WAR TORN.

by ANDY McNAB, KYM JORDAN.

Chapter One

THE SUN HUNG DIRECTLY OVERHEAD, BAKING THE DESERT LANDSCAPE around them. Inside the hot, dark Vector, 1 Section, 1 Platoon had sand up their noses, sand inside their mouths. And when they drank from their Camelbaks, they could feel the grit against their teeth.The journey across Helmand Province had been long and, despite taking turns on top, the lads had moaned into the sergeant's ear every inch of the way. Rifleman Jordan Nelson had been up there on the GPMG throughout. Now Sergeant Dave Henley joined him for the last leg of the journey.Dave could see the town just ahead of them. Beyond it, another stretch of flat desert separated them from their destination. The incongruous straight lines and right angles of Forward Operating Base Senzhiri sliced across the distant foothills. The rest of the platoon was behind them, looking less like a convoy than a huge, rolling dust cloud.1 Platoon was to spend the next six months in FOB Senzhiri. They were the advance party; the rest of R Company would be arriving by air later today. The men sat sweating in the gloom of the Vectors, pinned down by the heat. They fell silent as they approached the town. The men on top watched the ancient mud walls grow higher as they got closer, swelling like bread in an oven.The trees cowered limply in the sunlight. Nothing moved.Where was everyone?Dave could smell danger and feel it in the air.This town wasn't like the others they'd pa.s.sed through. It was too empty. Where were the curious kids in dark doorways, tugging against their mothers' burqas burqas? Where were those mothers, trying to keep their heads covered as they dragged their reluctant offspring indoors? Where were the people walking home from the bazaar with bulging bags, the old men crouching on steps, chewing and staring?He felt a sensation of intense heat near his face. Molecules of air and dust ricocheted off his cheek. They had been rearranged by a small ma.s.s of such speed and power that it cracked the air as it pa.s.sed. Dave instantly pushed the safety catch on his weapon. And then enemy fire was bursting and blazing all around him.The boss gave HQ a sit rep from the Vector behind. 'Zero Alpha, this is Romeo One One. Contact. Wait. Out.'Noise, dust flying and muzzle flashes everywhere, but when Dave scanned the place for movement, there was none. The walls stared back at him, monumental and impa.s.sive. He scrutinized the tops of the palms and fruit trees beyond them for shadows, motion, any unnatural regularity. Nothing. A fire fight was erupting on all sides but the enemy was invisible.Then, amid the crack and thump of small arms, came the angry boom of a grenade.'Cover! Cover! Cover!' Shouts from further down the convoy.Dave's heart beat faster. Up ahead, buried inside a dark slit in the wall, he had seen something glint. He recognized the dull sheen of a worn weapon, its black surface rubbed away. He didn't take his eyes off it. He focused through spiralling clouds of dust, raised his weapon until the target was in the sights and then fired. He couldn't actually see the result, but he felt a small sense of satisfaction.'Zero Alpha, this is Romeo One One. Grid . . .' The boss paused. He was at the front of his Vector, his nose probably buried in his map. Dave noticed that his voice was perceptibly higher than normal. And no wonder. The boss had walked more or less straight out of Sandhurst into this s.h.i.tstorm.'Grid 883 492. Taking fire. Light weapons. Rocket-propelled grenades. No casualties. Request air support. Wait. Out.'Far away, in an air-conditioned cabin in the sprawling NATO base at Kandahar, Troops in Combat Troops in Combat would be flashing up onscreen. Dave hoped his mate Sam Chandler was on duty and not lounging around in the base coffee shop or beating up a treadmill in the gym. Once a would be flashing up onscreen. Dave hoped his mate Sam Chandler was on duty and not lounging around in the base coffee shop or beating up a treadmill in the gym. Once a TIC TIC showed red on the plasma, Sam or one of his colleagues would be legging it in his flying suit into the wall of heat outside, straight to a waiting Harrier. Dave had watched Sam do this only a few days ago, when R Company had first arrived in Afghanistan. It was a rea.s.suring image. showed red on the plasma, Sam or one of his colleagues would be legging it in his flying suit into the wall of heat outside, straight to a waiting Harrier. Dave had watched Sam do this only a few days ago, when R Company had first arrived in Afghanistan. It was a rea.s.suring image.A voice from HQ, crisp and low-key: 'Roger that. Air support. ETA eight minutes. Out.'The Vector jerked forward again and the dust thrown up by its wheels thickened into dense clouds. He could smell cordite and hear the ceaseless percussion of gunfire but couldn't see further than the end of his nose. He couldn't see the enemy. And now he couldn't even see the flash of their weapons.The brown dust seethed between the brown Vector and the brown walls. Dave was firing into a brown void. He paused. Behind him he heard the crackle of the other Vectors' machine guns, fast, urgent, high-pitched against the more sporadic chatter of light weapons. Next to him was the deep thrumming of Rifleman Nelson's GPMG. What the f.u.c.k was everyone firing at? Could any of them see anything? Or did it just feel better than not firing?He listened to the crack of the bullets and the thump as they landed, gauging the gap between the two sounds. He estimated that the enemy were mostly within 100 metres, some very close indeed. But the roar of the Vectors and the echoes around the walls could distort your judgement.He searched the blank clouds of dust for a target. The Vector rumbled on. And then, without warning, the dust curled in a new direction. Suddenly there was a crack in the brown cloud and he could see through it. Low shop fronts loomed close by him, their metal shutters rolled down, then a narrow side street. Empty. No, it wasn't empty. A figure. Several doorways along, half hidden in the shadows.Dave took in two things about the man: the way his pale blue robes flowed around him like water, and the fact that he was carrying an RPG. Dave raised his weapon until the optic sight cut into his line of vision. He focused into the post sight. He was aiming at the target's centre of ma.s.s: the man's chest. He squeezed the trigger just as the Vector jolted.s.h.i.t.The man dropped his RPG but did not fall to the ground. He grasped his leg. Then instinct overcame pain and he hopped towards his weapon. Dave's finger curled around the trigger again but the moving parts of his SA80 were suddenly stubborn.'Stoppage!'He slid down into the other world inside the Vector, tilting his weapon left as he did so, pulled the c.o.c.king handle back and saw the empty case.Fourteen stone of combat gear at his side moved to take his place. Rifleman Steve Buckle. Capable, fast, reliable.'Get up there!' Dave yelled. 