Warrior Brothers (14 page)

Her pace was slow and her eyes downcast, as if she were depressed. She hadn't seen us yet. As we sat stock-still, her tired eyes lazily scanned the hill in our direction. We were close, perhaps only three metres away from her, and I could
see right into her hollow stare. In those dark eyes I thought I could see years of struggle, the flickers of deep grief and weariness.

Time froze. So did we. For a brief second even our breathing ceased and the only movement came from our hammering hearts. Surely she would focus and see what was ahead of her at any moment. Surely we were compromised – again. But, with a sigh, the woman turned her head and her hunched shoulders to continue on her unhappy journey, utterly lost in her thoughts. This time our camouflage had been more effective. With a collective but unspoken feeling of relief, we went on with our task.

We now had approximately two days' rations remaining but – in one of the perennial frustrations of operations – had to conserve our supplies to last an additional four to five days. Breakfast consisted of two dry biscuits smeared with peanut butter. There was no room for luxuries as our packs were already overflowing with necessities. The list was as straightforward as it was heavy:

• 16 litres of water (minimum)
  
• seven days' worth of rations
  
• lightweight sleeping equipment
  
• warm and wet-weather clothing
  
• personal medical kits and radios
  
• batteries
  
• ammunition
  
• grenades
  
• signalling equipment
  
• camouflage nets
  
• optical viewing devices
  
• night-vision goggles
  
• helmets
  
• survival kits
  

This didn't include the equipment carried as part of the patrol stores: a further supply of patrol and satellite radio
sets, advanced trauma medical kits, intravenous fluids, Claymore mines and task-specific equipment. Generally, the bigger the pack, the more that you'd pile into it. Our patrol attempted to limit our total weight to no more than 65 kilograms per man. Anything more would prove counterproductive and result in excessive water consumption. Where's a good donkey when you need one?

Setting up a patrol base and then staying there for days on end bears no resemblance to the glamorised Hollywood version of war. Those in the OP have to remain alert, constantly gathering information and maintaining security. The other patrol members have plenty of time to reflect or drift off. The quality of one's journey is dependent on the strength of one's imagination. There is very little conversation as noise must always be kept to a minimum. Some men write in small notepads. Others just sit back and contemplate life.

I had discovered years earlier that I liked to write poetry, finding in the structure of these little creations a calm, secure way to order my thoughts and channel my emotional responses. I would sit scribbling away, quite content to write about the experience of being on operations, about my family back home, about the dreams and fears that drove me.

Whenever we got back to base, we would inevitably talk in depth about what had occupied our minds over those silent days. Some members spoke of daydreaming about home, others about their families, their childhood, food or travel. Each man had his own recurring themes. Depending on the intensity or length of the trip there was another topic that always came to mind: sex. The sexual torment of a lengthy trip could prove almost unbearable. ‘Be thirsty, hungry, fatigued and sexless' – not the kind of things that you would highlight in a recruitment program!

If writing didn't alleviate the boredom (or satisfy the itch), then we looked to the locals to provide unwitting moments of hilarity. Such moments were so rare that even sleeping patrol members would be woken if something entertaining was afoot. Early one morning we noticed a young Afghani male escorting two donkeys up a track about 300 metres from our position. He met another youth who looked about 15, handed over one of the donkeys and then headed back down the track. All fairly unremarkable until, with a furtive glance, the first youth pushed up a creek and stopped in a shadowy spot mostly hidden from view. From our vantage point he was still visible, however, and with the help of a 60x zoom scope I was able to trace his movement. The view that greeted me was unmistakable.

It was like something out of a cheap porn movie. Now we knew where all the donkeys were! I quickly let the others see what was going on and, more than a little horrified, we gathered around the scope to watch the action. Despite our moral outrage we were elated to have something interesting to observe. As I said, we were bored and no patrol member, no matter how righteous, was ever going to pass up the opportunity to view this surreal live sex show. As word passed around the entire patrol, there was a rapid reallocation of all the viewing equipment.

It was now very obvious that this 15-year-old kid considered himself to be the Afghan equivalent of Hugh Hefner: his steadying hand on his arse as he enjoyed quality time with his ass was quite a nice touch. We were mesmerised by the show and were somewhat tempted to fire a couple of warning shots in the youth's direction to scare him or at least save the donkey's reputation. But we remained controlled and let him finish his business. We were divided when it came to scoring his performance. Choreography, originality and backdrop scored highly but a lack of hygiene and excessive brutality did detract from the overall score. He didn't score a perfect 10.
From that moment on we would cringe whenever a donkey could be heard belching in the distance.

