The New Patrol Read online

  Liam was sitting with the rest of 4 Rifles. In front of them were the officers and NCOs. Liam already knew that once out of Bastion he would be under a young officer, Lieutenant Steers, a shining example of all that was good about Officer Training Centre Sandhurst; a gnarly, stocky sergeant called Miller, who had the look of a bar brawler about him; Corporal Cowell; and Lance Corporal Clark, a Fijian giant who looked capable of hammering mountains into rubble. However, the only one he really knew yet was Cowell. They’d had briefings already, and he’d done training with all of them, but it was Cowell he so far seemed to keep running into.

  The highest-ranking officer there was Major Varley, a man with piercing eyes and a voice that rang with unshakeable determination and personal drive as he took the floor.

  ‘As you are all aware,’ he began, ‘we shall soon be heading into the Yakchal Valley. And the best way to describe it is that it is very much a heart of darkness.’

  Liam knew he wasn’t the only one sitting there who didn’t much like that description.

  ‘The Yakchal has created a number of key players in the Taliban. The Afghan National Army is now fully taken up with securing the main route through the area, Highway One. Our job is to support the ANA in their work to the very best of our ability.’

  The major spoke as though fully confident that no one could ever disagree with him. It was as reassuring as it was unnerving. His calm, focused approach and the way he enunciated each and every word demonstrated how important even the smallest details were to him. He also had an uncanny talent for remembering names and clearly prided himself on knowing his men.

  ‘The insurgency in that area has never been fully defeated,’ continued the major. ‘We aim to change that. Our mission, just so that we are all clear, is not to go out looking for a scrap. We will work in an advisory capacity alongside the ANA to help them clear the Taliban out for good and make the area safe. The ANA have their own fully manned patrol bases in the area. We will be supporting them in their work, carrying out regular patrols, improving relations with the local population and, where insurgents are found, ensuring that they decide to leave.’

  Liam was impressed with the major’s masterful use of understatement.

  ‘We will lead by example,’ said the major, drawing to a close. ‘We will set a high bar, and I will expect us all to reach it on an individual as well as team basis.’

  The major stepped back and Sergeant Miller came forward.

  ‘Right,’ said Miller, ‘now that you all understand what we’ll actually be doing, you’ll be pleased to hear that in a few days we can all get the fuck out of Bastion and get on with it.’

  Liam smiled. What Major Varley had in finesse, Sergeant Miller had in being blunt. The sergeant was an experienced soldier, a born warrior. Badged as a paratrooper, as well as a sniper, he had been through a number of tours, including ones in Eastern Europe and Iraq, as well as Afghanistan. The very obvious scar on his face – a jagged rip down his left cheek, from his eye to his chin – carried with it lots of speculation. Liam wasn’t sure which of the stories to believe, if any of them. All anyone knew was that it had happened in combat, up close and personal. And that was enough. More than. They all practised it, but no one really wanted to think about, and most definitely not experience, the true horror of driving the war home with the point of a bayonet, staring into the eyes of someone you’ve just killed.

  Miller spoke again. ‘It’s all very well having hot showers, nice gyms, good food and all that bollocks, but that’s not why we are here. This is not fucking Butlin’s and I can assure you all that I am most definitely not a sodding Redcoat. You’re all here to do a job. Proper soldiering. And trust me when I tell you that when you do it, you will do it better than any other fucker out here. You should be proud to be a part of 4 Rifles. So work hard, do your job, and get home safe. That’s all I ask.’

  The sergeant paused, then added, ‘Well, that, and if things kick off, to fight like a mad bastard and survive. Right?’

  Everyone chorused with a ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  Liam was warming to Miller. He was tough and driven and, from Liam’s own experience out in theatre, that was exactly what he wanted from a sergeant. Someone whom he could trust in a fight. This was a man he wanted to be alongside when the inevitable happened and they ended up in a scrap with the Taliban.

  Miller asked, ‘Any questions?’

  Clint raised a hand.

  ‘Eastwood?’

