Red Runs the Helmand. Patrick Mercer

was taller but slighter than his sergeant. His fair hair curled just a little too fashionably almost to his collar, his skin was red with the early summer sun and his moustache still not fully grown. Holding his sword firmly back against his left hip, pistol to his right, the single brass stars of an ensign on either side of his collar, he was my younger son, William.

      ‘Well, Sar’nt Kelly, Mr Morgan, if I’m to put up a good case on your behalf and keep your names from being spread over the gutter press, you’d better tell me exactly what happened this morning.’ Galbraith had deliberately not mentioned that my son was the officer involved – wise man that he was.

      Now Billy cleared his throat and raised his chin before he spoke, just like his late mother might have done. ‘Sir, with your leave, I’ll explain everything . . .’

      Chapter Two - The Ghazi

      It was hot, and as Ensign Billy Morgan looked up into the cloudless sky he could see a pair of hawks circling effortlessly on the burning air just above the walls of Kandahar. They reminded him of the sleek, lazy-winged buzzards back in Ireland, except that there the sun rarely shone. He wondered how the thermals would feel to the birds – would they sense the heat of the air under their feathers as they scanned the collection of humanity below? And would they have any sense of the tensions that pulsed through the city under them? Then, as he looked at the gang of khaki-clad lads in front of him, he realised just how ridiculous his musings were. The birds cared not a damn for him or his soldiers, or for any man or living beast, he thought. Their eyes and beaks roamed ceaselessly for dead or dying things, for carrion to feed their bellies. Of the feelings and concerns of the men in the dust and grit below them, they knew nothing.

      ‘Is that belt tight enough, Thompson?’ Morgan was checking the six soldiers who had been detailed off to patrol the centre of Kandahar. They knew it would be a tense and hostile time, as the villagers pressed into the bazaars for market day.

      ‘Sir,’ replied Thompson, flatly – the Army’s universal word of affirmation that could mean anything from enthusiastic agreement to outright insubordination. The big Cumberland farmer’s lad looked back at Morgan, his face trusting and open.

      ‘Well, make sure it is. I don’t want you having to bugger about with it once we’re among the crowds. Just check it, please, Sar’nt Kelly.’ Morgan hesitated to treat the men like children, but even in his few weeks with the regiment, he’d come to recognise that the ordinary soldiers, dependable, smart and keen most of the time, could be the most negligent of creatures once they put their minds to it.

      ‘Sir.’ Sergeant Kelly came back with the same stock response ‘Come on, Thompson, I can get this between your belt and that fat gut of yours – look.’ Kelly had stuck his clenched fist between the soldier’s belt, which had been scrubbed clean of pipe clay on active service, and his lean belly. ‘Take it in a couple of notches.’ Thompson moved his right foot to the rear of his left, rested his Martini-Henry rifle against his side and undid the dull brass belt buckle, inscribed with ‘66’ in the middle and ‘Berkshire Regiment’ round the outer part of the clasp.

      Thompson was the last man to be inspected. Once his belt was back in place and he’d assumed the position of attention, Kelly stamped in the packed dust just outside the regimental guardroom where the patrol had assembled, slapped the sling of his rifle and repeated the well-worn formula, ‘Leave to carry on, sir, please?’

      ‘And is Bobby a vital member of the patrol, Sar’nt Kelly?’ The non-commissioned officer’s scruffy little terrier-cross, which had followed his master all the way from India, now sat on the ground, sweeping his remnant of a tail back and forth, looking imploringly up at Kelly. Morgan’s words provoked laughter from the file of men, and a grin from Sergeant Kelly, relieving the tension. When he had arrived with the 66th, Morgan had been surprised by the deference the soldiers had shown to him. Sandhurst had trained him to expect and, indeed, demand their instant obedience, but he hadn’t anticipated how concerned they would be by his inexperienced eye being run over them during an inspection. Now there was the added edge of danger, with the knowledge that previous regiments had suffered casualties among the Afghan mob, and the need for constant vigilance.

