War Torn

Chapter Three

AS THEY JUMPED OUT OF THE VECTORS EACH MAN STOOD STILL AND felt the silence. No firing. No vehicle noise. No movement.Dave counted them. As well as himself, the boss and the company sergeant major, there were twenty-six men: three already undermanned sections of 1 Platoon plus a signaller, an engineer, a medic, a sniper and a mortar man. He had counted twenty-eight into the Vectors at Bastion and had expected to count twenty-eight out at FOB Senzhiri. Twenty-six was a bitter number today.The prisoners remained in one of the vehicles and Dave put a couple of men from 3 Section in charge of guarding them. He took a quick look at the Taliban fighters first.‘Have you seen to his leg?’ he asked the medic.‘Yeah, nothing much wrong with it.’‘I thought he took one of my rounds.’‘You missed.’‘Shit. So why all the blood and limping?’‘The limp’s what footballers do when the other team looks like they might score a goal. The blood’s because you nicked his shin. But it’s nothing much.’Dave stared at the handcuffed prisoners. They stared back at him. Since the contact they had lost some of their fear. Now they tried to muster their dignity. One of them spoke to Dave in Pashtu, spitting out the words like a curse.‘Thank you very much and fuck you too,’ Dave said politely.‘Make sure they get some water,’ Company Sergeant Major Kila told the lads guarding them.Then he and Dave and the boss strode off into the network of tents and old mud-walled buildings, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust.The platoon stretched. They breathed the afternoon air deeply. They spoke little. The men who had been in the explosion found the event replaying inside their heads, felt the helplessness of their limbs in the force of the blast again, experienced the same mixture of fear and resignation.‘I thought it was the fucking end,’ said Rifleman Mal Bilaal.‘So did I,’ said Rifleman Angus McCall. ‘I thought what my dad would say if I died before I’ve even had a chance to brass anyone up.’‘I couldn’t understand why I was taking such a fucking long time to die,’ said Lance Corporal Billy Finn. ‘And then I realized I was still alive.’Rifleman Jamie Dermott had believed that he was dying, too. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms as the blast hit him as though he was stretching out for Agnieszka and the baby.Even the men who weren’t in the blast and weren’t actively thinking about what had happened to Riflemen Nelson and Buckle felt the knowledge of it lodged inside them. And anyone who had seen their bodies flying through the air knew he would not forget it, even if he never talked about it again to anyone. Today’s contact had been a warning of what was to come.Jamie Dermott leaned back against the wheel of the Vector and closed his eyes. He was thinking that even Dave, who had years of training and experience and had seen two tours of Iraq, had probably fired more rounds today than in all of his previous contacts put together. Well, they had joined up to fight. They had trained to fight. And now that’s what they were going to do. No one would admit that the suddenness and ferocity of today’s contact had been a shock. But it had.Jamie reached surreptitiously for a picture of his wife and baby. He liked to look at it during odd moments when Wiltshire began to seem far away. He liked to remind himself that there was another world, less barren than this one.He glanced at his watch. Four thirty in Afghanistan. Midday at home. Agnieszka would be in the kitchen now, maybe moving smoothly around Luke’s high chair on her long, long legs, spoon in hand, singing softly under her breath. For the next six months, she would be there and he would be here. Six months. Luke would change a lot by the time he got back. Jamie would have experiences which he couldn’t imagine now and which he would probably remember for the rest of his life. He sighed and looked around at the FOB, a bleak collection of isocontainers and tents and mud buildings that would become home.1 Platoon lit cigarettes and found a tap and refilled their Camelbaks and water bottles and drank deeply. In a movement that had already become so instinctive they didn’t even think about it, they ran their fingers round the top of the bottle to wipe off the sand before they swigged from it. The water was warm. A few people organized a brew.Jamie wasn’t hungry but he could work out where the cookhouse must be from the activity of A Company, now emerging from their tents and heading to the centre of the FOB. Lance Corporal Finn and Rifleman Bilaal worked it out too.‘Fancy some scoff?’ Finn said. Mal nodded. Corporal Sol Kasanita, their section commander, was looking away. They slipped behind the Vectors and around the back of some mud buildings.The other men were watching A Company.‘They’re big blokes . . .’‘Marines,’ Sol Kasanita said.