front of family members . . . ’
Family members. The words caused a leaden feeling in his stomach.
‘Will someone turn this fucking television off??’ Joe heard his own voice, but it didn’t seem to come from him. There was a click, however, and the commentary fell silent. Joe looked up to see Fletcher standing over him.
‘You should get some water down you.’
‘What are you?’ Joe retorted. ‘Florence fucking Nightingale?’
‘I’m your OC, and if you talk to me like that again I’ll fuck you up and have you on the next boat back to Hereford.’
Joe looked away.
An awkward pause.
‘Ricky was a good lad,’ Fletcher said, his voice subdued. ‘I’m sorry you had to see him go.’
Joe closed his eyes. The OC was right. Ricky was a good lad. A good lad who shouldn’t even have been on ops, and Joe had known it.
‘You want to tell me what happened out there?’
‘We re-routed through a minefield. American sweepers had got there first. Someone had fucked with their chalk lines. Laid new ones. Led us straight to the IEDs.’
‘The Yanks say you insisted on taking that route.’
Joe gave him a contemptuous look. ‘They’re talking out of their arses.’
‘How did you get out?’
Joe looked to the other end of the hangar. The three Americans were still loitering by the door, casting glances in his direction and clearly speaking about him.
‘No thanks to the Yanks,’ he said. ‘Cunts tried to extract as soon as Ricky went up. Left me to it.’
Fletcher wasn’t one to hide the displeasure in his face, and he failed to do so now.
‘Joint debrief,’ he stated. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Forget it.’
‘No can do, Joe. You know that . . .’
‘I said, forget it.’
‘And I said, no can do. I’m ordering you to—’
‘I want out, boss.’
A pause.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘What do you think this is? A fucking poker game?’
Yeah, Joe thought to himself. And the Yanks have all the aces.
‘Get yourself cleaned up,’ said Fletcher. ‘I want you back here in an hour.’
Joe was barely listening. Two brushes with death in as many days. His best mate blown to pieces in an Afghan minefield.
‘I quit,’ he said.
‘Bullshit. Our numbers are too low for you to start throwing your toys out of your pram, Joe.’
‘I said, I quit.’
‘Then I’ll recommend that the adjutant defers you. Six months. And another six months after that. If you want to go AWOL, that’s your choice. Now clean yourself up and get your arse back in here.’
Such powerful anger rose in Joe’s gut that for a minute he thought he might give Fletcher his own reason to head home: a broken limb, or worse. It descended on him like a fog, and the effort it took to stop himself exploding in a barrage of violence against his own OC was so profound that it seemed to make his whole body shake.
He stood up, his eyes burning.
‘Get out of my way,’ he whispered. His voice trembled.
Fletcher didn’t move. ‘You need to calm down, Mansfield.’ His voice was as low as Joe’s. He was clearly aware – as was Joe himself – that their argument was being observed.
The OC couldn’t have said anything worse. Joe pushed past him and, ignoring the sharp looks from the twenty-odd support personnel in the hangar, he stormed towards the exit.
And there he stopped.
The broad-shouldered American commander was standing in his way. He was fully bald, highly tanned and wore a superior expression that only made the rage inside Joe burn more fiercely. ‘Say, Sergeant Mansfield, maybe it’s time for you and me to have a little summit.’
‘Maybe it’s time,’ Joe breathed, ‘for you to get out of my way.’
Joe noticed a couple of Yanks immediately drawing close to their boss, flanking him on either side. Joe sized up the fucking cavalry. They were a metre behind their boss and were both thickset, with crewcuts and aviator shades on their foreheads.
‘Same goes for
Family members. The words caused a leaden feeling in his stomach.
‘Will someone turn this fucking television off??’ Joe heard his own voice, but it didn’t seem to come from him. There was a click, however, and the commentary fell silent. Joe looked up to see Fletcher standing over him.
‘You should get some water down you.’
‘What are you?’ Joe retorted. ‘Florence fucking Nightingale?’
‘I’m your OC, and if you talk to me like that again I’ll fuck you up and have you on the next boat back to Hereford.’
Joe looked away.
An awkward pause.
‘Ricky was a good lad,’ Fletcher said, his voice subdued. ‘I’m sorry you had to see him go.’
Joe closed his eyes. The OC was right. Ricky was a good lad. A good lad who shouldn’t even have been on ops, and Joe had known it.
‘You want to tell me what happened out there?’
‘We re-routed through a minefield. American sweepers had got there first. Someone had fucked with their chalk lines. Laid new ones. Led us straight to the IEDs.’
‘The Yanks say you insisted on taking that route.’
Joe gave him a contemptuous look. ‘They’re talking out of their arses.’
‘How did you get out?’
Joe looked to the other end of the hangar. The three Americans were still loitering by the door, casting glances in his direction and clearly speaking about him.
‘No thanks to the Yanks,’ he said. ‘Cunts tried to extract as soon as Ricky went up. Left me to it.’
Fletcher wasn’t one to hide the displeasure in his face, and he failed to do so now.
‘Joint debrief,’ he stated. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Forget it.’
‘No can do, Joe. You know that . . .’
‘I said, forget it.’
‘And I said, no can do. I’m ordering you to—’
‘I want out, boss.’
A pause.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘What do you think this is? A fucking poker game?’
Yeah, Joe thought to himself. And the Yanks have all the aces.
‘Get yourself cleaned up,’ said Fletcher. ‘I want you back here in an hour.’
Joe was barely listening. Two brushes with death in as many days. His best mate blown to pieces in an Afghan minefield.
‘I quit,’ he said.
‘Bullshit. Our numbers are too low for you to start throwing your toys out of your pram, Joe.’
‘I said, I quit.’
‘Then I’ll recommend that the adjutant defers you. Six months. And another six months after that. If you want to go AWOL, that’s your choice. Now clean yourself up and get your arse back in here.’
Such powerful anger rose in Joe’s gut that for a minute he thought he might give Fletcher his own reason to head home: a broken limb, or worse. It descended on him like a fog, and the effort it took to stop himself exploding in a barrage of violence against his own OC was so profound that it seemed to make his whole body shake.
He stood up, his eyes burning.
‘Get out of my way,’ he whispered. His voice trembled.
Fletcher didn’t move. ‘You need to calm down, Mansfield.’ His voice was as low as Joe’s. He was clearly aware – as was Joe himself – that their argument was being observed.
The OC couldn’t have said anything worse. Joe pushed past him and, ignoring the sharp looks from the twenty-odd support personnel in the hangar, he stormed towards the exit.
And there he stopped.
The broad-shouldered American commander was standing in his way. He was fully bald, highly tanned and wore a superior expression that only made the rage inside Joe burn more fiercely. ‘Say, Sergeant Mansfield, maybe it’s time for you and me to have a little summit.’
‘Maybe it’s time,’ Joe breathed, ‘for you to get out of my way.’
Joe noticed a couple of Yanks immediately drawing close to their boss, flanking him on either side. Joe sized up the fucking cavalry. They were a metre behind their boss and were both thickset, with crewcuts and aviator shades on their foreheads.
‘Same goes for
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