by Andy McNab
He was sitting beside Cameron, and with the rest of 2 Rifles, in a huge temporary hall built from steel supports with canvas walls. Outside, a bright sun was burning the day with the heat of an open furnace door. Dust filled the air, kicked up by the hundreds of vehicles passing into and out of the camp. The air was dry as tinder, and every time Liam breathed in, he could taste not just the desert, but the heat, the vehicles, the kitchens, even the latrines. The water did something to alleviate it, quenching his thirst, but it didn’t take away the taste.
Cameron was yawning like he was attempting to suck in a basketball.
Liam nudged him to get an answer to his question. ‘Wake up, Dinsdale, you dick,’ he said.
‘The largest Coalition force over here,’ drawled Cameron in response, as he rubbed his eyes. ‘The United States Marine Corps. Ooh-rah!’
Recognizing Cameron’s attempt at the battle cry of the corps, Liam laughed.
Cameron pointed at a soldier at the front of the gathering crowd and Liam glanced over at the US Marine Corp sergeant. His chest looked unfeasibly large, like he’d been born doing bench-presses. Liam had heard that weight-training and body-building was how a huge number of soldiers based at Camp Bastion spent their time, and here in front of them was a walking advert for that way of life. And he was smiling like this was the best damned day of his whole brilliant life.
With the hall now full, the soldier started speaking, his American accent as obvious among the British voices as a horn in an orchestra’s violin section.
‘So, do we have any Infantry here?’
There was a ripple of acknowledgement from the troops, including Liam, but if the soldier had wanted more, he wasn’t going to get it. The British, it seemed, were going to play to type and be reserved, which suited Liam perfectly. But not only that, they were knackered. The marine was going to have to work hard to get any response at all. Not that he seemed to care all that much what kind of response he got; he just whooped out with a loud US-style, ‘Yeah! Woo-hoo! All right!’
Liam glanced at Cameron. ‘Is he for real?’
The marine was speaking again, and he was clearly someone who wasn’t just used to people listening to him, but enjoyed making sure they did.
‘One thing you all need to understand now that you’re out in theatre, and that’s the difference between fighting a conventional warfare and engaging in a counter-insurgency.’
Without any warning at all, the marine picked out one of the squaddies in the hall at random and dragged him to the front. Liam could see that the squaddie didn’t look best pleased as he stood there like he wanted the world to swallow him whole.
The marine looked at him. ‘You’re out on patrol, right? Then you receive fire from a compound! Not a village. No civilians. Just a bunch of hard-ass Taliban wanting to bag a few Brits. What are you going to do?’
The British soldier shrugged and said matter-of-factly, ‘Return fire.’
At that, the marine swept his arms round to his audience. ‘Damn right we return fire!’ he boomed, his voice rolling round the hall like the echo of a cannon. ‘We get on that 50-CAL and we blast those fuckers to hell!’
Liam sat amazed as the marine then started to make machine-gun sounds. And they were actually pretty accurate; the marine had obviously been practising.
The sergeant turned back to the squaddie he’d dragged to the front. ‘But they’re still shooting at you, soldier! Rounds are zipping past your head. Someone’s been hit! What now?’
The British soldier stalled, and the marine jumped straight in for him.
‘We escalate force! Throw some grenades in there! Keep on with that 50-CAL!’
Liam had never witnessed anyone in the military explain anything like this before, and it was certainly a different approach to Major Edwards.
‘They’re still shooting! Hell, are they ever going to stop? It’s seriously kicking off and you’re still receiving fire!’ boomed the marine. ‘So, what are you gonna do then?’ He didn’t give time for the squaddie next to him to answer but shouted out, ‘Call in air support! Let’s have at them with a 2,000-pound JDAM – boom!’
The JDAM, Liam remembered was a normal unguided gravity bomb, which had bolted onto it a guidance system that allowed it to be guided to a target by GPS. A 2,000lb one would leave one hell of a hole.
