Battleworn (20 page)

A convoy coming from Lash will bring in some much-needed defensive stores, which will help fortify this small outpost ready for 3 Commando Brigade to take over. The convoy is travelling through the dark hours, a task which by now is fraught with danger. The force protection at Lash, made up of the remainder of B Company, will escort the convoy to the outskirts of Nad-e Ali, where they will be picked up by Lt Du Boulay and his men.

CHAPTER 6

PATROL BASE TEST

ICOM HAS STARTED PICKING UP STRANGE ACCENTS, INDICATING THAT foreign fighters are in our area. Intel soon identifies them as Pakistani and Chechen, which is a worrying development: these fighters will have travelled some distance to be here and will no doubt be very experienced in the killing fields, unlike the local farmers forced into battle by the Taliban. North of our location, a dead insurgent was found with an Aston Villa FC tattoo on his body; this worries us further, as fanatics of any religion are a danger to all societies, even if they are fans of our football.

Another Central Asian sunset comes and goes, and for some reason, there is no attack this evening. This is a welcome respite for the lads as they prepare to move out to meet the convoy. It’s Jen’s turn this time. I have gotten used to her working with me in the medical room. We have already dealt with our fair share of casualties, and our little team worked well. I could depend on Jen to take command if I were somewhere else on the base; after me, she is the most senior in our team.

As we settle in for the night, the familiar sounds of panic are heard over the net. Another shocker as the CLP heading into Nad-e Ali gets bumped by the Taliban. They were obviously waiting for them, hence the lack of incoming rounds on our base. The CLP now limps through the desert. It was like a ‘welcome to the party’, Taliban style. Instead of seeing smiling, welcoming faces or locals waving flags, guests were treated to the thuds of RPGs, followed by the rattle of the PKM or .50 calibre. If a VIP is inbound, then a 107 mm rocket will be offered up as a side to the shit pie so tenderly prepared by the sweet hands of the insurgency in Helmand – all going on against the backdrop of small-arms fire. It’s like a never-ending musical score, but it wears thin after a while.

Dozing in the med room, I have learnt to sleep wherever and however I can. It won’t be long before I am on my feet again, so I take rest whenever it presents itself. Moments later, we hear that our call sign has met up with the logistics patrol. The attack on them is more of a firepower display, and it hasn’t created the number of casualties that the impressive sound would have you think. Timing has been on our side today. It looks like the Taliban didn’t expect a road move. After all, what sort of lunatics would consider using an IED-littered road after dark? Oh, that’s right,
we
are the very lunatics that did so.

The convoy arrives in the early hours of the morning. The lads, along with Jen, have been out all night. I jump up to give Davey a hand unloading the stores that have been sent. There are stacks of kit everywhere, as well as an overwhelming amount of ammunition. The crates are endless; someone in brigade HQ must have noticed that B Company might have moved up a couple of places on the priority board. Although the ammunition is welcome, it doesn’t stop any of us from chuntering as the heavy boxes are unloaded. Worse still, they must be broken down into some sort of usage system: issuing amounts per man, per patrol, per day, and per week.

I haven’t noticed until tonight just how stiff my body has become. Over a brew, I grimace at the stiffness while listening to the stories from the guys who have driven in with the supplies. They are from 13 Air Assault Regiment, Royal Logistics Corps (RLC). One soldier has been hit in the helmet by an RPG head which thankfully didn’t detonate. One of the luckiest men on the planet, his dented helmet has since been placed in the archives of the Imperial War Museum.

The Jocks are happy once more: a morale box has been sent. The package includes cigarettes, cans of Pepsi, and Irn-Bru, a carbonated drink that is a basic requirement in any Jock diet. Although tired from the long day, the blokes finally have something to be chirpy about, and for a few hours it feels like Christmas has come early.

With the days starting to merge into weeks, PB Argyll slowly starts to develop into a bona fide outpost. More sandbags are filled to reinforce the gun positions on the roofs. That done, we fill our so-called larder. Our newly stocked rations are supplemented with tinned treats in the shape of pasta and vegetables. The Afghan soldiers make flatbread on earth-fired makeshift ovens; their bread is some of the best I’ve tasted. It provides the perfect accompaniment to the new ration pack main meal of chicken tikka masala. British army rations are divided up by letter, and my favourite is the pack marked F. It offers steak and vegetables most evenings, and adding a bit of curry powder or Tabasco sauce will offer up a decent scoff. The chicken tikka is from menu C, which is new and also has the best breakfast meal. Pork sausage and beans, it is the only breakfast that I can stomach; the rest are disgusting. Everyone on base gets up earlier than usual to try to get hands on menu C.

