I told the Hogs I’d been ordered to release them, but they basically refused to go.
‘We’re on X-CAS, Widow Seven Nine, and we’re remaining on XCAS. And it just so happens we’ll be right in your overhead, and it just so happens you’ll still be receiving our Rover downlink. You OK with that?’
‘Fucking cheers, lads,’ I told them.
I’d worked with these pilots before, and we knew the score. But I wasn’t about to let it rest with Widow control. I was steaming.
‘Widow TOC, Widow Seven Nine. Look, we need to clear this up. Are you asking us to hold the front line in the Green Zone, but if we find armed enemy we’re not allowed to do anything? ’Cause if that’s the case you need to get the lot of us out of here.’
‘Stand by.’
As I waited for a proper answer, I got a call from the A-10s.
‘Sir, are you watching your Rover? I’m visual with an eight-man patrol with RPGs and AKs moving west out of Qada Kalay.’
I flicked my eyes to my Rover screen: the eight-man enemy patrol was clearly visible, snaking through the trees.
‘Roger. Stand by.’ I called Widow TOC, told him what we could see, and asked if we were clear to engage.
‘Negative: they are not an immediate threat to you.’
‘Not now they’re not,’ I fumed, ‘but what about when they reach Alpha Xray in an hour’s time?’
‘Negative: they are not an immediate threat to you.’
I got on to the A-10 pilot, and told him what was what. Then: ‘Is there any chance you can dive on to target, have an ND with the 30mm, and mow the lot of them down?’
The pilot burst out laughing. An ND stood for negligent discharge — a posh term for firing off some rounds by accident.
We tracked that patrol for an hour or more, as they passed through several enemy checkpoints. Every five minutes I kept asking for clearance to fire. I didn’t get it, and finally the A-10s were out of fuel.
‘Stay safe,’ the pilot told me. ‘It’s excellent work you’re doing down there, Widow Seven Nine, we all know that. Sometimes the rules are just shit — what can you say.’
The A-10s left my ROZ and I lost the downlink. Whilst I’d been controlling the jets, Throp had been killing time by tallying up the kills in my JTAC log. He turned to me with a grin.
‘Guess what?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You’re not going to fucking believe this, Bommer, but you’ve got more kills than Harold Shipman. You’re on 199, mate. 199. We’ve got to get over two hundred.’
I’d never once thought about totting up the kills. I guess I’d been too busy doing them. In any case, body counts always have a degree of inaccuracy in them and frequently get overestimated. And there were better measures of our success — like the fact we’d seized and held the Triangle for many weeks now.
Throp pointed out that it was 199, not counting the thirteen killed by the crazed Arrow Apaches, plus the thirty-four MIAs reported by the elders after the battle for Rahim Kalay. He was determined that we’d top the official two hundred mark by the end of our tour. We’d have to get busy. We had barely a week left in the Triangle. But before we could kill any more of them, they were going to have a seriously good try at killing us.
At first light the 120mm was back in action, pounding PS Sandford with a murderous barrage. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone got killed. I’d been with the 2 MERCIAN lads for five months now. We were deep in Helmand, besieged and surrounded in the heart of bandit country, yet to a man the lads had taken it all in their stride. These young soldiers were Britain’s finest. They were true warriors. And they were relying on me to nail that enemy mortar crew. I decided that there was only one way to kill that mortar team. I’d have to flatten the entire six-hundred-metre-square grid located by Mikey’s radar gizmo. I dialled up a B-1B that was inbound into my ROZ. I’d had good dealings with the pilot before. We’d bonded over a couple of big actions. I reckoned he’d be up for what I had in mind.
‘Bone Three Seven, this is Widow Seven Nine, d’you copy?’
‘This is Bone Three Seven, nice to be working with you again, Widow Seven Nine. What can I do for you, sir?’
‘I’ve got a 120mm mortar located to grid ref 1798617486. You’ll find it in the Pizza Pie Wood area on your GeoCell map. It’s zoomed in on our position, and we’re getting murdered down here. You reckon you could flatten that entire grid?’
‘No problem, sir. If that’s what you’re wanting, just give me the word.’
‘What’re you carrying?’
