Battleworn Read Online Free Page A

I can reply to Coaksee, I’m scrambling around on the floor in the dark. Everyone’s shouting; noise comes from all directions.
    My head feels fuzzy, and the voices sound far away. For a moment I can’t understand a thing. Welcome to the world of battle shock: it doesn’t normally last long, but in some it may last a lifetime. I’ve been in contact before, and when it kicks off, you’re always shocked, numb for a moment, disorientated. I check myself: limbs are intact, so I am happy to move off.
    More explosions immediately slam into the base as RPGs rain down on us. They’re coming in from two sides. You feel the thud before you hear it; the explosions drill into your ears and rattle your brain a little. A cloud of broken bricks and dust fills my immediate air space; I can taste it. Another RPG drills into the wall opposite. I’m pinned down with Sean and Coaksee behind one of the wheels on the WMIK. The three of us have managed to cram ourselves into a space no bigger than your average truck wheel. I like my own personal space and do not encourage others into it unless invited. None of us were asking for permission that day. I take hold of Coaksee’s arm, and the three of us scramble to get into the hardened part of the compound.
    I watch in disbelief as Maj. Clark and Scotty McFadden dodge their way across the open ground and climb the broken set of steps to the flat roof; they are open to enemy fire as they climb, and the steps are already shot to pieces. There goes that stupidity/bravery again. It’s an uncontrollable, instantaneous reaction to combat, and your mindset makes the decision for you. On the roof they try to control the outgoing fire, and within seconds they’ve organised the ramshackle Afghan police who are engaging the enemy. Behind the rattle of our guns, I can hear the deep-throated roar of the Soviet-made DShK, a 12.7 mm heavy machine gun. It’s the Taliban’s most-ruthless weapon; for me, it is the stuff of nightmares. If I wasn’t sure before, the atmospherics in this town tell me that Nad-e Ali is on its arse.
    Rounds from semi-automatic weapons stitch holes into the walls. Flashes of electric-blue and -green light made by the blasts illuminate the faces of two of the Afghan police who have taken cover with us in the building. They have blank, exhausted eyes. Our enemies are Afghans, and the men sitting opposite are Afghans. There’s no war like a civil war. We’re outsiders, observers. We, like many before us, will leave our blood in the sand, and yet, one day we’ll be going home. They, on the other hand, will remain here, and they will still have the same tribal conflicts they had long before the coalition arrived.
    As for Coaksee, it’s amazing what a shot of natural adrenaline can do for you. It draws out a peculiar energy. You face death and then suddenly feel reborn. The colour is back in his cheeks, and he joins the other blokes outside. My mind works overtime calculating how many casualties I think we are going to have, and, if my calculations are correct, we’re fucked.
    The barrage suddenly stops as I struggle to my feet. It didn’t make sense. Either the Taliban had grown bored, or they had gone to ground after receiving the good news from our guns on the roof. Checking the guys around the lower part of the compound, I search for casualties. I am shocked to learn that by some miracle we haven’t sustained any. I don’t ponder on what might have been; the result is definitely favourable, and I am grateful. A medic’s life is different from that of any other type of soldier: we train and train, scenario after scenario, but every casualty is unique, and a feeling of dread always comes over me before I reach our injured. Being in the spotlight in these circumstances can make for a very lonely existence. I zip around the compound before making my way up the steps onto the roof.
    Searching for the boss, I find him sitting behind a small brick wall, relaying communications