Lethal Shot

by Robert Driscoll

  ‘He’s not there any more but check inside. I never trusted him.’

  When we did search the compound, we discovered a load of material for building IEDs. So that went down as a win – and it only cost us a few US dollars.

  That first shura was such a success that I decided the next one would be even bigger. This time we flyered the area with leaflets in the local language and told everyone we met to come along. Turnout was better than expected, but the results didn’t match. I went through the same spiel about being there to help and asked, via the interpreter, if anyone had any concerns and – nothing. No one said a word. A few elders made as though to speak, but then I caught them looking across at other members of the audience, men I hadn’t seen before. Only afterwards did someone tell us that the Taliban had infiltrated the meeting. We didn’t recognise them, but the villagers did. They knew that if anyone had said a word there would have been repercussions. I wish one of them had given us a heads-up. They came, they drank our drinks, shook our hands, but nothing happened. It was a waste of a nice moon and a shitload of man hours.

  We held other meetings, but even at the good ones not everything was always as it seemed. We received the odd tip-off that so-and-so was Taliban. When we investigated it transpired that so-and-so just happened to be an enemy of the complainant. We were being used by villagers to settle personal scores. It was like Pristina all over again.

  The person who worked hardest at the shuras was my interpreter. Each CP had one and for some reason they all took British names. Mine called himself John. He was from northern Afghanistan and was very well-educated, for he had gone to university up there and spoke five languages. We couldn’t have achieved anything without him. On patrols he’d have a short-wave radio glued to his ear, listening to find out whether insurgents were broadcasting anything of interest. They mostly communicated in code but we picked up the odd little thing, although nothing much happened as a result though.

  In all the shuras we conducted during those first few weeks at the tail end of March and the start of April I never saw anyone I could state categorically was Taliban, which was pretty much the story of my tour. After a month in theatre the sum total of our action was the odd cache of weapons and a handful of wanted men caught by the biometrics cameras. For some reason a TV crew covering the war flew out to speak to us. They asked me if I thought the war had been won.

  ‘Put it this way, I can’t believe how quiet it is here. We’re fortunate that it’s given us time to learn the geography of the land and bed in.’

  Off camera, I mentioned how disappointed the boys would be if it continued to stay quiet.

  ‘We’ve come here to fight a war that people keep telling us is over. I’m not sure we can take another six months of this.’

  Be careful what you wish for …

  * * *

  As we got through April and the temperatures started to pick up, I noticed a shift in the local demographic. For weeks we’d seen the odd young male walking around the area, but suddenly I was seeing more and more twenty-to-forty-year-olds sitting by the side of the road, just watching, chatting, shooting the breeze.

  ‘The harvest in the fields is over,’ our interpreter, John, explained. ‘They’ve earned their money. Now they have come back to spend it.’

  Plenty more of them began bombing up and down the roads on little mopeds. When we were on patrol I spotted a pattern. I got on the radio to the two corporals.

  ‘Mac, Fergie, have you noticed a few of the same bikes going up and down?’

  They each radioed back that they had.

  ‘What do you think they’re up to, Rob?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I intend to find out.’

  As more men began to populate the village each day I noticed that the children who’d been so friendly were slowly disappearing into the background. We’d still see them and give a wave, but they stopped running over and playing. After a while they stopped waving back, too.

  ‘It’s the men,’ I realised. ‘They don’t want the kids talking to us.’

  It was only a small thing, but it changed the atmosphere of the place. It was like there was something in the air, I just couldn’t put my finger on what. I wondered if I was imagining things.

  That night I was just about to turn in when the road outside the CP turned into the Fourth of July. From the other side of the compound wall – from the direction of the super-sangar – flares were launching into the sky.

  ‘Christ, it’s the trip wire!’

  Were we under attack?

  Immediately everyone in the camp began to stand to. Weapons were grabbed, armour pulled hastily on. I grabbed my radio to call the tower.

  ‘Sitrep?’

  ‘Three unknowns.’

  I flew into the ops room to get a view from the cameras. The thermal images of three adult males filled the screen. Their shocked faces were a picture. What they’d been doing trying to approach the CP was unclear. They were already turning back by the time our guys got down to question them.

  Whether they were out for a ramble or just wanted to test our security, I couldn’t say. It’s possible that they were just young and curious. It’s also plausible that they wanted to find out how quickly we responded. Whatever their motive, I do know it added to the slight sense of edginess in the air. By the time the camp stood down, satisfied there was no attack, we could all feel it.

  * * *

  We had so much food in the camp that we were never desperately short of it, but it was always good to see the truck coming with deliveries of water. An Ocado delivery it is not. Six or seven giant British Mastiff trucks, one filled with supplies, the rest there as security, would make the drop-offs. It was some security. Painted in desert livery, and with cameras at the front and back to scour for IEDs, the Mastiffs were armed to the teeth with fixed machine guns and grenade launchers, as well as a multiple of eight men ready to spring out and engage an enemy. The Mastiff has a top speed of 65 mph, but a golf cart could have overtaken them on delivery days. Even after months of inactivity from the insurgents they crawled up the track, on high alert for IEDs every single time.

