The New Patrol Page 2

  ‘I’m guessing you didn’t get that out in theatre,’ said Reynolds.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Liam, lying.

  ‘Bollocks it is,’ said Reynolds. ‘And you should know better than to try and lie to my face, eh, Scott?’

  Liam explained what had happened, and he heard frustration and anger in the sergeant’s voice.

  ‘You’re a fuckin’ idiot, you know that, Scott? Some prick with a gob on him calls you names and you lamp him one? Seriously? Is that what your training’s amounted to?’

  ‘He was an arsehole,’ said Liam.

  ‘And you’re an even bigger one for listening to him, Scott, and you know it!’

  ‘But what he was saying, boss—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Reynolds, cutting Liam off. ‘You’ve seen war first-hand, up close and personal. All that dickhead will have ever done is watch it on the news, or on YouTube.’

  Liam said nothing. He knew the sergeant hadn’t finished.

  ‘So tell me, Scott, what the hell were you thinking exactly? Because I’m pretty sure making a point with your fists isn’t the best way to win someone over and get them to see things from your point of view!’

  ‘He was out of order,’ said Liam. As soon as the words were out, he knew just how lame he sounded.

  ‘I didn’t train you, work my arse into the muck and dust to keep you alive,’ Reynolds said, his words fired at Liam with bullet-like accuracy, ‘just to have you come back here and screw it up by getting into a scrape with a random dickhead!’

  ‘No, boss, I know that, but—’

  ‘But what, Scott? What? Well?’

  Liam said nothing. The sergeant’s neck veins were starting to stand out – never a good sign.

  ‘I’ve been in this job for over twenty years,’ said Reynolds, his voice quieter now, which only made it worse. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of lads like you I’ve seen come through, and I know that with every new recruit who makes it to become a soldier, there’s a chance they might not be coming back.’

  ‘I lost my rag,’ said Liam. ‘I shouldn’t have, I know.’

  ‘You need to sort your head out, Scott,’ said Reynolds. ‘Remember your training, and stay calm. Then walk. The fuck. Away.’

  Reynolds paused, clearly, Liam thought, to give him time to think about what had just been said.

  The sergeant spoke again. ‘If you don’t,’ he continued, ‘you’ll screw your own life up, and give the army – and me – a bad reputation. Because if you get upset every time some dicksplash shouts their stupid ignorant views at you, then the best place for you is out, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Liam replied.

  ‘You’re a good soldier, Scott,’ said Reynolds. ‘I should know – I trained you, fought alongside you. That medal was well deserved. And I’m not just saying that to blow smoke up your arse. I’m serious.’

  Liam smiled. A compliment from someone like Sergeant Reynolds was hard won. Funny how he made it sound like an insult, nevertheless.

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘Don’t go all Hollywood on me,’ said Reynolds. ‘Tears I don’t do. Just take my advice and make sure that you don’t let the few dickheads out there influence how you behave, got me? Don’t give them control over who and what you are. You’re worth more than that.’ He took a deep breath, his face relaxing a little. ‘Anyway, that’s all I’m going to say. Listen to it or don’t, that’s your shout. So, you got any plans now you’re back?’

  Liam shook his head. ‘To be honest, I’m just missing it,’ he said. ‘You know, proper soldiering. Feel like I’m in limbo over here, just kicking around.’

  ‘Get focused,’ said Reynolds, turning a suggestion immediately into an order. ‘Sort out a training plan. Do some adventure training. Sign up for a course. Keep working on your fitness. You’ll be out on tour again in six months and I don’t want to chase around some burger-filled arsewipe who’s just been sitting on a sofa living on pizza and beer!’

  ‘Is it really that long before a second tour?’

  Reynolds nodded.

  ‘That’s ages,’ said Liam. ‘Is there no way I can get out there quicker?’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘I know I’ve only been back here a short time, but out in theatre I felt like I was actually doing something, you know?’

  Sergeant Reynolds was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘You could transfer to 4 Rifles. It’s not common, but people do it occasionally. And by people, I mean the mad bastards who can’t get enough.’

  ‘So 4 Rifles are out sooner?’ Liam asked.

