Chapter 11

November 2007

Southwestern Plains of Helmand Province, Afghanistan

The convoy had been clear of the mountains for an hour. The tension and anxiety of being ready for an ambush at every inclined road switchback has slowly subsided as the last section of the mountain pass was cleared. As the machines headed down-grade, the terrain became more open and exposed and arid; somewhat similar to Iraq. O’Brien climbed down from the M2 turret, sent Garbo as his replacement in the weapons station, then sat back, behind the LT, still unknown to the platoon. Lt Zimmerman had occupied the shotgun space, listening to the radio and never allowing his eyes to drift from his disciplined external scan of the convoy’s surroundings.

Pulling the two manila envelopes from his small pack, O’Brien resigned himself to reading both the individual annotations and the group travel orders. O’Brien had signed for the first manila envelope while the platoon was loading the vehicles, and having been almost mentally paralyzed when he received the documents, ignored and forgot the documents once they were placed into his ruck.

Extracting the contents of the separate envelope, O’Brien found 24 pages of recommendations for awards and the respective draft citations. He was surprised that Major Tisdale had been able to output a large quantity of paperwork in such a short period. An additional surprise came in a recommendation for a unit award, signed by the three-star, soon to be four-star, commander of SOCOM. Despite his morose state, O’Brien smiled at the perverse humor as to the amount of redacted text in the citations. Spooks will be spooks.

As he flipped through the awards, he saw the ‘standard’ Purple Heart stuff for Watson, then saw thirteen Bronze Star and two Silver Star drafts. Pistochini had received, as if he needed another, two bronze recommendations. While all other platoon members received a single bronze recommendation. O’Brien was dismayed with Tisdale’s issue of two silver star recommendations for himself. Removing the two Silver Star forms, O’Brien slowly and methodically crumpled both forms, then tossed them into the wind. Sgt O’Brien’s gesture could be nothing other than symbolic, as the papers were not the originals.

The other document was contained within a standard letter envelope. Extracting the single page from the envelope with the 2/3 letterhead. The memo was a written ‘by-direction’ correspondence for the battalion C.O., per a staff flunky; he thus read:

Attention: Sgt Sean O’Brien, et al,

Your orders will indicate the reporting senior as RM 40 Commando, Bastion Detachment commander. Your actual report shall be a liaison officer, to wit,

Major James Dawson, USMC 24th MEU G-2, Special Tactics ISAF Operations Staff

This officer shall become the OIC of Scout/Sniper Platoon 1/5, detached, upon report. The affected platoon will receive in vivo orders through this officer while attached to the ISAF area commander. Upon release from the ISAF command, unit travel orders will be issued for affected platoon members’ return to 3d Marines.

LtCol Robert Hargrove Commanding Officer 2d Bn, 3d Mars, 24th MEU

by dir, AJN

O’Brien, still of an emotion-fogged mind, was not able to determine the purpose and nature of these orders. He could only discern that the platoon would not see their assigned battalion per the original TAD and group travel orders. The assignment to a British unit had only increased his confusion. O’Brien leaned forward to thrust the paper around the communications equipment stack.

Sir, would the lieutenant look at this? I’m not certain I understand.”

After a few brief moments, Lt Zimmerman returned the single-page memo to O’Brien.

“Your people were probably not notified. Two-Three got turned and sent to Iraq, because, it seems, that Fallujah has again become a problem. And the British are having their own problems around Kandahar, actually most of the province.”

“Still don’t understand, sir. Thought that Fifth and Eight Marines had this Helmand shit under control.”

“In general, we did. Then everyone complained how we were running our own private thing in this corner of Afghanistan, so ISAF broke up the party and gave most of this area to EU members of the coalition forces, namely the UK. I will say, and this is a conjecture on my part, that the SAS commanders caught wind of what your people did south of Jalalabad and want something similar done here.”

O’Brien found it the mark of poor flag-level management that his people were being passed around like a cheap whore to whatever command had the greatest political influence. He did not know where to turn. 2/3 and 1/5 were over 2000 km southwest, scattered about Iraq. He had no idea who was remaining in 2/5 that he could talk to, and he knew of no American Marine battalions in this corner of Afghanistan. O’Brien determined that the only possible support may well be Gunner Chastain, now back in Quantico, which made finding a sat-phone the new priority.

