Lethal Shot

by Robert Driscoll

  I’d never done a harder patrol. What had never been explained during training was how to do this in 40-degree heat while looking for IEDs at the same time.

  Keeping to our own rules about distance between men tested everyone’s self-control. We managed to keep the 5-metre gaps but we were all so eager that there was more than the occasional instance of concertina effect. Poor Robbie had never swept a path under so much pressure.

  Even as we were jogging the firefight continued in the distance. Whatever was going on wasn’t pretty. Our arrival could decide the fate of the whole checkpoint.

  En route Steve got back in touch. The Kamiabi call sign were getting the upper hand. More importantly, they’d called in air support.

  ‘The last thing you’ll hear will be the Apaches.’

  That was the great thing about air support. We had it and the Afghans didn’t.

  Good to know.

  * * *

  While we were moving I was trying to study the maps. There was a quick route, and there was a safe one. Today we needed to be quick.

  Garnzi Street: one path with a small stream on the left and trees either side. On the other side of those are the mud walls and the doors and windows of homes. The street had been named by the paras – it was what Frank called it on my first recce patrol. We never actually went up it for the simple reason that the paras had never got from one end to the other without some kind of action. Sometimes it was stones, sometimes it was shit, sometimes it was bullets. But now we had no choice.

  Let’s see what they’ve got.

  But first …

  Because of the speed at which we’d covered the ground, my God we were hot! The second I saw the stream I just jumped in. Everyone, including Jenny, did the same. In, out in a matter of seconds. It was all the time we had and all the time we needed.

  As we started up Garnzi Street, I noticed we were going against the flow. It’s barely 2.5 metres wide; you couldn’t get a car down it. But people were walking, rushing past us.

  I couldn’t watch everyone. We had enough problems with covering the trees and the houses. It was intense. Robbie had his eyes on the ground. Space Cadet was yelling, ‘I’ve got the left-hand door.’

  I took the right-hand door.

  Shouts behind me told me the left-hand window, right-hand window, other doors, other windows, other trees, someone was covering everything. And all while locals were streaming past us in the opposite direction.

  You’re on high alert, you’re exhausted, you’re wet but drying at a rate of knots. And you know you could be fired on at any second.

  And then you are.

  The noise when it comes is horrendous. Mighty blasts of automatic gunfire. So deafening that we have no idea where it’s coming from.

  ‘Ditch!’

  Even as I say it everyone is moving towards the stream. Lower than ground level, it provides natural cover. Scrambling into it is not pretty, but I am proud how quickly everyone makes it and gets ready to return fire.

  That’s when I get the call: ‘The Ugly call sign has engaged.’ That was the firing we’d heard – from the Apache helicopter that H had called in.

  Looking back, it seems funny that it was the onslaught from our own side that made us all dive into a ditch. But that’s how heightened the threat was. If we hadn’t done it I’d have been disappointed. The survival instinct that comes after years of training isn’t a switch you can flick off.

  But now we have a mission. The Apache’s 60mm cannon had taken out a number of insurgents but the pilots couldn’t confirm a total kill. It was possible someone had made a break for the tree line. The call from HQ couldn’t have been clearer.

  ‘Move forwards and remove any further threats. Card Alpha is off.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  This is the big time. Suddenly we were to go from acting as a cut-off to support for the helicopter boys. They’d been sent in to annihilate the insurgents. It was our responsibility to finish the job.

  When we leave Garnzi Street our adrenalin is pumping. We are about to step into a kinetic war zone. I call our machine guns – two 5.56mm Minimis – to the front of the snake for protection. More than ever I need the men in front and behind to radio back to me everything they see, hear and smell.

  It’s intense. The reports come in thick and fast. Everyone can see something. Everyone can hear a potential enemy just out of sight. No one more than the Space Cadet. At the same I’m trying to plot a route to the grid coordinates we’ve been given as well as work out where Ollie’s lot is located. They’re being led by his 2ic, Sam Alexander, a very, very capable marine. They were heading to the same place as we were from a different part of the pizza slice, from the west. I need to know exactly where they are, if only to keep Space Cadet from opening fire on them.

