Chapter Ten

WHEN DAVE TRIED to wake the platoon at 2200 hours, he found almost no one asleep. And no one who wanted to emerge from their maggot.

‘My balls have frozen off.’

‘Get moving! You’re lucky it hasn’t snowed.’

‘It’s too fucking cold to snow.’

‘Get up, get ready, get on with it, lads!’

Some more trainers arrived, jumping energetically from their warm Land Rovers to join the men who had gathered around Second Lieutenant Chalfont-Price, stamping their feet, while he gave orders.

‘This is an emergency night evacuation exercise and there is no GPS and strictly no mobile phones. I repeat, leave your mobile phone behind with your kit. Anyone caught with one will have me to answer to. Now, order of march is 3 Section, 2 Section, 1 Section. I’ll be at the front, map-reading. Sergeant Henley at the back will round up stragglers. We hit a checkpoint every forty-five minutes to an hour and if we don’t hang around we’ll be back in bed at 0230 hours. Synchronize watches …’

Chalfont-Price was the opposite of their last platoon commander, thought Dave. Gordon Weeks would not have been able to give such a clear set of orders. But everyone had liked him, he had known and cared for his men and he always performed well under fire. He wondered how Chalfont-Price would do in his first real battle. You could never tell until you got to theatre.

The men took their positions and plunged off into the night. The ground was frozen hard now and their boots sounded as though they were clanging on iron. Occasionally people slipped, a thud followed by swearing. Dave saw Angus tumble to the ground. About ten minutes later, the signaller did a comedy fall, arms and legs flailing, almost righted himself, and then was pulled over backwards by his Bergen. He lay winded for a few moments.

‘All right, Goater?’ Dave asked him.

‘Yeah. Help me up, Sarge.’

Dave pulled at the signaller until he was on his feet and his antenna was pointing the right way and they set off again.

The moon was so bright that under trees it threw shadow branches with sharp edges. The commander set the pace and it was fast. Soon everyone felt warmer. Their breath could be seen above their heads in ghostly clouds. Each man’s thoughts became lulled by the rhythm of his walk. Even Dave allowed his mind to wander in the silence. They swung into a gloomy wood, barely penetrated by moonlight.

Dave wondered if Jenny was in bed and whether she had found the clue. He doubted she had solved it yet; it was a good one. He smiled to himself, imagining her wandering over the house, her face puzzled, thinking hard, the clue in her hand. He was a lucky man, to have a woman like Jenny. He thought that often, but never when he was actually at home with her. Shit. That probably meant he was a fucking awful husband. Why didn’t he ever say it?

They had emerged from the wood, crossed some fields and entered another wood, ancient this time, because they kept stumbling over big tree roots, before it occurred to Dave that they should have passed the first checkpoint by now.

He radioed to Second Lieutenant Chalfont-Price to halt at the front and there was no reply.

‘Charlie One One to Charlie One Zero …’

Nothing. He tapped his radio, a sound which was usually ear-numbing, but he heard nothing. The light wasn’t even on. Fantastic. The fucking radios weren’t working.

He sent word up to the boss to go firm. He wanted to look at the map and give the signaller a chance to sort out comms. Chalfont-Price was invisible in the dark woods but it was easy to imagine his response, how he would stop short, angrily and impatiently.

The file came to a halt and, as Dave walked forward looking at the map, men hanging around him lighting cigarettes and opening flasks, he became aware of the sound of one pair of boots stomping towards him.

Chalfont-Price paused to question the signaller about the radios. The signaller, frantically juggling batteries, gave a harassed reply. Dave did not look up. He studied the map for long enough to be convinced that they had tabbed too far east. They should be among trees now, Chalfont-Prick was right about that. But not these trees.

‘Just what are you doing, Sergeant?’

‘Where are we, sir?’ asked Dave.

The officer’s voice was a few degrees lower than the freezing air temperature.

‘Sergeant, who’s supposed to be map-reading. You? Or me?’

‘You, sir, but I’d be negligent if I didn’t keep an eye on the map myself.’

‘You have halted the whole platoon unnecessarily. I can assure you that I am fully aware of the route.’

‘No harm in checking it.’

‘I repeat. I am fully aware of the route.’

Dave took a deep breath. ‘When do you think we’ll be passing Checkpoint 1, sir?’

‘Within the next ten minutes. I thought we’d get there sooner but I hadn’t anticipated that the back of the file would be so slow.’

Dave felt the thump inside him of blood pumped rapidly around his body by anger. It boomed in his ears.

‘There’s nothing slow about the back of the march, sir. Everyone’s keeping up.’

‘No, Sergeant, they are not. Men keep falling at the back and I frequently have to slow down. Sometimes I feel as though the platoon is being torn in two directions: back by you and forward by me.’

This was untrue and the officer must know it. Why would any officer make stupid, snide comments about his sergeant? Was he trying to divert attention from a mistake of his own? Maybe Chalfont-Prick wasn’t as confident of his map-reading as he pretended.

