DWYER’S OPS ROOM was a box wrapped in desert camo. The floor was thick black plastic made of interlinked pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle. It
made a weird noise when you walked across it. The focal point of the room, indeed the whole camp, was the main wall, which featured a giant map of Helmand Province, with pins (yellow, orange, green, blue) representing units of the battle group.
I was greeted by Corporal of Horse Baxter. Older than me, but my coloring. We exchanged a few wry cracks, a rueful smile about involuntary membership in the League of Redheaded Gentlemen. Also, the Balding Brotherhood. Like me, Baxter was fast losing coverage on top.
I asked where he was from.
County Antrim.
Irish, eh?
Sure.
His lilting accent made me think he could be kidded. I gave him a hard time about the Irish, and he returned fire, laughing, but his blue eyes looked unsure. Crikey, I’m taking the piss out of a prince.
We got down to work. He showed me several radios stacked along a desk under the map. He showed me the Rover terminal, a pudgy little laptop with compass points stenciled along the sides. These radios are your ears. This Rover is your eyes. Through them I’d make a picture of the battlefield, then try to control what happened in and above it. In one sense I’d be no different from the air-traffic controllers at Heathrow: I’d spend my time guiding jets to and fro. But often the job wouldn’t even be that glamorous: I’d be a security guard, blearily monitoring feeds from dozens of cameras, mounted on everything from recon aircraft to drones. The only fighting I’d be doing would be against the urge to sleep.
Jump in. Have a seat, Lieutenant Wales.
I cleared my throat, sat down. I watched the Rover. And watched.
Minutes passed. I turned up the volume on the radios. Turned it down. Baxter chuckled. That’s the job. Welcome to the war.
