Forever the Colours (3 page)

‘My grandpa says you will travel far but will not move. You will lose but will gain much more. He also says do not despair, for there is a path to even the tallest mountain. Look for him on your journey and your return.'

Tommy pulled his hand back. It felt as though an electric shock had gone through him. He tried to sound cocky again.

‘My return? Ha, I don't think so, mate. I'll be down the local job centre. But anyhow, say thanks for the advice.'

With that, he turned to Jacko and they both tumbled out into the sunlight.

Chapter 2

Contact

S
ome
say that if literacy rates were measured by a nation's proverbs and poetry, Afghanistan would be one of the most literate countries on earth. But to Private Tommy Evans, walking along a dusty road with his mate Jacko to rejoin the patrol, what the old man had said made about as much sense as Dinga in his Geordie patwa. Jacko was staring at his feet as he walked, like a condemned man, and as he glanced up under his helmet, he noticed all the lads gathered round Dinga and Adams. A medic was taking a look at Dinga's nose while Adams was squatting about five paces away from everybody else and looking a little red in the face. Well, more purple, really.

‘What's gonna happen, mucka, do ya think?' Jacko mumbled under his breath.

‘Well, I say we go over and pretend nothing happened, and perhaps everyone will forget we were ever here. What do you think's gonna bloody happen, you dickhead?' seethed Tommy under his breath ‘The CO will have us out as soon as look at us.'

Jacko looked despondent. ‘I'm sorry, mate, I couldn't help it, and I couldn't stand by and watch. Or listen even.'

‘Oh crap, don't look now, Dashwood's walking up the street.'

Jacko looked beyond the group to where Tommy indicated. The Lieutenant and his section were indeed walking up the street, and he had a face like thunder. Walking next to him was one of the lads who had witnessed what happened in the house; he must have skipped to the other side of the village to report what had occurred.

‘Bollocks, he looks happy.'

‘Well, that's that then. We're in a world of shit now, mucka,' whispered Jacko. ‘The Dick will go by the book on this one.' The
Dick was the name some of the lads used for Dashwood, a shortened version of his first name – and because he is one.

‘Just keep your gob closed and see where the wind's blowing,' whispered Tommy. ‘We can try and figure out what to say back at base. Maybe we can get some witnesses to say what those wankers were doing back there.'

They reached the group just as the other section did. Before anybody could say anything, Dashwood pointed and said, in a decidedly clipped tone, ‘Sergeant Adams, a word if you please,' and then moved to a small walled-off area about twenty feet away. Adams stood and, after a bit of wheezing, looked at the two friends, smirked and lumbered off after the Lieutenant with a slight limp.

All eyes were on Tommy and Jacko, some with pity, some with admiration, some non-committal. The big, strapping lad Terry moved over to them.

‘Best not say anything here, lads, and wait till you get back to base. You know, get your story straight and all that.' Terry dipped his head and moved back to the group, and on his way accidentally tripped and stood on Dinga's hand. The screech was quite feminine sounding.

The two friends moved away and crouched down behind a wall to get some shade. Tommy was starting to feel the pressure as the minutes ticked by.
It's
strange
,' he thought,
how
your
comrades
give
you
a
wide
berth
when
you're
in
the
shit
. He looked over at Jacko and was rewarded with the same downtrodden look he himself wore.

‘Oh well, mucka. I always wanted to be a florist anyway,' Jacko said with a smile.

‘Oh, you're dead funny, mate. You know what, I can hardly breathe with all fun I'm having.' Tommy stood suddenly, his anger building. ‘How many times have you got us in the shit now, eh? Once, twice, a thousand – I've lost count, you twat.' He looked up at the sky and sighed. ‘Well, you've done it this time, for both of us.' He turned and moved away a couple of feet.

Jacko looked crestfallen but didn't get a chance to say anything because Dashwood, the
Sergeant in his wake, started to make his way back to the group. Jacko jumped to his feet and stood next to Tommy, looking as if he were on a parade ground.