'RPG down that side street!' The barrel of his weapon was scalding hot. He had brought the smell of scorched metal and cordite into this small, burning s.p.a.ce. It clawed at the back of his throat. He blinked. After the blistering light of Helmand Province, midday, it was midnight in here. The enemy rounds bouncing off the Vector's armour sounded as though someone was throwing their money around.He bent over his rifle. With the working parts back he stuck his finger into the hot weapon. He felt his skin burn as he eased out the empty case and let the working parts slide forward again. Fixed. But too late.He could make out the faces of his men now. Their bodies were dirty, their necks, their clothes were sculpted out of dirt. Sweat had carved river deltas through the dirt on their faces. Dirt encrusted their lips.Above, Steve's silhouette was firing in the direction of the RPG.'Did you slot him?' Dave asked on PRR. Instead of a reply there was a bang. The loudest f.u.c.king bang. The most agonized scream. The world's scariest roller-coaster plunging off the tracks. A superhuman force threw Dave to the front of the Vector. His shoulder smashed against the side of the vehicle. He looked up. The sky was a deep, deep blue. Its beauty was punctured by shards of metal.There was a rag doll flying through the air. The doll looked like Steve Buckle. His body formed a perfect arc, an arc of helplessness. He flew slowly, like an empty suit floating through deep, blue water. When his leg came off, its trajectory had a peculiarly graceful beauty. Then the body was hurtling towards earth and there was another body falling too. Dave had time to register that this was Jordan Nelson before he took cover from the hail of fire now directed at the exposed men in the shattered Vector.He looked around. How many more men had he lost? But they were all there, faces b.l.o.o.d.y and dirty and shocked, looking at him, waiting for him to lead them.'You two, get out there, sort them out.' Dave shoved Mal and Angus towards the casualties. Moments later, blue smoke was billowing around their twisted bodies. One of them was screaming in agony. Through the roar of pain, Dave could hear the rage to live. It had to be Steve.'3 Section, cover the casualties. 2 Section and the rest of 1 Section get down that street, clear it and find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d with the RPG; he took a round in the leg.'Led by Corporal Sol Kasanita, the men headed off down the alley where Dave had pinged the RPG.The boss was telling HQ: 'I have times two tango one casualties. Repeat, times two tango one casualties.'Dave hoped there was a Chinook ready to go at Bastion. The emergency team would have to move right now if the casualties were to make it back to the field hospital inside the golden hour. Outside that hour, their chances of survival turned from gold to dust. Just like everything else in this f.u.c.king place.Riflemen Angus McCall and Mal Bilaal were poised over Steve's body. Where Steve's left leg should have been there was just a ma.s.sive, blood-covered cauliflower. Blood flowed from it, blood covered everyone's clothes, blood soaked the fine brown dust of the street.'Shut the f.u.c.k up, you w.a.n.ker!' Mal shouted at the screaming victim, who happened to be one of his best mates. He had opened Steve's thigh pocket now and Dave could see him pulling the big morphine syringe from it. Angus was holding Steve down.'I said f.u.c.king shut up!' Mal roared over the clamour of the fire fight. He was shoving the autojet into Steve's remaining leg. Almost instantly, Steve fell silent.Steve's body armour was covered with blood and shrapnel. His clothes were torn, his face lacerated and his helmet pushed back off his head. With the morphine in, Angus and Mal went to work. Mal's hand found the artery inside the hideous b.l.o.o.d.y gap at the top of Steve's left leg, scissor clamp at the ready, while Angus tightened the tourniquet.A medic had reached Jordan Nelson. The rifleman lay still in the dusty street. He looked as though he'd fallen asleep on duty, except that most of his clothes were missing and his lower body was charred almost beyond recognition. A couple of lads from 3 Section and the medic were leaning over him and they were strangely still too. Dave wondered if it was possible to survive burns so severe.The zap numbers of the casualties had been relayed to the Medical Emergency Response Team at Camp Bastion where the doctor would already be in a Land Rover heading for the helicopter, maybe already receiving details of the casualties' blood groups and allergies on his hand-held. But for the Chinook to get here, the contact had to be over. And it showed no sign of ending. If anything, now that the convoy had been halted, the ambush was more intense.Dave had found a good firing position inside the ruined hulk of the Vector. He had also found Jordan Nelson's machine gun wedged between a slab of armour plating and a brown mud wall. He grabbed it without hope and was amazed when it worked. Far away, in a second-storey window, across two walls and the yard which they protected, he caught a glimpse of movement. Feeling a surge of satisfaction, he fired. A body slumped from the window.He glanced up, wondering where the air support was. Eight minutes must have pa.s.sed by now and the casualties needed to get out of here. The boss had also requested help from A Company, who were currently installed at the FOB and scheduled to leave this evening. Maybe they were too busy packing.Dave moved around to