Sarge,’ Angus said.
Sol Kasanita laughed. ‘The marines had a lot of women supporting: medics and psych ops and Intelligence,’ he said. ‘Emily isn’t the only woman in Helmand Province.’
‘What is all this shit about Emily?’ Dave asked.
‘Emily’s the number two civilian here. Their number one is that old guy who wanders around, Martyn someone. And Emily’s his side-kick. The marines have a name for her.’
‘Let me guess.’
‘The sex grenade.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Now,’ Sol said, ‘according to the marines, when she needs a man she just whistles.’
‘And one bloke isn’t enough, Sarge! Sometimes she needs a whole platoon!’ Angus added.
‘I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘If she exists,’ Sol said.
The air was still now. From up here the town seemed to have grown out of the ground. Its walls were the same colour as the surrounding desert. Suddenly, hauntingly, the call to prayer crept across the sand towards them.
‘Not him again,’ groaned Angus. ‘He never stops wailing.’
‘It’s Friday,’ Dave said.
Angus looked blank.
‘Holy Day. Like Sunday used to be in England before we found out PC World was more fun than “All Things Bright And Beautiful”.’
Sol didn’t catch his eye. Dave remembered that the Fijian was a practising Christian. He never mentioned it, but Dave had seen the Bible by his cot and back in Wiltshire he’d seen Sol, Adi andthe kids all bundled into their rusty old car in their best clothes on Sunday mornings.
About an hour after the Chinooks, the convoy of Vectors finally set off, carrying the last of A Company back to Bastion. They roared past the sangar sending up choking clouds of powdery dust, which hung in the air long after the vehicles had disappeared between the town and the mountains.
‘Goodbye and good luck,’ Angus McCall muttered insincerely. At lunchtime he’d got into a heated argument with two men from A Company, insisting that Manchester United led the Premier League in 2005. Later, Dave had told him quietly: ‘You were wrong. It was Chelsea. They were defending champions and they won it again.’
Angus had looked sheepish. ‘I remembered that halfway through. But I wasn’t going to give in to the bastards.’
That night, he booked some phone time with his father. He said: ‘I hate marines.’
‘A lot of them are big, strong, brave men,’ his dad said. ‘The sort of man you should be, Angus.’
Angus immediately regretted the argument in the cookhouse and thought that he’d probably never be that sort of man, like a marine, like his dad. If he was, he’d have backed down from the Premier League argument and admitted he was wrong.
‘Did you know any marines?’
‘Course I did. Marines, Paras and . . .’ John McCall dropped his voice. ‘SF.’
There was always something in the knowing way his dad talked about Special Forces which made Angus sure his dad had been in the SAS. He knew that John McCall had fought with distinction in the Falklands, although the medals themselves had been stolen many years ago.
His parents were divorced and since early childhood he’d spent every Saturday afternoon with his father. From the moment that John McCall turned the sign around in his newsagent’s so that the door read ‘OPEN’ from the inside and ‘CLOSED’ from the outside, Saturdays were war stories, war films, war games. And whenever his dad talked about the SAS, Angus knew that he would apply forSelection himself one day. Even though he was sure he could never be good enough to get in.
‘So!’ said John McCall resuming his normal tone. ‘Was the journey to the base OK?’
‘Had a contact.’
If he’d told his mum that, she would have panicked. But he could hear the shrug in his dad’s voice. ‘Oh, well, start as you mean to go on.’
‘Now we’re two men down in my section.’
‘Two men down already? What’s the matter with them?’
‘One lost a leg, the other had burns.’
‘Dear oh fucking
Sol Kasanita laughed. ‘The marines had a lot of women supporting: medics and psych ops and Intelligence,’ he said. ‘Emily isn’t the only woman in Helmand Province.’
‘What is all this shit about Emily?’ Dave asked.
‘Emily’s the number two civilian here. Their number one is that old guy who wanders around, Martyn someone. And Emily’s his side-kick. The marines have a name for her.’
‘Let me guess.’
‘The sex grenade.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Now,’ Sol said, ‘according to the marines, when she needs a man she just whistles.’
‘And one bloke isn’t enough, Sarge! Sometimes she needs a whole platoon!’ Angus added.
‘I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘If she exists,’ Sol said.
The air was still now. From up here the town seemed to have grown out of the ground. Its walls were the same colour as the surrounding desert. Suddenly, hauntingly, the call to prayer crept across the sand towards them.
‘Not him again,’ groaned Angus. ‘He never stops wailing.’
‘It’s Friday,’ Dave said.
Angus looked blank.
‘Holy Day. Like Sunday used to be in England before we found out PC World was more fun than “All Things Bright And Beautiful”.’
Sol didn’t catch his eye. Dave remembered that the Fijian was a practising Christian. He never mentioned it, but Dave had seen the Bible by his cot and back in Wiltshire he’d seen Sol, Adi andthe kids all bundled into their rusty old car in their best clothes on Sunday mornings.
About an hour after the Chinooks, the convoy of Vectors finally set off, carrying the last of A Company back to Bastion. They roared past the sangar sending up choking clouds of powdery dust, which hung in the air long after the vehicles had disappeared between the town and the mountains.
‘Goodbye and good luck,’ Angus McCall muttered insincerely. At lunchtime he’d got into a heated argument with two men from A Company, insisting that Manchester United led the Premier League in 2005. Later, Dave had told him quietly: ‘You were wrong. It was Chelsea. They were defending champions and they won it again.’
Angus had looked sheepish. ‘I remembered that halfway through. But I wasn’t going to give in to the bastards.’
That night, he booked some phone time with his father. He said: ‘I hate marines.’
‘A lot of them are big, strong, brave men,’ his dad said. ‘The sort of man you should be, Angus.’
Angus immediately regretted the argument in the cookhouse and thought that he’d probably never be that sort of man, like a marine, like his dad. If he was, he’d have backed down from the Premier League argument and admitted he was wrong.
‘Did you know any marines?’
‘Course I did. Marines, Paras and . . .’ John McCall dropped his voice. ‘SF.’
There was always something in the knowing way his dad talked about Special Forces which made Angus sure his dad had been in the SAS. He knew that John McCall had fought with distinction in the Falklands, although the medals themselves had been stolen many years ago.
His parents were divorced and since early childhood he’d spent every Saturday afternoon with his father. From the moment that John McCall turned the sign around in his newsagent’s so that the door read ‘OPEN’ from the inside and ‘CLOSED’ from the outside, Saturdays were war stories, war films, war games. And whenever his dad talked about the SAS, Angus knew that he would apply forSelection himself one day. Even though he was sure he could never be good enough to get in.
‘So!’ said John McCall resuming his normal tone. ‘Was the journey to the base OK?’
‘Had a contact.’
If he’d told his mum that, she would have panicked. But he could hear the shrug in his dad’s voice. ‘Oh, well, start as you mean to go on.’
‘Now we’re two men down in my section.’
‘Two men down already? What’s the matter with them?’
‘One lost a leg, the other had burns.’
‘Dear oh fucking
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