Battleworn (11 page)

A year after David was killed, I deployed to southern Iraq. Looking back, I don’t think I went through a natural grieving process. My grief would not surface until much later. The photo and rosary beads saw me through some rough times during my tours of Iraq in 2003 and Helmand in 2006. They are still with me on this tour, so if they get me home safe, they will stay with me forever.

Losing David was the worst thing that ever happened to me; the thought of losing blokes tonight reminded me of him. I was sure that if I were to die out here, my one consolation would be that I would get to see David again. The month after his death, I sifted through every inch of medical paperwork that there was on his case file. I tortured myself day and night, endlessly reliving the incident. I was also searching for someone to blame; as a medic, I felt both angry and guilty that I had not been there to save him.

I do not have long to reflect on my feelings about David or anything else. In the next instant, I am up and running around in my body armour and helmet. The Taliban have let rip another onslaught. For a split second, I think that they must have known I was having a ‘moment’. This momentary grim humour aside, the truth is that every attack is getting a little too close for comfort. Their IDF may not be as accurate as the Taliban would like, but we all know that it only takes one lucky shot for someone’s day to end badly. Not today, though.

I always appreciate that every man out here has a story to tell, so I dust myself off and move on, safe in the knowledge that my brother will be watching over me from somewhere. I tally up the casualties, mentally noting who was injured, and when. My body and mind alike are fatigued. I gather the medical team and make sure that they are okay. I may be in a command position, but these are my guys, and their safety is always my concern. We would become great friends during our time in Nad-e Ali. My medics and I are involved with every attack, whether inside or outside of the base. We rely heavily on each other to get things right.

I think back to the summer 2006 when I deployed here with the 3 PARA. I never fully understood what it meant to be under siege when the young paratroopers spoke about the battle for Sangin. Nad-e Ali was turning into our Sangin – you had to be in the shit to understand what it felt like.

The true lay of the land is known only by the enemy; this is their backyard, and they know every inch of it. When most units deploy into a base such as Nad-e Ali, they are supported by a small artillery unit, as well as an engineer squadron building up defensive walls. We have nothing: we were sent on patrol, and now we are holding a line that is very much closing in on us. The one useful asset that we managed to steal from the Throatcutters was a joint tactical air controller (JTAC), usually assigned to special ops. Remaining nameless and in the shadows, he saved more than a few lives, and for that we will always be grateful.

For the most part, things are grim and getting grimmer. Rations are quite literally being rationed. The young men fighting are ageing well beyond their years. Our intelligence support is superior on all levels, along with our interpreters, who give our company clear understanding of the Taliban’s intentions and plans through ICOM chatter. It’s evident that we are outnumbered: every village within a five-kilometre radius is housing Taliban fighters. Plans are afoot to overrun our small PB, but I wouldn’t learn this little belter until months later.

Another night passes. Activity in the PB starts early; everyone is up as Monty prepares to take his platoon out. As soon as any patrol leaves, everyone goes on to a heightened state. The thought of being overrun is always at the forefront of my mind. One of our guys has already killed at least twenty fighters. He doesn’t shout about it, but his success is well known across the company. The Apache gunships that have been regular visitors have torn up many more.

The Taliban’s battlefield replacement plan seems to be working well: no matter how many we kill, they are able to replace them, and fast. We are lucky if we have two full platoons left. Monty’s platoon is out for less than half an hour before getting hit. I can hear Monty’s fire control orders clearly over the net; it’s almost as if he is standing in the same room.

He calls for CAS, and our JTAC wastes no time in getting it to him. It sounds like some of the lads have been pinned down on the wrong side of a ditch. It’s not like the films where you can run along tracks and dodge rounds. If you are up and running, the likelihood of getting shot generally multiplies.

Cpl Tam Rankine, one of the more-experienced section commanders, knows that the boys are in trouble. He sprints across the open ground to try to give them more fire support. During this rescue, he is shot in the hand, getting off lightly.

After more accurate use of the 66 mm, the men manage to make good the ground that they have lost. Jen treats Tam when she can, calling in her casualty over the net. The guys are in the middle of a firefight, so it’s down to me and Sgt Maj. Robertson to go out to retrieve our wounded. My man Duffy has also been injured, and it doesn’t surprise me that he is in the thick of it.

