Last Night Another Soldier (3 page)

We all sniggered but it didn’t last long and we soon fell silent again. It was hot in the tent now as the sun was higher. Toki shoved the patrol pack back under John’s bed. ‘Come on, everyone. Let’s go!’

We made our way though the four-inch-thick dust towards the cookhouse. I had to half close my eyes against the bright sun because, as usual, I’d left my sunglasses back in the tent.

We knew exactly why MacKenzie wanted all of us in the cookhouse. By the time we got there, the long trestle tables had already been pushed to one side, and the whole FOB – about seventy scruffy, sweaty soldiers – were standing around waiting for it to start. Toki grabbed four warm beers from the back of the room and handed one to each of us. Like everyone else, we didn’t open them, we just stood there holding a can in one hand.

Sergeant MacKenzie stepped forward to face us. His tanned face matched the colour of his totally bald head. He came straight to the point.

‘Right, listen in. Rifleman John Hammond is dead. But you lot are still alive. Look around you. Go on, look at each other.’

I looked at Si who stared me out, daring me to blink before he did. I stared straight back at
him as MacKenzie continued. ‘Remember what we were told before we came out here. One in ten of us is going to be a casualty. So if we don’t stay switched on and keep our minds in gear, the next casualty could be the very lad you’re looking at now.’

I blinked on purpose and looked away. I wasn’t in the mood for Si’s stupid games.

Sergeant MacKenzie moved his head about, making eye contact with as many of us as he could. ‘It’s our job to look out for each other. And to remember John, your mate. Remember all of those who’ve died, because none of those pencil necks in the real world will. This time next year they’ll still be wetting themselves over Beckham’s new haircut, Jordan’s latest tit job and Jamie Oliver reinventing toast. No point being angry about it, that’s just the way it is. Even Iraq is a distant memory for them. It’s up to you to keep our guys’ memories alive. Because they are one of us. They are soldiers, just like you.’

MacKenzie pulled the ring tab back on the beer can he was holding in his left hand. I knew what was coming, but it felt worse this time around. All of us pulled our tabs back and the room let out a long hiss. Everyone’s eyes were on MacKenzie. ‘To keep John’s memory alive, you’ve got to stay alive, so keep switched on and
look out for each other. It’s your job.’ MacKenzie raised his arm high in a toast. ‘To Rifleman John Hammond. To John.’

We lifted our cans in response and toasted our dead mate. It all felt a bit overdramatic, a bit unreal, but we had to do something for John. Sergeant MacKenzie gave pretty much the same toast every time we lost a lad. This was number sixteen and the battalion was still only halfway through its tour. Good job we weren’t doing it for the wounded, too, or we’d be out of beer by now. Not that it was real beer, of course. Alcoholfree Heineken was all we were allowed.

As I left the cookhouse, Sergeant MacKenzie screamed over to me. ‘Briggsy! Stand still.’

I did as I was ordered. Got my feet together, arms down by my sides, and waited.

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

Everyone was scared of MacKenzie. Stupid really. He sounded harsh, but the man was a star. It was his job to control us. He had to keep us together, to stop anyone falling apart over John, or anyone else getting zapped. Or worse than that, getting bits of them blown off.

To MacKenzie we were all dickheads, but the thing is, we were his dickheads. He always stuck up for us, even when we’d cocked something up. Last week he punched another sergeant from HQ Company for picking on one of the platoon. That’s the sort of dad I would have liked. At least in MacKenzie I had one while I was there.

He hovered over me, pointing a stubby finger at me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I think I got cut up a bit last night, Sergeant.’ I tried to be all casual about it. If Toki was right and everyone was going back into the Green
Zone soon, I wanted to make sure I was going with them.

‘You seen the medic?’

I shrugged. ‘No, Sergeant. It’s no big—’

‘Wind your neck in,’ he bellowed. ‘Who do you think you are? Schwarzenegger, the Terminator?’

‘No, Sergeant.’

‘Correct. So get hobbling over to the medic centre. Get Corporal Rankin to sort it now.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

As I lay on the bench in the Medical Centre, I realized I was in a pretty ridiculous position. I was lying on my stomach with my combats around my ankles and my bare arse facing the ceiling. The tinny sound of the Red Hot Chili Peppers rang out from Emma’s cheap iPod speakers. Emma was pretty. She was Scottish, with long dark hair that she pulled back in a ponytail. As she leant over the bench to examine me, I prayed my arse wasn’t covered in zits.

