Commando

by Chris Terrill

  'Don't take any chances, mate,' he whispers emphatically. 'If we're spotted people could die.'

  'I know, Dave. Don't worry,' I assure him as I dutifully turn the camera off.

  I think I've probably taped the camera up pretty effectively but it is simply too dangerous to test it out right now. The enemy could be anywhere and I've already proved a liability. I feel wretched. Tonight, despite all the training I have received, I have not been a good commando. I have not even been a good cameraman.

  An hour later we reach a dry riverbed. 'Go firm,' orders Bertie. We all crouch low and wait while a couple of scouts are sent to check what lies ahead. As we wait I notice a cave in the steep bank of the riverbed. I crawl over to it and pull myself in as deep as I can go, trying to ignore the probability that I am invading the home of all manner of insects and snakes. Once sure that I am completely concealed I turn on my camera. It is, as I expected, almost illumination-free. The recording lights I have turned off electronically. The white working lights, partially covered, have been reduced to a dim glow. Another piece of tape extinguishes them completely. I then make sure I can see effectively through the pinhole I have made in the taped-up eyepiece. I can – what a relief. Content that the camera is now fully tactical and that I can do my job again, I crawl out of the cave, rejoin the troop and, at last, start to film.

  It is another hour before the scouts return. Apparently, the compound we want to observe is about half a mile away. Bertie signs for us to move. One by one we climb the steep sides of the opposite bank and slowly move forward through the darkness. I have my night-sight to my left eye and, intermittently, my camera to my right eye. Eventually, we reach a ridge covered in thorny vegetation which, painstakingly and painfully, we crawl through. On the other side we stop and crouch low again. A hundred yards away is the dark outline of some compound walls. This is what we have come to observe.

  Bertie sends half a dozen of his men forward to get a closer look. The rest of the troop stay back but are poised to strike if the need arises. We wait lying low and in complete silence. The recce party is away for about forty minutes. Then, one by one, they return, crawling on their bellies.

  'What did you see?' whispers Bertie.

  'We got to within twenty feet of the compound, boss,' says one of the commandos. 'There's definitely movement within and they have sentries posted outside. One of them heard a noise, probably a prowling jackal or something, and looked pretty jittery, so we couldn't risk going in any closer.'

  'OK,' says Bertie. 'Good enough. We've got the information we came for. There are enemy within. Let's head back.'

  We are back at HQ by 1.15 a.m., having first picked up Tanghei and Asbo as promised. Not as bouncy as they were earlier in the evening, the two dogs are soon curled up on the terrace outside the ops room. The rest of us have a chance to sleep as well – but not for long. Operation Sparrow Hawk starts at dawn and 11 Troop has to be in place on Roshan Hill to guard the northern flank.

  1 January

  05.30

  Bertie leads 11 Troop together with some twenty soldiers from 59 Commando (an independent commando squadron of Royal Engineers) towards the small hill half a mile north of the river and the HQ. It is low in altitude but strategically important as it commands good arcs of fire all round. The danger is that, once the advance starts on Sparrow Hawk, the Taliban might try a counterattack. It could be from any direction but the most likely, it is thought, would be from the north.

  We stop at a deserted police compound at the foot of Roshan Hill where we drop off around half our number who will take position there.

  Half an hour later the rest of us are at the top of the hill where we start to establish a firing line in an old Russian trench system already dug here. We spend some time filling sacks with sand to add to the trench defences and then everyone takes position. Marines are distributed evenly along the north-facing trench, with GPMGs set at either end. Once in place, we wait for the forces south of the river to make their move on Sparrow Hawk.

  'Look,' shouts one of the troop, 'they're starting up Athens.'

  I look over and see a distant line of troops at the base of Athens – the easternmost mountain. They'll have to climb Athens and then cross the ridge to Normandy before crossing again to Sparrow Hawk. As they make their way up the steep lower slopes, the marines look like tiny black ants and, just like an ant, each marine is carrying a heavy load – ammunition, mortars, signalling systems, food supplies, water – all they will need for the operation.

