Andy McNab - War torn

But she was crying again now.

'Look, I can't help it, Dave. People get emotional before they have babies. And I know you hate it when I'm like this and I know you want me to be strong and sensible and make it all right that you're away but just now it's not all right, Dave, it's not, not, not fucking all right!'

Dave suspected that Jenny was sharing this one not just with him but with Nurse Prim and an entire ward of large-bellied women, all nodding in agreement.

'You've got to leave the army! You've got to. Because it's bloody awful being looked after by your mum like all the girls who don't know who the father is. The family men should be here with their families.'

'Stop, Jen. You know I love you and you know I want to be there. But I can't. And I have to go away for a few days. So I won't be able to phone. I feel terrible about it. You know what this is doing to me.'

'You! You! What do you think it's doing to me? You never even ring!'

'I do but they don't pick up the phone on your ward or they pick up and then cut me off. I do my best.'

Like shattered glass, she was breaking into sobs again.

'Oh, Christ,' said Dave. 'If thinking about someone can help and caring about someone can help, then that's what I'm doing, OK? Thinking about you and loving you and Vicky and the baby and caring about you. But I won't be able to call you. So please, please try to calm down and relax just for me so you don't have pre-eclampsia any more and you can go home. Don't for God's sake have the baby when I can't even speak to you.'

Now she was inconsolable. He held the phone away from his ear while she cried and cried. His Jenny, his strong, determined Jenny, was awash with hormones and at the mercy of her blood pressure. She had turned into this shouting, sobbing wreck.

'Can I talk to the doctor? Or even that nurse?' he asked her. But she could not hear him over her tears.

When the call ended he thought of putting in a request for compassionate leave. It might even be granted. But that would mean deserting his men out here, and deserting them just before a dangerous five-day operation. It would be like a snake shedding a skin. He didn't want to do it.

'Er… Sarge…' said a small voice.

Dave opened his eyes. He realized he had been gripping the phone as though it was about to run away. He saw Mal standing there, waiting for him.

'Sorry, Bilaal,' he said. 'You want the phone?'

'Nah, Swift's next…'

Mal gestured into the well of darkness where Swift stood, barely perceptible.

'Here,' said Dave. 'I've finished now.'

'Thanks, Sarge,' said Swift, taking the phone and stealing off into the night with it. Everyone had a favoured private phone spot, somewhere the signal was strong enough and he could fool himself he was alone. Then at the end of the call there would invariably be someone waiting silently to take it. You could never be alone in an FOB.

Dave expected Mal to evaporate just as Swift had, but instead he stayed nearby.

'What's up with you, Mal?' asked Dave. '1 Section don't even have to get up yet. Can't you sleep?'

'No,' said Mal.

Dave felt weary. Right now he needed to walk through the quiet night and think about Jenny and instead he would have to talk to Bilaal.

'Want to help me carry ammo and talk?'

'Yeah, great, Sarge, good.' Mal sounded nervous. He was a skinny lad with a lot of nervous energy. Whenever a battle was starting Dave could hear Mal clearing his throat over and over again. He often giggled as he fired. And if he had told Mal either of these things he would be amazed.

Dave wondered if Mal was going to start talking about some woman problem. Whenever 1 Section stopped for a brew, Mal would be talking about women. He was obsessed, as though he had only just discovered their existence.

'Sarge, you know I'm a Moslem?'

Dave was so surprised that he stopped. This was already not sounding like the kind of conversation you have loading ammunition. 'Well… yes. But I don't see you dropping down on your knees every time you hear the call to prayer.'

'I was brought up Moslem. We were never, you know, devout. But I've always been on a Friday.'

'To the mosque?'

'Well, yeah, but, I mean, I'm normal too. After the mosque, I go out clubbing.'

'Normal means lots of different things to lots of different people.' Dave was curious to know where this conversation was leading. He realized he preferred to talk to one of his men about something that was bothering him than think about his phone call to Jenny. Because no matter how important what was going on at home, it was so far away that you could always find something much nearer to eclipse it.

'This Moslem thing, I sort of hide it, know what I mean?' asked Mal, offering Dave a cigarette and lighting one himself.

For a moment Mal's face, brown and lean, wrapped around his cigarette, was illuminated. Then he inhaled and there was only the red tip at the end, glowing in the dark.

'So you feel you have to hide it?' asked Dave.

'Yeah. Because we're fighting a bunch of ragheads, right? And I don't want people thinking I'm one of them. And anyway, I'm not. I'm not like them.'

'No. Because they're trying to take over this country and we're trying to stop them,' said Dave.

'Yeah, that's it. All I've got in common is I know a bit of the Quran. And we look a bit the same.'

'So what's up then, Mal? Any of the lads got a problem with you being a Moslem?'

'No, no, nothing like that. It's at home, Sarge.'

'At home?'

'See, there are a lot of Moslems where we live and they see me drinking and clubbing and chasing women and they don't think nothing about it. But then they hear I'm out in Afghanistan fighting other Moslems. And they don't like that.'

'This isn't a war against Islam.'

'Well, the way they see it, Islam's got a war against the infidel. And I'm fighting on the wrong side, see.'

Dave was asking himself why Mal was telling him this now, just before their departure.

'Are you worried your family could suffer because you're out here?'

'They already are suffering, Sarge. See, they haven't been telling me because they didn't want to worry me but then my sister sent a bluey the other day. And I want to go home and sort the bastards out. I want to sort them out a lot more than I want to see off the Taliban.'

'What exactly's happened?'

'My sisters get spat at in the street. My brothers drive these taxis, see, and someone keeps trying to torch them. And my mum and dad were just sitting down to a nice meal and some fucking bastard put a flaming rag through the letterbox. They soaked it in petrol and set light to it and then stuffed it into my mum's hallway that she's kept so nice all these years.'

'Shit,' said Dave. 'That's a criminal offence. I hope they called the police.'

'The police have done fuck all! They take notes and they don't do nothing. They told my dad they don't want to inflame community tensions. Inflame. That's the word they used. And what my dad should have said was: then the community needs to stop inflaming my fucking hallway. But my dad's not like that, he'll just nod his head when people treat him like shit.'

Dave thought for a moment.

'I'm sorry, Mal. This is terrible.'

'And it's all my fucking fault, innit? It's my fault for joining up.'

'No!'

'And my brothers know who's doing it. People I was at school with, who used to be my friends, they're the ones!'

It was easy to imagine Mal in the school playground, demanding justice against aggressors, attacking them furiously, standing his ground in his nervous, excited way.

'Sarge, I want to go home and sort this one out.'

'You what?'

'I want to go home. If the police won't see to those fucking bastards, I'll have to see to them myself.' Mal's eyes were glittering in the dark.