Read Poppy Day for Free Online Page A

would kick in, which was never good.
    The Jackal drove for two hours from the base. The lead vehicle, at least a hundred metres in front, kicked up a trail of dust as it ventured into the sandy abyss. Gone was the easy banter of the first half an hour. Once the camp was out of sight their mood became sombre. The ribbing died down and the inane chatter was replaced by silence. The men were contemplative , each concentrating on his defined role; an arc to watch, gun ready, senses alert. Martin jerked in the direction of every flash of light or quick movement. They were exposed, each trying not to think of the probability. ‘Improvised explosive device’ and ‘sniper fire’ were words that tripped off the tongue with alarming ease, only out here they were not mere phrases, they were possibilities.
    At that time in the Afghan conflict, over the course of a six-month tour, the numbers of dead and injured were higher than anyone could have anticipated. The deaths of soldiers were so frequent that the public were suffering from compassion fatigue, unable to mourn yet another name on an ever-growing list. The odds for all deployed military personnel were terrible; more than odds, they were faces etched in their minds, names engraved in stone and the flag-draped coffins paraded through a silent Wiltshire town.
    Martin’s SA80 rifle felt hot and heavy, slipping against his sweaty palm. Nervous energy was palpable, partly because they were with the Americans whose approach and methods were so different to the British. Martin was able to witness what an abundance of resource and equipment meant in terms of strategy. Their allies could do what they considered most effective in theatre, untethered by the constraints laid down by parsimonious politicians. It gave them confidence that some might have seen as cockiness, complacency almost, but was in fact the right level of conviction and tenacity to get the job done.
    The collective jitters were justified; the convoy was headed into dangerous territory, bandit country. Previous contact and activity meant Martin could feel the imaginary, yet intense, gaze of a thousand pairs of hidden eyes; each belonging to the nameless owner of a ready weapon, a Kalashnikov with its muzzle trained on him. Bravado was easy within the compound walls, but out there in the mountains it was different. He wanted the operation to be over as soon as possible, back for tea and a shower. Some of the lads had been talking about organising a game of five-a-side. Martin tried to think of that more than anything, wondering if he’d get lumbered in goal again.
    The landscape was barren, remote villages surrounded by mountains and a smattering of scrubby shrubs. These settlements to the untrained eye were desolate and abandoned. Martin studied the ramshackle buildings, each with a shimmering heat halo. He was intrigued by the flutter of coloured silk beyond the dun-coloured bricks, the floating wicker baskets that rested on heads and the furry legs of dogs that disappeared around corners. He mulled private thoughts. For him to be comfortable at home meant the TV, clothes, central heating, a decent fry-up, the pub and a day trip to Southend. These villagers existed with a single cooking pot, one outfit that hung by threads and a roof of some description for shelter. There was no sanitation, no electricity and no comfort. It was a harsh environment and one that Martin, covering the desert in his bouncing armoured cage, could not imagine living in.
    It would be difficult to piece together exactly what happened in the next hour and in what order. Every man present would give you a different perspective of events.
    The leading American vehicle slammed its brakes on, coming abruptly to a halt; the brake discs squeaked against the pads in rebellion. Martin was instantly aware of shouting, more specifically , shouts in English and Arabic of some sort, possibly Pashto. The stop was unscheduled and unplanned, which meant either