‘I thought they looked like boot necks,’ said Angus.Even Dave, touring the base, was taken aback by how much bigger and older and tougher the outgoing A Company looked than his own men. He glanced back at his platoon, lounging around, smoking and gulping tea by the vehicles, looking skinny even in body armour. And they looked younger still because they were clean-shaven new arrivals while the commandos hadn’t shaved for weeks and their uniforms were shabby and worn.The outgoing company sergeant major, who was showing them around, indicated the cookhouse. Dave glanced inside. Among the hulks of A Company were two noticeably smaller men.‘Lance Corporal Finn and Rifleman Bilaal get out of there NOW,’ Dave roared.‘But, Sarge, we were only—’‘Out! You’re on boil-in-the-bag until A Company goes. Now get back to the wagons!’It was always the same. Whenever there was food, you’d always find soldiers doing their own strike op on the cookhouse.Mal and Finn went back to the group, persuading two members of A Company to accompany them.‘Thank fuck you’re just the advance party. If they’d sent the whole shitload there wouldn’t be room to breathe here,’ said the men from A Company.‘The rest are coming in by air when you go,’ Finn said.One of the men pointed at a ginger-haired rifleman from 2 Section. ‘Careful, mate. We’ve had some big mortars incoming lately and two of them landed right where you’re standing!’The lad skipped rapidly to one side to a chorus of laughter.‘Come on, bruv,’ said Mal, offering the marines cigarettes. ‘Tell us a bit about the place. Can we use that gym over there?’He pointed at treadmills, exercise bikes and other equipment arranged in two neat lines, gleaming in the afternoon sun.One of the commandos took a cigarette. ‘That’s the civilian area. The contractors live in the isoboxes.’The gym was surrounded on two sides by isoboxes which looked as if a big crane had lifted them off the back of a ship straight into the heart of the desert. They were arranged in an L-shape with the spine of the L turned sulkily against the rest of the camp.‘The contractors have got air conditioning.’ There was no mistaking his disgust.‘They haven’t found a way to air-condition the gym yet.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Since it’s in the open air. But it’s just a matter of time.’‘Is that gym just for the civilians, then?’ Finn asked.‘We can use it too. So long as we don’t disturb them.’‘Oh, yeah,’ his companion said. ‘No disturbing the civilians. No whistling at Emily. Unless she whistles at you first.’Mal swallowed hard. ‘Who’s Emily?’The marine took a long, slow drag and rolled his eyes. His mate licked his lips.‘What can we say about Emmers?’ They shrugged theatrically.‘Well, let’s just say she’s hot . . .’ said the smoker.‘Very hot.’‘In fact, she’s a sex grenade.’‘Waiting to explode. Any fucking second.’Finn grinned and sucked on the end of his roll-up. ‘Maybe it’s not going to be too bad here after all.’The marine finished his cigarette and threw it to the ground. ‘Oh, it’s bad. But Emmers has a way to make you feel better. Know what I mean?’The lads knew what he meant.‘Senzhiri? Sin City more like.’ The marines turned back to the cookhouse. ‘Just listen for Emmers’s whistle and you’ll see what we mean.’1 Platoon looked a lot more cheerful now.‘I’m glad to hear the British Army is beginning to recognize our needs . . .’ Finn tried to inhale the last of his roll-up.Sol shook his head. ‘They’re winding you up, Finny.’‘She’s here doing civilian work,’ Jamie said. ‘Not to entertain the troops.’There was a yell from Company Sergeant Major Kila for the prisoners to be unloaded. He handed two pairs of blacked-out goggles to the 3 Section guards and the detainees were led away across the FOB, stumbling sometimes, hands tied in front of them.Their appearance caused a sensation. People moving to the cookhouse stopped in their tracks. Everyone stared. A few came over to ask for the story.‘I’ve been here six months and I’ve never seen a choggie close-up until now . . .’‘I’ve never seen one at all . . .’‘So you’re the cook and you don’t get out of the kitchen?’ Angus McCall said.‘No, mate, I’ve been on patrol almost every fucking day. You can get brassed up by ragheads but you just don’t see them.’The whole platoon stared at him. ‘You never see the flipflops? Ever?’‘A choggie boot up a tree or a shadow behind a hedge, that’s the closest you fucking get.’‘And they clear up their dead so fast you hardly even see a fucking body.’The platoon talked about today’s ambush and Jamie watched A Company’s faces as they listened. These men were tired. Numb. They looked as though if they’d wounded an insurgent carrying an RPG, they might not have bothered to search for him down a side street.‘You’re ready to go home, mate,’ he said to the commando standing nearest.The man nodded.