The New Patrol Read online

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ he said, not really thinking about what he was actually saying, just replying on auto.

  The others laughed. Liam tried to, but his face wasn’t into it, almost like his muscles had to be forced to move into the right position. Why was Corporal Cowell singling him out? Was he getting at him somehow? Implying that his medal, his own experiences, were like he’d just said: simply bullshit and bravado?

  No, that couldn’t be it, thought Liam. He’s just doing his job. Doesn’t want Saunders listening to everyone else and thinking this is all guns-a-blazing, like in the movies. And that was fair enough. Still, it did put his guard up a little.

  The corporal marched away, his steps measured and smart. Then, just before he left, he turned back into the room and said, ‘Focus on your training, lads, you hear? You’re not over here to collect glory stories. You’re here to do a job, and get home alive. That’s all that matters. Got me?’

  No one said anything until the corporal had left.

  ‘Fucking X-Factor is a right twat,’ said Ade. ‘He’s all spit, polish and no fucking balls.’

  Liam laughed; he thought the nickname for the corporal was one of the better ones he’d heard.

  ‘You swear a lot,’ said Clint.

  ‘So fucking what?’ Ade replied, the karabiner still clicking away in his hand.

  ‘Just an observation.’

  It hadn’t escaped Liam’s attention that Clint, as yet, hadn’t sworn once. And that was weird. They were soldiers. It was how they communicated.

  ‘You do talk some bollocks,’ said Ade.

  ‘And yet still we understand each other,’ said Clint.

  As Clint and Ade both laughed, Liam sat down on his bed. Uncomfortable as it was, at that very moment, it felt like the best bed in the world. This was where he belonged.

  4

  Bastion was a monster that never slept. Liam, walking to grab some breakfast, noticed how silence and quiet were alien things in this place, the air constantly humming with voices and engines and aircraft.

  Near the mess tent, a Wolfhound trundled past. The thrum of the six-wheeled vehicle shook the ground and sent up great clouds of pink-grey dust. Highly protected, and armed with a 7.62 general-purpose machine gun, or ‘Gimpy’, the Wolfhound was heavy, hard and ugly, and was used in the main to carry vital combat supplies, such as water and ammunition, for front-line patrols. Liam fancied driving one. But then that was one of the great things about being in the army: the kit. There was always something new to have a go at, some extra training to hook in to.

  It was his second morning in RSOI – Reception, Staging, and Onward Integration – a process of acclimatization that focused on getting those troops newly out in Afghanistan used to what life was going to be like while they were out on tour. It might have been only a few weeks since he was last out, but for Liam it was still a shock to the system.

  The size of Bastion itself was breath-taking: a town in the desert, but with everyone working for the same employer, to all intents and purposes wearing the same uniform. Liam had already noticed one big difference since his last tour, though: all the fast food joints had gone. Liam wasn’t too bothered, but Rob was not impressed.

  ‘Not a decent burger or pizza place anywhere,’ he grumbled, piling up his plate with enough breakfast for three. ‘How the hell are we supposed to eat?’

  ‘Blame the Americans,’ said Liam. ‘I heard that a US general wasn’t massively impressed with troops getting fat on fast food.’

  The general, so Liam had been told, had demanded action after finding a few less than able grunts stuffing their faces with pizza. So out went the fast food and in came even more gym equipment, along with an endless supply of fitness supplements. If there’s one thing the Americans knew how to do, thought Liam, it was throw money at a problem until it either went away or just drowned in dollar signs.

  Sitting down at a table, Hammond continued to grumble as he pushed toast into his face. It was like watching someone feed a loaf of bread into a garbage disposal unit.

  Clint nodded at Hammond’s tray.

  ‘Three fried eggs? Well, you know what they say, Hammond? You are what you eat.’

  Hammond laughed. ‘Too right they do, Cowboy, and you know what? I don’t remember ever eating a fucking legend!’

  Liam decided to remember that line – it was one of Hammond’s best, even if it wasn’t exactly accurate.

