Crossfire Read Online Free Page B

outnumbered by the enemy. I had sat atop an armored car, laying down covering fire with a GPMG, a general-purpose machine gun, known to us all as “the gimpy.” I had done so much shooting that day that the gimpy’s barrel had glowed red-hot.
    I could have told them all of it.
    I could have told them of the fear. Not so much the fear of being wounded or killed—more the fear of failing to act. The fear of fear itself.
    Throughout history, every soldier has asked themselves the same questions: What will I do when the time comes to fight? How will I perform in the face of the enemy? Shall I kill, or be killed? Shall I be courageous, or will I let down my fellow men?
    In the modern British Army, much of the officer training is designed to make young men, and young women, behave in a rational and determined manner in extreme conditions and when under huge stress. Command is what they are taught, the ability to command when all hell is breaking loose around them. The command moment , it is called, that moment in time when something dramatic occurs, such as an ambush, or a roadside bomb explosion, the moment when all the men turn and look to their officer—that’s you—waiting to be told what to do, and how to react. There’s no one else to ask. You have to make the decisions, and men’s lives will depend on them.
    The training also teaches teamwork and, in particular, reliance. Not reliance on others but the belief that others are reliant on you. When push comes to shove, a soldier doesn’t stick his head up and shoot back at the enemy for his Queen and Country. Instead, he does it for his mates, his fellow soldiers all around him who will die if he doesn’t.
    My biological family might have considered me a loner, but I was not. My platoon was my chosen family, and I had regularly placed myself in extreme danger to protect them from harm.
    Eventually, my luck had been bound to run out.
    Killing the enemy with joy and gusto might lead an onlooker to believe that the soldier places a low worth on human life. But this would be misleading, and untrue. The death of a comrade, a friend, a brother has the most profound effect on the fighting man. Such moments are revisited time and again with the same question always uppermost: Could I have done anything to save him?
    Why him and not me? The guilt of the survivor is ever-present and is expunged only by continuation of the job in hand—the killing of the enemy.
    “You’re not very talkative,” my mother said. “I thought that soldiers liked nothing better than to recount stories of past battles.”
    “There’s not much to tell you, really,” I said.
    Not much to tell, I thought, that wouldn’t put her off her dinner.
    “I saw you both on the television today,” I said, changing the subject, “at Cheltenham. Good win in the novice chase. Shame about Pharmacist, though. At one point I thought he was going to win as well.” I knew that it was not a tactful comment, but I was curious to see their reaction.
    My mother kept her eyes down as she absentmindedly pushed a potato around and around on her plate.
    “Your mother doesn’t want to talk about it,” my stepfather said in an attempt to terminate conversation on the topic.
    He was unsuccessful.
    “Your head lad seems to think the horse was nobbled,” I said.
    My mother’s head came up quickly. “Ian doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” she said angrily. “And he shouldn’t have been talking to you. ”
    I hoped that I hadn’t dropped Ian into too much hot water. But I wasn’t finished yet.
    “Shouldn’t have been talking to me about what?” I asked.
    No reply. My mother went back to studying her plate of food, and my stepfather sat stony-faced across the table from her.
    “So are the horses being nobbled?” I asked into the silence.
    “No, of course not,” my mother said. “Pharmacist simply had a bad day. He’ll be fine next time out.”
    I wondered if she was trying to convince me, or