Rain

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Follow Penguin

To Mum, Dad, Poppy and Rosie

‘O Lord, you know how busy I must be today; if I forget you, do not forget me.’

Every morning, in a hundred deserts, his mantra, his ritual. Everyone has one. Irrational, pathetic, but a blanket. If he says it, things will be all right. Over and over he whispers it, blind in the bitter darkness, and reaches down his chest and kisses the St Christopher.

‘O Lord, you know how busy I must be today. If I forget you, do not forget me.’

He still has five minutes before reveille, five minutes to meditate on creeping out of the safety of night and heading north into the light, floating in and out of sleep and barely minding the icy condensation dripping onto his sleeping bag, the breaths and snores. In his cocoon, in his trance he buries himself from the outside world but can still not escape his stomach’s terror. On the spectrum of human emotions, when you are stuck on that left edge, the fear and hopelessness of knowing that this day you will risk destroying everything dearest to you, that is a lonely place.
Golgotha
. He remembers a poem to himself.

Hushed awakenings …

‘Boss, boss. Reveille. 4.30. Let’s get ready. It’s fucking freezing.’

Lance Corporal Miller shakes his shoulder and he grunts
assent. His brain starts to shed the fog. Struggling out of the sleeping bag, he gets out of the little canvas shelter at the side of the Scimitar. Pitch black, biting wind. He can hear the murmur and stumbling of the rest of the boys getting up. He joins Miller and Davenport and they fumble with the tent, packing it all away on the side of the wagon. Davenport checks her over – track, running gear, oil levels – and starts the engine. Miller jumps in the turret and fires up the radios.

He leaves to go and check on the rest of the compound. An officerly check on the troops, in fact a cry for company, a scream for help. He needs someone to talk to, who will tell him it will be all right.

Please can everything be all right
?

He comes to Corporal Jesmond’s wagon. The two crews were leaguered together that night with their Scimitars while his other two car commanders, Sergeant Trueman and Corporal Thompson, were in another compound, ready for their part in the day.

‘Morning, boss! It’s gonna kick off big time today, I reckon. We’re good to go, hundred per cent. Cocked, locked, ready to rock. Sleep well?’

Relief, his crutch. Chatting with Jesmond amid the boys getting themselves and the wagons ready, he is dragged from the left of the spectrum. 0500. Thirty minutes to H-Hour. He steals up to a camp bed next to a crumbling wall.

‘Clive?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Morning, mate; it’s five. Another day in paradise.’

‘Hmmm. Thanks, bud. Any news?’

‘Nothing, mate, quiet as the grave. The boys push up in half an hour.’

‘One day we’ll remember this with fondness, I suppose.’

‘Yeah, mate. What a farce. What the fuck are we doing here?’

What are we doing here?

Moving on. The first weak light, just a film of it, starts to halo the hills to the east. It would be on them soon, sunlight searing across the globe, valley by valley. Where was it now? It would have passed Tibet, have eaten the Wakhan Corridor and would now be nibbling Kabul before vomiting that out into day.
Please delay. Please leave us.
Light meant action. He struggles up a rickety ladder to the rooftop, and finds the infantry sniper eyeing the gloom to the north through his night sight.

‘Morning. You OK?’

‘Not bad, sir, not bad. Just looking forward to it kicking off, to be honest. Morning, Talibs. My name’s Dr
7.62 mm
, and today I’m going to give you a lecture about bullet wounds – to the face!’

With deft, blind ease, the sniper’s own ritual begins. He unloads his rifle, thumbs the rounds from the magazine onto a rag and oils up the breech.

‘You’ll be OK though, boss, in those Scimitars of yours. Safe as houses, them.’ He grins sarcastically.

‘Yeah, cheers. I’d rather be in a baked bean tin; that’d be more use when you’re about to drive through a medium-density minefield.’

‘Bet you’re looking forward to unleashing that 30 mil.’

‘Honestly, I’ll be delighted if bugger all happens. Keep an eye on us anyway. What’s the phrase? Rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. Get my drift?’

‘No probs, boss. I got your back. Any fucker comes into this scope while you fellas are in contact they’re getting it. ’

The halo grows bigger and the undersides of the cirrus, way up high, start to reflect the light in flames of red and yellow. Rosy-fingered dawn again. Pure epic.

Was this epic?