  Despite it being early in the day, and them all being inside a large mess tent, the heat was already suffocating. Greased up with sun cream, and sweating, their clothes stuck to them; the tang of BO lingered in the air permanently, mixing with the aromas drifting in from the kitchen. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was all part of the experience, and Liam was enjoying it. Unlike the last time he’d arrived at Bastion, RSOI was now carried out at a dedicated facility within the camp, which included an Afghan compound to provide realistic training, a driver training centre, and a couple of Roll Over Drill and Egress Training mechanisms (RODET) to practise escape techniques if a vehicle rolled on patrol.

  But it was later that morning, breakfast duly demolished, that Liam had some real fun when he got the opportunity to use a new weapon only recently deployed with the troops – the L129A1 Sharpshooter.

  ‘These are for use by the best shots in the infantry,’ a corporal running the shooting range told him, cradling the weapon with something akin to fatherly love. ‘So don’t fuck this up.’

  Liam was a good shot. He wasn’t big-headed about it, but it was the truth, something he’d increasingly realized during his last tour. It was a skill all soldiers respected, for obvious reasons. Handling a weapon that would help him test his skills even further was exciting.

  ‘The whole point of this new weapon,’ the corporal explained, ‘is to improve long-range firepower in theatre. Taking a 7.62 round, the Sharpshooter will be able to hit a target up to eight hundred metres, which is a bit fucking different to the standard issue SA80.’

  Liam was impressed by what he’d heard of the weapon, and even more so after laying down some rounds with it. Accurate didn’t seem an adequate word to describe how it handled. The weapon’s accuracy was enhanced by the fitting of the Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight (ACOG), which Liam had used a few times before heading back out to Afghanistan. That and the Lightweight Day Sight (LDS) were replacing the older SUSAT sights and were significantly more capable. The ACOG itself provided up to 6x fixed power magnification, was significantly lighter than the SUSAT, and was illuminated at night by an internal phosphor. There was also no getting away from the fact that, despite its deadly purpose and fearsome capability, the weapons system as a package looked seriously impressive.

  With the first two days of RSOI done, Liam pushed on through the rest of the training. This covered dealing with Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs), working as a patrol, understanding Afghan culture, and vehicle drills. He also practised clearing compounds and using heavy weapons systems.

  After a day of numerous compound clearance drills, Liam was with Martin outside one of the coffee shops the American general had deemed safe enough not to tear down and send back home. The addiction to caffeine, Liam thought, was probably encouraged, if only to keep soldiers awake enough to survive the long and exhausting hours.

  ‘What do you think it’s going to be like working with the ANA?’ Martin asked.

  ‘They’re just soldiers,’ said Liam. ‘Doing a job like us. That’s it.’

  ‘But what about the insider attacks?’ asked Martin, and Liam heard the concern in his voice.

  Insider attacks weren’t common, but they had all heard that there were more each month. The Taliban always considered it a real coup to get someone in under the radar. They would target someone in the ANA, threaten their family, and force them to switch sides; then that was it, they had an armed soldier working alongside ISAF forces with no choice but to open fire.

  During his last tour, Liam remembered the sense of being wary of all Afgh
ans. Fair or not, it was a case of self-preservation. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who’d been smashed apart by an IED, or shot, killed even, and no one was taking any chances.

  ‘What happens if something kicks off?’ said Martin. ‘What if I don’t clock something’s up and it all goes to shit?’ Without even pausing for breath, he continued, ‘There was one last week. Afghan soldier at an FOB emptied his mag on our soldiers. Wounded four. That could happen again, couldn’t it? Right?’

  Liam had heard about the incident. ‘Just have to depend on your training,’ he said. ‘Stay alert.’

  ‘Doesn’t make me feel any better about heading out to our FOB,’ Martin replied.

  ‘Just focus on your job. That’s all you need to worry about, trust me.’

  Martin pulled out a small booklet from a pocket. ‘I keep reading through this, trying to memorize it, but none of it’s sticking!’

  It was a Pashto phrase book. Army issue, and handed to all soldiers in theatre, it came with a phrase book for Dari, the language spoken in the north from where most of the ANA were recruited. The books were useful, thought Liam, who was keen to do his best to learn both languages, but the pictures inside looked like they’d been copied from a rubbish Afghanistan-themed computer game. The one of the thief was particularly bad – a man running with a sack on his back. All that was missing was a mask over his eyes.

