Next day we were gone. Before the war started I was able to phone Kath from time to time, from the R & R centres established in the desert, and everything was OK. The satellite connections were perfect, and it was like talking to her in the room next door. But once we deployed across the border into Iraq at the end of January there was no chance of further communication, and it wasn’t until the ninth of April, when members of D Squadron were reunited in Cyprus on our way home, that I spoke to her again. And as it turned out, during those ten weeks — in the desert, in hospital, in prison — I’d been through quite a bit.
On the line to Akrotiri, Kath sounded very much herself — worried about me, lively, loving, full of news about Tim. It was I who had changed.
Like everyone else I looked forward to getting home; for weeks I’d yearned to be back in England. Yet when I reached Hereford, there was something wrong. I didn’t go straight home. I didn’t want to — couldn’t face it. To my shame, I went out on the piss with a couple of the single lads who lived on the block. All they wanted was to have a few beers and go downtown to see if they could pick up a girl for the night. For me, things weren’t so simple.
By the time I reached the cottage I wasn’t making much sense. Kath looked terrific — I could see that in an objective sort of way — but she also looked shocked that I had arrived back in such a state. Tim had grown inches and was starting to talk. She’d taught him to say ‘Dad’, and he brought the word out on cue. I should have been bowled over. Instead I felt nothing. It was extraordinary, but I didn’t even feel randy. By then the other guys would have been randy as hell; during the flight they hadn’t been able to stop talking about how they were going to screw their bollocks off the moment the Herc touched the tarmac. I should have been the same, but I didn’t seem to fancy Kath any more. I couldn’t make love to her; I could hardly kiss her on the cheek, or even look her in the eye. As for telling her what had happened to me — I just explained a bit about my arm, and skirted round the rest.
She was hurt, of course. Although she played it down, she couldn’t conceal her worry and unhappiness. I think she hoped that time would heal the trouble between us, whatever it was, and after a while things would return to normal.
All along I knew that the fault lay with me, not her, and I tried to say so. But then began the nightmares and the headaches started. I started on the booze — something I’d never much bothered with before — and instead of mending, our relationship went further downhill, until we were making space round each other as we moved about the house, and hardly speaking.
When I went to the Med Centre in camp for checks on my arm I should have told the doc what was happening. But naturally I didn’t want to reveal what seemed to be weaknesses. Like everyone in the Regiment, I wanted to get sent on operations: that was the whole point of life. To admit one had psychological problems was the surest way of missing some good trip, or even of blighting one’s career completely and being put on the back burner. When the head-shed offered us the services of a shrink, nobody wanted to go near him.
The Paracetamol was starting to take effect. Slowly my head eased and some of the anxieties fell away. I heard the clock in the living room strike four, and that was all.
Next day was bright and brilliant, a glorious May morning. When I came into the kitchen, sunlight was already streaming across the table, and Tim’s face, plastered with porridge, was such a sight I couldn’t help smiling. But I felt terrible, hung over from the mixture of drinks that I’d poured down myself the night before.
As always, Kath had made proper coffee, and, as I got myself a cup, I announced, ‘I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to see the doc.’
‘Great!’ Kath’s face lit up. ‘See what he says. It can’t do any harm.’
‘That’s right. If I don’t like it, I don’t need to take any notice.’
I was soon away, driving into town. She’d gone back to her job at the bank in the mornings, and was putting Tim into a tots’ playschool. At lunchtime a friend gave them both a lift home, so all I had to do was drop them off on my way to the camp.
At Stirling Lines — named after David Stirling, who founded the SAS as a long-range desert group in Africa during World War Two — the usual two MoD Plods in uniform were on the gate. As I drove towards them they recognized me, waved and raised the barrier. In the car-park I found myself next to a mate from D Squadron, Pat Martin, who was just locking his Scorpio.
‘Hi, Pat,’ I said. ‘Listen, will you tell Tom that I’m going to the Med Centre? I’ll be up the Squadron later.’
‘No bother. Something the matter?’
‘Just checking my arm.’
It was coming up to 8.30. The rest of the guys would already be assembling in the Squadron Interest Room for Prayers — properly, roll-call and morning briefing. I knew that Tom Dawson, the sergeant major, would accept my message, and that I could square him later. One of the Old and Bold, he’d done more than fifteen years in the Regiment, and had seen it all — the tail-end of the Dhofar campaign, the Falklands, the Gulf. In the Falklands he’d been one of the few who survived the Sea King crash. Seventeen members of D and G Squadrons and half a dozen others were killed when the chopper went down in the sea on a cross-decking sortie. He’d told me he too suffered nightmares. He’d been unable to sleep in a dark room with the door shut; if ever he woke to find the door closed he’d leap up in a frenzy. His own experiences had made him sympathetic, and I knew he’d support me.
I headed straight for the Med Centre, hoping that Tracy Jordan would be on duty. There were two girls who took turns at the front desk, week on, week off. Sheila was small and dumpy, about as lively as a suet pudding, but Tracy was something else. Nearly six feet in her socks, with wild coppery curls tied in a top-knot that made her look even taller, she was all arms and legs, and at twenty-three or — four, still seemed like an overgrown filly. She was quite a well-known figure about camp because she was athletic, and was often to be seen running with a girl friend in the lunch hour. Rumour had it that she was a demon at squash; apart from being fit, she could stand in the centre of the court and scoop the ball out of the corners without having to move very far.
I knew practically nothing else about her. But I’d often noticed that her eyes carried a hint of suppressed merriment; this, combined with a tendency to make mildly piss-taking remarks, made a lot of the guys fancy her. But she had rumbled the bonk-and-be-off tactics of the Regiment long ago, and stuck to a boyfriend from outside. All the same, reporting sick was less of a drag if Tracy was on duty.
My luck was in. There she sat at her desk, in a snowy sweatshirt and pale blue jeans. Today the ribbon holding her top-knot was emerald green. Did her eyebrows go up as she saw me come in?
‘Sergeant Geordie Sharp!’ she announced in that faintly mocking voice. ‘What can I do for you today?’
‘Watch yourself,’ I told her.
‘What do you mean?’ She wriggled her slim little behind around on her chair in mock indignation.
‘Just that,’ I said. ‘I need to see Doc Anderson.’
‘Major Anderson’s off. It’s Captain Lester.’
‘OK then.’
‘There’s only one ahead of you. Take a seat. Shouldn’t be long.’
She rummaged in a filing cupboard for my documents, and handed me the brown manila packet. It didn’t worry me that Anderson was away — I’d never got much change out of him. Maybe this new guy would be better.
I waited a couple of minutes, then the light above the door changed from red to green and I went in to find a young, fit-looking man with prematurely grey hair cut very short. He took a quick look at the outside of my packet and said, ‘Hello, George.’