Twenty past five. Not long now. He picks his way back to the Scimitar. The pitch blanket has slowly been drawn back, and the sky is rich purple. As he passes the infantry, all around is a hive of battle preparation. Rifles being oiled, grenade pins checked. New batteries on radios, spares checked for power. Crucifixes kissed. One rifleman reads a passage from his Bible to his mates. They all listen. Last gulps of water slugged, biscuits crammed down. Nervous smiles, black humour. Extra tourniquets handed around by the medics and stuffed into pockets. A corporal checks all his section’s morphine syringes are in their left thigh pockets, with secondaries behind their body armour in case their legs are blown off. Vallon metal detectors ‘sing’ as their users test them on the metal eyeholes on their boots. Endless belts of machine-gun rounds are piled into rucksacks, draped around necks. Some young soldiers are carrying so much weight they have to be lifted to their feet by their sergeant and then left to stand there, panting, bent double. They can barely see from beneath their helmets, eighteen-year-old boys ripped from their mothers and today off to kill other mothers’ sons. A sardonic crow watching all this from a wall cackles.
What are these men doing?

He climbs onto the turret next to Miller. ‘All right, Stardust, how are we? Radios?’

‘Dropped in, boss, and radio checks done with Three One. Sights are up and running, laser’s gleaming,
ECM
’s all in.’

‘Good lad! Dav, engine?’

‘No dramas, boss. She’s held up OK.’

‘Thanks, lads. Top work. Dusty, let’s load her up.’

They drop inside the turret to load the Rarden. In a wordless drill Miller elevates the barrel to give him more room as he draws up a clip of three rounds from the centre rack and
slams them into the feed tray. He winds the loading handle on.

Dunk, dunk … ga
DUNK
. The first round clunks in the breech and he slams another clip into the feed tray. The familiarity of the drill and the sleek shells embolden him and help get some blood flowing around freezing hands. He loads and cocks the machine gun.

‘Awesome, Dusty. We’re looking good.’

Scrabbling out of the turret, he looks at Jesmond behind them, who gives him the thumbs up. He’s been good to go for ages. His gunner, GV, next to him in the turret, wags his trigger finger with a grin. He can’t wait. The best gunner in the squadron, he will be busy today.

Slowly, slowly, he leaves the left of the spectrum.

Through the gloom the night starts to spill its secrets. Fast Pace lies to the north in bland, poker-faced silence. How many IEDs does it hold? The Farad gardens, which they fought through two days ago, lie to the south behind them. Their tall pines and cypresses tower over the poorer families’ crops.

The radio bursts into life; it’s the commanding officer, needing to know if the Scimitars are ready to go. ‘Hello, Tomahawk Three Zero, this is Minuteman Zero Alpha. Callsigns leaving my location now. Confirm you are ready to move north to support when they are engaged. Over.’

He seizes up. He is lost, frozen.

‘Um … Hello … er … Minuteman Zero Alpha, this is Tomahawk … er … Three Zero. Yeah … er … roger … er … Wait.’

Snap back.

Come on!

‘Tomahawk Three Zero, roger my callsign. Complete at
immediate notice to move and will push north once Vixen are in contact. Your intent understood. Over.’

That’s better
.

‘Hmm. Bit of a crowbag there, wasn’t I, Dusty?’

‘Don’t worry, boss; the lads will have loved that!’

Nothing. They wait. Over the radio come sitreps from Vixen, pushing up with the ANA to Fast Pace. When they come into contact the Scimitars will storm up to support them. The radio gives encouraging news: progress is good, all quiet, no Taliban. No IEDs found so far. He starts to shiver in the turret. Stamping his feet on the seat, he cocks, unloads and then loads again his pistol. Cock, unload, load. Cock, unload, load. Miller hums to himself as the purple turns ever bluer.

Gunfire to the north
.

‘Hello, Minuteman Zero, this is Vixen Three Two. That’s us now in contact. Small arms, RPGs. Wait out.’

We’re on
.

‘Hello, Tomahawk Three Zero, this is Minuteman Zero Alpha. Vixen callsigns in contact. Move now, move now. Acknowledge. Over.’

‘Tomahawk Three Zero moving now, making best speed. Out to you. Hello, all Tomahawk Three Zero callsigns, this is Tomahawk Three Zero. Move now, move now. Out.’

Up north the crickets’ croak of automatic fire intensifies after the first, tentative fumblings. Tracer bounces off walls and arcs into the sky before fading like shooting stars.

Where will the bullets land?

‘OK, Dav, let’s go.’

The wagon complains through the gears. He looks back at Jesmond and gets another thumbs up. He reaches the gate.

‘Left … left stick … and again … You’re on now, Dav … Steady … steady … now right stick … Good lad … Now
you’re clear … Foot down, pedal to metal, drive it like you stole it. Let’s fucking go for it.’

The engine screams as Davenport floors the accelerator and they burst down the track towards the sun. The flame is just at the horizon now, and the east is bathed in gold. At the track’s end they turn north and plummet back into the dying twilight.

Do not forget me.

Do not forget me.

Please don’t forget me.