Jamie Loden had also been deeply frustrated by the poor support he had received from the RAF Harriers during the contact in the maize fields on 17 August. He summed up some of his frustrations and the dangers his men faced every time they went out on patrol in a private e-mail he sent to a friend the night after Corporal Budd had been killed. The recipient had been a company commander in the Princess of Wales’ Royal Regiment, PWRR, who had faced similar challenges in the fighting against the Mandi uprising in Iraq in 2004. Out of empathy for the situation Jamie found himself in, his friend decided to distribute the e-mail to other colleagues in the Army to help educate them about the harsh realities of modern combat.
The e-mail also ended up in the in-boxes of several senior RAF staff officers in the MOD. What attracted their attention was not the description of the gallantry, austere living conditions and the risk Loden’s men were facing on a daily basis. What caught their eye was his comment that the RAF Harriers were ‘utterly, utterly useless’. It might have been unfortunate that Loden’s adverse comments tarred an entire service, as the support we were receiving from the highly respected RAF Chinook pilots was outstanding. But Loden’s opinions were those of a commander and his men who were doing an exceptional job under the most enormous pressures of limited resources and risk. They reflected his view from the very rough end of his particular trench. However, they were not seen that way in the MOD, especially after someone leaked the e-mail to the media, which generated a press storm.
The Chinook crews took it in their stride. Since the tenure of Mike Woods’s flight, the Battle Group had developed an extremely solid relationship with the crews who lived, fought and shared risk with us on a routine basis. The fast jet-fighter jocks were less understanding. It was not helped by the fact that we generally preferred the air support of the American A-105. Though we never met their pilots, we had developed a close rapport when working in the field with them. The support they gave us was awesome and they dug us out of the shit on numerous occasions. Although the A-10 was an older airframe, it was a better ground-attack aircraft than the GR7 Harrier. It was equipped with a very capable surveillance pod that could deliver JDAMs with pinpoint accuracy, helped by the fact that it could fly slower than a Harrier and had better fuel endurance.
Dealing with the sensitivities the e-mail provoked was an unwelcome distraction from the demands of commanding a Battle Group locked in combat. Luckily the senior officers in the Army’s chain of command were more sympathetic to Loden’s position and the storm in the teacup eventually abated, allowing me to focus on more pressing concerns.
The unexpected intensity of the fighting had exceeded predetermined consumption rates of ammunition and the logistic supply chain was having difficulty keeping up with the prolific expenditure of mortar bombs, missiles and grenades. Planning the UK deployment as a peace support operation meant that insufficient stocks of certain types of ammo had been built up. Shortages were exacerbated by the fact that the logisticians had been slow to adjust their planning tables to meet the growing intensity of the fighting. By 25 August the lack of high-explosive 8mm mortar ammunition had become critical. In Sangin and Musa Qaleh there were fewer than twenty rounds for each mortar barrel; hardly enough to fight off one or two serious attacks. The mortars were vital to the defence of the district centres and we made repeated demands for more ammunition, only to be told that it would take weeks to fly it into Afghanistan from the UK.
We suggested purchasing rounds from the Americans, who used the same 81mm calibre of mortar. We lacked the software to fire their ammunition by our hand-held computerized fire control systems, but we knew that it came with manual conversion tables which would enable us to use it. The answer came back from the UK’s logistic HQ in KAF that it would take six weeks to authorize the purchase of foreign stocks. I didn’t have six weeks; our barrels could run dry in a matter of hours. I rang Ed Butler and asked him if he could approve an emergency purchase. Much to the chagrin of the logisticians in KAF, he got his staff to make some phone calls and they sent a truck round to a US ammo dump that night. It was loaded up and the ammunition was flown down to Bastion as a priority the next day. From then on, every helicopter flown into Musa Qaleh or Sangin carried sacks of the US ammo, which were packed ready to go on the pad at Bastion. If it was a high-risk casualty mission, the ammo would be hastily kicked off the tailgate as the wounded were brought on board the Chinook. If a man had to be inserted into one of the district centres, he invariably went in carrying two spare rounds in his kit.
