Rain (25 page)

‘Mate, I cross my fingers. I really do.’

‘Ta. Well, see you later, I hope!’

Trueman only managed to whisper back, ‘Yeah, mate, yeah. Get well soon.’

‘Cheers. Take care out there. You’re going into a shit storm if you try to clear the whole town. Rather you than me.’

They left him, and with both Ransome and Scott now asleep escaped the ward and went back to the car. Tom was about to speak but glanced at Trueman and saw he was weeping, so he kept quiet. It was the first time Tom had ever seen any vulnerability in him, and he thought it must be like when a little boy sees his father cry for the first time. They got into the car and drove to a pub, and soon Trueman perked up and was back to normal. They had a drink and then drove to the station for Tom’s train back to London. He sat alone, watching out the window as the day faded into dark.

He arrived in London during rush hour. On the Underground passengers crowded like cattle onto the platforms, jostling shoulder to shoulder in the fight to get on board. It took Tom three trains before he could get on to one.

As the train headed south he wriggled himself away from the doors and into the middle of the carriage. He looked at the people who had managed to get a seat. Three in a row were youngish men. One was a builder, grizzly with days-old stubble, clothes flecked with paint and dirt, clearly exhausted. The middle one was a tourist, confused and obviously lost, his spectacles misted with the breath of those around him. The third was about Tom’s age, in a smart suit underneath a camel-coloured coat, plugged into his music. Tom immediately hated him. He looked around. An old man wearing a flat cap and a thin shabby grey jacket was standing, swaying
into other passengers, too short to reach the rail above his head and clearly in need of a seat.

Tom remembered something Frenchie had once told him. ‘Thing is, Tom, there are three things you need to do in life. First, never stand on an escalator; always walk up the bastard. Second, never unfurl an umbrella unless you are doing so to prevent a girl getting wet. Just man up; it’s dry between the drops. Step out, don’t open your brolly, take it on the chin. Heck of a lot smarter, and it confuses the hell out of people. Third, never let me catch you ever, and I mean ever, sitting on the Tube when it is more than half full. It is the most contemptible activity conceivable to humanity. Whenever I see some prat sitting on the Tube, especially when there’s a girl there, I go up to him and tell him to do one. Works every time. Sitting on the Tube is a plague on our society, Tom, and it must be crushed. Crushed.’

Tom went for it. He stepped forward, bloody anger surging up his neck, and reached to tap the city slicker on the shoulder and tell him to move it, but something checked his arm at the last moment.

No. No. Let it be. You cannot be this angry all the time. You cannot let it destroy you
.

He didn’t make his move. They pulled into Victoria, where he got out into the evening rain, cheerful. He was going to come out of this all right.

And then, somehow, that night it all worked perfectly. He met Cassie for a drink at a bar on Pimlico Road, and afterwards they walked arm in arm to an Italian restaurant. In the soft light and with wine warming him Tom told her all about the day – about Ransome, about Scott, about Costello. He mentioned the Tube too, speaking about the quashing of his rage with the pride of a rehabilitated alcoholic.

Cassie listened to all of this in silence and at the end she said, ‘So when you go back you’re going into a big battle.’

‘Yes.’ There was no point lying, not this late on.

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Are you excited?’

He used the wine in his glass as a prism to look at her. ‘I think I am. Yes. I am excited about it. But also terrified. It’s always like that. There’s always this fight going on between these different parts of you.’ He paused and drank some wine, trying to savour every drop. ‘Basically, there’s three people in your brain, and they’re all scrapping for control. Stay with me on this; if it gets a bit weird then just say.’

‘OK.’ She smiled, tilted her head slightly and twirled her hair with her fingers.

‘So, these three people. First, you’ve got ten-year-old Tom, who just loves the fact he’s carrying a gun. He thinks the whole thing’s a dream come true. And then you’ve got the rough-tough army officer, who’s trained for this for two and half years now. He loves it too because he’s applying what he’s been trained to do to reality. He feels no fear, sees everything ruthlessly and bloodlessly. This guy can’t wait to get out there again. Believe me, he’s properly mental.’ He sipped from his glass again.

‘And the third?’

