War Torn

Chapter Six

DAVE ROLLED HIS SLEEPING BAG OVER AND LOOKED AT THE SKY. The mountains, many kilometres away, were glowing a thousand shades of red and purple in the dawn. Everyone back in the UK calls this place Theatre, thought Dave. We are In Theatre. It is the Theatre of War. But no one ever tells you that the scenery’s bloody marvellous.He lay still, watching the light change and the mountain colours lose their depth. He was thinking about Jordan Nelson, how his little brothers and worried mother would be sitting miserably under the strip-lighting of a hospital canteen while surgeons picked shrapnel out of his organs.He got up and stretched. A Company and the civilians had first call on the washing area, the toilets, the cookhouse. He could see them moving around at the heart of the FOB. As soon as he could, he would try to find out if there had been any news on Steve or Jordan overnight.But first, compulsively, he counted bodies. Twenty-six.He stretched again and yawned. He looked up. And saw a vapour trail, bright orange against the blue sky. It was moving at speed and there was a smell of sulphur in the air. A rocket. It was going to land in the FOB before he could even shout a warning.‘Incoming!’ he yelled, as it hit the ground with a thud deep enough to jolt his heart and enough noise to obliterate his voice. There was a small firework display at the heart of the camp that would have been spectacular if hadn’t been so deadly. But no one was near the rocket’s landing site. The closest building was the Cowshed and its thick walls stood up to the impact.The sentries in the sangars were already firing. Civilians in shirt sleeves and body armour who had been eating breakfast were rapidly retreating to the mud-walled safe area at the heart of the camp. And A Company were leaping into action all over Sin City. Some were dressed and ready to go, others were leaving their tents with their boots on the wrong feet, grabbing their weapons, pulling on their helmets, but they all knew where they were going and what they were doing.Battle-hardened, Dave thought enviously, as he tried to organize his own comatose men. Compared with A Company, they were like headless chickens.‘Get your body armour on!’ he yelled as lads jumped to their feet and, forgetting they were still inside their sleeping bags, tumbled to the ground. Two men laid claim to one pile of webbing and started arguing.‘For Chrissake, shitheads!’ Dave shouted. ‘Helmets, boots, body armour but get out of your sleeping bags first. Then straight to your fucking positions.’He might as well have been telling them to go straight to the moon, although they had all been given their stand-to positions in case of attack by the boss yesterday.The air smelled of cordite. Another RPG landed almost exactly where the first had. And 1 Platoon were still at the Vectors messing with their boot laces.By the time everyone was in the place with their weapons, the order to stand down was being shouted.‘You were a fat lot of fucking use, tossers,’ Dave overheard A Company muttering. ‘Better sharpen up a bit.’Dave’s lads looked boyish and confused as they made safe their weapons, gathered up magazines and straightened their bodies. The Officer Commanding A Company appeared, checking out the damage with his second i/c. A sandbagged area of the FOB had been badly hit.‘We’ll leave R Company to sort that,’ the outgoing OC told Boss Weeks cheerfully.Nobody wanted the contact to prevent A Company from going. The FOB was too crowded. CSM Kila had to break up a fight between one of the ginger lads in 2 Section who had sneaked into the cookhouse and an A Company Royal Engineer who had called the infantry platoon a bunch of ginger mingers. Finally, to everyone’s relief, it was announced that A Company would be leaving at 1600 hours.1 Platoon spent a sweaty day filling sandbags and remaking walls.‘Been swimming, mate?’ a passing A Company engineer asked Billy Finn. The Lance Corporal wore only a pair of shorts and sandals. His wiry body was running with sweat. His face was bright red from his exertions and because he had failed to use any sun block.He tried to reply but his mouth was so dry he had to take a swig of water first.‘You’ll get used to the heat,’ the engineer said.‘Since you’re used to it already, fancy lending a hand?’ Finn croaked.The engineer shook his head. ‘If I had a quid for every sandbag I’ve filled, I’d be a fucking millionaire.’ He was going home. He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. ‘My body’s here, mate, but in my mind I’m already cuddled up with a nice curvy bird.’At 1545, when people were already starting to imagine they heard the distant thud of Chinooks, A Company vacated their tents. Dave’s platoon rushed in and grabbed their cots and started to hang up their posters.‘Oh, Christ . . .’ Angus McCall watched Mal attaching a picture to the tent rails by his cot. ‘I thought she was all mine.’He held up an identical photograph.‘She was waiting for me in Nuts,’ Mal said. ‘Your girl must be her twin sister.’The air was thick with the thunder of helicopter rotors and suddenly the rest of R Company were streaming into the base.Dave didn’t greet them. His first words were: ‘Brought the mail bag?’They’d been away from the UK for well over a week now, training in the comparative luxury of Camp Bastion before leaving for Sin City. He knew that, consciously or unconsciously, everyone was waiting for their letters. It was important to distribute them as rapidly as possible.When he went over to the sangars to where Sol and Angus were on stag, he saw two bottles of urine and a condom beneath the tower.