Andy McNab: War torn

BOSS WEEKS HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE MUD-WALLED ROOM WHERE the detainees were being questioned.

Just before he entered, he was halted by a scream, a horrible, animal sound. What could Iain Kila be doing to the Afghans? Gordon Weeks barely knew the Company Sergeant Major. The man had been polite when they had first met at Bastion but he had made it clear that, as the veteran of countless contacts, he regarded Weeks as just another in a long line of young, inexperienced and uninteresting officers.

Inside, the boss was surprised to find that Kila was nowhere near the two Afghans. The CSM stood silently, hands on hips, in a shadowy corner with the CSM of A Company. At a battered table in the centre sat the blue-robed prisoner, his wrists still tied in front of him.

Far from being terrorized by big men, he was being questioned by two small women. One was speaking to the detainee in a soft voice. The other was watching silently. Second Lieutenant Gordon Weeks understood instantly, instinctively, without thinking about it, the way he didn't have to think before firing back at the enemy, that this silent woman was beautiful. He had to stare at her. There was no choice.

She was leaning against the edge of the table. He could tell that her figure was slim and well shaped beneath her body armour. She was brown-skinned, large-eyed, dark-haired. Her cheeks slanted, her jawline was sharp. Weeks thought she must be used to every man at the base staring at her all the time but, when she became aware of his gaze, she turned to him. Their eyes met. Her look was icy and it said that she found his stare intrusive. He felt his face redden. He looked away from her at once.

The seated woman had fair hair and sharp features. She wore a Royal Military Police badge. She was pretty enough too, but in a more ordinary way. She glanced up at him. But the flow and rhythm of her words to the detainee did not falter.

CSM Kila came over.

'What are they saying?' Weeks asked in an undertone.

'Fuck knows,' Kila said.

'Aren't these women supposed to interpret for you while you conduct the interrogation?'

Kila glared at him. 'They act as interpreters. But Jean's Royal Military Police, Asma's Intelligence Corps.'

'Was it the detainee who screamed?'

'Yeah. But nobody hurt him.'

'Then why…?'

'They're headfucking him,' Kila said.

Weeks tried not to show how much he disliked the man's language and the aggressive way he used it.

'How long have these women been here?'

'Long enough for the CSM from A Company to know they're hot shit. You noticed Asma, sir. Admiring her Intelligence?'

Weeks avoided his meaningful glance.

The atmosphere around the table was electric. Asma leaned over the man and joined in the questioning. Weeks strained to hear her voice. It was without harshness. The women passed words back and forth like skilled footballers passing the ball. He wondered what they were saying. They spent a lot of time agreeing with each other, that much was obvious. The gentleness of their tone was eerie because the effect of their words was dramatic. The detainee responded as though to a series of blows.

Suddenly the man cried out and started to talk. At first he muttered, looking down at his feet. Then his voice grew stronger.

He was thin and his bones protruded. His face was clouded by anger and resentment.

'What's he saying?' Kila asked.

'Just a minute.' Asma broke into English. 'Give us a bit of bleeding time. We're getting there.'

She obviously was English. She had some sort of accent, maybe London. Disappointingly rough, thought Weeks. Although she didn't look it.

The detainee sighed and said something and the women backed away. Asma looked at her watch. She pointed to something and the man turned his chair to get a closer look. Weeks tried to see what she had shown him, without success. He looked at Iain Kila for guidance.

'Saying his prayers. He got disoriented by the blindfold so she had to tell him which way to Mecca.'

Nobody took their eyes off the prisoner as he prayed.

'Looking good.' The other CSM walked over to them. 'Looking very good.'

'So what the hell is going on?' Kila asked.

'We've passed the first stage,' Jean said. She had a Scottish accent.

'Which is?' Weeks asked.

'I'm visiting my relatives and I just got caught up in the firing, I don't know anything about it.'

'So what's he saying now?' Kila asked.

'He's telling us about Taliban activities in this area. But he's not telling us exactly where.'

'The OC wants it all.'

'He'll have it. Don't forget, we haven't even started on the other one yet.'

Weeks listened to her soft Scots accent and wondered how she had learned fluent Pashtu.

'Um… doesn't the detainee have a serious leg injury?'

'Not that serious.' Kila's tone was defensive.

'But he was hit!' Weeks said.

The woman paused. 'Skimmed. Not hit. And he's received medical attention.' Her voice was stiff, as though the officer had made an accusation.

She moved back to the table and spoke quietly to her colleague. Asma kept her back to Weeks and continued to ignore him. When the prisoner had finished praying, she invited him to return to the table. She started to talk. Her tone was coaxing.

Suddenly the man's voice rose. He began to shout. He jumped to his feet and roared hoarsely at the beautiful, dark woman. His arms struggled against his plasticuffs. His face thickened with anger.

Asma produced a pistol, so quickly that Weeks hardly saw her. She darted to the prisoner and held it against his head. The man froze. His speech was halted mid-sentence. His eyes stared straight ahead. The room was silent. Jean moved up to his other side and began to whisper in his ear as Asma slid the safety off the pistol. The man heard it. He still didn't move. Jean carried on whispering.

The detainee swallowed. He sank back down into his chair. And began to talk. The women took it in turns to ask him questions. Boss Weeks recognized the same question more than once. The pistol did not move from his head.

'What's he saying?' Kila was almost beside himself with impatience. But the two women ignored him.

Gordon Weeks was shocked. He waited for Asma to put away the pistol. It remained firmly pressed against the prisoner's temple.

'Isn't this a bit… unethical?'

Kila turned to look him full in the face for the first time. He seemed to have trouble focusing, as if the young officer was so insignificant that he was barely visible to the naked eye.

'This man's got information. We want it.' His lips hardly moved.

For a few moments, Weeks did not reply. He found his mouth was dry. 'Carrying a pistol in an interview, let alone threatening with it, is contrary to all rules of tactical questioning.'

Asma heard him. She gave him a steady glare before turning back to the detainee.

'We're not at Sandhurst now. This is the real world. Sir.'

A few minutes later the boss left the tent. He had a sick feeling in his stomach, like the time he'd stumbled across the school bullies at work on a young kid. He'd tried to intervene then. But he said nothing now.

Darkness had fallen. He found his way over to the cookhouse where some of the A Company officers were still eating. He only wanted a cup of tea but the plump little man by the sink who was clattering pans and shouting at his cooks insisted on resurrecting some old lasagne, an operation which caused a fresh outburst of clattering. The soldiers had to yell their conversation over the pans and the TV, which was tuned to Flaunt.

The cook had to be the Bangladeshi whom Dave had praised earlier. When the lasagne arrived it was good, but Weeks could eat little. His mind kept filling with disjointed pictures of the day's events. He had done well enough at Sandhurst, but now, having faced the reality of battle for the first time, he was asking himself if he really wanted to be in the army at all.