Rain

by Barney Campbell

  They continued like this for a kilometre south, with Tom sending in sitreps over the radio when he could get a word in edgeways. With the whole squadron out on the ground for the first time, the net was constantly busy. It was the first time SHQ had wielded four limbs, the first time on the ground for four keen young troop leaders all competing for Frenchie’s approval. With myriad other frictions caused by slack voice procedure, comms blind spots and operating in an unfamiliar area, Tom couldn’t hear what anyone was saying around him, as his left ear was so busy trying to distil the huge amounts of mostly useless information from the radio. It sounded as though the other Troops were having similarly shambolic experiences.

  At ten o’clock they arrived at the site and the militia barged their way into the nearby compound that was now their temporary base. Tom had been so overwhelmed with the morning’s assault upon his senses that he hadn’t even smiled, let alone apologized, to the family as they walked in, treating them like ciphers in a computer game as opposed to humans. Trueman, for whom the learning curve was less steep, was much better with them, immediately establishing a bond with the children and offering cigarettes to the men. They accepted them readily enough, if without thanks, but looked at the militiamen with mute acceptance and hate in their eyes.

  Now though Tom was feeling better, standing outside the compound with Trueman, Jesmond and Solly as they watched the boy continue to prod and gesticulate at the area around the IED.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Trueman piped up. ‘I’ll get rid of that twat for you.’ He marched over and, in front of all the militiamen, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him back from the IED. There were actually two devices, each marked with a little pyramid of white-painted stones. The boy squirmed, and Trueman flung him bodily into the crowd of the militia, where he hung back, embarrassed. Trueman strutted back over to Tom. ‘Right, sir, that’s my part done. Yours is a bit harder. Didn’t get too close to them myself, but it looks like they’re marked OK.’ He saw Tom gulp and tried to cheer him up. ‘Don’t worry, sir; if that bummer can dance around them for ten minutes and be fine then you’ll be all right. And besides, this is what you lot get your pop-star wages for, ain’t it?’

  Tom smiled weakly and headed out to the pyramids. He had to step as close as he dared to the devices, use the GPS to get the ten-figure reading that would pinpoint to the nearest metre each location, write that down and then step away and compile the 10-liner. Simple. The small stone pyramids were only twenty metres from him but seemed miles away. Tom wished for some of the militia’s hashish to slow his frantic heart. Blood was pulsing in his ears, and he could feel the artery in his neck swell to his heart’s drumbeat. He edged closer. The radio crackled in his left ear, and he turned the volume to silent. He didn’t want any distractions. Now he was four metres away, and he peered even more fixedly. His eyes were straining. This was it, his first time looking into the face of one of the devices that had killed so many. It felt as though he was approaching the edge of a cliff but despite every urge to step back he couldn’t; he had to look closer.

  Inch by inch he moved, now in a low shuffling crouch up to the first pyramid. Just ten centimetres from it a bit of earth had been scratched away, and Tom could clearly see part of a crumpled white plastic bag buried in the ground, the waterproof covering for the pressure plate of an IED. He had no idea where the main charge was buried. He could well have been standing right on top of it. He got about a metre away, almost forgetting to breathe, and then held out his wrist-mounted GPS straight in front of him over the pressure plate. He looked at its face and wrote down the grid reference with a white hand in a notebook balanced on his thigh.

  With a desiccated throat he didn’t bother to get up from his crouch but shimmied the three metres to the second one. This time any vestige of colour in him drained away. Nearly the whole main charge had been exposed, and was lying there like a half-buried corpse. That meant that the pressure plate could be anywhere around him. He stayed there for ages. How did that boy dance around it and not hit it? Almost for want of something to do, and terrified to move, he did the same trick with the GPS and then, grid written down, took a deep breath and squirmed back, knowing he should search the earth with his fingertips or his bayonet but just wanting away as quickly as possible. The crunch of the grains of sand and gravel under his boots sounded like rocks falling down a mountain, and the sinews in his neck were taut as he braced himself for the explosion that had to come. Finally though, somehow, he found himself three metres away and straightened up. As he did so, he got a head rush and felt as though he was about to faint. He walked back to Trueman, who was looking at him astonished, another cigarette burning in his mouth with an inch of unflicked ash at its end.

