by Andy McNab
‘Right, to reiterate,’ said Sergeant Reynolds, his voice already dry and raspy with the dust in the air: ‘our aim, while we’re stuck out here in this fantastic little holiday camp, CP2, is to drive the Taliban into the desert and away from the local population. Is that understood?’
That was probably easier said than done, thought Liam, but he kept his mouth shut.
‘And we are to use all methods at our disposal to persuade them to get moving. And I’m assuming I don’t really need to explain in detail what I mean by that, right?’
Liam knew exactly what the sergeant was talking about: he meant the gathering of local intelligence and getting to know the local population and protecting them; but also the potential use of force. And if they had to use it to clear the Taliban out, then they would. And from what Liam had seen in the compound, as well as back at Camp Bastion, they had a fairly hefty arsenal to draw from and to call upon as backup.
‘I know we’ve only just arrived,’ continued the sergeant, ‘but we’re not here on a jolly. So you’ve all got thirty minutes to sort out what’s left of your kit. Then we’ll be going out on our first foot patrol.’
Liam noticed everyone lean forward. This was it: they weren’t just out in a checkpoint; they were about to head off and possibly run into the Taliban.
‘First patrol will be me,’ said the sergeant, ‘Scott, Dinsdale, White, Allan and Finch, you lucky lads. Allan, radio. And as this is your second tour, Finch, you can be point man.’
Jason Finch, Liam noticed, seemed to smile, like he was happy at the news.
‘Lance Corporal Jackson will be staying put,’ continued the sergeant. ‘With Hacker, Macdonald and Pearce. They’ll be up in the sangars until we get back, manning the Gimpys, with their eyes on us, and anything that moves, or looks like it might move, just in case we need to haul arse back here sharpish and they have to put in some covering fire. Any questions?’
Liam had no questions, only relief that for his first patrol, at least, Mike wasn’t going with him.
One thing that he had noticed almost immediately when they turned up at Checkpoint 2 was that Sergeant Reynolds had eased off a little. He was still in charge, but he was now treating them as a team of professionals he could depend on and trust, and not simply a group of soldiers he had to whip into shape. It wasn’t so much in what he was saying or doing, but the way he was saying or doing it, and already Liam had noticed its effect on the group, making them more at ease with each other and their surroundings, but no less switched on or aware.
The sharp rattle of gunfire snatched Liam from his thoughts as it peppered the air like firecrackers. Everyone was on their feet in a beat.
‘Jackson!’ ordered Sergeant Reynolds, his voice calm but firm, pointing up at one of the sangars. ‘Get yourself up there now! I want eyes on whoever it is having a go at us and to return fire.’ He then turned to the rest of the multiple and nodded at the compound’s wall. ‘The rest of you, grab your weapons and get up there too! This is it. We’re out in the badlands now, not back home on a range playing with blanks. And keep your bloody heads down! I don’t want anyone fucking this up and getting their faces shot off on my watch, particularly on our first sodding day, understand?’
Up at the wall, peering through his SUSAT, and with his rifle’s safety off, Liam tried to control his breathing and calm himself down. He couldn’t see anything in front of them that looked like it was an enemy combatant, not that he was really sure what one would look like. The fields were quiet and the only movement they could see was a couple of tethered goats in the distance slowly munching their way through a dried-out patch of scrub.
More rounds came in, thudding into the walls like fat, drunken bees.
Sergeant Reynolds’ voice bellowed across the compound. ‘Jackson! You got anything out there? We need to let them know they can’t just take pot shots at us!’
‘Nothing!’ Jackson called back, frustration ringing out clear in his voice. Then, ‘No, wait . . . There! Two o’clock. Movement in those bushes!’
Liam and the other soldiers trained their weapons on where the corporal had directed them.
More rounds came in and they all saw the faint spark of muzzle flash from exactly where the corporal had said.
‘Return fire!’ shouted Sergeant Reynolds. ‘Let them know we’re here, lads! Have it!’
