Commando

by Chris Terrill

  The banter is spontaneous but subdued.

  After a quickly consumed breakfast, all members of the troop concentrate on their final preparations. We are just carrying webbing and daysacks on the mission and leaving our bergens in the compound, so we have to make sure we have decanted all we might need and no more. Weapons are given a final clean, extra magazines are filled with bullets, grenades are crammed into pouches, water bottles are filled to the brim and bayonets are oiled. As for me, I double-check all the batteries I am carrying are charged, I ensure my radio microphones are working on a range of frequencies, that my camera is also in full working order and its lens is clean. I check everything obsessively and repeatedly, not out of assiduous professionalism but out of steadily rising nerves. I feel like I did before running on to a rugby field to play a big match – anxious and excited at the same time.

  'Just stick close to the troop all the time, mate,' says Dave. 'Don't get separated.'

  'No way, Dave. I don't want to be skinned and rolled in salt, thank you very much.'

  'Fair one. It's just that when you're filming you have a very narrow field of vision.'

  'Absolutely. That's where I need you, mate. You have to be my peripheral vision.'

  'You got it! But if we are separated just keep scanning around. I know what you're like when you're looking through that bloody camera.'

  Everyone is ready and beginning to line up at the gate. I am just about to join them when, at the last minute, for some daft reason, I decide to pack my P.G. Wodehouse in the top of my daysack. I have no expectation of reading it of course and I can hardly argue that it is essential for the task in hand, it's just comforting to think that Jeeves and Co. will be close by . . .

  04.45

  'OK, lads. Let's go. Move!' whispers Bertie. Twenty silent silhouettes depart the police compound. It is two hours before dawn and still unspeakably cold. The waxing three-quarter moon, nearing the end of its lunar watch, hangs low in a star-speckled sky. Its tired beams lend a vague purple definition to the sleeping, rocky landscape.

  'Keep to the shadows, guys,' says Bertie through his headset. 'The Taliban could be anywhere.' The men of 11 Troop move slowly and silently forward, snaking obediently through the moon-shadows in single file. They hold their SA80 assault rifles in full readiness. There is no bunching – each man keeps thirty feet behind the man in front just in case someone steps on a landmine, is hit by mortar fire or struck by a rocket-propelled grenade. That way only one man is killed or wounded at a time and not several. Commando warfare is very pragmatic.

  I take my position in the line, combat helmet on head (clearly marked with my blood group), Kevlar body armour on chest and back, tough Lowa boots on feet and thumping heart firmly in mouth. The only thing I have to shoot with of course is my camera, although on my belt I have a substantial six-inch Buck knife newly sharpened –just in case. Little use, I know, against an AK47, but it makes me feel better. Like having P.G. Wodehouse in my daysack.

  About four hundred yards from the police compound we meet up with others of M Company who are also making their way to the foot of the Shrine. Led by Captain Will MacKenzie-Green, 10 Troop are to skirt the base of the feature and provide fire support for us should we need it once on the summit. Captain Tony Forshaw, who wore the tight red dress on Christmas Day, will be leading a Wimik support group on the open ground around the Shrine. The rest of the company – one hundred commandos in all - will be deployed in a covering position to our rear.

  05.30

  Still under the cover of darkness we start to climb the steep southern slope of the Shrine. The loose surface crumbles underfoot and it is difficult sometimes to keep balance and maintain forward movement. After about an hour of hard climbing in complete silence we stop just short of the summit. Bertie consults Pete McGinley. He then issues a whispered order to the rest of us through his headset: 'Go firm. We wait here till it gets lighter.' Twenty men seemingly melt into the rocks.

  06.25

  A pale morning sun reveals a bright beige landscape. 'We're bloody exposed here,' Bertie whispers over the radio as the summit of the Shrine proves closer than expected. The safety catches on the SA80s remain on but the weapons are made ready - that means there are bullets in all the barrels ready to fire. I switch my camera to 'standby'. 'Keep low, lads,' he says. 'Don't skyline yourselves. The enemy's out there somewhere.' We crouch low, wait and watch.

  'Ready, Chris?' says Dave Nicholson.