the side street just as Sol and the lads emerged from it, pushing two prisoners. Jamie Dermott had the RPG with the grenade removed and an AK47, mag off and made safe.'Get those f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds moving,' Dave yelled.One of the f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds wore long blue robes, now clotted with blood. The man's leathery face was twisted in pain and fear. His leg dragged. His left leg. A leg for a leg, Dave thought. Fair one.The firing was deafening now. The enemy seemed to have trebled in number.A couple more lads followed with a second prisoner. He was younger than the first and more resistant. He treated Dave to a sullen glare and he dragged his feet deliberately slowly through the fire fight, confident of his own safety and exposing his captors as long as possible.'Get on with it,' Dave roared. He jammed the prisoner in the back with his weapon. He felt angry. In one second Steve's life, Leanne's and the kids' lives had all been changed. Nothing would ever be the same for them. He wished he could shoot the man. Feeling the weapon in his back, the prisoner jumped forward, as if he'd read Dave's mind.Suddenly, the air support emerged from an empty sky and flew so low that Dave could see the helmeted pilot at the controls. He'd been jumped by Harriers before but it was still impossible to prepare yourself for the intensity of the noise, for the sheer violence and physicality of such a ma.s.sive tonnage of metal moving at the speed of sound only metres above your head.Then, when the head and heart of every man on the ground was fit to burst, the Harrier evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared. The roar of its engines melted into the thudding heartbeats of those beneath.Dave continued to watch the sky. The Harrier was no bigger than a distant bird of prey now, hovering over the faraway hills. Dave waited. Sure enough, after only a few breaths, it was right above their heads again, dimming the sun, screeching over the town in a vengeful fury, cracking the mud walls and shaking the ground.And then it was gone.It left a deep silence. Wherever the enemy was hidden, they did not move and they did not fire. The soldiers were still too. The whole town was motionless.When rotor blades beat the air, the boss talked the Instant Response Team down into a square, maybe a market place, just ahead of them. Before it had touched the ground Mal and Angus were running Steve on a stretcher, two men from 3 Section close behind them with Jordan, to the hot tailgate of the Chinook.The doctor and his team were waiting. A rear gunner watched over them with a GPMG. Once the casualties were handed over, the medical team's focus was immediate and total and there was nothing for the lads from 1 Platoon to do but return to the convoy. The platoon watched in silence as the thudding blades hauled the big machine into the air. They glimpsed the doctor at work as the Chinook rose and turned for Kandahar.The A Company team appeared. Dave wanted to say something sarcastic about their late arrival but they were leaving today after countless similar contacts and he guessed thoughts of home must be overwhelming their will to rush into battle. They towed out the mangled Vector and the rest of the convoy started to follow them to the FOB.Dave was about to jump on board when he saw something lying in the dusty street. Something familiar. He grabbed Steve's leg, tucked it under his arm and leaped into the back of the last Vector as it pulled away.Except for the boss updating HQ on the net, n.o.body spoke. Finally, as they neared the FOB, Dave asked about the casualties. He was relieved to hear that they were still both T1s. If either had reached the point where no one could help them, they'd have slipped down the emergency agenda to T4.He remembered the way Steve's leg had sailed so gracefully through the air. It must only have taken a few seconds but he remembered it in slow motion, as though it had taken an hour. And at the end of the hour, two bodies lying in the street.Jordan Nelson had recently joined 1 Platoon from another battalion. He was liked, but not yet fully integrated with his new section. He was unmarried but had talked about his family in Watford a lot. He was the oldest of three boys. Or was it four? Jordan talked about his younger brothers as though he was their father. Dave imagined the mother and brothers answering the doorbell, standing in a hallway full of muddy football boots and hooks piled with too many coats. He tried not to think about the silence in the hallway when the Families Officer told them the news.A Families Officer would also be standing on Steve and Leanne's doorstep back in Wiltshire in a few hours. The other women in the street would be at the window; they'd see the Families Officer ring the bell and fear the worst. Dave's wife Jenny would be sure to see. Leanne and Steve lived right across the road. Sol's wife Adi was a few doors up but she would know, because she always knew everything. Jamie's wife, Agnieszka, who lived up a side street, would probably guess what was going on, even though her English wasn't that good. And like all the others, she'd cry. Both with sadness for Leanne and relief for herself because it wasn't her own husband who was maimed for life.'You all right, Sarge?' Jamie Dermott asked quietly.Dave was thinking how only the stoppage in his weapon had brought him down into the Vector just before the bomb had exploded. A few seconds earlier and it would have been him flying through the air to the left while his leg flew to the right. The stoppage had saved him. It had cost Steve his leg and maybe his life.'Sarge?' said Jamie.Dave's escape today had been the narrowest. It should have been him. And at this moment, thinking of Steve and Leanne and the twins, he wished it had been him. He shut his eyes.He said: 'I'm fine.' His throat was so dry the words scratched their way out of his mouth. He imagined his home, in a quiet street in the quiet camp in England. It seemed nearer than Afghanistan. He knew that, in a few days, the madness of Helmand Province would be home and quiet Wiltshire would be some strange, faraway place.The Vector proceeded to the Forward Operating Base in total silence.