Liam didn’t have to think; he just squeezed the trigger. His rifle kicked, but he was more than used to it now, thanks to all the practice he’d put in, not just during training but also since landing in Afghanistan. He held it firm, training short bursts of fire into the bushes.
‘Hold!’ shouted Sergeant Reynolds, then shouted for Jackson to have another look.
The compound fell eerily silent. For a moment no further rounds came in.
‘Can’t see anything,’ said Jackson. ‘Either he’s dead, which I’d prefer, or he’s gone to ground, like a shit-scared rabbit.’
‘Well, at least we’ve got something to go check out on our patrol, hey, lads?’ said the sergeant, and Liam noticed a hint of excitement in his voice.
With no further evidence of attack, and with everything calm again, what was left of the thirty minutes the sergeant had given them all to sort themselves out zipped by, and Liam was now sitting with the rest of his patrol around a makeshift 3D map of the area surrounding their compound. Lance Corporal Jackson and the others stayed up in the sangars, but as yet no reports had come in of any further movement. Whoever had been shooting was either dead, injured or had slipped away.
Sergeant Reynolds went through the route they were going to take, which involved taking in the position they’d been fired on from earlier, then leading round through a number of fields to another compound, which was apparently a small farm dwelling.
‘After we’ve checked this position to see if there’s any evidence of who was firing on us,’ he said as he pointed at a basic model of the area he’d put together on the ground, using anything from a mess tin to represent Checkpoint 2, to sticks to mark roads, ‘we need to push through here and up to the compound.’
Liam stared at the model, focusing on the route they’d have to take to the compound, which on the sergeant’s map was just a large rock. It wasn’t just the route he tried to memorize, though, but any major features that he would be able to identify; that would help him make his way back safely if the patrol was split up for whatever reason. It was something he was certain they’d all work hard to avoid, but he’d rather be sure of his route back than find himself out in the fields, alone, with no idea of how to get home to Checkpoint 2, with the Taliban closing in around him, eager for fresh blood.
‘If there’s no one around, then we need to start being worried,’ continued the sergeant, keeping everyone’s attention on the model, ‘and this alleyway here is looking horrendous, so we all need to be switched on.’
Liam knew what the sergeant was getting at. If there were people around, farmers or whatever just getting on with life, it was a good sign that there were no Taliban in the local area. Because when they moved in to do what they did best and try to kill soldiers, the locals often got wind of it first, and would clear out before anything kicked off. As someone had told them back at Camp Bastion, if the locals suddenly stop using a bridge, there’s usually a reason why. And that reason is probably a few kilos of explosive just waiting for you to trigger it.
Talk over, everyone gathered by the battered gate that was the only way into and out of the compound. Jason, a Geordie, who was also the smallest in the multiple and who made up for it by being the loudest mouth of the lot of them, was carrying a combat metal detector and smoking a cigarette. Slung by his side was a black combat shotgun.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said as Liam stood by him doing his all not to seem too nervous. ‘I can spot an IED at a hundred paces. And this thing can detect not just an IED but someone even just thinking about placing one.’ He patted the metal detector like a well-loved pet. ‘Where you from, a
nyway?’
‘London,’ said Liam.
‘Cigarette?’
Liam shook his head as Sergeant Reynolds walked past and over to the gate. Almost as one, each member of the patrol readied their weapons and got into line.
‘Finch?’ called the sergeant and nodded forwards.
Flicking his cigarette to the ground, Jason walked forward and through the gate. Within a few metres of the compound, heading out on the route they’d discussed, he moved forward, swinging the metal detector left and right.
16
THE SPLATTER OF blood on the scorched grass, and on the leaves of the bush in front of them, might have already dried in the sun, but the sight was no less awful. Liam knew that none of them had any idea whose bullets had hit home.
‘Terry must’ve scarpered,’ said Jason, using the slang term Liam had heard around and about to refer to the Taliban. He was crouching down to examine some scuff marks in the dirt.
To Liam they looked like nothing out of the ordinary, which made him even more glad that he was out here with someone with as much experience as Jason clearly displayed.
