his smiling eyes.

  “You might want to read these, sir.”

  Kim handed Crane a few sheets of paper. Her pristine army uniform an outward reflection of her attitude to her work. Her blond hair tied back in a bun so severe, that Crane thought it must be giving her a headache.

  “They’re the latest intelligence reports. I thought you’d like them tonight before your regular meeting with Captain Edwards first thing in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Kim, as usual you’ve thought of everything.” Kim preened under the praise but Crane didn’t miss Billy’s raised eyebrows.

  “Anything else you need, boss?”

  “No thanks, Billy, that’s all for now. As everything’s in order I’ll push off home and see you both in the morning.”

  Happy with the growing tension between his two sergeants, Crane left them to it and went home. Earlier in the year Billy had been demoted from staff sergeant to sergeant due to his reckless behaviour that endangered the life of his nephew, and was nearly thrown out of the Branch. Only Crane’s intervention saved him from being put back into uniform and pushed into a backwater for the next couple of years. Kim on the other hand, provided a vital link in the case, consolidating her place and permanency in the Branch not as an investigator, but as office manager. Crane now had two sergeants determined to outdo each other, which meant two pairs of extra vigilant eyes and ears. That’s something he needed, as Crane had the uneasy feeling that things were going too well at the moment – and he still had thirty-seven days to go.

  Day 4

  The past few days had not been good for Padam, being filled with bureaucracy and hunger. He had spent interminable hours at Social Services, the Job Centre and the Gurkha Welfare Office and was still no nearer to getting any money or work. In the Aldershot Council building he was handed a plastic card by a scowling woman. He dutifully said “thank you” and left, puzzling over what it was for.

  To find out, he walked several miles to the Gurkha Welfare Office in Farnborough and showed them the plastic card. It was a bus pass. He could now use the buses for free, a harassed man told him in Nepalese and waved vaguely in the direction of the street, before disappearing into a back room. The man actually said “bus free no pay” in Nepalese, being English and having a Nepalese vocabulary nearly as limited as Padam’s English. However, Padam was greatly heartened by the news; it would save him a lot of time and energy.

  Back outside, he stood at the bus stop. Only then did he realise he didn’t know which bus went where. Was he standing on the correct side of the road to go to Aldershot? He wasn’t sure. There was a plaque on the pole of the bus stop sign. He thought it was probably the timetable, which explained to passengers which bus went where and at what times. But peering at the jumble of names and numbers proved futile. They meant nothing to him. He wished he could understand it. But had to accept he couldn’t. So Padam had no choice but to walk the long lonely miles back to Aldershot.

  Once there Padam remembered he needed food, but with no money, the best he could do was to call in at the local Gurkha supermarket and hope that they would allow a little credit for some bread and dried fruit. But first he would try again to tell someone about the smudge he had seen near the sports centre on Aldershot Garrison. He tried to tell people at every official business he visited. But they neither understood nor cared. A friend had mentioned an official interpreter who was based in the newly formed Gurkha Liaison Office in Aldershot. But his friend didn’t know when the office was open, or when the interpreter might be there.

  Undeterred and before getting some food, Padam went to find the office. His friend had told him it was located in a building above a shop in the town centre. As he walked through the streets he realised most of the shops around him had large posters and notices in the windows. He had no idea what the notices said, but as he looked through the grimy windows, the shops were empty, so he guessed they had closed down. Failed. For every five shops he passed, two or three were like that. Rubbish bins were overflowing with debris from the fast food shops. Food that Padam couldn’t afford. The only shops doing any business were those full of second hand clothes and furniture. The others were empty of customers, the staff hanging around outside the shop taking a cigarette break.

  Padam finally saw a small brass plate screwed to the wall between two empty shops with a word he could understand on it, Gurkha. He climbed the steep stairway to a large brown doorway. The paint was peeling off and scuff marks decorated the bottom, but the large brass knob turned easily in his hand.

  Opening the door, he peered around it before walking in, but found this office no different to others he had been in since arriving in England. The walls were light coloured, the desks brown and covered with papers and what he had learned were computers. He wasn’t exactly sure what computers were used for, just knew that every office he went into had a lot of them and people spent an inordinate amount of time looking at them and playing with them. There were three people in the office. No one looked up, so he sat on a red plastic chair and waited. He was very good at waiting.

  Eventually an older lady dressed in a tweed skirt, blouse and cardigan, with a kind face looked up, smiled at him and beckoned him forward. Padam shuffled over to her, for by now his feet were very sore indeed. He placed his plastic carrier bag on his lap and took out his two most precious possessions. His Lal Kitab (the official record of his British Army Service) and his bus pass. The lady studied each document carefully and then said, “Hello, Padam.”

