The New Patrol Read online

  ‘The mess?’ said Pete when they arrived at what was simply a collection of mis-matched chairs dotted around some pallets, now given a new life as impromptu tables.

  Liam laughed. ‘Well, that’s what we call it,’ he said. Grabbing a couple of mugs of tea, he sat down with the padre.

  ‘I hear it was a tough start,’ Pete said, taking a sip. ‘Good tea, by the way. First decent one I’ve had in days.’

  Liam said nothing, just took a sip himself.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Pete, and Liam could tell that he’d picked up on his own silence. ‘I’m not here to pry. But if you need to talk about what happened, or anything really, I’m a good listener.’

  Liam wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Thanks,’ he said at last, then asked, ‘So were you always a padre?’

  Pete laughed. ‘Not a chance,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Liam. ‘I just assumed . . .’

  Pete rolled up his right sleeve and Liam saw a tattoo. It was the cap badge of the Parachute Regiment.

  ‘Holy fuck . . .’

  Pete laughed out loud. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘You were a Para?’

  Pete nodded. ‘I was in Iraq first time round,’ he said. ‘Fresh out of training too. Quite the learning curve.’

  Liam was impressed. Becoming a Para was no easy task. One of his mates back at Harrogate had joined and he’d been the fittest bloke Liam had ever met. And tough.

  ‘How long were you in for?’

  ‘Long enough,’ said Pete. ‘When I finally decided to leave the army, I discovered God had other plans.’

  Liam finished his tea. ‘Martin was a good lad,’ he said.

  ‘So I hear,’ said Pete.

  Liam smiled, remembering their flight into Camp Bastion. ‘Everyone called him Mascot because he was so small. He was keen too. Wouldn’t stop asking questions. It was shit, the way he got killed, you know?’

  ‘Yes, I do know,’ said Pete, and Liam could tell that he meant it. ‘The death of a friend – it’s something you never really get over.’

  Liam nodded. ‘Lost a mate last time I was out here,’ he said. ‘And back home.’

  ‘Back home?’ asked Pete. ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘It’s the reason I’m here, I guess,’ said Liam.

  ‘You were close?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Liam. ‘Knew each other since we were kids.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Liam found himself liking the padre more and more. In a way, he reminded him of Zaman – the way he somehow put him at ease, made him want to talk.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Liam explained, remembering seeing his friend Dan fall while they’d been out messing around with some free running in a derelict factory. ‘I was with him when he died. Kind of puts things into perspective.’

  ‘Death does that,’ said Pete. ‘Look, I’m going to do a memorial this evening. If there’s anything you can tell me about Martin, I’d love to hear it. I always prefer these things to be personal. Martin was a person, you all knew him. He deserves it to be real, if you know what I mean.’

  A shout came from the gym area. It was Lance Corporal Clark.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Pete asked, glancing over.

  ‘Clark’s decided to run regular fitness competitions,’ said Liam, finishing his mug of tea.

  ‘You entering?’

  ‘No, but Sunter is,’ said Liam. ‘Seems to think he’ll win easily. But that’s only because Clint’s not in on it, otherwise he wouldn’t have a chance. Coming?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pete and stood up. ‘After you?’

  Over at the gym, Ade clocked the major. ‘Soldiers only,’ he said. ‘Don’t want you to get hurt now, do we, Padre? Might damage those wings of yours.’

  Liam started to speak but the major stepped in and said, ‘It wouldn’t be fair anyway.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Ade. ‘Men of steel we are, hey, lads?’ A ripple of laughter went round the soldiers.

  ‘No, I meant on you,’ said Pete.

  ‘You’re funny for a padre,’ said Ade.

  Clark said, ‘Join in if you want, Padre. Entirely up to you. The winner gets the admiration of his peers and the chance to set the next competition.’

  To cheers, the major stepped forward. ‘So, what’s the test?’

  ‘Press-ups,’ Cowell answered. ‘Max. Just keep going till you drop.’

  ‘Sounds simple.’

  ‘Like Sunter,’ said Clint, standing next to Liam.