The fresh supplies of ammunition are now being distributed to the different corners of the base; the men of B Company have continued their risky strategy of patrolling into Shin Kalay, and now they have added Luis Barr, another Taliban stronghold.

Tonight we have more supplies coming in via Chinook. This lift is essential, as it carries the vital replenishment of drinking water. The water that we wash with comes via a black water container (jerry can). The Afghans have found a local water source that is good enough to wash with; thankfully, they also take on the responsibility of collecting it daily.

Logistically, everyone in the base works solidly together. Flashheart’s Afghans are much more cohesive with him at the helm. He advises their commander, Lt Col Nazim, and so far he seems to achieve a fair amount with the small numbers that he has left. Flashheart continues to wear his two knee pads, just as some officers insist on wearing their sweat rags like cravats. It’s almost a sign of his quirkiness: if he takes them off now, he will get ripped up by the blokes even more. If you are going to be different, it’s best you stick with your chosen path. Meanwhile, the roads in and out of Nad-e Ali are getting worse. The convoy that delivered defensive stores just a few days ago gets hit hard on their way out. Several casualties are dealt with by our medical team back at Lash.

The Chinook drop will come in after midnight, so after last light the blokes prepare to patrol out to set up an outer cordon. This will at least stop anyone getting too close to the HLZ. Eagerly awaiting the resupp, Davey and his men prepare to deploy to the HLZ. Placing troops on the ground too early could potentially compromise the inbound Chinook and its crew. All seems well, which is usually never a good sign.

Sure enough, within seconds of the helo taking off from Camp Bastion, our interpreter, Naveed, sprints through to the ops room. Panicked, he says, ‘Sir, sir, I hear the Taliban commander say that they will attack the helicopter tonight.’

‘What the fuck!’ Capt. Wood perfectly expresses exactly what we are all thinking.

The interpreter relays more. ‘Through the ICOM I can hear a commander giving orders to a fighter who already has a full view of the landing site and its surrounding area. He is talking about a special fighter for the helicopter.’ This is consistent with the Pakistan and Chechen accents from our intelligence source. Naveed continues, ‘He is in position already, and they tell him to shoot the helicopter out of the sky.’

My throat is dry as I move next door to inform Davey and Monty about the story that is unfolding. Davey hurriedly gets the QRF together, as well as any other soldiers who are free. Sgt Maj. Tony Mason of the RI steps forward, volunteering himself and his men to assist the effort. In addition to the RI’s task of mentoring the kandak, Tony has been working with Davey to man all of the outgoing 51 mm mortar missions. Tony has already earned the title as the calmest bloke in contact over the net, and his small team is a very welcome addition to the base – tonight more so than ever.

With no time to identify the firing point, the OC sends up all the intelligence gathered, hoping that brigade HQ will call off the Chinook until the morning. Undeterred, brigade staff weighs up the risk and deems it safe enough for our resupp to happen. I wonder what on earth we will do if the airframe is shot out of the sky: the fighting platoon is already out, and their cordon is covering the most-probable firing points. The kandak under the control of Flashheart has also deployed to cover more ground. That said, the enemy are set up somewhere with full eyes on the HLZ.

The boss turns to me, asking if we have the capability to deal with multiple casualties should the worst happen. I reassure him that we have set up other points outside of the CAP as casualty collection points (CCPs) so that I can triage correctly and prioritise our patients. We have stocked these points with the kit we have. Depending upon the severity of the injuries, we should be good; it isn’t ideal, but it is what it is – and it’s the best we can do. I have identified team medics within the company, and I mention that I might use these guys to man the other clearing station for less-serious injuries, if the tactical situation allows. Maj. Clark nods his head, looking as reassured as he can possibly be, considering the now-difficult circumstances.