Chapter Two

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN JAMIE BEING AROUND AND JAMIE NOT BEING around was that everything went wrong the minute he walked out of the door. The dishwasher had spluttered to a halt before his plane had even landed in Afghanistan. It had been the same with Iraq: the washing machine had stopped, the bathroom pipes had been blocked and the phone had gone kaput within three weeks of his departure.Agnieszka could cope with the dishwasher because in Poland she had managed without one. But now it was the car. There was a clunk from deep within its bowels. It was the kind of noise you couldn't ignore, the kind which said the car would stop on the motorway just when she was taking Luke to the hospital tomorrow. It was the sort of clunk which said that Jamie had gone and nothing was going to be right until he came back.So now she was on her way to the garage. She'd shovelled the big pushchair into the back. Luke was crying. And halfway there she realized she should have rung first. Which would have meant speaking on the phone. Which she hated because communicating in English over a phone line was about fifteen times harder than when she could see people pulling their faces into shapes which filled all the gaps in her understanding.There was nowhere to park at the garage. There was nowhere to park in the road outside. She hovered, wondering what to do. A car hooted behind her.She drove slowly around the block. Only one parking place, a whole street away. Luke was asleep now. She would wake him if she lifted him into the pushchair and then he would cry again. And she would arrive at the garage and they would say: 'Well, where's the car?' Then they would probably give her an appointment in two weeks.Agnieszka put her head on the steering wheel and wept. When Jamie was at home, loving her, adoring Luke, taking him when he cried, holding him while he had a fit, fixing broken gutters and unblocking pipes, looking after them both, then life was good. But he never was at home. There had been Catterick, Canada, Iraq, Kenya and now Afghanistan. Afghanistan. Just the word made her cry. It sounded like Pashtu for sadness.Even after the sobbing stopped, the tears kept falling silently.She finally managed to pat her face dry and check her makeup. Her mascara hadn't run because she had forgotten to put any on. Good. She reached into her bag, shook the tiny tube and rolled the brush under her eyelashes. She watched herself in the mirror. Despite the tears her eyes had retained their penetrating blue. Her long lashes curled around the mascara.'You don't need that stuff,' Jamie had told her the first time he saw her putting on her makeup.'I need for give me confidence,' she said.She disentangled the feat of engineering that was Luke's pushchair, smoothed the sheepskin liner and lifted him into it very, very gently. At first she thought she had completed this manoeuvre without waking him but then he opened his eyes wide, stared at her and screwed his face into a tight ball. She braced herself. A second later, his roars of displeasure began. Tears burst out of his face like a sprinkler. She hoped he wouldn't have a fit.She walked towards the garage. By the time she got there Luke was still shrieking. She knew any discussion about the car would be impossible so she kept on walking. She walked around the block. When she pa.s.sed the plumbing supply shop, someone inside wolf-whistled. Perhaps she had imagined it. But then she glimpsed herself in the tile-shop window. Her legs looked very long today; it was amazing how they seemed to change length. So maybe the whistle had been for her. She flicked her hair back over her shoulders.Back at the garage, Luke was still wailing so she decided to walk around the block again. This time, as she pa.s.sed the plumbing supply shop, the whistle was unmistakable. It came during one of the pauses in Luke's cries. She kept right on walking as though she hadn't heard, murmuring a few words to Luke to show that she was oblivious to it.By the time she reached the garage again, Luke was quiet. Should she go in now? What if his tears came in bursts like her own and he started up again? She decided to walk around a third time.She glanced surrept.i.tiously into the plumbing shop as she drew near. A young man, tall with a shaven head, grinned at her familiarly from behind the gla.s.s. As if he knew her. When all she had done was simply pa.s.s his shop a couple of times. She didn't smile back. She found herself blushing. Supposing he thought that she was walking past deliberately again and again?This possibility was so shameful that she felt she owed a few Aves to the Holy Virgin. Muttering them under her breath she returned to the garage. Luke was fast asleep now.Hesitantly she pushed him into the dark workshop. A car was raised high on a ramp. A man stood underneath it.'Erm . . . I bring my car here because . . .' Her voice sounded small in this great cavern of a place. Someone in the corner was spinning tyres on a machine which sounded like a gun firing.'You shouldn't be in here! Reception's around the side!' the man shouted. The machine-gun noise did not stop. Agnieszka did not understand. She hesitated.The man gesticulated angrily. 