Bloody Heroes

by Damien Lewis

  Each man carried a PRM (personal radio mike), which allowed him to communicate with the rest of the men on his team, and this was slung on to his webbing. And the most delicate equipment was packed into the top of the bergens. Each operator carried a set of night-vision goggles for operating during the hours of darkness and a handheld, infrared sight and laser device. This could be attached to their weapons and used as a night sight, or switched on to steady beam laser mode to ‘paint’ a target, thus marking it out as an enemy position to be hit by allied aircraft deploying laser-guided bombs. And then there were the spare batteries required for each piece of electronic kit, which added yet more weight to the load.

  Finally, there were several pieces of ‘communal’ kit: telescopes, cameras, secure comms, radios and satphones, all provided with a mountain of batteries and extra weight!

  Once Mat’s team had finished packing, each bergen weighed in excess of a hundred pounds. They were stuffed to bursting with gear and packed so tightly that nothing would rattle or clank about as they climbed. Last but not least, a ‘grab bag’ full of emergency kit was strapped to the top of the bergen, containing ammo, basic medical supplies, a personal radio and a two-day ration pack. If the men got compromised on the climb up the mountain and had to ditch their bergens, they would still be able to detach the grab bag and take it with them. During the six days spent in the OP the men would live out of their bergens, and never go into their grab bags unless forced to. This ensured the grab bag was always kept intact. As a rule all kit would be kept permanently packed, in case they needed to make a rapid getaway.

  By mid-afternoon the lads were putting the finishing touches to their gear. As Mat was double-checking some of the communal equipment, he realised that one of their most vital bits of kit was malfunctioning. The ECM117 radio – the one piece of kit that they would use for secure communications back to headquarters – had gone down. There was no way that they could leave without the radio being in working order, so Mat put a call through to Bagram to ask for a replacement set to be sent out. As they were scheduled to leave the base the next day with Commander Jim’s convoy, headquarters agreed to send out a replacement radio as soon as possible. All being well a Chinook would be with them that evening with the new equipment.

  Mat spent the rest of the afternoon running over comms procedures and escape and evasion plans if the mission got compromised by the enemy. Normally, as they were an SBS patrol, they would report directly to their HQ, in Poole. But on this mission they had been ordered to report directly to US command at JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) – the nerve centre of Task Force Dagger. The patrol was supposed to make contact with JSOC at regular twelve-hour intervals, to report in that all was well. If one call was missed, it would raise the alarm at JSOC (and at SBS headquarters), and intensive efforts would be made to contact the patrol by radio and satcom. If two calls were missed, allied air assets would be alerted to listen out and watch out for the patrol. If three calls were missed, the patrol would be presumed compromised, the men either captured or heading for the ERV for pickup by an extraction chopper.

  If the patrol was split up and unable to reach the ERV individual patrol members could contact allied aircraft via their TACBEs. Using tiny infrared strobe lights they could mark their position for pickup by an extraction chopper. If the casualty required a medevac, the patrol was to give the grid reference of the casualty, the type of injury suffered, the type of assistance needed (such as helicopter extraction with stretcher) and the grid reference of the nearest usable landing zone. If any of the patrol members were captured, they would give the ‘Big Four’ and nothing more: name, rank, serial number and date of birth.

  At the allotted time Mat and Sam headed out to the landing zone (LZ) to await the arrival of the chopper with the replacement radio. But when an aircraft finally did come lumbering over the horizon, it wasn’t a CH47 Chinook. It was a giant, four-engined C-130 Hercules. As Mat and Sam had been expecting a chopper, they hadn’t bothered to mark out a usable landing strip. Yet the C-130 definitely looked like it was preparing to land. Mat and Sam began rushing about popping light sticks in order to mark out a rough LZ. But they soon realised that they had to abort the landing, as the strip was full of rocks and unusable. If they couldn’t take delivery of the new radio it was bad news indeed.