  Unfortunately he couldn’t understand what she said next. It must have been English, but the words she spoke meant nothing to him, not being part of his limited vocabulary. Rooting through his plastic bag once again, he found the piece of paper his friend had written one word on. Interpreter. He handed this over accompanied by a large smile.

  Nodding, the lady reached for a calendar on her desk. She showed Padam a date on it. He didn’t understand the writing, but knew his numbers, so understood the number four. Using her pencil she touched the desk with it, several times. Pointing to the number and then once again at her desk. Padam nodded in agreement. He understood today was day four. So he gave her the universal sign of thumbs up. She then pointed to the number ten and once again mimed ‘here’ by pointing her pencil to the desk and then by pointing to his piece of paper bearing the magic word ‘interpreter’. She repeated this action several times. Padam put his thumb up again to indicate he understood. Today was day four; he could see the interpreter on day ten.

  So he didn’t forget he mimed to the kind lady to write it down on his piece of paper, under the word ‘interpreter’. That done, Padam put his precious documents and the piece of paper back into his plastic carrier bag and hobbled out of the office. Day ten seemed a long way away, but there was nothing to be done about it. And anyway, at the moment, hunger was his most feared rival.

  Day 5

/>   The athletics track spread out before Crane, was a sea of blue and white. The dark sea of officials, trainers and physiotherapists in their blue tracksuits swelled and rolled around, topped by athletes in white running vests. Frothy white energy that suddenly raced away, before burning out and being consumed once again by the mass of blue. As Crane watched he was struck by the structure of it all. There were huddles of officials consulting clipboards. Athletes were spread over the grass having limbs attended to, whilst watching the front line - those waiting at the starting gate for their opportunity to race away.

  In the centre of the track various factions had formed. Pole-vaulters in the middle, brandishing their unwieldy weapons, and at either end, long jump and high jump respectively. Over in the far corner, shot putters, hammer and javelin throwers practiced at a safe distance from the main pack. Crane realised they were like an organised army. Each section possessed different skills. All were ready to fight for their right to be first on the world stage.

  Crane walked around the perimeter, at a pace just short of jogging, glad to be out in the warm but blustery July day. It was day five of his forty days and nights. The twelve hour shifts, which involved racing around the garrison at everyone’s beck and call, were beginning to take their toll. Not because he was tired, just cramped and stiff from lack of exercise. And if the truth be told, a bit bored. As he walked he did some simple arm and shoulder exercises to loosen the muscles. He was an incongruous figure in his white shirt and dark trousers, amongst the blue, white and khaki.

  Instead of just passing each soldier watching the outer limits of the area, he took time to have a quiet word with them. Making sure everything was in order and they hadn’t seen anything suspicious. Happy that the track and surrounding areas had been swept for bombs earlier that morning, while the athletes were eating breakfast. Crane left the area with a backward glance; as he’d much rather stay out there in the open, than go to a meeting with Captain Edwards.

  On his arrival at Provost Barracks, after yet another slow trip along Queens Avenue, following the ever-increasing number of cars on the road, Crane found his Officer Commanding Captain Edwards ensconced in his small beige office with another soldier.

  “Ah, Crane,” Edwards said, looking and speaking down his long aquiline nose. “Come in and meet Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones from Military Intelligence.”

  Crane nodded his head in the direction of the young soldier, who jumped out of his chair, snapping off a salute.

  “Please don’t do that, Lance Corporal,” Crane said. “I may be of superior rank, but I’m not in uniform.”

  “Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

  Crane took a seat and watched the Lance Corporal’s pinched, pointed sallow face permeate with colour as he groped behind him for his own chair and sat down. Dear God, thought Crane, a boy in a man’s uniform.

  “Shall we get down to business?” said Captain Edwards, pushing back his hair to reveal his copious forehead and then reeling off a list of the Lance’s Corporal’s credentials. None of which Crane took any notice of. Especially the parts that extolled the man’s exceptional analytical skills, first class communication and language abilities, coupled with an eagle eye for detail. Crane realised the corporate crap was straight out of the brochure for Military Intelligence recruitment and felt it had little to do with the Lance Corporal sitting next to him. As Crane tuned back in, Captain Edwards was reminding him the Intelligence Corps gathered all kinds of information from countless sources.

  “Which are, sir?” Crane leaned back and crossed his legs, trying to get comfortable in the cheap visitor’s chair.

  “Which are what?” Edwards echoed, his brow creasing and his head darting from side to side like a sparrow looking for a worm.

  “What kind of information and from what sources, sir?”

  “Well, um, I think that’s something you should discuss with the Lance Corporal after this meeting.”

  “You mean, have another meeting, after this one, sir?”

  “Yes, Crane. Why, do you have a problem with that?”

  “Only insomuch as it interferes with my job, sir. But if you’d rather I attend meetings, then I gladly will.” Crane shrugged and began swinging his crossed leg as though in time to some music only he could hear.

