‘Seems like a nice bloke,’ said Lewis as Rom walked away puffing on a cigarette.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I think we’ve done all right here.’
We packed our kit into the vehicles as best we could, wondering how we were expected to fit inside, and headed back to the volleyball court.
The atmosphere was so relaxed that, just for a few minutes, it was easy to forget we were on the front line of what was becoming an increasingly bitter and dirty war. My guys joined a small crowd of Danish soldiers who had gathered to watch the volleyball match. While the rest of the team enthusiastically cheered every point, Rom and I sat down for another chat. He was one of those larger than life characters often found in the military world who you could trust with your life. He had a reputation of being a fearless fighter, with two tours of Afghanistan already under his belt. Over some excellent Danish coffee, Rom explained how our team would integrate into his crew.
‘You’ll have your own vehicle but it will be commanded by my guys. We’ll take the lead during the operation and if we get into a contact my guys will deal with it. When we find an IED, and we will, then you take the lead and we’ll provide you with cover. Happy?’
It was exactly the sort of no-nonsense relationship an IED Operator wanted to have with the parent unit and I immediately sensed that whatever happened over the next few days my relationship with Rom would only get stronger.
Then apropos of nothing, Rom pointed up at the sky where the stars shone like diamonds and said: ‘The Egyptians used those very same stars to build the pyramids. Makes you think, doesn’t it? They’ve remained unchanged for thousands of years. The same stars that Alexander the Great saw when he came through Afghanistan, if he did.’
Elsewhere across Helmand hundreds of other troops from dozens of different units were already swarming into the Green Zone. Soldiers from the Black Watch, the Royal Regiment of Scotland and the Rifles flew into Taliban-occupied areas in what was described as the biggest British air assault operation since the Second World War. On the ground the Welsh Guards pressed forward the attack in Warrior armoured personnel carriers (APCs), while above Apache attack helicopters and heavily armed US Spectre gunships supported the ground troops.
Despite the size of the ground force taking part in the operation, the EOD element consisted of just two bomb-hunting teams, mine and another led by Staff Sergeant Oz Schmid, who was on the same High Threat course as me but deployed slightly later. There were only five British Counter-IED teams in Helmand at that time so reducing the number by 40 per cent for a single operation was a significant reduction.
The camp was awake before first light and the peaceful pre-dawn silence was soon broken by the roar of vehicles being revved into life. Choking clouds of diesel exhaust belching from the tanks and APCs added to a frenetic atmosphere as soldiers rushed around completing last-minute checks and cramming extra ammo into already packed vehicles. One vehicle broke down, creating an instant but short-lived panic as soldiers were ordered to find spaces elsewhere in the small convoy.
Even at 4.30 a.m. my team were buzzing, trying to keep a lid on their nervous anticipation at what lay ahead. Everyone wanted to get going, get out of the gate and confront the enemy and we were all gripped by the sense that we were going to be part of something special.
APCs might seem like an ideal way to go to war: no walking, air-conditioning, a comfy seat and armour plate designed to protect those inside from small arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs). From the outside looking in the vehicles can appear huge but the reality was very different. Brimstone 42 was split between two APCs, the search team in one and the bomb disposal element in another. Our kit was jammed into every empty nook and cranny. Water, rations, ammo, radios, sleeping bags, our Bergens, all had to be fitted inside and by the time we had packed there was virtually no room for us. One of the joys of being the boss meant that I got to choose the least uncomfortable seat – the one by the rear door.
‘How we all doing?’ I asked, tightening the harness that would keep me strapped into my seat if there was an IED strike.
‘Cosy.’
‘Fucking dandy.’
‘Happy as a pig in shit.’
The responses all came at once.
‘Guys, there’s some cold drinks in the fridge if you want some, help yourself,’ the Danish vehicle commander called down from above.
‘Yeah, nice one, dickhead,’ I thought to myself, thinking he was joking.
He bent down looking at us with a smile and said: ‘Over there . . . can you pass me one?’ He indicated with a nod to the corner of the vehicle. There was a small fridge, a solitary item of luxury, and it was composed of two shelves stacked with ice-cold Mountain Dew.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, it’s one out, one in,’ the Dane said, pointing to the other side of the vehicle where there were three crates of the drink hidden behind boxes containing heavy machine gun ammunition.
‘Lewis, pass the man his drink,’ Dave responded.
Then without warning the vehicle jerked forward, swung into its position in the convoy and headed for the Green Zone and Taliban country.
Within minutes the temperature inside was almost unbearable and must have been nudging 40°C. Everyone was dressed in full battle order, including body armour and helmets, with weapons positioned between our legs. It was like sitting in a cramped sauna fully clothed and I could feel sweat running down my neck and dripping from my chin.
Conversation was only possible by shouting above the engine noise and most of us gave up trying after the first twenty minutes. The day seemed endless and I dozed, occasionally slipping into a sleep, only to be awoken as the vehicle lurched from side to side as it bounced over the undulating terrain.
