Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

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СКАЧАТЬ should have a round in the breech during a patrol except on the instructions of an officer or an NCO, but that ammunition should be broken out of its paper parcels and ready for instant use in the men’s pouches. A number of natives had been wounded during scuffles with the previous regiments and Colonel Galbraith was keen that the 66th should not have the same problems. ‘Good. Loosen slings, fix bayonets and stand the men at ease, please.’

      Kelly gave a few simple instructions, none of the parade-ground shouting that Morgan had seen with other sergeants, to which the men responded readily, slipping the long steel needles over the muzzles of their rifles before pushing the locking rings home with an oily scrape. Then the leather slings were slackened, weapons slung over shoulders, and they all looked at Morgan for his next word of command.

      ‘Right, lads, gather round and listen to me.’ The six men shuffled round Billy Morgan, Sergeant Kelly hanging back, slightly to the rear. Morgan looked at his command. He was the junior subaltern of H Company, charged with leading nearly forty men, mostly good fellows as far as he could see, and few of the sweepings of the gutter that the press would have you believe made up the Army. Morgan was twenty-two, about the same age as most of his men, but they looked older. The product of the new sprawling industrial towns, some from the plough and a few from Ireland, they had been used to a hard life even before they came into the 66th. Now, good food, drill and regular physical training had made them fit and lean, prime fighting material. ‘Most of you have been on town patrol before . . .’ This was only Morgan’s second outing. The first had passed in a blur of new sights, sounds and smells but otherwise had been uneventful. ‘We’re to make sure that the natives know we’re here and alert, and to take note of anything unusual.’

      ‘Like what, sir?’ Battle, the old soldier of six years’ Indian service, cut in, his brogue as thick as the day he had left Manorhamilton.

      ‘Well, large gatherings of young men, the sight of any modern weapons such as Sniders – to be frank, you’re all more experienced than I am and I hope that you’ve got a better nose for trouble than I have.’ Morgan looked around. This touch of humility seemed to have been well received by the men. ‘But remember, lads, be on the look-out for the least sign of danger. The Fifty-Ninth found that a mob would know if something was amiss and would thin out at the approach of a patrol.’ The only British infantry regiment that had been part of General Stewart’s division and had handed over to the 66th had shared all sorts of horror stories with their successors. They’d had a litany of minor casualties and two deaths while patrolling the Kandahar streets. ‘So, keep your eyes peeled and if you think we need to put a round up the spout, ask Sar’nt Kelly or me before you do so.’

      ‘But, sir, we’re meant to be here to support the wali, ain’t we, not to do his troops’ work for ’im? The Fore and Afts’ – Battle used the nickname of the 59th – ‘got right kicked about an’ was never allowed to shoot back. If the town’s so bleedin’ ’ostile, why can’t the wali’s men deal with it an’ save us for the proper jobs?’

      There was a rumble of agreement from the other men and Morgan shot a look at Sergeant Kelly, whose level stare merely told him that he, too, expected an officer-type answer to a wholly reasonable question.

      ‘Good point, Battle.’ Morgan paused as he measured his reply. ‘It isn’t like the proper war that was being fought last year. We’re here, as you say, to help the wali, but his own troops are unreliable and the town is full of badmashes we need to know about, and then report back to the political officer. Now, if there are no more questions . . .’ Morgan was suddenly aware that he and his patrol had been hanging around for far too long.

      ‘Yessir. What do we do if we see a Ghazi, sir?’ Thompson, belt now tightened, chirped up.

      ‘Most unlikely, Thompson. They’ll melt away at the sight of us,’ replied Morgan.

      Thompson wasn’t to be put off. ‘They didn’t with the Fifty-Ninth, sir, did they? Why—’

      ‘Yes, well, we’re not the Fifty-Ninth, are we? This lot have heard that the Sixty-sixth are here and they won’t want to take us on. Now, split into pairs, ten paces between each. Sar’nt Kelly, bring up the rear, please. Follow me.’ With that, Morgan’s little command stepped out of the tented lines of the 66th, through a gate in the barbed-wire perimeter and away up the gentle incline three-quarters of a mile towards the walls, shanties and sun-lit pall of woodsmoke that was Kandahar.

      Morgan walked as casually as he could among his soldiers. The men were moving either side of the pot-holed road in what the Army liked to describe as ‘staggered file’ – odd numbers on the left and even numbers on the right, no two men in a line with each other. That, he thought, was meant to make a random jezail shot less likely to strike more than one man, but he could see how the troops tended to close in on each other for comfort and reassurance.

      ‘No, lads, keep spread out. Don’t bunch up, keep your distance,’ Morgan said, as lightly as he could, trying not to let his tension show in his voice. He looked at the men that some mistaken fate had placed under his command. They were all polite to him, almost painfully so, trusting him because of the stars he wore on his collar and his accent, more than any proof of competence he had so far shown. Yet he was surprised by how easy he found their company. Sandhurst had told him to expect the worst, that while most of his men would be good, trustworthy sorts, a few would be out to mock him and dun him of every penny he might be foolish enough to carry around. He had identified no one like that. True, Battle was a bit of a handful – he’d come the wiseacre a couple of times over the young officer’s Protestantism – but Morgan had managed to slap him down good-naturedly enough.

      But, looking at Private Battle, Billy Morgan remembered how his father would tease the Catholics both back home in Cork and in his countless stories about the old Army. Yet, while he pretended to be suspicious of their religion, his obvious fondness for what he called his Paddies shone through. Now the new Army, Morgan thought, had fewer of those Irishmen who’d been driven to take the shilling by the potato blight back in the forties and fifties, but those who had enlisted were good enough and fitted in well with the sturdy English lads that the 66th recruited from around their depot in Reading. No, even in the short space of time he’d spent with H Company, Morgan was beginning to understand the men, to enjoy their ready, irreverent humour (how had they referred to General Roberts in his vast, non-regulation sun-helmet when they saw his picture in the paper? ‘That little arse in the fuck-off hat’, wasn’t it?) and understand their values. How, he wondered, would he have managed if he’d been commissioned into one of the native regiments, like his half-brother, Sam Keenan? Everything would have been so foreign – and even if he’d managed to learn the language well enough to do his job, it would never have been possible, surely, to become really close to an Indian.

      But, thought Billy Morgan, that would never have been the case for he was only ever going to serve in a smart regiment – his father would hear of nothing else. As a little boy he’d accepted, without questioning, that he would always get the best of everything while Sam would have what was left over. He could still remember when he was five years old and how bitter the older, bigger Sam had been at having to accept the smaller of the two ponies their father had bought for them. It was the first time Billy had really noticed any difference, but as he matured, he had seen how Mary, his step-mother, had protected the way in which Sam had been brought up in her Catholic Church.

      His father had made a joke of it, laughing when Mary elongated the word ‘maas’ and crossing himself in faux-respect whenever something Roman was mentioned. And as Father thought that County Cork was far too much under the sway of the Pope, he would brook no suggestion that Billy should be sent to one of the local schools. Oh, no, they were good enough for Sam, but for Billy there should be nothing but the best: he was to be educated in England, at Sandhurst and then a good line regiment, just like his father.

      He СКАЧАТЬ