  ‘Head out in just a few weeks,’ Reynolds replied. ‘Our role’s changed out there. You’ll be working alongside the Afghan National Army, helping them ready up for when we finally bugger off out of their country.’

  ‘They won’t take me, though, will they?’ said Liam. ‘I’ve just come back.’

  Reynolds said, ‘You’re experienced, Liam. You’ve been out there, and you know how things work. Your training’s been tested. Trust me, they’ll snap you up.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Liam.

  Reynolds grinned. ‘You were with me, remember? Best recommendation in the business.’

  3

  The C17 wasn’t exactly luxury air travel, but it did the job, transporting troops and equipment to and from the UK. Fifty-three metres long, and capable of carrying anything from thirteen Land Rovers in one go, to a Chinook helicopter, it was also fitted out for up to 102 passengers. Liam knew that in a few minutes, before the aircraft started its descent to Camp Bastion, the internal lights would be switched off, and it would be dark inside the aircraft too. The last time he had gone through this, flying through Afghanistan’s air space and into Camp Bastion, seemed a lifetime ago, yet it was little more than eight months. So much had happened in that time that Liam knew he was a different person now in almost every way possible. And it felt good.

  He remembered the mix of nerves and excitement, the sense of heading off into the unknown. This time he was still nervous, still excited, but in a different way. He knew what to expect, fully understood the risks and the danger because he’d already experienced it, and in some ways that was reassuring. He knew what lay ahead of him, as unpredictable and potentially deadly as it was, and he also knew that his skills and training would give him every chance to survive it.

  With Camp Bastion only half an hour away, everyone was wearing their helmets and body armour. As the plane lights went off, they sat in total darkness, a darkness which was treacle-thick and ripe with expectation, excitement and fear.

  A few moments later, the plane banked hard left.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  It was the soldier next to Liam. When they’d climbed onto the plane, Liam had noticed that he was probably the smallest bloke among them. And judging by what he’d just said, his voice breaking with nervous anticipation, he was also new. They’d said their hellos, given names, but Liam had forgotten it the moment it was spoken. He guessed the soldier was about the same age as himself, but he looked younger, his blond hair and pale face making him resemble the Milky Bar Kid. Liam had seen the soldier fiddling with a keyring in the shape of a rugby ball and he felt pretty sure that this must be his first tour. For him, that brought back a lot of memories. He knew exactly what the soldier was going through.

  ‘The pilot’s putting the plane into a spiral manoeuvre,’ he explained. ‘Means we’re not so easy to hit if any Taliban are out there bored and looking to have a pot shot with an RPG.’

  ‘That’s not making me feel any better,’ said the soldier.

  He had a point, thought Liam. He decided that changing the subject might help keep him calm. ‘I’m Scott,’ he said again. ‘Sorry – I got your name earlier, but I’m shit with names.’

  ‘Martin, I mean Saunders,’ said the soldier.

  Liam smiled. ‘You ready to jump?’

  ‘What? How do you mean? Jump from what?’

  ‘The plane doesn’t lan
d,’ said Liam, not expecting to get far with this leg-pull. ‘We jump, remember? You were briefed on it, surely.’

  Martin was quiet.

  ‘Parachutes are under our seats.’

  Though Liam could only really make out the faint shadow of Saunders’ silhouette, he saw him dip forward to check.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  Liam left it a moment, then laughed. ‘Sorry, mate, couldn’t resist it; can’t believe you actually checked! Brilliant!’

  ‘Bastard . . .’ hissed Martin.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d believe me, to be honest.’

  ‘Not a fan of flying,’ said Martin. ‘It’s not natural, us being up here.’ He took a deep breath, then said, ‘How come you’re out here again so soon? Haven’t you just got back?’

  Liam explained how he’d transferred to 4 Rifles so that he could get back to soldiering rather than waiting around for his next tour. It was a decision he hadn’t yet regretted.

  ‘You missed it that much?’

  ‘Better than anything I’d been doing with my life before I joined up,’ said Liam.

  Martin said, ‘You’re that lad from 2 Rifles who got a medal, right?’