  As Mat dropped a red smoke grenade to signal the C-130 pilot to abort the landing, he was cursing their bad luck. First, the ECM117 had gone down. And now they had a C-130 trying to put down on a non-existent airstrip, as opposed to the chopper that they’d been told was coming. They waited for the plane to fly over and abort, and sure enough the C-130 did do an overflight. But then it circled back as if it were preparing to land, just on a different angle of approach. Mat and Sam raced across the LZ waving frantically, but the pilot proceeded to ignore them completely. As the giant aircraft hit the dirt it was engulfed in a cloud of dust, and Mat and Sam just stood there with their hearts in their mouths, fearing the worst. But just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the C-130 came powering out of the dust storm, bumping and bucking its way across the rough, uneven terrain.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ Mat exclaimed, turning to face Sam. ‘The bloke flying that thing’s a bloody nutter.’

  ‘US pilot, gotta be,’ said Sam, as he tried to make out the marking on the plane. ‘Those guys just don’t give a damn, bro. If you’ve got the balls to fly a C-130, you know, there ain’t a lot that’s gonna faze you.’

  As the plane drew to a halt, the pilot popped his head out the window and greeted Mat and Sam with a wave. Sure enough, the C-130 was decked out in USAF markings.

  ‘Gee, guys, thanks for the smoke – guess that was to help with the wind direction?’ he yelled down at them, with a beaming grin. ‘That sure was one of the better strips we’ve had the pleasure of putting this bird down on. Gee, what a goddam dump this country is.’

  ‘Pretty smart piece of flying, buddy,’ Sam yelled back, choosing to ignore the fact that they’d just been trying to get him to abort the landing. ‘Say, you got us a radio on board?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ the pilot shouted, giving the thumbs up. ‘Ain’t for the sheer fun of it, that much’s for sure. Take a look-see at the back there – should be there’s one of the crew ready to hand it to ya.’

  Mat and Sam walked round to the back of the plane, giving a wide berth to the C-130’s propellers, as the pilot had kept the engines running. Upon arrival they could see the rear ramp descending and one of the aircrew standing there.

  ‘Guess you’ll be needing this,’ he remarked, as he handed the replacement radio set to Sam. ‘Oh yeah, message from the pilot – that was the best LZ ever. See you around, guys.’

  Now that they had the new radio set the mission could proceed as planned: Mat and his team would be departing with Commander Jim’s convoy the following afternoon. Because it was their last night in the base, and because he couldn’t carry it with him on the mission, Mat decided to break out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he’d brought with him from the UK. It was a treat that he’d been saving for a special occasion, and he couldn’t think of a better one than their first combat mission in Afghanistan. Together with Sam and the Team 6 lads, Mat sat under the dark Afghan sky and sloshed a good shot of whiskey into each of their plastic mugs.

  Sam raised his and proposed a toast: ‘To the Naka Valley mission.’

  ‘The mission,’ the others echoed, as they clunked mugs.

  ‘To absent wankers – like Mucker,’ Mat announced.

  ‘Absent wankers,’ the others replied.

  ‘To Commander Jim,’ Sam added.

  ‘Commander Jim,’ the men repeated, heartily.

  Just as Mat was pouring out a second round of shots, CIA Bob came over to join them. He had with him a tiny little backpack, hardly larger than an average daysack. Mat wondered if that was where he had stashed all his gear for the mission. If it was, either CIA Bob didn’t need to eat and drink and didn’t feel the cold
, or he was going to starve and freeze to death on top of that mountain, while dying of thirst at the same time. It was on the tip of Mat’s tongue to raise the issue with CIA Bob. But he decided instead to strike up an amiable conversation with the CIA spook, in an effort to try to get to know him a little before the mission proper began. Maybe in the process of doing so he could work the diminutive nature of CIA Bob’s backpack into the exchange.

  ‘Cheers. So, here we are again then, eh, mate?’ Mat said, after he’d poured CIA Bob a generous shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  ‘Yeah, cheers,’ said CIA Bob. ‘But what d’you mean, buddy, “here we are again”?’

  ‘Well, you know – like the last time we was down here to do some serious damage was on the Crusades, weren’t it? Did a bit of Muslim bashing back then too, just to keep ’em in hand.’

  ‘Whoa, hold on there a minute,’ CIA Bob replied. ‘Dunno where you learned your history, buddy, but there ain’t never been no Crusaders this far east. Never, ever. But you Brits sure do have a history of trying to whup the Afghans’ asses. Mostly you failed, n’all. Fancy a quick history lesson, buddy? You may as well know something about the people you’ve come here to kill.’