  Throughout this Dudley-Jones said nothing at all. Crane noticed him swivel his head as he followed the speakers, looking more and more perplexed. His eyes were wide and his mouth was pulled down on one side, reminiscent of a stroke sufferer.

  “Interferes, Sergeant Major? Why would talking to the Intelligence Corp interfere with your job?” Edwards raised his hand as if to scratch his head and then looking at it, quickly placed it back down on the desk.

  Uncrossing his legs Crane said, “Because meetings have to have a purpose, sir, and unless the Intelligence Operative here has something concrete for me to follow up on, then I feel sure you would prefer me to be on the ground.”

  Placing his arms on his legs and gazing at the Lance Corporal Crane asked, “Do you have anything?” Then answering his own question said, “No I thought not. In that case, sir,” Crane turned his attention back to Edwards, “I’ll get out and about on the garrison, personally checking security and dealing with any minor hiccups that may occur.”

  Crane stood, nodded to Captain Edwards and Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones and left the room before either man could react.

  Night 5

  Today we had instruction in military law. I could not believe it. Muslims given instructions in English military law. A law that you infidels are trying to make us adhere to. A military law that Westerners want to impose upon our Muslim army. A law that has nothing at all to do with Islam. I cannot believe the impudence of your military rulers, the effrontery they have, to think that we Muslims should bow to your laws and your ways. I do not live in England therefore I do not want English or any other law in my country, other than the one true law. Sharia law.

  You seem not to understand that the Islamic religious control of government and society is an expected and necessary part of Muslim evangelism and discipleship. Sharia means path or road. And Muslims willingly follow this road, the road that governs every facet of Muslim life. The path along which the true believer has to tread.

  Shall I tell you about Sharia law? It recognises specific crimes which have fixed punishments. For instance, theft is punished by cutting off the hand or fingers of the thief. Adultery is punishable by stoning. Drinking alcohol means eighty lashes from a whip. In public mind you. Then highway robbery and apostasy, which includes blasphemy, are punishable by the death penalty.

  But what you miserable excuses for men don’t understand is that they are not just punishments but also deterrents. These limits imposed by God are not just penalties for a proven crime, but also act as a disincentive against further crime. This means that in my society there is little or no crime and the people feel safe. Safe in their way of life. Following the one true way, the Muslim way.

  The Qur’an also demands swift justice against those who oppose Muhammad and Islam. This is how we know how to deal with you infidels, who try to take over our lands.

  The Punishment of those

  Who wage war against God

  And His Apostle, and strive

  With might and main

  For mischief through the land

  Is: execution, or crucifixion,

  Or the cutting off of hands

  And feet from opposite sides,

  Or exile from the land.

  (Qur’an 5:36)

  You Western infidels just don’t seem to understand that you are the terrorist in our midst. All you see is that we are terrorists in yours. So in that case I will live up to our reputation. At the moment you don’t realise you have terrorists in your midst. But you will. Soon. I promise you that.

  Day 6

  Tina asked, “So can you make it?”

  “Make what?” Crane stopped reading his file and went to the percolator to collect their early m
orning coffee.

  “The scan. This morning. Frimley Park Hospital. 11 o’clock.” His wife’s punctuation made the words sound like punches rather than statements.

  Crane took his time fiddling with the milk and sugar. He was used to having two sugars instead of three now and wanted to make sure he kept up the good habit. Perhaps he should bring it down to one? Maybe after the athletes had left would be a better idea?

  “Tom, stop procrastinating.”

  Turning to face his wife, he handed her one of the two mugs he held in his hand.

  “It’s just that…”

  “Bloody hell!” Tina’s coffee spilled as she placed it on the kitchen table.

  “Tina, it’s not that I don’t want to come. Here let me help you.” Crane lowered his wife into a pine chair and mopped up the spill. “I’m sure you’ll bring me back a picture.”

  “I knew this is how it would be. Once you were back on full duty after your sick leave.” Tina grabbed handfuls of her hair, securing it with an elastic tie she pulled off her wrist.

  “But, Tina, how can you expect me to be allowed to leave the garrison at a time like this?”

  “That’s the problem, Tom, isn’t it? There’ll always be ‘a time like this’ for one reason or another. How about our ‘time like this’? The last opportunity to see our first baby during a scan before it’s born. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Our family? What happens if they find anything wrong? Then I’ll have to deal with it on my own, as usual.”

  Placing her hands on the table, Tina pushed her heavy body out of the pine chair brushing away Crane’s helping hand.

  “Just go to work will you,” she snapped as she lumbered out of the room. Leaving him standing alone in the kitchen, an un-drunk cup of coffee in his hand. The word ‘family’ reverberating around the cheerfully decorated room.