O’Brien’s mental machinations were interrupted by the young officer. The lieutenant looked at the 19 year-old lance that was driving, then gave a brief sigh.

“Sergeant, its classified, but has become common knowledge. ISAF is planning a major operation in the North end of the Helmund province. I will further speculate that the Brits are looking at their dearth of operators; they have but a single special forces team from 40 Commando. Which would indicate your people will provide cover to their troop movements and may do scouting and over-watch of the northern valleys.”

“How long have the Brits being running an active offensive in the Helmand, sir?”

“For most of the year. Ever since the Sangin mess last year and the Musla Qala debacle in February, the ISAF command had been fairly aggressive. And we no longer have a British General restraining responses to Taliban attacks. I believe that your tactical style will be more apt to be accepted by whatever unit you support. And the 40 Commando people have been working up for a return to Musa Qala during the last month.”

“Thanks for the insight, sir.”

The sour taste of being bounced around from command to command remained in O’Brien’s mouth, but he did have the consolation that his Marines would no longer be operating alone. It was something to hang their collective helmets on.

Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

As O’Brien and his ten Marines entered the small auxiliary field mess, followed by Lt Zimmerman and his six Marine drivers, the collective and boisterous chatter of British and Danish military troops and civilian contractors decrease to a low background din. As O’Brien queued up behind his troops, two large Royal Marines passed to each side, feigning an accidental bump to each side of the American Marine. O’Brien did not move from his position in the chow line, nor did he acknowledge their presence. The two Brit commandos, incensed at being ignored, stopped and faced inboard at O’Brien’s sides.

“These yanks. Would say a bit cheeky.”

O’Brien continued to ignore the presence of the two Brits.

“I did say, a bit cheeky. How’s it, mate?”

The brit to O’Brien’s immediate left pushed into the American Marine, effectively book-ending O’Brien. O’Brien, uncertain as to be amused or to treat it as an insult, shrugged to free himself, then stepped forward in the chow line. The two brits, not accustomed to their physical presence being ignored, re-positioned themselves to Sgt O’Brien’s flanks.

Unbeknownst to the crowd at large, a Scot-welsh artillery officer initialized the video recorder on his issue Nokia, ready to record a brit Marine getting his due. He was, up to this point, not happy with the yank’s seeming ennui with the two brits. The UK artillery officer’s expectation was that the two royal Marines would persist until they had extracted a ‘reasonable’ reaction from the American.

Lt Zimmerman saw an impending international incident. Conversely, Pistochini saw a good probability for entertainment after a long and monotonous drive down Afghan Highway One. As Pistochini turned around and Zimmerman stepped forward, A third commando, in the service of her majesty’s Royal Marines, moved at quick-time to be part of the cultural exchange. Before the third-party interloper was able to reach O’Brien, Pistochini turned aside to block the brit’s access. As the two third-party members, separate from the main party, started the first cultural exchange, mostly comprised of Cpl Pistochini catching the royal marine’s attempt to throw an arm, or perhaps a fist, into his sergeant. As the brit’s forearm was twisted down, his short, but stout, body followed his appendage to the deck.

Apparently motivated by their friend’s opening of the intial line of communications between the brits and yanks, the two brits to O’Brien’s sides both grabbed the front of his utilities. The next move, rich in the vein of physical comedy, mostly in the vein of The Three Stooges, as O’Brien was a staunch supporter of the Three Stooges’ art, he pulled, using both of their forward momentum, the two brits into each other.

As both royal marines hit the deck, the reaction to the surrounding multi-cultural crowd was an unexpected silence. Lt Zimmerman pushed past the loose arc of people around the five members of the impromptu Benny Hill Mess Facility Comedy Troupe. He was closely followed by an RAF officer and the Welsh artillery officer. The three officers collectively ruined any chance at further entertainment.

As O’Brien’s platoon exited the field mess, the UK lance corporal stepped in front of O’Brien and offered his hand.

“Just a bit of fun, mate. All is about cracky here.”

O’Brien shook the brits hand, not understanding the phrases or meaning in the words used in his apology. He figured that George Bernard Shaw’s ‘divided by a common language’ was appropiate and correct. O’Brien’s only reply was to nod. The brit immediately understood the exchange was done when the American Marines brought their G3 rifles to port arms. The royal lance corporal departed in a hasty manner.