  ‘Sure, mate, that’d be grand.’ Mat wasn’t proud, and CIA Bob certainly seemed to know his stuff. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Well, OK, buddy. So you guys waged three wars down this ways – the Anglo-Afghan wars, they called ’em. In fact, first time the Afghans were ever bombed was by you guys. In 1919 it was, and you guys used Bristol BF2 bombers against Jalalabad. Most of the city was left burned out, and it was sort of in revenge for what the Afghans had done earlier.’ CIA Bob paused to take a swig of his whiskey. ‘You want me to continue, buddy?’

  ‘I’m gripped, mate,’ said Mat.

  ‘Well, back in January 1842, you Brits were retreatin’ from Kabul – 16,500 troops set out into the hills around Bagram. As they hit the mountains the snow begun to fall. Then the Afghan tribesmen attacked from above. That retreat turned into a goddam death march. Only one Brit soldier ever made it out alive. So the following year your guys went in and trashed the Afghan capital. The Afghans have long memories, buddy. Famously long. They ain’t forgotten what happened back then. And I reckon they ain’t forgiven, neither.’

  ‘Fair ’nough, mate,’ Mat remarked. ‘And the Crusades, they’re nowt to do with Afghanistan then? Cos that’s what the ragheads keep crapping on about, ain’t it? I mean, way they see it, this war now’s “a Crusade”, ain’t it –’

  ‘The Crusades never got further than Syria,’ CIA Bob cut in. ‘Which is about a thousand miles from here as the crow flies. And for their part the Muslims got as far as Spain before you guys decided to finally get your acts together and whup their asses. Kinda took your time, didn’t you, buddy?’

  ‘The Muslims got as far as Spain? I thought it was all about Richard the Lionheart heading on down to their part of the world with his band of merry knights.’

  ‘It takes two to tango, buddy, and what Richard the Lionheart did in Syria, Saladin – that’s the biggest, meanest dude of a Muslim commander that there ever was; Jesus, the guy makes Osama bin Laden look like a goddam pussy cat – Saladin then went and did in Spain. In fact, the Muslims got as far as central France before you guys piled in and rescued ’em – the French that is. Not the first time we Anglo-Saxons have had to wade in and rescue the goddam French, n’all. Not that they ever show any gratitude for it.’

  ‘Too right, mate,’ announced Mat. ‘Still, way it was taught me, mate, was that we went down there on the Crusades pretty much just cos we fancied a rumble.’

  ‘You reckon it was all one-sided, buddy? As if war’s ever been like that, ever since war was invented. You lopped off a few heads here, raped a few hot Muslim chicks there, and then they came and did the same with a few French heads here and a few pretty English girls there. Clash of religions and civilisations then, just like it’s gearing up to be now. In the one battle where Saladin whupped your asses more ’n any other, his forces captured several hundred Knights Templars. Now, the Knights Templars, they’re like the medieval equivalent of Delta Force or your SAS –’

  ‘Sorry? SAS? You mean SBS, don’t you, mate?’

  ‘What? Oh yeah … my mistake. Medieval equivalent of you guys, the SBS. Anyways, Saladin says to the Knights Templars: “Look, guys, you got two choices. Either you convert to Islam, right here ’n’ now, and you’ll be spared. Or, you know, we’re gonna have to execute y’all.” Well, the Knights Templars were mean sons of bitches, and to a man they refused to convert. So Saladin had them all beheaded. Now, you tell me if that’s the way it’s taught by those pansy-assed, tea-drinking English schoolmarms of yours. The Muslims gave as good as they got – and each side gave no quarter. It was no different then than it is now. Just look what them motherfuckers are capable of with the Twin Towers. Civilians. Women. Children. Made no difference to them on 9/11, did it?’

  There were a few seconds silence as everyone stared into their plastic mugs of JD. Then CIA Bob continued.

  ‘Listen, buddy. I ain’t gettin’ at you none. Must be the drink talkin’. I always get like this when drinkin’ JD. Talkin’ of which, you got a drop left in that bottle of yours? Don’t wanna let it go to waste.’

  ‘Pass us your mug, mate,’ Mat said, quietly. ‘There’s a smidgin left in the bottle and you’re welcome to it.’