‘Well, the third is a twenty-six-year-old graduate who read poetry at university. He’s got a ma, who’s on her own. He’s not violent; he never even watches horror films. He still has his teddy bear on his bed. He finds any violence horrific. And he’s really squeamish; he hates blood. He looks at what’s happening around him and thinks it’s madness. Utterly horrendous; boys and girls getting turned into meat. And he wants to
scream and run away. But he can’t because the other two guys are stopping him – the ten-year-old and the professional. So there’s this constant battle, but the third guy always loses. I wish I could pretend I hated it, I really do, and I do sort of hate it, massively hate it, but more of me loves it. Loves it. And I wish I could be ashamed of that. I know I should be ashamed of it. But I’m not. And that really scares me.’

She sat back in her chair. ‘Thanks, Tommy. I’ve never heard anyone speak like that before.’

‘You must think I’m some kind of psycho.’

‘Yes, obviously. I’ve always thought that. But no, it’s incredible to hear you talk about yourself like that. I had no idea.’

‘I didn’t know I even thought like that myself until I was saying it. But it’s true. Weird but true.’

Tom paid the bill and they went out into the drizzle. They were both wrapped up warm and went down to Chelsea Embankment to walk along the river. There was no traffic; they had the city to themselves. They didn’t talk, and walked along in silence. There was nothing that needed to be said. Tom clasped her hand and felt her fingers tighten around his through her soft woollen gloves. They passed the Albert Bridge and remembered their parting back in September, when neither of them knew what was going to happen. Cassie thought about telling him about her Friday-morning ritual, but decided not to. She didn’t want to somehow jinx it.

They turned up towards her house and stopped at a bar for a final drink. At midnight they left and went to Cassie’s. She fumbled with the keys, and they giggled as she clumsily unlocked the door. They went up the stairs and then kissed again outside her room. This time she let him in.

He had been awake for a few minutes and was examining her bare back. Her shoulder blade stretched her skin, tanned and
freckled. He kissed her on the back of the neck and then put his arm over her and tried to coincide his breaths with hers so as not to wake her. She carried on sleeping, and he stayed there as the morning breached the curtains.

He looked at his watch. Ten to eight. She needed to be at work for nine. He slinked out of bed as quietly as possible, pulled on his boxer shorts and eased open the door. He went down the stairs, the cold air goose-pimpling his chest, and in the kitchen switched on the kettle and rubbed his arms, trying to get warm.

In the bedroom Cassie had pretended to be asleep and heard him leave. She lay still for a minute, lost in the fog of morning, and then reached over to her bedside table for her phone. It flashed with a new message, and she dragged herself up onto her elbows to read it. Straining her eyes at the screen, she discovered three missed calls and three messages. All the calls were from her mother’s mobile. So were the messages. She read the most recent one: ‘At Heathrow. Now in taxi. Xxx.’ She flicked to the oldest one, sent last night at ten o’clock. ‘Hi Cass darling, we’ve had the most FANTASTIC time out here – wish you’d been with us. Dad just received news of a big case and has to come back to see big client tomorrow for emergency meeting. A day early – drat! Getting red-eye Geneva tomorrow morn; back 4 breakfast. Mummy xxxxx.’

Cassie looked at her watch. Eight. She looked back to the message from Heathrow. Sent at 7.15. In a panic she ripped away the bedclothes, suddenly thinking completely clearly and her brain shedding the previous night in an instant. Still naked, she ran down the stairs to get Tom.

Tom had finished making the coffee. One mug in each hand, he pulled open the kitchen door with his foot and, using his other heel to pivot, rocked himself forward through
it. As he did so, to his left the front door opened and people started coming in. His momentum carried him out from the cover of the kitchen into the hall, where he stood framed in the light flooding through the open door. To his right Cassie was on the stairs for some reason, completely naked. He froze, his first thought being that he wasn’t wearing any boxer shorts. He remembered that he was, but his fear just transformed into something greater.

The two figures in the doorway were looking at him, or at both of them. He glanced in horror back to Cassie, who shrieked and, rather skilfully Tom thought, used both her arms to cover herself up and then ran back up the stairs. That left him with her parents. Her father looked like a dying fish. Tom could have sworn that Lavinia was eyeing him up. No point denying it; well and truly caught red-handed. Drawing from the Frenchie school for these kinds of situations Tom beamed a thousand-watt smile and said, ‘Lavinia, Jeremy, welcome back. Welcome home. Here, coffee. Great to see you both again. Long time.’