  An hour later the long line of black soldier ants is stretching across to Normandy and is beginning to advance on Sparrow Hawk but then it pauses. Bertie listens in to a sitrep (situation report) over the radio.

  'They've found mines,' he tells us all. 'They are going to have some controlled explosions to force their way through.'

  We watch fascinated as the ants continue to climb up from the base of Athens carrying more and more weaponry and supplies to the summit and then turning back down to collect more.

  'Good phys, that,' says Bertie. 'Tough on the quads.'

  'Yeah, boss,' says one of the machine-gunners. 'And a lot more fun than sitting on our arses on this pimple of a hill. We're missing all the fun here . . .'

  I have to agree. So far, protecting the northern flank has not been particularly exciting. It doesn't look like the Taliban are coming out to play – at least not from the north. We swing round as a series of enormous explosions are detonated on the ridge leading from Normandy to Sparrow Hawk. These are the mines being destroyed. Moments later we hear small arms fire coming in to Sparrow Hawk from the west. The Taliban are responding. We re-concentrate our attention on the northern flank. Sure enough, we receive some incoming but it is sporadic, inaccurate and short-lived. The main Taliban resistance is clearly being directed at the western side of Sparrow Hawk from the river valley.

  The marines on the mountain do their best to return fire but still their main effort is in transporting supplies. Two Apache helicopters hover overhead on airborne guard duty intermittently loosing off cannon fire at identified Taliban positions. Later, a couple of American F16s swoop in from the south also firing at the enemy positions.

  All morning and most of the afternoon the effort continues on the mountain. The ants just keep coming – bringing more and more supplies that are now being stacked in massive stockpiles. There are no short cuts for them and no roads as such – just rough tracks. It's all about legwork and muscle power – good old-fashioned soldiering. The enemy has been kept at bay and by late afternoon Sparrow Hawk belongs to the Royal Marines.

  18.00

  For 11 Troop on Roshan Hill it has been an utterly frustrating day. Trained soldiers like to get stuck in. They don't like to watch others getting stuck in. The knife is twisted when an ops-room signaller contacts our radio operator with a question guaranteed to vex.

  'Just need to know for official report – did you guys shoot any rounds today? Over.'

  'Are you havin' a laugh or what?' comes the instant reply. 'Not a fuckin' one, mate. Over.'

  'OK. That's noted. Major Collins would like to speak to Lieutenant Kerr . . .'

  The radio operator passes the handset to Bertie. 'Major Collins, sir.'

  Bertie listens long and hard to his company commander. After a few minutes he simply says, 'Yes, sir, I understand. Out.'

  'Something up, boss?' asks Pete McGinley.

  'Yes,' says Bertie firmly. 'The Shrine is on for tomorrow – at the crack. Looks like we're being given a special role in the assault too, but I have to go back to the HQ to receive orders.'

  'Ah, that's more like it,' says the ever-smiling sergeant, rolling his trademark cigarette.

  'We're to stay in the police compound at the bottom of the hill and prepare for a dawn assault. I'll give my own orders to the troop when I get back.'

  'How long do you think you'll be, sir?'

  'Two or three hours. Can you rig up a model of the area for me out of sand or something? I
need it to show all the main relief features of the Shrine.'

  19.30

  The deserted police compound is dilapidated – shot up and mortared to hell by the Taliban – but at least there are some walls intact to shelter us from the chill night wind. While we wait for Bertie to return from HQ, Pete McGinley is building a model of the Shrine as requested. Tom Curry, aka 'Vinders', gets a fire going and then starts to boil up some water in a huge black kettle he found among the rubble.

  'Soon get some tea down our necks,' he says cheerfully. 'Everything's better after a nice cup of char!'

  The rest of the troop explore the ruined buildings looking for the best places to lay out their sleeping bags.

  'Probably another night without much sleep, mate,' says Dave Nicholson, unfolding his ground mat in the crumbling remains of a prison cell.