  On top of all this the ICOM chatter is off the charts. Lots and lots of call signs – meaning lots of different insurgents – giving their views. John struggles to keep up. I want to know if there is any talk of survivors. He says, ‘Yes.’ He also adds, ‘They are getting something called “The Big Gun” ready.’

  ‘It makes more sense than watermelons.’

  But it probably means the same thing.

  I knew from the paras that the insurgency liked to engage a patrol then lead it towards an IED. It was essential that we stayed alert.

  I followed the grid coordinates given. The land around us is flat, but high, dense hedgerows linie the path. Now the radio reports from my lads double. Everyone is seeing potential threats. Weapons are cocked. We are all ready to go.

  Apart from Robbie. His eyes are firmly on the ground ahead. He has to rely on the man behind for protection. That man is the Space Cadet. If anyone is going to spot an insurgent, it’s him.

  We come to a fairly deep but very narrow canal. More of a ditch, really. That’s on our right, a grass verge separating it from the path. On our left is a field and before that a low hedgerow running alongside a dried-up riverbed. It’s what’s ahead that counts: about 50 metres in front of us the earth is scorched and in places still burning. The point where the Apache’s missile struck is a crater. Lying just beyond it are parts of a human body.

  ‘Okay,’ I radio everyone. ‘The missing insurgents could be here. Let’s move forwards.’

  People are getting twitchy. Jittery. The word from the front is that there’s definite movement off to the right. Beyond the canal. Beyond the hedgerow. Ten or more men.

  I check my map.

  ‘Hold your fire! They are friendlies, I repeat, friendlies.’

  There’s a slight incline and Robbie decides to avoid the path so we keep the ditch on our right and hug the grass verge. The road is slightly higher so for a while our sightlines are lower. As we begin to rise again I see something 15 metres ahead on the left, in the dried-out riverbed. I can’t make it out but it’s blue.

  And I swear it’s moving.

  If it’s 15 metres ahead of me, it’s only 10 ahead of Space Cadet and 5 ahead of Robbie. Whatever it is, Space Cadet at least should be seeing it. Robbie’s eyes are firmly on the ground. Space Cadet is looking anywhere but to the left. He’s convinced he can see someone on our right. He’s shouting down the radio for orders.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I yell, ‘they are friendlies. Look to your left!’

  That’s when I see the flash of blue move. That’s when I see it’s a man. He’s hiding, but he’s not staying still. He’s crawling forwards. He has a plan.

  ‘Robbie,’ I yell into the radio. ‘You have movement on your left.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Robbie! Movement on your left!’ I’m shouting now.

  Fuck.

  Robbie is a couple of metres away from the threat. The blue shirt could take him out with a knife, let alone an IED or a gun. I raise my rifle, line up the crosshairs and fire. Three times.

  And I watch the man in the blue shirt die.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BLUE SHIRT’S DOWN

  I knew I�
�d killed him.

  It wasn’t me and nineteen SFSG guys aiming at the same target. It wasn’t infra-red lasers making it all feel like a computer game. It was three rounds – three bullets – fired from my SA80 into the chest (twice) and head of the man in the blue shirt. I, single-handedly, had caused the death of another human being.

  But if I wasn’t careful, other casualties were about to follow.

  * * *

  ‘Robbie!’

  My heart was still pumping. My ears still ringing from firing three rounds into the undergrowth when I saw my Vallon man go down.

  I screamed into the radio, ‘Robbie! Are you hit? What’s happened?’

  There was no answer so I just broke protocol and sprinted forwards still screaming at him. Sod the IEDs. There must be someone else in the river. As I moved I could hear shouts from the other side of the path. My adrenalin was through the roof. It took a few seconds to process what was being said.

  ‘Hold your fire! Hold your fire!’

