Bloody Heroes

by Damien Lewis

  Over the next hour he fed both of them the contents of three saline drip bags. Then he repeated the process with the other patrol members, giving each man as much as he felt his condition warranted. Finally, an exhausted Mat settled down to administer the last couple of drip bags to himself. As he did so the sun was sinking over the mountains to the west. The influx of fluid from the saline drip felt wonderful, like a complete lifesaver. But at the same time Mat wondered if the saline bags had provided enough fluid to keep his team going until the end of their mission.

  Shortly after sundown, Mat began drifting into an exhausted sleep. Severe dehydration causes the body to go into shock. Even the saline drips hadn’t prevented the body’s natural defences from kicking in, and the craving for sleep was irresistible. With his men in such a bad way and no major enemy presence in the region, Mat took the tough decision to call off sentry duty for the night. They all needed a good night’s sleep, as the following day was crunch time. If they didn’t get confirmation that the air strikes were off, then it was likely that the valley was going to get blasted. Military inertia and the fog of war would have ridden roughshod over their objections, and the Naka Valley would have become just one more example of the ‘collateral damage’ of war.

  Just after sunrise the following morning, the Delta patrol they had been told to expect made radio contact, and announced their imminent arrival at the OP. A couple of minutes later and they were there.

  ‘Mat Morrisey, patrol leader,’ Mat said, extending his hand to the lead Delta operator.

  ‘Hi, Jim Beyrer, good to hook up with you guys at last,’ the Delta patrol leader said, taking Mat’s hand. ‘Jesus, buddy, but you guys look like the walkin’ dead.’

  ‘Yeah. You got any water, mate? We’re dying for some. I’d offer you a brew, but we’ve been on hard routine so hot drinks are off the menu. Plus, we’ve run out of water.’

  ‘Sure, you guys take all the water you need. We just got to make it down the mountain again today, then we got some vehicles waitin’ for us with supplies. You can take it all, buddy. Or at least most of it. You need some rations too? We got some MREs. Take some MREs an’ all, buddy.’

  ‘Nice of you to offer,’ Mat said, as he grabbed the Delta patrol leader’s water bottle. ‘Take a seat,’ he added, offering him a boulder to sit on.

  ‘You got any news on those planned air strikes?’ Mat gasped, after draining a whole water canteen. ‘Cos there’s no AQT training camps down in that there valley, that’s for bloody certain.’

  ‘Yeah, so we figure from your reports,’ the Delta patrol leader replied. ‘You been causin’ some real fireworks back at JSOC. Commander Jim sends his regards, by the way. Says he’d expect nothin’ less from you guys than to cause a fuckin’ riot, which seems like you have done. But this here’s the CIA dude on our team, an’ he can tell you more about that side of things.’

  ‘Hi. Name’s Shorty. I’m the Agency guy. I know Bob – how you doin’, buddy?’

  ‘Good, buddy, good. Just a little thirsty is all.’

  ‘I bet,’ CIA Shorty said. ‘I guess the rest of you must be the SAS boys.’

  ‘It’s S-B-S,’ Mat replied, through gritted teeth. ‘SBS. That’s us.’

  ‘Sure, S-B-S. Well, whatever, you boys have been causin’ some serious ructions back home,’ the grinning CIA officer continued. ‘You’ll be pleased to know your report went right to the very top. To the desk of the President of the USA, cos no one else felt like callin’ this one either way. Word is it went to your own top dog, too, Prime Minister Blair.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it, mate,’ Mat said. ‘So what’s the result?’

  ‘Result is air strikes have been called off, that’s as long as we concur with what you guys’re sayin’. Seems like they had a bit of a problem with your intel at first, cos you’re a bunch of Brits and the initial intel assessment was done by our boys. Went down like a lead balloon. So we been sent up to check you out – make sure you’re sane and you ain’t seein’ things or somethin’.’

  ‘What’s the verdict then, mate?’ Mat asked, breaking into a grin.

  ‘Well, I reckon you guys gotta be a bunch of certifiable lunatics to stop out on this godforsaken mountaintop for, what is it now, five days?’

  ‘Six,’ CIA Bob interjected. ‘Get it right, buddy, it’s six.’