      ‘No, sir. Go on, pup, away wi’ you.’ Kelly’s voice was firm but kind as he pointed towards the guardroom while the dog continued to look at him and wag his tail with increased urgency. ‘Go on, Bobby, fuck off.’

      ‘One word off you, Sar’nt . . .’ Private Battle, the longest-serving soldier in the patrol, murmured, to the delight of the others, Kelly grinning broadly as well. Morgan knew that Battle could be a handful, often nicknamed ‘Bottle’ because he was fond of his grog – that was why he was still a private.

      ‘That’s enough from you, Private Edward bleedin’ Battle. Got enough trouble wi’ one mongrel that won’t obey me without another addin’ to me grief. Go on, Bobby, fuck off to the guardroom like a good dog.’ The patrol laughed again as the mutt slunk off towards the bell tent that served as the entrance to the 66th’s lines.

      As the fun died down, Morgan continued, ‘Right, Sar’nt Kelly, no one’s loaded but ammunition’s ready, ain’t it?’ Kelly simply nodded in reply. Standing orders stated that no firearms should have a round in the breech during a patrol except on the instructions of an officer or an NCO, but that ammunition should be broken out of its paper parcels and ready for instant use in the men’s pouches. A number of natives had been wounded during scuffles with the previous regiments and Colonel Galbraith was keen that the 66th should not have the same problems. ‘Good. Loosen slings, fix bayonets and stand the men at ease, please.’

      Kelly gave a few simple instructions, none of the parade-ground shouting that Morgan had seen with other sergeants, to which the men responded readily, slipping the long steel needles over the muzzles of their rifles before pushing the locking rings home with an oily scrape. Then the leather slings were slackened, weapons slung over shoulders, and they all looked at Morgan for his next word of command.

      ‘Right, lads, gather round and listen to me.’ The six men shuffled round Billy Morgan, Sergeant Kelly hanging back, slightly to the rear. Morgan looked at his command. He was the junior subaltern of H Company, charged with leading nearly forty men, mostly good fellows as far as he could see, and few of the sweepings of the gutter that the press would have you believe made up the Army. Morgan was twenty-two, about the same age as most of his men, but they looked older. The product of the new sprawling industrial towns, some from the plough and a few from Ireland, they had been used to a hard life even before they came into the 66th. Now, good food, drill and regular physical training had made them fit and lean, prime fighting material. ‘Most of you have been on town patrol before . . .’ This was only Morgan’s second outing. The first had passed in a blur of new sights, sounds and smells but otherwise had been uneventful. ‘We’re to make sure that the natives know we’re here and alert, and to take note of anything unusual.’

      ‘Like what, sir?’ Battle, the old soldier of six years’ Indian service, cut in, his brogue as thick as the day he had left Manorhamilton.

      ‘Well, large gatherings of young men, the sight of any modern weapons such as Sniders – to be frank, you’re all more experienced than I am and I hope that you’ve got a better nose for trouble than I have.’ Morgan looked around. This touch of humility seemed to have been well received by the men. ‘But remember, lads, be on the look-out for the least sign of danger. The Fifty-Ninth found that a mob would know if something was amiss and would thin out at the approach of a patrol.’ The only British infantry regiment that had been part of General Stewart’s division and had handed over to the 66th had shared all sorts of horror stories with their successors. They’d had a litany of minor casualties and two deaths while patrolling the Kandahar streets. ‘So, keep your eyes peeled and if you think we need to put a round up the spout, ask Sar’nt Kelly or me before you do so.’

      ‘But, sir, we’re meant to be here to support the wali, ain’t we, not to do his troops’ work for ’im? The Fore and Afts’ – Battle used the nickname of the 59th – ‘got right kicked about an’ was never allowed to shoot back. If the town’s so bleedin’ ’ostile, why can’t the wali’s men