Battleworn Read Free Page A

population; to succeed you must know your enemy. We have the firepower, but what they have is time. We drive them out of different districts; they flee to the mountains, and wait. We pacify a town, maybe reopen a school. When we leave, they come back and tear the building down again. They are like the hydra, the Greek mythical creature that had the ability to grow new heads. You kill a Taliban fighter, and his eight brothers all become recruits for jihad. We’re fighting terror; they’re doped up on a holy war.
    My thoughts keep drifting along these lines, and I am aware that none of it is likely to ever change. The vehicle jolts, ending my reverie. Our convoy has come to a halt on the outskirts of Nad-e Ali. The two platoon sergeants, Monty Monteith and Scotty McFadden, get out of their vehicles and walk among the tired and bored troops to ensure that all is as it should be. Monty and Scotty are old friends. Monty’s weathered appearance is a look reserved for the hardened soldiers of the infantry. Scotty seems to have fared far better in avoiding the harsh ‘ten years older’ weather of the Brecon Beacons beating on his face. (Brecon, Wales, houses the military’s Infantry Training Centre [ITC].)
    Right now the boss, Maj. Harry Clark, relaxes, secure in the knowledge that both Monty and Scotty are squaring things away on his behalf. With some vehicle engines switched off, I can hear a little better, and I listen to the sound of explosions across town. More black smoke rises, and the distinctive rattle of sporadic small-arms fire sounds. It’s no big deal, and everyone on this patrol has seen and heard it all before.
    I climb down from top cover and sit in a pool of my own sweat, feeling tired from the long day.
    Kev looks down at me. ‘We should get some scoff on,’ he says in an agitated voice.
    I hadn’t realised until then that I was starving. When you’re tired, your blood-sugar count gets low, and your stomach starts to rumble. I am carrying biscuits brown and pâté, a light meal from my ration pack, and it smells like cat food. It probably tastes the same too, but I can’t verify that. It’s not something I would normally choose, but right now I don’t care.
    As the young Jocks eat, the banter begins; they are getting restless. Ptes Ferris and Duffy are joking, taking the piss out of each other. Ferris blows kisses to the blokes on other wagons and makes obscene gestures around his groin area, all whilst manning his .50-cal. machine gun. The young Jocks fall about laughing; this is the norm around here, and Ferris’s antics are a welcome break.
    Ferris has managed to take my mind off my itchy wrists, which are starting to bother me. I have a rash caused by the fibreglass on top of the Land Rover; it slowly gets under your skin. Sitting back with my food and a cup of tea, my mind drifts off.
    I start thinking about my time in army basic training, when I was always hungry, always drained. As recruit Taylor, I constantly wondered when the instructors or section commanders would finally stop beasting us – when they would feel they had subjected us to sufficient degradation.
    Every day, I became mentally stronger. The army takes away your dignity, and you’re not exactly sure what it is that they give back in return. That doesn’t become clear until much later.
    I was twenty-two years old when I enlisted. The youngest of five children, I was born in the south of England. I’d had a taste of life outside, having worked in the retail industry since leaving school. I started as part of the old youth training scheme, and at the age of just eighteen years, I managed my own concession. I excelled at the visual merchandising aspect and was often rewarded for my efforts with trips on shop refit tasks up and down the country. I travelled as far north as Manchester. Being away from home and on my own was initially daunting, but I eventually started to enjoy the independent feeling it gave me. My glory was