Andy McNab: War torn

She walked around the building heaving Luke with difficulty between cars and over kerbs. Then she saw a door and somehow manoeuvred the pushchair inside. This must be the right place. It smelled of workshop but aspired to be an office. The scent of oil and car parts reminded her of her father back in Poland. He had worked in a small engineering firm until his death.

A man behind the counter discussed a bill with a customer, who was running his finger down the invoice, pausing at each figure. Agnieszka did not care to listen. It was almost summer but she was cold in her T-shirt and it was warm in the office. She closed her eyes and the men's voices sounded like a radio station broadcast from far away in a foreign language. It would be easy to imagine she was in her father's workshop now, a child again, warmed by the brazier, lulled by that comfortable oily smell, falling asleep in her nest of rough blankets while adult words and adult voices washed over her.

The previous customer was leaving, pinning himself against the wall in order to navigate around the pushchair.

'Can I help you?' asked the man behind the desk. She opened her eyes.

'Like to sit down?'

He smiled at her and gestured to a tiny waiting area with a couple of dirty armchairs, a coffee machine and last week's free newspaper. 'You look knackered standing there with your eyes shut.'

Agnieszka stared at him.

'Come on…' His face was friendly. 'I'm having a tea; I'll get you one too.'

Agnieszka found herself squeezing into the waiting area and sinking onto one of the chairs. She glanced at Luke. He slept deeply. His head had fallen to the side.

'Milk? Sugar?'

She nodded. A moment later the man handed her a plastic cup, stirring its contents vigorously. He removed the spoon and the tea continued to turn in slowing circles.

The man sat down in the other chair, his hands cupped round his own tea. The two chairs were so close together that it was hard to avoid his legs. Agnieszka swung hers out to the side.

'Now, what can we do for you?'

'My car not working.' Her voice was hoarse. The cup warmed her hands.

'Won't it start?' He sounded as though he knew how your whole day was ruined when your car didn't start.

'It start but it make terrible noise and smell not too good,' she said. 'I think it stop any minute, maybe on motorway.'

'Yeah, in the fast lane, that's when they usually let you down.'

'I go on motorway tomorrow morning to hospital so I think I come this afternoon to get car fixed but maybe you tell me not today. Also, no parking. So my car is far away.'

'Which hospital then, the Prince of Wales?'

'Yes. My baby see specialist at Prince of Wales Hospital.'

'That sounds like a bit of a worry.'

Yes it was. Tomorrow the specialist would ask questions and take notes without smiling. Jamie was in Afghanistan. Her mother was ill in Poland. Her parents-in-law barely spoke to her. The dishwasher was broken. Now the car was planning to stop the moment she got into the fast lane of the motorway. It was all a bit of a worry. It was enough of a worry to make her cry. She did not trust herself to speak so she just nodded.

'How far away is this car of yours?' he asked gently.

'Afghanistan.'

'The car? In Afghanistan?' The man raised his eyebrows and grinned at her so comically that suddenly she felt herself smiling.

'I thought you said how far away my husband is!'

'Oh, he's in the army, is he?'

She nodded. 'Husband in Afghanistan. Car in street that way. Not in first street. Next street.'

'Elm Road?'

She wasn't sure but she nodded.

'Well, let's go and see if we can't sort this problem out. Then you can get to the hospital tomorrow no trouble.'

He stood up, smiled at her again and she smiled back. Here was a good man. Agnieszka felt the same relief she felt when Jamie came home. Everything was going to be all right.

AS THEY JUMPED OUT OF THE VECTORS EACH MAN STOOD STILL AND felt the silence. No firing. No vehicle noise. No movement.

Dave counted them. As well as himself, the boss and the company sergeant major, there were twenty-six men: three already undermanned sections of 1 Platoon plus a signaller, an engineer, a medic, a sniper and a mortar man. He had counted twenty-eight into the Vectors at Bastion and had expected to count twenty-eight out at FOB Senzhiri. Twenty-six was a bitter number today.

The prisoners remained in one of the vehicles and Dave put a couple of men from 3 Section in charge of guarding them. He took a quick look at the Taliban fighters first.

'Have you seen to his leg?' he asked the medic.

'Yeah, nothing much wrong with it.'

'I thought he took one of my rounds.'

'You missed.'

'Shit. So why all the blood and limping?'

'The limp's what footballers do when the other team looks like they might score a goal. The blood's because you nicked his shin. But it's nothing much.'

Dave stared at the handcuffed prisoners. They stared back at him. Since the contact they had lost some of their fear. Now they tried to muster their dignity. One of them spoke to Dave in Pashtu, spitting out the words like a curse.

'Thank you very much and fuck you too,' Dave said politely.

'Make sure they get some water,' Company Sergeant Major Kila told the lads guarding them.

Then he and Dave and the boss strode off into the network of tents and old mud-walled buildings, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust.

The platoon stretched. They breathed the afternoon air deeply. They spoke little. The men who had been in the explosion found the event replaying inside their heads, felt the helplessness of their limbs in the force of the blast again, experienced the same mixture of fear and resignation.

'I thought it was the fucking end,' said Rifleman Mal Bilaal.

'So did I,' said Rifleman Angus McCall. 'I thought what my dad would say if I died before I've even had a chance to brass anyone up.'

'I couldn't understand why I was taking such a fucking long time to die,' said Lance Corporal Billy Finn. 'And then I realized I was still alive.'

Rifleman Jamie Dermott had believed that he was dying, too. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms as the blast hit him as though he was stretching out for Agnieszka and the baby.

Even the men who weren't in the blast and weren't actively thinking about what had happened to Riflemen Nelson and Buckle felt the knowledge of it lodged inside them. And anyone who had seen their bodies flying through the air knew he would not forget it, even if he never talked about it again to anyone. Today's contact had been a warning of what was to come.

Jamie Dermott leaned back against the wheel of the Vector and closed his eyes. He was thinking that even Dave, who had years of training and experience and had seen two tours of Iraq, had probably fired more rounds today than in all of his previous contacts put together. Well, they had joined up to fight. They had trained to fight. And now that's what they were going to do. No one would admit that the suddenness and ferocity of today's contact had been a shock. But it had.

Jamie reached surreptitiously for a picture of his wife and baby. He liked to look at it during odd moments when Wiltshire began to seem far away. He liked to remind himself that there was another world, less barren than this one.

He glanced at his watch. Four thirty in Afghanistan. Midday at home. Agnieszka would be in the kitchen now, maybe moving smoothly around Luke's high chair on her long, long legs, spoon in hand, singing softly under her breath. For the next six months, she would be there and he would be here. Six months. Luke would change a lot by the time he got back. Jamie would have experiences which he couldn't imagine now and which he would probably remember for the rest of his life. He sighed and looked around at the FOB, a bleak collection of isocontainers and tents and mud buildings that would become home.