Lethal Shot

by Robert Driscoll

  The problem with being in a hurry is that it makes you predictable. For the last 2 kilometres we’d been moving in a line as true as an arrow’s flight. It was the most direct passage to base. It was also the easiest to predict. After breaking the back of the journey without injury, about 80 metres from Toki, salvation in sight, Robbie halted. If the point man stops, everyone stops. No one has to say a word. The second man stops and if the second man stops the third man stops, and so on. At the same time you adopt the firing position, so you have this ripple effect where everyone slowly but surely drops into a kneeling position.

  I radioed Robbie: ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I am literally stood over an IED.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Wish I was.’

  ‘Okay, don’t move.’

  ‘Cheers – wasn’t planning to …’

  It’s a fluke he found it. Sweeping the Vallon left and right, he’d happened to knock a large tuft of grass over where the IED had been hurriedly buried. Within seconds I had men there, taking control of the mine detector and checking there were no other devices in the immediate vicinity. Then we got to work establishing whether Robbie was on it, or ‘on’ it.

  I could have kicked myself. We’d been in one field surrounded by head-high crops, then in a forest, then back in another field, never deviating from our path. We already knew for certain that the insurgents had us within their sights. Obviously, they would have tried to plant IEDs along the course on which we were heading. And with the foliage and land undulation there’s no way we could have seen them doing so, even if they had been only 100 metres in front of us.

  I had to radio in a report. I asked HQ for permission to get Robbie safe, then detonate the device.

  ‘Negative, Eleven Lima. Higher want analysis.’

  Well, you get out here and spend a day under fire, I wanted to say.

  In the end we established that Robbie was over but not on the trigger plate and managed to rush him to safety. While I didn’t disobey orders and detonate the IED with a grenade, neither did I instruct my men to hang around for the bomb squad. We’d been targets enough for one day. We were going home.

  I would put my life on the line for a colleague any day of the week. Any of us would. But hang around and protect an IED? That was ridiculous – procedure gone mad. Flesh and blood is what matters, not wires and explosive. I was determined to get my boys home.

  I’ll deal with the flak later.

  I’m not sure I’d ever disobeyed an order before. I don’t even know whether I accepted it as genuine. I had twenty-two men under my command. They’d all been shot at or bombed for the majority of the day. They deserved as incident-free a journey as possible. Asking them to hang around while the geeks got their shit together was just mean. I didn’t want any part of it and so we kept going. We all just marched around the IED, leaving a marker so the support team could find it, and continued our journey home.

  It wasn’t without incident. The second we broke cover from the tree line there came the crack-crack-crack of a solitary machine gun.

  What followed was a mad dash for the compound, returning fire as we went. The snipers in the sentry positions at Toki provided cover. We all made it by the skin of our teeth, with bullets ricocheting off the track to left and right of our path.

  * * *

  My patrol made it back alive. This was small potatoes, though, when you looked at the bigger picture. Twenty-seven men had gone out that day. Twenty-three had returned. We had been in Toki for four days. In that time the Taliban had reduced our number from fifty-five to forty-two able bodies. I started doing the sums and didn’t like what I worked out.

  If we stay twelve more days there’ll be no one left.

  That wasn’t defeatism. It was maths.

  It was hard to accept. What made it less digestible was the knowledge that we’d been outflanked at every turn. Card Alpha or not, we were taking a beating every time we stepped outside the compound.

  The more I reflected on the last few days and speculated about what was to come, the more I realised that I had to admit a truth I’d never had to confront in all my military years.

  I’m scared. I’m scared of what’s going to happen to me.

  I’m scared of not getting out of here alive.

  * * *

  Too often commanders in the British military lose sight of the needs of their troops. This was not one of those times. We had been back at camp two hours when the news came over the radio that the CO was going to visit. Immediately.

