The Black Path by Paul Burston
Authors: Paul Burston
at the punch bag. Owen wonders who he’s picturing as he delivers those punches. Jackson, perhaps? Or is he just trying to prove a point, to demonstrate that he’s every bit the man he claims to be? Owen has met lads like Collins before – new to the army, never having shot a man or been in the line of fire, always acting like they had something to prove, always wanting to ‘get some’. They calmed down eventually. The lucky ones, anyway.
Abruptly, the boy stops punching and walks towards him.
‘Well, that’s me done,’ he says. His face is flushed, his short dark hair soaked with sweat.
Owen nods, saving his breath.
‘So what’s on the menu today?’ Collins asks. ‘Another day of sitting on our arses doing fuck all?’
Owen smiles despite himself. ‘Welcome to the world of war.’
The boy grins. ‘See you later in the tanning shop then?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
As Collins heads off in the direction of the shower; Owen turns off the treadmill and makes his way over to the shoulder press. Upper body and back strength is vital when you spend so much of your time weighed down with body armour, weapon, ammo and a rucksack. He’s straining under the weight of his third set when the siren sounds. It’s like a car alarm, loud and insistent. But this isn’t someone breaking into next door’s Volvo. The base is under attack.
Seconds later, there’s the tell-tale whistle and warbling sound of an incoming rocket. Muscle memory kicks in and he throws himself face down on the floor, covering his head with his hands. Rockets are designed to hit the ground at a low angle, sending red hot shards of metal casing through the air, ripping through everything in their path. Without his body armour he has no means of protection. His heart races as he pictures himself after the blast – squirming around in a crimson, sticky mess, chunks of flesh missing, bones hanging out, body fluids soaking into the Afghan soil.
But the impact never comes. From outside the tent, he hears half a dozen voices shouting simultaneously. He pictures the trucks peppered with holes, their windows blown in. Dawn raids had been a regular method of attack in Iraq, but it’s the first time he’s experienced one here. No wonder the voices sound panicked.
He raises his head and sees Collins half dressed, running towards his body armour. There’s another whistling sound, closer this time. Owen looks up over his shoulder. Horrified, he sees a second rocket come tearing through the roof of the tent. It lands at the far end of the gym.
‘Stay down!’ Collins shouts.
Their eyes meet.
There’s a moment’s delay as Collins finishes kitting up, then the younger soldier runs towards him.
Owen ducks his head. Moments later, he feels the full weight of the younger man’s body as he throws himself on top of him, forming a human shield. They lie in this position for what seems like an eternity but is probably no more than a minute. Owen waits for the explosion, but none comes. There’s no deafening bang, no blinding flash, no red hot metal tearing through flesh. The rocket doesn’t detonate.
Finally, he feels Collins exhale. With his warm breath on Owen’s ear, he whispers, ‘I think we’re okay.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As she regains consciousness, Helen hears the sound of someone moving about downstairs. Her first thought is that Owen is in the kitchen preparing one of his famous fry-ups. Then she remembers. Owen is in Afghanistan. She went out drinking with the girls from work. Some women attacked her in the street, and another woman came to her rescue.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. The floorboard on the landing creaks, there’s a knock on the bedroom door and there the woman is, grinning. ‘You’re alive, then!’
Her skin is tanned, her hair thick and black. She’s dressed in a simple white vest top and jeans. Though physically small, she seems larger than life, like someone famous. Her eyes are dark and seem to glitter as she speaks.
Abruptly, the boy stops punching and walks towards him.
‘Well, that’s me done,’ he says. His face is flushed, his short dark hair soaked with sweat.
Owen nods, saving his breath.
‘So what’s on the menu today?’ Collins asks. ‘Another day of sitting on our arses doing fuck all?’
Owen smiles despite himself. ‘Welcome to the world of war.’
The boy grins. ‘See you later in the tanning shop then?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
As Collins heads off in the direction of the shower; Owen turns off the treadmill and makes his way over to the shoulder press. Upper body and back strength is vital when you spend so much of your time weighed down with body armour, weapon, ammo and a rucksack. He’s straining under the weight of his third set when the siren sounds. It’s like a car alarm, loud and insistent. But this isn’t someone breaking into next door’s Volvo. The base is under attack.
Seconds later, there’s the tell-tale whistle and warbling sound of an incoming rocket. Muscle memory kicks in and he throws himself face down on the floor, covering his head with his hands. Rockets are designed to hit the ground at a low angle, sending red hot shards of metal casing through the air, ripping through everything in their path. Without his body armour he has no means of protection. His heart races as he pictures himself after the blast – squirming around in a crimson, sticky mess, chunks of flesh missing, bones hanging out, body fluids soaking into the Afghan soil.
But the impact never comes. From outside the tent, he hears half a dozen voices shouting simultaneously. He pictures the trucks peppered with holes, their windows blown in. Dawn raids had been a regular method of attack in Iraq, but it’s the first time he’s experienced one here. No wonder the voices sound panicked.
He raises his head and sees Collins half dressed, running towards his body armour. There’s another whistling sound, closer this time. Owen looks up over his shoulder. Horrified, he sees a second rocket come tearing through the roof of the tent. It lands at the far end of the gym.
‘Stay down!’ Collins shouts.
Their eyes meet.
There’s a moment’s delay as Collins finishes kitting up, then the younger soldier runs towards him.
Owen ducks his head. Moments later, he feels the full weight of the younger man’s body as he throws himself on top of him, forming a human shield. They lie in this position for what seems like an eternity but is probably no more than a minute. Owen waits for the explosion, but none comes. There’s no deafening bang, no blinding flash, no red hot metal tearing through flesh. The rocket doesn’t detonate.
Finally, he feels Collins exhale. With his warm breath on Owen’s ear, he whispers, ‘I think we’re okay.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As she regains consciousness, Helen hears the sound of someone moving about downstairs. Her first thought is that Owen is in the kitchen preparing one of his famous fry-ups. Then she remembers. Owen is in Afghanistan. She went out drinking with the girls from work. Some women attacked her in the street, and another woman came to her rescue.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. The floorboard on the landing creaks, there’s a knock on the bedroom door and there the woman is, grinning. ‘You’re alive, then!’
Her skin is tanned, her hair thick and black. She’s dressed in a simple white vest top and jeans. Though physically small, she seems larger than life, like someone famous. Her eyes are dark and seem to glitter as she speaks.