'Round the side!'She nodded, certain he was telling her to leave, uncertain where to go. Another small humiliation. Until she'd met Jamie, just going into a shop and asking for something was a humiliation. She emerged from almost any situation red-faced, struggling to understand English people and their language. Then along came Jamie and everything changed. When he wasn't away in Catterick, Canada, Iraq, Kenya or Afghanistan.She walked around the building heaving Luke with difficulty between cars and over kerbs. Then she saw a door and somehow manoeuvred the pushchair inside. This must be the right place. It smelled of workshop but aspired to be an office. The scent of oil and car parts reminded her of her father back in Poland. He had worked in a small engineering firm until his death.A man behind the counter discussed a bill with a customer, who was running his finger down the invoice, pausing at each figure. Agnieszka did not care to listen. It was almost summer but she was cold in her T-shirt and it was warm in the office. She closed her eyes and the men's voices sounded like a radio station broadcast from far away in a foreign language. It would be easy to imagine she was in her father's workshop now, a child again, warmed by the brazier, lulled by that comfortable oily smell, falling asleep in her nest of rough blankets while adult words and adult voices washed over her.The previous customer was leaving, pinning himself against the wall in order to navigate around the pushchair.'Can I help you?' asked the man behind the desk. She opened her eyes.'Like to sit down?'He smiled at her and gestured to a tiny waiting area with a couple of dirty armchairs, a coffee machine and last week's free newspaper. 'You look knackered standing there with your eyes shut.'Agnieszka stared at him.'Come on . . .' His face was friendly. 'I'm having a tea; I'll get you one too.'Agnieszka found herself squeezing into the waiting area and sinking onto one of the chairs. She glanced at Luke. He slept deeply. His head had fallen to the side.'Milk? Sugar?'She nodded. A moment later the man handed her a plastic cup, stirring its contents vigorously. He removed the spoon and the tea continued to turn in slowing circles.The man sat down in the other chair, his hands cupped round his own tea. The two chairs were so close together that it was hard to avoid his legs. Agnieszka swung hers out to the side.'Now, what can we do for you?''My car not working.' Her voice was hoa.r.s.e. The cup warmed her hands.'Won't it start?' He sounded as though he knew how your whole day was ruined when your car didn't start.'It start but it make terrible noise and smell not too good,' she said. 'I think it stop any minute, maybe on motorway.''Yeah, in the fast lane, that's when they usually let you down.''I go on motorway tomorrow morning to hospital so I think I come this afternoon to get car fixed but maybe you tell me not today. Also, no parking. So my car is far away.''Which hospital then, the Prince of Wales?''Yes. My baby see specialist at Prince of Wales Hospital.''That sounds like a bit of a worry.'Yes it was. Tomorrow the specialist would ask questions and take notes without smiling. Jamie was in Afghanistan. Her mother was ill in Poland. Her parents-in-law barely spoke to her. The dishwasher was broken. Now the car was planning to stop the moment she got into the fast lane of the motorway. It was all a bit of a worry. It was enough of a worry to make her cry. She did not trust herself to speak so she just nodded.'How far away is this car of yours?' he asked gently.'Afghanistan.''The car? In Afghanistan?' The man raised his eyebrows and grinned at her so comically that suddenly she felt herself smiling.'I thought you said how far away my husband is!''Oh, he's in the army, is he?'She nodded. 'Husband in Afghanistan. Car in street that way. Not in first street. Next street.''Elm Road?'She wasn't sure but she nodded.'Well, let's go and see if we can't sort this problem out. Then you can get to the hospital tomorrow no trouble.'He stood up, smiled at her again and she smiled back. Here was a good man. Agnieszka felt the same relief she felt when Jamie came home. Everything was going to be all right.

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.''s.h.i.t. 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 f.u.c.k 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 f.u.c.king 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 bra.s.s anyone up.''I couldn't understand why I was taking such a f.u.c.king 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 surrept.i.tiously 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! 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 f.u.c.k you're just the advance party. If they'd sent the whole s.h.i.tload 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 s.e.x grenade.''Waiting to explode. Any f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king day. You can get bra.s.sed 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 f.u.c.king get.''And they clear up their dead so fast you hardly even see a f.u.c.king 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 s.h.i.t.'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 s.p.a.ce?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 G.o.d 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 f.u.c.king 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 s.p.a.ce Dave had left him. But without Dave's energy and certainty to fill it, that s.p.a.ce 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 f.u.c.king 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 s.e.x. 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 hara.s.sed 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 p.i.s.s 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?

