please!’ As Tom opened the fridge and uncorked the bottle a terrible feeling swept over him. What was he doing? What was the point of this wretched game?
That night at supper Tom did his best to keep conversation away from the army. But at the end of pudding, just as Tom was finishing off his ice cream, his mouth full, Constance took advantage of the fact that he couldn’t give her any more flannel and told him, ‘Now Tom, I know you will hate me for this, but when you are out in Afghanistan no one will think any the less of you if you don’t always take risks. You don’t have anything to prove.’
‘I know, Mum. I promise you, nothing unnecessary.’
‘We’re all very proud of you, and nothing will change that, so don’t feel as though you always have to be the hero.’
‘Look, Mum. I’m going out with the best soldiers and the most experienced NCOs. I promise you they will look after me. I can’t wait for you to meet them.’ He had made sure Constance, who had a ready ear for gossip, was always up to date with the ups and downs of his troop, and she was always amused by tales of what the soldiers got up to, the ill-advised tattoos they had got or their brushes with the law.
Tom was about to start a story about one of Miller’s tattoos, just to steer the conversation away from Afghanistan, when Constance stepped in again, seeing straight through her son’s plans to obfuscate.
‘You see, Tom, and I do not at all want to put undue pressure on you, but a mother must say this: you are all I’ve got. I know you know that, and you have known it ever since your father died, but I must be allowed to say it again. There, I’ve said it. Please, Tom, come back. Don’t try to be a hero.’
Tom’s throat seized up and his eyes strained. After what felt like minutes he managed to croak out, ‘I know, Mum. I know. I’ll be OK. I promise.’
After Constance had gone to bed Tom sat up for hours with a glass of whisky, on a stool in front of a fire that fought the cool night, looking through the flames as though he were fixed on a point a hundred metres away, as the logs slowly burned out into grey skeletons of ash. Finally he stood, put the fireguard up and pulled his way up the bannister to bed.
On the final day of leave he said a sad goodbye to Sam, and then Zeppo, and then finally Constance, after a tea of cakes and scones. He couldn’t eat them all – she had made a vast spread – and so she gave Tom a full tin to take back and give to 3 Troop the next day. She made the parting mercifully brief, but as Tom pulled away from the house and saw her in his rear-view mirror as she waved him off, he was again almost overcome with waves of guilt. When he got back tothe mess that night, he walked into the TV room to be greeted by the other subalterns, looking just as gloomy as he was, slumped on sofas and beanbags and pretending to be interested in a film.
‘Tom!’ Clive piped up. ‘How was leave?’
‘Great, pal, really great. The drive back was miserable though.’
A sea of nods agreed with him. ‘Too right, mate,’ Scott Lanyon answered. ‘I’ve felt like slitting my wrists ever since I left home.’
‘I know; the central reservation never looked so tempting.’
‘How was leaving home? Dreadful?’
‘Yep, pretty much. I’ve never felt like that in my life. It made the first day at Sandhurst feel like going to a fairground.’
‘I know. And all those KIAs out in Afghan didn’t help, all through fucking leave. My ma and pa were just glued to the TV. I just felt like a total bastard.’
They all grunted agreement.
That was the Monday night; they were to deploy on Saturday morning. The week was a whirl of administration and rituals. On the Tuesday morning Tom helped Trueman to check that all the squadron’s bergen rucksacks had a small blue and black marker painted on them, to identify them as King’s Dragoons bags in the airports at Brize Norton, Kandahar and Bastion. Then in the
That night at supper Tom did his best to keep conversation away from the army. But at the end of pudding, just as Tom was finishing off his ice cream, his mouth full, Constance took advantage of the fact that he couldn’t give her any more flannel and told him, ‘Now Tom, I know you will hate me for this, but when you are out in Afghanistan no one will think any the less of you if you don’t always take risks. You don’t have anything to prove.’
‘I know, Mum. I promise you, nothing unnecessary.’
‘We’re all very proud of you, and nothing will change that, so don’t feel as though you always have to be the hero.’
‘Look, Mum. I’m going out with the best soldiers and the most experienced NCOs. I promise you they will look after me. I can’t wait for you to meet them.’ He had made sure Constance, who had a ready ear for gossip, was always up to date with the ups and downs of his troop, and she was always amused by tales of what the soldiers got up to, the ill-advised tattoos they had got or their brushes with the law.
Tom was about to start a story about one of Miller’s tattoos, just to steer the conversation away from Afghanistan, when Constance stepped in again, seeing straight through her son’s plans to obfuscate.
‘You see, Tom, and I do not at all want to put undue pressure on you, but a mother must say this: you are all I’ve got. I know you know that, and you have known it ever since your father died, but I must be allowed to say it again. There, I’ve said it. Please, Tom, come back. Don’t try to be a hero.’
Tom’s throat seized up and his eyes strained. After what felt like minutes he managed to croak out, ‘I know, Mum. I know. I’ll be OK. I promise.’
After Constance had gone to bed Tom sat up for hours with a glass of whisky, on a stool in front of a fire that fought the cool night, looking through the flames as though he were fixed on a point a hundred metres away, as the logs slowly burned out into grey skeletons of ash. Finally he stood, put the fireguard up and pulled his way up the bannister to bed.
On the final day of leave he said a sad goodbye to Sam, and then Zeppo, and then finally Constance, after a tea of cakes and scones. He couldn’t eat them all – she had made a vast spread – and so she gave Tom a full tin to take back and give to 3 Troop the next day. She made the parting mercifully brief, but as Tom pulled away from the house and saw her in his rear-view mirror as she waved him off, he was again almost overcome with waves of guilt. When he got back tothe mess that night, he walked into the TV room to be greeted by the other subalterns, looking just as gloomy as he was, slumped on sofas and beanbags and pretending to be interested in a film.
‘Tom!’ Clive piped up. ‘How was leave?’
‘Great, pal, really great. The drive back was miserable though.’
A sea of nods agreed with him. ‘Too right, mate,’ Scott Lanyon answered. ‘I’ve felt like slitting my wrists ever since I left home.’
‘I know; the central reservation never looked so tempting.’
‘How was leaving home? Dreadful?’
‘Yep, pretty much. I’ve never felt like that in my life. It made the first day at Sandhurst feel like going to a fairground.’
‘I know. And all those KIAs out in Afghan didn’t help, all through fucking leave. My ma and pa were just glued to the TV. I just felt like a total bastard.’
They all grunted agreement.
That was the Monday night; they were to deploy on Saturday morning. The week was a whirl of administration and rituals. On the Tuesday morning Tom helped Trueman to check that all the squadron’s bergen rucksacks had a small blue and black marker painted on them, to identify them as King’s Dragoons bags in the airports at Brize Norton, Kandahar and Bastion. Then in the
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