Chapter 1

Sand.

Everywhere.

In his eyes, clogging his nose, crunching under teeth, stuck to the sweat on his hands, rubbing

like sandpaper against the smooth machined parts of his assault rifle, in the creases and seams

of his combat wear.

Wherever he looked, there was sand. The rutted track, the dust from the vehicle in front, the

arid valley, the barren hills crowding down on either side. The black rocks absorbing the

blistering heat, crushing the very molecules of air that may have once, if allowed, have risen

on the smoky whirlwinds to a height where they could have condensed to clouds. But this

place, felt as likely to see rain as the surface of the moon.

The lead section of Specialist Recce Platoon in three Jackals, bounced and rattled over the

corrugated surface, the overheated engines straining to keep the four wheels turning on the

loose surface, equipment clanged and swayed with the movement, the turret gunner, Lance

Corporal Kerrison, standing behind the Heavy Machine Gun (HMG), cursed the metal rim

jabbing his already bruised body.

Sergeant Noah Crespy, unclenched his right hand from the butt of the General Purpose

Machine Gun, stretched his fingers and pulled the scarf below his mouth, turning from the

passenger seat he looked up at the grumbling gunner, smiled and stuck up his thumb. Lance

Corporal Kerrison looked down at him, returned his friend’s smile, before his gaze snapped

back to its ever-attentive surveillance, the big heavy caliber weapon following the direction

of his gaze, his finger hovering near the trigger, constantly ready.

Heat shimmered across the rock-strewn surface, distorting the boulders until they moved and

swayed like running people, causing precious liquid retained in their bodies, to squeeze

through pores in fear and anticipation. Occasionally it would be too much, too life-like, and a

rock would explode from a stream of gunfire. The offending man would look about guiltily as

the rest of the section picked themselves up from defensive positions, before moving back to

their vehicles, brushing sand from their knees and chests. But none of them grumbled. They

were too experienced, too wise in the ways of their enemy, too wired themselves, to complain

at one of their team’s anxiousness.

An Apache Gunship roared overhead, so low it created a sand storm in its wake. Sergeant

Crespy pressed his goggles more firmly to his face, feeling the stinging sand against his

cheeks. The Gunship curved out across the valley, its shadow skipping over the flood-strewn

rock of a dry riverbed, before disappearing into the haze.

Two jets, Harriers, flashed down the valley, their glinting fuselages disappearing before the

boom of their engines, heard over the din of their own vehicles.

Sergeant Crespy looked up at the arc of sapphire sky, the sharp contrast where it met the hill

ridges. So clear was the air above the heat haze, he believed he could see individual crevices

and bumps on each rock, making it impossible for anyone to hide up there without being

detected. But he knew otherwise. They were masters at camouflage. This was their home

after all. They had been living and fighting here for generations.

The explosion lifted the lead Jackal off its wheels, turning it in a bubble of flame, smoke and

flying rock. It landed on its side, equipment and men tumbling down the verge gradient.

Chaos for the seconds it took the brain to register the bomb, an IED – improvised explosive

device. The following vehicles slewed to a halt, four men tumbled from them and fanned out

in a protective cordon, working into defensive positions, giving the two remaining colleagues

cover to approach the crippled vehicle. Their training meant they did this instinctively. He

was closest to the burning Jackal, Sergeant Crespy was able to do his job and register the

bloody remains of another friend - his comrade - his buddy, an arm missing, both legs

mangled stumps, a head half hanging from a naked body – a mate whose arterial blood was

oozing into the sand – he could hear the screams of another, hidden by the overturned

vehicle. The final one was crawling to safety, helped by Lance Corporal Kerrison.

‘Ready for ambush. Push up, push up,’ he shouted through his Personal Role Radio, he didn’t

have to give the command, they knew what to do, moving forward, covering each other,

looking on up the track, waiting. He heard Kerrison give their position to their platoon,

requesting a helicopter for medivac. Two wounded, one life threatening, one dead.

‘Sergeant, right flank, I can see a building.’

Sergeant Crespy crossed the track, keeping low, he dropped down beside two Privates in his

section, cautiously peering over the sand blown rock.

‘Ok, you two come with me, you...’ he pointed to Kerrison who had joined them, ‘flank

protection. Go.’ They moved towards the abandoned house, mud brick walls leaning

inwards, unsupported by any roof. Suddenly the ground around them erupted with the deep

thwump of explosions – mortar rounds – Sergeant Crespy directed his squad to cover, small

arms fire joined the thump of mortars, rounds ricocheting off nearby rocks, spurts of sand

about his feet. A stark image of his decapitated friend, Crespy swung the GPMG, the heaviest

caliber their section carried, onto his hip and squeezed the trigger, the big gun thundering in

his hands, bullets tearing into the walls of the building. He moved forward, ignoring the

incoming fire, just concentrating on the building. The two men with him darted from cover,

firing their own weapons as they tried to keep pace. Heads now bobbed up from the walls,

turbaned above black beards, AK47’s firing frantically at the advancing Para’s, one stayed up

too long, his bearded face exploded from an GPMG round. The mortars were targeting the

stranded vehicles. Urgent comms requested the mortars be taken out. Sergeant Crespy started

to run. One of the figures in the house bolted for the open country, his legs were shot from

under him. They reached a boundary wall, the two Privates crouched for cover, while pulling

grenades from their backpacks, Crepsy remained exposed, the GPMG red-hot in his hands,

tearing through the last of the ammunition. The wall of the house facing them was dissolving

under the bullets; soon there would be no cover. ‘Grenade, Grenade!’ the two Privates flung

grenades over the wall and down through the open roof of the house, the explosions blew out

the weakened walls, covering them in clouds of dust.

No more AK47 fire.