Eventful distractions weren't always so trivial. Later that same afternoon, the appearance of a red tractor further down the hill caught our attention. The tractor, a trailer in tow, appeared to be carrying only a light load of thatch. Despite this seemingly insubstantial load, the trailer was oddly close to the ground, and the tractor was struggling to climb only a slight hill. There were also four men trailing the tractor, adding to our suspicions that something was not quite right. We reported the event immediately and later learned that the US military had been very close to targetting the tractor with an air-strike. It trundled away up the hill unawares.

At another point, a stray goat wandered from its herd and walked straight through the middle of our OP. Goats are an essential component of village life. They provide milk and meat for the villagers and are integral to sustaining life in this harsh environment. A young goatherd will spot a missing goat within seconds. He simply cannot afford not to. Knowing this, our patrol became edgy when the goat skipped close by. Freaking rogue goats. Where there were goats, it was guaranteed there would be little rock-wielding boys not too far behind. Our anxieties proved correct.

A ragged little boy aged no more than 12 came stumbling across the rocks. He was watching his footing and so came to within four metres of our patrol before looking up into the gaze of six grubby white men with weapons poised. Thank God he didn't have a heart condition. He recovered quickly from his frozen terror and sped off like a hare running for its life. We saw him waste no time in joining his friends and excitedly sharing what he had just seen. The three boys then split and ran to several villages to spread the word.

We were utterly compromised. It was time to move or dominate. Attempting to vanish off the side of such a prominent feature would see our patrol left extremely vulnerable,
so it was decided to secure the high ground, establish radio communications with squadron HQ and wait.

We were confident that it would take a sizeable or lucky force to overrun our patrol; we were spread along a ridgeline that offered commanding fields of fire. But our course of action was not without its anxieties. We had six hours to wait it out before we could escape into the valleys of darkness. Early in the afternoon a curious contingent of villagers came to investigate. Our proficiency in Pashtu was equally as poor as the villagers' grasp of English, so communication was pretty much non-existent. We were scrutinised from a distance, but all we could do was hope they would get bored and leave. The villagers were obviously experienced and decided to descend the mountain before darkness engulfed the rugged slopes. We had little choice but to wait for nightfall before resuming our downhill acrobatics.

We scaled several ridgelines as we continued towards the border. The strain of seven hours of walking in trying conditions resulted in all of us consuming far more water than anticipated. Each patrol member now had only four to six litres remaining. If the patrol's resupply was delayed then there would be a couple of very thirsty days ahead. We snatched four hours of sleep before once again going through the ritual of attempting to find a suitable place to hide.

It was Anzac Day, and the Boss had thoughtfully packed a hip flask of rum to celebrate. The alcohol stung our cracked lips and parched mouths but it was a nice touch and enabled us to pay our respects to those generations of soldiers who had come before us. We all knew that their experiences – the carnage of the Somme, or the malaria and dysentery that plagued the Kokoda Trail – made our trip look like a holiday.

The Boss decided to split the patrol during the day, since the most suitable position for observing the primary border track would only accommodate two people. That meant that the remainder of the patrol would remain concealed 100
metres further back, receiving communications via handheld radios. Once the OP was set, there would be only one relief in place, as any movement during daylight would greatly increase the chances of further compromise.

In the middle of the afternoon we observed two thickset men walking towards the Pakistan border. The duo was about 1300 metres from the OP, but my swift-zoom enabled me to establish that they were notably different from the villagers in the area. They were tall and strong in stature and appeared to be Arabic. While they had no visible weapons, one of the men was holding his arm peculiarly still. Upon further examination a magazine was seen protruding from under his arm, which then moved to reveal an AK-47 gleaming proudly in the sun. It took another two minutes of observation to locate the second man's weapon, slung underneath a black duffel bag. The men were attempting to conceal their weapons, and the way they dragged their feet along the track suggested they had been walking a considerable distance. We held our position and watched them pass without incident.

There were many shepherds tending to their herds on the lower slopes throughout the afternoon but our patrol remained undetected. Being a shepherd seemed to be a complex life: they didn't just rise in the morning, grab their goats and amiably follow them around for the next 10 hours. Afghanistan is an inhospitable landscape with limited resources. The shepherds would strategically cover different slopes on alternating days. No area would be overgrazed and no pasture, no matter how high or difficult to get to, would be left untouched. This is why remaining undetected was such a difficult feat to achieve.

