Fire Strike 7/9

by Paul Grahame Bommer

  ‘Recoil Five Five, Widow Seven Nine. BDA.’

  ‘BDA: direct hit on compound roof. Enemy position destroyed.’

  As the explosion died down to a scatter of angry fires, the image on the Rover screen stabilised. All that remained of the target was a smear of shattered rubble scattered in a funnel some five hundred metres north-east of the JDAM’s impact point. The attack run had thrown the blast and the debris away from Alpha Xray, just as I’d intended.

  There was a cry from Naji, our terp. The radio chatter was going crazy. The enemy were screaming for ‘Commander Jamali’ to check in, but no voice was answering. All the enemy were getting in response to their calls was an echoing void of silence.

  I locked eyes with Chris, and the OC. ‘Fucking hell. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? D’you reckon we got him?’

  ‘Could be,’ Butsy remarked. ‘Maybe that was his “hardened bunker”.’

  I nodded. ‘Not hard enough for a JDAM, though, eh?’

  The battlefield had fallen strangely, eerily silent. The Harrier had come to my aid from another firefight and was low on fuel. I got on the TACSAT and requested air, and I got an A-10 Warthog ripped to me from another contact. He was fifteen minutes out.

  As we waited for the jet, the platoon commander at Alpha Xray reported that they could see figures in the treelines with torches. The enemy were out searching for their injured and their dead. I got the call from the Warthog and gave him an AO update.

  ‘Hog One One, Widow Seven Nine: we’ve got enemy pax in the treelines all around our position at Alpha Xray. They’re out with torches picking up casualties. They’re not in contact, so do not engage. Repeat: do not engage.’

  I talked the pilot around all the contact points, and then he had this for me: ‘Visual with two enemy pax crawling through the treeline from the site of your JDAM strike towards your friendlies. One has an AK-47 on his back, one has an RPG.’

  The A-10 had no downlink capability, so I had nothing on the Rover screen. But they were clearly moving into positions where they could re-attack Alpha Xray, and they were armed: that made them fair game. The OC told me to hit them.

  ‘Hog One One, Widow Seven Nine: I want you to attack using CRV7 rockets, on a north to south attack run. Friendlies two-fifty metres to the south-west.’

  ‘Roger. Two minutes out.’

  I couldn’t ask for a strafe, for the A-10’s 30mm Gatling gun would tear up the entire treeline, and I knew the enemy were out collecting their dead and wounded. The CRV7s would make a direct, targeted strike, and were as big a hit as I was willing to risk danger-close to friendlies.

  I cleared the A-10 in, the pilot diving hard and fast, aiming his jet and the rockets directly on to target. The flash of the CRV7s flared beneath the A-10’s wings, then: boom–boom! The double-crack of the rocket’s impact rumbled through the darkness.

  ‘BDA: direct hit on one of ’em,’ the pilot reported. ‘The other’s set off like a bat out of hell. I lost him.’

  I got the A-10 flying low and noisy orbits over Alpha Xray for the next twenty minutes. Nothing else was seen. Hog One One was ripped by Hog One Five, but the Green Zone was totally dead by now. At 2215 Hog One Five had to bug out, low on fuel.

  I had no more air, it was all quiet down at Alpha Xray, so we decided to get the kettle on. Chris, Throp and I sat having a brew, with our head torches casting a warm glow over the chill-out area. I’d hardly wetted my lips when Sticky yelled over that I was wanted on the radio. I had an Ugly call sign trying to raise me on the air.

  I grabbed my TACSAT and headed on to the roof, being careful not to spill my cuppa.

  ‘Ugly call sign, this is Widow Seven Nine.’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Ugly Five Two. I’m en route back from Sangin, and I can offer you thirty minutes’ playtime. I hear you’ve been busy down there.’

  ‘Fuck, aye we have.’ I gave him an AO update, being sure to mention the JDAM strike. ‘I want you flying air recces over all points of recent contact around Alpha Xray.’

  ‘Roger. Commencing air recces now.’ As the pilot got the Apache’s nose-pod scanning, the two of us got chatting. ‘So how’s it been down there? Good?’