‘I’ve got a full load, that’s seventeen munitions. Two two-thousand-pound JDAMs, two one-thousand-pounders, and thirteen five-forty- and five-hundred-pounders. I can saturate the entire grid, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Aye, too right it is — your full load. You get clearance your end, I’ll get clearance mine.’
‘Roger that. Standin’ by.’
I put a call through to the Widow TOC. I explained that we had the 120mm mortar located to a ten-figure grid, and that I had a B-1B on standby to flatten it. I asked for clearance to proceed. Unfortunately, the duty operator at Widow TOC didn’t seem to understand what I was asking for, or why.
‘What munitions exactly are you intending to hit them with, Widow Seven Nine?’
‘The entire bloody lot, mate.’
‘The entire ordnance package of a B-1B?’
‘Aye. The Yank pilot’s happy enough, so am I cleared or what?’
‘But that’s… four-point-five million dollars’ worth of bombs.’
‘Listen, mate, I don’t care how much it costs — am I cleared?’
‘Negative. Not for one mortar, no. Why can’t you just use one JDAM?’
‘Listen, mate, I don’t think you get it. Ever been pinned down by a 120mm mortar? Any idea what that’s like? I need to flatten the entire grid, before one of us lot gets killed. That’s what the Yank pilot has agreed to. So am I cleared, or what?’
‘Negative, Widow Seven Nine, do not proceed with the attack.’
‘You’re saying I can’t hit it, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘Listen, mate, get me Zeus.’ Zeus was the codename for the brigadier in charge at Widow TOC.
‘I can’t. He’s asleep.’
‘Well go fucking wake him. And tell him what I’m asking for, and get me bastard clearance.’
As I waited for Zeus, I got the B-1B pilot back on the air. He’d just got the green light from his commanders at Kandahar. Result. Now all I needed was Zeus to give me the go-ahead.
Five minutes later the TOC duty operator came back to me. The message from Zeus was that he wasn’t very happy to have been woken. Well, having a B-1B overhead, fully bombed up and with an enthusiastic Yank pilot at the controls wasn’t an everyday occurrence. I reckoned I had every justification in waking him. But the answer Zeus had given was a negative. He refused to authorise the airstrike.
‘Bone Three Seven, Widow Seven Nine. Sorry, it’s a no go. Those dickheads at Widow TOC won’t authorise the strike. Seems like it’s all down to the cost of the bombs…’
‘Gee, that’s a bummer. Just a pity it ain’t us that calls the shots, eh? Well… let me know if you need me for anything else, won’t you Widow Seven Nine?’
I told the B-1B pilot that I would, and signed off the air. A few minutes later there was a blast on the air horn and another 120mm mortar came howling down on us. It slammed into what remained of the medical centre, leaving nothing but a massive, smoking crater where the stretchers and drips and monitors once had been.
Over lunch — one of Sticky’s classic bacon and sausage fry-ups — Mikey Wallace made a passing remark that he’d love to get a 120mm tail fin. It was the biggest mortar that he’d ever come across.
I liked Mikey. He did the crappiest job in the Triangle, staring into his radar screen all day long, sweating his bollocks off and trying to stay alert in the boiling
heat. It was a boring, thankless task. The least he deserved was that tail fin.
‘No dramas, mate,’ I told him. ‘We’ll fetch you one.’
When it had cooled down a bit, Sticky, Jess and I set off. We decided to head for the eastern side of the base, where a 120mm round had landed that morning. Mikey wanted an intact fin, and the ground was soft enough over there maybe to have preserved one.
It was the dead quiet of a burning, cloudless afternoon as the three of us wandered over in our shorts and flip-flops. By now my flip-flops were well knackered, and held together by green army string. We clambered over the HESCO-reinforced wall, and there in front of us was a giant crater.
Sticky grinned at me as we worked the tail fin loose. ‘Gleaming, mate, gleaming.’ He was like a kid with a new toy.
‘Aye,’ I grunted. ‘Once we get it free it’s back over the wall.’
‘Let’s have a butcher’s,’ Jess asked. Sticky passed the fin, and Jess weighed it in his hands. ‘Awesome,’ he whistled. ‘Fuckin’ awesome.’
‘Tell you what,’ I remarked, ‘wouldn’t it be fuckin’ mad if the air horn went off now?’
No sooner had I said it than there was a long, deafening ‘BWAAAAAAARP!’