Sergeant Crespy dropped the GPMG, it was useless without ammunition, vaulted the

boundary wall, scooped up a thrown AK and ran the building, scrambling over the rubble, his

team with him. They reached the interior, the mortar team were desperately getting on their

motorbikes. A motorbike lurched forward, the driver’s hand slipping from the clutch as

Crespy shot him in the back of the head, his pillion holding the mortar tube was killed by a

Private’s SA80 fire. The other bike sped away. Crespy crouched, fired, once, twice, three

times, the barrel of the AK squirming in his hand each time, the pillion fell off the back like a

thrown doll, the driver hunched over the handlebars but then his bike exploded under him as

another round from the SA80 erupted the fuel tank.

Chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, Sergeant Crespy got to his feet, gesturing with his AK

for the other two to check the bodies lying by the destroyed walls. They kicked the bloodied

robes. None of them stirred.

Including the four on the motorbikes, there were another six dead. Ten for one of theirs. Ten

more to the tally of Taliban dead. Ten more reasons why sons and uncles and fathers would

pick up their AK47’s and be next behind the walls. Not worth the life of a friend...Crespy

walked the perimeter, his gaze forever scanning, his body alert... he had met Doug twelve

years ago, digging up a burst water main in North Devon... the rest of the platoon were

arriving on the track above... it was difficult to remember that bitterly cold day, minus ten it

must have been, hard to believe such cold existed when standing in blistering Helmand, but it

had surely happened, just as surely as the ten men he had helped kill, now lay around

him...the perimeter was secure, they had got them all this time... their fingers numb, trying to

replace the exploded cast iron pipe as drivers pushed by in their fogged out 4 x 4’s cursing

the inconvenience of the temporary traffic lights... Hell of a way to earn a living, he had said,

watching Doug Hall, maneuver a section of replacement pipe into position. Doug had looked

up, pushing a bobble hat from his forehead and grinned. “Oh ah, but beer always tastes better

after an honest day’s hard work. This lot...” he thumbed the passing drivers...“bet none of

them could say they saved thousands from dying of thirst now, could they... Crespy was sure,

Doug hadn’t said exactly that, it was too long ago to remember exactly, but he would have

certainly been positive, his local Devonshire accent always finding the most optimistic things

to say about any situation.

Noah Crespy dropped the AK next to one of the dead Taliban, acknowledging on his radio

that the area had been cleared. The Medivac chopper was inbound, two minutes away. The

Apache returned, hovering above the building, Crespy shielded his eyes from the swirling

sand from its downdraft. ‘Bit bloody late,’ he said, asking his radio operator to request that

the pilot shove off.

‘Fucking rag-heads got Doug’ Kerrison propped his SA80 against what was left of a wall,

crouched in the lee from the downdraft and lit a cigarette.

‘Good job Flood,’ the platoon leader, Captain John Furrows said, clambering over the rubble,

leading the rest of the men.

Noah Crespy nodded absently. ‘How’re the others?’

‘Johnson’s gone....’

‘Shit. Two for ten,’ Crespy muttered, looking off at the burning motorcycle.

‘Any ID on this lot?’

‘Haven’t checked Sir,’ Noah moved away, feeling something which he didn’t want his

commanding officer to witness.

‘How many did Flood get this time?’ Furrows asked Kerrison, who was dragging deeply on

his cigarette.

‘All but two boss, stormed the bloody place like a fucking I don’t know what... sir.’

Noah pretended to examine one of the Afghan dead. His eyes stung. Doug had nicknamed

him Flood, when he had made the mistake during the first week of training, to smack a

backhoe through a main water pipe. It was a day or so later they appreciated the biblical

significance.

They had joined together, both requiring a little more excitement than the North Devon

Waterboard. They had originally gone in as Royal Engineers, but even that hadn’t held the

excitement they were looking for. Death – it was written in the job spec but it didn’t make it

any easier. It wasn’t as if Doug was the first. Out of the original 30 in his platoon, eight had

been killed. And killing Taliban? Was it more worthwhile than digging ditches in North

Devon? Were people back home going to be any safer? Doug would appear on the news,

another name, soon forgotten. He had heard it all before: “... a British soldier killed in a

roadside bomb in southern Afghanistan has been named by the Ministry of

Defence...Corporal Doug Hall, from the 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, died when

his patrol encountered Taliban forces in Helmand Province... the 28 year old from

Barnstable, North Devon, was remembered by colleagues as a ‘dedicated’ soldier with

a‘heart of gold’... joined in 2005, quickly stood out as a soldier of note, the Ministry of

Defence said... qualified as an Infantry Assault Engineer in 2007 after which he was attached

to a specialist advanced Recce Platoon...”

The opium would still be harvested, the Taliban would still fight, Afghanistan would still be

the bloody mess it had always been.

‘You OK?’ Captain Furrows placed a hand on Crespy’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done well, Doug

would be proud,’ he said quietly.

Noah looked away.

‘Come on, we’ll leave this lot to be cleared up by the Medivac team, we’ve got to push on to

the bridge before it gets dark, the convoy’s only a few miles behind now.’

Noah retrieved his helmet and scratched under his bulletproof vest, aware for the first time of

a tear in his jacket sleeve. It looked like a bullet tear. He fingered it absently as he searched

for where he had dropped his Gimpee. Two Scimitar’s had joined the Recce Platoon, they

were Armoured Reconnaissance Vehicles with 30 mm cannons. One was being used to push

Doug’s Jackal off the track.

Noah settled into the front seat of his Jackal, watching the Scimitar unceremoniously batter

Doug’s crippled vehicle off the track. It rolled several times down the incline and came to

rest against a blackened rock. Charges would be set after the vehicle had been cleared of all

useful equipment. Nothing would be left for the insurgents to use.