O’Brien’s platoon did learn two important points from this particular form of cultural exchange. One was that British are not the same people as Americans. Two was that the CQB fighting techniques taught to them by the army rangers was effective. The use of momentum and leverage apparently worked well. Physics.

Sgt O’Brien smartly stepped into the room shared by three American officers, two captains and a major. There were no ‘I love me’ trinkets covering the bulkheads, and the three occupant Marines seemed over-tasked. Radios crackling, phones ringing, and various personnel scurrying in and out made it obvious to O’Brien that he should make every attempt to be brief.

“Sergeant O’Brien reporting, sir. 2/5 Scout/Sniper Platoon.”

“Stand at ease, marine. Give me a few ... those your orders?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Back down the passage, first office. Give them to Corporal Loughder. Then return.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Corporal Loughder?”

“That would be me, sergeant. What’s up?”

“Major Dawson told me to give you these orders.”

“Ours? ... Let’s see ... yeah, group travel orders ... Holy shit, sarge! Did you know your battalion went to Iraq?”

“Yep. This will be the second time we got our ass waylaid.”

“What the hey, sarge? This will be a third endorsement on TAD orders.” When the admin corporal saw the second endorsement was by SOCOM, he decided further discussion would be ill-advised and shut down his chatter box.

After a few minutes of key-tapping by the unit dairy clerk and shuffling of papers, then the staccato rhythm of the stamping of 12 pages, the stack of papers was re-stapled and returned to Sgt O’Brien. Once again, O’Brien wondered why admin pukes did not die of acute boredom caused by the horrors of never-ending paper and computer forms.

“You’ll be billeted next to the landing pads. At the southeast end, there is a stack of airfield mats and a tent next to the stack. We just set it up. Should have power. There are three porta-potties behind the tent.”

“All the comforts of home. Thanks. See ya.” O’Brien pivoted and exited through the door-less hatch before the corporal could reply, to return to the major’s office.

As O’Brien stood outside the office, O’Brien prayed to Odin that his Marines were not finding ways to amuse themselves in his absence. As the old proverb says ‘there is nothing more dangerous than a bored lance corporal’. O’Brien assured himself that Pistochini was keeping it all under control.

O’Brien shifted his G3 rifle to a forward body-carry position, pulled the magazine out, examined the loaded rounds, re-inserted the magazine, blew the dust off of the scope, pulled a thread from the muzzle, then let the rifle lay in its ‘natural’ slinged position when he grew bored of being bored.

After about 10 to 15 minutes, Major Dawson yelled from his desk. “Sergeant O’Brien!”.

O’Brien quickly entered to stand at attention in front of the major’s desk.

The major looked up for a few seconds. “Understand that you lost your lieutenant?”

“Aye, sir.”

The major looked back down, making notes and annotating the myriad reports arrayed on his desktop.

“You will report directly to me. We’re going to send your people on over-watch and security missions for arty FOs and for British Marines. Also thinking about some night perimeter patrols. Intel says the area tangos got something in the works and will be probing.”

The major, still looking down, “And sergeant. Want to tell me what you’re going to do with those donkeys?”

“We would like to take ‘em on longer-range stuff, sir. They’re damn good watch animals, can carry a significant load, and do not react poorly to weapons fire and explosions. They can be fed with locally-purchased grain, sir.”

“You have funds allocated for this?”

“Not directly, sir. We have spook money for that, sir. ‘bout 350 Euros, sir.”

“Unreturned project funds? Why were the monies not forwarded to the OIC”

“Correct sir. Major Tisdale was the project officer, sir. He told us to keep remaining funds for care of the animals.”

“Martin Tisdale?”

“Aye, sir.”

“I’ll be damned. Where is he?”

“Don’t know, sir. The major was at Fenty when we left. Might be at Bagram, sir.”

“Keep your animals. Have Corporal Loughder put them on your group travel orders.”

“Aye, sir. First mission, sir?”

“Not for at least three days. Probably four or five. And what’s with the G3s?”

“Uh ... We have a Custody Asset Report for AA&E by Major Tisdale. I cannot comment further on these rifles.”

“I thought as much. Sounds like Martin. He lets his troops retain the spoils of war. Okay, enough said. Do not lose that form. You’ll need it for induction into your unit’s armory when stateside.”