Chapter Four

BOSS WEEKS HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE MUD-WALLED ROOM WHERE the detainees were being questioned.Just before he entered, he was halted by a scream, a horrible, animal sound. What could Iain Kila be doing to the Afghans? Gordon Weeks barely knew the Company Sergeant Major. The man had been polite when they had first met at Bastion but he had made it clear that, as the veteran of countless contacts, he regarded Weeks as just another in a long line of young, inexperienced and uninteresting officers.Inside, the boss was surprised to find that Kila was nowhere near the two Afghans. The CSM stood silently, hands on hips, in a shadowy corner with the CSM of A Company. At a battered table in the centre sat the blue-robed prisoner, his wrists still tied in front of him.Far from being terrorized by big men, he was being questioned by two small women. One was speaking to the detainee in a soft voice. The other was watching silently. Second Lieutenant Gordon Weeks understood instantly, instinctively, without thinking about it, the way he didn't have to think before firing back at the enemy, that this silent woman was beautiful. He had to stare at her. There was no choice.She was leaning against the edge of the table. He could tell that her figure was slim and well shaped beneath her body armour. She was brown-skinned, large-eyed, dark-haired. Her cheeks slanted, her jawline was sharp. Weeks thought she must be used to every man at the base staring at her all the time but, when she became aware of his gaze, she turned to him. Their eyes met. Her look was icy and it said that she found his stare intrusive. He felt his face redden. He looked away from her at once.The seated woman had fair hair and sharp features. She wore a Royal Military Police badge. She was pretty enough too, but in a more ordinary way. She glanced up at him. But the flow and rhythm of her words to the detainee did not falter.CSM Kila came over.'What are they saying?' Weeks asked in an undertone.'f.u.c.k knows,' Kila said.'Aren't these women supposed to interpret for you while you conduct the interrogation?'Kila glared at him. 'They act as interpreters. But Jean's Royal Military Police, Asma's Intelligence Corps.''Was it the detainee who screamed?''Yeah. But n.o.body hurt him.''Then why . . .?''They're headf.u.c.king him,' Kila said.Weeks tried not to show how much he disliked the man's language and the aggressive way he used it.'How long have these women been here?''Long enough for the CSM from A Company to know they're hot s.h.i.t. You noticed Asma, sir. Admiring her Intelligence?'Weeks avoided his meaningful glance.The atmosphere around the table was electric. Asma leaned over the man and joined in the questioning. Weeks strained to hear her voice. It was without harshness. The women pa.s.sed words back and forth like skilled footballers pa.s.sing the ball. He wondered what they were saying. They spent a lot of time agreeing with each other, that much was obvious. The gentleness of their tone was eerie because the effect of their words was dramatic. The detainee responded as though to a series of blows.Suddenly the man cried out and started to talk. At first he muttered, looking down at his feet. Then his voice grew stronger.He was thin and his bones protruded. His face was clouded by anger and resentment.'What's he saying?' Kila asked.'Just a minute.' Asma broke into English. 'Give us a bit of bleeding time. We're getting there.'She obviously was English. She had some sort of accent, maybe London. Disappointingly rough, thought Weeks. Although she didn't look it.The detainee sighed and said something and the women backed away. Asma looked at her watch. She pointed to something and the man turned his chair to get a closer look. Weeks tried to see what she had shown him, without success. He looked at Iain Kila for guidance.'Saying his prayers. He got disoriented by the blindfold so she had to tell him which way to Mecca.'n.o.body took their eyes off the prisoner as he prayed.'Looking good.' The other CSM walked over to them. 'Looking very good.''So what the h.e.l.l is going on?' Kila asked.'We've pa.s.sed the first stage,' Jean said. She had a Scottish accent.'Which is?' Weeks asked.'I'm visiting my relatives and I just got caught up in the firing, I don't know anything about it.''So what's he saying now?' Kila asked.'He's telling us about Taliban activities in this area. But he's not telling us exactly where.''The OC wants it all.''He'll have it. Don't forget, we haven't even started on the other one yet.'Weeks listened to her soft Scots accent and wondered how she had learned fluent Pashtu.'Um . . . doesn't the detainee have a serious leg injury?''Not that serious.' Kila's tone was defensive.'But he was. .h.i.t!' Weeks said.The woman paused. 'Skimmed. Not hit. And he's received medical attention.' Her voice was stiff, as though the officer had made an accusation.She moved back to the table and spoke quietly to her colleague. Asma kept her back to Weeks and continued to ignore him. When the prisoner had finished praying, she invited him to return to the table. She started to talk. Her tone was coaxing.Suddenly the man's voice rose. He began to shout. He jumped to his feet and roared hoa.r.s.ely at the beautiful, dark woman. His arms struggled against his plasticuffs. His face thickened with anger.Asma produced a pistol, so quickly that Weeks hardly saw her. She darted to the prisoner and held it against his head. The man froze. His speech was halted mid-sentence. His eyes stared straight ahead. The room was silent. Jean moved up to his other side and began to whisper in his ear as Asma slid the safety off the pistol. The man heard it. He still didn't move. Jean carried on whispering.The detainee swallowed. He sank back down into his chair. And began to talk. The women took it in turns to ask him questions. Boss Weeks recognized the same question more than once. The pistol did not move from his head.'What's he saying?' Kila was almost beside himself with impatience. But the two women ignored him.Gordon Weeks was shocked. He waited for Asma to put away the pistol. It remained firmly pressed against the prisoner's temple.'Isn't this a bit . . . unethical?'Kila turned to look him full in the face for the first time. He seemed to have trouble focusing, as if the young officer was so insignificant that he was barely visible to the naked eye.'This man's got information. We want it.' His lips hardly moved.For a few moments, Weeks did not reply. He found his mouth was dry. 