  My radio was going crazy with the same message.

  ‘Eleven Lima, hold your fire. We are friendlies. Repeat: we are friendlies, hold your fire.’

  I recognised the voice. It was Sam Alexander. I was aware of his position. None of it mattered in that moment. All I knew was that I had to reach Robbie.

  When I got to him I saw fear in his eyes, but there was no blood.

  ‘Robbie, are you all right?’

  ‘Rob, what are you doing? We’re under attack. Get down!’

  Now it all made sense.

  I stood up and shouted the same thing to my men and over the radio: there was an enemy in the undergrowth and he’d been eliminated. No one was shooting at us. I wasn’t shooting at Ollie’s patrol.

  ‘It was just me, guys, just me. There was a threat in the hedgerow! All eyes on the hedgerow.’

  It was barely thirty seconds since I’d pulled my trigger but the confusion reigned for minutes afterwards. I had Omar, Kamiabi and HQ all radioing, ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Honestly? I wanted the same answer.

  I pointed to Blue Shirt lying barely five metres away from where Robbie and I were standing.

  ‘Look – I was shouting you had movement on your left. He was crawling towards you. Why didn’t you do something?’

  ‘Rob, mate, I’m sorry. I didn’t see him. Too many friendlies the other side of the hedgerow.’

  Space Cadet approached us. ‘Is he dead? Did you kill him?’ He looked like he was going to explode with excitement. I soon punctured that.

  ‘And you. You’re meant to be Robbie’s eyes and ears! You should have spotted him!’

  He started saying about the other threats he had seen. ‘I told you: they were friendlies.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Just do your job.’

  Pulling all those conversations into some kind of order now isn’t easy because they were happening at once. My own men, the ones 40 metres back in the snake, were as in the dark as anyone. But we couldn’t relax.

  ‘He might not be alone. All eyes on the hedgerow.’

  Despite the confusion going on all around, training kicked in. You can’t assume a threat has been eliminated just because he’s been shot. You have to do a ‘dead check’ and you have to do it carefully. The target could have bombs on him, he could have a suicide vest, he could have unpinned a grenade just before he died. Even if he’s barely alive he could still detonate something serious. While we all scoured the ditch and provided armed cover, Robbie and Space Cadet worked their way over to the riverbed and Blue Shirt. Any hint of threat and they would have to take further action. They would have to finish the job the helicopter had started and I’d continued.

  I was watching anxiously. They circled the man for what seemed like minutes, then Space Cadet turned round and gave me the thumbs-up.

  Blue Shirt’s down.

  He’s dead.

  I was relieved. The insurgent threat had been eliminated. It had been a clean kill.

  But the good news ended there.

  While his partner stood a few feet back, Robbie laid himself down on the corpse: standard procedure for checking for weapons. Using the insurgent’s own body as a shield, Robbie rolled them both over so Space Cadet could check underneath for grenades or bombs or other imminent threats.

  ‘Clear!’ he shouted out.

  Robbie released the body, stood up and continued a manual search.

  By now we’d combed the hedgerow from our side and Sam Alexander and his men had done it from theirs. There was no second man.

  But there also weren’t any weapons on Blue Shirt.

  Robbie was almost apologetic when he told me.

  ‘We couldn’t find anything, Rob.’

  ‘No gun? No rifle? He looked like he was lining up for a shot.’

  ‘Sorry, sarge, we’ve double-checked. He isn’t armed.

  ‘All he had on him was $30,’ Fergie added. ‘Probably what he was paid to kill everyone.’

  Oh shit.

  I wasn’t on Dartmoor any more. I wasn’t shooting squirrels or pop-up metal targets. I’d just fired three rounds into a living being because I thought he was a threat. The only damage Blue Shirt could have done to my men was if he’d thrown a pebble from the riverbed.

  Was that now an offence punishable by death?