“Aye, sir.”

“The time is yours. We have morning formations at 0730, aft of this hutch. Every morning. The top will make daily assignments. Your people will be expected to stand watch. Dismissed.”

O’Brien did an about face, generally satisfied that their new OIC was not a regulation worshiper. O’Brien conclude that life could be tolerable under Maj Dawson. We was uncertain about dealing with other ISAF members.

“The low-boys will remain, along with the containers. You’ll need them”

“Sir, before you go, we need to know what to do with Lieutenant O’Connell’s gear.”

“What’s in his gear?”

“Dunno, sir. We didn’t look. We packed his sea-bag and his two load-outs, along with his computer, wallet, knife, and other small shit.”

“Damn, there is a formal process for personal effects, but its done by the command, and you people essentially have no command. It will have to be inventoried. You need to talk to the senior staff NCO of this place. Set Bryan’s gear aside. If this unit cannot act as his command, call me. I’ll be at Bagram for the next six to nine months. Here’s my contact info ... Sergeant, you people take care.”

Shaking Lt Zimmerman’s offered hand, O’Brien then stepped back to salute the officer. The second that O’Brien turned away, he headed to his gaggle of Marines next to their mound of equipment, noting that they were gathered around Spock and Troi.

O’Brien waved his arm at their assigned tent. “That’s home, people. Let’s get our shit stowed and weapons locked up in the small conex. The large conex was dropped on the other side of the tent. We’ll use it for mount-out prep and set up a cleaning bench. I don’t want to clean weapons inside our living space.”

As O’Brien’s platoon picked up their sea bags and load-outs to seek their abode, Pistochini was motioned aside.

“The LT said to get this unit’s top to inventory Lieutenant O’Connell’s stuff. Ya think that he had any shit that shouldn’t be there?”

“Really doubt it. Our man didn’t fuck around with any weird shit, boss.”

“Yep. Sounds ‘bout right for the LT. We only had him ‘bout two months. Why the does it hurt so fuckin much?”

It was Pistochini’s turn to give some wisdom back to his boss. “It always hurts to lose a good man. Fucking always...”

O’Brien slowly exhaled. Let’s set somethin up for the donkeys. I saw a stack of metal tube gates. Let’s go borrow some shit, then we can see the top.

O’Brien tracked what the news hacks were saying about Iraq and Afghanistan. After hearing about the return of the Taliban to towns and villages in the Helmand Province that the Marines had previously secured, he concluded that these Marines were the advance party for the eventual deployment of a much larger group of Marines. The other obvious conclusion was that the various ISAF units had let the province go to shit after they kicked the Marines out. It did not escape O’Brien that the commander of this Helmand shit show was a British general, that was into appeasement and secret deal-making with Taliban leaders, had been recently fired and replaced by a, pointedly, non-brit. O’Brien figured that the long-term future of Afghanistan as a democratic state was close to nil probability.

MSgt Blake’s office was shared with a gunny and a staff sergeant. The staff NCOs were focused and heavily occupied with logistics work. The amount of support work for a small unit pointed to O’Brien’s previous conclusions.

“What you need, Marine?”

“Afternoon, master sergeant. My platoon came in from Fenty. A few days before departure, our LT was killed. The previous army officer that was in charge of the project did not arrange for the return of my lieutenant’s personal stuff. I need some direction on how to handle his stuff.”

“Fenty, huh? We’ve been hearing odds and ends for several weeks. I will guess it was your people?”

“Not certain, master sergeant. We can’t say much, or it’ll be brig time.”

“Understand son. I’ll have Corporal Loughder do the paper-work and Staff Sergeant Archer sign the inventory. Arch? You hear that?”

“Aye, top. Next day or two. That okay?”

“Its good, Arch ... Sarge, tell me about your unit’s gear.”

“Usual shit for a sniper platoon. But we do have some classified electronics and demo packs and several cases of grenades and ‘bout thirty four ammo boxes.”

“Comm systems?”

“Aye, master sergeant.”

“Got an inventory?”

“Aye, master sergeant.”

“And fuck the formal title, shit, sarge. Let’s get your classified shit on a custody form and into the armory tomorrow after formation. As for your explosives and ammo, don’t give a shit. Check it into the armory if you want. If its properly secured, I don’t give a rat’s ass ... Got a roster?”