  ‘Aye. It’s been a top job,’ I told him. ‘What’s the graft down at Sangin?’

  ‘Not a lot. Sounds like you’re getting all the action up here. Hold on, I’ve seen something. Stand by.’ A beat. ‘I’m visual three pax hiding in the woods directly to the east of Golf Bravo Nine Zero. They’ve got eyes on your friendlies at Alpha Xray.’

  ‘Can you see any weapons?’ I asked.

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Keep an eye on them.’

  For ten minutes the Apache kept his pod zoomed in on those three males of fighting age. I had no downlink from the Apache, but the pilot was giving me a running commentary.

  ‘Visual those three pax, two of whom are now showing weapons.’

  ‘Hit them with 30mm,’ I told him. ‘Nearest friendlies Alpha Xray two hundred metres south-west.’

  ‘Roger. Engaging.’

  Thump-thump-thump… The dark heartbeat of the Apache’s cannon rumbled out across the night, as the single-barrelled 30mm gun spat out a ten-round burst.

  ‘Two direct hits,’ came the pilot’s voice. ‘The third guy’s on his heels with a weapon running for cover. Engaging.’

  The Apache spat fire again, a second ten-round burst of 30mm cannon fire chasing the lone fighter up the treeline. The pilot played cat-and-mouse with him for a further two, ten-round bursts, before finally he ceased firing.

  ‘Third enemy killed,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Widow Seven Nine, I’m low on fuel and returning to base. You stay safe down there.’

  The rotor blades faded away on the warm night air. I glanced at the dial of my watch. It was just past midnight. I’d been controlling jets for little short of twenty-four hours, with just a few hours’ kip in between. As the adrenaline drained out of my system, I realised that I was dog-tired.

  I was also starving hungry. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. I stumbled down from the roof, ripped the top off a sausage-and-beans meal and spooned the lot down. It was lukewarm and gloopy, but it sure as hell did the job. I rinsed my spoon off in my cold tea, glugged it down, and headed for Sticky and my ‘bedroom’. I hit the camp bed fully clothed and was out like a light.

  The following morning we had an after-action briefing. Between the airstrikes and the fire put down by the lads at Alpha Xray, we reckoned the enemy had suffered serious losses. The jets and the Apache had accounted for fifteen confirmed kills, not to mention the unseen and the uncounted. And the lads at AX had smashed a shedload more.

  The enemy were still going spare, calling for Commander Jamali to check in. He wasn’t responding. A little later that morning we had a walk-in, a local elder. He was dressed in a flowing white robe topped off with an orange-beaded skull cap, and he had real attitude.

  His finger stabbed the air as he jabbered away excitedly to Naji, our terp.

  I saw Naji smile. ‘He’s saying that Commander Jamali was killed last night by the big bomb. The twelve men on the rooftop who died with him were the bodyguard team. Jamali was the top enemy commander in the area. A very important enemy leader.’

  Result. More than likely, Commander Jamali was the guy who’d ordered those ten Afghan policemen to be gunned down in cold blood, during our initial assault on Adin Zai. Looks like we’d evened up the score a little. There was nothing for it but to go get a good fry-on.

  The last resupply convoy had brought in a stack of sausages and bacon from FOB Price. It was vacuum-packed, so it was still mostly edible. From somewhere Sticky had scavenged an enormous iron flying pan that was stained coal-black from long years of use. He hoofed the kettle off the stove, got the frying pan on, and threw in a big lump of lard. He got the fire stoked up with some scrap wood and hexamine, the Army-issue fuel blocks. And in no time the wonderful smell of frying sausage and bacon was drifting across the compound.
/>
  The funniest thing was how the terps seemed to love the fry-ups just as much as we did. Naji couldn’t get enough of Sticky’s burned sausages. Maybe he kidded himself that they were beef, or something. I reckoned we could get Naji on the ale, if only we had some.

  None of us could get Naji’s name right. In full, it was Naquibullah, which was a bit of a mouthful for us. So we’d nicknamed him ‘Alan’. I guess we chose the name Alan ’cause it was about the most boring-sounding English name we could think of. Apart from Brian, and none of us were cruel enough to call our terp Brian.