  ‘Fucking hell, sir. I thought you were going to mark their location, not try to shag ’em. Why in fuck’s name did you get so close? Me and Jessie were going to come and drag you out, but the only reason we didn’t was that you looked so in the zone that if we surprised you, you’d probably have jumped onto it or something.’

  Tom was amazed at how coolly he replied; his whole body was tingling. ‘Well, Sergeant Trueman, always got to give the ATO the best possible information.’

  ‘Aye, sir, but remember you ain’t a fucking ATO, so don’t go behaving like one.’ He smiled as the tension left him. ‘Fuck me, Jessie; we got real ice blood here!’

  This made Tom swell with pride, but he didn’t want to show any emotion in front of them, so he kept his distance and replied with a formal, ‘Well anyway, enough of that. Right, Sergeant Trueman, I’m going to send a sitrep to Zero.’ He went inside the compound, took his helmet off and wiped his hand over his crew cut, sending a spray of sweat off it. He wriggled his rucksack off, sat next to it with his back against a wall and took a drink of water, pouring a few glugs over his forehead. It didn’t work; the water was so hot it just felt clammy and made his saturated shirt feel as though he’d just sweated into it some more. He checked his map, checked his GPS, wrote up the two 10-liners, rehearsed them in a whisper, went through in his head what he was going to say to Zero and mopped his brow with his sweat rag. At last a lull on the net came.

  ‘Hello, Zero, this is Tomahawk Three Zero. Sitrep over.’

  A harassed voice crackled back. SHQ had been overwhelmed with flannel all day, and Jason, suffering from D & V anyway, was railing at the vast amount of rubbish pouring over the net.

  ‘Zero Bravo send over.’

  ‘Tomahawk Three Zero sitrep as at 1030 hours. My callsign complete now static in 4 Sierra Romeo compound 42. Enemy activity none. Friendly activity: we have gone firm in compound, and have been shown two IED locations. 10-liners to follow with 10-figure grids roger so far over.’

  ‘Zero Bravo roger. Get on with it over.’

  ‘Three Zero roger. My intent to stay here and dominate surrounding area until we collapse back at— CONTACT. WAIT OUT!’ he screamed down the net as a whoosh and a sharp bang from over the wall tore through his head, making his brain feel as though it was pushing against the inside of his eyes.

  Unmistakably – as he’d heard them a hundred times in films – an RPG had just been fired at them. It was just so much louder than he thought it would be. His brain raced. What the fuck? What the fuck? He had to find Trueman. He threw on his rucksack, put his helmet on, backwards, and sprinted, kit jangling behind him, across the compound screaming, ‘Sergeant Trueman, Sergeant Trueman. Contact! Where’s the firing point?’ he yelled up to Miller and Ellis on the sun-baked roof with the gimpy, who were looking around desperately. ‘Watch your arcs, lads. Where’s the firing point? Where’s the firing point? I need the firing point. Say what you see.’

  The rest of the boys, sitting at the foot of the wall, were looking shocked as well, fumbling with their kit. Tom shouted to them, ‘Right fellas, kit on, look sharp. I’m going out to check out what’s happening. Wait here.’ In his ear Jason was saying for the fourth or fifth time, ‘Three Zero roger. Send contact report o
ver,’ with increasing violence. Tom hared out of the gate, bracing himself for carnage, and blanched when he saw Trueman and the militia boy both on the ground, about twenty metres apart. Trueman was writhing around, and the boy was on his back looking straight up at the sky. But there was no blood on either of them, and Trueman seemed to be laughing. Tom looked to his right and saw dust settling near where the IEDs were, and then saw the rest of the militia looking on in drugged-up bewilderment.

  What in Christ’s name was going on? Only Jesmond seemed to have any hold on reality, and Tom shouted to him, ‘Right, Jessie, get these fuckers inside. We’re in contact! We’re in contact! I’ll get Freddie; you cover me.’

  Tom was mad with adrenaline, but before he could start dragging Trueman inside the compound Jesmond thumped his shoulder and shouted, ‘NO. Sir, sir, NO CONTACT. NO CONTACT. ND with an RPG. I promise you, I promise you. No enemy action.’