‘Permission to speak, sir,' he said as the Lieutenant drew closer.

‘Denied,' stated Dashwood matter-of-factly. ‘Right, gentlemen, we will move on and make a sweep of the next village.' He stopped and consulted a map that one of his section had supplied out of thin air, and after some frowning and pursing of lips, he looked up.

‘Right, I want the same again as we move across those fields,' he said, indicating by pointing. ‘This time I will take the Sergeant's section, Smythers and Daniels will go with Sergeant Adams, and you two,' he looked directly at Tommy and Jacko, ‘will be coming with me.'

‘Yes sir,' came the booming reply.

‘We will be moving in a northerly direction, and I want you and your section to move up the east side of the field. Do it by the book and take it steady and keep in contact.'

‘Sir.'

Still consulting his map, he said, ‘Right. It is approximately two kilometres to the next village and it's quite a large field with lots of scrub, so there is the possibility we will lose sight of one another. Maintain radio contact at all times.'

Adams was rolling his eyes as Dashwood continued.

‘If you make contact before me, hunker down and wait until we move up, clear?'

‘As crystal, sir.'

He folded the map away and tucked it into his top pocket, ‘Right, gentlemen, let's be about our business, and remember to keep your bloody eyes open. Nobody wants any surprises. Alright, marvellous.'

With that, Adams and his section moved out, first heading towards the end of the street before turning north and entering the fields. Dinga tried to smile at the two friends but his fast-swelling mouth just looked like a cat's arse. He gave them the bird instead and hurried off after Adams
.

As the Lieutenant moved off, he called Tommy and Jacko to his side. When they had trotted up to him and continued at a brisk pace towards their end of the village he said, ‘Gentlemen, I do not care for this sort of behaviour and I will not stand for it, do you hear? This sort of thing is unbecoming a British soldier.' He took a deep breath and continued in a softer tone, ‘For the love of God, haven't we enough problems with the bloody enemy trying to destroy us, without you two throwing your bloody fists around. I cannot have my soldiers behaving like, well, like, I don't know, the bloody
Yanks
or something.'

‘Sir, it was my fault,' blurted Jacko, ‘Tommy had nothing to do with it, he was just trying to break it up and…'

‘Shut up, Jackson,' warned Dashwood. ‘If I wanted to hear your version of events, believe you me I would have asked for them.'

‘But sir…'

‘Enough. You can recount your epic tale to the old man after I give him my report on what Sergeant Adams told me. In the meantime, shut up.' He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Right here we are. You and Evans will take point and keep your bloody eyes peeled, all right? Do not think, gentlemen. Do. Marvellous.' He waved his hands like he was shooing away birds, indicating the direction he wanted them to go.

Tommy and Jacko looked at each other for a moment and then started across the field. Keeping about fifteen feet apart, with Jacko slightly in front, they flicked their eyes between scanning the terrain ahead and looking at the ground. Getting picked off by a Taliban sniper or getting blown to bits standing on an IED was not a comfortable thought to either of them, but they were professionals and they knew their business. And they had done this many, many times before.

It was hard going. The sun was hot and the air fetid, and how anyone could grow crops in this lifeless soil was beyond Tommy's understanding. Unless, of course, it was a particular type of crop that could thrive in poor soils and under full sun, the kind of crop that, when cultivated, made a lot of money on the streets of the world's cities.

After half an hour, and about a third of the way across the first of two fields, Jacko's fist went into the air. He crouched down, quickly followed by the rest of the section.

‘What you got, Jacko?' said Tommy.

Into his radio Jacko said, ‘Possible enemy contact approximately two-hundred metres to front. Over.'

Tommy looked through the scope of his SA80 rifle, slowly panning around to focus on the end of the field.

‘What have you got, Lance Corporal? Over.' Dashwood's voice came over the radio net.