Four days later, at home, Tom’s alarm went off at 4.15, and after a cup of tea he and Constance got into the car to drive him back to Aldershot. He had to be there by seven to get the minibus with the troop up to Brize. In the darkness on the drive he felt fine, and he and Constance chatted happliy. He remembered when they had driven to Sandhurst and how nervous he’d been then. This drive seemed so much easier; he was going back to the familiar and, no matter how terrifying that was, at least he knew what its face looked like. Back then he had worried about the length of his hair; now he was proud of his shaggy, unkempt mane. He thought of the Grade 1 he’d had in Bastion at the start of tour; now he looked like a hippy. His sideburns were just within regulation
length, but they were pushing it; he planned to grow them into mutton chops out on the ground.

They drove into the barracks, where the boys were by the guardroom, hanging around a white minibus. He smiled as he saw them in their characteristic poses. Dusty was reading a book in front of the bus, GV and Jessie were smoking, and Trueman was making the others laugh. ‘Mum, come and meet them. I promise they won’t bite.’ Tom felt very proud that he was able to introduce Constance to the lads. As the car pulled up and he got out the boys started heckling him.

‘Oi oi, boss, what time do you call this?’

‘Aw, boss, no haircut? Standards, sir, standards.’ Then they saw Constance and instantly became more formal.

Tom led her over, and cigarettes were stubbed out and clothes straightened as though they were getting ready to meet a general. ‘Well, Mum, here are the pirates I’ve told you about. Lads, this is my ma. The one who’s kept you all, and particularly you, Lance Corporal Miller, in chocolate brownies all tour.’

The boys laughed politely but genuinely. Trueman was the first to break the ice and thrust his hand out to shake hers. One by one they did the same, and Tom was amused to see them all become paragons of clean language. He excused himself to go to the mess for his body armour and helmet, and when he came back, as he knew would be the case, he found that Constance had them all wrapped around her finger, telling them stories about him when he was young. He stood off for a moment and smiled at the scene. Then he went in to break it up, and they all laughed at him. After a few more minutes Trueman looked at his watch and said, ‘Sorry, boss, we’d better get a move on. Don’t want to miss the plane.’ He grinned at Constance. ‘Well, we do, but it ain’t really the done thing.’

‘Sure. Right fellas, let’s go,’ said Tom. As they got on the bus he turned to Constance for one final hug. ‘Bye, Mum. Get in the car now and go before we do. I promise you, it’ll be easier.’

‘OK, Tommy, OK.’ She wanted to make this as short as possible too. She extracted herself from the hug but then pulled him back one more time and whispered into his ear, ‘Take care, darling boy. I’m so proud of you all. Look after them, but look after yourself, please.’

‘I will. See you in a month. Just a month. I’ll hardly be away.’ She pulled away, blinking more than was natural, got into the car and drove out of the camp, leaving Tom waving after her. He turned to get on board. Jessie held his hand out and hauled him on, his eyes meeting Tom’s and saying all that needed to be said. And then they too left camp and headed to Brize.

The helicopter came in low, skimming over compounds. Tom looked out the tailgate, gazing down at battlefields already famous in regimental lore as they flew over Eiger and then up Route Canterbury. They approached the
DC
, and the heli slowed, gained some height and then spiralled down to touch onto the HLS, and they ran out. Some infantry guys ran on to take their place, off for their own R & R, and the Chinook lifted off again, leaving 3 Troop in the warm mid-morning sun. They were exhausted after two days in transit: from Brize to Minhad in Dubai, up to KAF and then to Bastion, where they were hurried off the plane to pick up their rifles and then driven over to catch the heli. They had only just made it and cursed that they did; if they hadn’t they would have been able to spend a day in Bastion sorting themselves out and getting some kip. None of them felt ready to come straight back into the thick of things. Tom put his kit in the tent and went into the ops room. Frenchie, Jason and Jules pored over a map of the AO.

‘Well well well, look who it isn’t!’ Frenchie smiled, and Tom immediately felt back into the zone. ‘How was it? You look well, my boy.’