'Carrying a pistol in an interview, let alone threatening with it, is contrary to all rules of tactical questioning.'Asma heard him. She gave him a steady glare before turning back to the detainee.'We're not at Sandhurst now. This is the real world. Sir.'A few minutes later the boss left the tent. He had a sick feeling in his stomach, like the time he'd stumbled across the school bullies at work on a young kid. He'd tried to intervene then. But he said nothing now.Darkness had fallen. He found his way over to the cookhouse where some of the A Company officers were still eating. He only wanted a cup of tea but the plump little man by the sink who was clattering pans and shouting at his cooks insisted on resurrecting some old lasagne, an operation which caused a fresh outburst of clattering. The soldiers had to yell their conversation over the pans and the TV, which was tuned to Flaunt. Flaunt.The cook had to be the Bangladeshi whom Dave had praised earlier. When the lasagne arrived it was good, but Weeks could eat little. His mind kept filling with disjointed pictures of the day's events. He had done well enough at Sandhurst, but now, having faced the reality of battle for the first time, he was asking himself if he really wanted to be in the army at all.On the screen, a woman writhed seductively. Weeks didn't notice her. He didn't join in the officers' chat. He went to find his platoon. They were cleaning their weapons or slumped against the vehicles listening to their iPods or showing each other footage of today's contact. A few already had their heads down, body armour for pillows, rifles on their webbing away from the sand, helmets over rifles. That must be the way the platoon sergeant had taught them. Dave Henley seemed to have a firm hold over the men and to keep them in good order.'Well, sir,' Dave said, 'would you like the good news first?''Good news?' Weeks echoed listlessly. The best news he could imagine right now was that they were all going home.'We've been told to expect three new men as soon as possible.' The platoon was already under strength, even without today's losses.'How soon is that?''If we're very lucky, within the week. There'll be an experienced machine-gunner for 2 Section. In 1 Section, Jamie Dermott will replace Jordan Nelson on the GPMG and two new lads are on their way. That's the good news. The bad news is that they're both straight out of Catterick.''Oh dear . . .' Weeks's brow furrowed. 'It seems you'll be surrounded by beginners.''We soon knock sprogs into shape,' Dave said cheerfully.It was impossible not to like this sergeant. Weeks knew that he was leaning heavily on him.Billy Finn was sitting nearby. 'Excuse me, but can I ask if you're a betting man, sir?''No, Finny,' Dave growled.But Weeks heard himself say: 'I have been known to show a pa.s.sing interest in the two thirty at Chepstow, Lance Corporal.'Finn jumped to his feet. 'I'm taking bets on the new bloke in 2 Section. Five to four on says he's ginger.'One of the first things Weeks had noticed when he met his men last Thursday was the unusually high number of red-haired men in 2 Section.'Come on, sir. You give me five dollars and you get nine back, that's including your stake, if he turns out to be a ginger p.i.s.swizard.''How did you arrive at those odds?'Finn gave him a cheeky smile. 'I used to be a bookie's runner, sir. I was offering eleven to ten on but there weren't many takers.''And how many men in 2 Section already have ginger hair?''They've only got seven lads at the moment and five of them are p.i.s.swizards of one shade or another.''Yeah,' Mal agreed. '2 Section's a freak show.''They can't take their helmets off or aerial surveillance think we're under enemy fire,' Jamie said.Finn's eyes sparkled. 'A fiver at five to four on says the eighth bloke's a ginge, sir.''I'd rather bet on him not being ginger.''I can do that, sir. Would you like me to calculate the odds for you?'Dave groaned.'No, I'll give you a fiver at five to four on.''Yessir!' said Finn, jumping up and producing a wallet to receive the boss's money. He gave Dave a wide grin.'How many dollars have you taken, Finny?' Dave said.'A bookie never tells. Let's just say most of the lads in the platoon like a flutter and these are very generous odds.''You sure you've got the money to pay out if you lose?''Trust Billy Finn!' Finn cheerfully pocketed the fiver.Dave offered Weeks a brew and the pair of them sat down a little away from the others, talking quietly into the Afghan night.'No further news of the casualties?'Weeks shook his head sadly. He hardly knew the injured men but Dave was sure he felt their loss acutely. Dave had been hearing Steve's screams inside his head. He'd listened to men screaming in agony before. Sometimes he heard it again months later when he was far away. In his sleep, or without warning in the back of his head late at night when he was driving on the motorway. As though there was a casualty lying on his rear seat.The boss yawned. Dave yawned too. Around them men were falling asleep. Dave felt ready for some kip himself. He'd just phoned home, talking first to little Vicky and then to Jen. It had been the usual chatty stuff. Gradually the Wiltshire camp with its wide, wet streets and its rows of houses and his own living room had formed again in his mind. But when he put down the phone it had all vanished in the hot Afghan air.