  Liam said nothing. He was proud of it, but hardly spoke about what had happened. Didn’t seem right. But word had got round, as it tended to. The army was, in many ways, just one big family, albeit a dysfunctional one of epic proportions.

  ‘I recognized you when I sat down,’ said Saunders. ‘Sounds like you had a hell of a time out here.’

  ‘I just did what any soldier would do in the same situation,’ Liam said. ‘Your training kicks in, and you just get on with what you have to do. Everyone who comes here deserves a medal.’

  Martin said, ‘You should be proud of it.’

  ‘I am,’ Liam replied. ‘But I’m not going to shout my head off about it. I was hardly thinking There’s a medal in this when everything was kicking off.’

  The plane was still on its steep spiral. Camp Bastion was only minutes away now. Liam was actually excited.

  ‘What’s it like? Bastion, I mean?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Massive,’ said Liam. ‘It’s like a town more than a camp.’

  Martin was quiet, then said, ‘Pretty much shitting myself. Feel like I’m eleven and heading off to secondary school.’

  And you don’t look much older, thought Liam, hiding a smile.

  ‘Nerves are good,’ he said. ‘I’d be more worried if you weren’t scared.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ said Martin.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Liam replied. ‘If you’re not nervous, then you’re not alert to what might happen. You can use it to your advantage.’

  An announcement from the pilot echoed through the plane: they were coming in to land.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Hope so,’ said Martin.

  The pilot’s voice came back on line. ‘Thank you for flying with us and have a lovely holiday. Welcome to Costa Afghanistan!’

  Landing done, the thick darkness of the Afghanistan night kept at bay only by the torches they all carried, Liam walked in line from the plane into familiar air, a mix of desert heat, hot vehicles, dust and sweat. There was a distant tang of more unpleasant smells, courtesy of the huge effluent pools, or shit pits, kept at bay by regular burning.

  The heat was as he’d remembered: like stepping out of an igloo and into a furnace, even at this time of night. Camp Bastion itself was unlit after dusk so it was perilous to walk around. A major hazard was the numerous vehicles trundling around the place, most of them capable of crushing you into the ground without noticing.

  After collecting his kit, Liam, with a group of others, was taken to his new quarters – a simple metal-framed temporary building, lined with folding beds and accompanying mosquito nets.

  The room, if such a place could be called that, was all function, with nothing in the way of comfort or welcome. Dust-covered matting did its best to provide a level floor, but the desert ground underneath was playing a different game and stepping carefully was the only way to avoid tripping up. The colour scheme was various shades of beige, with a bit of grey and brown thrown in.

  Laying out his doss bag, Liam quickly got himself and his kit in order. It didn’t take long, and seeing his weapons laid out neat and tidy was another sign that he really was back out in Afghanistan. Back home, weapons were locked away for good reason. In theatre, they were by your side, the reasons just as good.

  As he got himself sorted, Liam shared nods and grunts of weary greeting with the other lads. Liam knew them by face but little else. He was still new and playing catch-up with names.

  Martin was opposite him and was engrossed in sorting his kit like he was back at Catterick and fearing a bollocking from a grumpy NCO. A couple of the other lads were clearly seasoned soldiers, and probably, thought Liam, more so than he himself.

  Another soldier caught Liam’s attention. Older than the rest – probably around forty, Liam guessed – with greying hair cut short where it wasn’t already receding. He had photos out from home of his family, a wife and two young children: a boy and a girl. Liam gave a nod, which was returned then followed up by a jog over.

  ‘Eastwood, right?’ said Liam, working to remember names and faces from the build-up training.

  ‘Yep,’ said the soldier. ‘I’ll let you guess my first name.’

  ‘Scott,’ said Liam, introducing himself. ‘And it can’t be.’

  ‘Oh, it is! Dad was a huge Western fan. His favourite films were High Plains Drifter and Pale Rider.’

  Liam grinned at the thought of growing up with the same name as Hollywood legend Clint Eastwood, who made his name being a hardass cowboy on the silver screen in films like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. ‘You carry a Peacemaker?’ he asked, remembering the famous revolver Clint had used in so many Westerns.