Captain Furrows had given them another Jackal, with three new faces to replace Doug’s

squad. The rest of the platoon would follow in the slower vehicles.

‘Ok, we’re going to push down this track to the bridge...here...’ he pointed to the map. ‘You

see anything, get the rounds down. No warning shots,’ Crespy looked up at Kerrison. ‘Right

lads?’

The driver - Private Beavis and Corporal Kerrison nodded.

‘Go.’

A Land Rover slewed to a stop in front of them.

Captain Furrows leapt out. ‘Sorry lads, forgot to mention Lieutenant Wigley and her team

need to get up to here...’ he leant across Crespy and pointed to a mark on the map, ‘...and set

up OTIS (Observer Thermal Imaging System) for the Apache’s to knock out a few

compounds reported hostile. There a few civvies around, so we need to be sure.’

Lieutenant Wigley had stepped from the Land Rover, tightening the strap to her helmet,

pulling her body armour comfortably around her body.

‘This is Sergeant Crespy, he’ll take you up to the observation point,’ Furrows said, walking

back to his vehicle, which had followed the Land Rover. ‘Push up quickly, we need the

convoy clear of the bridge by nightfall.’

‘No peace for the wicked hey?’ Wigley smiled.

‘No ma’am,’ Crespy replied. ‘Put your vehicle behind mine. If there’s any trouble, fall back

until we’ve cleared the area.’

Wigley’s smile dropped, her mouth becoming a grim line. She was about to say something

when she noticed the glint in the Sergeant’s eyes, he was watching a demolition squad place

charges around a destroyed Jackal.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, walking quickly back to her Land Rover.

Crespy watched her from the corner of his eye. She was average height, her combat gear

making it impossible to see what sort of figure she had. She had a small pointed nose, blue

eyes. A bloody part timer though. Territorial Army. No combat experience, fresh from her

desk job somewhere in civvy street no doubt. ‘What’re you waiting for Beavis? Go!’

The Jackal accelerated, it’s off-road tyres finding grip on the loose surface, pushing their

speed quickly up to 60 kph.

‘They’re going to struggle to keep up.’

‘Keep your eyes ahead Beavis.’

Crespy found his water bottle, dropped the scarf from his mouth and gulped half the contents,

his eyes never leaving the track, searching for potential bombsites. Every roadside boulder,

every stunted tree, every drainage culvert, all could be used to hide an IED.

The track meandered beside the dry riverbed, finding the easiest route through the harsh

terrain. They came across a few abandoned buildings. Each time they would stop and proceed

on foot. It was exhausting work, the heat, lack of food, the constant anxiety. He thought of

Doug’s wife, Sophie, and their handicapped boy. She had struggled with him being away so

much, Noah wondered how she was going to manage now. And Doug’s parents, in their

council house that they had lived in all their lives, cheerful, down to earth folk, always ready

to put him up in the spare room after they had come home from drinking.

Captain Furrows was on the radio again, asking for an update. Crespy gave their position,

‘What’s the hold up?’ Furrows demanded.

Crespy did not answer because they had reached the crest of a sand dune, the wheels spinning

slightly in the drifted sand. They slewed to a halt. The track ran down the opposite slope,

across a level piece of ground, heading straight for the scourged riverbed and the place

where a bridge once stood. The old stone structure had a gaping hole in the centre, caused

from floodwater or explosives, it was difficult to tell.

‘How come the bloody Apache didn’t see that?’ Kerrison said.

‘Maybe happened in the last few hours,’ Crespy replied, focusing his binoculars on the far

bank. It looked at one time the area may have had more water. He could make out dry stone

walls bordering squares of sand which must have once supported a crop – probably poppies -

stunted trees, a few having a haze of green to them, and further on, buildings – probably the

compounds Wigley was here for. A few goats grazed on stubble near one of the buildings.

There was no sign of human life but he knew that the area could be teaming with a 100

Taliban and he would never see them.

‘Right, I want flank protection on that bridge. Set the Jackals up along this ridge. Make sure

the HMG’s have a good arc of fire,’ Crespy got out and strode towards the Land Rover.

‘Delta one zero Alpha, bridge is destroyed, over.’

‘Two one Delta, hold position...be there in five...’

‘Where does he think I’m going,’ Crespy muttered, leaning in through the Land Rover

window. ‘Can you set up here? We need to clear those compounds. Boss will be here in five.’

Captain Furrows arrived with the rest of the platoon, in a cloud of dust and bellow of diesels.

The Scimitars trundled aggressively to the start of the bridge, their turrets traversing over the

opposite bank.

‘You were a Sapper, Crespy. You reckon a Titan could cope with that hole?’ Furrows asked.

Crespy trained his binoculars on the bridge. ‘It’s about a thirty metre gap, the Titan can span

up to 90 metres, so that wouldn’t be a problem. Just depends on the strength of what’s left.’

‘Ok, I’m going to get onto the CO and request the Engineers bring up Titan. I want you to

take your section down there and make an assessment on how strong the bridge ends are.’

Five Mastiff trucks arrived. The area behind the ridge began to look like an army compound.

The Mastiffs were carrying a platoon of ANA (Afgan National Army) commanded by a

Lieutenant but because they were still under training, Crespy assumed overall command.

Furrows ordered, that once Crespy had reported on the state of the bridge, he was to push on

across the riverbed, and recce the far bank. ‘Oh and take Wigley’s lot with you as well. If you

meet any hostiles, she can help direct air support.’

‘Yes Sir,’ Crespy acknowledged, watching the confident face of his young Captain surveying

the far bank. He shouldered his pack, turning to look at Wigley and her OTIS operators

unload the Land Rover.