  We barely had time to process the news before the helicopter landed in the compound. Out stepped the commanding officer of 42 Commando – the lieutenant-colonel – plus the regimental sergeant-major, the highest non-commissioned rank in the unit. It was a true honour. No other checkpoints were getting this attention, but then no other checkpoints were suffering to the degree that we were. Moments before they landed, all I had cared about was the insurgent threat I saw every time I closed my eyes. One look at the visitors in their pristine uniforms and I realised how all of us had four days of beard growth, four days of blood, sweat and tears on our uniforms. And, behind our eyes, four days of learning not to give a shit about certain things.

  To my relief and their credit, they didn’t comment. All the CO wanted to do was praise us for our invaluable efforts. The fact that he’d risked his life and those of helicopter pilots landing in a war zone emphasised his words. The RSM took a more direct route. As soon as the speeches concluded he handed out twenty boxes of 200-packs of cigarettes – paid for, I have no doubt, out of his own pocket. Warrant officers know how to respect the troops. I had always admired our CO and this small gesture meant a lot.

  They also had news. Steve McCulley, they said, had been stabilised and was en route to hospital in England. They also had information for me about the body parts we’d rescued.

  ‘They belong to the marine who was killed,’ the CO said. ‘It’s a tragic case.’

  Tragic and complicated. The lad who’d detonated an IED, our first fatality of the month. I knew that his family had already conducted a funeral. As far as they were concerned their boy was in the ground, ready to take the next step in his spiritual journey. The return of his actual remains later was never going to sit well, based on the reaction of previous families in a similar position.

  The CO commended our recovery of the remains, adding, ‘We’ve heard of IEDs being loaded with body parts. Some of our men have been injured by the bones of their own colleagues.’

  I knew at that moment I’d done the right thing in burning those other remains.

  Before our visitors left I asked if they believed we were making a difference. The CO said, ‘Yes,’ but I suspected he wasn’t sure. Even the top brass have people above them making decisions.

  * * *

  Halfway through our ten-day operation I was glad to get twenty-four hours inside the compound. The following day we patrolled but no further than the area covered by the sentry. There just wasn’t the heart for it among the men, me included. It’s not that we were scared of stepping outside; we just didn’t see the point. If I had had my way, a squadron of Mirages would have been called in to wipe every compound off the face of the earth. I defy anyone dealing with the losses we had suffered to think differently. It’s only human.

  Yet the powers that be did disagree. The air support never came, despite its war-winning capabilities. But then, according to the politicians, we weren’t at war.

  All these years later, I’m still not certain whether they had their heads in the sand, whether it was a political decision not to be ‘at war’, or whether we – that is, the troops on the ground – were just unlucky. There’s no doubt that previous wars in Afghanistan involved the whole of the UK – not even the most blinkered MP could have ignored them. The fact that this tour just involved small pockets of activity, little patches of Helmand Province that wouldn’t be quieted, made it easier to dismiss as insignificant, if that was
your agenda. Yet try telling the families of the dead marines, or those who had suffered life-changing injuries, that it wasn’t a war. To my mind it would be disrespectful to their memories.

  I also believe that this policy put my life and those of my men under unnecessary threat. Our patrol on 30 May 2011 was a case in point, but you could have picked any day in Toki. Compared to the other days it was successful – we didn’t lose anyone. But I’m not naïve enough to deny that luck played its part. Breaking through a treeline on the way to camp and being confronted by five blokes lying there firing at you with assault rifles can go very differently, depending on the day. This time we got away with it. How they didn’t hit us before we realised the threat I still don’t know.

  Faced with such aggression, the first thing you do is shoot back. The Americans call it the ‘Wall of Lead’. Everyone fired off sixty rounds in the general direction while we tried to isolate the exact position of the threat. Some of our guys had machine guns so retaliated at an even higher rate. Then suddenly a shot came from another angle so we turned our attention there. Then it was back to the original target. Before we knew it everyone had used 5 magazines – 150 rounds – and we hadn’t even moved.

  Shit, we’re playing into their hands.

