War Torn

Chapter Forty-four

BILLY FINN TURNED OUT TO BE RIGHT. ABOUT A WEEK LATER AN announcement was made that, as soon as the engineers had finished building the temporary base at Jackpot, 1 and 2 Platoons would be moving there for a week with the civilians. Patrols continued but oil exploration work was halted in the meantime.A Chinook arrived, kicking up a spiral of fine dust which reached high into the air like a storm. The back was opened and out came three men in flipflops, shorts and T-shirts. The lads stared at them. They were carrying kit but the most noticeable item was an old tin teapot dangling on a string from a Bergen. They were talking and laughing as if they had just arrived at their holiday destination and couldn’t wait to get their towels out by the pool before any Germans did.‘Who the hell are they?’ men asked each other. But not for long because the mail bags had been unloaded. People pounced on their blueys and took them to their cot or some other private corner to read them, like dogs dragging away bones to maul in private. As usual, Finn, who had nothing, watched other people reading their letters.‘All right, mate?’ he asked Mal.‘Yeah,’ said Mal. ‘Why?’‘You don’t look too happy.’‘I’m good.’‘Women trouble? One of your babes found a bloke with better wheels?’‘I told you, I’m blowing everything I earn here on a beamer when I get back, and I mean an M3. Women are going to be gagging for a ride with me, there are no better wheels.’Finn said in an undertone. ‘Listen. There’s a rumour going around that the blokes who arrived on the Chinook are SF.’Mal laughed out loud.‘Yeah, they look like big hard killing machines.’‘Well, who do you think they are?’‘Bunch of tossers.’Later, in the cookhouse, the lads were having a brew while Streaky gave them his minefield rap. He had been writing it in his head when he covered the rescue operation. It had taken the edge off his anxiety for Binman but now, a week later, it didn’t sound so special. The others listened impassively right to the end:

. . . It was a Russian who’s dead now who laid that mine then fled,The Russian didn’t guess it would take a British leg,A Russian soldier left two British boys for deadAnd the ragheads laughed and fired while Connor bled and bled.