The Throatcutters are operating elsewhere, but they provide our QRF. We set off in three vehicles. I’m top cover for Davey, and there’s a 66 mm rocket beside me. As I check the 66 mm, it dawns on me just how lucky I am – my path in life could have been very different. I am in a world that few men or women have the chance to experience. All medics that hail from 16 Brigade who are attached to infantry companies are given an insight into all the weapon systems that the company employs.

The Taliban attack any call sign, and when it heads south, everyone, regardless of job description or cap badge, can look forward to getting a slice. This is not a conventional conflict with prisoner of war (POW) camps. The Geneva Conventions actually means something in such conflicts, but it means nothing here. The waving of a Red Cross flag doesn’t cut it, either. The soldiers that I support are fighting hard, and I would feel ashamed if I couldn’t offer a safe haven to them when they are injured. As medics, we protect our casualties by any means necessary.

We head to where the fire is coming from; driving into contact is not for the faint-hearted. All I can think about is that hideous heavy weapon that the Taliban have been smashing the base with. A direct hit from the DShK would cut me in half. I look in the distance through the sight on top of my SA-80 (also called a SUSAT, for sight unit small arms trilux). I spot Jen running with her casualties. The noise is deafening. Davey also sees Jen, and he makes a hasty stop.

We get out of the vehicles and pick our blokes up. I watch Jen go running back to the platoon sergeants group. Together, she and Monty just crack on. I like the fact that you can’t tell her apart from the others. When it’s real time, soldiers are soldiers – the guys don’t see Jen the female medic running towards them; they see ‘our’ medic.

The running we did around the HLZ back at Lash, always wearing our heavy body armour, is now paying off handsomely. I get my casualties in the wagon, and we head back to the PB. Once there, I examine Tam and Duffy. As per usual, Duffy finds something to joke about, laughing at the fact that they were ‘shitting themselves when they were cut off.’ I am relieved that Duffy is okay. Losing someone so young doesn’t bear thinking about, and I have grown quite fond of his once-annoying habits.

The boss needs a casualty report, and fast. I assess a gunshot wound to the hand and possible fracture to the lower limb both as cat-Cs, which means we have four hours to play with. Distal pulses on both are good, so they should be okay. Thinking tactically, I know the firefight hasn’t finished, so at the moment, the chance of more casualties is very high. Risking airframes for casualties that we can hold and treat is a non-starter. Sorting out fluids for both my injured, I think about the heat down here; it’s stifling today. The platoon eventually breaks contact: the guys are heading back in. I discover that Kev has already sent a nine-liner declaring that we have a cat-B casualty. I am angered by the lack of communication. This has become commonplace on the battlefield, and sometimes medics are too scared to speak out.

This is the wrong decision, and so I approach Maj. Clark, my OC. I get on well with the boss and Kev, so I don’t want any type of confrontation; nor do I want to make a situation out of nothing. Explaining to the major that the guys’ injuries do not require such a high priority, I advise him that we should change the category back down to a C.

Maj. Clark acknowledges my point, but then says, ‘What if the MERT team won’t come because Tam is just a cat-C?’

I explain that there may be more needy casualties upcountry, and if we start overcategorising patients, brigade HQ will question all of our nine-liners. Anxious, I want the boss to agree with me. I understand what he is feeling, and his actions are always for the benefit of his men. I just want him to trust me, and know that I need his support on this. I further explain that I will send a casualty update over the net every fifteen minutes to ensure that they know four hours is our cut-off time – if we wait any longer than that, the damage to Tam’s hand will become permanent. The MERT commander can review the downgrade to cat-C and then make an informed decision. The boss agrees and allows me to downgrade Tam and Duffy. No one is at fault here. Kev heard that Tam had a gunshot wound and automatically thought he was a cat-B. I am relieved that this has been resolved, and if anything, it has cemented my relationship with the boss. I set about preparing Tam and Duffy for evacuation.

The rest of Monty’s platoon get back, and Davey meets them at the gate with water and rehydration sachets of Lucozade. This soon becomes a routine chore. Whoever has been out receives water and a Lucozade sachet at the front gate when they get back in. It’s a good way to simultaneously check the morale and physical well-being of the men. Just looking at a soldier’s face and body language can tell you a great deal. It’s a far better system than allowing soldiers to quietly go off and administer themselves. If heat illness goes untreated, it becomes deadly very quickly.