It was not only the men and the supply chain that were being pushed to their limits: equipment was suffering too. Every Chinook helicopter was working close to, or in excess of its servicing failure limits to meet the exacting demands of flying near-constant combat operations and their ground crews worked tirelessly to keep them in the air. The fine swirling sand of the desert never stopped blowing and ingressed into engines, instruments and gear mechanisms. The engineers would often have to spend up to four hours washing a main rotor head through with water and grease to remove the fine particles of grit before an engine could be started up.
Keeping the technologically more sophisticated Apache attack helicopters operational was even more of a challenge. The Apache was an answer to a maiden’s prayer in terms of its capability, but it had the technical temperament of a finely tuned Ferrari. They couldn’t just be started up. When they were required for an operation, one pilot would begin warming up the aircraft and start running system checks while the commander collected the mission brief. He would then sprint from the JOC, climb into the cab and join in the frenetic activity of conducting more system challenge response checks on the flight computer, as the Apache taxied to its take-off point. Day and thermal night sights would have to be bore-sighted for alignment, lasers and missiles would have to be synchronized and digital radios tuned to the correct frequency.
Any of the numerous faults that might appear on the aircraft’s computer screen would have to be cleared and painstakingly rechecked. On more than one occasion an Apache would suddenly go non-operational just before mission launch, forcing the crew to unbuckle, scramble into another aircraft and begin the process of detailed technical checks all over again.
Though less sophisticated, the vehicle fleet was also taking a pounding from continuous driving over rugged desert terrain. Clutches were often burnt out in the soft sand and axles broken as WMIKs crossed rocky wadi beds. Vehicle mechanics, such as Corporal Smith of the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers detachment, accompanied long-ranging patrols and crews learned to spot problems early and conduct running repairs in the heat and dust of the field. Spares packs were carried and additional spares, such as complete gearboxes, were flown out by helicopter and changed in place to get a vehicle back on the road again.
Despite the fatigue, lack of sleep and harsh conditions, the will to combat and esprit de corps of the Battle Group remained sky-high. There were momentary dips in morale when losses were sustained, especially among a close-knit platoon or company, but people accepted risk and loss as part of the business that they were in. It was evident during Operation Baghi, which was the next Battle Group operation to Sangin. The stocks of supplies that had previously been built up in the district centre had begun to run low. The threat to inserting helicopters meant that topping up supplies with loads under-slung beneath the Chinooks was an emergency option. Running a vehicle convoy into the base was also dangerous, as it would be vulnerable to ambush as it moved through the town. However, we knew that if we could bridge the Helmand River we could bring in supplies from the empty desert on the west bank.
On 29 August the air-portable ferry bridge that we had requested had arrived in Bastion. It came in sections that could be carried on several trucks. Transporting it up to Sangin would mean running another ground convoy in from the east, but once the bridge was in place we would be able to open up another less risky route into the district centre. Getting the bridge through Sangin would require two i
nfantry companies to secure the route through the town. B Company was available as the Ops 1 Company in Bastion and I would find the second sub-unit of infantry by taking some risk in Gereshk and stripping out C Company for the operation. D Squadron’s armoured vehicles would escort the trucks and other supply vehicles through the wadi into the district centre. With the exception of using the Patrols Platoon to secure the high ground that overlooked the river from the east bank, Operation Baghi would be a rerun of the resupply operation that we had conducted in July and there was every chance that the Taliban would be waiting for us.
It was dark as the turbines of the CH-47s began to whine and the troops stirred from where they slumbered in their allotted chalk lines at the back of the aircraft. NCOs counted people off and some smoked a last-minute cigarette. Chinstraps were done up as magazines were pushed home into rifles, bandoliers of spare bullets were adjusted and belts of linked rounds were snapped shut into feed trays. We flew fast and low to beat the coming of dawn, but first light was already breaking as the Chinooks dropped across the river line of the Sangin Valley. With only four aircraft available, we were packed in like sardines. Each man carried two mortar bombs in his back pack and a quad and trailer carrying more rounds was shackled on to the tailgate. There was no room to sit and each man stood pressed up close to the men around him. It was like being on the Tube at rush hour, although adrenaline coursed through us and our thoughts were very different to those of a commuter who had little else to think about other than the drudgery of the day ahead. The Moo gunners traversed their door-mounted weapons across the treelines looking for possible Taliban firing positions as we made the final run into the LZ.
