‘It’s no use,’ I said, wanting to cry, ‘being here, knowing he’s dead. Murdered. I thought I’d sense him. Stupid, isn’t it?’
Dawn got to her feet. Small white stones in her earrings caught the sun. ‘You’re angry?’
I nodded. ‘I still mourn him.’
‘Was he a good friend?’
I shook my head.
‘An old friend?’
Again, I shook my head.
She looked at me with irritation. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you back.’
*
‘I’ll take Khan,’ commanded Corporal Longbone.
I snarled at him. It was the live fire exercise, a series of targets divided by obstacles. We were divided into groups of eight, each man accompanied by a company corporal or sergeant, who would keep a close eye on him and, more importantly, his weapon, which was loaded. I would win it. For Dax.
The starter pistol sounded and the exercise commenced. I ran to the first station, my rifle held pointing straight ahead, magazine loaded with precisely ten 7.62mm live rounds. The corporal ran alongside me. ‘Fuck it up, Recruit Khan. It’s the last big one and you’re going to blow it.’ He was laughing, his eyes wild. ‘You’re not English, you’re a fucking clown. Do something, you pussy, don’t just take it.’
Loudly he collected a bolus of spit in his mouth. I saw it, as though in slow motion, as it shot out of his pursed lips. I watched its trajectory as the wind carried it across my eyes and away. Focusing straight ahead, I stopped at the first station, dropped into the prone position, trained the sights of my rifle and discharged one round at the pop-up target. It fell down. I got back to my feet, slung the SLR over my shoulder, climbed a triangular wooden obstacle, stopped at station number two and fired from the standing position, one round and the target went down. I ran, Longbone’s boots clipping my heels, and then dropped down and crawled through a tunnel, my weapon held six inches off the ground in front of me. I hit the other side and made it to station number three. From the kneeling position, I hit the target in one. Beginning to enjoy it, I commenced the long run to station number four.
A punch landed on my shoulder, making me stumble. I turned reflexively to look at the corporal, and just then my right foot sank into a shallow ditch in the rutted ground. I fell. I saw the corporal’s mouth open but didn’t hear the words. My rifle slipped out of my hands and then I heard a sickening sound, bum, as it discharged one round randomly into the landscape. While I watched, my SLR landed nearby with a thud.
A whistle blew. The corporal was screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Stop! Stop. Stop. Unload!’
Recruit Company C froze wherever they were and unclipped their magazines. They stood, holding their ammunition in one hand and presenting a clear chamber in the other. I felt their eyes on me, and heard hissing.
The corporal was still screaming, his face inches from mine, his spit showering my face. ‘You fucking clown! That stray shot could have killed somebody. You’re out. You’re out. You’re going home!’
He retrieved my now muddy rifle from a shallow stream, unclipped the magazine, which he pocketed, and after turning the SLR sideways to eye its empty chamber, thrust it hard against my chest. ‘Get up there and strip your weapon.’ He pointed to a small wooden hut about a hundred yards away on a mound overlooking the range. As I limped away, I heard him instruct the others to reload. For a moment I froze with the crazy idea that he was about to command Recruit Company C to shoot me. He blew his whistle, and the troop continued with the live fire exercise.
Against one wall of the hut was a stack of metal ammo boxes. I opened one and ran my hand across a folded belt of sparkling 7.62mms, like neatly lined-up brass pencils. They were cold and smooth. Mounted on a tripod, its barrel pointing at the range, was a generaclass="underline" a general-purpose machine gun.
From my elevated vantage point I scanned the firing range. Recruit Company C ran across it like toy soldiers; reaching a station, they aimed their rifles into the sun and fired at will. Bam. Bam. Bam. I placed several heavy ammo cases next to the general and lowered myself behind it. I swung off the cover tray, pulled a heavy ammo belt out of its metal case and laid one end inside a depression in the tray. It fitted nicely. I clicked the cover tray neatly shut and switched the safety to off. The gun felt hard, rigid; it smelt good: of metal, oil and cordite.
Jamming the butt tight into my shoulder and putting my eyes to the flip-up sights, I trained it on the company, the crosshairs searching for the corporal. I adjusted the grouping one click to account for the wind from the right. I was happy.
I heard footsteps behind me. Unusually, the corporal spoke in a sort of low stammer. ‘Recruit Khan, you?’ Tightening my grip on the general, I turned to look at him. He was panting, his arms pinned to his sides and his eyes wide. ‘What the fuck are you doing with the general?’
I offered a nonchalant smile.
‘Hang on.’ His face became a frozen white mask. ‘Is that thing loaded?’
Slowly I swung the general towards him and said, ‘First rule of the firing range, guard your ammo. They’re going to have you for this.’ The sights were now trained on him. ‘Dare me?’
His eyes darted between my eyes and the tip of the barrel and his chest rose and fell quickly. His jaw trembled and I laughed. I sprang to my feet, knocking the general. Its barrel swung on its tripod pivot before coming to rest, and the corporal dived for cover.
‘Who’s the clown?’ I said, standing over his prone body. ‘Who’s the fucking Englishman and who’s the fucking clown?’
‘Fuck,’ said the corporal, slowly getting to his feet and dusting himself off. ‘Fuck me, Khan, at this rate you’ll make best recruit.’
*
‘It gets worse now,’ I tell Grace, her head on my shoulder.
There is blood in her hair, seeping through the makeshift tea towel bandages on her neck, on her arms, between her fingers, and I can feel it drying against my ear and down towards my chest. In places it congeals into dots of iron suspended in dark red slurry. At its borders the red is drying black.
‘How did he die?’
With a finger, where Grace’s scapula meets her shoulder, I trace concentric patterns in the thick blood. ‘Our troop was on patrol. He got hit.’
‘Could they not save him? Didn’t they try?’
I shake my head. I put the finger to my nose and inhale the scent of cold steel. Closing my eyes helps me picture the scene. I can feel the chill off the mountains and smell the flowers and the rot and open drains. I can see our troop pass through a field, and then another, at our backs the moonlit night. Lieutenant Lovell is at the head, speaking softly to his girlfriend, a comms operator back at base. I walk behind him, trying my best to avoid mines, putting my feet exactly where he put his. I remember thinking, it is good of the lieutenant to take point. By rights it is my job, it is the sergeant who takes the mine. I hear the light fall of my boots on the earth and feel a cold sweat on my brow. Beyond the occasional call of an owl, all is quiet.
Lieutenant Lovell gave the halt and the lads settled down to brew tea. They needed no excuse for a brew. Private Hartley padded up to me and, with a twist of his head, indicated for me to follow.
When we were out of earshot of the others, he said, ‘You thirsty, Sarge?’
‘No, lad.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Then let’s carry on half a k.’
We were rarely alone and I enjoyed his banter, so we scouted, taking a route we knew. After twenty minutes we were about a k and a half from the others.
The day’s first azan started up from a distant loudspeaker, ‘Allahu Akbar.’ I pictured a turbaned mullah standing somewhere nearby reciting into a microphone. It resonated through the languid mountain air of the Hindu Kush, puncturing the silence. It had been merciful, the absence of overnight contact. Terry were out there, smoking opium in dugouts and on rooftops, doing nothing more than quietly taking our measure.