With our water and rations now almost gone, we had no choice but to contact the base for a rotary-wing resupply, thus greatly increasing the possibility of yet another compromise. We sent the request through and settled down to wait.

After last light we departed for a small volcano-like feature that appeared suitable for accommodating a Chinook resupply helicopter (or helo). The aircraft arrived 45 minutes early and we identified our location with infra-red strobes. After circling our position, the helo dropped its rear ramp on the side of the mountain to allow our patrol to offload supplies, which included 140 litres of water, 14 days of rations for each man and spare radio batteries. Within two minutes the helo was thundering into the valley below, and within three there was nothing but silence.

We knew this was a vulnerable time for our patrol. The local villagers and any potential enemies would now be aware that something had taken place. The night was as dark as a murderer's soul. For 15 tense minutes we hugged the stony earth and listened. Then, working in pairs, we each took turns filling water bottles before strapping ration-filled sandbags and empty jerry cans to the outside of our bursting packs. Finally, as an emergency supply, we cached 40 litres of water (two jerry cans) underground.

With each man now carrying in excess of 70 kilograms, it was time to move – what fun this would be! Just standing up required another man's assistance. The enthusiasm that had accompanied previous night marches was now well and truly dissipated; this was nothing more than a punishing five-hour
grind. One comfort was the fact that we were now traversing a series of ridgelines; although most of the movement was uphill, it was nowhere near the severity of previous gradients.

We heaved our murderous packs throughout the night. Shoulder aches soon dissolved from sheer numbness caused by lack of circulation. Thighs and lower backs quivered increasingly, straining at and strained by our debilitating burdens. Our energy levels were low – we had not eaten a significant meal in nearly 48 hours. We were running on empty but somehow managed to keep going. Some of the patrol members who had struggled earlier clearly found this one just as torturous. But, to their tenacious credit, they still managed to crack the odd joke on the few occasions they were able to gather enough oxygen.

We marched for most of the night and then spent 40 minutes reorganising our rations and packs before snatching two hours of sleep. It felt like only five minutes after crawling into our sleeping bags that we had to move again, but with daylight approaching it was time to face a new day. As the darkness dissolved around us, it became evident that there were half a dozen artificial caves 480 metres south of our position. The openings were significant; it was well worth monitoring the area to ascertain whether they were occupied.

Suitable locations to remain concealed were limited, so we were forced to spend the day balancing on a rocky crag. Having your legs pulled up beside your body with no ability to stretch out bordered on complete hell. This was easily our most uncomfortable day. We set up palm fronds to help camouflage our precarious position. A yodelling shepherd and his herd of 30 goats walked within 40 metres of the OP that morning, and in the afternoon a hunter with an old .303 bolt-action rifle draped over his shoulder had come a tad closer. Clinging to the side of a rock ledge in the scorching
sun was as much fun as resistance-to-interrogation (RTI) training. I'm sure every man would have gladly suffered a swift kick to the groin for the chance to stretch out and end this aching balancing act.

The sinking sun, exhausted from a day of incessant illumination, was just about to knock off as it kissed the western ridgeline goodnight. This was a welcome relief and an indication that it would not be long before we could establish a piquet and find somewhere to retire for the night. A more comfortable OP and patrol base would finally allow us to stretch out our legs. The valley was teeming with shepherds. Surely our good fortune was not going to last.

Just before nightfall, a shepherd who was running down the mountain in a race against the fading light came face-to-face with Ry in the OP. The rest of us held back and listened cautiously. A short conversation ensued; the shepherd must have been surprised to see one man lying in a hide on his own with observation equipment. The remainder of the patrol remained concealed and the anxious shepherd left. Regardless of the compromise, we still had a job to do. Our mission was to continue towards the border, a further five kilometres east of our current position, to reconnoitre a significant cave complex.

Within hours the sun had disappeared completely, leaving the darkest of nights. There was no ambient light at all, as the lazy moon seemed to be having a sleep-in, and descending into the valley was always going to be a dangerous move. The contour lines on the map appeared to be smeared together, such was the drastic drop in elevation. A heavily laden hike down a mountain, a surface of loose stones and boulders, and a landscape shrouded in total darkness: what a recipe for disaster!