Occasionally the vehicle’s radio would randomly spark into life throwing up snippets of information on the operation’s progress. As the morning turned into afternoon firefights between the forward elements of the convoy and the enemy became more frequent and intense. Elsewhere vehicles were hitting IEDs and casualties were being taken; it was obvious that a KIA was only a matter of time, given the numbers and intensity of the contacts, but when it came we were all left shocked.
While we were complaining about being hot and cramped Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Thorneloe, the Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion Welsh Guards and Trooper Joshua Hammond, of the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment, were killed by a huge IED detonating beneath the Viking armoured vehicle they were travelling in. No soldier’s life is worth any more or less than anyone else’s but the death of a CO on the battlefield had not happened since the Falklands War.
‘Jesus,’ one of the lads said. ‘If a boss can get blown to shit it can happen to any of us.’
Armoured troop carriers offer protection from small arms fire and possibly RPGs, but not much more. An IED with a large main charge, anything more than 20kg of HME, had the potential to do some real damage. The impact of the blast on the underneath of the vehicle would send a huge scab of metal flying around inside, ricocheting from side to side until everyone had been turned into a bloody mush. Any survivors would then be incinerated in the ensuing fireball – it was a pretty unpleasant way to die. With the door closed we were both protected from the outside and also trapped.
After two days of being bounced around the inside of that armoured vehicle I was beginning to lose the will to live. The air conditioning broke right at the beginning of the operation, turning the vehicle into an oven on wheels and the lack of air inside was almost suffocating. Meals were snatched when the vehicle stopped for long enough. Otherwise we often ended up having to piss in bottles and one of the lads even asked if he could have a shit inside the vehicle – he didn’t ask twice.
The relief when the steel rear doors opened was almost overwhelming. One by one we fell out of the back of the APC, almost crippled by stiffness and squinting into the bright intense daylight. It was early afternoon but we had lost all sense of time and felt completely disorientated. The journey thr
ough the Green Zone had taken two long, punishing days of near continuous travel, only punctuated by brief rest stops. Everyone stank of old sweat and the inside of the vehicle reeked like a pigsty. My body odour was so bad that I could actually smell myself. My arse crack felt like a swamp and my hair was matted with dust, sweat and thick grease. I had spots on my forehead like boils from the dirt that had been swirling around inside the APC. I would have happily given a month’s salary for a shower.
The operation had been running for just forty-eight hours but we were exhausted mentally and physically. If the Taliban had attacked us at that moment we would have struggled to defend ourselves. A day earlier the area had been the scene of a ferocious battle during which several Danish soldiers had been killed and injured but they had smashed those Taliban who had stood and fought. The twisted, bloated corpses of several dead Taliban, mutilated by the effects of modern military weapons, lay in the open ground. Clouds of black flies hovered above and the sickly rich odour of putrefying human flesh hung heavily in the air.
I wondered why no one had bothered to collect the bodies that seemed to be surrounded by dozens of red spray-painted circles.
‘What’s with all the red paint?’ I asked a Danish officer who came over to greet us. ‘Those are IEDs,’ he said with a certain amount of satisfaction, ‘and it’s your job to clear them.’
Dozens of IEDs had been buried in a wide bank across a main transit route into one of the key areas controlled by the enemy. A warm breeze blew against my face as I stared out to the scrubby fields beyond; there appeared to be red circles almost everywhere.
‘That’s a massive job. We can do it but clearing this many IEDs will take days.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ the officer responded casually. ‘Take as much time as you need. We’re not going anywhere. We will rest today, there’s only a few hours of daylight left and we’ll start tomorrow.’
I called the team together and gave them a quick brief: ‘All of the red circles you can see out there are the locations of IEDs and they’re just the ones the Danes have found. There could be more and they want them cleared. We start tomorrow early. So get your kit sorted, get some scoff on and get a good night’s sleep.’
Our home that night was an Afghan compound with pock-marked walls and buildings scorched black by the impact of high explosive shells fired by the Danes a few hours earlier. The area was cleared by the search team, both inside and outside the compound, and we claimed a building that didn’t look as if it might collapse. The smell of the dead decaying in nearby fields dulled our appetites that night and despite the distant rumble of artillery fire throughout the night Brimstone 42 slept soundly for the first time in over forty-eight hours, confident in the knowledge that the Danish battlegroup with their two tanks and dozens of soldiers would repel any Taliban attack.
The following morning I woke just after dawn to the sound of a tank starting its engine, a ritual that would take place every morning. The rest of the team slept soundly as I walked the compound’s perimeter, looking out across the IED fields, wondering whether the task was too great for a single Counter-IED team. I attempted to count the red circles but gave up after twenty or so, convinced I had counted the same one twice. The compound was located in a blissful area, with a tributary of the Helmand river running left to right about forty metres in front of it. Either side of the river were two very basic roads. The area looked peaceful enough and my only real concern was several deserted compounds a few hundred metres away in the fields beyond the far side of the river.
I returned to where the lads were sleeping and made myself a quick brew and watched as the sun rose in the east, turning the velvet-black sky into a wash of dark-blue and orange. The sounds of distant battle began to fill the air, snuffing out the shrill sound of morning birdsong. Someone was getting smashed and thoughts of Oz and his team flashed across my mind.