  Replying with a nod of the head, I take the opportunity of filming the waiting commandos and notice for the first time how incredibly well their camouflage works against the desert colours. I slowly zoom in on Bertie who, sitting in the shadow of a huge boulder, is taking the opportunity to unwrap a boiled sweet and am reminded of the old adage that war is 99 per cent boredom and just 1 per cent intense excitement. As I pan my camera round to the rising sun I notice some bright pink lights floating over the near horizon. They are mesmerising and seemingly silent but seconds later a savage sound assaults the early-morning peace . . .

  'Crack! Crack! Crack!'

  'Jesus – we've been spotted!' shouts Bertie. 'Incoming! Take cover!' The innocuous, glowing pink streaks now just above our heads are in fact deadly tracer bullets and they are getting lower as the Taliban aim improves. 'Keep your heads down, lads!' The 'crack' noise turns into an ominous 'whistling buzz' – the sound a bullet makes when passing close to your head. Marines call this an 'Afghan bee' or a 'lead wasp' – and right now there are swarms of the buggers all around us. We push our bodies into the dust and grit our teeth.

  Lying flat on my stomach, I pull the camera up to my eye to film the glowing tracer bullets but immediately notice I've lost focus. I must have hit the camera when diving for cover. Praying that the lens hasn't been damaged, I point the camera at Bertie who is right next to me. With bullets ricocheting off the rocks around us, I desperately struggle to regain focus but the camera is not responding. With all hell letting loose, I try not to panic and go through the usual checks as methodically as I can. With relief I notice the problem. When I hit the ground I must have knocked the autofocus button and inadvertently taken the camera out of the manual mode I normally operate with – which was why twisting the focus ring was having no effect. I switch the focus back to manual and immediately sharpen the picture. 'Thank Christ!' I breathe.

  Dave is about twenty yards behind me and is doing his best to crawl up closer to where I am but the incoming fire is too intense. 'We can't stay here,' shouts Bertie to his troop. 'We are too exposed. On your belt buckles, lads, we have to get down lower and into dead ground and protective cover. There we regroup and establish a firing line.' Bertie is constantly assessing the situation and seems totally in control – losing his cool only momentarily when an 'Afghan bee' nearly takes his ear off. 'Fuck!' he says, not unreasonably, as further bursts of enemy tracer scar the now brilliant blue sky.

  This is the first time I have been with Bertie under truly threatening fire from a real enemy and it is amazing how his training has kicked in automatically. I think back to all the exercises I have joined him on – riot-control exercise in Aldershot, amphibious assault landings off the coast of Scotland and jungle warfare training in America. I also think of the fun times like the summer ball at Lympstone and the sumptuous Sunday lunch I shared with him and his family at their home in Brecon just two weeks before he left for Afghanistan. Then, pinned down flat on my stomach, I think of my own family and wonder what they're doing right now. Briefly I think of the 'death letters' I wrote before I left London and have an overwhelming feeling of regret that I asked poor Laura to distribute them to my family and friends. What a horrible job for her to have to do – and all because I wanted to know what it was like to be under fire on the front fine. Well, I bloody well know now. And how do I feel?

  I am so adrenalin-charged that fear is largely suppressed. I feel intensely excited and strangely empowered. I am intellectually aware of the danger around me but emotionally and e
ven spiritually I feel invulnerable. Maybe I'm in naive denial of just what I have got myself into, but I can tell you I have seldom felt more energised, more vital and more alive.

  08.40

  The incoming fire has not diminished but now we know that 10 Troop at the base of the hill has opened up with everything they have to try and draw the Taliban fire away from us. We need air support as well but have been told it will take time to arrive. This is all very, very real and there is no mistaking that any of those screaming, whizzing bullets would seriously spoil anybody's day if they find their mark.

  We have all managed to crawl a bit lower down the slope and I am now alongside Dave Nicholson again.

  'Chris, you all right, mate?'

  'I'm OK, Dave. And you?'

  'Fine. We'll try and make a break for it in a minute. There's some cover a couple of hundred yards further down – a natural ridge in the hillside. When the time comes, just run like fuck in a straight line – and don't stop till you get there.'

  'OK, lads, go for it! Down to the ridge!' shouts Bertie. I get to my feet and join the desperate sprint for safety and now, for the first time, with my back to the bullets, I start to feel vulnerable. Every step of the way to the cover two hundred yards away I expect to feel hot lead rip through my back or legs. It doesn't. We make it. We consolidate. We regroup.