‘I don’t want to waste my time decompressing in Cyprus. I just want to get back.’That was how Jamie felt right now when he thought about Agnieszka. And he’d only just arrived.They started the vehicles and the pressure cookers and opened their boil-in-the-bags. After eating they sat around in the evening sun. The heat was still merciless although it was almost night and barely summer.‘What’s it going to be like in a couple of months?’‘How’re we going to carry forty, sixty, eighty pounds of kit in this?’They had another brew and smoked and farted while they waited for Dave to call them.At last he did.‘Prayers. In that building over there.’The men stared at a small, low shed with sagging roof and ancient mud walls. It looked a thousand years old.‘The Cowshed,’ Dave said. ‘They say you can still smell the shit.’Sitting on the floor of the Cowshed, packed in tightly with the rest of the platoon and their Bergens, Jamie thought he could detect the smell of long-departed goat. Or was it just the whiff of rancid soldier in a tight space?He watched the new boss with curiosity. Second Lieutenant Weeks was standing at the front, clearing his throat and looking nervous. Jamie felt sorry for him. Fresh out of Sandhurst, he’d only met his men for the first time a few days ago at Bastion. He’d faced a fire fight on the way here and two men were already down. It hadn’t been a good start. Thank God he had Dave for his platoon sergeant.Dave was waiting for all three sections of the platoon to file in. He was rocking impatiently onto his toes and then back on his heels. ‘Get a move on, you lot,’ he barked, glaring at the last men in.‘There’s no room with all this kit on the floor, Sarge,’ someone protested.‘Then make fucking room.’Jamie watched Dave counting the men. The Officer Commanding of the outgoing company had expressed admiration for the way they’d taken two detainees but he knew Dave would happily have traded them for Steve Buckle and Jordan Nelson.Before everyone was seated, Dave began.‘We had a tough time getting here, lads. We’ll give you news of Steve and Jordan as soon as we get it. Most of us didn’t think we’d be firing that many rounds so soon but you responded well. I was proud of you, and pleased to see your training pay off.‘Unfortunately, because of the contact, A Company can’t get away today after all and the rest of our company can’t get in. The handover has been postponed until tomorrow and that makes the FOB a tad overcrowded tonight. We just have to keep out of the way until they go. So it’s boil-in-the-bag until A Company’s out of here.’There was a groan. Jamie imagined how A Company must be feeling. Bags packed, ready to go, minds on home and still stuck at base.Dave moved aside for the boss. Gordon Weeks tried to step into the space Dave had left him. But without Dave’s energy and certainty to fill it, that space was suddenly immense.‘Er . . . thank you, Sergeant . . . er . . . that is indeed the case. Welcome to FOB Senzhiri. Popularly known, I gather, as FOB Sin City. Er, because of the crowding situation, I suggest that we sleep around the Vectors tonight, or until A Company has vacated. Now. Er . . . Um . . .’Dave’s face remained expressionless. But Jamie could guess what he was thinking. Weeks just didn’t know how to speak to his men. He’d already tried at Bastion and had been a mumbling wreck. He wasn’t doing much better today.‘Er . . . well . . .’ The young officer’s face reddened as he floundered. The men began to look at Dave for help. Boss Weeks seized this idea.‘Er, um . . . I think perhaps we’ll start with Sergeant Henley’s, um, health and safety information,’ he said at last.‘OK, lads,’ Dave said. ‘The first thing I want to say is about washing. There are civilian contractors here and the boss is going to talk to you about them. But remember this. Those civilians get to shower every day; you don’t. That’s the way it is. I don’t want to hear anyone whingeing about it. You take showers every other day at most, and for no longer than three minutes, or there won’t be enough water. I’m only going to shave every three or four days. No one should shave more than that.‘You’ve all got sun block: use it. You’ve all got water: drink it. Lots of it, more than you think you need. Aim for nine litres a day and definitely not less than six. When we’re going out on a short patrol, take at least three. Fill your Camelbaks and take bottles too. It’s fucking hot today and it’s going to get hotter. Out there in fifty degrees with a lot of kit you could die if you don’t drink. So drink.‘Get out of your boots whenever you can. I don’t want to catch any lazy bastards who can’t be bothered to take off their boots before they go to sleep. That is very, very stupid. Get the air to your toes on every possible occasion. You’ve got foot powder: use it. Your heels crack, you’ll be miserable and no one’s going to be sympathetic.