  ‘It’ll make more sense when you use it with some locals,’ said Liam, trying to reassure Martin. ‘It gets easier when you use it in context. You just need to practise.’

  Martin remained quiet.

  ‘You probably know more of it than you realize,’ said Liam, focusing on the Pashto rather than confusing Martin even more with Dari. ‘What would you say if I said, “Salaamu alaikum”?’

  Martin paused then said, ‘Walaikam salum?’

  ‘Close,’ said Liam. ‘Walaikum salaam. What about “Tsunga ye”?’

  ‘Za sha yam?’ Martin replied hesitantly.

  ‘Spot on!’

  ‘Really?’

  Liam opened the first page of the phrase book and pointed at what they’d just said.

  ‘I asked, “How are you” and you replied with “I am fine”. Great!’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Just do a little a day,’ said Liam. ‘We’ll practise together if you want. I need it as much as you do.’ At that, Liam saw Martin visibly relax. Standing up he said, ‘I’m going to head to the gym. You coming?’

  ‘Hoo,’ Martin replied with a grin, clearly chuffed he’d remembered the Pashto word for yes.

  Numerous gyms were dotted around the camp. Filled with state-of-the art equipment, they were always busy. With little else to do to relax around camp, bodybuilding, weights and fitness were activities that passed the time, and also allowed you to let off some steam. As they entered the nearest gym, Martin knocked Liam on the arm and pointed.

  ‘Cowboy,’ said Martin.

  Away from all the main gym equipment, the free weights and smiths press machines, and everything else needed to get the veins popping and sweat running, was an area of clear floor space. Hanging from the wall were some skipping ropes, a pull-up bar, and on the floor a few sit-up mats and some press-up bars. Hanging from the pull-up bar was Clint. He was doing pull-ups and, Liam noticed, somewhat effortlessly.

  ‘One of the fittest in 4 Rifles,’ said Martin. ‘When he turned up some of the others took the piss because he was TA. They reckoned he wouldn’t even survive our pre-deployment training.’

  Liam watched as Clint dropped from the bar to the floor to hammer out some perfectly executed press-ups.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Martin. ‘Cowboy doesn’t get easily riled up, as you’ve probably noticed. He just sat quiet, then destroyed everyone in the fitness tests. And by destroyed, I mean he nuked every fucker there.’

  Liam smiled. He could just imagine Clint enjoying that.

  ‘To be honest,’ said Martin, ‘most of the TA lads are as fit, if not fitter, than the regulars.’

  ‘They probably have to work harder at it,’ said Liam. ‘They do this as well as a normal job. Nutters, if you ask me.’

  Knackered after a decent workout that had involved not just the free weights, but a cross-trainer and rowing machine, Liam and Martin bumped into Clint as they were leaving.

  ‘For an old bastard, you’re in serious shape,’ Liam said.

  ‘I don’t just keep fit for this,’ said Clint, as they made their way back to their quarters. ‘I run some self-defence stuff back home.’

  ‘You mean all that ninja stuff?’ asked Martin, his eyes wide.

  Clint shook his head. ‘Reality-based training,’ he said. ‘It’s not really a martial art – that stuff’s no use in a real fight in the street. What I teach is how to identify a threat, deal with it, and get away sharpish. Not how to score points in a competition.’

  Liam was impressed. He was about to ask if Clint could teach them a few basic moves when Corporal Cowell walked up.

  ‘Been training, lads?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ Liam and Clint acknowledged.

  ‘Good,’ came the short reply. ‘See you at the Company Briefing later.’

  Then he was gone.

  ‘A man of few words, is X-Factor,’ said Clint.

  Liam still hadn’t worked the corporal out. ‘Always acts like he’s back in training,’ he said. ‘Reminds me of what life was like back at Harrogate and Catterick. Always being shouted at by NCOs.’

  Clint laughed.

  ‘What?’ asked Liam. ‘Did I say something funny?’

