Andy McNab - War torn

'It's that tribesman who's pulled.' Jean got up, found her camera and took a picture of Asma in helmet and body armour holding her mirror and mascara.

'Don't you dare put that on Facebook,' said Asma, blinking rapidly. 'How do I look? Need a bit of eyeliner?'

Jean turned away. 'If you're trying to look good for some tribesman then I'm not giving you any advice.'

'Well, Gordon Weeks might be in the cookhouse.'

'He needs no encouragement. Never stops staring at you.'

'He held my hand a while ago.'

'Is that all?'

'There's nothing much going on between me and Gordon Weeks. We're just two saddos stuck in an FOB in the middle of nowhere.'

'There is something going on and you know it.'

They'd grown so accustomed to the firing that the lengthening silences had become more startling than any explosion. The changing pace of the battle was as familiar to them as music and they knew it was time now to put the nail polish away.

Asma stuffed the makeup bag into her day sack, untied her hair and began running a brush through the ends without taking off her helmet. Only then did she look up at Jean.

'Listen, Gordon's so bloody shy he can't even kiss me, let alone go further. He acts like I'm going to break if he touches me.'

'That's sort of nice in a way,' said Jean.

Asma paused, the brush in mid-air.

'It is sort of nice. No one ever treated me like I'm fragile before.'

'That's respect.'

'Yeah, well, I like respect but I could handle a snog as well.'

'You could throw your arms around him and get on with some serious snogging and hope he enjoys it.'

Asma laughed. 'He'd be so shocked he'd jump right over the hesco like a fucking kangaroo.'

There was the deep rumble of an aircraft approaching low overhead.

'Great! Air support. Just when it's ending anyway,' said Jean.

'Sounds like an A10. Brace yourself…'

A few minutes later came the crash. The ground shook. More debris fell on their cots.

'Must have dropped it on that hilly bit up the road. At last. That's always their main firing position,' said Jean.

'Nah, too close to town,' said Asma. 'That's why it's always their main firing position.'

They listened. Apart from the groan of the departing aircraft, there was silence. It was broken by one defiant enemy round. This was greeted by machine-gun fire from the base. More silence. Another round. Another reply. And then nothing.

'Those guys would delay dying for five minutes just to fire one more time,' said Jean.

Asma pulled off her helmet, shook her long, dark hair loose and brushed it from the roots down.

'What do you expect? They're Pashtun. So do you think the cookhouse will be operating yet? I'm hungry.'

Jean said: 'Listen, I want to say something. This bloke we're seeing this afternoon…'

'They're all blokes. Which one?'

'The blue-eyed tribesman who's got you putting on your mascara.'

'Asad, I think his name is, innit. Short for Asadullah.' Asma put away her brush.

Jean looked serious. 'Iain Kila said something.'

'What?'

'I said the civilians weren't coming under fire because the locals like the idea of oil and gas income. And I told him how Asad and his family wanted to hear about it at the last shura.'

'And?'

'And he said: then Asad must be Taliban. Otherwise he couldn't call them off.'

They were leaving their room now. Outside the sun was bright. The smell of cordite lingered in the air. There were clouds of dust circling as though there had been a sudden storm. As they crossed to the cookhouse men began returning from their firing positions. Sergeant Somers was shouting at one of his lads. Asma stopped.

'No, Jean. Asad told us there's a compound in the Green Zone which is swarming with insurgents. We've got more intelligence which says he's right. And he's going to tell us which compound. He wouldn't do that if he was Taliban, would he?'

'I don't know, Asma. Those guys are complicated.'

'I really think he wants us to help him get the Taliban off his territory.'

Jean grinned at her.

'Like you said, you're a saddo stuck in an FOB in the middle of nowhere. And you fancy him. So I don't trust your judgement.'

The 2 i/c, carrying a mug of tea, came out of the ops room, saw them and raised a hand to stop them.

'There's a very slight change of plan for this afternoon. The Professor will be coming to the shura.'

Jean remembered the last time she had been out with Emily.

'Oh no!'

'Sorry. We tried to talk her out of it.'

Asma said: 'Does she realize she'll be sitting cross-legged on a carpet?'

'And she'll have to cover up,' added Jean. 'Her knee-length skirts won't do.'

The 2 i/c looked embarrassed. 'I didn't think of discussing her wardrobe. I'll leave that to you girls.'

'You want us to go and tell her?' demanded Asma.

The 2 i/c nodded sheepishly.

'You're all scared of her!' said Asma. The 2 i/c nodded again.

THERE WAS A SMALL CLUSTER OF PEOPLE OUTSIDE LEANNE'S HOUSE. Across the door was a banner saying WELCOME HOME HERO! Several children carried signs: OUR HERO STEVE. The twins wore outsize badges saying: YES HE'S OUR DAD! The welfare officer and a group of uniformed men from the rear party stood talking in quiet voices separately from the women and children.

Leanne clicked shut her mobile. 'He's coming!'

Her voice had gone squeaky again. Adi Kasanita was standing closest to her.

'He's coming, he's coming!' she boomed, so that everyone could hear. People stopped talking and straightened, the signs were held aloft and, as a small army car drove slowly up the road, there was cheering.

Leanne's heart beat so loudly that she could hardly hear the cheers. A twin was wrapped around each leg, waiting, and all she could think for one stupid moment as Steve's face became visible through the windscreen was: what happens if one of the kids tries to grab his leg? And finds it's not there? Because she had tried to explain but they were just too young to understand. They were too young to understand what was happening right now. They were too young to understand that the man who had just arrived was their dad.

When he got out of the car Steve's face was white but he was smiling. The driver ran around and tried to help him. The small crowd stayed back and Leanne went to help too.

Steve's smile slipped.

'I can fucking do it myself,' he growled.

She felt something inside her curl up as though it had been singed by a hot fire. She fixed her smile and kissed him on the cheek. 'Sweetheart, welcome back.'

She would have liked him to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately the way he did after a long time away. Right here in front of everyone. But he was reaching for his crutch.

He moved unsteadily down the path to renewed cheering, Leanne behind him, the driver hovering close by. Everyone smiled and spoke to him as he passed. He grinned back without focusing on anyone. Rosie McKinley started singing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!' Everyone joined in.

'He wouldn't use the wheelchair,' the driver was explaining. 'Wouldn't even let me put it in the car.'

Jenny was holding the boys' hands now, as well as Vicky's. They made no attempt to run to their father but looked up at him with big eyes. Leanne grabbed them.

'Don't you dare cry,' she muttered to Jenny, who was biting her lip. She began to drag the twins reluctantly along behind. A glance around at Agnieszka and Adi and Rosie and Sharon and all the other women whose husbands were in Afghanistan told Leanne that every one of them was close to tears. They all wanted their men home too. But not like this.

Steve entered the house under the banner and made his way to the living room where Leanne had laid out some food. There were balloons in all the corners, huge bunches of them, and red, white and blue paper bunting around the wall which a group of mothers had made at playgroup.