‘Gleaming, Frenchie, gleaming. Sorted me right out. Best two weeks ever.’

‘Welcome back to the suck, Tommy,’ said Jules.

‘
Jarhead
. Very nice.’

‘You know me. We’ve got some news for you.’

‘What about, Ops Box Republic?’

Jules frowned. ‘How do you know about that? Who told you?’

‘Scotty did. I went to see him in Selly Oak.’

Frenchie laughed. ‘So much for opsec. How is he?’

‘All right. High as a kite on morphine, but he told me all about what’s been happening to Pilgrim.’

‘Is he going to keep his arm?’

‘Oh yeah, definitely. Smashed up his collarbone but the docs say he’ll be back to normal in a few months. Lucky boy.’

‘Too right. Did he tell you about it?’

‘Bits of. Not all. What happened?’

‘When he got hit the sergeant major ran out to drag him out under a massive weight of fire. I was about fifty metres away when it happened. Bravest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m putting him up for a gong. With any luck he’ll get an
MC
.’

‘Awesome! Does he know?’

‘Don’t think so. As you can imagine he’s being fairly blasé about the whole thing, but the CO’s going to give it his full backing. Anyway, what did Scott tell you about Republic?’

‘Just that it was all kicking off. Bigger than
Ben Hur
.’

Jules butted in. ‘You could say that. It’s been frantic up there. Pilgrim are getting smashed every time they go out the gate.’

‘And so?’

‘We’re going to sort it out. That’s where you come in.’

‘OK, hit me. Don’t beat around the bush, please. Am I on point?’

Frenchie and Jules looked at each other as if debating who should break the news. Frenchie decided he would. ‘ ’Fraid so. The CO wanted our best troop, so I told him that the Chamberlain and Trueman show wouldn’t let him down.’ He watched the news sink in. ‘No pressure then.’

Tom’s throat was dry, but his brain was racing. ‘Well,
that’s um, flattering, Frenchie. Thanks. But we’ve only just got back in.’

‘Don’t worry; D-Day’s not for a week yet. Plenty of time to bed in. O Group in five days. We’re just doing shaping stuff at the mo and bidding for brigade assets.’

Jules continued: ‘And we need a shedload of them – UAVs, Chinooks, Uglys, the works. Brigade are being OK about it.’

‘What do I do in the meantime?’

‘I imagine the sergeant major’s sorting Trueman out already. Your lads are going to get the Scimitars ready this week.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that – sounds like something else for me.’

‘You’re good, Tom. Just for three days or so you’re going to take over Scott’s troop. Sergeant Williams has D & V, and I don’t want Corporal McMaster to have to troop-lead; he’s too crow. So you’re on the Mastiffs, troop leading Two Zero till Willie’s better.’

‘Roger. Are we doing anything today? Please say no.’

‘No, low ops today. But tomorrow you’re going down to Eiger for an admin run. Milk run, just to ease you in.’

‘Where have I heard that before? Yeah, sure, of course. It’ll be good to get back into it. But I can kip today?’

‘Fill your boots, whatever floats your boat.’

‘I’d bite your arm off for it. I’m knackered.’

Frenchie chuckled. ‘Then crack on, son.’ Tom went to leave, picked up his rifle and helmet and pulled away the hessian over the doorway. ‘Oh, Tom?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Nothing. Just it’s good to have you back, that’s all.’

‘Thanks. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s actually quite exciting to be back.’

Jules replied, ‘There you go, mate, like I always said. You bloody love it out here.’

The next day the Mastiffs went down to Eiger, carrying a replacement generator. A Squadron had managed to break another one. It was a clear run. They barma’d the usual VPs but came up with nothing. The whole of the AO’s focus had shifted to the north since Christmas; it was as though the troubles down south had never happened.

Tom enjoyed being back amongst it and working with Scott’s troop. They were good lads, and their drills were immaculate. Their banter wasn’t as good as 3’s, but then they’d never had Trueman, and their sergeant, Williams, while solid and a decent soldier, was pretty dour. It took them an hour, and when they got there he chatted with the A Squadron officers, swapping stories about R & R and hearing how since it had all started happening up in Jekyll their own contacts had completely dried up. They made a show of complaining about it, but he could see relief etched into their faces. They themselves only had five weeks to go and were clearly content to moan about a lack of action while actually revelling in it. He didn’t blame them.