‘Good morning,’ said a voice from behind. I turned to see Rom standing behind me, smiling broadly and drinking coffee.
‘Morning,’ I responded. ‘Your guys have been busy finding bombs. Does anyone have any idea how many are out there?’ I said, nodding towards the mass of red circles.
‘We think we have marked twenty-eight IEDs so far,’ he said smiling, ‘but there could be a lot more.’ I climbed up onto a wall to get a better view of the area to see if there was any plan or design to the layout of the bombs, but if there was I couldn’t see it.
By now the rest of the team were up, cleaning weapons, washing or preparing their breakfast, conducting their morning admin, a practice that would have been ingrained in them from their time as recruits. Dressed, fed and ready to fight, I began briefing them on the plan. It was going to be another slack day for the search team – after all, the bombs had been found – but for the rest of us it was going to be a bitch.
‘The Danes have done a good job in confirming and marking but let’s not get complacent. It’s a big job, it will get boring, we will get tired but we have to remain focused. Anyone struggling in the heat sing out and we’ll take a break. They are pretty cool, they won’t be on our backs but the longer we are fixed in this location the more chance we have of becoming a target. It’s a straightforward enough task – one bomb at a time – no short cuts, no fuck-ups.’
The team nodded enthusiastically. After the previous forty-eight hours of armoured vehicle hell, everyone just wanted to get to work.
While Lewis got his kit together I walked over to the compound boundary and peered out into the desert.
‘Right, where to start?’ I said out loud.
‘Why not there?’ Lewis said, pointing at a red circle about thirty metres in front of us.
‘Why not indeed? You guys take cover in the compound behind the wall.’
I turned on my metal detector and listened for its high-pitched whine before setting off towards the IED, tiptoeing at first before striding purposefully towards the first red circle. The area had been cleared but given the enormity of the task I decided it was a job that needed to be done with a strict application of the basic rules of EOD – the first of which was never assume the ground is clear.
As I reached the target area I could feel my heart thumping with excitement, like a child at Christmas, unwrapping a long-desired present. I felt as though I was wholly in my element as I dug away with my trowel and carefully swept away the dry, sandy earth with gentle brushstrokes, searching for a wire, a corner of a pressure plate, anything. I was in the zone, pitching my wits against the Taliban’s.
But my concentration was broken when Lewis told me with a certain amount of urgency that I needed to return to the compound. Using the Leopard 2 Tank’s powerful optics, a Danish gunner had spotted several Taliban moving into a number of the compounds on the other side of the river. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see the tank barrel pointing at something in the distance and I was in its line of fire.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I said to myself but also realising that the Danes couldn’t exactly fire a high explosive round a few feet above my head. The over-pressure would have seriously ruined my day and potentially detonated the bomb I was working on.
Feeling frustrated I walked back to the compound and seconds later the tank fired.
The ground beneath my feet shook as the shell flew across the desert towards its target and exploded a second or two later. Whatever threat had been there no longer existed. I felt nothing for those who had just died, apart from the mild irritation of being delayed in my work.
Minutes later I was back at the target, lying face down close to the IED, which I soon discovered had a pressure plate attached – no tricks or traps, and after forty minutes of coming back and forth it was ready to blow.
Lewis pressed the firing switch and unleashed a massive explosion which erupted around the valley, sending up a huge cloud of dust and debris that took several seconds to clear and when it did I realised I’d made a very basic mistake. A thick blanket of dust and lumps of earth thrown up by
the blast had settled across a wide area covering dozens of the red circles. The minefield that the Royal Danish Army had so painstakingly uncovered had disappeared.
Everyone looked at me in almost disbelief. ‘That’s a bit of a balls-up,’ I said out loud, wondering why I hadn’t factored in the obvious problem of dust. I looked around more surprised than embarrassed and saw Rom walking away, his shoulders moving up and down as he laughed to himself.
The dust problem was more of an annoyance than any major drama because as a matter of course I searched everywhere I went when I was working on an IED. I worked throughout the day, moving from one device to the next, only stopping when my concentration was broken by the distant sound of sporadic gunfire.
By the end of that first day I had cleared eight bombs, one after another. Eight bombs in a day – that was ridiculous. As the light began to fade I stopped work and cleared a route back to the compound. I headed over to where the team had gathered and sat on a low wall, suddenly exhausted after almost ten hours in the sun. Lee by contrast looked fresh and relaxed and handed me a brew.
‘Long day?’ he enquired with a rather-you-than-me look on his face.
‘Yeah, too long.’
‘Go and sit down and I’ll get some food on,’ he added. I was almost too tired to eat and tried to protest but Lee was insistent.
My back ached and my knees were blood-sore but I felt a real sense of achievement. Despite being exhausted I had enjoyed every minute of it. I didn’t even think of the task as a challenge, it was just fun. More and more I was starting to realise that I had finally found my true role in life. It was a curious and comforting feeling but one which at that stage I felt I couldn’t really discuss with anyone. If I had told my team ‘This is what I was made for’ they’d probably think I was a bit of a wanker.
Painting the Sand Page 10
