He was nearer to sleep. But as the cloud lifted so the wind freshened and blew cold from the east. The dinghy was tossed, and each time Gaz was thrown against the side, and each time he snatched at the rope, then the pain came, was more fierce. He doubted there would be much longer, and wondered if when the moment came he would continue to fight… but had the face, clung to the image.
The two most recent disappointments, crushing for his morale, were when the circling of the dinghy had meant he looked out towards an unbroken expanse of sea, and he had squinted to focus better. Half the time he had been below the level of the wave caps that tossed him, but when the dinghy came up to mount the swell, he had seen a fishing boat, a big trawler. It would have been heading far out into the Barents, not after the inshore crab stocks but chasing bigger and more challenging fish. The time no longer existed when he could have stood and peeled off some clothing, waved it with ever-increasing urgency. His craft – had it been noticed – would have been taken for a plastic container, or a length of driftwood. The boat had not slowed and not diverted from its course. The second moment of hope, despair, then resignation, had been a tramper making a lonely progress on the horizon. Let alone stand up and wave, shout, Gaz could no longer shift his hips and his legs, and half of his chest sodden and being lapped with water, and he thought the level in the dinghy grew higher. How long? Not long.
Another face gouged into his consciousness.
Kindly features. Natural that Gaz should speak to a new friend. Elegant whiskers sprouted by his friend’s mouth, and its eyes were dark, but the head was well out of the waves and rode with them. His friend would have been curious had no ability nor wish to harm.
Gaz said softly to the seal, tilting his head with difficulty but making eye contact, “Won’t be around long. Apologies for coming on to your territory. Where I come from, used to live, we had plenty like you. They gather off Noup Head and Inga Ness and also they get to be at Castle O’Burrian. It’s where I’m supposed to be going but the chances of it working out are going down the plug. I think there must be a time when I’ll get past caring.”
It was gone. Did not rise up, somersault and dive, just seemed to sink back without disturbance. A wave pitched the dinghy, and then it dropped and he struggled to hold his grip on the rope, and when the craft steadied there was no sign of the seal. Difficult to imagine that it had been a part of the dream, but he was edging closer to sleep.
He said, “I did what I could, did what I thought was right. Won’t be thanked for it. I was sick before I came to your place, your territory. Not now. I think well of myself. Good to have known you, friend.”
His head sagged.
The seal was back with him. Not as close as before, but moving slowly enough to keep pace with him. It was huge, heavy, but had a grace in the water and he wondered about its enemies: orca whales and polar bears. Off Westray, out at Noup Head, he had seen the killer whales – and Aggie was usually with him and they would sit on sheep-cropped grass. He did not know what day it was, what date, and so could not say if it were one of the mornings that she would come across from her island to restock her pottery in the craft shelf of the hotel. He did not think he had anything further that he should say to the seal, and let his head rest on the side of the dinghy and the water splashed around him, and he drifted and did not know where he was – nor knew if, any longer, it mattered. He supposed he had honoured his promise, had done his best.
Delta Alpha Sierra, the twentieth hour
He lay on the bunk bed allocated him.
Arnie and Sam did the honours. Not much to employ them. They packed his gear, his personal kit. Had already taken his issued firearms and the grenade canisters back to the armoury. Used the same Bergen that had been with him through all those days. Next to nothing that went in the bag had any sentimental or emotional importance to him. Some of the guys, and most of the girls, brought pictures and mementoes to the Forward Operating Base, wanted to be reminded of wives and girlfriends, of small children, of dogs at home. Gaz had not. Just essentials. His bag was by the door. Their suggestion, he should get off his arse, put a bad day behind him, come on over to the bar. There were dispensation times when the cupboard under the counter was unlocked, and beers could be served, and the normal intake of fruit juice and Cola and Sprite were ignored. Their officer would have accepted that his experience had been bad, damaging, needed lubricating. Refused… It was not pressed. The guys and girls in the regiment were individuals, did not require herding. He was entitled to decline. The door closed on them.
He had told his story coherently. Had good recall. Had talked little of the girl, had been calm and composed and professional, but then had broken, shed tears. He had noted how they had waited for his composure to return, had not hustled him. Had done the bit about the girl, and her sacrifice and him undiscovered. He lay on the bunk bed, and wondered whether he had emphasised sufficiently her role in his preservation: they had seemed interested but it was not milked. An attitude that seemed to be: ‘War is shit, tell me something new, what I didn’t know, it’s bad shit, and never pretty and never glorious’. He wondered what they, across the table from him – the girls and the debrief officer who they referred to as Knacker – knew of warfare: not games of intelligence officers parking cameras in concrete walls, but shooting war and the consequences of war. Doubted they knew much… Gaz didn’t play chess. Did not know of the game in which little people, ‘pawns’, got to be knocked off the board.
They came back for him. Arnie helped to tidy him, and Sam hoisted up his bag. The Chinook was ready. It would be the regular run into Kurdish territory and the airport there, would do rotation of personnel and load up with supplies for this Forward Operating Base and a couple of other locations. Would be routine for them, but nothing was routine in Gaz’s world. He was reluctant to leave the bunk. Both of them, Arnie and Sam, would have realised that their colleague was damaged. Going to be shipped out and soonest. Would be fast-tracked. The helicopter to Idlib, another supply flight, and into RAF Akrotiri on Cyprus, and the big bird out later in the day to Brize Norton, home. An early assessment that the damage might be terminal to his career… Some would have shaken out of the experience, others would not.
He stood in the centre of the room. Looked around him, saw blank walls of plywood. There would be another guy there by the time the next dusk came down over the desert.
Gaz said, “I don’t ever forget what happened. Owe it to them there, and owe it to her who saved my life. Don’t forget it, and I promise that I will do what is possible to repay those responsible with a degree of harsh justice. I pledge that.”
Arnie said, “Yes, of course, Gaz, well spoken.”
Sam said, “Quite right, Gaz. Nice thought. Fuck knows how you will, but nice.”
It would have been all around the FOB that a girl had endured a gang-shag in order that Gaz stayed hidden in his covert observation position. That Gaz must have been soft on her, her on him, that she herded goats in the village that had been taken down. Would give them something to talk about.
They went out. Arnie and Sam stayed close to him. Out past the briefing room where the intelligence man and his girls were with their officer and glanced up momentarily at the beat of the boots on the corridor floor. Past the Mess that he would not be returning to, and a chorus of ‘Good luck’, and he was already gone from the ranks, no longer a part of them. Out into the night air and across the apron and towards the arc lights close to where the Chinook was parked, engines rumbling.