Battleworn (18 page)

Throughout our time in Marjah, I always felt that something was going to happen; the longer we stayed, the stronger that feeling became. Orders came from higher command that we were to probe into the centre of Marjah.

The situation was not positive, and the mixture of excitement and fear was something that I was eager to release. My palms were sweaty, I was thirsty, and yet for some reason, I couldn’t wait to get into Marjah.

We moved off slowly and purposefully, and it wasn’t long before the first IED was discovered. The mine clearing equipment we use was based on the same principals as the machines used by enthusiasts that search for old coins and metals.

During our routine Op Barma drill, I recall saying to Kev, ‘This isn’t right.’ Locals were in short supply, and the place was deserted. The smell of cooking reminded me of the time of day: it was getting close to lunch, and that meant the heat would keep increasing.

As we turned on to one of the tracks which led to the canal, I saw local villagers running – and they weren’t running towards us, they were running away. I looked at Kev, saying, ‘We are gonna get fuckin’ smashed here.’ Kev just laughed nervously. He knew I was right, and we both were just wondering where it would come from. Constantly scanning all around, all we could do was keep wondering what was going to happen.

My excitement had very positively disappeared, and the fear kicked right in. My legs felt like jelly. I now wanted something to happen just so I could feel or think about something else. The adrenaline shift had happened: I was again at that point where the anticipation was worse than the actual event.

Kev was my battle buddy on this mission. I trusted him implicitly and hoped that it wasn’t us getting hit first. ‘IED or small arms?’ I whispered to Kev. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer.

Our patrol crawled onto the canal track and started to push slowly down the side of it. We had no choice; we were committed. Kev and I were in the second vehicle. The local villagers continued to run, and then the place erupted.
Boom! Boom!
Two deafening explosions were followed rapidly by small-arms fire and heavy machine guns. The familiar airburst of incoming RPGs rained debris and shrapnel all around us.

Our patrol came to a grinding halt. Kev and I were shunted forward into the metal ledge in front of us, taking sustained and heavy fire from every direction. Smoke began to fill the air, making it hotter than before, if that were possible. Rounds started pinging off the top of our vehicle, and I remember seeing them zip through the antenna above me. Within seconds, the mounted guns on our WMIKs roared into action; the sound was unbelievable.

Kev and I had immediately taken cover, ducking down inside the hatch. Looking up, I could see that the rounds were coming in from left to right, from my side of the wagon. They zipped past so quickly that it made all of my own movements feel like I was in slow motion. I couldn’t move fast enough.

Our vehicles could not withstand gunfire for long, so we had to react. I popped back up and immediately got eyes on a Taliban fighter: he was just over thirty metres away, half right of me in a field to our left. It happened very quickly. I engaged him, firing seven shots – good banter material for later: why was I wasting ammo? The first two were hazy. I just fired in his general direction, but then I could see him clearly, and I fired until he dropped. I could see his baggy clothing, which was darker than the colour of the field that he was standing in. His face was long, exaggerated by a straggly black beard. The one thing that struck me was the fearlessness in him: he wasn’t looking directly at me, but he had to know the odds were he was about to die. He continued to fire elaborate bursts from his AK-47.

I shouted half a fire control order, but it wasn’t anything like the ones that I had taught recruits to use. ‘Half right, field,’ was all that would come out. It was desperate, almost pathetic; I had the urge to point at the field. The noise was deafening, so words could not be heard. A hand signal seemed appropriate, and it got Kev’s attention. The Minimi gunner in the vehicle behind us started engaging more fighters in the same field.

The fighter that I had engaged had already dropped, which meant that I could look to engage others. It would never be right to claim a kill as a medic; my job is to save lives. The fighter no longer had the ability to engage us, and that’s all that concerned me. Faced with the choice of him or me, I chose me. I would still do the same.

The Taliban had timed their attack on us perfectly. They chose the hottest part of the day, which was just another tactic to slow us ‘infidels’ down; it would give them time to at least maim or kill a few of us.

‘Man down! Man down!’ I could hear the radio traffic through the back of the vehicle. The boss and driver were still in the front. ‘One casualty in the rear vehicle, Sgt T,’ Maj. Clark shouted through to the back, jumping out as I climbed through the back door of the vehicle to meet him.

