Phil and kids top books of 2012


Postcard from Afghanistan…

So, the second draft of HEROIC has been delivered ahead of publication in April, and one of the main challenges was to lose some bulk from the first pass.

This meant shedding about 15,000 words and some chapters that I liked, but weren’t essential to the plot. Rather than confining them to the recycle bin, I thought I’d post one one here, as I still kind of like it, despite being rough around the edges. It’s a snapshot of what the older brother Jammy goes through during his tour of duty in Afghanistan.

Hope it gives you a taste of what HEROIC will be like…


“The blast shakes us clean out of our cots and straight back into the middle of war.

Someone screams. One of us. I don’t think it’s me, but can’t be sure.

There are arms and legs everywhere, reaching for kit in the dark. The boot I’m pulling onto my foot isn’t mine. I throw it into the black and tell someone, anyone, to turn on the  light.

It flashes to attention and makes the panic worse. So bad I can smell it. I’m sure the walls are still shaking and I’m counting the seconds for the second boom, which will bring them down on top of us. There’s no glory in being buried in our beds.

The boss appears at the door, kit on, fully loaded. He’s pumped up, needs us the same way.

“Get yourselves together. Move.”

We shift quickly through the gears, all thought of sleep abandoned as we pile into the yard, a thousand shooting stars ripping the sky to pieces. We know they’re bullets, just don’t know yet which side they’re from.

The boss gives us the scenario.

IED’s. A cluster of them between base and 5th platoon who are out on night patrol. Medics are already out the gate. There are men down who might not get up. More will follow unless we move quickly to support.

I check my kit as we hit the gate, hoping to god Tommo’s done the same. I can’t see his face but he’s moving quickly, with purpose.

I remember the night drills on the hills at home. Thirty degrees colder and far fewer snipers. This is it. We’re amongst it, all of us.

We cover the first hundred metres in seconds before the ground betrays us, leaping above our heads, forcing us down.

Comms crackle. I wait for pain but it doesn’t come.

“Call in.” barks the boss. I reply but don’t breathe again until every name comes back. I want to laugh, it’s like some sick school register.

It’s another IED. A rubbish one that went off on it’s own. I can’t help but hope it caught whoever was laying it. Then I feel guilty. I don’t know what to think anymore. Just do it. Find the 5th. And bring them back. Everything else is for later.

There’s a farm to our left, a ramshackle building in the middle of a field. There’s a light on. Then it’s gone. A dozen rifles swing in its direction. It can’t be a coincidence.

The house lights up again, as bullets crack from its windows. We swallow dirt, rolling towards a ditch. It could be full of IED’s but it’s a choice between that and a bodybag. We fall in before we fall down.

The boss arranges us down the trench. Tells us to waste the building. Unload so we can move on.

We don’t need telling twice. They fired first. For once we know where the enemy is.

The noise is deafening, the sky splits at the sound of our rifles.

We listen for impact, then look to Guido, he has the night goggles.


“Shut up and wait.”

We peer over the trench, wait for bullets that don’t return. All we can smell is cordite and smoke. There’s fire from the building, but not the chimney. If there’s anyone left in there alive, they’ll soon be on the move.

The boss dispatches Guido, JC and Tommo to flush them out while we keep to the track, all eyes looking for the 5th.

We hear them before we see them. More bullets. A proper firefight. The boss wheels us left, back into the field, trying to get behind the rebels. Soon as we have visuals we can unload again.

Caffeine’s ahead of me on point, wired. This is what he’s waited for for weeks. This is his moment. But he’s going too fast, leaving us trailing. The boss barks at him but he either doesn’t hear or doesn’t want to.

We hear him shout, a sentence we can’t make out, before his rifle barks repeatedly.

The boss shouts again, but he’s drowned out. All we hear now is them firing back. We’re exposed, but further away than Caffeine, who suddenly slumps to the floor.

I hear myself shout. A noise, not a word: then I squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until my finger is numb. I feel the mud churn under my feet and bullets kick around me but I’m not stopping until I reach him. Every second could be too long, too much time to bleed out. I’ve no idea what I’ll do when I get there. One thing at a time. Reach him, then worry.

It’s not the Caff I know. He’s quiet. Awake but silent. His mouth forms a scream but nothing comes out. Except for the blood from his thigh. It’s pumping so fast I’m scared I’m too late.