At the front of the PB was the same soldier Tom had talked to on Christmas Eve, standing before the red and white corrugated iron gate. It was dirty, and riddled with bullet holes that the sun sent shafts of light through on to its shadow. Borrowby was wearing lance corporal rank now. ‘Congratulations, Corporal Borrowby; when did you pick up?’

‘Cheers, sir, about a month ago. The boss did it out on the ground. On patrol, he came up to me, told me I was going to be charged for being improperly dressed and then tossed me the rank slide. It was a good crack, actually.’

‘Well done. How are things here?’

‘Same old. A bit quieter than last time you were down, sir, but I ain’t complaining about that. I’ve had enough contacts to last me a lifetime to be honest.’

‘How are those two little kids?’

‘What, Jack and Jill? That’s what we used to call ’em. Yeah, they were good crack.’

‘Do they not still come down?’

‘Nah. Fucking sick, sir. About three weeks ago, like, we hadn’t seen the girl for ages, just the lad. So we asked the locals what had happened to her.’ He looked away into the distance.

Tom could guess what he was about to say. ‘Go on.’

‘She got married to some bloke in a village ten miles to the south. Arranged by her parents. She was taken off and given to him. She was only thirteen. Sick, sir. Fucking sick.’

‘Christ.’

‘What are we doing out here? These people are barbarians, sir, you know?’

‘Well, we can’t judge, Corporal. It’s their culture, and they’ve got their way of doing things.’ Even as he said the words he realized they sounded idiotic.

‘Fuck off, sir; we don’t have to swallow all that cultural bollocks. We can still judge by our own standards. If that kind of shit happened back home, back in my town, some pervert raping a girl like that, he’d get his balls cut off, no questions asked. It just ain’t right, sir, it just ain’t right.’

Tom made no reply as they stood there, lost in their lonely thoughts.
What kind of reality is this? What are we doing here?

Borrowby coughed, shook off his anger and asked Tom politely, ‘How was leave then? Heard you guys were away.’

Tom was grateful for the new conversation. ‘Awesome, thanks, really awesome. You had yours yet?’

‘Yeah, but it was shit. Over the New Year. Went home and
me missus had been shagging some other fella from Aldershot. Some electrician. So we split up. We had this blazin’ row and it’s all over.’

‘Jesus. I’m sorry.’

‘Fuck it, sir.’ He grinned sadly. ‘More fish in the sea, all that crap. And then when I got back here I discovered about Ransome.’

‘He your mate?’

‘Yeah, joined up together. Been mates since the off.’

‘I saw him in Selly Oak last week.’

Borrowby’s eyes lit up. ‘Did you? How is he?’

Tom didn’t reply immediately. ‘He’s … doing OK. He’s bloody brave. But I’m afraid what’s done is done. He’s going to have a long hard struggle for the rest of his life.’

‘But he’s cheerful, is he?’ Borrowby looked at him as if desperately needing reassurance.

‘Yes. Yes, he’s cheerful. But he’s going to need a lot of support.’

Tom thought back to Ward S4 and his ghastly journey through it, and was quiet for a few moments.

Again Borrowby broke the silence: ‘I dunno how those boys do it, to be honest. We’ve got this thing down here, some of the lads. This informal pact thing that if one of us gets fucked, like truly fucked, then we’re just going to pump him full of morphine so he dies of an overdose. Better that than what comes after.’

‘No. No, I don’t agree with that.’

‘Come on, sir; better than a lifetime of shit.’

‘No. Honestly, maybe a couple of months ago I’d have agreed with you. It’s a valid view. But, personally, since I was in that hospital, I disagree. It was horrible there, but it made me realize that what you have is so precious that if there is a
tiny chance to save a life and keep it going, it has to be taken. I don’t expect you to agree with me. That’s just the way I see it.’

‘But what if you’ve had your balls blown off?’

‘Even then, I think.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. And anyway it’d be cheaper.’

‘Eh?’

‘Well you wouldn’t have to bother taking girls on dates.’

Borrowby smiled. ‘Fair one. Boss, that’s your guys hot to trot.’