‘Looks like he went that way,’ Jason said, nodding across towards the target compound, ‘which is where we’re heading anyway, so he might be holed up there when we arrive. Hope so anyway, right? Grabbing ourselves a live one would be a bloody excellent bonus.’
‘He’s wounded,’ said Sergeant Reynolds. ‘That’ll slow up not just him but whoever he’s with, because he’ll need medical attention. And you know full well the Taliban don’t get taken alive. If he’s where we’re going and still breathing, you can count on the little bastard having a go at us.’
‘Seriously?’ said Liam, still staring at the blood. ‘He wouldn’t want to just stay put and not get found?’
‘They don’t have a death wish,’ said Jason, ‘but they don’t quit, either. If he’s armed and knows he’s trapped, he’ll kick off, throwing everything he’s got at us. And don’t go thinking they’re crappy fighters, either. They know what they’re doing and this place is their home. We’re the ones playing catch-up. And sometimes it really fucking shows.’
‘Right, let’s move out,’ said Sergeant Reynolds. ‘Everyone, remember your drills and keep your eyes open. We’ve at least one enemy out there, dead or otherwise, so I’d put money on there being more of them, even if all they’re doing is watching to see how we work.’
Liam and the others got ready to move on.
‘Finch,’ said the sergeant, ‘keep that ground sight together, yeah? Yell if you see anything. There’s no rush. I’d rather be out here longer and get everyone back in one piece than turn in for an early night, hot chocolate and an episode of Antiques Roadshow with one of us minus a leg, got me?’
‘Sure thing, boss,’ said Jason, and moved off, the detector swinging again with a steady left-right beat.
Liam was three men down from Jason, with John Allan just in front manning the radio, and he had to force himself not to jump every time a branch snapped or a stone shifted underfoot. With each and every step he was sure something was going to explode and end his tour before it had even begun. He’d had nightmares about being blown up. He’d woken up sweating, short of breath, convinced he was dying, blown apart. But he knew this was normal; Cameron had confessed to the same.
Arriving at the other compound without incident, Liam joined in a thorough search of the place. Nothing was found, though: no trace of the wounded Taliban they had expected to find.
‘Where do you think he went?’ Liam asked as Jason walked over.
‘Hopefully nowhere,’ said Jason. ‘I’d prefer the fucker to be dead than running back to get his mates to come and have a go at us.’
‘It’d be good to have a scrap, though,’ said Liam, not really meaning his words to be heard. He didn’t really want to get into a fight, but a small part of him wanted to be tested.
‘Everyone thinks that when they turn up here,’ said Jason, and Liam heard the experience in his words. ‘You’ve been trained for it, right? And you want to see if you can handle it.’
Liam nodded, said nothing.
‘After a while, though,’ continued Jason, ‘you begin to realize that the only good thing that can come out of any of this is that you get through each day and each night, then go home in one piece to a pint of beer, a warm bed and, if you’re lucky, a shag.’
Saying no more, he led them all back to the compound. After a quick debrief by Sergeant Reynolds they all went to their sleep areas.
‘It’s a little bit different to doing a foot patrol at Catterick, isn’t it?’ said Cameron. ‘I’d almost think about using the word “exciting” if it hadn’t been so bloody terrifying.’
Liam was relieved to hear someone else admit to having been nervous as well.
‘You reckon that Taliban is still out there?’ he asked, imagining whoever it was getting ready for another attack, probably with reinforcements.
‘Dead, I reckon,’ said Cameron. ‘We tore that position apart. I was amazed we didn’t find a body. Not that I wanted to, but I just don’t see how anyone got out of that alive.’
Liam had wondered the same but had kept the thought to himself.
‘By the way,’ said Cameron, ‘Reynolds has decided in his wisdom to put me in the cookhouse for a few days. So I’ll be doing the chef thing for us. Any requests?’
‘Yeah,’ said Liam. ‘That you don’t do any of the cooking. You’re shit at it.’
‘I’m hurt.’
Liam smiled. ‘What’s for dinner then? Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? That’s all you live on back home, right, Dinsdale?’
