Nothing. No one. Not a single body.
You don’t like to think of anyone being killed but, when you’ve got four good mates with serious injuries back at base, part of you wants – needs – some payback. We just didn’t have any. There were no blood trails, no signs of injury even. The Mirage had ended the fight, but the score stayed resolutely the same: Taliban 4–Royal Marines 0.
By the time we’d searched the building some locals had started to appear. They were trying to talk to us but I kept them all at a safe distance. Friend or foe? When you don’t share a language it’s impossible to tell. Only when the recce lads arrived with an interpreter could I begin to relax.
The old woman said, ‘The Taliban were here.’
‘I know that,’ I said, through the interpreter. ‘Tell me about them.’
She shrugged, still shaving her pears. ‘They come and go when they please. I don’t stop them, they don’t hurt me. These people –’ she gestured to her neighbours – ‘they don’t help them but they don’t oppose them either.’
‘Are you on our side or not?’ I said.
‘I’m not for you or against you. But I do wish you hadn’t come.’
Other villagers said the same thing.
‘Go home. We don’t need you. We are safer when you’re not here.’
‘But the Taliban want to rule you with violence.’
‘It is what it is. But they don’t have helicopters.’
I told the old woman and everyone else the same thing: ‘We are here to help. We are here to rebuild your village, to guard your safety, to protect your rights as Afghans. We don’t want anything from you. Trust us, please. We are not the enemy.’
We weren’t – I believed that. But almost everything else was a lie. L Company would do all the good deeds I promised. The purpose of my lads, and J Company as a whole, was very different. But I could hardly tell the locals that. How do you explain ‘We’re here to draw fire away from our colleagues?’ Or ‘We’re here to put your lives in danger.’
And, I was about to discover, our own.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WE USED TO BE THE HUNTERS
The sun is shining, there’s the sound of splashing water and men’s laughter, and the smell of fried food and beer in the air.
God, I wish I was in Spain.
It was hard to imagine that twenty-four hours earlier I had been speaking to my wife on her birthday without a care in the world. One of us without a care, anyway. A day later and she and the boys were doubtless enjoying the best Costa Brava beaches while several of my good friends had been badly wounded. I’d had my nerves shredded. And the Taliban had learned a good deal more intel about our fighting capability and methods than we had learned about them. And yet …
And yet it was a good result. Our brief was to stir up trouble. To draw the fire away from the north. We just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.
Steve McCulley can inspire anyone. He’s almost American in the way he can whip up a crowd, get the blood pumping. Ten minutes in his company and you’re convinced you can take on the world. So, even though the lads with metal sticking out of their dehydrated backs might disagree, 24 May was a ‘win’ for us. A weird kind of victory but a victory none the less.
Now, as a new day dawned, we needed another.
The morning of the 25th started with me on sentry duty. Usually Toki would’ve been a four-post site. Because of what had happened the day before Steve had upped it to six positions, a minimum of two men each, all in constant radio contact. It could have been worse. I was sharing my shift with my corporal, Fergie. The man could speak but you had to be judicious in your listening. He was 50 per cent full of wisdom, 50 per cent full of shit. This watch, it was more the former.
‘There’s something odd about this situation,’ he said.
‘What? You and me getting the early shift? Tell me about it.’
‘You did the rota, you wanker. I mean this war. Everything. It’s all wrong. It’s nothing like what we’ve been trained for.’
‘I know what you mean. CTC is all about us being the superior force. And on paper we still are. It just doesn’t feel like it. We’re meant to be gathering intel on these bastards. It feels like they’re gathering gen on us.’
‘It’s this simple,’ he said. ‘In the old days we used to be the hunters. In this hellhole we’re the hunted.’
Our shift ended and we had breakfast with a few of the other lads. It was only whatever we had in our rations but it’s nicer to eat with other people. My old mucker from Bickleigh Barracks, Plymouth, Ollie Augustin, was sitting with his 2ic, Sam Alexander, and a few of their men, so Fergie and I dropped in. I ran Fergie’s theory by the lot of them. Some agreed, some didn’t. It was mostly a split based on age and experience. To my mind Fergie, with his ‘chicken fillet’ a constant reminder, was the voice of reason. I was somewhere between the two.
Sam was another interesting guy. Just marine rank but at twenty-eight very experienced. He’d already been awarded a Military Cross for single-handedly saving some of his comrades on an earlier tour. Given the day we’d all just had, I said, ‘Do you worry we’re rolling the dice a few too many times here?’
‘We’ve all got to go some time.’
It was just small talk, no one meant anything. But the mood in the camp and outside tended to give everything said a little extra weight.
As we tidied up, Kaz, the medic, was just sitting down so I stayed to chew the fat with him. To check that he was okay after the previous day. It was what Al Blackman, his multiple leader, would have wanted.
I shouldn’t have worried. Canadians, in my experience, rarely let the world influence them if they can help it. It’s their special power. Kaz would rather not have been busy that Tuesday, but to him, it was what it was. He lit a cigarette and offered it to me. I’d not smoked much before arriving at Mulladad. By now I was virtually a chain smoker. I took a drag before taking out one of my own and lighting it. Then he said casually, ‘We’re all in this together, Rob. Let’s just see if we can get out of it in the same state.’