We were stumbling blindly into the murky depths of the valley below. Each step was taken with more dread than the last. Countless times my foot would roll off the side of a rock
and I'd be faced by the split-second realisation that it was time to pay my respects to the mountain with an agonising stumble, scrape or slide. For 90 minutes we wove our way down the side of the mountain with the elegance of charging elephants. We may have had aching backs and bruised bodies, but this had now become a personal struggle: us versus the mountain. Our mental fortitude was pitted against the unforgiving and emotionless feature, and if something were to break it would have to be one of our bodies. Never our minds. Unfortunately, that would prove to be correct.

Just as we entered a creek at the base of the mountain, finally feeling that we had conquered this most inhospitable landscape, the sickening sound of a body and rifle smashing into river-rock reverberated through the darkness. Ry had taken a severe fall and this time there was no thought of laughing: his distinctive grimace indicated that this was serious. In addition to my 2iC responsibilities, I was also the patrol medic, so the patrol was immediately placed in all-round defence while I assessed his injuries. Ry had damaged his ankle badly and was unable to bear weight. Rolling one's ankle on the football field or when jogging is painful enough; throw more than 65 kilograms onto a man's back and the damage can be greatly increased. We had all been there.

Ry's ankle immediately became warm and swollen as fluid poured into the joint; discolouration would come later. I took some comfort from the fact that he didn't appear to have broken a bone. What I was concerned with now was patrol security. All mission-essential stores were removed from Ry's pack and the majority of his water was redistributed amongst the other patrol members. I then applied a compression bandage to the injured joint. This was a common injury, so the bandaging was almost second nature, even in the dark shadows of a lifeless creek.

While I treated Ry's injury, the Boss and Kane located a place to hide – an elevated position that was protected by
considerable vegetation. With an injured man who would not be able to move anywhere in a hurry, we knew that if we were confronted by an enemy force we would have to stand and deliver. Concealment was now our best form of defence. We had been rendered vulnerable and immobile.

We requested a casualty evacuation but due to our close proximity to the Pakistan border it was rejected. Such procedures were only available for troops who were in enemy contact. It would have to be Plan B: assist Ry back up the mountain and rendezvous (RV) with a vehicle-mounted patrol. This would allow our patrol to extract Ry and resupply again before continuing with our task. An RV was arranged for the early hours of the following morning.

We departed just before last light. There was a lot of debate as to what would be the best way to reach the ridgeline above, but a work team in the centre of the patrol seemed most efficient. Ry was stripped of everything except his web belt and weapon. Two patrol members would either drag Ry's pack between them or they would take turns carrying two packs – their own on their back and the other on their front. Whenever a patrol member carried two packs he would be escorted by another member who would carry both their rifles. Security was always maintained at the front and rear of the patrol and the majority of the gut-wrenching effort was carried out in the middle.

The patrol really lifted during the move and no-one was working harder than the bustling team in the centre, a role that was rotated amongst the non-injured five. After several hours we reached a trail that traversed the ridge leading to the RV. Ry was struggling to keep going and attempts were made to carry him during the less elevated stretches of the journey. We soon realised that this achieved little more than destroying the back of the man who was attempting the murderous lift.

Towards the end of the march, one of the guys placed Ry's pack on a rock ledge while having a breather. We all glanced at the pack, noticing its precarious position, but due to our fatigue we all thought,
She'll be right
. We were taking our time to regain our breath when, out of the corner of our eyes, we saw the pack begin to tilt and then roll. In a moment it was gone.

As if it were excited to have some newfound freedom, the pack rapidly gained momentum down the ravine. With mouths wide open, we all looked on in horror. The sounds of the tearaway pack grew fainter and fainter but did not abate, and the rolling appeared to continue on and on and on. The cheeky pack finally settled at the very bottom of the re-entrant. ‘Fuck,' the Boss exclaimed. What more was there to say? Kane and the Boss began the descent to retrieve the pack while we showed our sympathy by laughing.

We were reunited an hour later and immediately continued towards the RV. We observed the area from a distance for several hours before the vehicle-mounted patrol arrived. The patrol marry-up was initiated via handheld communications after we had established a secure perimeter. After 10 days by ourselves, it was great to see the smart-arse faces of the VM guys, who were a great crew and could definitely be relied upon in a time of need. Still, whispers were kept to a minimum as we boosted Ry onto one of the vehicles. Our reconfigured team of five quickly resupplied our water bottles and disappeared back into the darkness.

Although we were now one man down, I was still confident that, should we contact the enemy, our incessant training and ability to shoot straight would keep us alive.