Chapter Twenty-eight

THE SECTION TOOK over the Marine latrines, the Marine cooking area and the Marine wall posters.

‘Personally,’ said Finn, ‘I don’t need to know so fucking much about the finer details of the female anatomy.’

‘About the what?’ asked Angry.

‘Girls’ bodies. I just like nice pictures of, sort of, the whole body. Not little bits of it which look like they’re out of a doctor’s manual.’

‘Those pictures probably belonged to the geezer who left the Bible,’ said Binman.

‘I got some interesting female anatomy here. This chick ain’t out of no doctor’s manual but I can’t get her to stay up on these walls,’ said Mal wrestling with his poster.

‘That’s because she got all wet in the cave. She didn’t like it back there,’ Bacon told him. He turned to the poster and cooed: ‘Did you, baby?’

As if in reply, there came a volley of fire.

‘Shit, not yet!’ said Mal and Angus.

‘Hold on, Terry Taliban,’ said Slindon. ‘I haven’t unpacked.’

‘Get to your firing positions,’ shouted Dave.

‘Come on, come on, come on, we only just showed them to you,’ Sol yelled. But it was the usual arrival chaos. People who were still arguing with each other about where they were to sleep could not focus on the real enemy outside. They stumbled about looking for weapons and ammo.

‘Shit!’ said Dave. ‘This always happens the moment we arrive anywhere so why aren’t we ever ready for it?’

Men bumped into each other as they looked for their firing positions.

‘This place is barely large enough to swing a cat. How can you get lost?’ roared Dave.

Finally the men were in place. At first the firing was spasmodic as if a couple of Taliban lads were laughing and joking together and firing when they remembered to. Then suddenly their dads seemed to arrive and the fight got fiercer, until it echoed from all sides. Dave was fairly sure that the enemy was in the rocky outcrop the Marine sergeant had pointed out but he could not be sure that this was their only position. The compound seemed to be in a giant bowl and noise echoed around inside it. This made it difficult to gauge just how strong the enemy was, since every report echoed once, twice and maybe three times.

‘If only we had the tripod for the .50 cal!’ he moaned to Sol.

Sol, leaning over a rifle, turned to look at him. ‘Well, why don’t we?’

‘I was told we couldn’t take it.’

Sol looked incredulous. ‘Who told you that?’

Dave did not reply, so Sol guessed who. He shook his head sadly but said nothing.

‘Is there any way to position the wagon so we can fire the HMG?’ Dave asked the driver.

Lancer Dawson shrugged.

‘Nothing wrong with my position. The problem is the walls are too high. S’pose you might scare the ragheads off a bit if you fire it into the air. But you’re not going to hit anything.’

Dave felt exasperated.

‘We haven’t got enough ammo to just piss it away,’ he said.

‘Well, what else are you going to use HMG ammo for?’

There was no answer to that.

‘If you ask me, the ragheads saw the personnel handover,’ continued Lancer Dawson. ‘And they’re giving us a warm local welcome.’

Dave silently agreed with him. The enemy were trying to gauge their manpower and this was the opening of a conversation, the only sort you could have with the Taliban. It would continue throughout their time here. He wished he could start the conversation with a firm statement and there was nothing better than an HMG to say: ‘Fuck off.’

The Minimi chattered angrily and so did the gimpy but it wasn’t enough. The enemy answered with their own machine gun. Dave could almost hear them laughing. They had been watching the place; they knew the arc of fire of a big gun and where it had to stand for maximum effect. And they couldn’t see it and they couldn’t hear it so, despite seeing it arrive, they were already guessing it was out of use.

He called Dawson and Reed.

‘We’ve got shovels. See if you can build up some of this sand, enough to reverse the Mastiff on to it and get the HMG above wall level.’

If the Lancers had looked miserable at missing their steak lunch, now they looked wretched.

‘In this heat?’ demanded Dawson.

‘We need to give them a show of strength.’

‘There isn’t enough sand in this courtyard. We’ll never get it high enough!’