As the echo of the marine’s voice faded, Liam wasn’t sure if he was supposed to cheer or listen or what. Regardless, it was certainly entertaining. Cameron was chuckling beside him, and for a moment Liam thought of Dan – how he would have taken the piss out of this marine. But deep down he knew better; it was no laughing matter.
‘Each and every one of you has been given the training to use lethal force, to kill when necessary,’ said the marine, calming a little at last, his voice now serious but no less loud. ‘But that is conventional warfare. And we’ve gone beyond that game now. We are in a counter-insurgency and that means different rules.’
Liam knew that this was where it all got complicated. The rules of engagement were being tested time and again and life out here for any soldier was not as simple as getting the enemy in sight and letting rip with a hail of 5.56s and calling in for backup from a swarm of Apache to unleash hell with their 30-millimetre chain gun, Hellfire missiles and Hydra 70 rocket pods.
‘Our job,’ the marine said, everyone listening in now, ‘is to work with and alongside the local population, get them on our side, protect them, and by that I mean being on the side of the government of Afghanistan. That’s what’ll get us the hell out of here. And the sooner the better, agreed?’
14
WITH THE BRIEFING over, Liam and the rest of the troops were thrown immediately into becoming acclimatized to life in Afghanistan. And that meant getting used to doing everything they’d done back in the cool, damp climate of Britain, working and operating under the same kind of physical and mental pressures, but instead performing it all under the searing heat of the Afghanistan sun.
Liam was marched around the camp in full battle kit. Like any of the soldiers around him, he knew he was fit, but nothing could have prepared him for a heat that was doing its utmost to kill him. The effect of it was exhausting. When he wasn’t running kilometre after kilometre, convinced he was going to cough his lungs up, he was still sweating, the stuff pouring out of him and soaking his clothes even when he was just sitting down. All of them were drinking litres and litres of water just to stay hydrated. Back home Liam had become used to the extra thirty kilos he had to carry in theatre, but out in Afghanistan it seemed to have doubled in weight and his legs were continuously drained of all energy. When they were practising an attack or doing a speed march, it only got worse, and Liam couldn’t get the water inside himself quick enough. They all carried camel baks – large water reservoirs that formed part of their backpack – and these were quickly drained. At least he wasn’t the only one, thought Liam; by the end of the march, they were all half dead.
The one consolation of the frantic timetable was that he didn’t get to spend much of it worrying about Mike or what he’d said just before the tour began. They were all too busy and too mentally and physically exhausted to do little more than try and keep up with what was being thrown at them.
Towards the end of their time at Camp Bastion, and in addition to being tipped upside down in a vehicle crash simulator and having to not only get out, but deal with badly injured colleagues, Liam was sat on a bench with Cameron and a number of other soldiers from 2 Rifles, facing yet again the awful reality of the threat of IEDs.
They were in a tent that had the sides partially rolled up to allow some attempt at ventilation in the constant and searing heat. It wasn’t exactly effective, but Liam was more used to the heat by now. In front of them was a sergeant who was also a combat medical technician and it was clear, not just from how he handled himself but also how he spoke, that he had a huge amount of operational experience. Everywhere Liam looked, weapons were at the ready.
The serge
ant called the lads to order.
‘This, lads, is a run-through of the systematic approach you should take if faced with a casualty.’
Liam had gone through this kind of drill numerous times before, but he still listened in. This was different, he knew that. It was no longer classroom stuff, things he read about in a textbook, but the words of a man who, for all Liam knew, had done exactly what he was about to tell them only hours before.
‘So listen in,’ continued the sergeant, ‘and hopefully you’ll learn just enough to save a life. Which is what we all want to do, right?’
Liam, like everyone else, was sipping water. And he was doing it constantly. He was also fully focused on not missing a single word the sergeant said.
‘What I’m going to tell you and demonstrate is probably a little different to what you’re used to,’ said the sergeant, his voice clear and calm, but filled with authority, ‘but my aim is to make things better for you out on the ground. I want to give you some simple techniques and procedures that’ll help you deal with the worst when it happens. And believe me, for all of you here in front of me, there’s a bloody good chance it will.’