  Anyway, Naji didn’t seem to mind being called Alan, so that became his name. Sticky and him were the best of buddies, and Sticky liked to think of himself as being matey-matey with all the terps. Sticky also reckoned himself a bit of a Pashto speaker. He’d natter on in what he thought was their language, but the terps would just stare at him blankly — which was the perfect opportunity to rip the piss about what a load of bollocks he was talking.

  Most of the terps were a great crack. Even those who didn’t tuck in to the fry-ups would get some local bread, dip it in the leftover lard and pork fat, and tuck in. But there was one terp, a real loner, who just didn’t seem to fit in. He was a shifty bastard if ever there was one. We decided to keep a close eye on him.

  The fry-up was followed by a big cricket-off. One of the few things I had done well at when at school was cricket. Coming from the north-east of England, my Redcar school was big into the game, and I’d been a bit of a star batsman.

  Chris was another big cricket fan, and he was a fine all-rounder. Sticky had never played before, but it didn’t take him long to get in to it. As for Throp, he was a big, well-built lad and he could proper slug the ball. We’d have fifteen to twenty fielders scattered around the compound, and whenever Throp was batting they’d move right back to the HESCO walling.

  But it was Butsy who was the real cricket-head. The OC had played at a reasonable level, so he was a big competitive dad. The rivalry between the three of us ‘oldies’ — Butsy, Chris and I — was far fiercer than anything with the young 2 MERCIAN lads.

  Butsy would be out there in his camo shorts and flip-flops, just like the rest of us, and whenever he was playing he was pretty much sure to win. But if the OC was otherwise occupied, it was usually between Chris and me.

  Somehow, a proper cricket bat had made it out to PB Sanford. It probably came to Helmand in a Help for Heroes parcel, and got shipped to the base on a resupply convoy. We’d spray-painted some cricket stumps on one wall, and stuck three tubes full of mortar rounds into the dirt, to form the other wicket. We’d cobbled together a rock-hard ball made of rags wrapped round and round with black nasty. The most fun was to be had hurling that ball at the bare legs or torso of whoever was in to bat. If you got hit, it really did chafe.

  We’d scratched a line in the sand around the perimeter of the compound, which was the boundary. If your ball rolled over that it was a four; if you whacked it clean over, it was a six. We’d have two innings, and everyone would get two bats. And after the first innings we’d have a break, so everyone could get a brew on.

  We’d play for hours on end until there was a contact, and then we’d run around like lunatics getting in position to mallet the enemy. The terps used to stare and stare whenever we were having a big cricket-off. It was like we were insane or something. Whilst they were up for having a laugh, the terps just did not get cricket.

  I had no air that day, and so I proceeded to have a cracking good time in bat. Eventually the burning sun drove the lot of us over to the well for a good dousing. After that I made for the bedroom, got my bracket down and tried to doze through the heat of the afternoon. Eventually, I drifted into a deep sleep.

  Some time later I shot bolt upright, my world exploding all around me. My heart was thumping like a jackhammer, and my eyes were like saucers. I was shitting myself. There’d been a massive blast right where I was lying, and my ears were still ringing from the boom.

  It sounded as if the base security had been breached, and the enemy were chucking grenades in amongst us. I struggled out of the bloody mozzie netting, grabbing for my SA80 with the one hand and the TACSAT with the other. I slammed a round into the assault rifle’s breech, and flicked the safety to the ‘off’ position. As I turned to face the enemy, I became aware of a circle of familiar faces at the arched doorway of our ‘bedroom’. I couldn’t hear a thing, for I’d been deafened, but I could see the lot of them pointing at yours truly and pissing themselves laughing.

  For a second my confused and scrambled mind tried to grasp what was going on. Then I noticed that the underside of my camp bed was soaking wet, and that there were shards of plastic bottle scattered all around the floor. This was no enemy attack. I’d been MRE-bombed, and I didn’t find it the slightest bit funny.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I mouthed at Sticky, Throp and the other lads. I was yelling, but I couldn’t hear a thing. ‘Fuck off and let me sleep, or I’ll knack you.’