Tom looked over and saw 2 Troop milling around the Mastiffs. He held out his hand. ‘Well, good to see you again, Corporal Borrowby. And congratulations.’

They shook. ‘Cheers, sir. Will I see you boys again?’

‘Dunno. We’re back to Bastion in about three weeks, and I think most of the time till then we’re going to be up north.’

‘On this mental op?’

‘Yeah. You heard about it?’

Borrowby grinned and lit a cigarette. ‘Too right. Sounds like the circus is in town for that one. Clown cars, lion tamers, the works. Sounds Mickey Mouse to be honest.’

‘I’m inclined to agree.’

‘Take care, sir. It’s too late on for any funny business now.’

‘I don’t know about that. Always room for funny business. Remember, if you can’t take the joke, Corporal Borrowby, what shouldn’t you have done?’

Borrowby’s creased and dusty face grinned back through the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Shouldn’t have joined, sir. Shouldn’t have joined.’ Tom jogged off, hopped onto his Mastiff and the troop rolled back out northwards, leaving
Borrowby at the gate like a statue, like he had always been there, like he was always going to be there.

Through the week the tempo picked up. Sergeant Williams got better, and Tom was able to rejoin 3 Troop. Newcastle became crowded as platoons and sections were stripped away from across the AO and formed into composite units for the op. D-Day was Tuesday. Full orders would take place on Sunday in Newcastle, and on Monday they would leave Newcastle and forward-mount around Jekyll for the next day’s drive. They were going in with sledgehammer force.

The company at Jekyll, the Pilgrim callsigns which had fought so hard throughout the month, were to be the lead sub-unit. In support of them they had two companies of ANA under the supervision of the OMLT. Two troops from C Squadron, Clive’s and Henry’s, were on their feet under Frenchie, with a platoon of US Marines also under him. BG Tac were coming out; Sergeant Williams commanded the Mastiff troop and 3 Troop were in their Scimitars as intimate support for the infantry. They also had a REST from Bastion with one of the best ATOs in theatre heading it up. Even the mortars from Eiger came up for it. They had lorries loaded with Hesco, and diggers from the engineers, who would build the new patrol base.

The force had two and a half miles of the town to push through, which would take about three days, BGHQ thought. Int said there were forty or fifty Taliban in the area. The plan was simple: to push north, clear and destroy all enemy in boundaries until they reached the edge of the town and then establish a new patrol base. The town had round-the-clock
UAV
surveillance to watch for any IED activity.
Opsec
had gone out the window. With such heavy ANA involvement it was a foregone conclusion that most
of the details would be leaked, but the CO didn’t mind. He wanted the Taliban to know they were coming, to intimidate them into leaving. Better that than they stayed and fought. But the downside was that the Talibs had had weeks to prepare defensive positions, and weeks to guess approaches through the town.

The operation had been calculated with two things in mind. First, it would provide a real buffer to the north of the brigade’s entire area and make it impossible for the Taliban to infiltrate down into the town. Second, and more immediately, it would be a massive and emphatic show of strength, a chance to show that ISAF ruled the town, no questions asked. For that reason, and unlike the assault through Shah Kalay, there was to be no cut-off force to the north. The CO wanted the Taliban to be able to escape if they wanted to, and, even better, to be seen to be running.

Every day helicopters arrived with more supplies: more artillery shells, mortar shells, 30 mil ammunition, ladders, water, all in great underslung loads. One box was being carried off a heli and the soldier carrying it tripped and the box burst, spilling pristine bodybags out onto the ground. The humour became even darker than usual. The Scimitars heaved with water and ammunition, Trueman making sure every available space was filled with HE, gimpy link, schmoolies,
LASMs
. Even before the big O Group, bergens and daysacks were already packed.
Link
, extra tourniquets and FFDs filled every pouch. Every GPS, every torch, every head torch had new batteries inside, and spares taped to it. Marker pens renewed faded and dusty Zap numbers and blood groups written on body armour and trouser legs. Everyone carried spare batteries for the Vallons. Their operators, almost surgically attached to them, let no one near the detectors, recognizing by now every single variation in the
tones of their beeps. Everybody knew that while grenades, rifles and gimpys would win the fight, the Vallons would determine its cost.