  09.40

  Bertie has established a firing line just above our defensive position and 11 Troop start to lay down effective fire at the enemy, but the Taliban have dug into a strong position themselves and are returning disconcertingly accurate fire. Judging from the weight of it, the general consensus is that we, a troop of twenty men, are facing upwards of one hundred enemy.

  I crawl towards the front line of firing troops to try and get a better shot of them myself. I raise the camera to my eye but there is so much sand and dust in the air that I'm temporarily blinded by it. My right eye is in agony and rubbing it just makes it worse. I blink violently and then, out of desperation, tear my contact lens out. This provides instant relief so I raise the camera again and pan across the smouldering battlefield searching for something to focus on. I spot a dark shadow in the swirling smoke about fifty yards away and zoom in. It is difficult to make out what it is at first but gradually my eye adjusts to a startling image. It is a lone marine down on bended knee. He is holding his assault rifle tight to his shoulder and firing rapid single shots through the smoke that enshrouds him. His unseen enemy is firing back and their bullets are kicking up sand all around him but he is unflinching . . . resolute . . . steadfast. I am spellbound. I see in front of me a timeless warrior facing his foe and exhibiting all the contradictions that make the human condition so thrilling and yet so terrifying – heroic yet brutal, noble yet vengeful, splendid yet sinister, strong yet vulnerable . . .

  'Chris! Move now!'

  Suddenly, Dave's voice screams above the sound of battle and shatters my contemplations.

  'Chris – stop filming! Pull back now!'

  I obey without hesitation. Dave knows instinctively that the weight of enemy fire is increasing and that we're in imminent danger if we stay here.

  I attempt to make my move but then I look down to see the shoelaces on my right boot have come undone. I cannot believe it. In months of training these laces have remained solidly and firmly tied. It is only now, under fire from a deadly enemy, that they chose to come undone. Cursing, I stoop to do them up and then, keeping low, sprint back with Dave and rejoin others of the troop lower down the slope. As the air clears I notice beneath us on the desert plains four Wimiks hurtling over the sands, each one firing furiously at enemy positions. M Company has clearly woken a hornets' nest but it is we of 11 Troop who are still most in danger – isolated on the summit and desperately lacking cover.

  'Call HQ,' says Bertie to his radio operator. 'Ask for smoke to be laid ahead of us . . .'

  No sooner has the message been transmitted than Royal Marine positions far behind us fire a series of mortars over our heads to lay down the screen of smoke that will help cover our movements. But then – the sound no one wants to hear. 'Thud!' The sickening noise of a bullet against bone and flesh is followed by a muted scream. Right next to Bertie, Richard Mayson has been hit. The bullet has gone straight through his wrist shattering the bone and he is bleeding profusely. Bertie immediately helps tend the wounded marine. With him is Marine Hoole who instantly whips out the morphine from behind Mayson's body armour and jabs it straight into his upper thigh. They then proceed to apply a field dressing. 'Soon have you out of here, mate,' says Hoole to the shocked casualty. 'Look on the bright side, mate, and think of the dits you can spin down the pub. The birds'll be all over you!' Despite the intense pain Mayson smiles at the prospect. Minutes later a couple of medics start to help the marine back down the southern slope for casevac. He will be withdrawn to as safe a position as possible where a Chinook will pick him up as fast as possible and transport him to the military hospital at Camp Bastion. He may only have been shot in the wrist but if an artery has been severed he could lose a lot of blood.

  Every battlefield casualty is picked up as a priority by these airborne 'immediate response units' because that first hour after sustaining an injury is critical. It's known as the 'golden hour' and any treatment given during this vital period can make the difference between life and death. The Chinooks evacuating the injured from the field carry fully equipped doctors and nurses as well as extra troops for protection because they often come under fire themselves.

  10.40

  The fighting carries on for another hour. I follow the members of 11 Troop as they try to advance by using a series of bomb craters for cover. Without knowing exactly where all the enemy are holed up, the marines fix bayonets in readiness for close-quarter combat. But then, just as we're about to advance again, an Apache helicopter arrives overhead to launch a Hellfire missile at the main Taliban position still largely hidden to us. It's a direct hit. A blinding flash is followed by an ear-splitting explosion that sends clouds of dust, smoke and flames billowing into the sky. The enemy that are not killed flee, running to the north where they can hide in an endless maze of deserted compounds and caves or further into the desert or distant mountains. Bertie and his men immediately advance and consolidate the position. After a savage firefight that has lasted nearly four hours M Company finally holds the Shrine. The day is won.