‘I reckon the condom must be something to do with Emily, Sarge,’ Angus said.Sol Kasanita laughed. ‘The marines had a lot of women supporting: medics and psych ops and Intelligence,’ he said. ‘Emily isn’t the only woman in Helmand Province.’‘What is all this shit about Emily?’ Dave asked.‘Emily’s the number two civilian here. Their number one is that old guy who wanders around, Martyn someone. And Emily’s his side-kick. The marines have a name for her.’‘Let me guess.’‘The sex grenade.’‘Uh-huh.’‘Now,’ Sol said, ‘according to the marines, when she needs a man she just whistles.’‘And one bloke isn’t enough, Sarge! Sometimes she needs a whole platoon!’ Angus added.‘I can’t wait to meet her.’‘If she exists,’ Sol said.The air was still now. From up here the town seemed to have grown out of the ground. Its walls were the same colour as the surrounding desert. Suddenly, hauntingly, the call to prayer crept across the sand towards them.‘Not him again,’ groaned Angus. ‘He never stops wailing.’‘It’s Friday,’ Dave said.Angus looked blank.‘Holy Day. Like Sunday used to be in England before we found out PC World was more fun than “All Things Bright And Beautiful”.’Sol didn’t catch his eye. Dave remembered that the Fijian was a practising Christian. He never mentioned it, but Dave had seen the Bible by his cot and back in Wiltshire he’d seen Sol, Adi and the kids all bundled into their rusty old car in their best clothes on Sunday mornings.

About an hour after the Chinooks, the convoy of Vectors finally set off, carrying the last of A Company back to Bastion. They roared past the sangar sending up choking clouds of powdery dust, which hung in the air long after the vehicles had disappeared between the town and the mountains.‘Goodbye and good luck,’ Angus McCall muttered insincerely. At lunchtime he’d got into a heated argument with two men from A Company, insisting that Manchester United led the Premier League in 2005. Later, Dave had told him quietly: ‘You were wrong. It was Chelsea. They were defending champions and they won it again.’Angus had looked sheepish. ‘I remembered that halfway through. But I wasn’t going to give in to the bastards.’That night, he booked some phone time with his father. He said: ‘I hate marines.’‘A lot of them are big, strong, brave men,’ his dad said. ‘The sort of man you should be, Angus.’Angus immediately regretted the argument in the cookhouse and thought that he’d probably never be that sort of man, like a marine, like his dad. If he was, he’d have backed down from the Premier League argument and admitted he was wrong.‘Did you know any marines?’‘Course I did. Marines, Paras and . . .’ John McCall dropped his voice. ‘SF.’There was always something in the knowing way his dad talked about Special Forces which made Angus sure his dad had been in the SAS. He knew that John McCall had fought with distinction in the Falklands, although the medals themselves had been stolen many years ago.His parents were divorced and since early childhood he’d spent every Saturday afternoon with his father. From the moment that John McCall turned the sign around in his newsagent’s so that the door read ‘OPEN’ from the inside and ‘CLOSED’ from the outside, Saturdays were war stories, war films, war games. And whenever his dad talked about the SAS, Angus knew that he would apply for Selection himself one day. Even though he was sure he could never be good enough to get in.‘So!’ said John McCall resuming his normal tone. ‘Was the journey to the base OK?’‘Had a contact.’If he’d told his mum that, she would have panicked. But he could hear the shrug in his dad’s voice. ‘Oh, well, start as you mean to go on.’‘Now we’re two men down in my section.’‘Two men down already? What’s the matter with them?’‘One lost a leg, the other had burns.’‘Dear oh fucking dear. They didn’t last five minutes, did they? Where are they now?’‘I had to carry my mate who lost a leg to the helicopter. They were flown to Bastion. Soon as they’re stable they’ll be back to Selly Oak.’‘Helicopter!’ scoffed John McCall. His accent was still strong although he had left Scotland years ago. ‘A helicopter! Sitting there waiting, was it? On the TV they’re always saying you boys haven’t got enough helis. Turns out they’re on hand twenty-four seven. Fuck me, warfare’s changed.’Angus felt himself deflate. Of course his dad was right. All that fear and excitement he’d felt during today’s contact had been sheer cowardice. Because there was always air support waiting to bail you out.‘I was scared,’ he admitted. ‘Until a Harrier came in to sort them out.’‘There you are! You knew a big machine would come and save you! Och, you lads have got it good. I mean . . .’But now the line was breaking up. There had been a two-second delay which meant the men kept talking over each other. Angus lapsed into silence. He wasn’t sure he should have told his father anything about the contact over the satellite phone. John McCall’s voice came and went in his ear.‘I have to finish now, Dad,’ he shouted. ‘I have to ring Mum on this card.’But his father didn’t hear.‘Air support . . . Harrier . . . Goose Green . . . weather conditions . . .’Angus finally hung up.‘All right, mate?’ Corporal Curtis from 3 Section was next in line for the phone.‘Yeah.’ From the day Angus had joined up, conversations with his father had left him feeling flat. He’d thought his father would be ecstatic at his enlistment but he’d received the news quietly. Then, during the passing-out parade at Catterick, Angus had stumbled over his own big feet. It was something he’d never forgive himself for. He’d immediately, anxiously, looked into the crowd, to the place where he knew his divorced parents were sitting together in hostile silence. He’d been in time to catch the look of contempt on his father’s face.