Liam knew the statistics as well as anyone sitting around him, with hundreds of British and other Coalition soldiers killed or seriously injured since the move to Helmand in 2006. He was in a dangerous place now. This was no dress rehearsal.
The sergeant was now joined at the front by another soldier. This one, though, was shirtless and wearing shorts, sandals and, for reasons known only to himself, a bright orange wig. He was carrying an M4 carbine.
‘Right, this bloke is now out on patrol.’
The soldier grinned.
‘Obviously not like this,’ said the sergeant, nodding at how the soldier was dressed.
Liam and everyone around him laughed, which despite the serious nature of what they were discussing, and why they were there in the first place, lightened the atmosphere just enough for him to relax.
The sergeant went on as the laughter faded.
‘Like I said, he’s on patrol, steps on an IED. You’ve all seen what they are. You all know what these fucking things are capable of. And I bet you could probably even recite to me all the technical shit that you’ve learned about them, right?’
No one answered. But then it was clear to Liam that the sergeant wasn’t expecting them to.
‘But what I want you to tell me,’ said the sergeant, nodding at the half-naked soldier in the sunglasses, ‘is what’s going to happen as soon as he stands on that device? What’s going to happen to him?’
Everyone was quiet. Liam guessed that, like him, they were all still a little unsure of where they were, even those who had been out before and were on their second or third tour. Camp Bastion was a disorientating place. Also, there was probably a fair amount of not wanting to sound like a total knob by giving the wrong answer.
‘The explosion goes as a “V”, right?’ said the sergeant, answering his own question, and then demonstrating with his hands the shape the blast would take. ‘So where’s that pressure going to take his arm?’
‘Up?’ said Liam, his voice joined by those of some of the other soldiers.
‘Good,’ said the sergeant. ‘Absolutely spot-on. And he’ll get frag to the side of the chest wall as well. What about the rifle? What’s going to happen with that?’
Another soldier called out, ‘Hit his head?’
‘Dead right,’ said the sergeant with a nod. ‘It’s going to smash into his jawline. And I don’t mean just crack it one like a punch in the face from a bloke who doesn’t like you in a bar one night. It’s going to slam into him with the force of that explosion and break it open. And he’s going to get blast ear, maybe even blast lung.’
The list of injuries from the IED was growing, and despite the way the soldier in front of them was dressed, the demonstration was making Liam realize even more just how deadly the devices were. And how quickly they could blow you apart.
The sergeant jabbed a pointed finger towards the soldier’s legs. ‘He’s going to have big chunks missing out of his legs. Blood and bone and all the rest of it everywhere, right? The frag will have slammed into him, mashing everything up. He might even have lost one, maybe both legs. And it’s your job to deal with it.’
The sergeant asked the soldier to lie on the floor, then covered his legs in wet mud.
‘Like I said, the leg’s going to be covered in blood, bits of bone, flesh and in amongst all that the dust just turns to mud. So start washing it down as quickly as you can, got it?’
With a bottle of water, the sergeant quickly cleaned up the leg and pulled out a tourniquet.
‘Now put this under the leg and get it nice and tight.’
The sergeant mimed pulling the thing tight on the soldier’s leg. If he’d done it for real, he’d have stopped the blood flowing to the leg, which was the whole point – but it wasn’t something you did to a healthy, uninjured leg, of that Liam was sure.
The sergeant looked up from what he was doing. ‘I can guarantee, lads, from experience, that you will stop that bleeding if you do it right, and you will make sure he goes home alive.’
Standing up again, the sergeant walked over and grabbed Liam.
‘Name?’
‘Scott,’ answered Liam.
‘Right, Scott, come over here, and hold this bloke’s hand.’
Liam, surprised by his sudden involvement, did exactly as the sergeant ordered: he knelt down next to the soldier and took his hand.
‘Tell me,’ said the sergeant, his eyes burrowing into Liam’s, ‘are you bothered that you’re holding another bloke’s hand?’
