Soldier's Daughters (31 page)

‘Jeez, Immi, the guy’s a legend. He was dodging bullets at the Westgate shopping mall attack. Did one of the best reports of the whole incident – I think he even got some sort of media award for it.’

‘Westgate? That shopping centre near Shepherd’s Bush?’

Luke gazed at Immi in stunned amazement. ‘No, Immi, Westgate, Nairobi, not Westfield in London.’ He sighed, theatrically. ‘It had a massive terrorist attack. Surely even you heard about it?’

Immi was nettled by the
even you
. She gazed at Luke as he walked away. Nope, she was wrong, she wasn’t getting anywhere with him. On the other hand, there was always Mr Raven. She cheered up.

Over the next few days the camp began to fill with troops and equipment; everything and everyone needed for the exercise was brought in. To an outsider it looked chaotic but there was order and everyone had a sense of purpose with a place to be and a task to fulfil: the loggies were beavering away, moving pallets of ammo, food, fuel and gallons and gallons of water; the signallers were setting up and checking comms equipment; the gunners were stripping down, cleaning and reassembling massive artillery pieces; and the infantry were being beasted through punishing PT routines to get them acclimatised to the conditions.

Jack Raven, however, was kicking his heels. He couldn’t yet go to the exercise area at Archers Post, he felt he had no need to acclimatise and most of the soldiers were far too busy to have time to spare to chat to him about anything worthwhile; yes, they would tell him their thoughts on the Premiership or give him their opinions on the food but if he tried to engage them on the subject of the army’s role in Afghanistan, or what was happening since the withdrawal, or the draw-down of troops from Germany or anything to do with the army’s future, all he got was what the squaddies thought was the official line. It was the same when it came to their last pay rise or the quarters for the families – no one seemed to want to rock the boat. Not that he really cared because until the exercise kicked off and he would really have to start filing stories, he was on a nice BBC salary and away from the awful winter weather in the UK. He sat in the warm shade, his laptop open, stared sightlessly at the screen and tried to tell himself that he liked this feeling of semi-lethargy and that he wasn’t at all bored. No, siree.

‘Excuse me.’

Jack looked up and saw the pretty NCO who had met him at the airport.

‘Hiya,’ he said, squinting against the sun.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you—’

She was, but not in the way she meant.

‘—but the QM would like you to come and get issued with some kit.’

‘Like?’

‘Mossie net, camp bed…’ She shrugged and wrinkled her nose.

‘So does this mean we’re due to move out soon?’

‘I think we all are.’

‘Are you looking forward to it?’

‘Are you kidding?’ The look of total disdain on her face spoke volumes.

‘But you’re a soldier.’

‘I’m a clerk.’

‘And there’s a difference? I thought everyone in the army was a soldier first and foremost and a tradesperson second.’

‘If you want to believe that, go right ahead, be my guest.’

‘So, that leads to the inevitable question, why did you join?’

‘Good job, you get trained, decent pay, a roof…’ She gave him a naughty smile. ‘And I love a bloke in uniform.’

‘Can’t say fairer than that, then.’

‘Anyway, Mr Raven, this isn’t getting us to Q Stores.’

‘Please, it’s Jack.’

‘OK, Jack, and I’m Immi.’ She smiled. ‘But this still isn’t getting us to Q Stores.’

Jack flipped his laptop shut and shoved it in his shoulder bag. ‘Lead on.’

Q Stores was a building like the cookhouse but with the addition of mesh doors that could be secured by padlocks. Inside were racks and racks of army equipment and in front of these was a line of trestle tables and a pile of forms. For signing out kit – in triplicate, no doubt, thought Jack.

He was, however, pleasantly surprised by the speed and efficiency with which he got a camp bed, a pop-up mossie net, a poncho, mess tins, KFS, water bottles, purification tablets and a Bergen to put everything in. And Immi was given the same, much to his amusement, less the Bergen.

‘This ain’t going to give me no privacy,’ she said, poking the flimsy, see-through fabric of the mossie net.

‘I won’t look when you get undressed,’ lied Jack. He wondered what she might look like without her dreary multicam and found the idea rather appealing – a bloody sight more appealing than the prospect of any other soldier he’d so far encountered getting their kit off.

‘Too bloody right you won’t,’ said Immi. ‘Right, I’m going to dump this lot in my accommodation and then I’m going to get some lunch.’