A few of the lads come into the medical post to check on Duffy and Tam. We receive word that the MERT team and their Chinook are preparing to launch from Camp Bastion to pick up our casualties. This is welcome news. The boss and Capt. Wood, our company 2IC, both reassure me that we made the right call with Tam. I am relieved that the MERT team made the decision to come. We all put our faith in the system, and it has worked this time. Sometimes there may be a casualty far more desperate for the casevac than we are; other times it might be the reverse. I take a moment to think about my friends up north manning the FOBs. Our brigade is taking the fight to the Taliban at all levels, and in doing so, we sustain many casualties.

The MERT call prompts us to push ourselves out towards the front gate. We get our casualties in the shade, and then we sit and wait. I contemplate taking them back up to the aid post, as I am informed that the MERT helicopter has yet to launch. I check in with Kev at the ops room, and he tells me that the helicopter is finally wheels up at Camp Bastion, so it is on its way.

A few of the lads have joined our group to bid farewell to their muckers. I see that Stevie Howie is in the group. Stevie is a tough lad brought up on a rough council scheme in Glasgow. He has a strong character and manages to look as fresh as a daisy, even though he has just endured a two-hour contact during the hottest part of the day.

Without warning, there is a feeling of panic and danger around us. An Afghan soldier narrowly misses me and my casualties with his Ford Ranger pickup truck. ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ!’ someone screams. The driver isn’t even a metre away; we are inches from his wheels. The idiot doesn’t even see what he has done; he just continues to drive on, leaving us in a heap on the ground.

Stevie jumps up, going berserk. He brings his weapon to bear at the Afghan and starts yelling, ‘You stupit fuckin’ prick! You stupit fuckin’ prick!’

Everyone in the group adds their ten-pence worth. Our guys are taking the brunt of the casualties out on the ground, and this wanker nearly mows down about six of us in the PB. The Afghan soldiers have been refusing to go out of the base, so this heightens an already tense situation. We manage to calm Stevie down, and I am relieved to hear the sound of a Chinook in the distance. I tell the guys that we need to push out. Stevie showed tremendous restraint at not losing it completely. It would be naive to judge his actions; he just spent the last two hours fighting off the Taliban, only to meet this threat inside the wire.

Duffy places his arm around my neck and shoulders as I help him hobble onto the ramp of the Chinook. Abbie does the same for Tam. As quick as the wheels are down, they are off again. I receive a reassuring pat on the back from the door gunner on my way off. It catches me off guard, and I wonder if he knows something that I don’t.

Abbie turns and says, ‘I guess that we are here for the long haul then, or at least until the marines take over.’

Great news,
I think. That is just shy of two months away!

I run back to base and seek out Maj. Clark to explain the truck incident, making sure he knows all the facts before the situation gets out of control. He heads off for an informal chat with Lt Col Nazim. The ANA soldiers need much guidance with reference to discipline. We can’t risk a blue-on-blue situation, so the arrival of the OMLT can’t come quick enough.

Mundane tasks are completed again before anyone relaxes. Water is guzzled by the gallon on every corner after another event-filled day. Watching the sun go down over Nad-e Ali is a welcome display of serenity; the quiet hum of the guys’ voices chatting offers a measure of peace in the midst of what is becoming a desperate time for B Company of 5 Scots.

CHAPTER 4

FLASHHEART ARRIVES

THE BASE SETTLES DOWN AS WE WAIT FOR OUR USUAL TWILIGHT ATTACK. It arrives like clockwork: the initial strikes come from a variety of small arms; the follow-up of random bursts from .50 calibres and the throaty DShK are a timely reminder that the Taliban are equipped with more than just their ability to lay IEDs. What they lack in skill and discipline they make up for with their will to keep going. When you choose to take on an insurgency brainwashed and under the influence of the opium poppy, you should not find it surprising that they never tire of being killed. Pausing for a second in the midst of it all, I think about how bad life must be for a person to feel that way. But this is how it is with the Taliban. As soon as one fighter falls, another is on hand to pick up his AK-47. I have seen the exchange on the battlefield, bodies dragged away so quickly, you would miss it if you blinked.