Shortly before 8 a.m. Steve McCulley called me and the other multiple leaders into his makeshift office. He wanted to push out some patrols. Show the locals who’s boss. And, more important, draw the fire.
The first patrols were myself and Damo. We pushed north-east. Steve had picked a few compounds of interest, no more than 4 kilometres away, so that was our agenda. We were all wary as we stepped out of the main gate, but my trusty Vallon man, Robbie, swept the way and off we went.
I was only too aware of being watched. Mopeds zoomed up and down, back and forth, many times without any sort of purpose other than making sure they were seen. If it was an attempt at intimidation, it failed. All I took from it was multiple chances to remember their riders’ faces. Beards can only hide so much.
To the west, the wounded M’lord’s 2ic led a patrol with similar results. A lot of two-wheeled busybodies, a lot of chit-chat on the ICOM, but nothing of note. Certainly no engagements. We spoke to dozens of locals, performed twice as many biometric logs as usual; then, late in the afternoon, returned to Toki, exhausted but relieved.
And then, as dusk approached, came the first shots.
The attack was exactly the opposite to that of the previous day. We should have expected it. The Taliban were testing us. They’d seen what we could and would do during daylight. How would we respond in darkness?
This time, however, it was nothing like the long-drawn-out onslaught of the previous day. Thank God! Just enough to rattle everyone and keep us on our toes. The firers popped up one place, then another, then another, and then sodded off. I swear they were checking out our positions and timing our response. Job done, they drifted away for their tea or their assignations with goats, or whatever it was they did in their spare time.
When we realised they’d jacked it in for the night I suggested to Steve that I take a team out for a recce.
‘Just a hundred metres
forward, in the dark. You never know what we’ll find.’
I took a skeleton squad. We followed the stream for about 100 metres. It cut through a field giving zero visibility to anyone watching. When we’d gone far enough, Robbie, Matt Kenneally and I broke cover and fired a Schermuly into the air. There was some general chatter when it lit up the area but no response, armed or otherwise, from locals. Thermal imaging revealed a few people but no one of interest. Confident we’d gone as far as we needed, we headed back.
Back at Toki one of the guys said what a few of us were thinking: ‘Was that it?’
Our collective Spider-Sense said not.
* * *
The next morning, Thursday, 26 May 2011, we agreed with Steve to push out further and further from all round the compound, like petals on a flower. The plan was to cover 1,000 metres from the base in every direction.
My guys stayed back for the first shift while Damo’s Recce guys went out on their own. They followed a similar patrol path to the one we had taken the day before. Back at camp I listened to the chatter. The interpreters had made a little area of the orchard their own slice of Afghan. By coincidence it was within listening distance of where Fergie and I were sleeping. Everyone had their own ‘shell scrape’ – your own little trench you slept in. Usually around a foot deep, I ordered my team to go down two feet. They provided warmth from the soil, but also, the idea was, if a bomb went off at surface level, you’d be just low enough to escape injury. After our first day at Toki it seemed practical.
Because the trenches were in the shade we often went there in down time, to relax. And so I heard the translators talking about what they were picking up from the field. The Recce lads weren’t having an easy time. They had been pursuing a target. Then they were in a firefight. Then they were retiring. One of their lads was injured, badly. The more I heard, the more I knew we had to get involved. I summoned my lads out of the stream, out of their shell scrapes, wherever they were, and said, ‘We need to stand to. It’s only a matter of time before we’re ordered out.’
As it happened, it didn’t come to that. The Recce troop handled everything. They summoned air support and, while the Mirage flew menacingly close, they regrouped and dealt with their casualties. Then, with the aircraft still present, they called in a helicopter for a full-scale ‘dust-off’ or casevac – ‘casualty evacuation’. That was it. They went, they fought, they returned, but in smaller numbers. They were obviously shaken up.
‘They’re definitely out there,’ Damo said of the insurgents. ‘And all they want is us. Dead.’
* * *
Friday, 27 May. Day 4 at Toki.
‘It’s time to step things up,’ Steve McCulley said. ‘Three teams, all pushing east, all within shouting distance, all tackling different targets.’
It made sense. East was where most the kinetic action was originating. He showed us multiple leaders a map marked with compounds or areas of interest and indicated where he felt each team should be in relation to the others. He wanted one team moving east from a slightly north position – that would be Damo with Steve’s HQ boys attached. Another team – led by me – would move in the same direction on a more central axis, and a third team, led by Ollie Augustin, would start in the south. So, three multiples marching in the same direction on different routes.
The territory was deemed so dangerous that any more than 40 metres between the teams’ operational lines could be fatal. We each needed to provide ‘overwatch’ for our neighbours. That was the plan as Steve unfurled it.
The thing about Steve, though, is that he never orders you to do anything. Not if you’re one of his respected few. So, as multiple leaders, we all got an opportunity to input. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing we decided that the overwatch was too narrow, so why not extend the operational line to about 300 metres? That way we could cover more territory and still be in shouting contact with each other. One party would advance, declare it safe, then the others would follow and overtake. We’d concertina our way through the territory. It might be slow but it would be safe.