  We’d been ambushed so many times on the way back to the CP that it couldn’t be a coincidence. Between the young men on mopeds and all the unseen prying eyes in each compound, our position was always known, as was our destination on the homeward leg. The volume of hurriedly planted IEDs discovered on our routes was testament to that. I’d always assumed the firefight attacks were about more than trying to pick us off. By putting us under pressure they were attempting to push us towards where the mines were scattered, like a shepherd manoeuvring his sheep.

  But there’s something else …

  I used to take with me 8 magazines holding 30 rounds each, which is 240 rounds. I would then have another 3 magazines in my bag so that’s 330 rounds, plus two bandoliers of 300 rounds so 930 rounds altogether. When you do the maths, in building a wall of lead unloading at a rate of 30 shots in 20 seconds, the ammunition doesn’t last long.

  ‘Lads, lads – watch the ammo!’

  The last thing I needed was a panic on my hands but the fear of being in a firefight without the means to fire back will destroy you as quickly as a bullet. In a full combat scenario, in which we would be supported with a constant resupply of ammunition, we’d have sufficient for the task. Yet here we were, in the heart of a combat offensive with the standard equipment of a recce tour, which meant just the weapons and ammunition we could carry.

  There was no choice for it but to throw up the biggest wall of fire we dared and move out. Normal protocol is you fire then run.

  ‘Lads,’ I said, ‘we’ve just got to run.’

  Fire and manoeuvre, fire and move, fire and move. It’s practised, rehearsed and drilled. But never with unseen forces trying to take you out. Not for the first time that week I found myself praying to all sorts of imaginary gods. Get us out of this and I’ll be a better person. I’ll stop smoking, I’ll give more to charity, I’ll let my kids win at football …

  This time someone listened.

  We got away with our lives that day. But I resented the fact that we had to take such risks just to do that. Where was the support? Where was even the acknowledgement that we were in a battle situation?

  Yet, getting angry at the policy-makers was a fight for another day. Right there and then it wouldn’t help me or my men on the ground. All I could do was adapt the things within my sphere of influence. I would already spend an hour or ninety minutes plotting each patrol. Now I’d spend double that. It wasn’t enough to have a route and a back-up. I needed back-ups for the back-ups. I needed to be aware of every back door, every stream, every tree that could provide cover. And my God, we were going to practise running while firing backwards.

  Screw the rule book …

  * * *

  It had become a struggle to engage with the local Afghans on anything other than antagonistic terms. I wasn’t violent or rude, I just stopped giving them the benefit of the doubt as I would have just days earlier. We’d been betrayed by kids and old men. I couldn’t trust anyone. Not even the people we were sworn to save. Each day that I didn’t have to look into their eyes and know they were lying was a good one.

  I don’t think the locals care if we die or not.

  On 30 May I was co-opted for night sentry duty. Even commanders had to muck in, that was the rule. It was a very windy night and I was sitting with another battle-weary mate, desperately trying to get a cigarette lit. Suddenly we heard a commotion from the south-east.

  ‘Do we have any men out there?’ my mate asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Let’s throw up a Schermuly.’

  Two minutes later our flare launched into the pitch-black sky. Usually it would rise and rise. This time, because of the wind, it barely went up 50 metres before it was blown off course. By the time the gusts released it, it was pretty much where the commotion was coming from. In a field. One that hadn’t seen rain for months.

  The device landed with a crash and the explosive propellant used to send it skywards spilled out onto the arid crops. It might as well have been a spark onto dry tinder. The area where the flare landed went up. And, boy, did it spread! Within minutes we had this almighty fire. Whatever the crops were, they were toasted within minutes.

  I looked at my companion. He looked at me. Then we just laughed.

  I still didn’t know what the bother had been. I still didn’t know who was taking part nor whether it was an innocent civilian altercation. What I did know is that the last few days of my life had been the adult equivalent of watching a child rip the limbs off a daddy-long-legs. And somewhere deep inside me I was craving revenge.

  ‘Do you think we should wake anyone and tell them what’s going on with this fire?’ I asked my mate.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Let it burn.’