  I tried to replay the whole thing in my mind. I’d seen movement, I’d seen colour, I’d seen a figure of Afghan descent crawling along a dry riverbed. I genuinely believed he was trying to cause harm to my men and so I had acted.

  Fergie could see the world of doubt I was in.

  ‘Rob, he’s a wrong’un. He was hiding from us. You got him. End of story.’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. What if he was just a scared farmer?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Why would a scared farmer be crawling on his belly in a wadi? Listen to me: HQ wanted this bastard dead. The Apache was sent to annihilate him. They missed and you finished the job. It’s a win.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure he was one of them.’

  ‘Call the chopper, then.’ He was getting exasperated. ‘Ask them what the bastards looked like.’

  Not a bad idea.

  I had to go via HQ but after a few minutes the message came back.

  ‘One of the insurgents fired at was wearing blue,’ I was told. ‘And we think he got away.’

  Fergie slapped me on the back. ‘Happy now?’

  I was. And I was about to get happier.

  There was a shout on the radio from one of the Kamiabi lads who had been involved in the initial firefight. They were further up the riverbed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve found a massive IED. We think it’s where he was heading.’

  ‘Yes!’ I literally punched the air. I knew my instincts had been right. I knew Blue Shirt was moving with a purpose. I knew he was going to try to kill us – I just didn’t know how.

  But now I did. If he’d detonated a mine of that size he could have taken out two or three of my men, 5-metre gaps or not. Several others might have been seriously injured by the flying shrapnel packed into the bomb for maximum carnage.

  We stayed at the site for a couple of hours. The Apache did its customary fly-past – partly to show off, partly to show solidarity, and partly to get photographs of its work. I also had to radio for an EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) team to deal with this bomb we suddenly had on our hands.

  In a spare moment I found myself walking over to Blue Shirt. It just seemed important. I don’t know why. I wasn’t paying my respects. I wasn’t wishing I could turn back the clock. I actually found myself wondering if he would be missed. Would anyone mourn him? From what I’d seen of Afghan families, they didn’t let themselves get too attached to their own kids. Not in a Western sense. Perhaps I was doing them a disservice by applying my European logic. The thing is, where family is concerned it’s the only logic I’ve got.

  I tried to put myself in the position of a Taliban figh
ter. How would he be feeling if he were in my shoes at that moment? I couldn’t answer that but I did know, with unflinching certainty, what would have happened to the body. On my first tour of Afghan, and then later with the SFSG, I’d heard of ISAF forces being captured, killed and then mutilated. On one occasion the Americans had gone back to retrieve some fallen comrades and found their dismembered bodies displayed from a tree. Even while they were telling us this, just later that night, I found it hard to believe. What human being could do that to another? Even in war. It was too barbaric for words.

  The worst fate that was going to befall our insurgency friend was a biometric test. Even as I stood over the body, young Robbie was doing the full retinal, fingerprint and DNA sweep. I can’t imagine it’s what he thought he’d be doing when he signed up, but he did the tests without question. I couldn’t have been more proud.

  Things got grimmer, however, when we had to attempt to do the same to the bits of body left by the Apache. First we had to collect it all up. It’s not something you can train for.

  A British military police officer attached to Kamiabi arrived to go over the scene. Under her guidance a few of the lads did a full bagging and tagging of all the remains, plus all the effects on Blue Shirt’s and his mates’ persons, and shoved it in their bergans. While this was going on Sam Alexander made his way over from his team on the other side of the hedgerow.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rob, we should have seen him. We were closer than you.’

  ‘It’s okay. We got him.’

  ‘But he could have got you lot. We’re going to have to work on that.’

  While the MP was working I went around the lads, checking they were okay.

  I was interrogated by the officer and had to give Steve McCulley a full blow-by-blow account. We watched camera footage from the Apache. Before the day was out it had been declared a clean and proper kill and one that in all likelihood had saved the lives of several of the Green Berets under my watch. There was a mood of jubilation in Mulladad that night. All the men were buzzing, congratulating me.