Andy McNab - War torn

The contractors debussed.

'You want to watch this little lot,' said Kila to Dave. 'When you've got your engineering degree you might be back here doing a bit of oil exploration yourself.'

'As a civvie?' said Dave. 'Guarded by 1 Platoon? No way, you can kiss my swingers.'

Kila lit a cigarette, waved the match out and threw it away. It bounced a few times on the thin, hard desert floor.

'Jean reckons the Taliban aren't targeting the civvies because they're keen on some oil revenue.'

'How are you getting on with the monkey, then?' asked Dave. 'I've seen you with her in the cookhouse.'

Kila looked sly and drew on his cigarette. 'I'm finessing her.'

They heard the sound of raised voices: Martyn's deep and slow, Emily's fast and high-pitched. They were taking it in turns to grab a site map and jab their fingers at it. The boss was attempting to broker peace.

'He should just bang their fucking heads together,' said Iain Kila.

Dave smiled. 'Finessing is definitely your strong point, Iain.'

The work started. The young engineers carried a black box where they were instructed, mostly by Emily, and everyone was ordered to switch off machines and engines and be silent whenever it was in place and the engineers were taking readings.

Angus started a dirtiest joke competition and soon everyone was joining in. Raucous laughter swept across the desert. Men in 2 Section not on look-out or covering the contractors challenged 3 Section to a poker game, which also became noisy. The sun moved slowly in the sky. People munched their way through their ration packs.

Mal, Angry and Streaky had a meal but Binns, pale and puffy-faced, did not open his bag.

'What's up, buddy?' asked Martyn as he passed.

'He's right off his rations,' said Angus.

'I'm not surprised, they look like crap and they smell like crap,' said Martyn. Binman looked grateful.

'He's going to puke,' Streaky said knowledgeably. 'His face always goes puffy first.'

Martyn said: 'Wait here.'

He came back with a bag of sandwiches.

'We get ours made for us by the chef and they're good. Go on, try one.'

'What's in them?' asked Binns miserably.

'Egg and mayonnaise, stuff like that.'

Binman, with great reluctance, bit the corner of one sandwich. His face brightened and he ate some more. Martyn's face broke into a smile as Binns began to tear pieces off the sandwich hungrily.

Angry watched with disgust. 'You've spoilt him now. He'll never eat his ration pack.'

Martyn turned to glare at Angus.

'This kid just needs to eat, it doesn't matter what. He looks half starved.'

'That's because Angry always eats his rations,' said Mal.

'Makes sense. I'm hungry, he's not.'

Martyn glared at Angus, shaking his head.

'Just clean up your act, son. He's your buddy, you should take better care of him.'

Angus's large, round face turned bright red. He looked as though he wanted to reply but he said nothing.

Martyn turned back to Binns. 'Finish it up, I don't want it. I have to get back to Enemy now or she'll make my life hell.'

He strode off across the sand.

'Fucking nosy American know-all,' said Angus McCall, as soon as he was out of earshot.

'Oh, come on, he's a nice old guy,' said Mal.

Binns nodded, his mouth full.

'He's an American shitbag,' said Angry. 'They all think they know everything. Binman has to eat rations like the rest of us.'

But the sandwich had fortified Binns and now he was opening his risotto. After the first slow taste he began to spoon it into his mouth enthusiastically. Sol, on stag, swung around in time to see this and gave him a thumbs-up.

Jamie was watching the contractors.

'What the hell are they doing?' he asked Dave. They had built a wooden pier and were now bending over this and its accompanying paraphernalia.

'Could be preliminary passive seismic measurements,' said Dave knowledgeably.

'So they're measuring earthquakes?'

'If it's a seismometer they're supposed to make some sort of noise, like an explosion, so they can measure the sound that comes back. Maybe it's a gravimeter… I dunno, Jamie.'

Watched over by machine guns and surrounded by WMIKs, Vectors, soldiers, poker and dirty jokes, it soon became clear that Emily was agitated. She and Martyn frequently raised their voices. On one occasion she marched up to Weeks.

'Mr Weeks,' she said angrily. 'Would you please ask your men to be quiet!'

The boss passed on the instruction, along with a warning about the nature of the jokes. There was silence for a while. Then the talk and laughter started again.

Emily, her large face red with the exertion of working in the sun, confronted Weeks again.

'Mr Weeks!' she said. 'Not only are your men creating unnecessary noise but so are your machines.'

'What machines, Professor?' asked the boss. 'You told us to switch everything off and we did.'

Martyn appeared at Emily's side.

'They say their machines aren't on!' Emily told him.

He rolled his eyes. 'Emily means your radios.'

'You want us to switch off our radios?' said Boss Weeks. 'We can't possibly do that.'

'Oh, for heaven's sake,' Emily said irritably. 'No wonder our equipment isn't performing! It's picking up your frequencies.'

'But in the, er, er, event of a-a-a-attack we'd be powerless to communicate!'

'In the event of attack there would be far too much noise for us to continue working anyway!' Emily evidently regarded enemy attacks as nothing more than an inconvenience. 'So you would be welcome to turn the radios back on.'

'I'm s-sorry, but no,' said the boss.

'But if you keep your radios on then you will invalidate all of our work!'

'No.'

'Mr Weeks, I insist.'

'It's Second Lieutenant Weeks, actually,' he told her.

'I have little respect for military rankings or protocol,' she said. 'And I realize that every time you come out with us you are hoping to fire your guns and shower any passing Afghan with bullets but I have no interest in your war games and I must ask you to cooperate.'

'I can't switch off the radios,' said Weeks.

'But you will invalidate our work!'

'I'm s-s-sorry. But it would be too dangerous to switch off.'

'Then our work here today must be at an end.'

'All right. Back at the base we can agree with the OC how to deal with this problem in future,' Weeks concurred.

'If only they had sent a more senior officer, he might have been able to make a decision here and now!'

'No, er, er, officer, however senior, would agree to switch off the radios.'

Dave and CSM Kila were watching.

'I didn't know he had it in him,' said Kila.

'He's come a long way. Still can't give a good set of orders, though.'

Kila said: 'Think we ought to give him a bit of support?'

'He's coping. And if he can cope with her he can cope with anything the Taliban throws at us.'

'I am here making a major contribution to the development of Afghanistan, Officer,' Emily was saying. 'I understood you were here for the same purpose. Now I find another perfect example of how the needs of those engaged in the peaceful activity of reconstruction have been ignored yet again in favour of war, war.'

'The radios are needed for your p-p-protection.' Weeks's face was beetroot red. 'There's nothing warmongering about maintaining radio contact.'

'I'm sorry to say that since I have been at the base my views have been confirmed that the British Army is a warmongering force. The best that can be said is that it keeps some very aggressive young men off the streets of the UK.'

The lads who were listening looked at each other.

'Does she mean us?' they muttered.

'Unfortunately,' continued Emily, 'the poor Afghans are on the receiving end of this aggression.'