The shelling started early the following morning. It was sporadic to begin with but the noise woke Molly up from her sleep. Having been up most of the night before, she wasn't supposed to be back on duty until later in the day, but with each explosion, sleep became pretty much impossible.
She was shattered after last night's raid. For a while she lay in her bed trying not to think about the faint buzzing in her head and the itchy feeling when she opened her eyes, but eventually she decided to get up. For the first time there was enough water in the tiny, grotty room that served as a makeshift women's bathroom for a strip wash. She longed to wash her hair, but decided against it. Maisie and Lane had to share this supply.
Over in the med centre she found Lane. As usual, the other woman was looking pretty well tickled up. She'd obviously risen above their lack of water. Looking at Lane's make up and neat French plait, Molly felt embarrassed by her dank, tangled curls.
"Can't sleep Dawes?"
"Pretty much damn impossible," Molly said lightly. "If our neighbours don't turn the noise down, I'll have to complain to the bleeding council!"
They both laughed.
"Bossman says they'll be after the helicopter."
"Yes," agreed Lane. "They'll try to smoke us out"
"And they'll know we're short of water now."
"Don't be disappointed," Lane tried to reassure her. "You did your best. And there are always the goats. Capt James has ordered Fingers to start milking them tomorrow."
Molly made a face.
"Not a goat's milk fan, are you Dawes!"
Molly thought better of making a fuss. "I've tasted a lot nicer!"
Lane laughed: "That's if the goats survive the attack and don't become stressed."
"What?"
"Can't you hear them?"
There was a lull in the shelling and then she heard the goats bleating. It sounded high-pitched and stressed.
"Do they usually do that?"
"Sometimes after some shooting. But the shelling's never been this heavy before," Lane said quietly. Her eyes met Molly's. "They're throwing a lot at us."
Molly looked around the room: "Are you ready for casualties. Can I help?"
"Thank you. Let's put another bed up just in case. And then you can help me with this report on Sharpshot."
"Is he okay?"
"He's sleeping now. Captain James has ordered a review." Lane sighed. "He should be back at the hospital in Bastien being assessed. There's not much we can do for him here."
"Poor Sharpie. It was a shit moment."
Lane raised well-shaped eyebrows. "Would you worry about him on patrol?" She asked searchingly.
"I… yes I'd worry about him," Molly conceded. "I'd worry the others would have to look after him."
"Exactly," Lane agreed. "We can't afford to lose a single soldier, but we can't send him out either. He's on obs at the moment. If he stabilises he can be a real asset on the rooftop. Fortunately he's a great sniper."
They had just finished the report when their interpreter, Ikram appeared with the sheaf of papers Molly had given him earlier.
"These papers are interesting, Private Dawes."
"Good intel?" Molly felt excited.
"There's a little bit of intel," he shrugged, his body language obviously doubting the worth of the information.
Molly felt a wave of disappointment. "Sorry. I thought it was worth a try. I hope I didn't waste your time."
"Most of it seems to be a diary that someone was writing. And it's in English."
"English? Who would write English out here?" wondered Lane.
"Someone who didn't want their diary to be read, I suppose," Molly guessed.
"Who knows," the interpreter answered. "It was someone who was surprisingly well educated, possibly the Malik'sor someone else's wife."
"Have you read it?" asked Molly, curious.
"It's woman's writing," Ikram excused, his courteous tone belying his casual sexism.
Out of the corner of her eye Molly could see Lane mouthing exaggeratedly "WTF? SEXIST!"
Molly found it hard not to giggle. "You'd better get back to the men then," she said pointedly. "Thank you."
They both collapsed into laughter when Ikram left.
"God, that man is socreepy! I'd love to give him an army diversity doc just to translate! Can you imagine how he'd respond?" wondered Lane.
"I'd love to be a fly on the wall when he did!"
"He'd have a heart attack at the section on transgender."
Molly laughed. "Now let's see what it is, this 'woman's writing.'" She turned to the papers in front of her.
There was a bunch of loose papers written in a looped hand that was quite difficult to make out. It was written in a greyish ink that had faded badly in many places. At the top of each page someone – probably Ikram – had ordered the pages by numbering them with a blue biro. Molly tried to make out some of the words, but it was almost impossible, so she turned to the photo album. It was a big plastic album with a design of bright sunflowers on the front. Inside a mismatched collection of photographs were stuck down over several pages. Most photos showed people standing in front of scenes, such as a mosque or a flowery garden. They were faded and bluish, and difficult to make out. She turned the first pages and stopped at a black and white photo of a beautiful young woman with a small baby boy. They were propped up against a backdrop of Persian carpets in a photographic studio marked Mehboob, Kabul.
