The Afghan Read Online Free PDF Page B

there. And now, I fear, we must rejoin the world of Georgetown and hamburgers. Thank you for your attention.’
    They gave him a standing ovation and, pink with embarrassment, he took his jacket and walked into the wings.
    ‘Sorry to interrupt, professor,’ said the man from Fort Meade, ‘but the brass need the Koran Committee back at the Fort. The car is outside.’
    ‘In a hurry?’
    ‘Yesterday, sir. There’s a flap on.’
    ‘Any ideas?’ asked Martin.
    ‘No, sir.’
    Of course. Need to know. The unshakeable rule. If you do not need to know, to do your job, they are not going to tell you. Martin’s curiosity would have to wait. The car was the usual dark sedan with the telltale aerial on the roof. It needed to be in touch with base all the time. The driver was a corporal, but even though Fort Meade is an army base the man was in plain clothes, not uniform. No need to advertise either.
    Dr Martin climbed into the back while the driver held the door open. His escort took the front passenger seat and they began to drive through the early evening traffic out to the Baltimore highway.
    Far to the east the man converting his own barn into a retirement home stretched out by the camp fire in the orchard. He was perfectly happy like that. If he could sleep in rocks and snow drifts he could certainly sleep on the soft grass beneath the apple trees.
    Camp-fire fuel was absolutely no problem. He had enough rotten old planks to last a lifetime. His billycan sizzled above the red embers and he prepared a welcome mug of steaming tea. Fancy drinks are fine in their way but after a hard day’s work a soldier’s reward is a mug of piping hot tea.
    He had in fact taken the afternoon off from his lofty task up on the roof and walked into Meonstoke to visit the general store and buy provisions for the weekend.
    It was clear everyone knew that he had bought the barn and was trying to restore it himself. That went down well. Rich Londoners with a cheque book to flash and a lust to play the squire were greeted with politeness up front but a shrug behind their back. But the dark-haired single man who lived in a tent in his own orchard while he did the manual work himself was, so ran the growing belief in the village, a good sort.
    According to the postman he seemed to receive little mail save a few official-looking buff envelopes, and even these he asked to be delivered to the Buck’s Head public house to save the postman the haul up the long, muddy track; a gesture appreciated by the postman. The letters were addressed to ‘Colonel’ but he never mentioned that when he bought a drink at the bar or a newspaper or food at the store. Just smiled and was very polite. The locals’ growing appreciation of the man was, however, tinged with curiosity. So many ‘incomers’ were brash and forward. Who was he, and where had he come from, and why had he chosen to settle in Meonstoke?
    That afternoon, on his ramble through the village, he had visited the ancient church of St Andrew, and met and fallen into conversation with the Rector, Reverend Jim Foley.
    The ex-soldier was beginning to think he would enjoy life where he had decided to settle. He could pedal his rugged mountain bike down to Droxford on the Southampton road to buy straight-from-the-garden food in the produce market. He could explore the myriad lanes he could see from his roof and sample ale in the old beamed pubs they would reveal.
    But in two days he would attend Sunday matins at St Andrew’s and, in the quiet gloom of the ancient stone, he would pray, as he often did.
    He would ask for forgiveness of the God in whom he devoutly believed for all the men he had killed and for the rest of their immortal souls. He would ask for eternal rest for all the comrades he had seen die beside him; he would give thanks that he had never killed women or children nor any who came in peace, and he would pray that one day he too could expiate his sins and enter into the Kingdom.
    Then he