O’Brien, anticipating such a request pulled a page out of a spiral notebook.

“Just two NCOs? Well, dog shit. Was praying to Chesty that most of your group would be corporals. The last two sniper platoons I worked with were mostly corporals. Just dog-shit.”

“Top? all of my principal shooters are independent operators. They all should be E4s. But fuckin cuttin scores are fuckin astronomical for grunts.”

“Know what? Mark your principles. I’ll use them as corporal of the guard. The ISAF idiots think its ok to man every other guard tower, while the hajis are getting all uppity. Even worse, the same idiots see no need to run patrols. The major was asking me about patrols, but we don’t have any Marines that I’d feel good about sending outside the wire.”

O’Brien smiled at the irony of a black man using the term ‘uppity’. O’Brien liked a staff NCO that got to the point, said what he meant, and meant what he said.

“Including me, top. We’ll all stand watch. All the time if you need it. But will need one to stand watch at our tent. You can be heavy with mid-watch. We’re used to night ops.”

“Well beat me senseless with a tit. Maybe Chesty did answer my prayers. You have a deal, sarge. Anything else, son?”

“Aye, top. Grain and a vet for my donkeys. Where can I buy grain?”

“You ready for this? We have a ‘Royal Vet’ that visits the base twice a month for the dogs. I’ll ask that British sergeant major how we get on the list. For grain, don’t know. I’ll ask the PMO what the locals have in that department. What are you using the donkeys for, sarge?”

“If we get long missions, for transport. For in garrison, for watch. My people will probably use them when they stand watch.”

“No shit? They really make good watch animals?”

“That’s a definite affirmative, top. They’ve already paid for their keep in that department.”

“I’ll be damned. Interesting.” It did not escape MSgt Blake’s conscious thoughts that the young sergeant had been careful not to discuss their use of donkeys in detail. He had not supported his captain’s isolated placement of their tent. After listening to the scout/sniper NCOIC, the top considered the captain’s orders to be strategically and tactically reasonable. He further decided that his staff should not have any need to discuss ISAF and CENTCOM’s intentions for the unit. As the top’s uncle had oft advised, ‘just let the dog lay there’.

The Canadian officer examined Spock and Troi with appreciation. It was obvious to the vet that the American Marines knew the basics of equine care and had formed a bond with the two animals.

“What is origin of the grain?”

“Local farmers, sir. Not sure, but it sorta looks like winter oats. Also been takin ‘em outside the wire to eat random shit. Is that ok, sir?”

“That will suffice quite nicely. You may want to pinch an occasional fruit from the dining facility and offer the animals other supplements. You cannot feed donkeys as you would a horse. They are more of a forager than a browser, so very little, if any, of the cereal grains.”

“What about their hoofs, sir?”

“I did not note any signs of hoof damage or foot disease. They are tough animals that do not incur the same wear as a horse would. But damp or cold or long trips with large loads could be problematic. If you take them into the mountains during winter or through water, you will need hoof boots.”

“Hoof boots? Didn’t know about that stuff, sir.”

“I will have CENTCOM medical supply send some, along with farrier tools.”

“Thanks much, sir ... Spock, thank the nice officer.”

The vet gave a light chuckle when Spock raised his head and rubbed his muzzle into the chest of the veterinary officer. Watching Cpl Pistochini brush and talk to Troi, the vet motioned O’Brien out of the make-shift paddock and to the side of the adjacent tent.

“Sergeant O’Brien, I shall warn you and your men. These animals are not your pets. Your chance of returning to America with these animals is non-existent. The British forces generally do not allow registered military animals to leave Afghanistan. In fact, British forces have probably destroyed over forty working dogs during the previous two years rather than allow return to Europe or allow adoption.”

“Understood, sir.” O’Brien’s previous thoughts on the issue had resulted in similar conclusions. Pistochini and himself would have to address the issue when the time came.

After the vet loaded his equipment and barreled his hummer across the landing pads to the center of Camp Bastion, O’Brien went to attend to his next scheduled item, the much dreaded and direful inventory and disposition of Lt O’Connell’s personal gear.