  'Yes, pre-dawn getaway according to Bertie,' I say. 'The lads are really up for it, whatever it is they're being asked to do. Me too, to be honest – should be good filming.'

  'I know,' says Dave. 'But you have to be careful what you wish for in this game. We all want action – it's what we trained for – but Taliban bullets do as much damage as marine bullets if they find their mark. It could be a tough action so you need to remember everything you've been told back at CTC. I'll be with you but if something happens to me don't take any chances. Don't risk your life for a bit of film.'

  Dave is right of course. Why risk dying for TV? But then my main reason for being here is not for TV – it's more personal than that. The fact is I want to know what it feels like being under fire in a front-line war. I am scared stiff at the prospect but it is a box I need to tick. Why? Maybe it's just one of those weird 'bloke' things – a chromosomal impulse to court danger like climbing mountains to unforgiving altitudes or racing Formula One cars at breakneck speeds. Possibly. But I think it goes deeper than that.

  I've always suffered a strange sort of guilt mixed with jealousy that I missed the war that embroiled my parents' generation and over the years I have thought long and hard why that might be. My deliberations are incomplete but so far they go like this:

  In the Second World War my father served first in the Merchant Navy, then in the Royal Navy – and my mother joined the W.R.N.S. The experience defined them as people and has continued to do so ever since. It gave them moral fibre, a deep sense of honour, enduring values and great purpose. I was born seven years after the end of the war and, it may seem a strange thing to say, but looking back, I have always felt I missed out on something pretty incredible. I know it was a terrible time but that is the point. The fact that my parents, and millions like them, had to endure years of conflict, threat and self-sacrifice has always made me admire them and their generation as well as envy them. I am only too aware that I was born into a soft generation. When my father was eighteen he was sailing in Atlantic convoys and running the deadly gauntlet of German U-boats and dive-bombers. When I was eighteen I was growing my hair long and enjoying the heady, carefree days of the Swinging Sixties.

  I have never lost sight of the fact that we owe the war generation a huge debt of gratitude but, by the same token, I have always coveted what they had and what subsequent generations have not had in the same measure: a fighting spirit, a binding sense of togetherness, scratch-proof morale, enduring humour and an incredible sense of achievement.

  Is that why I'm here in Afghanistan? Am I using my job to give me the war experience that I feel is missing from my life? Maybe I am. Certainly, I have gained some amazing insights into the military through my time with the marines and an incredible sense of belonging to their extraordinary family. I may not be a combatant and I may not be wielding a weapon but I am running with the Bootnecks and learning how to do things their way (if we draw a veil over last night's nightmare with my camera).

  So I am not, you see, risking myself for the greater glory of prime-time TV. For me this is all about self-exploration and, yes, self-absorption. I know Dave is right in his warning that you have to be careful what you wish for out here but, like the lads, I'm up for it. I'm excited. Terrified. But excited all the same.

  Having said all that, my job is still very important to me. I feel a great responsibility to capture some of what I'm living through on camera so that I can share it with a wider public and give them some insight into the Royal Marines and all they do and achieve on their behalf. Set aside for a moment the bigger questions – international politics, the war on terrorism, the wider purpose of Britain's presence in Afghanistan. What I am interested in is the human side of soldiering. I am fascinated by the special code of honour that binds these men who would willingly die for each other if necessary. There is something incredibly inspiring about people who face danger courageously but selflessly and maybe it is that I want to experience for myself– even if it is just by holding on to the coat-tails of a troop of Bootnecks in Kijaki.

  22.00

  Bertie has returned. We all move out to the compound to receive his orders for the action tomorrow.

  'OK, listen up, lads. You might have had a boring day today watching all the others going up the hill but tomorrow the spotlight is on us. There will be a full company assault on the Shrine at daybreak – one hundred men with full Wimik support and Apache top cover. Us lot are confirmed as point troop. We're first in.'