‘Corporal Kerrison, take the ANA Lieutenant and lead him across the riverbed, take cover

under the far bank and wait for me.’

They moved off towards the Scimitars. Suddenly smoke trails shot from the far bank and

RPG’s (rocket propelled grenades) detonated against the side of one Scimitar. The ground

erupted around the advancing ANA with mortar fire and the twinkle of tracer as a heavy

machine gun opened up, crumpling two of the ANA into the ground.

‘...been engaged...small arms and RPG...’ Furrows was shouting into the radio, hidden behind

a Jackal.

Crespy snatched up his GPMG and ran forward. ‘Take cover in the riverbed,’ he shouted,

pushing the ANA ahead, pulling them up from their prone positions. The Scimitar was firing

into the far bank, the one hit by RPG was engulfed in smoke, mortars falling in and amongst

them, rounds wining off rock, the shouts and cries of terrified men, scrambling for cover. A

mortar shell landed on a surviving Scimitar, the explosion sending stinging bits of shrapnel

into the men around him. One went down with a scream. Crespy caught up with Kerrison, the

machine gun in his hands giving short burst of covering fire as the men fell down the bank

and staggered across the bolder strewn bed, below the level of enemy fire. They fell, panting

against the opposite bank, the soft sand sticking to their sweat.

None of his section were injured but six ANA had fallen.

Two Apache gunship’s appeared, their rockets firing into the ridge above, they could feel the

detonation through the sand they were pressed against. The machine guns from the Jackals

and the Scimitar’s 30 mm cannon added to the roar. Captain Furrow led the rest of the

platoon into the riverbed as the return fire had the affect of stopping incoming mortar rounds.

Sixty men were now crowded along the far bank.

Furrows crouched next to Sergeant Noah Crespy. ‘The Apache’s report a heavy concentration

of insurgents falling back to the first compound. Crespy, take your section and the ANA

under the bridge and up onto the track, push in from there. We’ll push down this wall line and

contact them from the right.’

‘Fix bayonet’s lads,’ Crespy ordered. ‘Have you got one?’ he asked Wigley, who he was

mildly surprise to see laying among the ANA.

‘Of course I fucking have Sergeant, Get on with it.’ She rolled onto her back and un-sheaved

the blade. Dirt was smudged over her cheek and he could see her hands shaking. He knelt

next to her and locked the blade into place. ‘Keep your people close. I’ll get you to your grid

and then you can call in air support.’

‘Thank you, but I know what to bloody do Sergeant.’

Crespy shouldered his 7.62 mm Machine Gun. Women in the army! He led the way up the

bank next to the bridge remains, once at the top he directed the ANA along a low wall, asking

their Terp (Interpreter) to make sure their weapons were ready to fire and they had all fixed

bayonets. He could hear small arms fire to his right. The wall bordered the track running

towards the first compound.

An ANA stuck his head above the wall, firing blindly. They only had to get a wiff of Taliban

and the blood lust was high, their sense of self-preservation on a different planet to the

Westerner. Immediately bullets started pinging off the rocks along the wall, an RPG blasted

through further down the line, knocking two ANA to the ground. Crespy ran doubled over.

‘Push up the wall, don’t bloody lay there,’ he yelled at the terp following.

He got to the hole made by the RPG. ‘Go,’ he yelled, standing in the gap and firing at the far

side of the field, where he had spotted turbaned heads above a ditch. The machine gun laid

down covering fire as the ANA streamed across the gap, two of his men added their weapons

to the covering fire until everyone was back in cover behind the wall.

‘Been engaged from compound, RPG and small arms,’ Kerrison reported further up the line.

‘Wigley, get MSTAR (Man portable surveillance target acquisition radar) on that compound,

call in mortar get the Apache’s back. I’m going to take a section out to the left and push down

from the north.’

He pointed to two of his men and seven ANA and motioned for them to follow. They crossed

the track, leaping over the left hand wall and ran for the far boundary marked by a line of

twisted trees. ‘Kerrison, stay in cover, wait for the mortar rounds,’ he panted into his radio.

The tree line protected a dry drainage ditch. Crespy was first in. Movement to his left. His

finger squeezed the trigger. A goat shredded from the fire. Further up the ditch four men were

running towards them.

‘Fire!’ Crespy shouted to the forward ANA. The two sides opened up at the same time. An

ANA went down and then Crespy bought his machine gun to bear and the four insurgents fell

together. They charged up, the leading ANA bayoneting the bloody corpses. They ran parallel

to the compound. AK47 rounds whined about them, an RPG detonated against a desiccated

trunk. They fell in behind a low circular rock wall, protecting a well. Their own mortars from

across the bridge started to fall on the compound. Smoke and dust drifted over the building

but the rounds still ricocheted off the rocks about them, an RPG detonated the other side of

the wall, sending splinters of rock into one of the ANA’s faces. He rolled around moaning,

Crespy ordered a medic to assist. He was down two men and then the Harriers appeared, the

first flying low, laser targeting the compound, the second dropped two 1000 lb bombs, the

ground shook, debris rained onto their position, two Apaches hovered into position, their

rockets speared into the smoking debris. The noise was deafening, he could only just hear the

orders coming through the comms set in his helmet. Furrows was attacking from the right,

Crespy ordered Kerrison to attack up the track, before ordering the men with him to go.

Flames were above the roof rafters, there was no enemy fire and they reached the compound

walls, skirting cautiously around to the track, making Kerrison aware they were in the

vicinity.

Captain Furrow’s appeared through the smoke. ‘Right lads, this one’s clear, but we saw a few

escaping to the next.’