O’Brien’s delay in entering the office was telling. The final disposition of Lt O’Connell’s equipment signified the final episode of the Marine’s life; it was The End. The loss of his lieutenant was as damaging to his soul as the loss of his platoon mates during his first tour in Iraq. O’Brien’s flames of anger still burned hot. The people that killed his platoon members and the people responsible for the death of Lt O’Connell had not fully paid. O’Brien still believed he should have remained in Fallujah and killed as many hajis as possible before succumbing to his wounds. And he regretted not having killed Jensen, slowly and painfully.

“Gunny? Where do you want to do the inventory?”

“Will it fit on my desk?”

“Nope. I have three bags.”

“Let’s get them and go to the mess tent.”

“Aye, gunny.”

O’Brien carried the sea bag over his shoulder, handed one bag to the gunnery sergeant, and picked up the third bag to hike the short distance to the chow tent.

“How are your people doing, sergeant?”

“No problems, gunny. We’re not doin much. Just standin watch and waitin for a mission.”

“That’s good. I have the admin boys send the metal seals and boxes.”

“As senior unit rep, you’ll inventory and I’ll sign it as inventory officer. Anything that is not allowed will go the CENTCOM for disposition. The other stuff gets shipped to next-of-kin on his RED via the army mortuary service.”

Two chow tables were placed together to form a large surface to methodically account for all items. O’Brien slowly removed each item, announced the description, entered the data on the form, then placed it on the tables. O’Brien froze when he came across a sealed envelope, with O’Connell’s writing.

“What you got, sarge?”

O’Brien did not reply. He set the legal-sized envelope onto the table top, leaned into the table, then slowly sunk to the deck.

Gunny Morales picked up the envelope and read the front of the envelope. “Attention Sergeant S. O’Brien ... Uh, hmmm ... just take this. Do not enter onto the inventory.”

O’Brien mind was clicking a thousand meters per second. This was O’Connell’s message to his people if he did not survive the mission. He apparently knew that his position at the end of the valley was not benign and the intel about the adjacent villages had been bogus. He had chosen to take a very dangerous position so that none of the platoon principles would be effected. O’Brien’s realization that Lt O’Connell had planned to sacrifice himself so that his troops would not be affected by the DIA agents insular incompetence. O’Brien was more than emotionally crushed; his range burned white hot.

The same brit lance corporal that had tested O’Brien arrived on the scene to further test the man.

“What the bloody hell is this rubbish? You yanks think you can use anything for your space?”

Gunny Morales stepped in front of the big royal Marine. “Marine, this is not what you think. Sergeant O’Brien is not doing well. Please walk away.”

“Bloody walk away? Not so much, sergeant. Not so much.”

With that last phrase, the brit shoved the gunny back; which further shortened the length of O’Brien’s fuse.

The brit picked up a book off of the inventory table, “Bloody hell. Who would read this rubbish?”

In a low growl, while approaching the brit, “Put the fuckin book down. Walk away. Now.”

“Cheeky, aren’t we mate.”

O’Brien pushed the brit away. Brit responded by winding up with his right fist, sending it directly into O’Brien’s lower solar plexus. O’Brien’s moved, at most, a centimeter. The brit had a short period of realization that he may have underestimated this particular yank.

The flurry of power punches that followed went unabated by Gunny Morales’ orders to stand down. When the brit fell to the deck, O’Brien followed him down, continuing to rain fisting impacts to his head and upper body. Morales ran to the top of the conflagration to put a boot into O’Brien’s chest, knocking him down onto his back. Morales stood over Sgt O’Brien yelling, “stand the fuck down, O’Brien! You fucking hear me Marine? Stand the fuck down!”

O’Brien immediately popped back into the here and now. “Aye, gunny!”

Gunny Morales bent over the brit, verifying that the man was breathing. The brit was able to sit up, looking across the deck at O’Brien. “So, O’Brien is it? Bloody paddy. Should have known.”

O’Brien recognized the racist pejorative. But O’Brien’s issue was the desecration of his lieutenant’s personal effects. And after the man sacrificed himself to protect his platoon.

The ‘hearing’ was held directly after the incident and was uneventful. The British colonel admonished his Marine and referred the American Marine to Major Dawson for assault charges. O’Brien said nothing in his defense. and told the Major that he would offer no defense. Major Dawson, making a show in front of the brit area commander, ordered O’Brien confined to quarters. O’Brien departed the semi-opulent office and its out-of-place lavish display of luxury, followed by the brit ‘victim’.