The Apache gun ship arrives on station; it circles like a hawk searching for any dangers or signs of life visible only from the sky. Unfortunately, the Apache will have to be reactive this time, as a well-dug-in position will show no ground sign. A decent shooter will only reveal himself at the last safe moment. As the moment plays out, we can still hear the Taliban commander in direct communication with the insurgent who waits patiently in his hiding place.

Everyone’s on edge, nerves frayed as we wait for our resupp to come in. We can only plan for so many scenarios; worrying about every possible eventuality will see you in an early grave, for sure. The plan is in place, so we roll with what we have – if you think about all of it too much, you will never lift your head from your pillow.

I deploy out to the HLZ with Davey, and we sit in the dark waiting for the sound of the Chinook engines. Out of nowhere, the airframe swoops in, hard and fast. The crew works like crazy to unload the water.

Fewer than twenty-three seconds down, the bird lifts with the shooter in position.

Immediately we hear the command, ‘Fire now! Fire now!’

Suddenly, just as the Chinook is airborne, a bright streak flashes through the darkness. A rocket has been fired. It flies straight past the window of the pilot’s seat.

For a second I am numb, mouth breathing because I am unable to inhale enough air.

Tracer rounds from small arms almost instantly follow the rocket. The small-arms rounds look like tiny glow-in-the-dark insects or fireflies as they zip by.

The pilot shunts the huge airframe forward nervously. Its huge engines soar as the bird lifts. The Chinook narrowly escapes another rocket before flying off into the darkness.

On the ground, the sound of some muffled ‘woo hoos’ carry through the empty night air.

‘Thank fuck for that Ham. Let’s get this shite back in!’ Davey shouts.

When we return to the ops room, the boss and Capt. Wood are sitting at the desk, chuckling. It turns out the Taliban commander has ordered the execution of the special shooter who missed his target, the helo.

Naveed translates the commander’s last radio transmission. The insurgents still use medieval, sometimes barbaric means to achieve their aim. Stories of how the mujahideen treated captured Russian officers were every man’s worst nightmare.

Just as the subject crops up, as if by magic, Flashheart appears in the doorway. Capt. Wood tells him that if he is taken with elements of the kandak he will be sodomised by his captors. Looking hesitantly around the room, Flash smirks and then adds, ‘That won’t be happening any time soon, people.’

Back to my bed space in quick time and positive that my roll mat is getting thinner by the day, I place my weapon down by the side of my bivvy bag. The OMLT had the sense to bring camp cots with them, but the rest of us continue to sleep rough on the floor.

Laying my head for a couple of hours, I wake only for my death stag on the radio. After last night’s incident, I will patrol into the district centre of Nad-e Ali with the boss tomorrow. We must identify a secondary HLZ, large enough for our Chinooks to land and manoeuvre safely.

I am glad to escape the PB for a couple of hours. I do understand my position here – Maj. Clark needs medical information at a moment’s notice, and with no doctor, that leaves me to do it, which means I am stuck in the confines of the PB. Our base is small, so a short trip away is most welcome. The size of the PB creates other problems too: the Taliban need only fire in our general direction to know they will hit something. This is worrisome indeed and constantly in the back of all of our minds. Perhaps a short trip will clear my head, helping me to stop waiting for the next attack. Nevertheless, events in Marjah taught me to be very careful what I wish for: I was initially excited about that foray too.

Plus, we have lately been fighting in places where historical sites still stand. Places of worship or the run-down ruins of what were once great forts, these sites are sacred to the indigenous population but fraught with danger for non-natives of the region. This brings us into ‘military tourism’ to a certain extent. I have developed a distinct dislike for the military tourists of the world. Military tourism is usually undertaken by the civilian element of government-backed projects, and my dim view on the combat tourist came about through witnessing civilians in flowing flowery skirts wearing unsuitable strappy sandals deploying out on trips to the Qala-e-Bost Arch on the outskirts of the provincial capital (Lash). This eleventh-century arch marks the primary route into what was the ancient military citadel town of Bost. The visits to the arch served no tactical or reconstructive purpose, but they did create the perfect combat tourist photo opportunity. This ‘tourism’ has become a pet peeve of mine, as well as another subject that I have become all too ready to voice my opinion on. This is not without reason: it’s usually the resident infantry company that provides the outer security cordon for these little jaunts. Personnel of any description should never be deployed on the ground unless there is a specific tactical purpose or mission; I include hearts and minds in those missions.