Free The Black Path by Paul Burston Page B

he says. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’
    Collins takes a jab at the bag. ‘A soldier never sleeps, Corporal. Sleep is for sissies.’
    Owen smiles. ‘You’d better not let Jackson hear you talking like that! You might give him ideas.’
    The lad continues punching. ‘I don’t care what Jackson thinks of me. I’m as much of a man as him. Or you.’ He lifts his head and swipes the sweat with the back of his hand.
    Owen meets his gaze. ‘I don’t doubt it’.
    ‘Prove it, then.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Go a few rounds with me.’
    ‘No, you’re alright, thanks.’
    Collins grins. He has a soft, youthful face. But his jaw is strong and there’s a determined look in his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks. ‘Afraid I’ll beat you?’
    ‘I didn’t come here to spar with anyone,’ Owen says. And yet here he is, already sparring – verbally, at least. Jackson may be trouble, but Collins certainly knows how to wind a man up.
    The gym is housed in a huge tent and is open around the clock, though it’s rare to find anyone here quite this early. It was dark when Owen left his bed and walked the short distance in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Now the sun is starting to rise, but the air is still cool. The air conditioners are on full blast, but they won’t be needed for another hour or two.
    For a battlefield gym, the place is surprisingly well equipped – more so than the one back in Iraq. Soldiers there were used to training without any equipment whatsoever, using their own body weight to maintain the level of fitness required for the job. Owen has seen men perform squats with fellow soldiers on their backs, or improvise with a small ledge for tricep dips. A gym like this is something of a luxury. There are free weights and some multi-gym equipment, mats, punch bags and even a few treadmills.
    There’s one big difference between this and a regular gym, and it’s this Owen thinks of as he watches Collins take another jab at the punch bag. Here, a shower means a ship shower, rather like a portaloo. You step in, run a small amount of water, soap yourself up, and rinse off. Water in the camp is strictly rationed. There’s no time to enjoy the sensation of hot water on tired muscles. But at least these showers are private. Try as he might, Owen isn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of showering next to a man who might be gay.
    Over by the treadmills is a wooden shelf where Collins has placed his helmet and body armour. Owen has left his own body armour in his tent. It’s only a short distance away, and he’d rather leg it back than lug it around with him. The last thing he wants after a heavy workout is to be weighed down with his kit.
    He walks over to the treadmill and punches in a few numbers. The machine starts up and he steps on, pacing himself slowly at first, then gradually building up speed. Soon he can feel beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He wipes it with his forearm and increases the resistance. The pounding of his footsteps becomes louder and his breath shorter. His legs and lungs begin to ache. He’s in good physical shape, but he likes to push himself to the limits of his endurance. It’s a hangover from his boot camp days. But working his body like this feels a lot better than climbing ropes or crawling through the mud on his hands and knees.
    He settles into a pace and lets his mind wander. So much has changed since he first swapped his unhappy childhood for the rigours of basic training. He’s made a life for himself. He has a wife and a house. Helen is his family now, not the mother who started drifting away when he was small or the father he regarded with a detachment far colder and more final than hatred. One day soon they’ll have a baby, and the transition from troubled child to happy family man will be complete. But for now there’s the army – the men he serves with and on whose courage he depends. Men like Collins. Even men like Jackson.
    The young private is still jabbing away