Sticky glanced at me, a weird, unfocused look in his eyes. After months under siege in the Green Zone I reckoned I probably looked the same, or worse.
‘They’re fuckin’ joking,’ I snorted. ‘They saw us go over the wall. It’s a wind-up. Got to be.’
There was a second ear-splitting blast on the air horn. For an instant Jess just stared at Sticky and me, and then he legged it for the nearest bunker.
‘I tell you, Sticky, it’s a fuckin’ wind-up,’ I insisted. ‘The lads’ll be on the other side of the wall laughing their cocks off. Jess’ll get murdered with all the piss-taking…’
The air horn went off with a third, much longer blast. Sticky’s eyes met mine. ‘It’s not a wind-up, is it, mate?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s not.’
From the air horn’s blast to the 120mm mortar’s impact was about forty-five seconds max. We were running out of time. Sticky and I sprinted towards the HESCO barrier, and then started running around in circles, laughing maniacally. We were like headless chickens. There was no way we could get over that massive HESCO barrier in time. We took the only option, and dived for the cover at the base of the wall, although being on the wrong side of it didn’t feel too clever.
I glanced at Sticky. ‘Hold on a minute: what if it’s a 107 firing from Qada Kalay?’
‘Then we’re dead,’ Sticky gasped.
Qada Kalay was directly to the south of us, and a regular firing point for 107mm rockets. If it was a warhead coming from there we were right in line to be hit. I jumped up and ran towards a second HESCO barrier some ten metres away. It gave us a little better cover, but not much.
I was on my back and Sticky dived on top of me, slamming my head into the dirt. We were face-to-face, and we were still laughing our tits off. And then we heard the blood-curdling howl of the incoming round. I tried burrowing deeper into the sand. As I did so I felt Sticky kind of spread himself out on top of me.
‘BOMMER, YOU’RE TOO FUCKIN’ IMPORTANT TO HAVE YOU GETTING KILLED!’ he screamed. ‘LONG LIVE THE JTAC!’
I stared into Sticky’s eyes — the lunatic. He was like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlamps. I hope I don’t look as scared shitless as he does.
In the thing came. We’d both stopped laughing now.
Twenty Eight
ENDEX
During the last seconds of the weapon’s descent it sounded twenty times worse than it had done when we’d been in some kind of cover. When the giant round smacked into the dirt barely six metres from us, our world erupted in a whirlwind of shock and pain.
A wall of blasted shrapnel engulfed us, the terrifying power of the explosion punching and pounding me like a rag doll. I felt my body tense, as I waited for the burning agony of injury or worse. The violence of the blast tore the air from my lungs, forcing me deeper into the earth. I choked and gagged on a mouthful of grit and sand, but still came up breathing. How the hell was I still alive? And what about that poor fucker Sticky? He’d been lying on top of me, fully exposed to the gut-wrenching blast. Surely, he must’ve been peppered full of jagged, razor-sharp steel.
After the thunderous roar there was a deafening, echoing silence. For a second I just lay there, Sticky pressing me down into the hot Afghan dirt. I tried lifting my head, but either Sticky was dead, or he just wasn’t moving. I tried wriggling out from under him, but I was pinned down. It was like the grave down there.
‘Gerroff, you daft bugger!’ I choked, hoping and praying that he’d answer me.
For an instant there was no reply, and then I heard a rasping wheeze of laughter — the crazed cackle of a man who somehow had survived. Sticky sounded even more insane that normal, which was saying something. We struggled to our feet. We staggered about in the thick cloud of smoke and dust. Neither of us could believe it. We were alive. And we didn’t appear to have a scratch on us. Not a scratch.
I turned to inspect the nearside surface of the HESCO barrier. From about half a metre upwards it was completely torn to shreds. Scores of ragged holes were still smoking from where the hot shards of 120mm shrapnel had torn it apart.
That should have been us, I told myself. We should have been peppered full of red-hot Taliban metal. How the hell had we escaped all that?
But there was no time to contemplate the unbelievable fact that we both weren’t dead. All of a sudden we heard the faint screechhowl of a second incoming round. This wasn’t funny any more. The bastards had sent up two in quick succession.
‘Back to the Vector!’ I yelled.