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘If you want, be my guest.’ She sounded nonchalant but Jack could see the idea pleased her. Ridiculously the fact she was happy made him happy. So… if anything happened between them while they were out in the bush it would be a pleasant diversion from reporting.

Ten minutes later they were both queuing in the cookhouse for the latest offering from the army chefs.

Immi peered at the board listing the choices. ‘They can’t fuck up macaroni cheese too much, can they?’ she asked.

‘I can,’ said Jack.

‘Really? I had you down for one of those new men.’

Jack laughed. ‘Me?’ he shook his head. ‘Hon, if I can ever get a woman to marry me who will run around and pick up after me, have a hot meal waiting and who will iron my clothes, and then take me to bed for a night of passion, I’’ll think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’

Immi snorted. ‘Good luck with that. You won’t find one of those around here – well, apart from the sex bit.’ She gave him a long, meaningful stare.

Jack grinned. He liked Immi; she didn’t arse-lick, which he found rather refreshing. Being a household name – although apparently not in Immi’s household – meant he, all too often, only met people who treated him like some sort of china doll; someone who had to be handled with care and kept sweet under all circumstances. And how suffocating was that?

Immi took her macaroni cheese and sat down at a table at the side of the room. Jack joined her a minute later.

He’d just loaded up a fork with the sticky, gluey pasta when Andy Bailey appeared.

‘Just the people I wanted to find,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

Beside him he heard Immi say, under her breath, ‘Uh-oh.’ Jack suppressed a grin.

‘What can I do for you, Andy?’

‘There’s a hearts-and-minds project kicking off upcountry. The sappers are building a bridge to replace one washed away in the last rains. It’ll connect a village with the nearest school and means the kids can get to their classes without an eight-mile round trip each day to the next bridge downstream.’

Jack felt a faint tug of interest. Sure, it was a story the British army would love to get into the papers, if only to counter a couple of recent trials of soldiers ‘misbehaving’ with prisoners in Afghanistan, taking the gloss off the ‘selfless heroes’ image, which had been painstaking built up over the previous decade or so. But, from a personal point of view, it would be a chance to get away from the camp at Laikipia into the bush, and away from the brass, where the soldiers might talk more frankly. Yes, the bridge-building would provide a human-interest story of a predictable sort, but maybe the soldiers would open up about combat, separation from their loved ones, stress, conditions, camaraderie and the other facets of life in khaki, and provide an even better story. It was worth a punt.

‘Sounds interesting,’ said Jack.

‘Good, that’s what I’d hope you’d say. There’s a convoy going up there with stores and equipment later today. You’ve got a ride if you want it.’

Jack glanced at Immi and could see the idea of being out in the bundu was filling her with horror. Her face was a study. ‘Great, when do we go?’

‘ETD at fourteen hundred hours from the MT section.’

Jack translated the order from army-speak to English in his head; expected time of departure at two in the afternoon from the motor transport section – wherever that was. He asked for directions.

‘To the left of the vehicle park,’ said Andy. ‘There’s a hut. Report to Robin Maynard, the MTO, he’ll sort you out.’

Andy left to get his own meal and Jack turned to Immi.

‘You don’t look thrilled.’

She sighed. ‘I’ll be fine – I suppose.’ She sounded highly dubious.

Immi pushed her plate aside, her appetite gone. The thought of spending days in the back of beyond didn’t appeal at all – all that finding a place to have a shit in private, all those bugs, only being able to wash with a flannel and not getting a proper shower, and what about her hair? That was going to be a total train-wreck in a couple of days. She’d packed dry shampoo but it was far from an ideal solution. She excused herself from the table and headed back to her accommodation. Captain Lewis was there, getting changed to go running in her lunch hour.

‘Hi, boss,’ she said. She and Captain Lewis had mutually agreed that, under the circumstances, they could drop the formalities when they were on their own.

‘Hello, Immi. How’s tricks?’

Immi snorted. ‘I’m off to God-knows-where in an hour or so.’

‘Ooh, really?’

Immi goggled. Sam Lewis sounded envious.

‘Hey, if you want to go instead…’

‘It’s got to be more interesting than being stuck here.’

‘I suppose if meeting bugs, snakes, crocs, and having no running water is your idea of interesting, feel free take my place.’

Sam smiled. ‘Sorry, commitments here. But time alone with Jack Raven… it’s quite a pay-off.’

‘He floats your boat?’

