Battleworn Read Online Free

plastic bags skipping down empty streets, that feeling of the calm before the storm. Everyone in the company feels it. They’ve got the look that Olympic high jumpers have before they sprint for the bar: determined and fully alert. It’s ‘game on’, just as Kev noted earlier. Anticipation is sometimes worse than the actual event. You never know when or where it’s going to happen. One thing that I am sure of is that I don’t want it to be our wagon getting the good news first.
    Flushed with adrenaline, I am no longer tired. I check that my medical kit is good to go. I forget my hunger, feeling relieved that I don’t have to finish my cat food – not yet, anyway. We push on, making our way into what looks like a derelict school. It has been taken over by the headquarters (HQ) of an Afghan National Army (ANA) kandak (kandak means ‘battalion’ in Dari; roughly six hundred soldiers). They’ve taken several hits and are heavily undermanned. They would be lucky to count forty blokes, let alone six hundred.
    Half the vehicles with Monty’s platoon turn into the entrance of the walled yard. A group of Afghan soldiers stand about, their expressions hard to read. Monty’s crew will spend the night here, showing the Afghans that we are willing to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.
    The kandak is commanded by Lt Col Nazim, a tough-looking, battle-hardened veteran who fought with the mujahideen many years ago against the Russians. With Maj. Clark, Scotty McFadden, and the remainder of B Company, I press on to the Afghan National Police (ANP) compound, a sand-bricked building built around a courtyard in the centre of Nad-e Ali.
    Travelling with our platoon is a Ford Ranger pickup packed with Afghan police. They hang on to the sides of the wagon with one hand, as the other holds a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) launcher, with one finger precariously curled round the trigger – a weird combination that filled me with dread. This isn’t how we do it; your finger stays off the trigger until you are engaging something. Still, that’s why we’re here: to stimulate democracy, to teach the fledgling Afghan police and military the joys of battle discipline.
    Once inside the compound, our wagons line up close to the wall. As soon as we go firm, LCpl Sean Maloney, unclipping his chinstrap, hurries across from his vehicle.
    ‘Hey, it’s Coaksee… he sick,’ he says.
    ‘What?’ I reply.
    ‘Coaksee, he sick with stomach. He look like shit.’
    Pte Coakse (‘Coaksee’) is your stereotypical young Jock, too proud to admit he needs help. Sick or not, he’s still able to smoke a cigarette.
    ‘No dramas, Sean,’ I say. ‘I’ll be over in a minute.’
    In spite of his Irish name, Sean is from the Caribbean and has developed the look and persona of the rapper Dizzee Rascal. This helps his pursuit of the ladies, he claims. With his gangsta jargon, there are times when I think I need an interpreter in order to understand him, whereas I understand the Jocks’ Scottish pronunciation perfectly because my mum is Irish born and was raised in Glasgow, Scotland.
    However, having trained as an infantry soldier before becoming a combat medic, I know that Sean has a lot to offer in times of trouble. The Jocks are cutting about, checking weapons. Some push up onto the roof for better eyes on the surrounding area. I watch the Afghan police from our convoy jump out of their wagons. They look disinterested and shot to shit. To them, this is just another day in Helmand Province. Meanwhile, Scotty McFadden and the boss are holding an impromptu meeting with the other unit commanders.
    I eventually find Coaksee gritting his teeth and leaning up against his WMIK. As Sean had so eloquently described, he looks like shit. I know straight away that he’s embarrassed about needing attention.
    ‘Alright,’ he says with a grimace.
    As I pause for thought, from nowhere someone screams: ‘Incoming! Incoming!’ The pre-impact whoosh is heard. Before