Warrior Brothers (19 page)

In the age of night-vision goggles and thermal sights, it didn't make too much sense to be firing illumination. Perhaps we were biased and hated the fact that they were messing with our beauty sleep. Regardless, illuminating the perimeter was a double-edged sword. While the outer perimeter may have been lit up, the light didn't just stop at the
perimeter gun pickets. It danced well into the base itself, so any possible RPG firing team would have little trouble aiming their weapon in the right direction. The following morning the sun jumped out of bed and stabbed my swollen eyes over and over again – burning and stinging without remorse. With the constant noise and light display of the previous evening, it was little wonder that we looked ragged.

Things were moving fast and squadron HQ issued the Boss with a warning order for our next task. The Boss wasted no time in gathering his patrol together and issuing a comprehensive set of verbal orders. He always kept his men meticulously well informed. He outlined a plan – a six-man mobility patrol would escort our six-man reconnaissance patrol into a valley and through a suspect village. The vehicles would remain north of the village until after last light, when our patrol would climb into the mountains, establish an OP and observe the village for signs of enemy movement.

This subterfuge would be aided by the mobility guys travelling back to base through the same village. Hopefully, this course of action would give the impression that our vehicles had simply moved up the valley and then left again. A second contingent would carry out a similar operation and insert another patrol on the other side of the mountain. Both reconnaissance patrols needed to secure a position that enabled them to overlook the suspect village while also being no more than 1000 metres apart. This positioning was strategically necessary. Each patrol had to be in a position where they could support the other should an ‘incident' arise.

There was, of course, a high probability of an incident occurring. In the minutes before we departed, a US intelligence officer told us that the area we were headed for was dotted with caves and enemy positions. The combination of the late intelligence and the look of concern on the face of the US officer had us all approaching the task with a high degree
of apprehension. The task was initially formulated as an attempt to confirm or deny enemy presence in the area of operations (AO), and an overt vehicle move sounded more than feasible. However, with the confirmation of enemy positions, a two-vehicle convoy driving through a suspect village in the middle of the day had upped the ante somewhat.

Before departing, the two reconnaissance patrols shook hands. The banter and sledging was fairly standard, with casual comments like ‘Don't toss off in the OP because we'll be watching you' bandied back and forth. Misgivings about an operation are all well and good, but the opportunity to be competitive with the other troops was too good to pass up.

My mate Craig, the team 2iC of the other patrol, was an outstanding soldier and made a beeline for me. I was his counterpart in the water recon patrol. We had completed selection together and were part of a close-knit group of men. Our entire reinforcement cycle had been posted to the same squadron many years before. We shook hands, each trying to suppress a strange sense of foreboding about the task we faced. We were not to know that one of us would later be surrounded by around 80 men trying to kill him.

I've worked with so many men and so many teams. When out on patrol, and particularly on patrols as dangerous as those in Afghanistan, we were all mates relying on each other's tenacity and skill. In reality, all testosterone aside, each troop brought different skills to the table, and each contained its own impressive cross-section of talented, impressive soldiers. Even just the briefest assessment of the men who supported the Khost operation reveals what an extraordinary team it was.

One freefall soldier, who is now studying medicine, was unmistakably one of the toughest men going. He was nicknamed ‘Weapons Platform' due to a physique that bordered on the hyper-masculine. This man was rarely seen in the gym – in fact, he was regularly observed (by jealous eyes) gorging himself on a bacon and cheese pie and washing it down with a big smile and a Coke. He would then take off his shirt to show off a muscular and chiselled mesomorph frame that would shame most bodybuilders. For every pie he consumed, his biceps seemed to grow an extra centimetre. For every can of soft drink, his abs became increasingly defined.

You couldn't hate him for this unnatural gift, since he was one of the nicest guys in the Regiment. He was a gentle giant who was as honest as the days are long, but could turn that
little switch inside his brain at will to transform himself into something that would terrify even the most ardent enemy soldier. He was just a freak. To top it off, he was blessed with a super-sized brain that after six years of hellish study will see him employed as a medical practitioner. His one fault was that his vocal range was pretty limited, only ever reverberating around the lower octaves. But besides singing, he was good at almost everything he attempted. The ‘gaylords' were rightly proud of this man.