  I clambered back inside my baking mozzie-tent and collapsed on to the camp bed. I tried to get my heartbeat back to something like normal. I cursed Sticky, for it had to be him. The MRE-bomb was a simple enough device, and one of my favourites. I reckoned it was class whenever I got the other lads, but it was never quite so funny this way around.

  Our Meals Ready to Eat (MRE) Army rations came complete with charcoal sticks. If you wanted some hot nosh, you’d throw the stick into a pan of water, drop the bag in the pan, and the chemical reaction would get it cooking. But if you took an empty water bottle, stuffed the charcoal stick inside, added a little water and screwed the lid on, then you had a DIY bomb. You’d have to sneak it under someone’s bed without waking them, and before the thing exploded. It’d go off like a rocket, and the victim would wake with a real flap on, just as I had done. Those bombs were truly, seriously loud, and nine times out of ten the victim would come piling out of his room with his weapon locked and loaded.

  The best time to do it was just after stand-to, when the young 2 MERCIAN lads were trying to get a bit of extra kip. But this time it was me who’d been MRE-bombed, and I just couldn’t get back to sleep. Eventually, I gave up trying and wandered over to get a brew. I did my best to ignore Sticky and Throp’s smirking, and went to check in the radio room if anything was cooking with the enemy.

  Busty came to join me in the shade of the ‘radio shack’, a canopy of camo-netting slung between the FST Vector and the main, mud-walled building of the base. We had a good natter about the previous day’s fighting, and how the air war had worked alongside the ground war, and how winning that battle might have altered things in the Triangle.

  The OC reckoned we’d hit the jackpot, taking out Commander Jamali. He figured we’d cut off the enemy’s head, and left them running round like the proverbial headless chicken. Not a thing was happening anywhere in the Green Zone, and for sure something had knocked the fight out of the enemy. For days they’d been building up to this massive attack, which had clearly been aimed at taking Alpha Xray. Instead, we’d hit them again and again and again, and ended up killing their top commander.

  I guess Jamali was their equivalent of the OC. I wondered for a moment how us lot would have reacted, had Butsy and his HQ element been taken out. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  The OC reckoned it would be fairly quiet until they got a replacement commander into the Triangle. Once they did, they’d start trying to probe our positions, as they had been doing before. They would try to establish the boundaries between our bases, and also any weaknesses they could exploit. And they would try to get behind our lines, so they could attack from all sides with us sandwiched in between. But for now, we should enjoy the quiet after Commander Jamali’s killing.

  Because for sure it wouldn’t last.

  Eighteen

  HELLFIRE’S THIRTEEN

  It was stand-to. A couple of days had passed since the big battle, and the 2 MERCIAN lads were in their positions ready to rumble, should the e
nemy fancy having a go. Intel had been coming in thick and fast that the enemy were reinforcing their units, and getting into positions to attack. Same-old, same-old.

  The sun rose harsh and brittle over the low mountains to the east. There wasn’t a sniff of action from the Green Zone, so most of the lads went back to bed. I was chatting to Lance Corporal John Hill, one of the Somme Company TA blokes whose job was to manage the interpreters. John was a forty-year-old, barrel-chested publican who ran two boozers back in London. I had an instinctive liking for him. He and Jason Peach, the 2 MERCIAN sergeant major, were as thick as thieves, and John would take no shit off anyone, least of all the terps.

  We were torturing each other with visions of a cold pint of ale, when Jase went quiet. He jerked his head in the direction of one of the HESCO perimeter walls.

  ‘Here, lads, what d’you make of that fucker?’

  John and I glanced where Jase had indicated, and there was that dodgy loner of a terp, the one we’d vowed to keep an eye on. As we watched, the guy paced out the length of the southern wall, counting out as he did so. Then we saw him starting the same with the eastern wall, murmuring numbers as he went.

  We glanced at each other, and an instant later we were legging it across the compound. We dived on the terp, hurling him to the ground. As we held him down, Jase produced a length of paracord from somewhere, and we tied the guy up. We hauled him back to the Vector, and got Alan, our own terp, to have a few words with him.

  ‘Tell him we’re going to hand him over to his mates, the Taliban. Tell him that’s who he must be working for, so he can go and join them.’