Chapter Five

JENNY KNEW SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED. DAVE WASN'T ALLOWED TO say anything about anything on the army phone but she could still tell that he was keeping something from her.He'd used up every one of his thirty allocated minutes. He and little Vicky had cooed idiotically at each other for at least ten of them. The strange gaps, the overlaps, the complications that always occurred when there was a two-second delay on the patchy line never mattered to Vicky. It only mattered when two adults had things to say to each other.Jenny had told him all the small stuff from home. Everyone said this was the right way to talk to your man when he was away and over the last few years she'd been given plenty of opportunities to perfect her technique. So it was a quick reference to the broken gutter before moving swiftly on to what the nursery had said about Vicky being ahead of her age, the date the hospital was going to scan the baby, her mum inviting his mum over . . . she sometimes listened to her own voice, wittering on, and wondered what he was thinking. Did it mean anything when people were trying to kill you in an alien land that the gutter on a house in Wiltshire was leaking? They both had to pretend it did. But today he wasn't pretending as well as usual.She put the phone down with that all too familiar feeling. Loss. Regret. Disappointment. The knowledge that all the important things had not been said. Phone calls were a brief interlude in her life and his. And then they went away and lived in their separate worlds, waiting always for the next disappointing call.She picked up Vicky, who seemed to share her sadness. They stood at the window. A grey day was melting into a grey evening. The street was wet. Irregular patches in the pavement were filled with water. The houses looked ugly. Sometimes, when the lights were on in the living rooms and the TVs flickered, she felt cosy on a dark evening. Not tonight.Headlamps travelled slowly up the street. As the car pa.s.sed Jenny could see it was Agnieszka Dermott's old Vauxhall with Luke in the back. Where had she been? Agnieszka never shared the details of her life with the other women. Within a day of the men leaving for Afghanistan the wives at the camp had got together in each other's houses. Even if they hadn't said anything in particular there was a sort of strength in knowing that everyone felt the same way. But Agnieszka hadn't joined in.Jenny and Vicky stood at the window so long that night fell and the gla.s.s began to throw their own reflections back at them. Jenny saw herself, tall, blonde, angular, Vicky sitting on her hip with one leg stretching across the b.u.mp of the baby.More headlamps. A car drew up outside Leanne Buckle's place. And in that moment, Jenny knew what Dave hadn't been telling her.There was an endless pause before a man got out. He was carrying a briefcase. Jenny recognized him at once. The Families Officer. That could only mean one thing. Jenny felt her throat constrict and tears press behind her eyes. She tried not to cry for Vicky's sake then saw with relief that the child had fallen asleep.So she let her tears spill as the Families Officer walked up the front path to Leanne's door. She watched him ring the bell. Leanne's bell didn't work and when nothing happened after a few minutes he had to knock. Leanne answered, carrying a twin, legs hanging. The other one was probably behind her somewhere, bawling, the way they did when Leanne only picked one of them up.Jenny couldn't see Leanne's face but, before the man even had time to speak, it was clear she had guessed why he was there. Her hand went up to her head as if she was warding off a physical blow. Her body swayed. The man stepped inside and the door closed behind them.Jenny's face was wet with tears. It hurt too much to think about it. She tried not to think.The phone rang again. She grabbed it before the noise could wake Vicky. Her whole left side ached now where she had stood too still holding the child for too long. She sank onto the sofa without letting go of Vicky, and put the phone to her ear.'Oh, Jen, there's some bad news . . .' Worry could not remove the warmth from Adi Kasanita's voice. Jenny loved Adi. She had exchanged another life in a sunnier world for rain and tax credits which never stretched far enough, and yet she was always cheerful, always kind. She never joined in the gossip and ignored the petty rivalries. And when she detected an undercurrent of anger or unhappiness, she confronted it without flinching. If we wives were soldiers, Jenny thought, I'd want Adi to be my sergeant.'Something must have happened to Steve Buckle,' Jenny whispered. She didn't dare to speak because she might wake Vicky. No, that wasn't true. She didn't dare to speak in case her voice cracked and she started to cry.'You looking across the road?' Adi lived about five doors away.'The Families Officer's just gone in.''Jen, I knew you'd be really upset so I'm ringing to tell you that he's not dead.'How did Adi always know everything? She just did. But she never told unless there was a good reason.Jenny swallowed.'How bad is it?''Lost a leg.''Oh, Christ, oh, s.h.i.t . . .' Jenny tried not to swear in front of Adi but she couldn't always help it. Adi and Sol Kasanita were Christians. They never talked about it, Jenny didn't ask.'Lost a leg and a lot of blood but they think he'll survive.''Is anyone else hurt?''That new lad in 1 Section, Jordan Nelson, he's got some bad burns. I don't know him. He was in Germany and he's not b