‘There’s rubble stacked up around the edges, and more in the other courtyard. Try using that, then sand.’

‘But the relief should be here any minute,’ said Reed.

‘Listen,’ Dave told them. ‘We’ve got twelve men, that’s including me, you two drivers and a medic. As far as I know, stores haven’t even arrived at FOB Nevada yet. So it might be a while.’

Moaning, the drivers went off to examine the rubble.

Dave went through the compound to the next courtyard to join in the firefight.

‘Up your rate of fire,’ he told Sol. ‘And move the lads round a bit. We don’t want the enemy to know how few of us there are.’

‘It’s fucking horrible up here, Sarge,’ shouted Binman from one of the towers. ‘I’ve got my head down all the time and it’s fucking raining rounds.’

‘All right, you can get down,’ Sol said. ‘Streaky Bacon, go up there.’

Streaky didn’t hear him at first. He was doing that Streaky giggling thing under heavy fire. In fact, it was the sound of those giggles which focused Dave on how serious their situation was. The enemy was testing them for firepower and manpower and if they guessed resources were really limited then this could turn into a sustained attack. As their own rate of fire had increased, so had the enemy’s. Anything we can do, thought Dave, they can do better, and that’s what’s giving Streaky Bacon the giggles.

Dave got on the radio to the OC and gave a sit rep.

‘You’re not the only PB to come under attack. PB Detroit Tigers is having a hot time,’ the OC said. ‘Good thing you’ve got the .50 cal.’

‘It would be if I could use it,’ said Dave.

The OC’s voice turned electric. ‘Why the fuck can’t you use it?’

Because my twat of a platoon commander told me I couldn’t have the tripod, sir. Dave said: ‘There’s a technical problem, sir.’

‘A technical problem?’

‘We’re working on it, sir.’

‘It sounds as though all your men are busy firing, Sergeant Henley, so I can’t imagine who’s dealing with the technical problem.’

‘The drivers should soon have it sorted, sir.’

The OC’s sigh was audible.

‘Are you likely to be requesting air support?’

Dave hesitated. ‘Not yet …’

But he was just thinking that it was reassuring to know air support was there when Major Willingham said: ‘Could be a dust storm starting at Bastion. You may have noticed it was a bit dodgy when we left this morning. So let’s hope support’s available if we need it.’

Dave felt a pit form in his stomach.

‘A dust storm?’

‘Yes. Stores have arrived and we’re loading up. The Americans are anxious to get away while they can, so most of them have had an early lunch and left.’

Dave wanted to ask the major whether he had enjoyed his steak. Instead he said: ‘Will the relief be able to get out of the FOB to us, sir?’

He heard the major hesitate.

‘If we don’t have a dust storm here. If we do, they can last for days.’

Dave tried not to think about the possibility that they could be cut off here without supplies or support for days. He decided to renew his attempt to frighten the enemy into backing off for a while. He told Angus to fire a .66 rocket. When it reached its target and turned into a plume of smoke and noise there was a satisfying silence at last. For two minutes. Then it all started again. As if the enemy knew he had only one .66 rocket left.

Dave hoped the skirmish would run its course within about forty minutes. Previous experience with the Taliban told him that when they attacked camps and bases it was often just a show of strength which only lasted until fighters melted away for food or prayers. Except this lot weren’t melting anywhere. The two sides exchanged fire for forty minutes. Then fifty. Then an hour.

After ninety minutes of small-arms fire, Dave began to suspect that the enemy was making a serious bid to take the patrol base. It had seemed like an amateurish, low-key show of strength at first but he guessed that reinforcements were still arriving. And then the guy with the grenades showed up.

The first was rocket-propelled and exploded over one of the outer mud walls, throwing up a lot of dust and mess but barely denting the wall. Its arrival was met by a burst of machine-gun fire. Mal was on the gimpy. When he paused you could hear the higher pitch of the Minimi still chattering away. Dave waited for Binman to pause for breath too. But he didn’t. The Minimi fired on and on and on, madly, relentlessly. Sol went up to him and shouted: ‘Binman! Stop! You’re not firing at anything! You’re just firing!’