  ‘What’s the situation like out on the ground? Do we know what we can expect to be facing?’

  It was Cowell who answered. ‘Take a wild guess, Eastwood,’ he said. ‘The Taliban! You’ve all seen the intelligence. They’re out there and they’re always working on ways to hit us, big and small. Pot shots with a blast from an AK, snipers, RPGs, IEDs. Whatever the fuck they can think of and get their hands on.’

  ‘Just wondered if things had changed at all,’ Clint continued. ‘Some are saying the Taliban have cleared off and the biggest danger is IEDs. Others are saying this is just a bit of calm before we walk in and everyone comes in to have a go. Are the Rules of Engagement any different if we’re not actively searching out the—’

  ‘Just focus on getting your kit in order, and your mind right,’ said Cowell, cutting Clint off sharper than a razor. ‘The situation on the ground changes all the time. You know that, Eastwood. Anything else?’

  Clint shrugged and sat back. Liam raised his hand.

  ‘What is it, Scott?’

  ‘When I was out here a couple of months back it didn’t seem like the Taliban were backing off at all,’ he said. ‘We were getting hammered every day. I’d rather know what we’re up against.’

  Corporal Cowell’s face turned fierce as he stared back at Liam. ‘We all know you were out here,’ he said, his voice dripping with barely disguised contempt, ‘and about what you did, but things change quickly in warfare, Scott. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘But—’

  Cowell stared Liam down.

  After a few more questions, Major Varley once again took the floor to close down the brief. This time, though, his finesse with language was replaced with a matter-of-fact abruptness. He wasn’t messing around.

  ‘Be aware, all of you, that beyond those walls are people who want you dead,’ he said. And he allowed his eyes to travel across the troops in front of him. ‘Some of them even treat it like a holiday; working for half the year, in their own country, then heading out here for the killing season. They’re seasoned fighters and they know what they’re doing.’

  Liam couldn’t get his head around the kind of person who’d hold a normal job down, then come out here for a few months to just kill. Then back home after for hugs and kisses from the wife and kids, Saturday night TV, and a nice dinner.

  ‘Don’t let this place make you go soft,’ continued Varley. ‘When you’re out there you need to be one hundred per cent alert, doing your job, and thinking of nothing else.’

  He took a breath. No one spoke.

  ‘So between now and when we head out, sort your personal stuff out good and proper. Write home. Tell people you love them. Sort out your death letters. I’m not saying it to be heartless, I’m saying it because it needs to be said. Right? Good. See you all tomorrow.’

  Liam walked back to his quarters with Martin and Clint. He found himself already wishing for some moisture in the air. It was the one thing everyone complained about back home – the rain, the damp, the lack of sunshine. But when all you had was the blast of furnace-like heat, day in, day out, you soon realized just how lucky the UK was. That damp in the air made the world smell more alive, rather than dead like dry tinder. And rain meant plant life, green; a colour almost entirely absent in the grubby terrain of Afghanistan. Ade and Rob headed off on their own somewhere else, both complaining that what they could really do with was a good night out on the piss.

  ‘Heart of darkness,’ said Martin. ‘Doesn’t sound inviting, does it?’

>   For a few paces, no one replied. Around them, the dark of the evening was stretching out fingers of gloom from the horizon. The heat had abated a little, but it hadn’t yet died completely. Liam noticed how the day smelled different when it closed, like the weak remnants of a barbecue holding onto its dying heat, still rich with fat and burned meat.

  ‘Miller’s got it together, though,’ said Liam, holding open the door to their room. ‘He’s someone you want on your side when you go somewhere dangerous.’

  Martin didn’t reply.

  ‘We’re all nervous,’ said Liam, sensing Martin’s unvoiced nerves. ‘Even Cowboy!’

  Clint laughed as he ducked through into the dormitory. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘It’s weird,’ said Martin. ‘I’m half excited and half so bloody scared I want to throw up.’

  ‘That’s normal,’ said Clint. ‘If you felt anything else I’d be telling you to go home. What we do is scary. You can’t escape that. All you can do is learn to deal with it. And you will.’

