Andy McNab - War torn

'Ring me,' said Jenny. 'Just ring me and tell me. I'll listen.'

Leanne sniffed again. She squeezed Jenny's arm but did not look at her. Jenny knew she was trying not to cry. Leanne climbed in and slammed the door. Her face, behind the wheel, was pale and puffy.

She wound down the window.

'I've waited to see him so long… and now I don't want to go,' she said, her voice turning squeaky at the end.

'Go,' Jenny commanded her. 'You'll feel better once you're on your way.'

Vicky, who had been occupied picking daisies from a strip of lawn outside Leanne's house, came and took her mother's hand. The pair of them waved as the car drove slowly down the road towards the entrance of the camp.

DESPITE A SERIES OF MINOR STRIKE OPS, INTELLIGENCE AND aerial surveillance, it was impossible to pinpoint the location of the Taliban training centre. Regular skirmishes with the enemy had not led to another contact as serious as the one that had greeted their arrival. The river crossing had been the focus of most of the fighting, and occasionally the base itself.

'We mustn't get lax; we should guard the oil-exploration team even more carefully,' Major Willingham announced. 'The Taliban are probably hoping that by staying away from the contractors, our protection will slacken.'

The civilians themselves did nothing to make the soldiers' job easier and the OC devised increasingly complex strategies to fool the enemy. It was Boss Weeks's job to explain the strategies to his platoon. Dave dreaded these explanations. The platoon commander was increasingly good on the ground, particularly under fire, but he was still shit at giving orders.

As the men filed into the Cowshed, he kept clearing his throat. Ahem. Ahem.

Dave counted the lads in. Twenty-three, twenty-four soldiers plus support. All here and gradually getting their arses on the ground, while the boss shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Ahem. Ahem.

Dave tried not to gag on the lingering aroma of unshowered men working in spiralling temperatures combined with the whiff of long-departed goat. He wondered what would happen to the Cowshed when the troops eventually left and the base was dismantled. Probably, like the other mud-walled buildings, it would stand here for centuries more, patched up and used once again to house a family and their stock. From recent house assaults in the Green Zone he had learned that animals and humans mixed easily in the indoor/outdoor world of Afghan compounds. In fact, he suspected that the animals had more freedom than the women.

By the time the last two men arrived, Boss Weeks was clearing his throat almost continuously.

'Right,' Dave said. 'Sit down, shut up. In a minute the boss is going to deliver. First I want to tell you about Buckle and Nelson. Jordan's at home with his family and expected to make a full recovery although he had severe burns so he'll be no oil painting. Steve Buckle's a lot better and he left for the UK yesterday. He should be installed in a comfortable bed in Selly Oak and he'll see his family again today.

'Next I want to bring you up to speed on the Rules of Engagement.'

Dave glanced at Weeks. He wanted to forget the wounded Taliban fighter in the ditch, but the boss had warned him that the OC still intended to question him about it.

'Every so often we all need a reminder about the RoE. So here it is. We're operating under Card Alpha. That means we can only engage the enemy if we know they're enemy and we only know that if they're armed. There are a lot of grey areas. Like if you believe your life is in danger, maybe from a suicide bomber, no one's going to blame you for taking action. But if we remember the basic rule we should be OK. Right?'

The platoon looked back at him. A few people nodded.

'Over to you, sir.'

The boss cleared his throat before he began.

'Now our… er… American, er, friends have decided that there is a new, er, necessity for them to concentrate their exploration activities in one, er, specific area, and indeed some of you may have noticed that, er, this has, er, indeed been the case.'

For Chrissake, thought Dave. The boss sounded as though he'd come from another planet. A good officer, and Dave had worked with a few, had the common touch. A good officer knew how to adjust his language – and occasionally even his accent – for the men. But Boss Weeks was incapable of any adjustment at all. He had so many plums in his mouth he was practically choking.

'The contractors will be guarded by, er, 3 Platoon and 1 Platoon will be acting as decoys. So it has been decided that we are to send out, er, the first decoy at, er, first light. The second will leave thirty minutes later and the third thirty minutes after that. While those who are travelling direct to the destination site, will, er, be 3 Platoon leaving thirty minutes after that…'

Weeks turned to the map Dave had pinned to the wall. He looked about vaguely for a pointer. Dave handed him a stick.

'Er… 1 Section will set off west, cross the river here, swing north and then east to go around the… er… er… Early Rocks after crossing the river… er… here.' He tapped the map. 'You may recognize that this is the river crossing we cleared recently. 1 Section is not just a, er, decoy but a patrol establishing our continuing presence by the river crossing. 1 Section will carry out the, er, useful function of ascertaining that our recent attempts to keep the Taliban from this area remain successful.

'Thirty minutes later, 2 Section will travel due north, then turn east and then travel south along the main highway where the Americans are extremely active and where we don't, er, anticipate too many problems. One hour after the departure of 1 Section, er, 3 Section will go directly south and then travel back north on the highway. And thirty minutes later, er, 3 Platoon will leave with the civilians. They will proceed due east and then, er, north towards the, er, er, Early Rocks…'

Dave groaned inwardly. All the boss needed to do was give them a general picture and then tell each section precisely what they were doing, where and when. The lads didn't need a strategy meeting and they didn't need a load of waffle. Dave shut his eyes while the platoon commander floundered on.

'… and so in that way,' Boss Weeks finally concluded, 'the enemy is liable to be, er, thoroughly confused.'

The Cowshed was silent.

'Well they're not the only ones, sir,' someone said from the back of the room.

There was a murmur of agreement. The boss swallowed hard. Dave didn't need to open his eyes to know who'd spoken out. He glared directly at Finn but it was too late. Finn's dark eyes were shining.

'So, sir, 1 Section goes west and then up around the, er, er, Early Rocks, 2 Section goes north, 3 Section goes south and the civvies are going due, er, east then north with 3 Platoon, are they, then, sir?'

'Er…' the boss began.

'Yes, Lance Corporal,' Dave growled, 'that's what you've been told.'

'Correct, yes, that's… er… correct…' Boss Weeks said.

'I think the decoy teams should be out first and last and the civvies heading straight to the oil site should go out second,' Finn said.

'Yeah,' Mal said. 'If the flipflops are watching they're less likely to target the second team.'

'Much more likely to follow the last one,' Angus said sagely.

'If the aim is to protect the civvies then they should be right in the middle of things, not at the tail end,' Finn said.

Next to them sat the two new lads, Bacon and Binns, now universally known as Streaky and Binman. Dave knew Finn had taken the two lads under his wing and right now the pair, who knew no better, were nodding vigorously in his support.

Muttering broke out all over the Cowshed as the boss floundered in response to Finn's suggestion.