‘Your hands could also crack in this heat and when you use gun oil those cracks are going to hurt. A lot. You’ve got cream. No one will think you’re stupid if you use it. They’ll think you’re stupid if you don’t.’No one shuffled or stared unseeingly or had that distant look in his eyes which meant he was thinking about food or home or sex. Everyone in the Cowshed was alert and listening to every word. Jamie saw the boss looking at Dave with respect and amazement. He was studying his sergeant’s technique. Jamie could have explained to him that there was no technique. Dave was just a man other men listened to.‘Right,’ Dave said. ‘The boss is going to tell you about Sin City.’Gordon Weeks coughed.‘The sergeant has mentioned the, er, civilians. What you really need to remember is that FOB Senzhiri is not just here for military reasons but strategic reasons also. There is a multinational contractor team working from the base on an oil and gas project and they must be treated with respect. Now, er, I understand relations between the soldiers here at the base and the contractors have sometimes been, er, strained in the past but, remember, the civilians are not your enemy. They are French, American, er—’‘Sir, did you say something about a civilian called Emily who’s French?’ Finn called. ‘We can’t hear too well at the back!’There was a rustle of anticipation at the mention of Emily’s name. The boss looked confused.Dave was quick. ‘No, Lance Corporal, clean out your ears. He said the civilians are not your enemy and some of them are French. There is no civilian called Emily. Now shut up.’‘Oh,’ said the boss. ‘But there is. I’ve just met her. She seems very nice.’There was more rustling and suppressed laughter.‘Was she, by any chance, whistling, sir?’‘Shut up,’ Dave growled. ‘We’ll take questions at the end.’‘Anyway,’ the boss went on, ‘the point is that the civilians must not feel harassed or annoyed by us in any way. Please don’t speak to them or attempt to strike up a conversation unless they speak to you first. Remember that we are here to protect them and that’s our first task. Their exploration work, er, necessitates frequent field trips and it is our duty to ensure they can, er, carry out their work safely and successfully.’Jamie thought: Just tell us not to piss off the civilians. He hoped Dave would run over all the points again afterwards.‘The contractors have access to alcohol. We, of course, are dry. Apparently problems have arisen when civilians have invited soldiers to, er, partake, er, with them.’The men exchanged glances. No need to ask which civilian liked to booze with the lads. It had to be Emily.‘The rule is, even when offered drink, please don’t take it. However, one bonus, well, a few bonuses, we can thank the contractors for, are the gym, er, the covered toilets to spare their blushes and, er, the catering staff. We have, er, Mr Taregue Masud in charge of the cookhouse who I understand has been something of a catering legend since the Falklands.’ The boss turned to Dave. ‘Do you know him, Sergeant?’‘Yes, sir, from Iraq. A very good cook.’‘Er, let me, er, remind you that, while protecting civilian operations is our prime objective, I should perhaps reiterate that we are also here to reinforce the pressing demands of our NATO commitment.’The men looked at Dave as though Boss Weeks was speaking another language and Dave was his interpreter. Dave remained expressionless. The young officer cleared his throat again. It was hot in the Cowshed and his cheeks were round and red. He looks younger than me, Jamie thought.‘Ahem. The people of Afghanistan are not our enemies. Despite the unpleasant welcome we received in the town this afternoon, most are glad of our presence. Er, without us they would be overrun by the Taliban, many of whom come from faraway countries, do not speak their language and wish to dominate and suppress them.‘Um . . . er . . . the people of Afghanistan want peace and by holding back the Taliban we can support their elected government and bring stability to their country. But the Taliban are driven by religious fervour and hatred of the West, they observe no rules and, er . . . er . . . they are formidable opponents.‘I have been asked to remind you of an unfortunate statistic that we should bear in mind throughout our work here.’He took a deep breath.‘One man in ten will go home in a body bag or badly injured. One in ten.’For the first time, Boss Weeks stopped staring over the heads of the men he commanded. He looked directly into their eyes. His gaze slid from face to face, row to row. All eyes were upon him. Everyone was still. There was silence.‘There are about thirty men in this room now,’ said the boss. ‘Which means it is highly likely that three of us won’t be going home.’The boss remained silent. As the silence continued, his words penetrated more deeply. Faces reddened. Men fiddled with their boot laces. They avoided looking at each other. They stopped thinking: It won’t be me. They began to think: Don’t let it be me. They stared at the ground. They couldn’t look at each other knowing that three of them would die here, wondering: which three?