  The sky above us is full of dark, acrid smoke. The mud walls of the compound where the Taliban had been firing from are no longer standing. Beneath the rubble are the bodies of the enemy who, just minutes ago, were intent on killing us all, but 11 Troop together with massive covering fire from 10 Troop held them off long enough for the Apache to perform its deadly task. I look around at the exhausted marines. Grasping their weapons with bayonets still fixed, they are instinctively grouping together, chatting, smiling and shaking hands and, seeing this, I realise a very important fact of war. When the chips are down a warrior is no longer fighting for a cause, a flag or even as a duty – he is fighting first and foremost for the friends and comrades around him.

  'Take ten minutes, guys,' says a relieved and exhausted Bertie Kerr. 'Get some water down you and some food.'

  Everyone sits down among the rocks, reaches into their daysacks and pulls out water and dried rations: biscuits, sweets, chocolates, processed cheese, tinned meat.

  Next to me Pete McGinley typically starts to roll a cigarette. I decide to film him doing it and focus on his hands as they deftly fill the Rizla paper with fragrant shreds of Mellow Virginia. As he does this I pan down to the tobacco pouch in his left hand and then, through the lens, I read the health warning: SMOKING KILLS.

  'Bit ironic that, Pete,' I say.

  'Yeah, I know,' he smirks. 'If Terry Taliban doesn't get me these things will. Bugger it. I don't care – I deserve this!'

  He draws long, hard and deliciously on the lovingly rolled cigarette and then blows smoke at the Afghan sky.

  11.15

  We
move out down the slopes of the Shrine where we join up with some engineers and explosives experts from 59 Commando. Together, we head towards the deserted compounds to the north. Our orders are to check these compounds and flush out any enemy we find as well as to search for weapon stashes. We yomp for about a mile and come to the first of these abandoned homesteads, enclosed by thick ten-foot dried mud walls. The massive gates are locked so Bertie gives the order for a bar mine to be laid against one of the walls. This is a powerful explosive charge that can blast a hole – called a 'mouse hole' – through the thickest and toughest of walls.

  We pull back while two men from 59 Commando move forward to place the charge. After a few seconds they fight the fuse and run for cover. We duck low and wait. Ten seconds later a yellow flash is accompanied by a loud explosion. Once the dust clears the marines advance, clamber over the rubble and dive through the six-foot by six-foot 'mouse hole' into the compound that would once have been home to an extended family of maybe twenty or so people. But the former homesteaders have long gone, having fled as refugees to other parts of Afghanistan. The only people using these compounds now are the Taliban insurgents, so the marines methodically check every small building and room in the enclosed space. Working in pairs they do not stand on ceremony. One marine throws a stun grenade through a door. As soon as it has exploded the other rushes in and sprays the room with a burst of deadly gunfire. It is only after this that they look to see if anyone was there.

  Every room is checked in this way and when Bertie is certain that the place is fully deserted we move on to the next compound.

  16.00

  All afternoon we have moved in and out of compounds ensuring that there is no enemy hiding or lying in wait. We are in yet another now and, like all the others have been, it is empty. The engineers are laying another bar mine to blow a hole through a particularly thick wall into an enclosed field next door – probably a deserted poppy field. We all take cover behind a low wall no more than twenty feet from where the bar mine will be detonated. The engineers run and join us for cover. Everybody waits huddled on the ground with their fingers in their ears. I have got used to the explosions now so I decide to unhuddle myself and film this one. I get up on my haunches, raise myself slightly, lift the camera to my face and point it at the wall. After a few more seconds the explosion occurs with devastating effect. The sound is earsplitting and the surging shock wave knocks me right off my feet. I am blown back and hit the ground hard. For a moment I don't know where I am but then I'm aware of the marines moving up and through the smoking mouse hole. I follow but cannot hear a thing – except a high-pitched ringing. I've gone deaf, I think to myself in a panic, and I start hitting the side of my head with the palm of my right hand to try and jog my hearing back. Suddenly I feel a tap on the shoulder. I swing round and see Dave laughing and mouthing at me like a goldfish. 'Can't hear you,' I shout. Dave keeps doing the goldfish thing. I rub my ears vigorously with both hands and shake my head and then, gradually, I begin to hear Dave's voice.