Bryn
08-30-2013, 08:41 AM
The Soldier
“If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam”-
The Soldier, Rupert Brooke.
*****************************
Afghanistan was a mysterious country full of dusty, desolate valleys and huge imposing mountains: a vast rocky landscape stretching the length of nearly three British Isles. We would often have to travel for hours on end before we would see any signs of life, and on the odd chance we did stumble across a living thing it was more likely to be a goat or a cow than an actual person. Our base was situated on the banks of the Helmand River running through one of the most northern districts of Helmand called Baghran. Kilo Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment had been sent for an eight month extended tour. And it was a bad one.
Jenkins and I walked into the base, the atmosphere was tense. Men sat in their underwear, rifle on lap looking into space, some sat under large dark green canopies to shelter from the relentless midday sun. We stood in silence for a minute before being approached by a tall, wirey man, we saluted and he introduced himself.
“Afternoon, gents. My name’s Anthony Sutherland. I’m lance corporal here in Baghran. You’ll be spending your time with me” Jenkins and I both nodded simultaneously causing Sutherland to smirk, and he instructed us to take up bunks in a vacant tent towards the eastern side of camp. The tent was small and compact, with room either side of the hard bunks for us to place our haversacks. A group of ants were on patrol through the middle of the tent, their tiny bodies moving quickly in the sand. They marched up and over my boot and exited through a hole in the canvas. I studied them as the last ones went through the hole. I half expected them to scutter up my leg in panic and disarray, but not these ants. These ants did not scutter, or even acknowledge my existence. They were soldiers, workers, protectors of the nest.
Our first outing was quiet, word had been spread that the Taliban had been moving in and out of nearby villages in an attempt to gather information on our patrol routes. We walked across an empty compound and trud carefully through a sandy plain before heading west into the town. The walk into town was bleak, the run down and derelict buildings surrounding us led into a labyrinth of side streets and with every step took us further into enemy territory. Children were playing football, barefooted to the left of us. They giggled and laughed at each other and waved as we passed. A young boy, the smallest in the group wore a red Manchester United jersey; he was different to the others. His face was hard and emotionless and he stood in goal staring at us from a distance, he may only have been eleven or twelve but I found his piercing gaze menacing.
The nights were humid; we would spend our time playing cards, cleaning weapons or lying on our bunks discussing the meaning of life, and a vast array of other topics one would bring up whilst in a state of boredom. Jenkins was a small man, in a way we looked quite alike, with our graded hair, cleanly shaven jaws and matching uniforms, I thought people may mistake us for brothers. He would flick through photographs of his wife and kids, marvelling at the very sight of them. His nine year old son was sitting under a Christmas tree, in a full Manchester United kit beaming at the camera.
It was our turn for watch which was not a bad thing, the tent got hot and stuffy and I enjoyed being in the open air. The camp had an eerie stillness to it, the very air hung emotionless and thick. No rustling of tent doors or scuffling of feet could be heard. We walked the perimeter of the compound once, but decided to complete a second lap as we didn’t want to return to our tent. Half way around the lap we heard muffled chatter on our radios; a voice was speaking quietly and intensely. Suddenly an explosion erupted from behind us. I dropped to the ground in shock, deafened by the almighty crash. It was a Taliban attack. Troops came running out of the compound and began returning fire in the direction of the invisible enemy. I regained balance and rose to my feet, checking my body for wounds. I pulled up Jenkins who had a large piece of wood sticking out of his left thigh, with his arm around my left shoulder we made our way out of the line of fire and around the back of the camp. He was sobbing and writhing in pain, I propped him against a sand bag and went for help. I switched the safety off my rifle and turned the last corner, only to find a boy standing in front of me, pointing an AK-47 which was clearly too heavy for his small arms, directly at my chest. Those eyes, that deathly stare.
“If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam”-
The Soldier, Rupert Brooke.
*****************************
Afghanistan was a mysterious country full of dusty, desolate valleys and huge imposing mountains: a vast rocky landscape stretching the length of nearly three British Isles. We would often have to travel for hours on end before we would see any signs of life, and on the odd chance we did stumble across a living thing it was more likely to be a goat or a cow than an actual person. Our base was situated on the banks of the Helmand River running through one of the most northern districts of Helmand called Baghran. Kilo Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment had been sent for an eight month extended tour. And it was a bad one.
Jenkins and I walked into the base, the atmosphere was tense. Men sat in their underwear, rifle on lap looking into space, some sat under large dark green canopies to shelter from the relentless midday sun. We stood in silence for a minute before being approached by a tall, wirey man, we saluted and he introduced himself.
“Afternoon, gents. My name’s Anthony Sutherland. I’m lance corporal here in Baghran. You’ll be spending your time with me” Jenkins and I both nodded simultaneously causing Sutherland to smirk, and he instructed us to take up bunks in a vacant tent towards the eastern side of camp. The tent was small and compact, with room either side of the hard bunks for us to place our haversacks. A group of ants were on patrol through the middle of the tent, their tiny bodies moving quickly in the sand. They marched up and over my boot and exited through a hole in the canvas. I studied them as the last ones went through the hole. I half expected them to scutter up my leg in panic and disarray, but not these ants. These ants did not scutter, or even acknowledge my existence. They were soldiers, workers, protectors of the nest.
Our first outing was quiet, word had been spread that the Taliban had been moving in and out of nearby villages in an attempt to gather information on our patrol routes. We walked across an empty compound and trud carefully through a sandy plain before heading west into the town. The walk into town was bleak, the run down and derelict buildings surrounding us led into a labyrinth of side streets and with every step took us further into enemy territory. Children were playing football, barefooted to the left of us. They giggled and laughed at each other and waved as we passed. A young boy, the smallest in the group wore a red Manchester United jersey; he was different to the others. His face was hard and emotionless and he stood in goal staring at us from a distance, he may only have been eleven or twelve but I found his piercing gaze menacing.
The nights were humid; we would spend our time playing cards, cleaning weapons or lying on our bunks discussing the meaning of life, and a vast array of other topics one would bring up whilst in a state of boredom. Jenkins was a small man, in a way we looked quite alike, with our graded hair, cleanly shaven jaws and matching uniforms, I thought people may mistake us for brothers. He would flick through photographs of his wife and kids, marvelling at the very sight of them. His nine year old son was sitting under a Christmas tree, in a full Manchester United kit beaming at the camera.
It was our turn for watch which was not a bad thing, the tent got hot and stuffy and I enjoyed being in the open air. The camp had an eerie stillness to it, the very air hung emotionless and thick. No rustling of tent doors or scuffling of feet could be heard. We walked the perimeter of the compound once, but decided to complete a second lap as we didn’t want to return to our tent. Half way around the lap we heard muffled chatter on our radios; a voice was speaking quietly and intensely. Suddenly an explosion erupted from behind us. I dropped to the ground in shock, deafened by the almighty crash. It was a Taliban attack. Troops came running out of the compound and began returning fire in the direction of the invisible enemy. I regained balance and rose to my feet, checking my body for wounds. I pulled up Jenkins who had a large piece of wood sticking out of his left thigh, with his arm around my left shoulder we made our way out of the line of fire and around the back of the camp. He was sobbing and writhing in pain, I propped him against a sand bag and went for help. I switched the safety off my rifle and turned the last corner, only to find a boy standing in front of me, pointing an AK-47 which was clearly too heavy for his small arms, directly at my chest. Those eyes, that deathly stare.