Crespy collapsed against a wall in the compound courtyard. Smoke swirled about him, fire

crackled in the main building; occasionally gouts of flame would shoot from one of the

blackened windows and over the collapsed walls. His men lay exhausted about him. ‘Beavis

put your fucking helmet back on,’ he said, taking a gulp of water, wetting his scarf and

wiping his face. He checked his weapon. He needed more ammunition.

‘OK, we’re going to have to punch down this second compound,’ Furrows said squatting next

to Crespy.

‘Being engaged sir,’ a Private called from the far side of the courtyard. An RPG thumped into

the field outside the gateway. ‘RPG and small arms boss.’

Furrows ran off, directing a Section into covering fire positions. The ANA sat about in

groups, chatting, laughing, one circle, passing a joint. Suddenly one of them jumped up with

his weapon, walked calmly through the courtyard door, and started firing towards the Taliban

in the second compound. An enemy round pinged off the ANA’s bayonet, wrenching the

SA80 from his hand. He ran back to his friends who had all collapsed with laughter, their

Commander seemed oblivious, sitting on his haunches smoking a cigarette.

Furrows returned. ‘Right lads, mortar team’s on its way. Sergeant, take your Section and

Lieutenant Wigley...here...’ he pointed to an area on his map. ‘...it’s high ground. You’ll be

able to see into the second compound and assess enemy strength. The Apache’s reported the

compound’s a lot bigger than this, so we need to know where to engage.’

‘It’ll be dark in a few hours, Captain,’ Crespy said.

‘Take supplies for an over night. We need to clear this compound and prevent anymore shoot

and scoot. The convoy’s only got a few more days of fuel, it can’t be delayed.’

‘What about the bridge?’

‘The Titan will be on site within the hour. They’ll be ready to cross first light. We’ve got to

have cleared this compound by then.’

Crespy spotted Wigley through the smoke. She was watching the ANA pile the dead Taliban.

‘Kerrison, get the lads kitted out, and find some more ammo for the GPMG.’

He found a flattened Mars Bar in his backpack and got up, wincing as another RPG landed

just outside the courtyard. He stepped around a smoking circle of ANA.

‘Couple of thousand pounders, don’t leave much that’s recognisable, do they?’ he said.

Wigley turned, her face white, eyes wide with horror from the pile of mutilated bodies.

‘You called it in pretty accurate, I would say. Hit the building most of them were hiding in.’

Wigley looked at the half eaten Mars in his hand with added horror.

‘Got to be at least thirty of them,’ Crespy said, moving aside for an ANA to add another to

the pile. ‘Captain Furrow wants us to recce compound two from a hill. You ready to go?’

Wigley nodded, her gaze lurching up from his hand.

‘Want some?’

‘No...no thanks...’ she shook her head, her helmet slipping forward over her eyes. ‘Is that

dope I can smell?’

Crespy looked back at the circle of ANA. ‘Yep, doesn’t seem to have the same affect on

them.’

‘Christ...I thought we were trying to stop the drug trade, not encourage it.’

‘We only go after the Opium.’

‘A drug’s a drug,’ Wigley said, shaking her head.

‘Then we’d be shooting people for carrying Marlboro Lights down Barnstable High Street.’

Wigley flinched as a round whined through the courtyard. ‘Barnstable...that where you’re

from?’

Crespy shook his head, tightening the strap under his chin, pushing his sunglasses more

firmly up his nose. ‘You ready to go?’

‘You have a problem with acknowledging rank Sergeant?’

‘No...ma’am,’ Crespy walked away.

Sergeant Noah Crespy led his Section including the two men under Lieutenant’s Wigley

command from the besieged compound and out into the twilight. They skirted the wall that

protected the well and followed a goat trail into the scrubland of rocks and wilted grasses.

Lizards scuttled from their tired footsteps. Gunfire echoed from the two compounds, out of

sight behind the wall they were using as cover. They started up the shoulder of the hill,

keeping to the lee so their outlines wouldn’t be spotted from below. Crespy noticed his

bootlace had come undone.

‘Take cover. Drink water,’ he said, stooping to retie his laces.

‘Why we stopping?’ Wigley said.

‘Lads are knackered.’

‘They can rest at the top,’ Wigley went forward. ‘Come on lads, let’s push on.’

Crespy nodded at Kerrison, who had looked at him questioningly.

The valley sides were in shadow. The west-facing slope had its craggy top in setting sunlight,

like a jagged border on a dowdy dress. The valley north, was in darkness. Somewhere up

there was the dam the convoy was heading for with the new hydro-electric turbine. They

were on a low hill in the middle of the valley, like a fresh pimple on a polio-scarred face.

Even if they got the turbine to the dam, how were they ever going to distribute the electricity?

It was a PR exercise. Helping to rebuild infrastructure – what bullshit, Crespy thought

angrily. And he had lost a good friend in the process. He swiveled into place his monocular

night vision. The clarity of full daylight returned. He surveyed the towering valley sides,

searching out the dark crevices and caves amazed that the Taliban hadn’t put any of their

force on higher ground. How long had they known about the convoy he wondered. The

Taliban always knew what was going on, half the ANA were supporters. A whole Battle

Group was being employed to get the turbine to the dam along a route that was meant to be

secret. He listened to the gunfire from his right, occasionally there would be a gap in the

ridge and he would creep forward, looking down at the red and green tracer criss-crossing the

ground between the two compounds.

‘Bloody madness,’ he muttered.

The top of the hill had a slight depression, like a thumb had pressed down into an upturned

cup-cake, about fifty metres wide. The sun had disappeared. The brightest stars pricked the

clear sky.

Wigley and her team were setting up their equipment, using an outcrop of rock as cover.

‘Ok lads, I want you two with me, and two squads, one on the north the other south. Kerrison

take the north. Keep an eye on the track, I want to know if any more rag-heads are coming to

reinforce that compound.’