Emma’s voice was kind but matter-of-fact. ‘Right then, Briggsy. What did you do, exactly?’

I stared down at the plastic flooring. ‘Don’t know. Must have cut my arse during the contact last night.’

She put one hand on the edge of the bench and the other on the back of my thigh as she leant in closer. Her movement made me flinch in pain so I thought I’d try to chat a bit to distract myself. ‘Emma, d’you really like the Chili Peppers?’

‘I’d rather have one of them lying half naked
in front of me than you.’ She smiled and prodded carefully, but not carefully enough.

I let out a yelp. ‘Whoah. That’s it, right there.’

She burst into laughter. ‘Stop being a wimp, Briggsy.’ She prodded again.

‘Ow!’

She kept on with her examination. ‘Keep still, get a grip … that’s no cut. I think we can safely say, David Briggs, you have been well and truly shot in the arse.’

My heart sank. Not that it came as a great surprise really. I hadn’t been able to sit down all morning because of the pain. I’d hoped it was just a cut, and the news that it was something worse got me flapping. I twisted round to look at her. ‘There a bullet in there?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it just nicked you. Here, have a look in the mirror. I’ll hold it up for you. See how it just went in and out in less than, what, a centimetre?’

I twisted my body round some more. There was a gash in my arse, but the fact that there was no bullet to dig out was a big relief. I started to worry about something else. ‘Don’t tell anyone, will you, Emma? It’s not exactly macho is it? I’ll get a hard time from the lads. They’ll take the piss out of me big time.’

Emma put the mirror down. ‘It’s when
the guys are being nice to you that you need to worry.’ She didn’t seem to realize how embarrassing it all was. She was busying herself with bits of kit, ready to sort out my wound.

‘Yeah. But really, you won’t tell anyone, will you?’ I was begging now, but it would be worth it if she would just agree to shut up about it. ‘Please, Emma?’

She started cleaning the wound with some liquid and cotton wool. ‘No, you’re all right. I wouldn’t be that cruel. Now, lie still and let me clean this thing up and close the wound. We don’t want it getting septic, do we? Just think of the hard time you’d get then.’

As Emma cleaned and sewed, I gasped and winced with the pain, trying hard not to show how much it hurt. Then I noticed a big black rubber body bag lying in the corner of the tent. It had to be John. I’d heard that MERT hadn’t been able to fly him out yet. No spare helis. They were still all up with D Company. I asked if I could take a look at him, but Emma shook her head. ‘What for? You know what happened. You were there.’

She was right. I mumbled something about how dark and confusing it was out there, but to tell you the truth, I really had no idea why I wanted to see him. What good would it do? Besides,
Emma couldn’t be persuaded. ‘No, Briggsy. I haven’t hosed him down yet. Remember him as he was. That’s best.’

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure if I agreed. Emma quickly changed the subject. ‘Heard that one of them tried to take you last night …’

We were back on that old chestnut. Well, I wasn’t going to tell the story again. It had been bad enough telling Si and the others the first time around. I just didn’t want to think about it. But Emma kept on.

‘I heard you shot him in the face. Sounds very frightening. And pretty full on for a guy who has only been here three weeks. You OK?’

I tried to shut her up fast. ‘Yeah, it’s what I get eighteen hundred quid a month for, isn’t it?’

‘Well, seeing as you’re the new boy, and you’ve just had quite a major experience, and you can’t run away because your combats are round your ankles … you are now going to get the potted Post Traumatic Stress Disorder lecture.’

I groaned loudly, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. She banged on about all the symptoms of PTSD. Nightmares, mood swings, anxiety, that sort of stuff. Problems with alcohol and drugs. Trouble communicating with friends
and family. Feelings of isolation, like nobody else understands. Violence. Even sexual problems.

We had watched a training film about it while I was at the Infantry Training Centre, but I’d fallen asleep halfway through. I’d been knackered after a day on the assault course. I wasn’t really in the mood for hearing it all again, but then she said something I didn’t know. She said PTSD normally took years to develop. Well that was news to me.