Liam heard the edge in the sergeant’s voice. They all did. It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge. And a fierce one at that.
Liam shook his head.
The sergeant continued. ‘When his legs have been blown to shit?’ he continued. ‘When he’s crying, screaming in agony? Well, lads, any of you got a problem with holding another bloke’s hand?’
Liam and everyone else shook their heads.
‘Too bloody right you haven’t,’ the sergeant agreed firmly. ‘Because if you have, fuck off now. You’re in the wrong job. And I don’t want you out there. Why? Simple: a fellow soldier gets injured, then it’s your job to keep him calm, talk to him, reassure him, let him know you’re there. So don’t just grab his arm or shoulder, hold his sodding hand!’
The sergeant paused, took a breath, then spoke once again.
‘And if you do your job right, someone will go home who may not have done so if you hadn’t been there doing what I’ve just shown you. Understand?’
A murmur of ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ was all that was needed.
Everyone understood.
15
CHECKPOINT 2 WAS a mud-walled compound stuck out in the Afghanistan countryside. As they’d approached it, Liam had thought how the place looked like some barely standing medieval ruin, the kind that no self-respecting knight would ever use as a shelter, never mind as a fortress. And it was about as welcoming as a disused toilet block. The walls, depending on the sunlight, were either dirty red or dirty brown and were disconcertingly pitted with holes from bullets and mortar rounds.
It had two sangars or sentry posts, each containing a set of seriously powerful binoculars on a tripod, and an L7A2 general-purpose machine gun. The belt-fed GPMG, or ‘Gimpy’ as it was nicknamed, sending out 7.62 rounds at a rate of 750rpm to a range of 1800 metres, provided fearsome fire support. Liam had spotted various other weapons in the compound, including grenades, mortars and one-shot missile launchers, and one of the Taliban’s own weapons of choice: rocket-propelled grenade launchers (RPGs), as well as belt-fed light machine guns and a sniper rifle. The RPG was basic, but in the right hands could easily take out an armoured troop carrier or down a helicopter. Despite the ever-present threat of the Taliban from over the other side of the wall, Liam couldn’t stop feeling a little invincible with so much ordnance readily to hand.
Shelter inside the compound comprised a number of large frame tents, their canvas covers seriously worn, and some lean-to structures made from scrappy bits of wood. Plush, it wasn’t. And the cookhouse was little more than a few gas burners balanced on bricks along with some huge tins of food.
The compound was surrounded on all sides by fields of maize and poppy, all of which were in the final stages of being harvested. Major Edwards had pointed out to the battalion that because of this the Taliban would, once the harvest was over, go back to what they did best, and in some cases probably enjoyed, which was doing their utmost to kill Coalition troops. He’d left none of them in any doubt that there was a good chance it would be a violent tour. Liam hadn’t expected it to be anything else. This was a war zone and he was in it. It was what he’d trained for. All he had to do now was survive it.
All the roads in the local area were little more than badly rutted tracks, often scarred by flooding. In places Liam had seen craters and large sections of road completely destroyed and he guessed this was the result of IEDs. With each one, he wondered who had been injured, how many had died. And if, round the next corner, he would be next.
The fields were all bordered by gullies and ditches, most of which were filled with bushes and tall grass. It was, realized Liam as soon as they arrived, a haven for any Taliban wanting to hide while taking pot shots at a passing squaddie. But as he found and settled into his sleeping area, Liam forced out of his mind all thoughts of his seemingly impossible-to-avoid death by getting his kit sorted out.
Sergeant Reynolds, who was in charge of Liam’s group – or multiple – called everyone together. Of the rest of the multiple, Liam knew Cameron and Mike, but as for Lance Corporal Jackson, second-in-command to Sergeant Reynolds, and the five other soldiers, he knew them by name, but little else. He’d been on exercise with all of them, but had really had no chance yet to get to know them beyond the camouflage. This, though, was all about to change, and of that Liam was more than acutely aware.