The vehicle-mounted troop had their own share of talent, whose existence proved our worst prejudices wrong. One of their team, who was responsible for the insertion of our recon patrol, was Thommo, my partner from the evening saunter around Bagram Airbase. He had joined the Regiment at the same time as me and was a well-liked and valuable member of any team. Thommo loved to gamble and was perhaps one of the most skilled bush soldiers of the era, with a satirical personality well-equipped to make a light moment out of the most dire of situations.

But to many, Thommo will always be remembered for the dining equipment he used during the patrol course. We were required to source our own eating utensils and most operators purchased a large plastic plate or something similar. Thommo, on the other hand, waited until a crowded mealtime before retrieving an enormous blue cat bowl out of his bag. Well aware of the effect his choice was having on the men around him, he stood in the messing line with his bowl cradled in front of him. It was so bloody huge he needed two hands to carry it. His explanation was that the cat bowl could fit more food in it. Personally, I think he liked to shock, and the constant meows that were thrown his way were lapped up like a kitten purring over a bowl of milk.

Another character and gifted soldier, who had proved himself in numerous contacts in Somalia, East Timor and Afghanistan, was Steve (known around the squadron as ‘High
Level'). The man was an icon. He was always raring to go. During a counter-terrorism exercise he refused to remove his body armour even during an allocated time of rest. He was determined not to let anything prevent him from being the first man kitted up and ready to take part in an assault. He was brash, aggressive and covered in black tattoos that suited his stocky frame. Many of the operators' wives loved him and couldn't believe that such a catch was still single.

The truth of it was that, despite being preternaturally cool under fire, High Level was a jibbering wreck when in the presence of the opposite sex. His charm with other operators' wives was only possible because there was no pressure. He dated many women but the true love of his life was the Regiment. He will probably go on to be the regimental sergeant-major (RSM). High Level had asked the army if she would become his wife and, naturally, she said yes. It is a match made in heaven – till death do them part.

But once again, the SAS was nothing if not an exercise in contrasts. Another legendary member of the team, known as ‘House', was far from a stereotypical SAS soldier. At my wedding, several of my civilian friends refused to believe that this man, who looked 18, was an SAS soldier. He weighed in at no more than 65 kilograms and had been a biochemist before joining the Regiment.

House had a love of explosives and, during the basic demolitions course, answered questions that bewildered even veteran instructors with 20 years' experience. He was a tenacious little bastard, and how he managed to carry some of those weights during selection still astounds me. He finished selection weighing no more than 55 kilograms but from the very first day the smile on his face was ever-present. He wore glasses but his accuracy on the 50-calibre vehicle-mounted machine gun was exemplary. With the lightweight House in the turret, the boys knew that in the event of an incident, 50-calibre chunks of death would be slamming
towards the enemy in no time at all. He practically required both arms just to cock the heavy gun, but once rounds were chambered – look out!

It was an extraordinary and diverse group of patrols in Afghanistan, and any doubt we might have had about particular operations paled when held up against our faith in the men we were working with. Those soldiers, those warrior brothers, did each other proud, and that knowledge was a more powerful motivator, a more compelling drug than all the adrenaline in the world.

Our four-vehicle convoy headed out, passing through the chicanes of barbed wire that lined the departure gate. A sense of danger about what lay ahead enveloped the men. It was early afternoon and our vehicles bounced and shuddered their way along the dusty, potholed tracks for an hour before the convoy split and both patrols continued towards their designated tasks. As we parted ways, the men casually raised an unsentimental middle finger to their mates who were heading off in another direction. There would be some interesting stories to swap the next time we met.

Our recon patrol rattled down the road, the men balanced precariously on storage bins. In an attempt to limit the bruising to our tailbones we placed pieces of foam under our behinds, but with every bump the foam would shift. Finally we resigned ourselves to the discomfort, squinting and growling as we winced at each pothole the driver skilfully found.

As our two vehicles entered a village, several Afghanis tried to attract our attention. They held their hands out in front of them as if cradling a weapon before pointing towards the mountains in the distance. The mountains were still a long way away, but as we drove closer, they felt ever more ominous.

The vehicles slowly crept into a deep
wadi
(gully) at the foot of the mountains. Realising that it was a classic place for an ambush, we gripped our weapons and scanned the opposite banks for any sign of danger. This intuition seemed confirmed when our lead vehicle stopped abruptly. The gunner, Brans, had noticed a significant defensive position to his front, which appeared to be unoccupied.