The MSTAR picked out the Taliban in the compound like little green jelly babies moving

through the viewfinder. Wigley’s operator adjusted the settings and started calling out

coordinates for the main concentration of Taliban. Wigley relayed this to the mortar teams

down below. Immediately they could hear the heavy thump of mortar fire, and Wigley’s

operator worked the fall of shot controls, targeting the mortar shells ever closer to the Taliban

fighters. Quickly they were falling among the green images, blinking them out like a video

game. The Apache’s returned and rockets added to the deadly assault. The surviving Taliban

scattered in two’s and threes, the gunfire diminished.

Crespy looked down on the devastation. Furrows would be pushing forward, engaging the

fleeing Taliban, who were unable to fight effectively in darkness without the benefit of night

vision.

Wigley continued to call out coordinates on any Taliban that regrouped in any number. The

mortars flooded the position until the Taliban had retreated beyond their current range.

Crespy heard reports that the ANA together with the rest of his platoon had entered the

second compound.

Looking back along the track to the bridge, floodlights illuminated the scene, while a

gargantuan machine with sections of bridge-road on its back, moved into position. The Titan

had arrived.

His vision burst with brilliant light, a force punched him in the chest and he was momentarily

weightless, spinning through the air, Crespy hit the ground, rolled and lay still, his hearing

buzzed, a coppery taste in his mouth, unable to get air into his lungs. He could feel the

ground vibrate and jolt around him, something punched him in the back, his body armour

protecting him from the full force. Desperately he tried to get air back into his lungs. His

night vision monocular was gone. In its place was the zipp of tracer. His floundering mind

registered they were under attack, and from above, on the valley side. Gasping with pain he

crawled towards the rock outcrop, screaming at himself to hurry from the exposed position.

Gradually strength returned and he managed to get his breathing under control. The MStar

team was destroyed, the equipment scattered by a direct RPG hit. Two bodies lay near the

wreckage. Another grenade landed close by. They were accurate, these must have night

vision he thought, tumbling over the ridge and sliding down the loose sand until his back

came up against a rock. A figure scurried over to him.

‘Sergeant Crespy, is that you,’ a high-pitched, female voice.

Crespy could only nod.

‘Are you injured?’

He didn’t know, he was still disorientated, but he couldn’t feel any great pain.

He had lost his weapon. ‘Where’s you weapon?’ he wheezed.

‘We’ve got to get down,’ Wigley’s face peered at him, her eyes wide.

‘Not... not without my lads,’ Crespy groaned, his hearing buzzed although he was pretty sure

the firing had stopped. His lads on the north and south faces would have been in full view

from the east facing slopes of the valley. They had either found cover or were dead.

‘I’ve...ahh...I’ve...got to get back up there.’

‘That’s crazy, there’s no cover.

‘We’ll push around the side,’ Crespy gasped, using the rock to stand. It was very dark, no

moonlight. Below he could see the Titan at work. Intermittent tracer coming from the

compound. He had lost communication from his Role Radio. ‘You got any comms?’ he said.

‘Keep your voice down Sergeant,’ Wigley tugged at his sleeve to make him follow her.

The gradient caught him unaware and he fell sideways, slipping down until another rock

halted his progress. He felt the heat from the day’s sun through its rough surface. It was

strangely comforting. He levered himself upright as Wigley slid in beside him.

‘Without night vision we can’t see shit. We should wait until light.’

‘You wait...wait here...you’ll be fine... I’ve got to find my lads,’ Crespy crawled back up the

loose slope. Suddenly tracer flew overhead, rapidly lowering in elevation until bullets

thudded into sand and rock. They were coming from below and above. The red tracer was

friendly, the green not. He was being targeted from both sides. He slid back down to the rock

and lay with Wigley under the slight overhang. ‘This is hot, we’re likely to get it from

friendly fire.’ He took out his pistol and chambered a 9 mm round.

‘We...’

Crespy put a hand over Wigley’s mouth, ‘Shhh...’

The sliding footsteps approached across the sandy slope above them. Three figures, their

outlines blotting the stars as they moved stealthily over the treacherous surface. The leader

slipped and muttered an oath. It wasn’t English.

Crespy held his breath. Wigley started to squirm, unaware of the threat. Without further

thought, he punched her on the side of the head, stunning her into stillness but the sound was

enough to freeze the three Taliban. He felt them searching the blackness under the rock,

tensing for the investigative round of fire. The leader edged towards them, his feet sliding on

the loose surface. Three metres. Wigley began to recover. The Taliban whispered a challenge,

obviously expecting a reply from his comrades nearby. Crespy launched from a crouch,

hitting the Taliban in the chest with his shoulder, a cry of alarm but the movement pushed his

AK skyward, the Talib’s finger tightened on the trigger and a few rounds shot harmlessly into

the night sky. The muzzle flashes gave Crespy precious seconds to orientate himself. Using

his momentum, he slammed the rifle butt into the Talib’s face while continuing to push him

backwards. His comrades, unable to discern Crespy from the struggling black shadows,

hesitated to fire. They were still outlined against starlight. Crespy wrenched the man’s AK

from him and traversed the barrel over the confused duo, their bodies crumpling into the

blackness. The man fought manically underneath him, managing to flip Crespy from his

chest. Crespy rolled, reaching for his bayonet. He lost his man in the blackness. He could

hear him scrabbling around hunting for his weapon. Crespy crabbed across the slope, the

blade in front of him, he saw the figure, a darker mass against the sand, he lunged, the blade

pierced the Talib’s clothes, going in through his side just below the ribs. The Talib screamed.

Crespy thrust harder, twisting and then withdrawing, the groove in the bayonet allowing the

blood to run over his hands and the blade to withdraw smoothly. The Talib’s arms flailed

about him, some connecting with Crespy but they were weak, the man moaning piteously.