  ‘Cheers.’ CIA Bob raised his mug, then carried on. ‘It’s just, you know … War’s a fuckin’ nasty business – whoever’s fighting it and whatever religion they profess to follow. Period. We’re Christian. They’re Muslims. Bad’s been done on both sides. And it looks like bad’s gonna be done some more before we finally learn to live with each other in peace. Which is the only way all this shit’s ever gonna end. You know where I’m coming from on this one, buddy?’

  ‘That I do, mate,’ Mat replied. ‘Tell you the truth, what you’ve been saying makes a lot of bloody sense.’

  ‘Thanks, buddy.’ CIA Bob got to his feet to leave. ‘Appreciate it. And thanks for the JD.’

  With CIA Bob having gone the conversation quickly died down, and one by one the men wandered off to bed.

  ‘Holy fuck, that CIA lad is one smart cookie,’ Mat remarked to Sam, once it was just the two of them left with the dregs in the bottle. ‘I could sit and listen to him all bloody night.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you just kinda did, bro,’ Sam replied. ‘I guess just occasionally you do meet an American who kinda knows what he’s talking about.’

  By mid-afternoon the following day the convoy of vehicles bound for the Naka Valley began assembling at the fort entrance. There were six Humvees carrying the 10th Mountain troops, and a half-dozen ‘civilian’ Toyota pickups driven by the Delta Force operators. Mat and his men were riding in the centre of the convoy, in the rear of one of the Humvees, together with CIA Bob. Commander Jim had made his reluctant apologies – his responsibilities as base commander meant that he couldn’t accompany them on the fifteen-mile drive into the Naka Valley. At 1600 hours exactly the convoy began crawling out of the fort gates.

  ‘Good luck, boys,’ Commander Jim shouted across at them, as he saluted their departure. ‘Stay safe out there. Aim true an’ die laughing.’

  The first two hours’ driving were uneventful enough, as the convoy passed along some decent desert roads. But as dusk settled over the surrounding landscape, the vehicles entered a narrow mountain valley, the walls crowding in on both sides. It was ideal ambush territory. As night blanketed the scene, the soldiers donned NVGs and the darkened convoy crept forward driving on infrared lights only. All that could be heard was the creaking of strained metal, the crunch of tyres on rock, the grinding of gears and the straining of powerful diesel engines as the vehicles negotiated the terrible terrain. A herd of metallic beasts from some prehistoric era were moving through a night-dark valley, and all around there was only hostile territory.

  It was now that the Predator pilotless aircraft really cam
e into their own. The RQ1 Predator UAV (unmanned aerial vehicle) is a remote-operated drone armed with AGM-114 Hellfire short-range, laser-guided, air-to-surface missiles. Two Predators were now flying above and before the convoy to scout the route ahead. Mat could hear the constant updates from the Predator control centre coming in on the radio net. An operator based in the US was watching real-time video footage beamed back live from the Predators, as they identified potential enemy positions up ahead of the convoy.

  ‘Right, about a mile and a half up ahead of you we can see a lot of activity,’ the US operator’s voice came through on the radio. ‘Looks like some forty-odd potential hostiles to the east of you, grouped on the valley wall, bearing 9694. Wait out, wait out. We’re going in to take a closer look with the infrared and thermal imaging. Await further instructions.’

  In this fashion the convoy inched forward, repeatedly stop-starting as the Predators identified, and then cleared, potential danger spots. But despite all their technological wizardry, there were some things that the Predators were not best suited for – like the mission that Mat and his men were now undertaking. It was impossible for UAVs – or any surveillance aircraft for that matter – to replace good men on the ground. Mat and the team were well aware of this. They would be able to see things that the Predator would miss: hostile vehicles hidden beneath trees, camouflaged enemy positions, or enemy fighters based in caves. Besides, no surveillance aircraft could ever remain in position for seven days and seven nights, as Mat and his men were planning to do.

  For several hours the convoy’s halting progress continued up the valley floor, the vehicles winding their way along rutted river beds and dry wadis. As they edged closer to the drop-off point, the atmosphere in the back of Mat’s Humvee was edgy. The men were impatient for the tense waiting to be over and for the mission proper to begin. In the cab the driver and co-driver had a couple of Kurtz machine guns (a shortened version of the Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine gun) slung across their knees. At any sign of trouble, they could grab these snub-nosed weapons and put down a barrage of fire from the open windows.