Andy McNab - War torn

WHEN BINMAN HAD HEARD HIS OWN NAME, STANDING IN THE woods watching the casualties' blood pump into the soil, he'd thought Dave was gripping him. Because, as usual, he must be doing something wrong. It took a few moments to realize that he'd been selected to clear a mine path to the casualties.

As he struggled to find his tape he thought to himself that he must have been chosen because Dave wouldn't mind losing him. Then he remembered that Jamie Dermott had also been chosen, and Dave would certainly mind losing Jamie. Only then did it occur to him that Dave had picked him to do this work because he might be good at it. And Mal, who was much quicker and better at everything, had been told to follow him! Mal was a fantastic medic but until they got to the casualties he could do nothing more than follow on his belly, maybe widening the mine path a bit, because, incredibly, Binns had been put at the front.

By the time Binns was on his knees at the edge of the woodland, liberated from his Bergen, bayonet in hand, he felt lightheaded. He had been selected to do the most difficult job. Along with good-at-everything hot-shit soldier Jamie Dermott. It was incredible.

His best mate, Streaky Bacon, clasped his shoulder.

'Good luck, Binman. I'm going to write a rap about this…'

The seriousness of Streaky's face reminded Binns of the danger ahead. So did one of the casualties, who gave a sudden, sharp scream of pain.

Binns didn't know Ben Broom well. But he knew he had to save his life. And if he failed, his failure would stay with him for ever. He closed his eyes and thought about what he had to do.

Look, feel, prod. Go. He worked vigorously on his knees and was soon able to move forward onto his belly, until Dave gripped him for it.

'Slower, Binns, for Chrissake!'

Binman soon decided to keep the bayonet for prodding and use his fingers to feel the ground. It was weird to scrape his hands across the rough Afghan soil. He had helped his grandfather in his allotment at home in Dorset where the soil was nothing like this: it was dark and friable and always damp beneath the surface. This soil had been roasting in the cruel sun for years. There was no moisture. It felt thin and lifeless.

The earth was gritty beneath his palms. He swept aside handfuls and let them fall gently. He dug his fingers into it until his nails were packed solid.

He heard Dave instructing O'Sullivan and Kirk to do the same.

'Sarge,' shouted O'Sullivan, 'can I pull these weeds up? It'll be easier to feel the soil.'

'No!' Dave roared back. 'We don't know how deep the root system goes.'

Binns had already worked that one out. So far he hadn't encountered many weeds but he worked carefully around them when he did.

It took hours and hours to move one inch. It took for ever. Binns concentrated so hard on his hands and the soil beneath them that days might have passed. The rest of his body didn't exist. He had turned into sharp eyes and gentle hands. Every time one of the wounded let out a cry, he felt himself speeding up.

'Ignore everything except your work, especially ignore the casualties!' shouted Dave. 'Don't hurry. Are you hurrying, Binman?'

Binns shook his head but did not speak. He was squeezing the point of his bayonet into earth his fingers had loosened, and then easing his body forward a bit more. Then a bit more. And then a bit more.

He heard Mal behind him.

'He's working fast, Sarge, but he's being well careful.'

To Binman, Mal said: 'You're doing a fucking good job. I just hope the Taliban don't move this way. Because I'm feeling exposed out here.'

Binman heard Mal's words but he was working patiently now on a particularly resistant mound of earth. He scraped at it very, very gently. The earth did not want to move. Was it caked to something solid beneath? He tried a new tactic.

'What the fuck are you doing?' asked Mal.

'Blowing,' said Binns.

'Oh. Thought you were just dripping your sweat on it.'

Binman became aware how hot he was. His helmet was a metal oven and his head baked inside it. His body was manoeuvring under a hot blanket.

'Binns, have you had any water yet?' bellowed Dave from the side of the clearing. He sounded further away now, but the casualties looked no closer.

'He hasn't, Sarge!' shouted Mal.

'Drink!' ordered Dave. 'Get your tube in your mouth and pause.'

Binman was blowing harder now on the resistant earth. This time it turned to dust and puffed up into his face. His eyes filled with grit. He shut them and kept blowing. When all the loose earth had gone he found himself staring down a steep indent. Just visible at the bottom was something hard and probably metallic. He stopped. For the first time since he had started this long, slow journey on his belly, he was still.

'Use your Camelbak,' Mal said.

Binns did not move.

'Oy! You going to puke?'

Binns lay still, waves of heat rising from the hot soil around him.

'Water!' Mal prompted him. 'Now!'

Jack Binns tried to speak. But the inside of his mouth was coated with dry soil. His throat was dry. His eyes were dry. The only water was his own sweat, dripping down his face and off his chin.

'Eh?' demanded Mal.

'Something might be there.'

Mal said: 'Might be. That's enough for me, mate!'

Binns looked up then and managed to find the delivery tube of his Camelbak. He sucked on it long and hard. The water was almost cool and it cleaned out his mouth and as it trickled down his throat he realized he had been concentrating too hard to notice his deep, deep thirst. The joy of the water was so intense that he did not know how long Mal and Dave had been shouting at him.

'Back! Go back!'

'I'm not going back.'

'You have to fucking go back to go round it,' Mal said, grabbing hold of his feet and dragging him.

'I don't want to go back!' said Binns. But he was powerless as Mal pulled him a metre back along the path he had so neatly marked.

Binns sat up then to get a better view of the mine and how he should go around it. He saw the bodies of the wounded ahead. He had felt as though he was making no progress at all but now he realized he was a little over halfway to Broom. One of Broom's legs disappeared into a pool of blood. Flies were gathering around it in swarms.

Binns remembered the golden hour. You had to get your casualties to Bastion inside the golden hour. How many hours had he already been here carving this route with his hands? And now he had lost one metre of the few he had gained.

Broom lay still. He was so quiet he might be dead.

'He's still breathing,' said Mal.

'Go left, Binman,' shouted voices. A few said: 'Try right!' Jack Binns thought of his mother's living room, how he and his mother and brother would watch TV game shows, shouting at the contestants what they should do.

Another voice cut through the others.

'Binns! Cut left and you'll link up with the path O'Sullivan cleared. Unfortunately it's marked out in peanuts. You can eat them if you like, as long as you mark it properly.'

It was the boss. Binman swung his body to the left. The brief break had reminded him how hot he was and how dangerous the work. His heart thudded as he rounded the mine. Suppose it was enormous? Suppose he hadn't swung wide enough? If it exploded under him his innards would be ripped out. There would be a few moments when you knew you were dying. He shut his eyes. Yes, for a couple of seconds, you'd know it was happening. He would feel pain and sadness and loss because he was leaving it all behind. He'd think of his mother and Ally. Then it would all be over. Death would be a sort of blackness where nothing ever happened and he wouldn't know or care. Ally would cry at his funeral and then marry someone else and have kids and grow old and he wouldn't see any of it. Because he wouldn't be there. He wouldn't exist.