Desert Heat & Native Tongue

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Wilkes smiled tightly and left his boss’ office. Closing the door behind him, his whole body sagged with relief. God, he was glad to be out of there. He’d never known a man so skilled at littering every conversation with homophobic phrases, even when it was nothing to do with what was being talked about. Perhaps it was a form of Tourette’s, or something. Gay-bashing Tourette’s.

Never mind, he could put it behind him now. He’d been given his orders. As he’d suspected, he was off to a FOB—Forward Operating Base—near to a village, where they’d spend the next six months making sure everyone was behaving themselves and reassuring the locals that nobody had given up on them. They might also get called on occasionally to give added protection to convoys ferrying vehicles and equipment around.

His next job, before rounding up his men and getting them ready to leave, was to meet the interpreter that would be coming out to the FOB with them. The terp, as interpreters were more commonly known, would be a vital part of their mission. Without him, the platoon would be reduced to an awful lot of pointing and shouting with the Afghans, and would be next to useless. Wilkes had picked up some of the language, but unfortunately didn’t have the time, or the skills, to learn it fully. Hence the need for a terp.

Heading for the office he’d been told to go to, Wilkes gave himself a mental pat on the back. He thought he’d handled Hunter really well—keeping it professional and completely ignoring the inappropriate comments. It was the best way all round. Why dignify the man’s bullshit with a response?

Picking up his pace, Wilkes soon reached the room he’d been sent to. Knocking on the door, he waited for a reply before entering. Crossing over to where two men sat on either side of a desk, he took a seat when bidden, and nodded politely to the dark-skinned man to his left, before looking over to the clerk who seemed to be running the show.

“Captain Wilkes, Sir, I’m Sergeant Shaw. And this is your interpreter, Rustam Balkhi. He’ll be with you for the duration of your tour.”

“Thank you, sergeant.” Turning to the terp again, he held out his hand. “Salaam. Pleased to meet you, Mr Balkhi. I look forward to working with you.”

The other man took his hand, and they shook. “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam. And I you, Captain Wilkes.”

Releasing their grasp, the two men returned their attention to Sergeant Shaw. After giving them a final briefing, which didn’t tell Wilkes anything he didn’t already know, they made to leave. Balkhi picked up a kit bag from beside the door and followed Wilkes into the corridor.

“Oh,” Wilkes said, closing the door behind them, “you’re all ready to go, are you?”

Balkhi nodded. “Yes. I’ve accompanied a few tours of duty with the army now, so I know what to expect.”

“Great,” Wilkes smiled, and began walking along the corridor, with his new terp beside him. “So you’re an old hand then, as we say. Your name,” he spoke carefully, not wanting to get it wrong or cause offence, “Rustam Balkhi. You’re a Tajik?”

Nodding again, Balkhi returned Wilkes’ smile. “That is correct. How did you know?”

With a shrug, Wilkes said, “I’ve spent enough time in this country to know whereabouts people are from. Roughly, anyway. It’s a big place! Maybe you’ve spent enough time with British soldiers to pick up accents and figure out where they’re from?”

Balkhi smiled. “You are trying to catch me out?”

Frowning, Wilkes replied, “What do you mean?”

His grin growing wider, the other man quipped, “Don’t you all come from London?”

Instantly, Wilkes’ frown morphed into a smile. He’d had a positive feeling about Balkhi since laying eyes on him, and now his opinion was cemented. Not only was he experienced, he also had a good sense of humour. He’d fit right in with the rest of the team, he was sure.

Wilkes quirked an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. My mistake. We all come from London. Everything outside the city is just fields. Nobody lives there. Just chickens.”

Chuckling, Balkhi said, “You are a funny man.”

“It’s been said.”

“So, where are you from? Or do you really want me to try to guess from your accent?”

“Yeah, go on. See if you can guess. I’m intrigued.”

“Okay. Well, carry on talking, say some more things and I will see if I can guess.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Balkhi thought for a moment. “Do you enjoy reading?”

When Wilkes nodded, he continued, “Then tell me about the last book you read, or the book you’re reading now.”

Silently thanking any deity that might be looking down on him for the fact he’d long since seen the back of the smutty romance novel, Wilkes began waxing lyrical about the thriller he was almost finished with.

