Exit wound

Tenny was less worried about his guts than about what had happened.

‘It was so quick. I sparked up the radio to give Dex a sitrep and they went for it. I-’

Red Ken placed his hand on Tenny’s forehead, like a father with a sick child. ‘It doesn’t matter. Getting you back is all that does. Not long now, mate.’

Spag just sat there with his bag of tricks on his lap. I didn’t blame him keeping out of it.

When we reached the field, Dex’s props were already turning.

PART TWO 10

Lincoln

14 April 2009

Judging by the number of lads packing the bars around the cathedral, the funeral was going to be a big one. I recognized a few of the faces knocking back the pints as they sheltered under awnings and patio heaters.

I pulled up my jacket collar, and not just against the wind and rain. I was hoping they didn’t recognize me back. I didn’t want to be pulled into any of the groups and have to waffle about jobs and families and how much hair we’d all lost. I’d only get agitated. I wanted to be here as much as I had to be here, but I couldn’t stand the garbage people spouted at reunions. Maybe I was just jealous of them for having normal lives. There were a couple of lads I was looking for in the sea of faces. They were the only ones I wanted to waffle with.

‘Oi, Nick!’

I turned. He wasn’t one of them. I didn’t know the guy from Adam – except that I don’t remember Adam eating all the pies. He was surrounded by other beer bellies and red faces, throwing down the pints like they were still nineteen-year-old squaddies. Many were thinning on top; some were bald or grey. All of them were bullshitting about how great it’s been since they got out. Great house, great car, everything’s gravy.

Some wore their Green Jacket blazers and ties over crisp white shirts and neatly pressed slacks. Others were in their best suits. Me? I was in a Tesco shirt, washable trousers and cheap leather jacket. Most of them would have been lorry drivers, security guards, painters and decorators, firemen or policemen. That was what normally happened with the lads. The odd one would be on the circuit, fucking about in Iraq or Afghanistan, but today it really didn’t matter who or what you were. The one thing everyone had in common was that they knew Tenny.

Tennyson had spent the best part of a year sorting out his gut before marrying Janice and taking up his commission in the Green Jackets – which had become the Rifles in the next shakeup. He never did make general, but was promoted to full colonel in command of media ops at Camp Bastion in Helmand province. It was a plum job, making sure reporters and news crews got where they were needed, and managing the PR output. Until he got zapped again, this time in the head by a 7.62mm short from an AK.

The voice called again: ‘Nick! Nick Stone!’

I still didn’t have a clue who he was, but shook his hand anyway. I didn’t have much choice: he’d gone for it big-time. He pumped my arm so vigorously my shoulders shook.

‘Good to see you, mate.’

Maybe he’d had more hair the last time I’d seen him.

‘Graham – Graham Pincombe. How you doing, mate?’

Still none the wiser. ‘Ah, yeah, fine… mate…’

My brain whirred into hyperspace as the very thing I was trying to avoid started to happen.

‘What you been doing with yourself? The last time I saw you…’ At last his hand released mine and for some reason headed for the tip of his nose. ‘Ah, yeah. Germany – remember when we were on exercise in Germany?’

No, not a clue. ‘Shame about Tenny, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What exactly happened – anybody know?’ I scanned the group for a face that might give Mr Pincombe some context.

He shook his head. ‘He kept wanting to go out on the ground with the rifle companies. I heard he was next on the list for a cabby on the Javelin. That’s when he got zapped.’

I smiled, and he smiled back. We both knew what that meant. The Javelin anti-armour rocket was a great bit of kit, and there was always a queue of guys wanting to have a go. Originally designed to take out tanks, it was now antipersonnel, anti-car, anti-bicycle, you name it. No job too small. And over long distances, too. Its optics and second-generation thermal-imaging technology could see in the dark or through rain and smoke. It was an infantryman’s dream. Once you’d acquired a target and locked it on, you kicked off the rocket and that was that. Most brilliant of all, it cost seventy-six grand a pop.