  The delivery trucks also provided a good way to get around. In early May – week 6 without incident – the OC J Company sent word he was visiting his troops. I couldn’t wait. An audience with Major Steve McCulley. What wasn’t to like?

  We didn’t go out on patrol. I sat with John in the ops room monitoring the convoy’s progress. It was currently further north of us, between Taalander and Kamiabi, a checkpoint even further away on the dusty track.

  While I was following the British radio reports, John was listening to the ICOM – the local chatter – on his walkie-talkie. There hadn’t been much since we arrived. This day there was a buzz. Half a dozen different men with crazy call signs were pitching in. I didn’t know what they were talking about.

  John wasn’t clear either.

  ‘It’s all in code, Rob.’

  ‘Tell me what they’re saying.’

  ‘Lots of things.’

  ‘Translate it, man!’

  He did, and he was right. Not much of it made sense. For some reason they kept talking about watermelons.

  ‘John, do you have any idea what this means?’

  ‘No. But now they’re saying they have to move them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“We have to move the watermelons.”’

  Within a few minutes we discovered what they were. I was tracking Major McCulley’s progress onto the Dorset supply road when suddenly there was a huge explosion. I heard it over the radio but it resonated in the compound as well. A big plume of dust showed us where it had gone off.

  ‘Contact IED! Contact IED!’

  In layman’s terms: ‘We’ve been hit!’

  Christ!

  The convoy carrying Steve had come under attack. I didn’t know how. I couldn’t get on the radio because HQ would need all bandwidth. So I listened. One of the Mastiffs had rolled over a landmine. O
f all the identical vehicles in that procession, the bomb had hit the one carrying Steve McCulley. It was no coincidence. He’d been targeted.

  ‘Is Sunray safe?’

  Sunray is the code name for a commanding officer: in this case, Steve.

  My heart was in my mouth.

  ‘Sunray is okay. The Mastiff took the brunt. But we’re going to need cover.’

  That was my cue to scramble. We were one of two checkpoints near the convoy, one of the closest quick-reaction forces (QRF). We had to get out there.

  We’d drilled this a hundred times in the UK. In the two minutes it took the lads to pull on their gear and assemble by the compound gate, my official orders from HQ to get out there and secure the convoy’s safety came through. I was already on it. That’s what my training had been for.

  There was something else it had prepared me for: recognising signs. The gate swung open. As we made our way out, in customary single file, I thought, I knew those bloody paras were wrong. They didn’t finish anything. The Taliban were just taking a break.

  I didn’t care what anyone else said. I knew in my bones that the break in insurgent activity had been drawing to a close for a while, and now it was well and truly over. After six weeks of pretend soldiering things had got serious.

  ‘Hearts and minds my arse! This is a fucking war.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT’S ONE OF OURS

  You could feel the eyes burning into you.

  Around the stationary convoy and still-smoking Mastiff stood small groups of locals. Some of them children, some of them elders, the majority young men muttering into mobile phones. These people weren’t there to rubberneck. They hadn’t been attracted by the sound of an explosion. I got the distinct feeling they were observing. Observing and reporting via the mobiles. More than likely, at least one of them hadn’t been surprised at all when the mine went off.

  It had taken us about an hour to reach the convoy. As desperate as we were to get there, I couldn’t stop my point man, Robbie, from doing his job. One false step and one or more of us would be blown into the air and land missing a few bits. It wouldn’t help anyone in the Mastiffs if we suffered a single casualty. By the time we did arrive M’lord’s’s QRF from Taalander was already in situ. Their group had reacted more quickly than ours.

  As soon as I arrived I went straight over to Steve. He was still in the Mastiff, which had taken the full brunt of the blast. It was wrecked, but its armour had protected everyone inside.

  ‘Mate, are you all right?’

  He actually giggled as he stepped out.

  ‘I’m better than this Mastiff.’ Then, seriously, ‘It’s two hundred thou up the Swanee but no casualties. Amazing, eh?’

  It was only later that I realised why he was in such good spirits. It’s one thing being assured that these vehicles are bombproof, but the engineers making those claims never drive them in anger. Realising the advantage we had in physical kit put a spring in everyone’s step.

  Normally I’d have given the order to sweep the area for evidence of how the mine had been triggered and whether or not any of the onlookers had played a part. But Steve had already called out an explosive ordnance team (EOT). When they arrived we would provide security. Until then I wanted to see what information we could get from the watching Afghans. Unsurprisingly, the answer was none.

  The EOT had more luck with the ballistics. The track was particularly narrow where the explosion had occurred, and shielded from the majority of the nearby compounds by a bend in the road and by tree cover. The explosion had not happened there by accident. They discovered traces of a wire, which meant that someone had been hiding close enough to detonate the IED as soon as Steve’s Mastiff was over the concealed mine. And, yes, it was pretty clear that the insurgents knew which vehicle he was travelling in. Those mobile-phone conversations had probably been happening at every CP on the convoy’s route. Steve had been under observation almost from the start of the journey. The second he was seen getting into his vehicle, his card was marked.