Crespy knelt on the man’s chest and drew his blade across the Talib’s neck. There was a

gurgling sigh, the body under him relaxing.

Arabic shouts, men were angling towards them. Fire from the British below. ‘Come on we’ve

got to go,’ Crespy said, searching for Wigley in the blackness.

‘Keep away from me,’ Wigley cried, somewhere in the blackness under the rock. ‘You’re

going on charges for what you’ve done...’

‘Hey...’ Crespy knelt in front of the rock. ‘Shut up for fuck’s sake. You’re going to get us

both killed.’

‘You’re in big trouble Sergeant...’

Crespy went out into the darkness, found the dead Talib’s AK and hurried back. ‘Here’s a

weapon, keep it close, I’m going to look for my lads.’

‘I order you to stay here and get me back down this hill,’ Wigley shouted, ‘Sergeant....’

Crespy had already found the other two Taliban and picked up their weapons. He scurried

across the shale keeping low, dodging the intermittent fire from friendly heavy machine guns.

Gunfire behind him. They had found Wigely.

He rounded the shoulder of the hill, out of site from the British forces along the track.

Kerrison and his squad had to be nearby if they were still alive. He could hear voices, unsure

whether they were friendly or not. He hunkered down behind a rock. The voices faded. He

searched the blackness. Impossible to see anything except the paler streaks of sand between

the outcrops of rock and debris. He ran from one outcrop to the next, the AK in his hand.

Panting, his hearing still singing from the earlier explosion, he tried to listen.

A battle was enfolding on the slope facing the British. The strength of gunfire increasing

rapidly.

‘Kerrison,’ Crespy risked a call.

He ran to the next rock, knelt, listened. The metal edge of a blade pressed into his neck, he

froze. He felt the figure behind him holding the knife. ‘Drop your weapon,’ was said in bad

Arabic, just like they had been taught.

Crespy’s shoulder’s sagged with relief. ‘Lance Corporal Kerrison, it’s me you daft bugger.’

‘Boss!’

‘Yeah get that blade away from me,’ Crespy turned and faced Kerrison, the night vision

monocle glowing green in front of his face. ‘Those things are meant to help you see in the

dark.’

‘You haven’t seen yourself...’

‘Where’s the rest of the lads?’

‘We’re missing Beavis and Hammond and...Lieutenant Wigley?’

‘Here, take this...’ Crespy handed him the spare AK. ‘She’s making her way down the hill.

Her two lads didn’t make it.’

Kerrison checked that the clip for the AK was full. ‘She’s goin’to have a tough time.’

‘Yeah. You got comms with the boss?’ Crespy followed Kerrison back to his surviving

section.

‘No, out of range or radio’s buggered.’

OK, we’re going to push back along this hill, get down to the track, meet up with the platoon.

Remember We’re carrying AK’s so if we have to use them, our lads down there will think

we’re the enemy, so the answer’s don’t, unless you have to.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Beavis and Hammond.... I don’t know what happened to them but it’s too confusing around

the other side. We’ll come and look for them when it gets light. Let’s go.’

They traversed the side of the hill facing the valley wall, using rocks as cover, but it seemed

the Taliban who had pinned them down earlier had moved on, joining the force attacking the

compound from the other side of the hill. They followed the ridge they had climbed earlier,

Kerrison leading with his night vision. They reached the track, near the bridge and stepped

out into the industry of Sappers fixing the Titan into place under the glare of floodlights. For

a moment, Crespy stood with his exhausted men, watching in numb silence the oblivious

attitude of the Engineers, to the gunfire and tracer flickering across the track, half a kilometer

away.

Across the bridge, a car park of army vehicles waited to cross. Behind the ridge, Crespy knew

would be the main elements of the convoy; three huge rigs carrying the turbines in steel

boxes, protection against RPG attack.

Sergeant Noah Crespy shook his head, bemused, strolling up to one of the Engineers and

asking whether he could use his radio. He got through to Furrows.

‘Get up here Sergeant, come in from East, the track’s too hot. I’ll let the ANA know you’re

on your way.’

They took ammunition for their SA 80’s from the Engineers, and an hour later, unchallenged,

they clambered over the ruined walls of the second compound. It was a substantial complex

of mud brick buildings around a central courtyard. A lot of the building were in ruin; the

occasional gout of flame licking through a blackened window, or embers blowing off the

smoldering beams from the slight wind blowing down the valley. A few stunted trees had

survived the attack to clear the compound of Taliban, and groups of ANA were sitting in their

customary circles, passing spliffs and talking in excited voices. Occasionally they would get

up and wander to the firing positions along the West facing walls, joining in with their

comrades in spraying the hillside with tracer. Wood smoke eddied through the compound,

mixing with the emissions from mortars and SA80’s into an eye-stinging cocktail.

‘Right lads, take five, I’m going to find the boss,’ Crespy said.

Captain Furrows was in one of the intact buildings at the back of the compound, sitting on a

salvaged chair, looking at a map by torchlight.

‘Any trouble getting in Flood?’ he said.

‘No sir.’

‘How are your lads?’

‘Knackered’

Captain Furrows shone his torch over Crespy. ‘You look pretty beat up.’

‘We were hit from above, an RPG took out two from the MSTAR team, two of my lads are

still missing.’

‘Bloody hell...bloody hell,’ Captain Furrows shone his torch back to the map. ‘How many

you think are up there?’

‘Looking at the rounds coming down, I’d say fifty, maybe hundred.’

‘Bloody hell...’ Furrows looked briefly at the two other corporals in the room. ‘OK...’ he

stood suddenly. ‘CO wants to push north at first light. Convoy’s running out of fuel and we

need to get job done...’ he suddenly stopped, his brow became furrowed. ‘Lieutenant

Wigley...where the hell is she?’

