A day later, she was sent out to interview some soldiers at a remote outpost, where she met Callan. On the surface, he looked like a boy who had swapped his Eton uniform for fatigues, almost as if he’d done so to prank his wealthy parents. He had that look that screamed polo clubs and theatre tickets, not soggy tinned beans and toast on a Thursday night. But therewas something else about him—a quiet confidence and seasoned humility that made him stand out.
“Welcome to our fine establishment,” he said with a wide grin, “affectionately known as the palace.”
It was a smaller outpost, something they referred to as an OP. Their job was to monitor a patrol route along the river and report anything suspicious, but the place couldn’t have been further from a palace if it tried. The buildings were makeshift and barely fortified, offering little more than shelter from the harsh desert sun. In every direction, the barren hills stretched for miles before folding into the horizon.
“The palace?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Seems rather…well…fitting.”
“Love, don’t you be judging us,” he shot back with a laugh. He glanced over his shoulder at her and gestured towards the muddied river. “We’ve got the views, the world-class banter, and I don’t know who you’ve seen, but according to some of the medics, we’re by far the best-looking lads for miles.”
Two other men, cleaning their rifles outside, burst out laughing.
“Stop hitting on the poor lass,” one of them said, smirking.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” the other added, shaking his head. “He’s feral, and the forced celibacy doesn’t help; it’s making him lose his mind.”
They found a couple of old ammo crates to sit on, and Daisy started asking Callan about his background. As she’d suspected, he’d grown up in an affluent London suburb and had chosen the military over a career in banking and finance that his mother had apparently been planning for him since he was a toddler.
“What deployment is this?” Daisy asked him, scribbling down notes.
“Third and probably my last, too,” he said, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. “Sounds like they’re scaling things down here, handing power over to the ANSF.”
“ANSF?” she asked, trying to follow.
“The Afghanistan National Security Force,” he clarified.
“And you think they’ll be able to sustain the progress you’ve made?” she asked, sceptical.
He stopped chewing for a moment, locking eyes with her. “Progress? Is that what you all call it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Progress is personal,” he said slowly. “It depends on who you ask.”
“Well, I’m asking you,” she replied.
A soft laugh escaped his lips. “I like you; you’ve got some fire in you.” He paused, glancing away for a moment, as if deciding how much to share. Finally, he cleared his throat, picked up a small stone from the ground, and began drawing in the dirt.
“Why don’t we rephrase the question?” he continued. “There is no ‘best’ approach. Everything has a cause and an effect. Look here.” He pointed at one side of a loop he’d drawn. “If we stay, the cycle never breaks. The reality is, we’re just holding it together with temporary measures and good intentions. But if we leave—if we give them autonomy to make their own decisions—one way or another, the cycle reverts. Whether it’s forced by a Taliban overthrow, or something fuelled by religion.” He leaned back, wiping his hand on his trousers. “It’s not a matter of if; it’s when.”
“Then why are we leaving?” she asked.
He sighed, his expression becoming unreadable. “Maybe I’m not the best person to ask. I’ve lost three of my closest mates in this hellhole. Friends who should’ve had the right to live, get married, and have kids. Instead, they died here. For what?” His voice wavered, and she saw the hurt flash across his face beforehe swallowed it down. “I can’t say anymore if their loss was worth it. In my experience, I’ve seen very little gain. Just a mass of destruction—both out here,” he gestured around the camp, “and in here.”
He lifted a hand to his head, pressing his index finger against his temple. “I guess they don’t like to talk about that, though. Do they?” he muttered, almost to himself.
Daisy’s path crossed with Callan’s again a week later, just as everyone was preparing to fly out. She was seated at one of the tables near the edge, picking at her dinner: a plate of lukewarm curry, some stale roti, and a wilted rocket salad that had seen better days.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
She looked up to see Callan sliding into the seat across from her, and it hit her that without the foundation of dust and sweat, she could see just how good-looking he really was.
“I leave today,” she replied, setting her fork down.
He gave a low whistle. “Must be racking up some serious air miles. Do you like your job?”
“It has its moments,” she said with a small shrug.
“If you were trying to sell me the idea of studying journalism when I put in my papers, you did a stellar job.” He laughed. “Total enthusiasm. Full marks.”