Dave made an immense effort. ‘Right, sir. I apologize for that. I’ll see to it that you don’t have to slow down again.’

‘Let’s get going,’ snapped the commander. ‘And no more interruptions, please.’

Dave knew he had to tell the man that they were nowhere near Checkpoint 1. Saying nothing and letting him get completely lost would not help the platoon on a cold night. The trouble was that the pompous young git couldn’t stand Dave correcting him. Not in front of the men, anyway.

‘Sir,’ said Dave, gesturing to a clearing, ‘let’s go over there and have a quick chat.’

‘Chat? Chat? Sergeant, we are in freezing woodland in the middle of the night! This is neither the time nor place for one of your “chats”.’ He sounded as though Dave had suggested a bit of ballroom dancing or a quick game of snooker. A few men smothered laughter. Most watched tensely, though, sensing that an ugly row was brewing.

‘I thought you might not want to discuss this in front of the men,’ said Dave, his voice taut.

‘At this moment in time, there is nothing we need to discuss, in front of the men or otherwise.’

The frosty woodland which enveloped them was still. There was no breath of wind. The men did not move either. Even the smokers did not raise the cigarettes to their lips.

Into the silence, Dave said: ‘We’re lost, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ The commander’s voice was threatening.

Dave said: ‘We’ve missed the checkpoint because we’ve tabbed too far east.’

The silence got a lot louder.

‘Sergeant. I have studied the route. I have studied the map. Please do not presume to give me advice.’

‘Sir, I think we’re in Hanging Woods. You may be confusing this with Gaunt Woods.’

‘I am not confusing anything.’

‘If you look at the map, sir …’

‘I do look at the map, Sergeant. That’s my job. Now you do your job and get the fucking radios sorted. That’s enough of this nonsense.’

The officer turned and plunged back into the gloom of the woods.

‘Sarge,’ said the signaller when he could be sure the boss had gone, ‘I’ve got a problem.’

‘You don’t say, Goater.’

‘You know when I fell over …?’

Dave nodded.

‘I must’ve fallen on the spare battery.’

Dave looked at him. ‘We’ve only got one radio?’

The signaller did not reply. He just looked miserable.

‘And what’s up with the battery? It’s supposed to last eight hours.’

‘I thought I put in a fresh one, Sarge … so either it’s knackered. Or I didn’t charge it properly.’

‘Well, let’s not go into that now, Goater. Are you sure the one in your Bergen won’t work?’

‘Yeah. See, with two batteries I thought I’d have sixteen hours. That’s more than enough coverage for this exercise and I’m already carrying a lot of kit, see.’

‘Yeah, I see,’ said Dave gravely. ‘I see we’ve got no fucking comms.’

Goater looked at the ground. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Good thing it’s only training,’ said Dave.

‘It wouldn’t happen if we were operational.’

‘Wouldn’t it, Goater?’

‘We’d never be out in the middle of nowhere without comms in theatre, Sarge. Not ever.’

The thought was a chilling one. ‘I hope you’re right,’ Dave said.

Si Curtis had pulled his men in behind the boss. Corporal Aaron Baker had shouted 2 Section into line. Sol did not need to speak to 1 Section, because they had already fallen in neatly at the back of the file and now Dave slipped in behind them at the end of the march. Billy Finn dropped back.

‘Shit, Sarge!’ he hissed. ‘Have we lost comms?’

‘Yup.’

‘How far out of our way are we?’

‘You heard the boss. We’re right on course.’

‘Did you make a mistake, then?’

‘Seems I must have done.’ Dave’s voice was wooden. He was beginning to doubt himself. The commander was so confident of his map-reading skills that Dave feared he might have to apologize to the man. One thing was sure, he thought grimly: he wouldn’t be offering any further help.

They did not pass the checkpoint in ten minutes, fifteen minutes or thirty. They were crossing open fields now and men pulled alongside each other and began to chatter in concerned undertones as they walked. The boss tabbed on at speed and without looking back. Dave had to admit that the man had stamina. He just hoped that everyone else had enough stamina to keep up because it was going to be a long night.

After another hour, when they should have passed Checkpoint 2 and be well on the way to Checkpoint 3, Chalfont-Price stopped. Dave was relieved to see him get his map out. Danny Jones sidled up to Dave. ‘Go on, Sarge, take a look at the map and give him a bit of help or we’ll be out all fucking night.’

Dave raised his eyebrows but did not make a move towards his map.

Streaky Bacon from 1 Section looked miserable. ‘Oh man, just try to put us straight, Sarge.’

Dave said: ‘I already did. About six kilometres ago.’

‘If he won’t listen to you, maybe I should try to help him?’ said Sol. ‘He can only bite my head off.’

‘What about us?’ suggested Andy Kirk and Gerry McKinley.

‘Too late. Looks like he’s already found someone.’

The men watched as the officer beckoned 2 Section’s corporal, Aaron Baker.

‘Oh no!’ muttered Sol. Everyone liked Aaron but his map-reading skills were notorious. Once, during a night exercise on Salisbury Plain, he had ended up with all his men huddled by the London-bound carriageway of the M4. He was usually saved by GPS or the two men in his section who were outstanding with a map, Andy and Gerry.