That night, the base came under attack again. 1 Platoon advance party knew where to go and what to do this time. As the rest of the company floundered they slid easily into their positions while the new arrivals dithered.The contact was brief. It consisted of one badly aimed grenade, which almost missed the base completely, and ten minutes of light arms fire.‘You were a fat lot of fucking useless tossers,’ Finn said to the newcomers.‘Better sharpen up a bit,’ Jamie added.It was a while before they had a chance to do so. There were few contacts on patrols through the town or the desert. Attacks on the base were minimal. Each day a small party of contractors, escorted by 3 Platoon, left and came back reporting no threats. And there were no sightings of Emily around the civilian area.‘Because she doesn’t exist,’ Sol said. ‘That’s why.’‘Ever thought the marines were winding you up?’ Jamie said.Lunch had been sausage, egg and chips, Finn’s favourite. He pushed his empty plate away and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m absolutely sure that Emily is in those isoboxes. She just doesn’t come out much.’‘Well, why doesn’t she come to the cookhouse with the others?’The civilians were becoming a familiar sight in the cookhouse. They generally sat together in one corner with their food and their cans of beer. Their boss, Martyn Robertson, and a few of the others mixed with the soldiers. But most looked as if they’d prefer to have their own cookhouse in their own quarter of the camp.‘Miss Emily work very hard, she mostly take her meals in isobox,’ said a cook, who happened to overhear them. ‘I take her meal over now.’Mal, Angus and Finn looked enviously at the lad. He was small and brown-skinned.‘I go now. You go if you want.’ He held out a tray.‘Go where?’‘You ask questions! You take Miss Emily lunch and you find out answer!’The lad handed Finn the tray.‘Thank you!’ said Finn, balancing it expertly on the tips of his fingers. ‘Miss Emily, here I come . . .’Mal and Angus leaped up to join him.‘Oh no you don’t,’ Finn said.Mal’s expression was deadly serious. ‘We’ll need to form a cordon.’‘I’m the second i/c of your section and you’re staying here. That’s an order, McCall.’ Finn swept out, tray held aloft.The boss came into the cookhouse in time to see Finn waltzing away with the tray. Jamie noticed him smile rapidly at the dark-skinned woman from Intelligence, who was sitting alone. The woman did not smile back.‘Where’s Finn going with that tray?’ Weeks asked as he sat down.Jamie grinned. ‘Undercover.’The boss looked concerned.‘I hope he’s not going to make a nuisance of himself.’Finn still had not reappeared when the others went back to their base duties.‘We’re out on patrol at 1500 hours,’ Sol said. ‘And there’s going to be big trouble if Finny’s not back.’‘He’s probably just helping Emily sync her iPod,’ Jamie said. But neither of them was now so sure that Emily the sex grenade was just a joke.Finn did reappear by the vehicles at precisely 1445, adjusting his clothes and grinning broadly. He winked at Angus and some of the other lads.‘Whoops, I seem to have forgotten something!’ He bent ostentatiously to tie his bootlaces.Sol put his hands on his hips.Finn straightened, beaming and stretching lazily. ‘She just wouldn’t let me go! Fuck me, I could use a cigarette . . .’‘Shut up and get into the wagon, you lazy bastard,’ Dave said.Once the convoy was under way, Finn’s PRR went into meltdown.‘Sorry, lads,’ Finn said. ‘Can’t say too much. Ongoing mission . . .’‘Is she hot?’‘Rocket-propelled, mate. So hot she’s on fire.’‘In your dreams, Finny.’ Jamie shook his head.‘You were right about one thing, Jamie. She’s no grenade. She’s heavy fucking artillery.’‘Lance Corporal Finn,’ Dave snapped, ‘if you don’t can this crap and start looking pretty fucking sharp you’re going to experience some heavy fucking artillery from me.’PRR went silent.