  So we did. We watched as compound after compound emptied, with men, women and children coming out to beat the flames down. There were no casualties and no injuries. There were also no qualms from us.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘I’m beginning to dislike the Afghans.’

  These men and women, all polite enough to our faces, had stayed in their homes while the insurgents had tried to blow us up. The only time they ever came to us was to demand compensation for some cow or goat. I’m not proud of thinking it. That’s how low the previous few days had brought me.

  My mate agreed. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he said. ‘Every one of those fuckers would sell us out to the Taliban tomorrow.’

  ‘I know. Even though we’re here to help.’

  ‘Because we’re here to help. They don’t respect us. They don’t want our help. We’re being killed for nothing.’

  I hated having to accept that he might be right. But at that moment I truly believed he was.

  Not extinguishing that field fire was my last act in Toki. What should have been a ten-day operation was curtailed into a seven-day session. We were leaving.

  Considering the hell we’d experienced at Mulladad I was surprised to find myself eager to return. That happiness was short-lived. When my papers came through, they didn’t mention Mulladad at all but a different checkpoint, one called Daqhiqh.

  At that point I couldn’t care less.

  ‘Anywhere has got to be better than Toki.’

  Hasn’t it?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MOHAMED MOHAMED

  We flew from Toki to Bastion for a full debrief about the deaths and woundings, and other incidents. There’s something odd about how military reports summarise the facts. What I took away from Toki was the horror, the terror, the sense of loss, fear and degradation. None of that was reflected in black and white. They wanted facts and nothing but the facts. Opinions and emotions were for another time. At least the men on the ground knew the truth. I bumped into an old SBS mate who said, ‘I hea
r you lot have been up against it.’

  ‘I think you Poole boys would have struggled. How’s your war going?’

  ‘Bloody boring, if I’m honest. Just a load of antinarcotics business. I could do with a bit of action.’

  ‘That’s what I thought until I went to Toki. Trust me, it’s a place you don’t want to go.’ I couldn’t believe it. I was this close to giving him old George’s ‘Be careful what you wish for’ speech. How quickly things change.

  We were all able to call home from Bastion. When I spoke to Carly she gave me blow-by-blow details of the Spanish expedition. I’d been really worried that she would have been concerned about me but she was none the wiser about our exploits. If the deaths had been carried on the news back home, they had passed her by. Mum was a bit more clued up but it was only Dad, really, who knew my exact company and location. He was horrified that we’d lost so many men but so relieved that I wasn’t one of them. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to share more than a flavour of the cesspit we’d come from. It wouldn’t have been fair to worry him.

  I can’t tell him I was scared.

  He could hear that I’d had enough. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘just keep your head down till your R&R. Everything will be all right after that.’

  On a seven-month tour every member was entitled to two weeks back home for rest and recuperation. Mine was due at the end of July.

  It couldn’t come soon enough.

  * * *

  From Bastion we shipped to Shazaad, then on to Mulladad to pack things up there. Nothing had happened in our absence, so Command was winding it down as a checkpoint. The mortar line was moving north-west to Kamiabi. As for the checkpoint itself, it needed to be transformed back into a family compound. It’s more work than you can imagine, especially as my men were being moved out a few at a time. We had to take down the super-sangars, our defences, even our oven. Nothing could be left for possible use by insurgents. Luckily, a mate of mine, Pinky, volunteered to come and help. I knew him from various courses and my first tour to Afghan. While we were finding guns aimed at us every step we took, Pinky’s war was slightly more glamorous. He was security for the combat cameramen covering the war. In his own words he was little more than a ‘ruggedised’ Hello! photographer – and it was pissing him off. Yes, he’d seen action with Brigade Reconnaissance Force (BRF) in the desert, tagged along with the SFSG, but he’d also witnessed the calm of the southern AO (area of operation). For a man like Pinky that was dull. He wanted to be shooting bullets not pictures. Hanging out with us seemed a good place to realise that dream.