  ‘Six is it? Like I said, you guys gotta be mad,’ CIA Shorty continued. ‘But one thing I am sure of, you’re a damn sight smarter than those desk-bound fucks who did the initial intel assessment in the first place. Fuckin’ “mother of all terrorist training camps” my ass. I seen your photos. Like you all said, a goddam funeral’s a goddam funeral, and no amount of hoping can turn it into an AQT recruitment rally. And a school’s a goddam school, whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘Does make you wonder, don’t it?’ Mat interjected. ‘I mean, we was briefed that this was the biggest al-Qaeda training camp in the whole of Afghanistan. The Naka Valley? It’s no more a bloody al-Qaeda training camp than Butlin’s or Disneyland.’

  ‘Yeah, them desk-bound fucks sure must have some active imaginations,’ said CIA Shorty. ‘Still, that’s why you always gotta get eyes on the ground … Tell you what though, any more of those images you took of the funeral or the school, they’d be real useful on calling this one.’

  ‘Sure, mate. You can take a couple of the gigabyte memory cards from the camera,’ Mat replied. ‘I’ve uploaded all the pics on to me computer anyways, so you’re welcome to ’em.’

  ‘You’re a real gentleman,’ CIA Shorty said. ‘An’ I’d expect nothin’ less from a Brit and a member of the SAS, ain’t that right, Bob?’

  ‘S-B-S, buddy,’ CIA Bob replied. ‘Get it right – SBS. May seem like a small thing, but these guys don’t take kindly to a “B” being mistaken for an “A”. Kinda touchy about it. But you’re darn right, you do have to watch your manners around these Brits. And as for the toilet etiquette, that sure takes a while gettin’ used to.’

  ‘So, if we’re all agreed we’ll upload some more of your photos to JSOC,’ said CIA Shorty, ignoring CIA Bob’s last comment. ‘We’ll send a recommendation that you boys are still pretty much sane, and then we’ll get confirmation up to you guys just as soon as we can that the air strikes’re off, at which time I guess your mission will be over.’

  ‘Be sad to leave this place.’ Mat gazed around at the heap of boulders and the pine trees. ‘It was starting to feel just like home.’

  Pretty quickly, the Delta patrol members offloaded their food and remaining water supplies and set off back down the mountainside. By mid-afternoon, CIA Bob had received confirmation from CIA Shorty that the bombing of the Naka Valley had been postponed indefinitely. As Mat, Sam and CIA Bob gazed down into the valley the first flakes of a snowstorm began to swirl around them. They could just make out a bunch of kids playing in the village far below. As they watched, they realised that it was their work that had prevented the valley – and the kids – from being pulverised. These men were soldiers first and foremost. But to have saved so many lives that otherwise would have been so senselessly annihilated was a mighty good feeling.

  The path was rocky and it was a pitch-black night. The brothers were moving carefully so as to try to keep their footing. Everyone was exhausted, having been on the move for eight hours continuously without a break. To make matters worse it was bitterly cold. So cold that the water in the bottles in the brothers’ packs had frozen solid. Six hours’ walking and no chance of a drink. A biting wind was ripping through the brothers’ clothing, chilling them to the bone.

  As they snaked their way down the mountainside they knew that, somehow, they had to hurry, or at least find a way to delay their pursuers. After the glorious assault where Ahmed had led the attack across the minefield and they had slaughtered the enemy, Omer’s unit had lost battle after battle as the US warplanes had pounded their positions. And now they were on the run again. The Northern Alliance dogs, aided by the infidels and hypocrites, wer
e hot on their trail.

  Every time the brothers reached a trench that had recently been occupied by their fellow Talib fighters they would split into two groups. One, led by Commander Omer, would advance down one side of the trench, shining a flashlight to see if anyone was still alive in there or if there were any walking wounded. The other group would take the opposite side of the trench. But each time they did so, the dark earth was littered only with corpses, the blasted trench empty of life. It seemed as if there was no one left alive from their Taliban brothers on that bleak mountainside – that they were the last group of brothers in their position to have started the retreat.