  ‘What?’ Tom didn’t understand what he was saying.

  ‘Sir, LISTEN! The boy used the RPG to fire at the IED and blow it himself. He missed and got thrown back by the explosion. He only aimed it about five metres from where he was standing. We couldn’t stop him; it all happened in about a second. That’s why the sarge is laughing. I promise you. Stand down, stand down the contact report.’

  Christ. Tom could imagine Frenchie and Jason flapping inside SHQ and quickly blurted over the net, ‘Hello, Zero Bravo, this is Three Zero. Cancel that contact report. It was a militia NDing an RPG. Understand? Over.’

  It took about ten minutes for everything to be pieced together, for Trueman to stop laughing, for the militia boy to be dusted off and given some water, for Tom to reassure a panicked SHQ, and for the boys, who were convinced they were under attack, to get their breath back.

  Trueman filled him in. ‘I’m sorry, sir; I just couldn’t help it. When you went back inside to speak to Zero that bum-bandit boy got an RPG off his mate and started fucking about, pretending to fire it at the IED and stuff. To be honest I didn’t think he had a clue how it worked. Anyway, suddenly everything goes quiet, and he only goes and fucking launches it. It were like slow-mo. The grenade explodes literally about from where that goat is to me now in front of him, completely missing the fucking IED, and he gets hurled back by the explosion. I swear that was the funniest shit I have ever seen, and then when you came tearing out the gate like John Wayne I just couldn’t stop meself.’ He looked at Tom and saw that he was still angry. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it were quite funny, you have to admit.’

  Tom looked at him, wanting to be annoyed but for some reason finding it impossible not to laugh himself. He let out a quick chuckle that soon turned into a fully fledged fit. The militia looked at Tom and Trueman and Jesmond, who were soon all unable to speak. Now it was their turn to be bemused.

  That evening, after having pushed out a bit further south in the afternoon and finding no sign at all of the Taliban, 3 Troop headed back to the SHQ compound. Half the militia had melted away back to their families, and the boy had been taken home by one of the older men, prompting jokes among the troop. ‘Hey, boss,’ said Davenport, as they did a final kit check before patrolling back, ‘as if that twat hasn’t had enough of a shit time already today, he’s now about to get bummed as well. What a day!’

  Tom looked up from putting a new battery on the radio. ‘Yeah, I know. Strange bunch, aren’t they? Slightly different from Croydon, I imagine.’

  ‘Well sir, depends who you ask. Everybody’s got a price, know what I mean?’

  ‘Right. Thanks for that. I think we’ll stop the conversation there. Now get on and get packed up, you wretch.’

  They left the compound and started the trek back. The sky blazed with orange in the west, and a perfect round sun hung just above a huge teeth-like range of hills. The village – parched and bleached under the midday sun – started to gain a kind of beauty that Tom had heard people talk of before about Afghanistan. With its compounds spaced a few hundred metres apart, it was deserted as they walked through it, and although in a couple of hours it would seem spooky, a ghost town, just now bathed in the soft light everything seemed safe and fuzzy, as if nothing bad could ever happen there, or had ever happened. It was like they were walking, twenty-first century, post-9/11 robots, through a landscape meant for Moses.

  Tom reflected on the day. The highlight had definitely been the boy’s ND, but there were a few other things to think about. First, the fearful reaction of the family to the militia, and with what contempt the militia had treated them. Second, how he had called Jesmond Jessie in the heat of his panic and referred to Trueman as Freddie, breaking one of his cardinal rules. He’d have to work on that. Mostly, however, he was filled with quiet satisfaction that when he had heard the RPG explode he hadn’t crawled into a ball, and despite looking like an idiot when he ran outside, he’d at least shown everyone that when the shit hit the fan he would go out and try to face it. And so when he walked back into the SHQ room inside the main compound, now home to the eighty-strong squadron, he had a smile on his face and was looking forward to hearing how the others had got on.