  If I’m honest, I knew that the attack marked day 1 in whatever war was about to follow. But I was actually relieved at how insubstantial it was. Casualties amounted to no more than a bit of whiplash in a couple of the Mastiff’s passengers, although the vehicle was a write-off. I’d always assumed that when the first salvo was launched we’d be calling in helicopters to remove the body bags.

  As I said to Fergie, ‘We have to take this as a win.’

  ‘How’d you work that out?’

  ‘No casualties, plus a major insight into how the insurgents plan to operate. Also, it’s just good to know we weren’t imagining it. There is a war. And we’re in it.’

  * * *

  Not everyone agreed. The word from the UK and down through the chain of command stayed resolutely familiar. We weren’t in Helmand to fight a battle. What happened to the convoy was a one-off. We were there to continue the hearts-and-minds programme. We were there to stabilise and rebuild and help police the area.

  If only someone would tell the locals …

  If the brains at Shazaad and Bastion wouldn’t take our situation seriously it was up to me to instil some rigour into the boys. I genuinely believed our lives depended on it. The day after the Mastiff incident we went out on patrol as usual. It was the standard snake formation with Robbie up front, an enthusiastic young marine behind him, me in third. We were maintaining a gap of 5 metres between each of us so all talking was done by radio. I didn’t need the radio to hear the occasional bursts of laughter coming from further back. After about the tenth time, I thought, This isn’t right. I radioed everyone to halt and then walked back down the line, careful to keep as close to Robbie’s cleared path as possible.

  I’m going to put it down to age. Some of these guys had been in the Marines no more than a year, and eight and a half months of that had been training. They hadn’t had time to become attached to the number of men that I had. They hadn’t yet experienced that sickness when you realise one of your mates has lost a limb or, worse, his life. How else to explain their not standing to, not walking in a line straight enough to be anywhere near Robbie’s footsteps, and not wearing the correct protective clothing?

  I couldn’t believe it. Four of them had bare hands.

  ‘Where the hell are your gloves?’ I demanded.

  The guy almost shrugged.

  ‘In my pack.’

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing them?’

  ‘It’s too hot.’

  This is when you learn what sort of commander you are. Before every patrol I gave the same instruction: ‘Get yourself ready.’ We’d all gone through the same training. We all knew what the instruction meant. I wasn’t going to patronise marines by having kit inspections each time we left the compound. Maybe that was my error.

  ‘It is hot,’ I said. ‘It’s thirty-five degrees. But I’ll tell you what’s hotter. An IED ripping four layers of your skin off. If you want to get your fingers blown off do it on your own time, not mine. Now be a good boy and put your gloves on.’

  Or words to that effect.

  All four of them had their own excuses. All four of them soon changed their minds. It was the same for the guys not wearing protective goggles, or the ones who’d been kidding about when they should have been concentrating on potential threats around us.

  ‘If you think keeping your mates safe is a joke, then we’re going to have words. Sort it out or you’ll be eating from Fergie’s fillet for the next six months.’

  Not everyone was slapdash. If anything, one guy was too eager. After the Mastiff explosion the lad second in the line behind Robbie started seeing enemies everywhere. If he’d been behind me I might not have noticed. But 5 metres ahead I could see every twitch, every little swivel he gave as he scanned the hedgerows on one side then the other like he was playing some zombie arcade game. I thought he was just being diligent, but then he said, ‘Enemy in the undergrowth on the left. Permission to engage.’

  I
halted the line and we all dropped to our knees and into offensive shooting stance. The guy – I’ll call him Space Cadet for reasons that will become clear – was rabid. ‘There, there, he’s moving. There!’

  I moved up. Positioned myself next to him, followed his line of sight into the trees.

  ‘Where?’ I said.

  Silence.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We waited until I was confident no threat was imminent. Then we moved on. Over the next six hours Space Cadet didn’t stop twitching. We were on the return leg of our patrol when he went into cocked-weapon mode again.

  And this time I saw the movement as well.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, put your weapon down!’ I screamed.

  He didn’t flinch.

  ‘There’s definitely someone there.’

  By now I was running up to him.

  ‘Yes, you idiot, it’s one of ours.’

  He was aiming his SA80 at the super-sangar outside Taalander. The enemy he wanted to engage was one of M’lord’s sentries.

  I’d like to say he got better. A few weeks later he was on night sentry duty. I was in the ops room filing sitreps to Shazaad. Fergie and John were with me when Space Cadet came on the radio.

  ‘There’s movement out the back. I don’t like it. Permission to launch a schmooli?’

  I looked at Fergie, who half laughed, half shrugged.

  Once launched, a ‘schmooli’ floats down on its parachute from 1,000 metres illuminating a 300x300-metre area with the brightness of 40,000 candles. It’s a brilliant device, literally, although to be used sparingly in such dry areas. Crop fires, I knew from our PDT, were a natural hazard in southern Afghan. Given the levels of compensation paid by ISAF, such fires were not cheap, either – but then nor is peace of mind.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Keep me posted.’

  I scanned the monitors for thermal images of bodies around the perimeter. Nothing that I could make out. Any moment I expected the area to be lit up like midday in Athens. Then we’d see the truth.