Binns immediately said it was good. Sol agreed with him.‘Didn’t like the stuff at the beginning about the Paras,’ said Finn.‘You just try finding a good rhyme for Paratrooper,’ said Streaky sulkily.‘Angry snooper,’ said Jamie.‘Mini Cooper,’ said Mal.‘Let’s play snooker,’ said someone.They all looked up. It was Martyn Robertson, who was sitting down next to them with a cup of coffee.‘You want a game of snooker?’ asked Angus, hopefully. He’d been allowed back to the FOB with his bandaged arm only if he stayed on Light Duties for two weeks. And playing snooker sounded like a good Light Duty.‘I prefer pool myself,’ said Martyn patiently. ‘But the point is, Angus, Let’s play snooker rhymes with Paratrooper.’‘Oh, yeah,’ said Angry. He reddened. Why did Topaz fucking Zero always put him down? Then Martyn surprised him by flinging an arm across his shoulders.‘You’re a good kid,’ he said. ‘We can’t play pool but you’re very welcome to join in with the blackjack.’‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Angus, mollified.‘So, guys,’ said Martyn, ‘who’s seen the Green Berets? Or whatever you call them in Britain.’1 Section sat up straight.‘That would be the SAS: Special Forces, Jedi, Blades,’ said Finn, with a meaningful look at Mal.‘I’ve seen three geezers in flipflops,’ said Streaky.‘Yup, they’re here on some special operation.’‘The Regiment!’ said Angus. ‘Here!’ He tried to hide his excitement in case anyone laughed at him. ‘I mean . . . those guys with the fucking teapot?’‘They look like new oil engineers,’ Binman said.Martyn frowned. ‘Oil engineers have better taste in shirts.’‘But . . . I’m bigger than they are!’ said Angus. The Jedi. SF were here at Sin City.‘They might be hard, though,’ Jamie said.Binns shook his head. ‘Seem a bit ordinary to me.’‘How do you know this, Martyn?’ Sol asked. Martyn just looked mysterious.Before the Chinook could take off again, the base came under fire. This invariably happened with the arrival or departure of a Chinook. The insurgents knew about the vulnerabilities of the old machines: an RPG in the right place could do a lot of damage. The contact was sufficient to delay the helicopter’s departure. Although AH support was requested, all the Apaches were busy so the occupants of Sin City threw themselves into putting down the attack. It took at least an hour and in that time not one of the SAS men was seen.‘You’d think the cream of the British Army would give us a hand,’ Finn said when they were finally told to stand down.‘Maybe they’re busy sorting out weapons and making plans and stuff,’ Angus said. ‘For their special operation.’‘Or maybe,’ said Mal, ‘they’re lazy bastards.’‘Bet they get paid shitloads of money, too,’ added Binman.‘Think they’ll let us cabbie their weapons?’ asked Angus.Mal said: ‘Oh wow. They have the best shit in the world.’‘One thing’s for sure, mate, the Regiment don’t leave their weapons lying in dope fields,’ said Jamie.‘Fuck off,’ said Mal amiably.‘They’re in the Cowshed. Reckon we can go and talk to them, Sol?’ asked Finn.Sol shrugged. ‘I suppose they can only tell you to go away.’Angus, Mal and Finn found the men having a brew with their feet up apparently oblivious to the fact that the base had been under attack. They looked like ordinary soldiers, perhaps a bit older, on R&R.‘Didn’t you want to fight?’ asked Finn.One of them was reading a dog-eared paperback. He looked up.‘No way. I joined the Regiment to get away from all that army shit.’ And he went back to reading his book.‘So can we have a butchers at your weapons?’ Finn persisted.One of the other men got up and fetched a weapon for them. It was long and thin and mean.‘You can have a butchers but not a cabbie,’ he said, passing it to Finn.‘Oh, shit!’ said Angus who was always badgering Dave to send him on a proper sniper course. He was already the team’s sharpshooter. ‘Is that the . . . could it be the . . .’‘The L115A3.’‘Holy shit, how long have you been using it for?’‘Not long. It’s replaced the L96A1 now.’Angus was like a kid who had just broken into a toyshop. ‘Fuck me, how many rounds will it do?’‘Five.’‘And what’s the range?’ Finn was holding it up and looking through the sights.‘Well, it’ll do two kilometres. But closer is better because I’m not sure the sights are as good as the weapon.’‘So you’re all in different places, then?’ asked Mal.‘Yeah, we’ve got a button here, right by the trigger, see, and when we get a good sight picture we press it and the signal goes to the liaison officer. When he’s got three lights on, he’ll tell us to fire. Or maybe just two lights. One isn’t enough.’‘Fucking hell,’ said Mal. Angus was speechless.Finn handed the rifle to Mal. He said: ‘That is high precision. One man two kilometres away.’‘We’re targeting some kind of a family party,’ said the SAS man. ‘So we’ve got to be accurate. Don’t want any kids running up to their dad at the wrong moment.’‘Holy shit,’ breathed Angus. ‘What a life. You just fly in, slot this guy and fly out again.’‘We fly in and we hope we slot him,’ said the SAS man. ‘It doesn’t always happen that way.’‘Bet you never make mistakes,’ Angus said to him.‘Oh yes he does,’ chorused the other SAS men, refilling the teapot.But Angus ignored them because he did not want to believe the Special Forces ever made mistakes.Mal was looking through the sights.‘I’d give anything for a day with one of these in Wythenshawe. It would be just the job there.’‘Who do you want to top in Wythenshawe, mate?’ Finn asked. But instead of answering, Mal passed the rifle to Angus, who was waiting with arms outstretched. He held it carefully, aiming at some faraway target beyond the hesco.‘How long have you been in the Regiment?’‘Five years. I was in the Tigers before that.’‘Ever come across the names of blokes who used to be in the Jedi?’ asked Angus shyly, handing the rifle back.‘Well, yeah. Mostly on the front of books. You only get in if you’ve got a degree in Creative Writing.’His mates laughed but Angus was serious.‘Ever hear John McCall mentioned?’The man and his colleagues exchanged thoughtful looks. ‘McCall . . . McCall . . .’‘That’s his dad,’ explained Mal. ‘His name’s Angus McCall.’‘Well we’re probably not old enough to have known your dad,’ said the man. ‘And I can’t say I’ve heard the name.’Angus tried to hide his disappointment.‘But I don’t know the names of everyone who’s ever been in the Regiment. Now you’d better fuck off while we get prepped up.’That evening, Angus sneaked back to the Cowshed. There was no sign of the men or their weapons. The paperbacks were lying on the floor along with the tin teapot. He had personally been on stag and had anyway kept an eye out for the men. They had just evaporated into thin air. He knew that, more than anything, he wanted to be one of them.