  Ade snarled. ‘Come on then, Padre, you can go next to me.’

  ‘This I have to see,’ said Clint.

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Liam.

  ‘You know something I don’t?’ asked Clint.

  Liam smiled, said nothing.

  A minute or so later, Major Pete Clements was one of six soldiers down and ready in a press-up position. Six others were on the floor beside them, fists under each soldier’s chest to count the reps.

  ‘You can give up now if you want,’ said Ade, looking at the major. ‘No shame in it – know what I mean?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘But I’m here now, so I may as well see if I can do a few at least.’

  Lance Corporal Clark called everyone to order. ‘Rules are simple. Do as many full press-ups as you can. Just keep going till you drop. Ready?’

  A chorus of: ‘Yes, Corporal!’

  ‘Then on my mark . . . GO!’

  As one, the soldiers raced into the press-ups. Liam knew none of them wanted to be the first to drop out, and when the first did, he regretted it immediately as his failure was met with howls of laughter.

  ‘Sunter’s fitter than I thought,’ said Clint.

  ‘Fit, or just worried he’s going to get his arse kicked by a padre?’ said Liam.

  Another of the soldiers dropped, and the next two followed quickly, leaving just Ade and, to everyone’s astonishment, Major Clements.

  ‘I thought you were good,’ said Liam to Clint. ‘But the padre doesn’t even seem out of breath.’

  With only two left, everyone started to cheer them on. Liam could see Ade was pushing hard now. He was huffing and puffing, his face red, the veins on his arms like wire cables under his skin.

  Then it happened: his arms froze and he just couldn’t move.

  ‘Come on! Don’t give up! Move it!’ Clint yelled, but it was no good. Just a few seconds later, Ade dropped onto his chest.

  The padre, however, kept going.

  Ade sat up. ‘What did I manage?’ He was out of breath, sucking air into his lungs, the pain of exertion etched onto his face, his arms shaking as his muscles tried to recover.

  ‘One hundred and thirty-two,’ said Clark. ‘That’s seriously good. Well done. Didn’t think you had it in you, to be fair. You always look like a weedy bastard.’

  Ade looked at the padre, as did Liam. He still hadn’t stopped. His pace was steady, unstoppable almost, like he could just go on for ever. A few seconds later, Ade asked, ‘And what’s he on now?’

  ‘Hundred and seventy-four.’

  ‘Holy shit . . .’

  ‘Literally,’ said Clint.

  At last Major Clements stopped. He was sweating hard, but still didn’t look as broken as Ade had when he’d finally dropped onto his face. ‘I think that’s two hundred, yes?’ he said calmly.

  Clark looked at the soldier who had been counting for the padre. He got a nod. ‘It would seem so,’ he said.

  Pete stood up, then reached a hand down to Ade, helping him to his feet. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘Better luck next time?’

  Ade was a picture of disbelief. ‘You’re a fit son of a bitch.’

  The major winked. ‘Now, how about another cup of tea for the victor?’

  13

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liam, walking over to the padre. ‘What you said last night, it was great. Saunders would’ve liked it. I’m sure of it.’

  It was the day after the padre had arrived and, as
promised, he had carried out a service in memory of Martin Saunders. Liam knew that by now Martin’s body would have been repatriated to the UK in the back of a C17. But the memory of him was still there. Liam hadn’t been the only one who’d cried either. And no one had thought to rib him for doing so. This was the death of a comrade, and that kind of thing affected everyone deep down. It brought the reality of their job home, and did it harder than anything. Tears, if anything, thought Liam, were a proper sign of respect to the person gone. They showed exactly how much everyone had thought of Martin.

  The major smiled. ‘Thank you, Scott,’ he said. ‘Memorial services are difficult. I’m always nervous of saying the wrong thing or not getting the details right.’

  ‘It was spot on,’ said Liam, and could feel himself getting choked up again. But he managed to hold the tears back. He’d let them flow the night before and that had been fair enough. Now, though, it was back to the job and staying alive.