‘Agreed!’ Steve clapped his hands. ‘Let’s do this.’
By the time we set off, the temperature had already hit 40 degrees – and this was in the morning. By lunchtime we’d be roasting. And knackered to boot. We had a 9-square-kilometre area to cover.
The northern strand of the operational line included Steve, his FAC, his radio operators and other staff. In total they bolstered Damo’s group to thirteen. My multiple began as eight, then we borrowed another two guys from M’lord’s patrol, taking us to ten; Ollie’s party was twenty – eight of them plus a dozen Afghans. We were a reasonably large force, for a patrol.
Numbers mean nothing against the Taliban. We knew that. The threat of IEDs and snipers behind every tree made the going slow. Monitoring each patrol’s progress as well as my own just added to the wading-through-treacle effect. To explain: on a map you have northings, which are vertical lines on the page, and you have eastings, which go from the left of the page to the right. Navigation is via GPS. So when we moved 1,000 metres from easting 87 we would arrive at easting 88 and everyone else could pinpoint it on a map. That’s how we stayed roughly in line.
While I had my eyes down in cartography land, my ears were full of ICOM chatter. John translated as much as he could but the sheer volume of material would have taxed a dozen translators. Luckily, there was no urgency. After two hours we were still a good way from our first compound of note. And it was to be another hour before we made contact with another living soul.
When we did arrive at the target compound my guys were flagging. I gave them a minute to take on water, then we knocked on the compound door in the wall. There is a whole list of measures you can take if an inhabitant doesn’t open. This one did, first time. He even smiled when he saw me.
‘Hello, Mister. How may I help you?’ he asked, through John.
Every Afghan we spoke to, despite being perfectly placed to have seen or heard something, had nothing to say. It was almost as though an enemy force had beaten us to it and threatened repercussions if they so much as uttered a word. Looking around the family in that first compound, it was possible even that one of the so-called sons was an insurgent interloper. With Afghans, given their brown clothes and black hair and beards, it could be very hard to tell one from another.
The other patrols weren’t faring any better.
I was so relieved to reach our last compound. We were all exhausted and boiling alive. If it weren’t for a bit of intel from an informant, we would never have bothered going that far.
This had better be worth it.
We stopped 300 metres short of the target compound and waited for confirmation from the others that they were overwatching. Then we made our advance.
After a long, hot, tiring and fruitless day, it was tempting to go easy on the methodology, but there’s no way I’d let men under my watch take their feet off the gas. If we go in, we go in as British Royal Marines. That means doing it by the book: full regalia, full respect, full training procedure. We did all this and, to a man, were disappointed to discover no more than a family. It was so frustrating. I wanted to wring the neck of the local who’d tipped us off about this gig. I was that angry.
‘Maybe we should push on further?’ I suggested. The lads agreed. More importantly, so did Steve. His own patrol was proving just as fruitless. He was happy for any initiative.
We decided we would go to the limit of our exploitation area, about 200 metres east of our latest position. Ollie and his patrol were running slightly behind us on the eastings line: they’d come across a complicated set of compounds, maybe four or five, all linked. At the same time Damo had reached a small compound to the north that didn’t sit right with him. By the time we reached our final destination we felt the same bad vibes coming off it. It appeared to be defended like Fort Knox. And yet there were no people to be seen.
‘Same story here,’ Ollie said.
‘Ditto,’ we got from
Damo.
‘Nothing else for it then,’ Steve said. ‘Move in.’
Like everything else in the Marines, there’s a policy for entering a building ‘of interest’. We call it the ‘quiet knock’. You start by banging on the door as normal. If no one answers but you are certain people are home, then they get a ‘flash-bang’ (stun grenade) through the window. It’s a method that the police use before they enter a room. The flash-bang does what it says on the tin: it flashes and makes a lot of noise, usually leaving anyone in the vicinity in no state to put up a fight. Nine times out of ten, however, they will open the door, looking all disorientated. This was one of the one-out-of-ten occasions.
We knocked on the door: nothing.
I ordered John to speak through the loudhailer in case the family were in the rear of the compound. Nothing.
In the meantime the guys were working around the compound to check for hidden IEDs. Matt Kenneally came back to me and said, ‘Do you want me to get up on the roof for a better look?’
‘Good idea.’
We always carry assault ladders with us so Matt and a couple of others got up on the compound wall and hopped onto the closest roof.
‘Christ, Rob,’ he called back, ‘there’s loads of people in here.’
‘Do they look deaf to you?’
‘They look surprised.’
‘Good.’ I grabbed John. ‘Tell them this is their last chance to open the door or we’re taking it off its hinges.’
John did as I asked and eventually an old guy came out. Like so many Afghans he was incredibly hospitable and invited as in to enjoy some water and a bit of shade.
I didn’t buy it.
‘John, find out why they didn’t let us in.’
The old guy came back with a cock-and-bull story about being scared. ‘He thought we were the Taliban.’
Lethal Shot Page 19