Cameron looked thoughtful. ‘Nice idea,’ he said, ‘but to be honest, I think I’ll probably just go for some nice brown tasteless slop. With lumps in. And rice.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Cameron walked over to his own bed and sat down and Liam got on with sorting his kit. The weight of everything still felt cumbersome, and he knew running with it would slow him down hugely, but it didn’t feel half as bad as it had when they’d arrived at Camp Bastion. With his pack off, Liam double-checked that his rifle was safe, then went to lay out his sleeping bag, which was all scrunched up.
Flicking it back, something flew out at Liam and he jumped back instinctively. All he could make out was big, hairy insect legs, and whatever it was, he managed to slap it away before it landed in his face.
Cameron looked over. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? What happened?’
Liam stared down at what had been, only moments earlier, tucked up in his bed.
‘That was in my stuff,’ he said, pointing at the dead thing in the dirt. ‘A big fucking spider!’
‘It’s a camel spider,’ said Cameron, kicking it with his boot. ‘You must’ve killed it.’
Liam had never seen anything like it in the flesh, not even in a zoo – it was like something out of a horror movie; there were pictures of the things all over the internet, posted by soldiers on tour. The creature was enormous, larger than his own hands. They weren’t deadly, but the bites were nasty and had a habit of getting infected real quick out in the desert heat.
‘I only slapped it away,’ he said. ‘It must’ve been dead already.’
‘You sure?’
‘Reckon so,’ said Liam, calm at last.
‘So how did it get into your bag, then?’
Liam frowned. ‘What you saying?’
‘I’m not,’ said Cameron. ‘These things are everywhere. I’m surprised you didn’t see one back at Camp Bastion. It probably just got caught up in your kit and died in transit.’ He nudged it again with his foot. ‘Ugly, isn’t it?’
Liam wasn’t so sure, though, and without waiting for Cameron he walked out into the middle of the compound.
Cameron joined him. ‘What’s up with you?’
Liam nodded over at Mike, who was still up in one of the sangars.
‘Bollocks,’ said Cameron. ‘You’re paranoid.’
‘Am I?’ asked Liam.
Cameron shrugged and said, ‘Well, if that’s the best he can do . . .’
Liam knew Cameron had a point. Out here they all had more important things on their mind. And Mike, since they’d arrived in Afghanistan, had been nothing other than the professional soldier.
As Cameron headed over to the cookhouse, Liam wandered back to his bed, tossed the camel spider over the wall and sat down. He had no proof Mike had put the spider in his kit, but that wasn’t going to stop him being wary. And he had a sense that this was only the beginning.
Liam quickly realized that the first day was simply a taster before the main course. Three weeks in and not a day had gone by without contact with the enemy. Mostly it was sniper rounds, or someone taking a pot shot at the compound by spraying a magazine’s worth in their general direction, their bullets doing little more than slapping uselessly into the walls, but it was more than enough to keep everyone on their toes. Neither was it simply a daytime activity, the Taliban using the cover of darkness and the fact that the multiple weren’t going to be moving outside the walls of the compound as a good excuse to come at them time and time again. With each night passing, and when he wasn’t manning one of the sangars, trying to spot movement in the dark that would signal that an attack was imminent, Liam soon got used to grabbing a kip whenever he could. It had become very apparent that a full night’s sleep was something none of them would get again, at least not until the tour was over and they were back at what now seemed like the luxury of Camp Bastion.
Liam soon lost count of the number of times he’d heard the telltale whistle of a bullet slipping through the air close to his head. A few RPGs had been sent their way as well, but one had failed to explode, and the other two had missed by a country mile, exploding way wide of their target, much to the amusement of Liam and the others. Death, it seemed, was at times something that was almost fun to dodge, to be laughed at, rather than possibly round the next corner.
Out on patrol, Jason stuck with being point man. Liam knew that they were supposed to rotate and give him a rest, but he, like everyone else, agreed that he was the best at it, his ground sight better than any of them, and they all felt much safer when he was out front. And Jason wasn’t complaining either.