I caught a glimpse of popping brightness and white smoke outside the fuselage through the crush of bodies, as my aircraft suddenly started pumping out its flares. Were they being fired to decoy a heat-seeking missile? Had the Taliban managed to get hold of the weapons that had proved so devastating against Russian helicopters? I trusted the technology of the defensive aid suite to distract any missile that might be in the air from the hot exhausts of the engines, as the pilot went into his evasion drills and banked the aircraft violently left and right. I just caught the final approach warning signal, saw the swirling cloud of brown-out rise up to meet us and inhaled involuntarily as the Chinook spanked into a hard landing on the ground. The force of the impact threw us forward. I suddenly found myself sprawled halfway into the cockpit looking up at the two pilots, the lower part of my body pinned to the floor by members of Tac who had fallen on top of me. Tony Lynch uttered an expletive and managed an apology as we struggled to get up. It was worse for those at the back of the aircraft. The quad bike had broken its shackles and its rider was thrown off as it ran over four of the nearest blokes. Swearing and shouting was audible over the noise of the engines and pandemonium reigned as each man fought against the heavy weight on his back to regain his footing and get off the helicopter.
I spent a nerve-racking few moments, expecting to hear the strike of bullets against the side of the aircraft, as I waited for the seething crush of people to clear the tailgate. It was a relief suddenly to find myself being blasted by the sand and grit outside the helicopter, as the pilot pulled on the power and lifted off. I had landed with C Company along the river line to the south of the district centre. They would clear into the east of the town and B Company would advance into the north. I pushed Tac into the district centre, linked up with a bearded Jamie Loden and headed to the roof.
The message crackled through the net: ‘Emerald 6, this is Silver 6. Contact; wait out.’ Emerald 6 was my radio call sign, Silver 6 belonged to Giles Timms commanding B Company. It told me that his men had come under fire as they pushed through the same fields in which Corporal Budd had been killed. The point section of his leading platoon under Corporal ‘Scottie’ Evans had begun to take fire from the Taliban and the rest of 5 Platoon returned fire. I could see the tail end of B Company as they moved through the maize and skirted round compound walls of the farm buildings. A Company’s .50 Cal machine guns began to provide covering fire from the roof and their mortars thumped into life from the courtyard below us. Occasional AK bullets began to crack over our heads, as Matt Carter began to cue in close air support for B Company. ‘Silver 6, this is Widow 70, you have incoming A-105 and Emerald 6 has given clearance to drop when targets are identified.’ Timms replied to Carter: ‘Roger. We have enemy engaging us across open ground from the Chinese Restaurant. I want to call in a JDAM strike on to the building and then we will launch an assault using mortars to cover us across the exposed ground.’ I acknowledged Timms’s plan of attack: ‘Silver 6, Emerald 6; copy and roger out.’ Timms glanced round the corner of a wall to look at the target across the flat field, and ducked back and swore as an AK round landed close to his head; he waited for the JDAM.
The exploding 500 pound bomb was the signal for Timms to launch his attack. As a black mushroom cloud of dust and debris billowed up in front of them, 4 Platoon assaulted across the open fields. Once they had cleared through the smouldering remains of the Chinese Restaurant, 5 Platoon began their own assault to take some compounds to the right with covering fire provided by two Apaches. Corporal Karl Jackson was moving through some high-standing crops towards the compounds when the fire from the attack helicopters suddenly ceased. The maize provided cover from view, but it would not stop bullets, which began to cut through the vegetation. His men pressed on at the crouch, hoping the rounds wouldn’t hit them. The Taliban pulled back, leaving their dead and one wounded fighter behind them, as B Company reached and cleared their objectives.