Crespy shifted on his feet, taking of his helmet and running his hand through short, damp

hair. ‘She was making her own way down...’

‘Through that lot?’

‘I had to find the rest of the lads,’ Crespy stared at Captain Furrows.

‘Bloody hell...’

Crespy hoped that he was just too tired to care about Wigley. He saw again the fear in her

eyes, the sound of her AK as the Taliban arrowed in on her position. He was sure she was

dead. It would solve a few problems if she was. Striking an officer was serious.

‘OK lads. I’m asking the CO for the rest of A company. We’re not leaving two of our lads up

there. We’re going to punch up that hill, clear up our problem.’

Crespy had reached the point where all thought, other than those needed for the basic

functioning of his body, had closed down. Placing one-step in front of the other, checking his

weapon, giving commands, they were instinctive, he worked on autopilot, arriving at a point

not consciously aware of how he had done it. Occasionally as he ran from one point of cover

to the next, he could feel his legs become rubbery with fatigue, and to squeeze another ounce

of adrenaline, he would conjure an image of Doug’s shattered body, and enough strength

would flood through him to get to the next rock, or depression in the hillside offering cover.

They crossed the track from the compound and were into the boulder littered hillside, the

ANA on the right flank, his platoon with Captain Furrows at the front, in the centre, and the

two remaining platoons from Company A coming up to the ridge from the left. The distance

between the two forces shortened, rounds pinged and whined off the rock, shouted, urgent

commands to make sure friendly fire did not add to the assault already coming down on

them.

Fear. Crespy watched his men around him, their chests heaving from the exertion of climbing

under fire, their green shaded expressions a mixture of determination, exhaustion and fear...it

was there, had to be...they were professionals and knew the danger, respected the fact they

could be killed at any moment...they weren’t doing it to bring electricity to the Afghan’s, they

weren’t doing it to stop the opium trade., they weren’t doing it to bring stability to this poor,

wrecked, savage nation. They were doing it for the man next to them. It was a job. Like

digging ditches. This was what they were being paid for, had joined up to do. But instead of

bonuses, achieving targets, repairing burst pipes, all the stuff civvies measured their day by,

his was to look out for the man next to him, the men under his command, fight and protect. It

was that simple.

‘Flood! Push up, you’re falling back,’ he heard Furrows through his earpiece.

Crespy blinked. How long had he been hunkered down behind this rock?

He glanced guiltily at his lads, grouped around him. He pushed up his night vision, rubbing

his eyes. He looked behind him. They were above the compound now. Perhaps twenty metres

up the slope. Orange flame still flickered in some of the openings. To his right the halo of

light from the engineers working at the bridge. Then an arc of blackness, until high above, the

jagged tooth outline of the valley sides against the star emblazoned sky.

The flanks were moving ahead, pinching the insurgent fighters into a smaller area directly

ahead. Crespy’s section was at the bottom of the ‘U’ and the insurgents could see the trap

they were being forced into. They were likely to break out into Crespy’s section, like puss

from a sore, if he didn’t get a move on.

‘OK lads, lets go,’ Crespy stepped out from cover, knelt, fired at a flash of AK muzzle light

ahead, scrambled up the loose surface, aware his men were around him, trying to keep pace, a

figure charged down from above, Kerrison fired from Crespy’s right, the figure screamed

tumbled and rolled, knocking out Crespy’s legs. He lunged down with his bayonet, cutting

off the scream.

Gunfire reached a new level, the noise deafening, bullets and tracer filling the air, a low

ceiling of flying shrapnel and death. A man went down, the radio constant with the calls for

medic or clarification of position, madness, hell – terror, excitement filled the body in pulses.

Closer they came, more desperate were the enemy, until they were amongst them, every rock

corner they would come together, a brief blaze of gunfire and then hand to hand fighting,

bayonets sucking out of flesh, screams from ruptured arteries, severed limbs, blood black in

the night vision, faces twisted with hatred, fearsome black eyes, mouths agape with Alla

Akhbar...viscous, primal, as close as man could get to being alive, and Crespy felt it, his body

bursting with vitality, his arms becoming soaked in enemy blood, his weapon out of

ammunition he was back in the days of sword and spear, no advantage other than strength,

bravery and cunning. There was no difference in the two sides. None showed any quarter,

Neither expected it. Hatred flared and then was extinguished as the last group of insurgents

fell to the over whelming power from the left flank of fresh soldiers of B and C platoon.

They were back on the hilltop. Crespy sank to his knees, aware he was next to the two bodies

from the MSTAR team. He was shaking, gulping for air, not sure if the blood covering his

body was his or the enemies. He looked around at his men, pride filling every cell as he

counted them all off. He had succeeded. They were all alive. He glanced up at the sky. Dawn

was coming.

Furrows staggered over to him. ‘Well done Flood, all clear.’

Crespy found he couldn’t reply.

‘We found your two lads, Beavis, Hammond...bit beaten up, nothing serious.’

Crespy nodded, mission completed, that was all he had to do.

Below the first truck carrying the hydroelectric turbine was beginning to cross the bridge, the

leading vehicles for the convoy, Scimitars and armoured personnel carriers, their headlights

bobbing and bouncing over the rough surface, were already passing the smoldering

compound.

Job done.

‘We’re pulling back,’ Furrows clapped Crespy on the shoulder. ‘Get some rest Flood.’

Crespy nodded.

‘Oh, we haven’t found Lieutenant Wigley yet...’

Crespy looked up, drinking from a bottle offered by an ANA.

‘You remember where you saw her last?’

Crespy pointed his bottle down the slope. ‘No boss, not exactly.