“MAN DOWN. MAN DOWN.” I scream, hearing my own voice echo in my headset.

I reach for Caffeine’s hands, thrusting them on top of the wound, begging him to press.  While he watches his fingers drown in blood I’m in my bag, reaching for the tourniquet. I slide it over his leg, past the wound, then pull with every bit of strength I have. Finally, Caff screams. A noise I’ll never forget. Then he passes out.

I work quickly. Have to. Pack the wound with gauze and tape, then scream again for the medics.

“Where are you?”

But nothing comes, only fizzing bullets. One hits my pack. I think it went straight through cos I’m still breathing. No pain. I’m not even scared. Not yet.

What to do? What to do? They know we’re here, but no-one else does. So I’ve no option. I wait for a lull, then heave Caff onto my back, and leggit back towards the boss and the others. It feels like I’m flying, but I’m not. I wait for the bullets, but somehow they don’t come. Not until I run, full-tilt into Giffer, who pulls me back to the floor, rolling Caffeine off me and into his arms.

“You hit?” He asks, but I can only point at Caff.

“He breathing?”


We lay in the trench until the medics arrive, just in time to see Caffeine wake up.

He hasn’t a clue who I am, but clings onto me for grim death. It takes Giffer and a medic to prize his hands from me. If they move quickly, they think the leg will be ok. Might even stay attached to the rest of him.

The medics move quickly towards base, leaving me and Giff to turn back towards the gunfire.

“Proper bloody soldier you are.”

“That right?”

“Just make sure you’re a breathing one by the end of the night. Dead soldiers are no good to anyone.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Except agree. I’m not taking a bullet tonight. Not after that.

We crouch in the trench, pulling hard from our drinking tubes, flinching as bullets crack above us.

All we can do is sit, and wait for orders.”


Hope you enjoyed it. As I say, rough around the edges, but I hope it gets inside Jammy’s head…



My New Book and Why I Wrote It

This is my first video blog, so no laughing! But I’m trying to get across why I’m trying to write my new book…

Getting Over The Line……

There are approximately forty-five days left until the new addition makes an appearance.
In fact as it’s bubba number three, it could be a lot less…..but I’m banking on the forty-five days, if not forty-seven, as both Albie and Elsie were two days overdue.

Now I know this all sounds like splitting hairs, but two days is two days, and at the present rate of writing, it equals about three thousand words, or a chapter and a half.

I haven’t been on a deadline since university, so that’s fourteen years since I sat scrabbling around at midnight, looking for a non-chewed pen to start my essay with.
Back then, I knew where the time had gone, how I’d frittered it away – it had gone in the bar drinking snakebite and black, or in the Asian Kitchen…ah, happy days.

I’m not sure this time though, where the year has gone?
I mean, between signing the deal with Puffin and having to deliver book two, I’ll have had the best part of eighteen months to write a second story, and in that time I’ve got through nearly 60,000 words, but it’s still nowhere near done.

It makes me wonder if I should be a bit more regimented about it all.
In the last couple of weeks I’ve chatted to a couple of very talented, successful authors, and its interesting (to me at least) to hear how differently they work…..

One of them is a full time writer who works to a daily word count.
1500 words.
Not a lot, granted, but that is his magic number.
He writes, largely in coffee shops, plundering the wifi at the same time, and as soon as the word count is hit, then bang, the work day is over and the fun begins. What that means basically, is that within two calendar months, he has a full draft completed. Broken down like that, it makes perfect sense….and think of all that free time……

The other writer told me about his old regime (before he gave up work), which meant storing up all his writing time into a block, in his case one day a week. That day was put aside for nothing but writing, no distractions or TV or friends, just him and his laptop. The days in between he didn’t really have time to pick up his pen, and would instead use the free minutes to think about where the story was going next……

I’m thinking I’m going to have to get my arse in gear and work to a better schedule. I reckon I’ve another 40,000 words to crack until this first draft is done, and after that there’s the inevitable (and more than likely, lengthy) re-writes……

I’m determined to get it done though, in fact I’m quite up for the challenge. I might even have the occasional snakebite and black to oil the cogs and help me on my way….

Orignial blog post written here.