‘Unknown, sir. Reflection of some kind, possibly scope. Over.'

‘Do you see anything now? Over.'

‘Standby,' Jacko said. He scanned around the brush and plough furrows where he thought he had seen the reflection. After thirty seconds he replied, ‘That's a negative. Over.'

Dashwood, who was perhaps forty metres behind the two on point, bit his lip, thinking. After a moment, he radioed Adams and asked how far his section was across the field, to which he was told a little further on than his own. They had also gone to ground after Jacko's transmission. The
Sergeant had Private Daniels on point and promptly contacted him by radio to see if he had any contact ahead.

‘Err…that's a negative, I think. Over,' replied Daniels, an eighteen-year-old on his first tour, who was a little skittish.

‘Daniels, do you see any movement from the front, anything?'

‘I don't see any movement to front Sar'nt. Over.'

Adams, to his credit, moved up to Daniels' position and checked the front with his scope. After about twenty seconds he keyed his mike, ‘That's a negative on forward contact, I think shi—Jackson's seeing things. Over.' Adams chuckled to himself over this, and what made it funnier for him was the fact that they could see each other quite well. The Sergeant waved to Jacko, who promptly replied by giving him the bird.

‘Twat,' said Jacko to no one in particular. But Tommy had heard him.

‘You can say that again.'

‘Twat.' They both looked at each other and started to laugh.

‘Lance Corporal Jackson,' thundered Dashwood's voice from behind, ‘If it's that funny, why don't you share it with the rest of us.'

‘Sorry sir, coughing. Permission to advance, sir?'

‘Well, get a bloody move on then, or we will be out here all bloody night at this rate,' screeched Dashwood.

‘Yes, sir.'

With that, the two friends started forward again. After about another five minutes, Tommy took a quick look to his right, past Jacko, and saw that Adams's point man Daniels had stopped, staring ahead.
What's
got
him
spooked?
he thought. Suddenly the lad was trying to raise his rifle and key his mike at the same time. But before he could do either, young Daniels managed to throw himself backwards, landing on his back. For a split second Tommy was confused as to why he would have done this. But then he heard the report of a rifle, a loud one at that.

CRACK.

Tommy, Jacko and the rest of the platoon went face down in the dust, and Tommy and Jacko brought their rifles to bear on where they thought the shot might have come from.

‘Jacko, see anything?' shouted Tommy.

‘Nothing, fuck all,' screamed Jacko. ‘Oh shit! Daniels has been hit.' From his dusty vantage point, Tommy could see Daniels lying on his back and thought he must be dead, until the boy raised his arm slightly. ‘Jacko, we have to get over th—'

‘Contact,' boomed Adams over the net, and he promptly opened fire on the scrub at the end of the field. This was enough for everybody else to open fire, and the staccato noise hurt their ears as most of the
Sergeant's section let rip. Only the two friends opened up from Dashwood's section, as they were the only two that far forward.

‘Sergeant Adams, situation report! Over,' screeched Dashwood over the net.

Nothing was heard. ‘Sergeant, sit-rep. Over.'

After a second or two, Tommy heard, ‘Lance Corporal Jackson, situation report, if you will. NOW.'

Jacko stopped firing his rifle. ‘Sir, Private Daniels has been hit. He's down but moving, and the Sergeant's section is laying down suppressing fire on a suspected contact approximately one hundred metres to my front and right. Sir, I suggest me and Tommy try and recover Daniels while the Sergeant's section keeps the contact's head down. Over.'

Lieutenant Richard George Dashwood had dreamed of this situation since he was a small boy. All through his time at Eton and Oxford, he knew he was destined to follow in his father's and grandfather's footprints, to taste and smell the theatre of war and give commands to men who couldn't, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, and to be praised for his heroism in saving the day. But at this particular moment in time, it seemed his throat had no moisture in it and his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He started to feel the awful sensation of his bowels turning to water.