Binman looked at him as though Sol had shaken him awake.

‘We don’t have so much ammo you can just throw it down like that!’ said Sol.

Binman had turned that special Binman shade of pale.

Sol asked: ‘When did you last eat?’

Jack Binns stared back at Sol blankly.

‘Where are you, Binman?’ shouted Sol over the noise. ‘Dorset? Stop firing and get some food inside you, for heaven’s sake.’

That was as close as Sol ever came to swearing but still Binman did not move. Sol reached into his own webbing and pulled out an energy bar and a couple of packets of peanuts. He took the Minimi away from Binns.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Doc Holliday, taking it neatly. ‘You see to my patient and I’ll see to the enemy, Sol.’

‘Don’t expose yourself. I can’t afford to lose you,’ Dave told him.

Doc laughed and trotted off happily with the Minimi while Sol and Dave sat Binns down in the safest place he could find. He handed him the food. Dave found an energy bar too and threw it over to Binns, who sat opening the packets and shoving food into his mouth silently and mechanically.

‘Has he been checked for diabetes?’ asked Dave.

‘Yeah. Doc says it’s just low blood pressure.’

Doc Holliday had found himself a good firing position through a slit in the wall which had been made by the Marines or someone else, maybe even the Taliban. Because before this was a PB it might have been an enemy stronghold. Dave had a strange vision of the Taliban and the Americans and the British constantly rotating firing positions in a sort of deadly dance. He watched as another RPG sailed overhead and exploded beyond the compound.

‘They’re in those rocks,’ said Sol. ‘But their firing point’s very hard for us.’

‘And they know it.’

‘They know everything about this place. And they know we’ve only just arrived.’

‘They’re fucking bastards, Sarge!’ shouted Slindon, who was now up the tower. ‘Every time I put my head up I get ding dong ding dong on my helmet. It’s like being inside Big fucking Ben.’

‘They’re throwing it all at us!’ yelled Finn, his voice battle-excited.

Doc Holliday was silent. He was a focused marksman, sitting still for minutes at a time and then suddenly erupting.

‘OK, Slindon get down. Mal, get up there,’ Sol said. When Slindon slithered gratefully down from the tower, he attracted a shower of rounds from the enemy.

‘I wish we could use the HMG,’ said Sol, weariness in his voice.

‘I’ll find out how they’re doing.’ Dave had seen the drivers moving in and out of the courtyard carrying rubble, red-faced, shaking their heads in disgust, complaints drowned by the firefight, so he expected little.

He passed through the compound where the noise was temporarily deadened, glancing into the box of food the Marines had left to see that the MREs were still there but all the M&Ms had gone. The sun and sound of firing hit him again when he emerged into the yard – where he saw a small hill of sand and rubble with the Mastiff backed on to it so that the HMG could clear the walls. The two drivers were sitting in the cab, doors open, having a smoke.

They viewed his astonishment with open satisfaction.

‘How long has this been ready to roll?’

‘About five minutes, Sarge. We were just going to come and tell you.’

An RPG lit up the sky. There was a break in firing from the compound and then the boys responded simultaneously with grenades, the Minimi, the gimpy and rifles. Dave didn’t hesitate. He climbed up to the HMG himself, fearing that his weight might disturb the vehicle’s precarious balance.

It rocked a little under him as he fed the belt into the .50 cal, which cleared the high mud walls with only centimetres to spare. But centimetres were enough. Within moments, he was firing up the hillside at the muzzle flashes which kept appearing from around a group of big, pink rocks.

The entry into the battle of the big gun at first silenced the enemy. Then an RPG dissolved in mid-air into a flash of angry light far beyond the yard. Dave knew he was the intended target and, aware that next time the enemy’s aim might not be so poor, he upped his rate of fire on the machine gun, its deep bass thundering under rifles so it sounded like a man among boys.