‘Let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t object to being in a life raft with him.’

‘Me neither,’ said Immi. And Captain Lewis could fancy him all she wanted but Immi was going to be the one spending time with him. If anyone was going to get first dibs on Jack Raven it was going to be her. Immi pulled her Bergen out from under her bed and tipped its contents onto her bed before she began to refill it with the kit she’d need for the next few days, staring with the pile of stuff she’d been issued an hour earlier.

‘How long are you going for?’ asked Lewis.

‘I don’t know, but, however long it is, it’s going to be too long.’

‘You might see elephants or lions or anything, though.’

‘Boss, I’ve seen them in the zoo.’ She carried on throwing in a few pairs of clean knickers, a packet of wet-wipes, a roll of soft loo paper, mosquito repellent and some clean issue T-shirts. She sighed. ‘I bet I’ve forgotten something.’

‘And there’ll be no popping to the shops where you’re going.’

Immi shook her head and hefted her Bergen onto her shoulders. She staggered slightly.

‘Wish me luck, then.’

‘Good luck!’

Immi tottered out into the sunshine and headed for the MT office. When she arrived, a line of trucks carrying the component parts of a prefabricated bridge was waiting, along with a couple of four-tonners carrying the troops to build it. A signals Land Rover towing a large generator brought up the rear. Immi warily eyed the trucks containing the troops. The soldier nearest the tailgate was picking his nose and examining the result on the end of his finger. Immi shuddered.

A voice by her ear said, ‘Imagine several hours in the company of that lot.’

Immi turned to see Jack, also looking at the four-tonners and their passengers.

‘Because you’re a civvy, I expect you could get a lift in the cab if you wanted it,’ she said.

‘If I go in the cab, you will too.’

‘Really?’ Immi felt her spirits lift. At least up front she’d get to see some of the countryside. She might have shown indifference to Sam Lewis about what the journey might offer by way of sightseeing but if she had a choice between travelling with a window to look out of, on a padded seat, or in the back of a badly sprung truck with no air-con and nothing to look at but dark green canvas or a nose-picking squaddie, she knew which was the better option.

Jack went to the front of the vehicle and had a word with the driver, then he returned.

‘Chuck your Bergen in, we’re going club class,’ said Jack.

Immi squealed and then checked her enthusiasm. How uncool was that! Jack picked up her Bergen – ‘Here, guys, catch’ – and lobbed it into the truck, followed by his own and ignored the muttering from the soldiers about women and TV personalities and preferential treatment.

‘They’ll get over it,’ he reassured Immi as he escorted her to the cab and gave her a bunk up to her seat. The driver held out his hand for her to grab and, inelegantly, she clambered up.

Immi settled down in front of the vast windscreen and looked with pleasure at the view it afforded. Definitely better than being sardined in the back with a load of smelly, farting soldiers.

Jack plumped down next to her and broke out a packet of smokes. He leaned across Immi. ‘Want one?’ he said to the driver.

‘Cheers, guv.’ The driver stuck it behind his ear for later. ‘I’m Tyler, by the way, or Ty. Have we met?’

‘I do the odd bit on the BBC news. Jack Raven.’ Jack held his hand out, again, across Immi.

‘And I’m Immi,’ she piped up, not wanting to be left out.

‘Of course,’ said Tyler, taking Jack’s hand and shaking it warmly. ‘Bloody hell, you’ve been to some places.’

‘Probably no worse than you,’ said Jack, reasonably.

‘Yeah, but I get a gun and can shoot back at the buggers. No, I really take my hat off to you. It’s a privilege to meet you.’

She sat back in the high seat of the cab and looked at Jack. OK, so he was more famous than she imagined if even a bog-standard driver had heard of him. And respected him. And that made him even more attractive. She knew she was shallow, but hey, so what? It wasn’t a crime, was it? Maybe being stuck for a while upcountry wasn’t going to be so bad after all, not if she was going to be stuck with Jack. She moved slightly closer to him.

Maddy was at a loose end. Susie was away visiting friends, her friends who didn’t have kids – or who didn’t have kids of school age – were using the time while their husbands were, like Seb, in Africa to escape from the patch and quarters. Indeed, she was supposed to be at her parents’ home and now, given recent events, almost wished she was. Almost… The thought of listening to her mother banging on about the unsuitability of her choice of husband was a marginally worse prospect than being stalked by some potty woman.