From there, we started moving from cover to cover, making our way towards the rear of the patrol. We were vulnerable to enemy fire. I struggled beneath the burden of my heavy medical pack, the straps digging into my shoulders as I shuffled along.

Halfway to the rear of our convoy, the boss stopped, turning back towards our vehicle. Without asking why, I just followed him. My lungs were desperate for oxygen, needing it far more than I needed an explanation for the boss’s decision to return to our vehicle.

I jumped back into the wagon, struggling to breathe.

‘You okay, mucker?’ Kev laughed.

I wanted to share the joke with him that I was in and out of our vehicle like a fucking yoyo, but it was still too hard to breathe, much less talk. Continuing to struggle for air, I took off my med pack and dropped it at my feet.

The interpreter taking cover in the back moved it away, placing it on the seat beside him.

‘Thanks, Naveed,’ I said quietly.

Our vehicle shunted forward as we hastily moved off.

Back on top cover, I cooled down, slowly recomposing myself. Kev was still laughing at my ordeal of running in the midday heat. Soldiers worldwide were all the same; I laughed at friends of mine getting beasted up and downs hills with a GPMG in Brecon. When it wasn’t you on the receiving end, it was always funny.

We stopped near some open ground, and two company snipers set up on the roof of a compound nearby. ‘Kingy’, a young Jock from Stirling, was one of our snipers. These snipers were a godsend. Along with the Apache which just arrived on task, they set about tracking the Taliban of Marjah. The insurgents here weren’t amateurs: they knew what they were doing and had just educated us in a textbook L-shaped ambush (from the left and the rear).

By this time, it was safe to attend to our casualty. The injured soldier was Chuckie, a tiny Scot, who was shot in the abdomen. LCpl Tom Rooke (‘Rookey’) has been taking care of him. Chuckie was the rear gunner manning the .50-cal. machine gun. His entry wound looked pretty high, so I was inclined to think that he might be in danger of developing a chest wound. No clinical signs as yet, but as a medic, it was my job to always think a few steps ahead. The nine-liner quickly went out, listing Chuckie as an urgent surgical cat-B. Our gunner needed a hasty evacuation.

Our company snipers, along with the Apache, were now even busier: they had to shield the casevac now under fire. Kev was busy on the net, and the rest of the company provided an all-round defence.

The Chinook came in swift and heavy. Attaching Chuckie’s paperwork to his chest, I grabbed the first person that came off the rescue bird. I screamed all the important stuff in his ear, hoping that he heard my concerns about Chuckie’s chest – his breathing rate had increased to a worrisome level, so my initial thoughts were correct. The MERT commander gave me the thumbs up before heading back up the ramp and into the helo. His force protection followed.

As the Chinook took off again, I looked around at the faces of our company. It was not such a great feeling being left in Marjah, knowing that we had to somehow get ourselves out of this shithole and back to Lashkar Gah.

We had the Apache escort us out of Marjah. There was sporadic small-arms fire, but nothing major. We made the desert leger unscathed and headed back to the MOB.

Kev and I were silent on the way back, with minimal chat and no banter.

As we got close to Lash, Kev said, ’You were right, mucker.’

‘How so?’

‘About us getting smashed,’ Kev laughed.

I smiled grimly. Thirsty, I licked my lips, tasting the salt on the skin at the corners of my mouth. I had no energy left. The drive back had taken hours, and trying to stay alert as the sun was going down after such an eventful day had left me weary. Before heading back to my tent, I emptied a Lucozade rehydration sachet into my now boiling-hot bottle of water.

My recollection of Marjah has held my mind longer than I wished or intended, and I struggle to shake it off. Thinking about that time, though, I challenge anyone to tell me that women cannot handle being in combat or on the front line. We all share fear, and we all bleed the same. I would show Flashheart no mercy on the subject of women serving in front-line units. It takes a certain type, so go find them.

Sandbag chat over; back to the reality and the peace of PB Argyll. Resting on my bivvy, I catch a glimpse of Capt. Wood. He always finds ways to amuse himself, and now he is busy in his own little routine. I notice that he has the red iPod – that is, Flashheart’s red iPod.