The enemy stopped firing back. Dave guessed they had taken cover and he stopped firing too. There was a long pause. Everyone waited. The pause got longer. The silence continued. Was it too much to hope that the HMG had made the enemy decide to go away and fight again another day? He remained alert, watching the large boulders on the hillside. The rocks were motionless. The ground around them was motionless. Only the sun moved a little.

Over PRR he told Sol to get someone to relieve him on the heavy machine gun. He slipped down and went back to the men, passing Angus in the compound heading for the .50 cal.

‘They’ve gone home, Sarge,’ said Angry miserably. ‘Now I won’t get a chance to fire the .50 cal at them.’

‘There’ll be lots more chances.’

Out in the compound yard men were sitting down by their weapons relaxing and smoking. A few had their hands in their ration packs and steam puffed from a kettle.

‘It’s all over,’ Streaky Bacon said sadly.

‘You were giggling like a maniac,’ Sol told him.

‘Oh no I wasn’t.’

‘Oh yes you was!’ everyone shouted.

‘That wasn’t laughing. That was crying. Because I only killed one of them.’

‘How do you know you killed any of them?’ asked Slindon. ‘I didn’t see the enemy, not one.’

‘It was amazing. I got this clear line of fire right between the rocks.’

‘You never!’ said Finn. ‘I was aiming for that gap but it was too fucking hard.’

‘I did, Finny, I really did,’ said Streaky.

‘So how do you know you killed one?’

‘Because from my position I could see clear through the gap. Then suddenly I couldn’t. So it must have been someone moving in the way. So I fired and then there was a couple of moments for him to die and then it was clear again.’

‘That doesn’t mean nothing,’ said Finn. ‘He might just have moved out of the way.’

‘I killed him, man!’ insisted Streaky. ‘I know I did. Because the enemy started slowing up after that.’

‘You think you changed the course of the battle?’ demanded Sol.

‘I fucking did!’

Finn looked at Streaky sceptically.

‘All right, Streaks, I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.’

Sol said: ‘It was the HMG which shut them up. And Doc on the Minimi scared them too.’

Suddenly there was a familiar, crackling voice in Dave’s ear. It sounded smug. The sort of smug which could follow a good steak lunch.

‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Chalfont-Price, ‘stores arrived, we’re kitted up already and we’re leaving the FOB now with supplies as agreed. We should be with you shortly. So you see, there really was nothing to worry about.’

Dave scowled into the mic.

‘I’m glad you’re on your way, sir, because we’re badly in need of the ammo.’

The OC’s voice cut in.

‘Patrol Minimize has now been called,’ he announced.

‘Oh no!’ said Dave involuntarily. Operation Patrol Minimize meant that dust storms would keep air support confined to Bastion and the FOBs. Patrol Minimize meant that men on the ground should limit their exposure to the enemy.

‘Right, sir,’ said Chalfont-Price. ‘We’ll turn around and come back, then.’

For a moment, Dave was speechless. Then he echoed, helplessly: ‘Turn around?’

‘Please repeat, Second Lieutenant?’ demanded the OC, as if he hadn’t quite heard.

The boss’s voice sounded a bit less steaky now. ‘Since we’ve only just left the FOB and Operation Patrol Minimize has been announced, we’ll turn around.’

‘No fucking chance, Second Lieutenant,’ snapped Major Willingham. ‘You’re through the gate, now get out there to your men.’

Dave wanted to shout: ‘Thank you!’ Somehow he remained silent. So did Chalfont-Price. When he spoke the officer simply said: ‘Continuing to PB Boston Red Sox. Sir.’ Dave’s face broke into a smile.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Sol. The men could not hear this exchange but they had been watching Dave closely throughout.

Dave said: ‘The rest of the platoon should be here in just over an hour. But there’s no chance of any air support from Bastion: the dust storm’s grounded them.’

The men looked out of the compound across the desert for signs that the sand was moving here, too. If there was a sandstorm, the chances of further attack diminished. But although a warm wind blew around the compound, there was no disturbance in the sand.