  ‘I have you in part to thank for that,’ replied the major and handed Liam back a piece of paper. ‘You write well, you know? And loss is generally something most people struggle to express in words.’

  Liam took the paper, which was covered with some handwritten notes he’d put together about Martin at the padre’s request, and pushed it into a pocket. He didn’t want to talk about it any more. Thinking about Martin, writing it down, had brought back dark memories of Cameron’s death. Funny, though; just being able to mention Cam again, to the padre, had made him feel better, made him feel he was beginning to come to terms with it. Like he might not kick off so easily at a wanker in a bar again.

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘This afternoon, I think,’ replied the padre. ‘Certainly more interesting than running a little village parish back home.’ He laughed. ‘Imagine if I landed on the vicarage lawn in a Chinook?’

  That evening, with the padre on his way to another group of soldiers somewhere in the Afghan desert, Liam was sitting in the mess with Clint. Ade was there too, re-reading an old climbing magazine, playing with a karabiner.

  ‘He’s still smarting from the bucketload of whoopass he got handed by the padre,’ said Clint, nodding over at Ade.

  Liam laughed, then spotted Lieutenant Steers approaching.

  ‘Scott,’ said the lieutenant, sitting down.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I spoke to the padre earlier. Told me that you’d helped him with what he said at Saunders’ memorial. Can’t have been easy. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liam.

  ‘Well,’ said the lieutenant, ‘keep it up.’ He stood, then glanced at Ade, who had now plugged his ears with earphones. ‘Should I tell him the padre’s little secret or not?’

  Liam and Clint looked at each other. ‘Secret?’ said Liam. ‘What? That he was in the Paras?’

  ‘That’s some secret,’ said Clint. ‘Explains a lot. Top effort!’

  ‘That’s true,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Not your average padre, then,’ said Clint.

  ‘No, not really,’ said the lieutenant. ‘It was after the Paras that he had his calling, as it were.’

  ‘He left the army and came back?’ said Clint.

  The lieutenant shook his head. ‘Not exactly. From the Paras he went on and passed Selection. John Clements, Padre, is also ex-SAS.’

  For the next few days, the routine was the same: manning the sangars, using the gym, eating at the cookhouse, and getting their heads down. There were regular patrols, with a good majority of them involving interaction with locals to improve relations between them and the security forces in the area. Liam got to know Zaman better as the days went on, and made good use of their conversations to practise his Dari. His pronunciation often made Zaman laugh, but it was always well meaning, and Liam quickly found that he was understanding more and able to join in with at least a few broken phrases. Then at last came the time to head out in the two Foxhounds to the first ANA patrol base.

  Liam had seen Foxhounds around Camp Bastion, but hadn’t thought that he’d be getting to use one. The Foxhound, designed and built in Britain, had been field-tested in Helmand before being deployed. It was, thought Liam, fully rock-and-roll awesome. It looked mean, had a top speed of 70mph and provided outstanding levels of blast protection, thanks to its V-shaped hull. It could even drive away from an attack on only three wheels.

  The trip out of the old police station and to their next home was like a white-knuckle ride at a pleasure park. Liam wasn’t sure of the distance – it was probably only twenty kilometres – but it took for ever to get there, the vehicles driving at a careful speed, the drivers focusing on the road ahead, always aware that an IED could be anywhere. No amount of checking could ever guarantee a road was completely clear. But there was no point dwelling on the potential hazards or you’d go mad and never leave the compound.

  In the back of the first truck, Liam and the others were strapped in, but that didn’t stop them being bumped around like crazy. They arrived bruised but safe, with no problems along the way at all, thanks to the route being recce’d the night before. That in itself was reassuring. Liam knew just how capable the Foxhound was, but that didn’t mean he necessarily wanted those capabilities to be tested out – to see if it really could pull away on three wheels.