  It always seemed to be like this, Ali reflected, with a flash of stubborn pride. During the weeks of conflict, the foreign fighters were always the last to fall back from the enemy, always the keenest to fight to the last man. He glanced back up the mountainside. Their pursuers were gaining on them – he could see their torches high up on the ridgeline. Maybe Allah might choose him this night, Ali reflected, with grim satisfaction, offering him the glorious chance to be shaheed. If so, he would join the other martyred brothers in Paradise. But somehow he felt as if he was not yet finished with this war and this world and he would prefer to survive and to fight.

  Commander Omer took advantage of a slight pause in their headlong descent, while his men crossed a perilous mountain stream, to order some mines to be placed on the path behind them. There was a fumbling of cold, stiff fingers in the darkness as fuses were primed and safety switches thrown to the armed position, then the mines were shoved into rough holes dug with a bayonet in the rocky earth.

  They knew they had to get to the road somewhere below them and then across the river, to reach any modicum of safety. On the far bank, their Talib brothers had established a new front line, or at least that’s what the last radio message had told them. How long that new front line would hold was another matter entirely, particularly when the US warplanes discovered their new positions, sometime the following morning. Then the relentless pounding would begin again.

  The brothers set off, hurrying down the path as best they could. After some twenty minutes they heard a faint Boom! echoing out across the darkened valley behind them, followed by an unearthly screaming. One of their mines must have found its mark. Checking behind them, the brothers could clearly see the torch beams of their pursuers converging on one spot, which must have been their casualty. Ali prayed to himself that it was one of the kafir American dogs who had been hit by the mine. Whoever it was, it might just slow the enemy down a little.

  A few minutes later, there was the soft pffuuuttt of a flare being fired high up on the mountainside. Half a dozen more followed, the streak of the rocket followed by a blinding white light hanging in the dark sky, like some bizarre front-line firework display. Soon, the whole mountainside was lit up in an unearthly, phosphorous glare. All the brothers could do was to take cover, crouching down behind rocks and flattening themselves on to the earth, so that their pursuers couldn’t pick them off from above. For many a fighter, this would have been a terrifying experience – feeling so totally pinned down and exposed. But not for the brothers. If death found them, then so be it. It was what they had come here for. They would fight until Allah willed it otherwise, and then they would welcome death’s embrace. For Paradise beckoned.

  As the flares drifted lazily to earth, the brothers heard excited shouting from up on the hillside, directly behind them. The Northern Alliance soldiers had spotted them. They were less than half a mile away now, and so the brothers were within range of their Kalashnikovs. Within seconds, the first rounds started cracking into the rocks all around them. At that range the crack of the enemy weapons remained muffled, the incoming fire still pretty inaccurate. But it wouldn’t remain so for long. The brothers knew that they were outnumbered and outgunned. If they stayed where they were, their pursuers would close in on them and they would be finished.

  Suddenly, Omer was on his feet and urging his men to break cover and follow him. There was no doubt about it, he was a fearless and talented commander. The brothers raced ahead now, all attempts at concealment abandoned as they went sliding down the mountainside.

  Then, somewhere behind them, the brothers heard a firefight breaking out. There were bursts of AK47 fire going in either direction. Their pursuers must have stumbled upon another group of retreating Taliban – giving the brothers a few precious minutes in which to try to make good their escape. They surged ahead, reached the foot of the mountain and hit level ground. In the mad scramble down the mountainside weapons had kept banging against rocks and several were damaged. The brothers raced on across a darkened field and finally reached a road with a few shadowy houses grouped around it. Here, Commander Omer paused for a second so they could catch their breath.

  ‘Shall we ambush them here, brothers?’ he panted, gesturing to the mud houses. ‘We have cover. We can turn and fight. We have the ammunition to take them on. And we have God on our side and so, insh’Allah, we cannot fail.’

  Looking around them, the brothers could see that the village offered great cover for an ambush. And Commander Omer was right – they were well armed. Between them they had six RPGs (and scores of RPG rounds), two Degtyarevs, dozens of hand grenades and several AK47s.

  ‘Al-hamdu Lillah – let us do it,’ Ahmed urged excitedly, his teeth showing white in the darkness. ‘Either we kill them all, or die here fighting if Allah – peace be upon Him – so wills it. And if that happens we will be most glorious shouhada’a.’