Our vehicle had only just entered the
wadi
, so we reversed a little and remained still. The Boss, Kane and Grant moved up the
wadi
on foot and identified a platoon-level defensive position that had been carved into the earth and reinforced with rock. The Boss requested the digital camera to capture images of the position, so a vehicle-mounted operator ran towards the men with a 12 megapixel camera. At the time, this was light years ahead of anything else on the market.

I was armed with my trusty Para Minimi light machine gun and told the rest of the guys in the vehicle that I was going to move up the bank of the
wadi
to find some high ground to observe from. I slung a set of binoculars around my neck and headed up the semi-vegetated, rocky bank. I was glad of the chance to stretch my legs and let the blood return to my still rather tender bum cheeks.

At the crest of the
wadi
, I located a weapons pit constructed of rock, and a range card that had been etched into a piece of stone with directions and prominent landmarks. This was interesting. There was no doubt that this spot had been occupied and used by people who knew what they were doing. K-man joined me and we signalled to the rear vehicle for the video camera. Our newest patrol member, Dave, arrived with the camera and while he and K-man worked out how to turn the thing on, I continued along the side of the bank.

I clambered across the broken rock for another 15 metres to investigate a rustling sound – probably nothing more than an animal that had managed to stay one step ahead of
the Afghani hunters (no mean feat in poverty-stricken Afghanistan). I saw several other defensive pits in the area, and was just placing my light machine gun on the ground to get the lay of the land with my binoculars when an unmistakable crack rang out.

A bullet whizzed past the top of my head and continued past K-man and Dave, who were still struggling with the video camera. We were fortunate our unseen shooter was not a more competent marksman, as the sound had indicated that he'd fired the shot from no more than 200 metres away.

I grabbed my weapon and quickly moved to the base of a nearby tree, where I took up a firing position. ‘You sneaky little prick,' I muttered as I scanned the
wadi
with my binoculars. A bullet slamming into my head or body would have been a very bad start to the patrol.

K-man soon joined me, thumping keen to lend a hand. Dave, showing early signs that he'd fit in well with the rest of the patrol, also fell into line and adopted a firing position on the top of the
wadi
. Our minds were racing. Was an attack imminent? The men on the opposite side of the
wadi
also took up firing positions.

The patrol commander of the vehicle-mounted patrol, Grizz, thought he had located the person responsible for firing the shot, but thankfully Kane corrected him – it was me he was pointing his weapon at! We remained quiet for several long minutes. Confident that a major attack was not immediately pending, the Boss set up the tactical satellite (tacsat) communications and attempted to source some air support overhead. But none would arrive for at least 60 minutes. Moving forward through the steep-banked
wadi
would be a reckless decision, so the senior members of the two patrols discussed the situation and the Boss ordered the vehicles to retreat and observe the
wadi
from a distance while he formulated another plan.

Our two patrols retreated 800 metres into the valley and located some ‘hull down positions' – areas of dead ground where only the vehicle weapon systems were visible. We quickly sourced every piece of optical equipment at our disposal and began to scan the features to our front. An operator on the swift-zoom picked up movement and countless other defensive positions scattered through the mountains to the north. The decision to sit back and observe had been a sound one.

The men occupying the defensive positions were armed and carried handheld radios. We quickly dubbed one defensive position ‘Hilltop' and noted with alarm that there were half a dozen armed men peering towards our patrol location. A second position was nicknamed ‘Pillbox' and an additional four armed men were observed there. There was also a heavily sandbagged bunker in this location. Two other significant defensive positions were identified, and all of them were well equipped to support each other.

In the minutes before last light, our patrols pulled back an additional 800 metres and informed squadron HQ of the find. Coalition forces were yet to operate in this region, so it was possible that there were hundreds of enemy hiding in the area. The Boss advised squadron HQ that a battalion-sized group would be required to conduct a thorough cordon and search operation. Several messages later the response came through. Our patrol was to ascend one of the mountain features that overlooked the defensive positions and gather intelligence. The vehicle-mounted patrol was to remain in location until first light and then return to FOB Khost.

We looked up at the ominous mountain that rose out of the valley to our north-west. From there we would have a commanding view not only of the two villages to our front but also of the ring of defensive positions that straddled the
ridgeline. From an intelligence-gathering perspective, it would be perfect. But in terms of our own safety, we were going into the lion's den.