Andy McNab - War torn

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her big round face was wet now. Her mouth twisted itself into strange shapes.

She whispered: 'He's alive… but it's like a bit of him really did die out there…'

Jenny wanted to cry but she swallowed, trying to strengthen herself deep inside and all the way up her throat, so that her voice came out sounding calm. 'Oh, Leanne, it's all a question of time. He's been traumatized.'

'And,' Rosie said, 'seeing you and the boys was probably very emotional for him.'

'He didn't seem very emotional about us!' Leanne was wailing now.

'But you know how our lads don't let themselves show it,' Adi said. 'When they get emotional, they don't know what to do with it. Not like us, we can have a good cry.'

'He didn't seem emotional,' Leanne sobbed. 'He seemed as if he didn't care a lot.'

There was a silence on the blanket, broken only by Leanne's lunges for breath. In the paddling pool, children shrieked and splashed. Mothers eyed them without hearing them.

'Did he tell you he love you?' Agnieszka asked. Everyone turned to her in surprise. She'd been silent until now.

Leanne looked as though someone had hit her in the face. She winced in pain and her voice, when it emerged, was a high-pitched wail. 'Noooooooo! He didn't say that! He acted like I wasn't part of his life! Like his life was out there fighting with the lads and now it was over.'

And she broke down again.

Jenny cried too this time. Vicky came over and cuddled up close to Jenny and Leanne and the big, big bump, and she cried as well.

'How am I going to manage?' Leanne cried. 'What's going to happen? He's not Steve any more. He's this stranger with one leg!'

All the mothers cried and then the babies started and a few more of the toddlers. Only Agnieszka sat watching them all, biting her lip, dry-eyed.

1 SECTION HAD FINISHED EATING BUT REMAINED GLUED TO THEIR table watching a TV news item about Afghanistan. Since the Taliban were stepping up their use of IEDs, or roadside bombs as the reporter called them, politicians were calling on the Prime Minister to send the troops more helicopters.

Angus McCall gave the screen two thumbs-up. 'That's it, that's what we need for IEDs. We need to fly over the fuckers.'

Finn said: 'Yeah, but we've still got to get out there on foot patrol. We need wagons the bastards can't blow up.'

'Well, my dad says that-'

'Aaaargh!' Finn cried. 'What does he know about the Taliban?'

Angus grew red in the face. 'My dad knows about fighting!'

'Your dad never fought out here, did he? Everything's different here! And it's just a matter of time before Terry Taliban starts taking down our air support.'

'My dad says that Black Hawks are-'

Finn pulled a face and stuffed his fingers in his ears. 'I am so fucking sick sick sick of hearing what your dad says about everything!'

'Because he knows what he's talking about! He was in the Jedi!' Angus reddened still more then. Not with anger but because he hadn't meant to say that. His dad had never actually claimed to be in the SAS. But he'd implied it. When Angus had asked him outright once, John McCall had said: 'Lad, I can't talk about that. Not everyone tells every detail of what they've done. We don't all go and write fucking books about our achievements. For some of us, just knowing what we did, and our mates knowing what we did, that's enough.'

So that meant he was in the SF then. Angus knew it. But if his father hadn't told anyone in all these years, he was sure he shouldn't have blurted it out in the cookhouse.

The head chef's sudden appearance prevented Finn from taking the discussion further. Taregue Masud was one of the more popular men at the base. But he ruled his kitchen so tyrannically that he was known as the Regimental Sergeant Major. The lads soon learned not to get in his way, not unless they wanted to buy the RSM's bootleg DVDs or T-shirts he'd had printed with SIN CITY across them in camouflage colours.

He stood over Dave holding a large parcel wrapped in a black plastic bag.

'Evening, Taregue,' Dave said. 'That was an award-winning steak pie tonight.'

But the chef was not in the mood for pleasantries. 'What the bloody, bloody hell is this thing doing in my third freezer?'

He slammed the black plastic bag down on the table.

'Well, I couldn't exactly say…'

The RSM was about to explode. The cookhouse fell silent as he untied his apron, peeled it from his polyester shirt and threw it to one of his kitchen staff. There were cheers and whistles but the lineup of young assistants looked too nervous to join in. They knew what was coming.

The RSM put his hands on his hips. Suddenly no one was eating any more, or talking or watching TV, despite the fact that it was Arsenal v. Chelsea. Taregue Masud had run army kitchens all over the world and generations of soldiers had learned that when the apron came off fireworks always followed.

'I am informed by my staff – and my staff are very reliable – that you and your men have been keeping this item in my freezer. Now just take a look please, Sergeant, and tell me what it is.'

Dave lifted the plastic bag up and weighed it in both hands with an expression of extreme seriousness.

'From the temperature and the general rigidity of the item, I'd say it's frozen goods.'

'And what is it? What is this frozen goods?' Masud loomed dangerously over him.

Dave turned to Streaky and smiled. Streaky was alarmed enough to look right back at him for the first time in a while. 'I believe Streaky Bacon can help us here.'

The RSM's eyes narrowed. He'd sold Streaky a Sin City T-shirt only that morning.

'Aha! So it was you who placed this in my freezer! And may I ask exactly when?'

Streaky raised his eyebrows and rounded his eyes and was about to protest when he remembered how nobody ever believed his denials. Except sometimes his mum.

He took the black plastic bag reluctantly in his hands and appeared to weigh it, just as Dave had. It felt like a slab of frozen meat.

'Open, please!' the RSM cried.

The cookhouse was deathly silent now. Someone had turned off the TV. Everyone watched Streaky. He pulled at the tie. Tiny splinters of ice scattered as he opened it. He carefully withdrew the contents.

The piece of meat was wrapped in DPM. At one end was a badly butchered mess of frozen blood. At the other, Streaky saw a foot. A human foot. The toenails were a shade of blue. The heel was pink. The ankle, which disappeared into the trouser leg, was encrusted with small icy hairs. Rifleman Bacon shrieked and threw the leg onto the table.

The cookhouse was in an uproar. The lads were laughing or shouting and the RSM was jabbering in Bengali. To prove that he had just been surprised, not scared, Streaky forced himself to laugh along with everyone else. He picked up the leg gingerly and held it up. People stared in fascination. Taregue hopped angrily from one foot to the other. Streaky couldn't hear a word he was saying, but knew it had to do with a human leg not being a nice thing to find in your third freezer.

'Thank you, Streaky,' Dave said as the noise died down. 'If we weren't dry here, I'd buy you a drink.'

Streaky glared at him.

'But what are you going to do about this alarming thing? Are you expecting to leave a human leg with some sort of medicinal powder around the toes inside my freezer? Because if you are really thinking that then let me tell you-'

Dave signalled for the RSM to calm down. 'The leg belongs to one of our lads who's now back in Selly Oak. When I next speak to him I'll ask him what he wants us to do with it.'

'We could get it stuffed for him,' suggested Mal.

'Look good on his mantelpiece,' said Angus.

'Or hanging in the fucking National Gallery. Frame it and Steve's leg could sell for millions,' agreed Finn.