  ‘That’s all X-Factor’s ever done,’ said Clint. ‘You probably don’t know, because you’re new to 4 Rifles, but Corporal Cowell has spent his career in training posts. The other NCOs all have experience of being in theatre. Cowell, though? This is his first tour. He’s as new as you, Saunders.’

  Liam stopped mid-stride. ‘You mean he’s never been in theatre? In combat?’

  Clint shook his head. Slowly.

  ‘He’s as green as me?’ said Martin, letting out a long, deliberate breath. ‘Shit . . .’

  Clint said nothing.

  5

  It was forty-three degrees in the shade. Camp Bastion, Liam knew from experience, was plush compared with any FOB they could be sent to, with showers and decent food, but it still provided no escape from the searing, relentless heat. All anyone could do was keep covered up and drink water, and that meant litres of the stuff every day.

  Dehydration was dealt with by drinking your own bodyweight in water on a daily basis. Most soldiers didn’t just take a camel bak – a special backpack that contained a hydration system – out on patrol, they had one with them most of the time, usually a lightweight model used by runners, plus a bottle of water to hand at all times. Liam had even spotted a few attempts at modern art around the camp: sculptures built by bored soldiers entirely from used plastic water bottles.

  Liam’s legs were already in bits thanks to a morning spent completing a punishing five-kilometre run in battle kit, followed by some time down on the range with his SA80. The run hadn’t been tough because of the distance; back home he could hammer through 5K barely breaking into a sweat. But in Afghanistan things were different. The heat was monstrous, and the sweat didn’t just make your clothes stick to you, it sucked up the dust in the air and turned it into a sort of glue. And as the day wore on, it turned into a crust you could peel off like a layer of skin.

  As for hygiene and cleanliness, you just had to do your best. And so long as you were vigilant in keeping your doss area clean, had regular showers and washed properly, then that was the best you could do.

  Now, though, Liam was running up and down a dusty pock-marked pitch, the boundary marked by stones, trying to work out what rugby was all about. He’d never played it before in his life.

  The ball appeared out of nowhere on an intercept course with his head. Liam’s instinct was to duck, but he’d real
ized already that all this did was get him booed at by everyone else playing the game. So he jumped in the air and, to his surprise, caught it. Clasping it under his arm, he did the only thing he knew how to do, and that was run. Not pass it, not look around for anyone on his team, just hammer his legs hard, muscles working like engine pistons, to get him to the touchline.

  Liam heard the shouts of everyone else on the pitch. What they wanted him to do, he hadn’t the faintest idea. So he pushed the voices out of his head and sped on.

  The touchline was close now. Someone tried to pull him to the ground, but he had momentum and that carried him through. Then his sixth sense kicked in. It had helped numerous times out on patrol, and all soldiers spoke about it. An additional sense that everything quite soon was going to go to shit.

  Someone was on his tail and he couldn’t shake them. But it was just a few metres more. He could make it. Had to. Then arms wrapped around his legs with the strength of steel cable, took his feet from under him, and he was suddenly flying horizontal through the air. The ground came up quick, hammering into Liam, stealing his breath. The ball bounced from his arm. He looked up. The touchline was barely a hand’s reach away.

  ‘You’re a bloody good runner.’

  Liam looked up to see a hand reaching down. He grabbed it and was on his feet. ‘Mascot?’ He was stunned. The smallest bloke in the battalion, if not the entire army, had taken him out as effectively as a Stinger missile.

  Martin grinned, his face dusty and a bit bloodied. He was clearly in his element. ‘Rugby’s the best game on the planet! Way better than that football bollocks. All those pretty boys prancing about. Who wants that? Fucking pointless.’

  ‘You don’t look . . .’ Liam’s voice dried up in his mouth from the dust and the heat and the exertion.

  ‘Big enough?’ Martin finished for him.

  Liam shrugged, nodded.

  Martin laughed and jogged off to get back in the game.

  That evening, it was the Company Briefing. They’d heard it all before, not just since being at the FOB, but before flying out. They all knew what they would be doing once beyond the perimeter of Camp Bastion, but being told again was sensible. It ensured everyone was absolutely clear.