Aaron Baker pored obligingly over the map with the officer now. He was talking and nodding his head. Dave could not hear what he was saying but it was probably rubbish. It wasn’t that Aaron had no sense of direction. He had a sense of direction which was at least 180 degrees out.

Gerry McKinley and Andy Kirk hung around looking frustrated and awkward.

‘If we’re a bit lost now, we’ll be fucking lost when Aaron’s finished,’ said Kirk.

‘Maybe the checkpoint’s on the M4. He can usually get us to the M4,’ said McKinley hopefully.

‘Go on, then,’ Dave told them as the debate between the boss and Aaron Baker went on and on. ‘You’d better offer.’

He watched Gerry McKinley approach the officer gingerly, Kirk behind him, as though he was a big dog which might snap. After a brief pause the riflemen retreated rapidly. So the dog had snapped.

‘Well, now we’re well and truly fucked,’ said Finn, ‘if Aaron Baker’s finding our way home.’

‘Could end up in Essex or Scotland or anywhere really,’ agreed Mal.

‘Why do we have to go so fucking fast? If we slowed down we might not get lost or need to go so far,’ said Bacon.

‘I’m knackered,’ said Slindon.

‘I’m hot,’ said Binman.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Hemmings. ‘I ate all my rations before we even started.’

‘Have a fag, Big Man,’ Angry told him, handing him a roll-up.

‘No thanks, I hate fags.’

‘If you have one you can go for longer without food.’

‘Did someone say food?’ asked Danny Jones. ‘I am so fucking hungry. Give us some of your nuts, Sully.’

O’Sullivan’s mouth froze mid-crunch and he shook his head and pulled his bag of peanuts protectively inside his webbing.

‘Keep your hands off my peanuts.’

‘It’s painful listening to you chewing,’ said Jonas. ‘Sounds like a zoo.’

‘Should have thought of that before you sold me your rations, mate,’ said O’Sullivan cheerfully. He loved peanuts and had bought up everyone’s rations before they had left Wiltshire.

‘I’ve got a bit of scoff,’ said Mal.

‘Yeah, me too. I’ll share it if you lot pay me back later, OK?’ said Bacon.

As the discussions continued between Aaron and the boss, Dave finally decided that he should look at the map himself. The platoon commander had insulted him by ignoring his advice and asking a corporal instead. But almost thirty men were lost in the cold, with snow forecast. He should be ready to put things right if that twat Chalfont-Prick actually asked for help.

It took him a few minutes to work out what had happened. They had followed a strange and tortuous route. They’d moved off east, which was correct, but they had gone too far and then veered south-east. The swing had continued until they were going due south. And then south-west. After that, due west. Then … Shit! They had been going around in a massive and ragged circle. However, he could also see that there was a road nearby which they could move along quickly and which would cut through all their mistakes and bring them to Checkpoint 4. True, they would have missed out all the earlier checkpoints and would be in trouble for that, but by now the training staff manning them would have given up and gone back to camp for a beer anyway, and at least the platoon would be on course and not too far behind time.

Suddenly there was a roar. The commander had looked up from his map.

‘Just what do you think these men are doing, Sergeant?’

You could ask them yourself, thought Dave. Except that would mean talking to them.

Dave looked around at the men. Some were sitting on a wooden fence, others were on the ground, most were passing flasks or food around.

‘We’ve been tabbing hard across country, sir, and now they’re thirsty and hungry.’

‘This is a night extraction exercise, not a picnic! Get them back on their feet and ready to go within three minutes.’

Dave said carefully: ‘Are you confident of the route now, sir?’

Chalfont-Price threw him a contemptuous look.

‘Corporal Baker has been very helpful and we’ll shortly be arriving at Checkpoint 2. We’ve bypassed the first RV but that’s not too much of a problem.’

Dave looked down at his map. There was no way they were within an hour, or even two, of Checkpoint 2.

‘Sir—’

‘Sergeant, get these men moving now. Corporal Baker and I have established our position.’

‘We are nowhere near Checkpoint 2, sir.’

The small man inflated with anger, like a balloon which would soon be so full of air it would float away. ‘Sergeant Henley. We know what we are doing and we have no time to waste chatting about it. Now sort out these men.’

Dave told the men to get back into file. They moved slowly. It took them a while to put away their food and drink and Chalfont-Price shouted twice at Dave to shout at the men to hurry up.

Just before the platoon commander moved off, Dave decided to swallow his pride and offer help one more time.

‘Sir, if you look at the map—’

But the officer was already walking away. He either did not listen or did not hear. Dave knew it was his job to make the young man hear. He knew that if this situation arose in theatre they could all die. He should run after Chalfont-Price’s retreating back and insist on showing him their position on the map. And if the officer had apologized or given some small indication that Dave had been right earlier, Dave would have done it. But Chalfont-Prick was an arrogant shit. So, thought Dave, fuck him.