Molly found herself drawn to the image of the mother.
'She looks so young,' Molly thougt: 'Much younger than...'
She pushed that thought away.
On the next page was a photo of a small girl in an embroidered Shalwar Khamiz, sitting in the same studio. Molly smiled at this little girl's curly pointed shoes and the dangly earrings hung on string over her ears.
"Come and look at these photos," she called to Lane.
Over the next few pages there were more photos of the girl and the baby boy. They looked like they were brother and sister. There were pictures of them playing in a garden, of the girl eating ice cream in a restaurant, of the boy pretending to drive an old Ambassador.
"Is that their mother?" Lane pointed to a black and white picture of a woman in dark glasses standing in front of an airplane. "She looks too glamorous for Afghan."
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
Lane nodded and said. "They can't be from here. They look like rich, international people from like, looking at those flares, the 1970s."
The next two pictures showed the girl in school uniform. One of them was a school photo, with a class of identical, unsmiling pre-teens. "That must have been a private school," said Lane. "They're all wearing socks and shoes. Kids wear flip flops to school round here."
"It couldn't be around here. Perhaps it was in another country."
"Look at them. They're so neat," said Molly. "Not like my school. In our school photos there's usually at least one or two dicking about."
"Oh yeah, ours too," agreed Lane. "There were always the ones who had non reg earrings, or long hair."
"Or it would come out and you'd find someone had put a joint in their mouth at the last minute" added Molly.
"Really?" Lane laughed. "Your school must have been fun. We'd never have dared do anything like that."
"Although I don't think I was in that many school photos," admitted Molly
"Why?"
"Dunno. I was probably skiving on the day they were being taken."
At Lane's raised eyebrows, Molly shrugged. "I never took to school".
She looked back at the album and turned over a page: "Look, that must be a wedding!" They both stared at the bride, looking overwhelmed in her sparkling emerald wedding dress.
"Who is it?
"It's not that little girl! Molly found herself willing it not to be."
"I don't think so. That sheer veil over the bottom half of her face makes it's difficult to tell."
"I think it is you know."
Lane shrugged her shoulders and picked up the magnifying glass. "Here you are. This should help."
There was a knock at the door. It was the Bossman. His eyes flicked around the room, rested on Dawes a second too long and arrived, finally at Lane.
"Are you okay here?"
"Yes Sir. We've doubled the capacity so we can take more casualties," Lane reported."
"Good. We'll probably need it. There's an Afghan policeman on his way down. He's supposed to go on guard duty but he claims he's hurt his ankle. Will you have a look at it and report back to me please, Lane? He's probably about to push off. I want to make sure he doesn't take any weapons with him."
"Sir."
"There's not much I can do about those Police any more. A few are really good men. But as for the rest…" he broke off in frustration. "They've lost their commander. I don't want to become responsible for them."
He looked up and frowned at Molly: "Aren't you supposed to be getting some shut-eye Dawes?"
"It's the noise, Sir. I can't sleep."
The Boss nodded: "You did well with those papers you brought back. Someone in that house is a local Taliban member. There's a list of names among the papers."
"Really?" Molly was excited.
"Yes." The Boss smiled at her enthusiasm. "It's an old list. But the ANA says it's useful."
Another missile whined over their heads and landed with a shuddering explosion. It was definitely louder, and closer than previous ones.
Charles moved towards the door. "They're getting closer. Put your bloody helmet on Molly! It's very dangerous. There could be a lot of falling masonry outside. Be bloody careful."
"Sir." He didn't acknowledge her reply. She doubted he'd even heard it.
"Wow, Captain James is quite protective of you!"
Puzzled, Molly turned from the door to find Lane staring at her testily. "No more than you!" she denied.
"Well for one thing, you're not in his command. I am. And I'm not wearing my helmet!"
"He just didn't see."
Lane turned to her helmet on the table: "Oh come on."
A silence separated the two girls. Molly decided it was better to retreat.
"I'm going to get my helmet," she muttered, picking up the photo album.
Lane's reply was cool: "Get some sleep, Dawes, before you're on duty tonight."
Thanks everyone for your nice comments about chapter five... and as the bombs fall things are becoming more tense in Kajazi! Dance X