  Walking into their temporary home Liam found himself remembering when, during his last tour, things had got so desperate that they had thought their compound was going to be overrun. They were ordered to destroy any personal effects that could identify them or anyone connected to them. It had been terrifying, facing the prospect not just of hand-to-hand combat, but possible capture, torture and a horrific death.

  As Clint followed him in, with Martin behind, Liam had an idea that might boost Martin’s confidence a little.

  ‘So how’s about teaching us some of that self-defence stuff you do?’ he asked, looking at Clint. ‘Wouldn’t do us any harm, would it? You know, to know a couple of moves.’

  Clint hesitated. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s not judo or karate, right?’

  ‘What is it then?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Effective is what it is,’ said Clint and gestured Liam to the centre of where they were bunked. ‘And you, Mascot. May as well join in.’

  Martin made to protest, but was soon up with Liam and Clint.

  ‘First rule,’ said Clint, ‘is to identify the threat, right?’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Could be anything,’ said Clint. ‘Could be someone following you, a loudmouth at a pub coming on to your girlfriend or someone yelling and backing you into a corner. Your job is to be alert enough to work out what’s happening, then react before they’ve got a chance to do what it is they want to do.’

  ‘Like what—?’

  Liam was given no chance to finish speaking. Clint grabbed him round the neck and pinned him to a locker.

  ‘What you going to do, Liam? What? Come on!’

  Liam was surprised and panicked. Clint was usually calm, collected, kindly even. Now, though, there was a meanness in his eye and it told Liam that beneath the relaxed exterior was an utter bastard when things turned nasty. They were fighter’s eyes, and Liam knew in that moment that they’d seen a few.

  He immediately went with both hands to his neck to drag off Clint’s own hand. It wouldn’t budge.

  Clint let go.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Liam. ‘You could’ve given me a warning.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Clint. ‘Is a mugger going to warn you? What if we’re overrun – is a member of the Taliban going to tell you what they’re going to do next?’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Liam.

  ‘Good,’ said Clint. ‘Now let me show you what you should’ve done. Grab my neck.’

  Liam did as he was told.

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ said Clint. ‘Grab it!’

  Liam gripped hard.

  ‘What’s the threat, Martin?’

  ‘Choking?’

  Clint nodded. ‘But what about his spare hand? For all I know he’s packing a knife, a pistol, a bottle, anything to do me damage. So I need to do two things, preferably simultaneously: defend, and attack.’

  Clint hooked a hand round Liam’s wrist. At the same time as snapping it away from his own throat, he sent a flurry of punches past Liam’s head with his other fist. Then he dragged Liam down, dummy kicking him in the groin, dropped him to the floor, checked left and right, and ran to the far end of the space they were standing in.

  ‘It’s not about being fancy,’ said Clint, walking back. ‘It’s about doing the minimum needed with brutal force, staying alive, and getting away sharpish.’

  Liam was impressed. ‘Show me again?’

  Clint started to reply, but a distant, dull thud from outside stopped him dead. It was a sound Liam recognized in an instant.

  ‘That was a mortar,’ he said.

  ‘It can’t be!’ said Martin. ‘We’re in Bastion!’

  ‘Makes fuck all difference to the Taliban,’ said Liam.

  Another thud, louder.

  ‘And that was closer.’

  ‘Any closer and you might hear me swear,’ said Clint.

  The joke lightened the moment, but it was short-lived as another thud hammered in.

  The ground shook. Dust burst from every corner and surface as shelves unloaded themselves onto the floor, weapons clattered to the ground and Liam got clonked on the head by one of Clint’s family photographs.

  ‘Shit, is this for real?’ asked Martin, a nervous laugh escaping his lips.

  Then Liam heard another sound, so faint it was almost impossible to detect. But he knew it was there, knew Clint had heard it: a whistle of something cutting through the air.

  ‘Incoming!’ he yelled.

  With nowhere to hide, Liam dropped to the floor, heard Clint and Martin do the same.

  Then everything went black.