  ‘Pacemaker, more like,’ said one of the others, a tall, pointy-faced lad called Ade Sunter who was reading a well-thumbed climbing magazine through bleary eyes. He was fiddling with a karabiner, a metal clip used in climbing as well as to clip kit to bergens. ‘Old bastard. You bring the zimmer frame then, Cowboy?’

  Clint laughed. ‘I’ve had worse nicknames,’ he said. He turned back to Liam. ‘So how are you feeling being out here again so quick? Made the right decision? This is my third tour, but I didn’t exactly want to jump the queue like you did.’

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Liam.

  ‘You’re the lad who transferred,’ said Clint. ‘Everyone knows. You liked it that much, right?’

  ‘Loved it,’ said Liam.

  ‘Young and keen,’ said Clint.

  Ade called over with, ‘Better than being old and shit. You able to draw your pension over here, or what?’

  As Clint laughed, Liam was momentarily acutely aware not just of his age, but his inexperience. Clint had by his own admission done two tours, and it was obvious Ade had been out as often if not more.

  Martin joined them.

  ‘Hey, it’s Mascot!’ said Clint.

  ‘Sod off, Cowboy,’ said Martin, and Liam could tell he was doing his best to sound as much the soldier as the rest of them. It was almost convincing, though Clint’s nickname came out a little forced.

  ‘Mascot?’ asked Liam.

  ‘He’s here to bring us good luck,’ said Clint. ‘Not only is he about the size of something hanging from a charm bracelet, he also carries around that little rugby ball keyring like a magic rabbit’s foot.’

  Martin laughed. He was clearly used to the ribbing.

  ‘I’ve seen children bigger,’ continued Clint. ‘Actually, I’ve got two of my own that actually are. And they’re only six and eight years old!’

  Liam glanced at the photographs Clint had put out. ‘Can’t imagine being a dad,’ he said.

  ‘No one can, until you become one,’ said Clint.

  The second of the other two soldiers, a stocky bloke in his mid-twenties called Rob Hammond who, Liam had noticed,
spent most of his time plugged into his iPod, called over, ‘If you rub his head, he’ll grant you a wish. Before I met him, I was as ugly as Clint, but look at me now! Thanks, Mascot!’

  Everyone laughed. But then Rob wasn’t exactly a looker, and knew it, which was half the joke. His face bore the scars of years spent boxing, and his hands looked fit to rip through walls. Like everyone, his hair was cut short, but it was so black and thick it made him look like his head was covered in Velcro.

  ‘He might even be able to sort out that tattoo of yours, Scott,’ Rob added. ‘Were you drunk when you had that done?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s not that bad, is it?’

  Rob didn’t get a chance to answer as footsteps interrupted them.

  ‘Hello, gents.’

  It was a voice Liam was already getting used to hearing, that of Corporal Cowell, one of the NCOs out with 4 Rifles. Even though he’d only been with the regiment a short length of time, Liam had quickly realized that Cowell was one grumpy bastard.

  ‘Corporal,’ everyone responded instantly, their voices bumping into each other.

  If there was one thing that made the corporal stand out, thought Liam, it was that he was always, and without fail, impeccably dressed. Even his face seemed to be shiny, like he polished that too. In his thirties, the NCO was as tall as any of them, and carried the build of someone who spent most evenings throwing weights around. Not that he was muscle-bound, just big and hard-looking. He reminded Liam of a bulldog.

  ‘All settling in, lads?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ everyone chimed.

  ‘What about you, Saunders?’ the corporal asked. ‘These experienced wankers filling your head with their tosspot war stories yet?’

  ‘No, Corporal,’ Martin answered.

  ‘Well, do yourself a favour and don’t listen to a single word they say,’ said the corporal, like Martin’s answer was completely and utterly inconsequential. ‘Half of it is bravado, the other half bullshit.’ His face didn’t so much move as slide from Martin to stare at Liam. ‘Isn’t that right, Scott, hey? Bullshit and bravado?’

  Liam was caught off guard, not least because this was the first time Corporal Cowell had actually spoken to him directly.