Sticky and I sprinted for the wagon. As we did so the string holding together my flip-flop gave out. I was trying to run with the sole bent double, which wasn’t very clever. We made the Vector just as that second 120mm round tore into the earth behind us. We dived inside the wagon and lay there gasping for breath. We were plastered in sand and dirt from head to toe, and soaked in sweat. Chris and Throp were in there, and they stared at us as if we’d gone completely nuts. Neither of them had a clue as to where we’d just been, or of our death-defying escape.
There was no time to explain. I got on the TACSAT and dialled up the air. I got four F-15s — Dude Zero Three to Dude Zero Six — allocated to me, for six hours on yo-yo. I now had four fast jets overhead equipped with ace sniper optics, and I figured we had the wherewithal to find and nail that bastard mortar crew.
I got them flying recces over Pizza Pie Wood, but they detected absolutely nothing. Nada. Zilch. I was slouched in the back of the burning hot Vector staring into my Rover screen, eyes glued to the downlink and I was boiling over with frustration. Where the fuck was that mortar team?
Then we spotted the hay cart. This was it. Finally, we had them. Six males were pushing a massive cart, which was clearly far too heavy to be filled just with dry grass. What did they have hidden beneath the hay: crates of 120mm rounds, or the entire tube? I could feel the excitement building, as the Dude call signs said they were ready to smash them.
The six men pushed the cart along a track just to the north-west of Pizza Pie Wood. Finally they stopped in a mud-walled compound and began unloading. My eyes were glued to my downlink as first all the bundles of hay came off and then… nothing.
I couldn’t believe it: there was nothing on the cart but fucking hay. Only fucking hay. Where the bollocks was that bastard mortar?
Whilst the F-15s continued flying their air recces, Sticky decided to tell everyone within earshot how we’d been caught in the open by those mortar rounds. Chris and a few of the other lads had seen us wandering off, but none of them had thought much about it. Jess had made it into the cover of a bunker, which made us look even more idiotic. As Sticky finished his story, the OC stared at us like we were a couple of complete lunatics. He shook his head in disbelief.
‘A Roya
l Marine and a JTAC… What is it, sixteen years’ experience between you? You couldn’t make this up.’
Sticky grinned, sheepishly. I stared into my Rover screen, trying to avoid the OC’s eye. There was a chorus of ‘you stupid twats’ from the other lads. Only Mikey Wallace seemed to disagree. He told us he was chuffed as nuts that we’d got him his tail fin. Chris seemed to think that our behaviour was beyond warped.
‘Why on earth did you want to go to a 120mm mortar impact point, in your shorts and flip-flops?’ he asked, incredulously. ‘Especially when the mortar’s still live?’
‘Why d’you think?’ I snorted. ‘’Cause Mikey wanted a tail fin — and a tail fin Mikey got.’
For an hour or so after the jets had gone Sticky and I sat in the Vector, and we couldn’t stop laughing at each other. It was the sheer simple joy of still being alive.
A few hours later I said to Sticky: ‘You know what, mate, lightning never strikes twice. Let’s go take a butcher’s at the impact point, eh?’
‘Yeah, come on then,’ said Sticky.
We wandered over, me with my little digital camera in hand. I was hobbling like an old man, for my foot was cut to shreds from where I’d been trying to run with a broken flip-flop. We didn’t really say much when we saw that blasted HESCO barrier; we knew how close it had been, and how by rights we should be dead.
I took a photo of Sticky and he took one of me. Sticky was pointing at the ground where we’d been lying, as if to say — That’s where we were, so how the hell did we get away with it? I picked up a lump of shrapnel about the size of my foot, and all bent double on itself. I decided to keep it as a souvenir of the day that Sticky and I cheated death.
The following morning there was the warning of a major op in the offing. C Company, 2 MERCIAN were tasked with pushing five kilometres east into the Green Zone on the southern side of the river. They were to take Qada Kalay, and square off the front line with us, so turning the Triangle into a proper kill-box. Once that was achieved, we’d be handing over the entire territory to a Danish battle group.
In addition to C Company 2 MERCIAN, there’d be a Gurkha company, a shedload of ANA soldiers and some Estonians on the op. We’d be holding the lines in the Triangle, as the main force went into action on the south side of the river. They’d be doing a five-kilometre advance to contact in full-on bandit country.
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