As I watch everyone going about their business, I almost forget to do my own chores.

I continue observing the company, amazed at the resilience of the young Jocks. They are surviving as best they can, just as we all are. I am drawn to the ordinarily common events that they make fun of. Someone only has to trip over in a gun position, or say something remotely feminine, for the place to erupt with laughter. They abuse each other all day long, but it’s what gets them through the day. In fact, it’s what gets all of us through. One minute, you might be the subject of ridicule, but if you are wounded the next minute, your section will carry you as many miles as necessary. Every man knows it. That’s because when you get hurt, the lads get straight back to the serious business of being there for each other.

Capt. Wood is all over the fact that a much-needed injection of morale is required to motivate individuals carrying out the mundane tasks of equipment husbandry outside in the area housing the WMIKs. ‘Sgt T,’ he says with a smile, ‘I think you may be developing a man-crush on Flashheart.’

Ham jumps on the bandwagon, adding, ‘Aye, sir, that’s why she keeps going on about him… she’s after his other knee pad.’

Laughing, I shake my head. I realise I’m in a no-win situation, so I just go with it. ‘Maybe I do have a man-crush on Flashheart. So what?’ I try to keep my face stern, but one look at Ham has me giggling. ‘You are a dick, Ham, but you are right about the knee pad.’

Cpl Ham McLaughlin is a driving force of antics around base; he finds comedy in everything. Even when he is pissed off, he can still manage to make a joke of something. He is constantly messing with people and their kit. If you fall on your arse when you go to sit down because your chair is suddenly missing from where it’s always been, you can be sure that Ham has had something, or everything, to do with it.

Ham spends most of his time between the wall and the roof. He is another soldier suffering from the ‘at war, ten years older’ makeover. He constantly pesters me about what I know about when we are getting out of here. Ham was in Marjah with Kev and me, so we are all a tight-knit group

Everyone is still laughing because of the joke about my ‘man-crush’ on Flashheart, lifting morale for a moment. This is as it should be – soldiers never let the truth get in the way of a good lie. We all eagerly wait for another resupp. Information relayed over the net says that the mentoring team’s medic is inbound. This is great news, because it means that I get Sean back. Afghan special ops are sending a team out with two British mentors. This is more good news, as they usually come with decent kit, and, moreover, better support.

Low on manpower, Davey needs a hand coordinating getting these guys off the helicopter and back to the base. I get my kit on, preparing myself for the trip out. Monty is taking a well-earned break, sleeping in the aid post. He and his men have been getting smashed these last few days. I am becoming more aware of just how much the boss achieves with this company, albeit not at full strength. Once every mission is complete, Maj. Clark ensures that there is a value-adding debrief: no bullshit, just anything that went well, and anything that could be done better.

When his men stand down, that’s exactly what they get to do: relax. The boss leaves them alone. They respond by giving him total respect and 100 per cent effort at all times. These Jocks depend on each other, and they will die for one another without question. That’s a rare commodity in this day and age, and I admire it.

I often chat with Monty about home and what he will do when he gets there. He is an old-fashioned family man who misses his wife and two daughters. He keeps a picture of his wife and girls beside his roll mat, just as Davey does.

Heading out to the HLZ, I catch up with Davey at the gate. He relays information that it is wheels up from Camp Bastion, so the helo will be arriving shortly. As we take up our positions I see that Davey is very close to where the bird normally sits when it lands. It’s dark so his shadow is illuminated by the cylums. With the threat of attack on our helicopter so high, a short period of time on the ground is paramount. The coordination must be exact and smooth.

The Chinook lands heavy on the ground; large crates are dropped, followed by my medic and the guys mentoring the Afghan team. I grab hold of the first man and instruct him to follow me and stay close. Getting off a helicopter into an unknown area can be disorientating, and that’s why I guide them in. The Chinook quickly lifts off as we make our way back into the PB.

Davey soon reveals that he was nearly squashed by the Chinook, reaffirming my earlier thought that he was way too close to where the bird normally sits. His team all get busy sorting through the stores, and Ham gets involved with the ATV and trailer stuff, still making time to mock Davey for his near-death experience, though.