  Climbing out of the vehicle, his body achingly numb after all the bumps and knocks along the way, he rested his eyes on their new accommodation. The ANA patrol base was small, and seemed even more so sitting completely alone in a huge flat desert plain. The land immediately surrounding it had been cleared of all vegetation, giving anyone inside clear line of sight for about two hundred metres. Where the open ground stopped, the shrubs were rough and hardy and dry. Again, Liam was struck by the harshness of the place and wondered how anyone could live here, never mind a whole society grow and thrive over hundreds of years.

  As they walked towards the patrol base, everything was covered in dust, the ground all grit and stone. The outside of the compound showed the telltale signs of attack from small arms and RPGs, with chunks knocked out of it, yet still it stood resolutely against further attack. If anything, it looked bullheadish and stubborn, almost as though it was staring out and daring someone to come and have another go. Worryingly, though, realized Liam, the place lacked the serious protection of HESCOs, depending more on piles of sandbags. They did the job, but often only just.

  Quickly settling in, their sleeping area completely separate to the ANA stationed there, Liam was pleased to at least be on the move. This may have been little different to the previous patrol base, but that didn’t really matter. Keeping busy coupled with a change of scene was good, kept people fresh and alert.

  Lieutenant Steers worked well with Miller, Cowell and Clark, and the ANA, to ensure everyone was kept occupied. And that didn’t just involve reviewing their operating procedures, how the patrol base was run, and the patrols. Everyone was given tasks to keep the compound in good order, and no one complained because they were all in the same boat. Rotas were put in place to run the cookhouse, tidy up, report back to Camp Bastion, organize entertainment, such as fitness competitions, and to sort out the disposable latrines. These were bags filled with a gel, similar to that used in nappies, that could then be burned. There was no sewage system here and running water didn’t exist.

  Most days brought with them some form of contact, from random pot shots and IEDs, to full-on night attacks. Amazingly, despite this, the only casualties yet were the ones from that first day at the HLS. Liam wondered how long such luck would last.

  He was cleaning his SA80 and getting his kit together when Lieutenant Steers called him over. Liam had noticed that the lieutenant kept a close eye on everyone in his charge. Not in a bad, suffocating way, but with a firm, professional eye on due care and attention. It was obvious that he lived and breathed his job. And that was exactly how any soldier wanted an officer to be.

  ‘So, how are you, Scott?’

  ‘OK,’ said Liam, then
added, ‘It’s good to be back, sir. I’m glad I transferred.’

  ‘So am I,’ replied Steers. ‘I’ve been impressed with your focus, particularly considering the loss we all experienced when we arrived out of Camp Bastion.’

  Liam said nothing, just nodded.

  ‘You knew Saunders only a short time, but he clearly looked up to you. So thank you for sorting out his kit back there. It was appreciated.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Liam, then added, ‘Sir.’

  It was clear to Liam that the lieutenant was putting him at ease. And he was doing this for a specific reason, but what?

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ said the lieutenant. ‘As you know, we are here to work with the ANA, to help them with their patrols, deal with the Taliban and so on. From here on in our life gets more interesting.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Liam, wondering where this was going.

  ‘Well, today Harper is visiting a local village. We’re going along with an ANA patrol. Relations between the ANA and the locals are good there.’

  Liam said nothing, just listened.

  ‘Also, I’ve noticed you’ve struck up a good working relationship with Shah.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Liam. ‘He’s helped me with my Dari. Not that I’ve had to use it much, but it’s fun learning.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I’ve overheard you talking. Seems to me that you have an aptitude for languages.’

  Liam was taken aback. ‘I’m not so sure about that, sir.’ As far as he was concerned, all he’d done was mix in. They were all living together, so it made sense to get to know Zaman and the others and to learn their language. He’d made use of the MOD-issue phrase book and done his best to strike up conversation, or at least join in with a mix of bad pronunciation and sign language. To have this noticed by anyone was a bit of a shock, and again made him realize just what a good officer Steers was.

  ‘Well, I am, and so is Sergeant Miller,’ said the lieutenant. ‘And we’d like you to work on it further. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the ANA we are working with don’t speak Pashto, as they’re from this area where Dari is mainly spoken. That you’ve picked it up so well could come in very useful.’