  He had left the boys in a corner of the huge expanse, almost the size of two football pitches. A wall about seven feet high ran around it, with towers at each corner. Brennan had sorted the security plan, and 3 Troop were to sleep that night under the south-east tower and stag on from the tower roof. Four Mastiffs from the Loggies remained from the fleet of sixteen that had brought them to the town; one was positioned next to each of the towers, adding the firepower of either a grenade machine gun or a .50 cal.

  In the middle of the compound was a two-storey building, the only one in the village, which was the militia base. It looked as though it could have been built forty years or four months ago. There were no windows, and reinforcing steel bars stuck out from unfinished concrete pillars around it. The building reminded Tom of Henry VI Comprehensive, and on a whim he took a photo of it to send back for the school newsletter. The entrance to the building was via a porch, open on three sides, up a small flight of steps. Hanging from the ceiling of the porch was a hook, and the boys were already talking about this being the site of torture and beatings by the militia. The concrete beneath the hook was a dull dark red, and Tom shivered as he imagined what had gone on here. He walked through the building, lit with cyalumes taped to the walls, and pulled back a curtain over a doorway, relieved to see all the officers inside with Frenchie leading the laughter directed at Jason, who was lying on a camp bed in the far corner with a sick bowl next to him.

  Frenchie looked up. He was wearing a T-shirt and baseball cap, with his Osprey perched next to him. ‘Tom! Welcome back. Glad you didn’t get any more dramas from that RPG fool. Bet that gave you quite a shock.’

  ‘Too right, Frenchie. I thought the world had caved in.’

  ‘Well, good to have you back. Sounds like your experience with the Keystone Kops was pretty similar to everyone else’s.’

  The other troop leaders nodded in unison, with their head torches throwing red beams up and down the walls. They were all still wearing their body armour, each with different accoutrements clipped to the front. They looked a year older than they had the night before, and Tom could recognize his own exhaustion in them.

  In the corner Jason groaned and heaved into the bowl.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about him,’ said Frenchie. ‘His D & V’s got worse. Mind you, it might help him lose some weight.’

  ‘Bugger off. Just wait till you lot get this, and then you won’t find it so funny,’ came the groan back.

  ‘He’ll be all right by the morning. Just don’t breathe the air too freely.’ It was a ridiculous sight, Frenchie and the four troop leaders huddled in one corner and Jason sprawled in the opposite one, naked save for soiled boxer shorts, his sweating chest covered in a film of vomit-speckled dust. Frenchie continued: ‘Right, fellas. So far, so good. Well done today; all my gannets back safe and sound. It’s not going to be the hardest day on tour, but it was your first time
out and about on your own, so remember the mistakes you made and don’t do ’em again. Before anything else, sort your bloody voice procedure out. That radio needs only about 20 per cent of the waffle that was coming over it. Especially you, Moyles – Radio Clive.’ He looked at Clive, who shrivelled in the beam of the torch. ‘Yeah you. I’m not interested in what the clouds are looking like or whether you’ve just had a chocolate bar, OK? Keep the chatter and claptrap off the net.

  ‘The big news is that we’re not going back tomorrow. Minuteman Zero Alpha wants us to stay here for another four days. Officially it’s so we can suck up to Gumal and claim that we’re mentoring the militia. Unofficially, it’s because the CO wants to get to the bottom of this militia issue – just what they’re doing to the local population, how reliable they are, how professional they are, yadda yadda. I agree with him. From what I heard you guys say today, they’re doing more harm than good.’

  Scott stopped him. He shifted nervously, his wide eyes apologetic for interrupting. ‘Sorry, Frenchie, for butting in, but they’re worse than that. I didn’t say over the net because I didn’t want the rumour to spread among the boys, but I was talking to a few elders in a compound – 4 Sierra Papa number 35, I think it was, that one with the white gates – about the spike in Taliban attacks in the last week and this old guy said it was because one of his granddaughters, who’s nine years old, was gang-raped five days ago by the militia in this building here. They just lifted her out of her home one afternoon, dragged her here in the back of a pickup truck and did it. Apparently they could hear the screams all over the village. They almost killed her. She’s now in hospital over in Now Zad. And these guys weren’t lying; I could just tell. And my terp believed them as well, and he knows bullshit when he sees it. I swear, these guys are animals. I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier, but you know what the boys are like when they hear something like this.’