  ‘Yeah, we might well be shouhada’a, but is that the best way to kill as many of the kafir as possible?’ Ali countered. As the weeks had gone by Ali had become more and more assertive, showing a greater willingness to voice his opinion. His innate intelligence made him a natural leader, one prone to taking the initiative. ‘That’s what I came here for,’ he continued. ‘I’m not so keen to find death before I kill the kafir, the invaders of the Islamic lands, the killers of our Muslim children. These cowards refuse to face us like men in battle, but rain death down on us from the skies, with their warplanes. I came here to kill them. To kill them all. If Allah – peace be upon Him – so wills that I die in the process, then so be it. And if Allah – peace be upon Him – so wills that we live to fight another day, then He may grant us all the glorious chance to do what the heroic Nineteen Lions did: to get close to the kafir, the Great Satan, the Americans, and kill them. If we die here then in that we will have failed.’

  There followed a quick discussion among the brothers, but Ali’s viewpoint eventually held sway. So they headed on across the plain towards the river, avoiding the road bridge and the road itself for fear it might be watched. As they crossed the open fields in single file, there were dead bodies sprawled in the dust. As Ali hurried on, he accidentally stepped on a corpse, and it made a sharp, whooshing noise like a massive belch, as the air trapped inside the body escaped under his weight.

  Ali noticed there were five or six other corpses near him. Black beards. Black turbans. Faces glowing faintly in the moonlight. All of them brothers. All of them drilled through by American bombs and bullets dropped from the air. Brothers who’d died fighting for what they believed in, their religion, their cause. It struck Ali then that this was the field of the Martyrs. Yet none of them had been given even a chance to get close to the kafir and fight them, as they had all been killed from the air. It was all so one-sided, so frustrating and so wrong.

  Commander Omer led the way, avoiding the soft, sandy areas and sticking to the hard-packed soil where other people had already trodden – their passage marking a safe route through the minefields that were bound to have been planted here at one time or another. Closer to the river, they passed a burned-out car. Something resembling a black statue of a human form was hunched over the steering wheel, silhouetted against the dark night sky. One of the brothers had burned to death here, as a US warplane had hit the vehicle and turned it into a raging funeral pyre.

  As they reached
the river, the men noticed with relief that there were soldiers massed on the other side. Our Talib brothers, they thought to themselves, as they prepared to swim across and join them. But just as they were about to enter the waters, one of the soldiers shouted a challenge across to them from the far river bank. He repeated the challenge and the brothers realised he was speaking in Persian – the language of the Northern Alliance, of the enemy. And then the brothers knew. Somehow, the enemy had already got ahead of them. Where the new Taliban front-line positions were supposed to be there were now only enemy soldiers.

  As none of the brothers could speak Persian they were momentarily at a loss as to what to do. Suddenly, the soldiers on the far bank opened fire on them, bullets slamming into the river bank and RPG rounds ricocheting off the river. Within seconds two of the brothers went down, screaming, and then Commander Omer himself took a bullet in the right shoulder.

  ‘ALLAHU AKHBAR!’ Omer roared, rousing himself from the shock of the attack and opening fire with his AK. He was followed a split second later by the rest of the brothers, who put down a wall of return fire on the enemy across the river.

  The brothers fought ferociously, blind to the danger before them. Within minutes the enemy guns had fallen silent. None of the brothers were under any illusions that the enemy had been routed though. Far from it – they had been fighting the Northern Alliance for far too long to fall into that trap. The enemy soldiers would have retreated into cover, waiting for the brothers to try the river crossing. And if they did so, the enemy would open up on them and cut them down when they were in the waters, at their most defenceless.

  The brothers clambered back up the river bank, carrying their wounded with them. Ali was deeply saddened when he realised that one of them was Sadiq al-Saudia, his RPG loader from the battle at Balkh. He had a horrible wound to the chest and was begging the brothers to finish him off, so that he could leave this world of pain and hurt and be shaheed. Ali knew that Sadiq was close to Paradise now, but he still hated to see him suffer. Despite this, Ali knew that he couldn’t help Sadiq. In Islam it was absolutely forbidden for a Muslim to kill a fellow Muslim in cold blood, even as a mercy killing. If Ali did so, then the both of them would go to hell.