The two of them passed out of the office buildings and walked toward the accommodation block. The early morning sun was already very warm, but bearable, and Wilkes tilted his head back to catch the rays on his face.

“Okay, I think that is enough,” Balkhi said, glancing across at Wilkes. “You are enjoying the sun?”

Wilkes had stopped speaking, and he returned the Tajik’s glance as they continued through the camp. It was fairly quiet, but he still exchanged nods with those he passed. “At the moment I am. I warn you, until I get acclimatised again, I’ll probably be moaning about the heat a lot. I apologise in advance.”

Balkhi shook his head. “Do not worry. I have lived here for most of my life, and still I sometimes find the heat unbearable. Anyway,” he smiled again, his white teeth standing out against the colour of his skin, “I think I have worked out where you are from, Captain Wilkes.”

“Okay. So, where am I from?”

“Definitely not London. So you must be from just fields. With the chickens.” Wilkes noticed dimples in the man’s cheeks. “Well, I think your fields are in the middle of England somewhere. Perhaps near to Birmingham?”

Wilkes raised his eyebrows. Damn, he’d only been messing around—he hadn’t expected the man to play his silly game, much less come out on top. “Wow. Okay, you’re right so far. Most British people can’t identify British accents as well as you, Rustam. Well done. I’m from Wolverhampton, which isn’t too far from Birmingham.”

Balkhi gave a little fist pump, and Wilkes smirked. Yes, this guy had definitely been hanging around the British Army for a while—he had as many British mannerisms as he did Afghan ones. It was kind of odd, but heartening at the same time—if two such different cultures could get on, then maybe there was hope for the rest of the world.

As they continued walking, Balkhi quizzed Wilkes some more on the book. Apparently, in the middle of a desert in a war-torn country, he’d found a fellow bookworm. It was another big tick against Balkhi’s name as far as Wilkes was concerned. He figured they’d get along just fine. Not that it really mattered if they didn’t—it’s not like he could simply discard one interpreter and ask for another just because he didn’t get along with him—but it certainly helped if they could be friendly. It made the whole working relationship so much easier, particularly since they’d be spending such a lot of time together over the next few months. Wilkes and the rest of the platoon were a tight-knit team, so having a terp that would fit in with them was a definite plus point.

It didn’t hurt, in Wilkes’ opinion, that Balkhi was easy on the eye. It was weird that he’d even noticed, though. Despite what some people thought, just because a man was gay didn’t mean he fancied every other man. It was stupid—did a straight man fancy every woman? Or vice versa? Of course not. But that was how some people’s minds worked. Wilkes hadn’t thought about a single one of his colleagues in that way since joining the army—not that they were all hideous or anything, just that they didn’t float his boat.

Honestly, he’d always thought it was a good thing. He didn’t need the complication of a crush on a co-worker. Or worse, finding out that co-worker was gay, too, and felt the same way about him. No, far better to keep all the s*x and relationship stuff firmly under wraps. If people asked questions, he was as vague as possible, and if pressed, threw enough disinformation at them to shut them up. It sucked that he had to do it—he was sure if he told his platoon about his s****l orientation, none of them would care. Maybe they’d be a little shocked at first, particularly as he’d kept it quiet for so long, but he didn’t think anyone would give him any trouble over it.

It was mainly Hunter that kept him firmly in the closet. If the news reached that old bigot’s ears—and it undoubtedly would, as gossip spread like wildfire in the military—well, Wilkes didn’t really want to think about what would happen. Nothing good, anyway.

He shook his head, trying to uproot the unpleasant thoughts before they took hold. It was silly, in any case. Yes, Balkhi was kind of cute, but he was an Afghan, and a Muslim, for Christ’s sake. Both were known for being even more bigoted than his damn boss. If Wilkes came out, things wouldn’t exactly be easy—but a Muslim? Things could turn out very badly for him back home, to put it lightly. That was reason enough for any gay Muslims that existed to keep quiet about their sexuality.

It was all completely irrelevant, anyway. Balkhi was not gay. And even if he was, there was no way Wilkes was going there—it was just too risky for all those concerned. Careers, friendships, relationships and lives would be at stake.

Put it out of your mind. What the hell is wrong with you? The first sniff of a bloke you’re attracted to and you’re thinking about the consequences? Ridiculous. Forget about it and get on with your bloody job, you i***t.