I had given Giles Timms a large area to cover and he was suffering from his own shortages of manpower: 6 (Guards) Platoon were once again providing the QRF in KAF and his remaining two platoons each had a section away on R and R. He spoke to me on the radio about how he proposed to reposition his forces and clear more compounds to his east. I accepted that he would be spread very thinly and that there would be gaps in his positions. It was not something that was lost on the Taliban who started to infiltrate between his platoons that were now separated by over 500 metres. His men climbed on to some of the rooftops of the buildings in an attempt to be able to cover more ground. Corporal Jackson saw ten insurgents moving back through the fields towards 4 Platoon. He waited for the Taliban to move closer. Then his section opened up on them from the flank with everything they had and he watched the insurgents drop as they were caught in the hail of lead from the section’s weapons.
Spread as they were, B Company could not hope to cover all the gaps in their line. One group of Taliban pushed between the platoons undetected and worked their way into a location from where they engaged our position on top of the district centre. The .50 Cals in the two bunkers either side of me pumped their half-inch rounds back towards them. Red streams of GPMG tracer also arced in their direction, as the insurgents’ own bullets whip-cracked over our heads. I got on the net and ordered Loden to tell the Engineers assembling the bridge on the riverbank to stop working. Short of infantry, I needed them to conduct a right-flanking attack to kill the infiltrating Taliban. The Sappers dropped their tools, picked up their weapons and went into the assault with covering fire from A Company’s machine guns.
I watched them go as RSM Hardy was putting down rounds from a hand-held 51mm mortar. I picked up his UGL and fired a couple of 40mm grenade rounds and watched with grim satisfaction as they landed where his mortar rounds were beginning to pop. The noise was deafening and my ears were already singing with a high-pitched ring, the first indication that they were being permanently damaged by the thundering din on top of the roof. I spared a thought for the blokes who were exposed to the high-frequency assault on their hearing day in and day out for weeks on end. I watched the line of one of the .50 Cal guns and was convinced that they had crossed the imaginary fire control boundary that had been imposed to stop their rounds from landing on B Company. I ordered them to check firing, as a radio call came in from Second L
ieutenant Ollie Dale who was commanding 4 Platoon. He politely asked if they could stop firing, because .50 Cal rounds were striking his men’s day sacks that they had dropped just to the back of their position.
There was a lull in the fighting and I was confident that B Company were in the best position they were going to be in to hold the area to the immediate north of the wadi. C Company were firm in their positions on rooftops along the main road into Sangin from where they could cover the south-eastern entrance into the main part of the town. A platoon from A Company would cover the last stretch of the wadi into the district centre. The wadi ran over a kilometre to the east of the town and would remain open and exposed. However, this stretch was also its widest point and I told Gary Wilkinson to get his artillery in FOB Robinson to fire smoke rounds into the more exposed areas. The smoke would screen the widest part of the route from the buildings that flanked its more distant fringes. As the white plumes of smoke began to build I ordered the convoy to start moving into Sangin. The Household Cavalry moved first; although distant dots on the horizon, the pillars of sand they kicked up were discernible against the clear blue sky of midday. The dots got larger until the distinct forms of Scimitars and trucks became recognizable as they drew closer. I held my breath as they entered the narrowest and most dangerous part of the route. I willed them on as the first vehicles broke into the bazaar a few hundred metres away from the HESCO bastion perimeter of the district centre. I breathed a sigh of relief as the last vehicle made it into the safety of its confines.
Having been defeated in their first attempts to infiltrate between B Company’s platoons holding the area to the north of the wadi, the Taliban started using more covered approaches before re-engaging the troops on the rooftops. Jackson spotted the movement of one group 40 metres from his position and was about to grenade them. Moving up beside him, Sergeant Paddy Caldwell told him to hang on until he brought a mortar fire mission down on them. Paddy was sweating; it was not just the heat that made him perspire, but the fact that he knew he was calling the fire close in to his own position. If he got the coordinates wrong the rounds would land among his men. He gave the order to fire and his men got down on their belt buckles as he counted the seconds of the flight time for the 8mm high-explosive rounds that were already arcing through the air. The mortar bombs came in with a crump and he pushed himself up over the lip of the roof to observe the fall of shot and adjust the rounds. Jackson and his men raised themselves up with him and began to engage the Taliban with their weapons.
Danger Close Page 25