  6

  Liam came to, ears ringing, dust in his eyes. Blinking was agony – the dirt in the air kicked up by the explosion was like smashed glass poured into his eyes. For a moment he couldn’t see a thing. Through tears he could just about make out some blurry shapes. He tried to blink again, shook his head as though that would bring the picture into focus, breathed, coughed, choking on fallout from the blast, then pushed himself up to a sitting position.

  It took a moment for his head to clear. When it did, he remembered what had happened: Clint grabbing him round the neck, the sound of an explosion, everyone dropping to the ground, then everything had gone black.

  Liam was on his feet. He was hot and sweat was dripping from his head. Wiping it away, he looked around. The remnants of his quarters were scattered, and above him the tent-like roof was shredded. His foot knocked against an army mess tin, a rectangular aluminium tin holding another similar tin inside it. A groan caught Liam’s senses and he swept round to see Clint and Martin also stirring. Clint was on his feet first.

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Liam. ‘You might be injured.’

  ‘I’m not the one who’s bleeding,’ said Clint. ‘You must’ve been hit by some of the stuff flying around the room from the explosion.’

  Liam didn’t know what Clint was on about. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  Clint nodded to a shattered mirror hanging from a locker. ‘Take a look at yourself. Either you’re injured, or really bad at shaving.’

  Liam glanced over and saw a face smeared with blood. He remembered wiping what he’d thought was sweat from his face. Looking at the red smear on the back of his hand he realized now that it hadn’t been sweat at all.

  ‘Didn’t feel a thing,’ he said.

  ‘That’ll be that thick skull of yours,’ said Clint. ‘You’ll need looking at, though, even if you do feel fine. Injury could be hidden. Don’t want you keeling over at random when we’re on patrol.’

  ‘We’ll all get looked at,’ said Liam, as they both reached down to check on Martin.

  Outside, they could hear shouting, people running around. Then someone appeared in front of them.

  ‘What have we got?’ It was a medic and she was over to them in a moment, grab bag off her shoulder. ‘You. Sit,’ she said, pointing at Liam. ‘And you,’ she added, looking at Clint.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Liam
said.

  ‘I don’t care if you think you can appear on an episode of Strictly Come Dancing,’ the medic replied. ‘You’re bleeding. I need to check you over – all of you – and you’re the most obviously injured. Here.’ She handed him a field dressing as he sat down on the edge of a bed. ‘Press this against that cut on your forehead while I check this guy out.’

  The medic bent down to where Martin still lay on the ground, covered with debris. She was only a shade smaller than Liam, with dark brown hair pulled back in an I-mean-business ponytail. Older, though, he thought, by at least five years. She walked with a sureness not only in her own skill, but in her physical capabilities; there was a lean look to her that said to anyone who knew the signs that she didn’t just keep in shape – she was athlete-fit.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ asked Martin, pushing himself up from underneath all the kit that had been vomited over him by a locker now balancing across a bed. Liam almost felt sorry for him, considering how much time Martin had spent making sure that everything, from his socks to his beret, was neatly stored.

  ‘Mortars,’ said the medic. ‘The ground outside camp is already being scoured for whoever launched them.’

  ‘How did they get close enough?’ asked Martin.

  ‘There’s always going to be some little sneaky place to hide up and wait for the right moment,’ said the medic. ‘And the Taliban are very good at finding them.’

  ‘Yeah, and there’s only so many checks on vehicles you can do,’ said Liam. ‘The Taliban are good at what they do. Very good. We wouldn’t still be here if they weren’t.’

  Clint asked, ‘What’s the damage? Any serious injuries?’

  The medic helped Martin to his feet then guided him over to sit on the bed beside Clint. ‘Don’t know yet,’ she said, switching back to Liam to check him over properly. ‘I just grabbed my bag of tricks and ran in here as I was so close.’ She examined Liam’s face, wiping it clean, then flushing the cuts with sterilized water, making sure he was carrying no other injuries before speaking again. ‘I want you lot over to the medical centre immediately,’ she stated.