  As Bertie explains the minutiae of the plan, using the model on the ground, every man is a study of concentration. Tomorrow, action is virtually guaranteed for 11 Troop, and even as Bertie speaks, the guns on Normandy, and those also now on Sparrow Hawk, open fire on some distant target enemy. Tracer bullets carve angry red streaks in the night sky far above our heads and the repetitive crack of the heavy machine guns delivering them provides a dramatic background sound to Bertie's meticulous orders.

  'We will climb the Shrine under cover of darkness and probe the summit at first light. We don't even know for sure if the enemy are up there any more. But if they are you can expect them to put up a fight. It is essential we engage them and defeat them so they know there's no hiding place.'

  'Once we have taken the Shrine, boss,' says one of the troop, 'do we dig in or keep moving?'

  'The intention is not to hold the Shrine, just give the Taliban a bit of a bashing. My plan after that would be to move north and sweep through any compounds we find and search for enemy, weapons and ammunition. OK, any more questions?'

  There aren't any, so Pete McGinley steps forward.

  'Right, you lot. You've heard what the boss has said. Tomorrow we have a chance to show just how good we are. Treat it as an honour that we're point troop. It should be a hoofing day – just remember your training and look after your oppos. Remember, a fallen comrade is a priority. We have medics with us and casevac [casualty evacuation] in place should we need it.'

  'OK, that's it, lads,' says Bertie. 'We leave tomorrow at dawn. Get some scran down your necks and then get some sleep. I want you up at 0400 hours. We leave at 0445 hours.'

  23.00

  We crowd round the fire and take it in turns to heat up our boil-in-the-bag rations in the big black kettle – everybody calm but thoughtful. Suddenly, Vinders surprises us all with some unexpected information: 'It's my twenty-first birthday today.'

  'Bloody hell,' says Dave Nicholson. 'What a way to spend your twenty-first, eh?'

  'Yeah, unusual,' smiles Vinders.

  Dave reaches into his combat jacket and pulls out a silver hipflask. 'A slug of single malt to celebrate, Royal!'

  'Thank you, sir,' says Vinders, reaching out gratefully.

  'Congratulations, Vinders . . .' says Bertie. 'And happy New Year too!'

  'Cheers, boss,' says Vinders, heaving his massive frame up from the fire to grab another log to throw on. 'You know what though ... I really wish I was at home with the girlfriend right now going down the pub.'

  'Serious, is it?' someone says, 'with the bird I mean.'

  'Oh yeah! I phoned Carla on Christmas Day and popped the question. Had to be done! She answ
ered the question correctly!'

  Once we've scoffed our bacon and beans (and in one case a tiny drop of whisky), we crawl into our sleeping bags for a fitful sleep. By the light of my torch I read a few pages of P.G. Wodehouse to relax my mind. In the distance I hear the unmistakable sound of small arms fire. This is Mad Max country, I think to myself. Lawless. Dangerous.

  9

  Assault at Dawn

  2 January

  03.50

  I wake instinctively. My thick, military-issue sleeping bag cocoons me in warmth and comfortable security but I know that, on this of all mornings, a lie-in is simply not an option.

  'You awake, Chris?' says Dave.

  'Yes, mate.'

  'Need to get some scran down you before we go.'

  I climb out of my sleeping bag into a bitter, frost-coated morning.

  'It's fucking icers!' I hear myself saying in fluent Bootneck.

  Everyone is up and boiling water on their Hexi stoves. A hot drink and breakfast is essential. We all need fuel – as many calories as we can pack in. It's going to be a long and very physical day and we don't know when we'll have a chance to eat next. I boil up a metal mug of water and plunge in yet another bag of bacon and beans.

  'What are you having, Dave?'

  'Treacle pudding and custard.'

  'Some breakfast!'

  'Yeah, I know. I was going to eat it cold but if you don't heat it up you can't get your teeth through it – it's so mega hard.'

  'Hard's not the word for it, sir,' says a marine boiling up his breakfast just outside the door of our cell. 'I think it would be better to eat the bullets and throw the treacle duff at the Taliban. It would do more damage . . .'

  'You're right, mate – the way you shoot,' chuckles another voice in the corridor.