‘So, Emma, you mean you might not even know you’ve got it until you’re out the army and maybe even married with kids?’

‘Exactly. And we need to remember that guys hit by PTSD are casualties of war, just like John. It’s a normal reaction to an abnormal experience. There’s even an American general with it.’

‘Nah, you’re joking.’ I kept on looking down at the ground as she pressed on the wound.

‘No joke. You heard of the Falklands war? It was years ago, early eighties?’

‘Yeah, I have. I know a lot about it.’

‘Bet you didn’t know that since that war more guys have committed suicide as a result of PTSD than the 255 guys that were killed in action?

‘It’s just a small percentage of people who develop PTSD. But if any of those symptoms
start happening to you, you
must
get help.’ Emma was looking at me like she expected me to be the very next sufferer.

‘I’m not a jellyhead, I’m all right!’ I twisted round to look at her.

‘I know, but it’s my job to make sure you lot know.’ She stood up and walked back over to her desk to put down her medical stuff. ‘Right, you’re done. You can get dressed. Seven days light duties and antibiotics.’

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. We might get sent back out and I’d be stuck in camp. I started to argue with Emma. ‘But …’

‘Don’t care.’ She pointed at me to shut up.

‘Seven days light duties and I want you back here tonight after you’ve showered. Go easy – I want to check those sutures are still in place.’

By the tone of her voice, I could tell arguing with her wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I changed tack. ‘You just want to see my arse again …’

‘Your arse looks like a rancid badger’s right now,’ she giggled. ‘Believe me, nobody’s going to want to see it.’

I laughed back as I opened the tent flap to leave. Then the thought of walking back into the cookhouse stopped me. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’ I asked.

Emma looked me straight in the eye. ‘I took the Hippocratic oath.’

I had no idea what that was but it sounded serious, which was good enough for me.

As I walked over to the cookhouse, the familiar sound of generators humming and vehicles revving filled my ears. The Tannoy kicked off again, ‘Standby. Standby. Firing. End of message.’ Sure enough, another 70km Sniper kicked off and whooshed over my head. I couldn’t be bothered to look up and watch it disappear into the sky without my sunglasses on. Besides, the most important thing on my mind just then was getting a brew.

Whenever we got any time off from being on patrol or on fatigues, it was always brew time. No doubt about it, the army would grind to a halt without tea. Even our ration packs had enough brew kit in them to supply all the Queen’s garden parties put together.

The cookhouse was the centre of our world. As well as having a brew on 24/7, we also got fed there, but more importantly it was where the telly was. BFBS, the British Forces Broadcasting Service, beamed in the soaps, news, music channels and, even better, football. There were always lads sitting in the cookhouse day or night.
Just hanging around, chatting, watching telly, or reading all the three-week-old newspapers and magazines lying about.

The FOB was just a big square fort really, a bit like the US Cavalry outposts in the westerns I used to watch on Sunday afternoons. Only, instead of wood, they were made of Hescos. Hescos are massive, drum-shaped sandbags with a wire frame and they stood as tall as me. The engineers filled them with sand and stacked them up to make the FOB’s perimeter walls, then they made buildings with them for protection against IDFs (indirect fire, rocket or mortar attacks). We didn’t actually sleep in the Hesco buildings. We slept in tents surrounding them. We’d be too hot otherwise.

There was no air-conditioning and barely any plugs either. We used Solar Power Monkeys to keep our iPods and laptops charged up. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of sun, if you know what I mean. I hadn’t seen a single cloud since I’d been here. We were in the middle of the desert with nothing around us for miles. It was all generators, water wells and powdered milk. But you know what? It was great, I loved it. I even got thirty minutes of free phone calls home every week.

I pushed through the tent flap and into the cookhouse. Big mistake. About twenty lads all
stopped chatting, farting and watching the telly, ready to take the piss out of me. There was a general chorus of ‘Wey hey!’ Then all the funnies started.

‘It’s the man with two arseholes!’ shouted Si with a big fat grin on his face.

‘Not good, mate,’ jeered Flash as he looked up from his magazine. ‘Women ain’t going to be impressed with that war wound.’

‘
Guinness Book of Records
for you, mate,’ shouted Jonesy without even looking away from the television. He was a lad from another platoon and he was a bit strange. No one understood his so-called joke, but then again we never understood what he was on about.